#the two vexes are VERY different from each other

[pandora-the-halfling]

[shorthaltsjester]

taliesin and laura remain truly so fantastic at making characters who… don’t necessarily have something extremely and inherently in common but do have experiences that were caused by similar sources and that lead them to have quite different opinions/ideas about things but in ways that are typically very reconcilable? which is a lot of qualifiers but it’s a through line of vex/percy with nobility, jester & cad with loneliness (and also god stuff but in a different post maybe someday i’ll talk about how actually their god stuff is intensely related to their different experiences of loneliness), and now imogen & ashton with being left behind.

like vex was this character who technically had a claim to nobility due to her blood but at the same time was burdened because of that same claim. and percy who was born into and raised by nobility but that nobility ended up making his family the targets of a massacre. and then vex who lets down her walls and Do I Look Like I Come From Money? and percy giving her the title grand mistress of the grey hunt because it has nothing to do with blood, or his love for her, or anything aside from the fact that it’s something she can prove herself worthy of simply by virtue of who she Is, not who someone makes her. and percy and vex’s conversation about forgiveness and it’s necessity for growth as probably two of the characters most inclined to hold grudges.

and caduceus clay who gets left behind with nothing but his Belief while his family goes off into the world. and jester lavorre who gets shut inside with no company except her Belief as her mother protects her from the world. and they both get the burden of loneliness and the understanding of love’s nonmalicious imperfection. and caduceus having a panic attack on a ship and jester telling him that the world is a lot bigger than his cemetery and that means he has to break out of his comfort zone to find his path. and caduceus telling jester that he doesn’t think she gets as much credit as she ought to and she deserves more pastries. and jester thanking caduceus for showing her how cool it is to actually heal people and caduceus asking if she wants to use his shield while he doesn’t need it.

and ashton who was left broken and dying on the ground and was given inescapable pain as their means of survival. and imogen who was left behind by the only person who could provide true understanding of the pain she’d one day come to feel. and ashton who’s a barbarian, who wields their rage casually and unapologetically and who sees the Shittiness of the world but is unrelenting in his version of optimism. and imogen who is weighed down by pessimism she doesn’t Want to have but hasn’t cracked how to undo and who doesn’t admit her anger until it comes up again and again and again and carries it like a burden or like guilt, who we only see really Grasp and feel Confidence about her anger being something good in front of others when she has those conversations with ashton. and like. ashton who looks at imogen and sees a superhero. imogen venturing through ashton’s mind and holding his bleeding and exhausted head and saying i’m sorry. i’m sorry. and imogen who looks at ashton and sees someone special. and fucking “we got him killed.” and “no, we didn’t. don’t you dare. […] we are not what fucking killed that man. […] we are his eventual victory. we are his fucking revenge.” and “i’ll be his revenge.” and “i have no fucking doubt.”

and in general rp wise they both tend to make some of my favourite characters (also typically the ones i find most frustrating) because they both tend to make flaws that are easy to hate and they make those flaws very central to their characters but i think that’s also what makes their character interactions so deeply compelling because so frequently it’s like. yes yes these two characters have like. a helix of things they have in common but also things they deeply disagree on but they’re going to spider-man point at the things that are the same and they’re going to honour their differences while doing so. and it’s just. i always enjoy it so much and i was psyched when i heard about an imogen and ashton side pit stop in last nights episode and i was not let down when i watched the episode today.

[londondungeon2]

concept with jade leech.

as most colleges do, NRC has a weekly newspaper that is run by the student body.

though one would imagine someone as busy as jade leech would never pick it up, he happens to routinely pick it up every monday in the lobby where they are put on display. he reads through all of it, thoroughly and carefully.

there are a multitude of reasons for this: mostro lounge sometimes puts articles in the paper about new menu items (as vice-housewarden, jade always double-checks their formatting); he likes to be alert about the by-and-by at his college (as vice-housewarden, it’s opportunistic to see what events may happen or what poor unfortunate soul might need a little help in the ‘anonymous student grievance’ section); and lastly, he had found himself enthralled by this new running comic strip at the start of his second year.

it seems to be two completely different artists who are running this new newspaper section.

one works in logical fallacies and bizarre humor; the drawings are crude and very sketch-like; jade has found himself biting a smile at some of the satire sprinkled in.

the second works in baroque influences; there is no humor found within it and it is very mature in ornate detail; jade particularly likes a certain strip where a sentient mushroom fuses with a human body, creating something lovecraftian.

though not a fan of ‘manga’ like azul’s fellow club member and ignihyde housewarden and not a good artist like his brother, jade finds himself looking forward to the comic strips on page thirteen at the start of his monday class.

so, when he sits down in his first period, thermos full of pu-erh black tea and a good five minutes left before the bell rings, a frown cross his face when he finds that page thirteen is absent of a certain section.

it’s a bit … odd.

as there are two different artists, should not the other one pick up the slack when the other is out of commission? one person cannot fulfill duties flawlessly. that is why NRC has a system of housewarden and vice-housewarden. by having two artists, one can ensures there is always going to be a weekly comic strip.

while only a bit disgruntled, jade decides to overlook this slip of management, only slightly knocked out of his rhythm in unnoticeable ways.

except next week again, there is no comic strip.

this time is surprising.

that section had done particularly well for getting the newspaper’s revenue up. as the son of a ‘businessman’, jade always notices the little things. the stack in the student lobby has been a bit lower in the past months; something anyone can equate to the new inclusion of this comic strip — more people are buying the product because it has something of new value in it.

they would surely be losing money because of this sectional cut? is the artist sick? why has the other one not taken up the helm?

the third week it happens, jade finds himself momentarily vexed. at lunch, floyd pulls the newspaper out of jade’s binder and asks annoyed, ‘hey why did they cut the comics??’ jade is wondering the same sentiment.

have these two people conspired together to rid him of his morning entertainment? no, that’s an utterly ridiculous notion … but it does not stop jade from being so thoroughly annoyed.

it is not like he needs that particular part of page thirteen. but it feels like something has been stolen from him. it is not often that he finds a person who shares his love for surrealist humor and surrealist horror. the loss gnaws at him.

on the third monday, clocking into his night shift at the mostro lounge, jade finds you — the ramshackle prefect — biting the straw of your drink to death, not an inch of the foaming drink drunk. you seem to be very enthralled with a piece of paper. but much like how you have not drank your beverage, the paper is blank and there is nothing to be enthralled with. always the observer, jade thinks you look … empty.

it is not jade’s most favored expression on you, but he still likes viewing each part of you — much like observing the value scale! one needs to understand each part of it or the jump in tones with leave to an ugly, incorrectly shaded artwork.

however, before he can make his way over to you, jade watches as you crumple up the paper and slam down a thaumark for a beverage you did not drink and storm out of mostro lounge like someone has just personally insulted you and you’re making a swift escape.

though it is not the table he is charge of waiting, jade picks up the cash all the same and clears the table of your existence. he takes a sip from your bitten straw. runs his ungloved hand over the plush leather of your booth just to feel the warmth of where you sat. yet, as he slipping the glove back on his hand and setting down your drink, something in the discord of empty papers happens to catch his attention.

having already snooped around in your business before — sometimes you have caught him, other times you have not — jade feels no guilt in picking up the piece of paper. his eyes widen comically when he takes in the sight of that baroque-influenced artwork (this piece depicts a sleep paralysis demon with furry hands and crowning horns) paired right next to crude, sketch-like figure (a man with only nine simple circles to make up his body).

well, now he knows who to hassle.

[rel124c41]

THE LOST ART OF KEEPING A SECRET. jade leech & floyd leech

The aquarium receives new additions perhaps once every two weeks; usually they are cute little things with rainbow fins and gem eyes. These two are not cute little things; they're huge and they have human faces. "Well I've got a secret, I cannot say" - Queens of the Stone Age, Track 2 on Rated R. a gift for @hallowed-father; based on their beautiful fanart 💕

tags: aquariums, late night conversations, captivity, situational humiliation, dehumanization, mutual pining, dubious ethics, kidnapping, vivisection, nursery rhyme references, eventual happy ending

word count: 12,668

The first two times you try seeing them, all you see is your reflection. 

It makes sense unfortunately. With the lack of any light, you are going to have a hard time seeing them. Cloudy black settles over the skeleton and hair shaped vegetation. You can turn your head on a swivel (which you do on the second try) but there is no way to discern what swims through darkness. Instead, all you see in the aquarium tank’s water is your face. 

Each uniquely human feature of yours squints in the nebulous, oscillating dark. To an observer, it would seem that you think if you flatten your eyes into pressed almonds something will reveal itself to you. Nose scrunching, you squint in a grandmother who lost her glasses way that is simply laughable. 

There must be something inside the exhibit.

Nothing. Nothing but your desolate reflection. 

On a small plaque, the words no use of flash photography wags a censure finger at you. Besides the cerulean halo on the corners where the wall meets ceiling, the room must remain dark at all times. Even during operating hours – or so you have heard from Deuce – they refuse to allow any other light in the secluded room. 

Besides the ultramarine ouroboros, the oval-shaped room is dark beyond dark. An extreme that is on another level than what you are familiar with. As a nightguard, you are familiar with the dark. Quite familiar. 

For example, there is one aquatic animal that you managed to see that other people cannot find nine times out of ten. In the shadows, spider crabs hide. They call their environment interestingly enough: the twilight zone, a part of the seafloor that gets little light and is very cold. With only three crabs in a sizable aquarium, it is understandably hard for others to find them. While the guests that linger after hours or closing staff puzzle over their location, you find them with ease. Behind the ship, by those bones, in the left corner no no higher in the left corner;  your eyes have long since adjusted to the nocturnal proclivity of your job. 

(One of the closing staff employees joked you were like a cute, little opossum. You think he meant it as a flirt; you found it insulting. Pressing your shades higher up on the bridge of your nose, you clocked in with your head down, vexed.)

However, in the tenebrous depths before you, you are like a disgruntled archaeologist standing in a desert of Swiss-cheese holes. Unable to locate anything. Tilting your head in a slightly different direction, your eyes squeeze into petite slices, searching. 

The flashlight in your hand is a heavy temptation. If you just raise it, the absence of light will readily receive it. Melted pinks and greens of vegetation will pop, brown and amber of decorative rocks will shine, and whatever colors lie on these new fishes will certainly look like a gorgeous splendor under visible light. It would take the smallest wrist motion. Your reflection held in black water stares back at you, glaring daggers. ‘C’mon, do it,’ your reflection urges.

Light slugs over your sneakers, contemplative. ‘Perhaps not,’ you think with regards to the penlight. You know that you loathe having any type of light in your face; do unto others as you would have done onto you. The button of your tool clicks off. By now, you should already be down by the stingrays. 

‘Third time might just have to be the charm,’ you think with a frown. 

In the fishbowl glass, mummified with shadows, your reflection mimics that childhood disappointment.

‘I’ll try again tomorrow.’

Turning to leave, spine to the aquarium tank, you miss the first instance of light emerging out of dark. 

It pulls upward like an ember blown skyward out of a campfire pit. The movements of it are languid. Flickers of yellow orbit in a whirlpool, lazy like they have just woken up. That clean circle becomes distorted, shrinking and growing like window-shades are being maneuvered over it. Then, a twin of yellow joins the first, a hair keener than the first. Both circles of light hang in the shadows, not brightening or shining beyond an intensity that is noticeable. Shrewd with their intentions.

When the door to the oval room clicks close, the window-shades pull down like a blink and the aquatic water changes from being speckled with playful yellow back to tenebrous black.

As it turns out, the phrase ‘third time's the charm’ holds an eternal merit. Because the next night, which is the third time you look into the aquarium tank, your wish is granted. 

The unluckiest charm; the unluckiest wish.

The aquarium gets new deliveries once every two weeks. As the nightguard, you are not kept on the up-and-up unless Deuce Spade is working. And as an honor college student, Deuce is usually scheduled – during daylight hours of course – on the weekends when exam season is not keeping him occupied. So, you missed the news about this new delivery initially. All you knew about them was from the very insightful texts of Deuce Spade (two in total):

The new deliveries can’t be around light. Think it's anglerfish? 

and

Apparently not anglerfish, those have to live under pressured water. Why do people act like that’s common knowledge to know??

Your available information is: they are not anglerfish. That is all.

You really are left with no hints to what hides in murk. After two weeks, no plaque detailing the species is nailed to the wall or statued on a slanted board. The room is void of identification. Perhaps that is the reason your body seems so magnetized towards deciphering this mystery. No identification by now is unusual. Plus, night shifts drag like limping feet; why not try to stall off boredom?

This time around, you power off your penlight before entering the room. Instead of letting the light stamp a circle of itself on the ground, you enter pure darkness. Blue vibrates above you. Not complete darkness, you correct, stepping on the path that limited blue illuminates. 

The room and tank resemble an egg with a cut-off top. The room is oval shaped but missing a quarter of its full shape, the top half knifed off to make room for a tank full of about five hundred gallons of water. When you reach the wall, the length is forty feet, this sliced egg-top, you place determined hands in your slacks pocket. 

And squint until the muscles in your eyes quiver with strain.   

Penguins must be kept in cold waters. Vents are constantly blowing cold air into the exhibit to keep it under forty degrees. As your breath comes out in a puff of frosty air, you wonder deeply just what kind of species can be kept in such frigidness. Deep sea penguins? That would certainly be interesting. 

Your reflection challenges you with a mimic of your squinting. Keep dreaming, it says. No matter which way you look over tenebrous shadows of vegetation and rocks, nothing is making itself clear to you. This time you risk inching closer. From this distance, you can count the vertebrae-esque leaves of a winding ludwiga. Ice seems to heartbeat off the glass, kissing your features. 

What can you see?

Nothing. Nothing but your desolate reflection.

That is until a little organic lantern – small like a dragonfly– comes alive in the water. Despite your excitement, you keep yourself frozen and still. Your tiny gasp bleeds out your mouth and hits the glass gradually. The dragonfly powers on and off in two blinks. Morse code for ‘I’ but you doubt this animal knows that – you just happened to take a college elective for Morso code. You watch this single, pinprick lantern with great interest.

‘I think it really is an anglerfish. I mean, it makes complete sense. Deep sea water temperatures. The utter lack of light. Maybe, the researchers found some way to replicate the pressures, and the staff just doesn’t know yet. That would be revolutionary.’

Then, a second dragonfly joins the first. On a black-emerald and black-turquoise torrent, the ember dips down low. Glittering like a sun-rays on water, it slithers closer with curious intent. It was leagues keener than its twin, metaphorically hexagonal instead of circular. This dragonfly too powers off and on in quicker blinks. Four blinks which is ‘H’ in Morse code … useless knowledge. 

Anglerfish cannot communicate. The entire ecosystem of a brain from fish to human is different, like trying to compare a tropical amazon to a winter wonderland. Just far too different to understand one another.

But, it is impressive that the aquarium was able to get such a deep sea creature to survive in a simulated habitat. 

“Hi there.” You wave your fingers. Pressing yourself closer to the glass, you wait for your eyes to adjust and register the razor teeth and fat jowls of an anglerfish brown face. Cold air starts to swim under your jacket, your body’s tilt causing the material to slip. Then, you make eye contact.

Eye contact? Eye contact. Turns out those lantern-shaped dragonflies you are looking at are not the bait anglerfish have attached to their bodies. It is not a hunting evolution you openly leer at. Rather, you look them in the eye. 

All the fire of your wonder extinguishes like a pinched match.

As if the vents are working overtime, a sudden chill falls over you. Goosebumps settle over your shoulders. You jump back and misty gray air (your gasping breath) explodes in front of you. It is not your desolate reflection that swims in front of you. Someone else’s face is in there.

There are creatures in there; that is undeniable. What fights to make itself conclusive in your reeling mind is the image of the creatures. Creatures – so completely alien when compared to the mixture of muscles that make up an anglerfish– with human faces. Human features. A nose. A pair of lips. A pair of squinting eyes, staring right back at you. 

One of them throws their head back in laughter when you fall to your ass, reeling inward and outward. What the fuck is a human – two humans! – doing inside an aquarium tank at 2 A.M.!

You climb back up to your feet with all the grace of an injured crab. Your left arm feels longer than your right; you feel like the ground has morphed into quicksand and is suckling on your right boot; all of your world has become disoriented. In your jacket, your penlight weighs down your left side like a brick. Pulled by a mental riptide, you wrestle until you finally stand on two (trembling)  legs like all bipedal humans should. Earth tilts as you watch the one who laughed move forward, blue blanketing him. 

He taps the glass. Exact over the bullseye point of where you stand, reeling, in the glass from his point of view. In intelligent acknowledgment of you.

You two lock spheroid eyes, analyzing each other with hell-bent resolve. Mapping the features of each other in your brain’s fusiform face area so you can recognize each other at later times. His human features settle like all the others before him in your cerebrum. Packaged in the inferior temporal cortex, packaged in the fusiform gyrus. The human visual system that specializes in recognizing faces accepts him. 

‘That is a face. I will recognize it later and recall it as one thing only: a face.’ Just like that, your brain, your fusiform gyrus mails you the annotation. 

A part of you wants to cry and the other wants to puke. You do neither. You react with a different system of your body.

Muscles press your flashlight’s button on and muscles move it up quickly when the second one starts to move closer to the glass. You do it out of fear. And with strange, instant regret. 

The one closest to the glass folds into himself, seething. A webbed, tooth-white-with-green-gradient hand covers his eyes in agony. His other hand slams the tank in a tight fist. It knocks the world back into orientation. You flee the scene with your flashlight swinging wildly back and forth with your sprint. 

This time there is no laughter.

You rush out like they are chasing you, laughing over your shoulders. With a harsh crash to the ground, panting in disbelief, you pull trembling knees towards your stricken face. What the fuck – what the absolute fuck! A carapace cloak falls over your brain to ignore knocking thoughts and rationalization. Wordless beyond three words, they swirl in your head. What the fuck – what the fuck.

Your spine lies on another exhibit. Stingrays lie underneath the aquarium’s sand, sleeping and unaware of you. Part of you knows you will not be able to sleep in the morning. 

“What the fuck.”

You unlock your phone with your face when you get home. 

The lamp glows, allowing your phone to register the face identification. As quickly as the string is pulled on, it is tugged off. Dawn rests against your black-out curtains like zombies pounding on doors sheltering food. Brightness on the screen is kept down to the lowest possible setting. You type the name of where you work into your phone.

‘There has to be information on them. You can’t just have that’ – pale-green faces with matching gold eyes – ‘that living in an aquarium. And if it’s in an aquarium, shouldn't that aquarium be like inside Area 51 or the Oval Office. Anywhere but nowhere!’

You click on the website of your place of employment. The types links are highlighted in white bubbles: GET YOUR TICKETS, WAYS TO SAVE, and ANIMALS UP-CLOSE. Your finger follows the last tab and you come across a Let’s Get Started sheet, asking if you are a member and, if not, to start booking. A colorful curse parts your lips.

You return to the home page. Take in the organization again. Okay, there are some links above too: Visit, Animals & Exhibits, Learn, Research & Conversation, News & Events, Support Us, Shop. 

Gravitating towards Animals & Exhibits, you watch as a list unfurls like a scroll. None of them are unusual animals. From beluga whales to steller sea lions, you are looking at a dead-end list of regular animals which you have passed multiple times on your nightguard route. Aquatic animals whose features do not turn your entire morning full of sleep into restless pacing. 

This is nauseating. For piscine features to be manipulated like that. Sea creatures come in a variety of features that are unique to them; eyes that reveal the innate instinct to survive above compassion or companionship, dorsal fins that branch off their body like tiny mountains, or those puckering lips that circle to suction fish-feed from the surface of their tanks. Those features you can compartmentalize with the aquarium you work with well. They belong there with the other undersea creatures. Your heart pangs in disgust.

This is immoral. For human features to be manipulated like that. A face you might see walking out of a movie theater, hand in hand with his girlfriend. A face you could have the possibility of getting to know if you were not a college dropout; someone in your biology or english elective or calculus class that would ask for help with a certain question. Staring into that man’s left umber eye and right gold eye, you realized how all those features made him human. Your heart pangs in sympathy. 

This is? You take a tranquil breath that soothes you like medicine from an inhaler, and the next thought sets your world back on the correct axis. This is out of your paygrade.

You return because, fucking, of course you do. A job is equivalent to a life. You experience less hardships when you have a good job – which you thankfully do. You have a good job that you must keep.  

One: legally, graveyard shifts pay more than others in your state. Two: it was ideal for the degenerative disease you have. Three: “I need money. Money is good. I need money. Money is good. I need money. Money is good. I need money. Money –'' There have certainly been better mantras sung in your car; though, this melody keeps you sane. Most importantly, it keeps your foot steady on the accelerator. So with three very good reasons – really just two overlapping ones and a single unique one – you return to work the next day like nothing is wrong. 

Thus, you are going to ignore it. Thus, “I’m going to ignore it,” you tell yourself. Thus, you are going to stand in front of the oval-shaped room’s door for the larger half of thirty minutes, studying the steel. Ah, this is far from ignoring it.

It is just … absent of sentimentality, you know that they are only fish. Fish that you see on guys’ dating profiles, fish that you eat with a medley of dipping sauces, fish that shit in the very water they swim in. You are no PETA advocate that will say fish are like the monkeys of the ocean, learning to use rudimentary tools and are sophisticatedly smart because they form social groups. However, despite this, there is a tiny pebble in the river that manages to disrupt the entire flow; the pebble wants you to apologize to them.

Which is outlandish and pure insanity!!

Which is really why you should not push the door open with your hand. And, which is why you glare at your traitorous fingers and listen to the creak of an opening door, bemoaning how utterly stupid you are to be opening this Pandora box of possibilities.

You let the flashlight sway once in an overarching cut across the room. Then, you point it at the ground and squint at the aquarium again. Besides a few layering shades of ebony speckled with blue, there is really not much for you to distinguish in the stomach of shadow. Putting yourself on an even playing field, you flick off your flashlight and step forward. 

Feet shuffle inch by inch. Looking straight, your acuity of vision decreases bar by bar. Gravity shifts like a restless faultline has awoken under your feet. You want to run away while you walk forward.

When you touch a hand to the frigid glass, you finally feel steady again. Once more, your exhale makes itself physical in a small cloud on the tip of your nose. The temperature is graciously grounding. 

“I’m okay,” you remind yourself. You blink to stabilize your vision.

Apologize to the fish then you can finally leave. Simple enough.

Yet, as you wait and squint, no glowing eyes emerge in the dark. You hold yourself there, waiting for just a flicker of motion in what seems like everlasting comatose. 

This is pointless. Why am I even here? I doubt they remember my face, much less hold a grudge over it. Fuck, why did I let myself get sentimental over some eldritch homunculus that is an affront to biological evolution! Why aren’t they at Area 51 or the Oval Office – why did faith push them here?

Inner seething concluded, you turn your flashlight on and the room brightens. For a split second, your face lies its reflection on glass with a resentful aura. You maneuver light towards the door with determination. Your body follows, making a hasty turn towards your exit. There are rounds around the aquarium to be made, iced frappuccinos in the breakroom you want to drink, and momental, life-altering plots to be ignored forever.

Until the glass behind you thuds in tension-raising noise like when a bird hits window-panes with little to no warning.

Breath caught in your throat, you whirl around to make eye contact with him. He wears such a handsome face, one that could belong to a heartthrob actor if not marred by the fins replacing his ears and the mossy green hue of his skin. His playful inquisitive eyes are entirely human in shape and structure; the black pupil and then the color ring of an iris. Too bad they too are disfigured by rare and nauseating colors, olive-umber and gold. 

That right eye reminds you of lighthouses on the coast. Captains are not supposed to stir towards lighthouses; they avoid the light, even if it carries a certain warmth. Why is he looking at you so warmly?

Somehow, you just manage to catch out of the corner of your eye the motion of his hand. An acute nail points down at your beaming flashlight which imprints a halo of light on the carpet floor. Then, he raises his hand up to around his shoulder. His fingers move in the starting shape of someone about to play thumb-war before he starts to move his thumb up and down. Clicking an imaginary button, signaling for you to turn off your flashlight.

Stunned, you numbly do. Light is pulled and magnetized back into the pen’s surface, like an object beamed up into a spacecraft, at a speed unseeable to the human eye. The eye contact between you two is almost an intense lip-lock that both of you cannot part with. 

This is one you shined the flashlight at. Right into those encapsulating eyes. The right one is yellow like liquid spilling out of a pineapple. Bright and playful.

“I- I uh,” you fumble with your apology. He probably won’t understand a word. You purse your lips nervously. Are there any words in the English language that can package up your sympathies from homo sapien to fish; is opening your mouth even worth it? “I wuh-wanted to –.”

Your apology withers when the eel-mer starts to tap on the glass. 

Intentionally, you listen. Yet irrationally, you expect to see or hear more Morse Code. Perhaps it is his anthropoid features that misled you to the conclusion that he might know the coded language. With a needle-hook nail, he taps a rhythm. 

It’s nothing though? The letters are gibberish, with even the number 5 sitting pretty between an O and a C. Of course it is not a code. Coming to your senses, you doubt he could even understand your apology if you gave it to him. There is a fine line drawn in the aquarium’s sand: fish and humans are not equal, one is more intelligent.

With some infinite patience, the fish taps the glass again. You listen and recognize it as the exact same taps and pauses from before.

“This is ridiculous,” you mutter under your breath. You hold eye contact, scrutinizing him. So used to having zero company, you surmise aloud, “I must be so sleep-deprived and loopy that I dreamed you up … A piece of undigested beef like Scrooge said.” As if to solidify his independent self and independent thinking in your solipsistic world, he taps the rhythm again.

This time – you think because of the repetition – you finally understand why he is tapping. It almost sends you flat on your ass once more. 

Oh. You throw a hand up to your mouth, faintly covering up a disbelieving laugh of joint horror and amusement. Disbelief crystallizes itself in the air; a tiny cloud of your reeling mind dissolves in front of you as you drop your numb hand. “Hah.”

The fish taps a nursery rhyme. One you know from kindergarten. One you would clap the rhythm of with your hands. You remember vaguely the pattern you’d move your hands to play with another child. The vague lingering sense of being hushed and secretive while playing your little singing games, giggling in the back of the classroom, bites your goosebumped flesh. 

How appropriate for a man trapped in an aquarium to know the nursery rhyme A Sailor Went to Sea. He does it again, the lyrics plucked from the cobwebs of your memory: A sailor went to sea, sea, sea; to see what she could see, see, see; but all that she could see, see, see; was the bottom of the deep blue sea, sea, sea. 

You don’t know fully how well your sight would fare in the bottom of the deep blue sea, sea, sea. Still, with a hesitant squirm, you approach the frigid glass. The man inside the aquarium waits this time rather than launching right back into tapping.

Raising your arm, you make certain to dig your nails into your palm. A little reality-checking pinch never hurt anyone. One of those pallid nails rises up and taps back. Feeling like you are the spinning ballerina, you listen to the melody of this Pandora box plays unchained and uncaged in the ice cold air:

A sailor went to sea, sea, sea

To see what she could see, see, see

But all that she could see, see, see

Was the bottom of the deep blue sea, sea, sea

There is no way to get around it. The third shift is lonely. Here in this aquarium? They only require one person to clean all the tanks, turn off decorative filters, and supervise aquatic life. That sole person has been you. With an iced frappuccino and penlight as your pirate’s sword and hooked hand, you have managed the task of protecting this vessel well.

Just because of your longevity of working as a third shifter, it does not make it come easy. Two tabs in your eighteen open Safari tabs are on articles about coping with night work. Coping with solitude when the entire world works in the opposite of you. One article details trying to stay on top of social interactions. All these shifting hours have been mistakenly used up. As you move through hallways like a haunting shark, you roll in your mind all the lost opportunities and all the regrets of having people in your life that you could’ve formed relationships with but never did.

Your metaphorical ailment has been sleep apnea. Eye scorned. Unable to catch your breath. You've been awake for years with no company. Along with being alone, you have been so achingly tired. Circadian rhythms in a body never change.

Your friend plays well in rhythms. The instrument of his disposition is easy to read after a month of ‘knowing’ each other. He has the attitude of a drummer. 

It is hard to get yourself used to his existence at first; he remains uncaring to your fretting. Lacking melodies or harmonies, he seems like the type that would rather keep things easy and simple than embellish. 

You come to visit? He wants to play. You’re too exhausted to play? He can entertain himself. What you have is very plain sailing and hardly involves any talking unless you start it. Besides, he is still just a fish and thus cannot converse with you. 

He really enjoys tapping on the glass. He plays a variety of rhythms; ones you do not know then, very strangely, some that you do know. As night by night moves along in time’s steady march, you grow comfortable enough to play back. He will play a rhythm only once, you copy it back with aid from your memory. You have even started to show him music on your phone, seeing how quickly he can pick up on certain beats and mimic them for himself.

Sometimes though, all he wants to do is simply listen. Which is activity the two of you share in tonight, absent of that third member who you are sure is hiding deeper among the burrows and the oscillating, five ribbed kelp. That distant drummer in your phone floods the cold room with music.

A small booklet covers your heart as you lie wistful. The floor is rough cement. There is no better place to lounge though. Underneath your head, a furry gray seal pup you borrowed from the toy store acts as your pillow. You try to think of yourself weightless like you are in water as you remain close-eyed and contemplative.

Like a siren call, music slithers out of the bottom of your phone’s speakers. Legs crossed over one another, you briefly tap your foot along to the rhythm that you are sure your friend is enjoying. “Look for reeeflections, in yo-our face; canine devotioo-ton, time can’t erase; Out on the cor-ner or locked in your room; I never buh-lieve them and I never assume-uh!”

Speaking of your friend, you have not bothered to check on him in a while. One of your diseased eyes peels open. Face held in a wink, you estimate if your friend is close enough to the glass that you should be able to see him clearly enough despite all the darkness. 

You do not expect him to be lounging right there beside you. It gives you a little shock of surprise. A moment passes by and that feeling suddenly intensifies to a shock of the heart. Not in a romantic way but in the way of a death row prisoner being electrified to death. 

You bolt upright, skull and hair flying off the seal pup plushie. Prescription sunglasses tilt down from their forehead perch, landing crookedly on your nose. The creature waves a sharp set of gradient-covered claws in your face. The only reason that your electric heart runs above its normal BPM is because that glowing lighthouse-esque eye is on the left side rather than the right.

“It’s you.” The creature, who you have not been becoming friendly with for an entire month, smiles at you and your shocked voice.

Though you are certain he has been watching you – not just while you were resting your eyes on the ground for a much needed cat nap, but for the entirety of these thirty-one nights – his eyes still flutter around the space where you sit in observation. He takes in each individual item around you like trying to find certain objects in spot-the-difference puzzles. After a moment, you ask while pointing to your phone, “Do you not like the music?” His wandering eyes are magnetized to your face when you address him.

Hell, they are intense. Intenser than any eyes you have really looked in before, rivaling even the strictest teachers you had or the meanest secretaries you have known. The colors in his gold and umber iris swirl like tiny galaxies of brown dust and broken stars. Intelligent eyes like those are daunting and, thus, terrifying to level your gaze with.

Despite knowing you will not get an answer, you march on in your one-sided conversation, “I get it that music isn’t everybody’s thing. Does it disturb you?” You wait. The newcomer does not talk either. “Ah, not a fan. I get it.”

You may receive no verbal answer, however you sense he does not want to play patty-cake through a sheet of reinforced aquarium glass. “Whatever yooo-u dooo-oh, don’t tell anyone; whatever yooo-u dooo-oh, don’t tell –” The song cuts off as you press the pause button.

“I should have been more considerate,” you apologize, able to steadily carry on this solo because you have grown used to it. You do talk a lot to the other fish. Almost in the same way one can carry on an unbalanced conversation with a pet cat or dog. “You just swim over to let me know and I’ll turn it off. I would never want to disrupt anyone’s sleep.”

‘Just like I would never again want to shine a light in anyone’s eyes.’ You still regret that with each fiber of your being.

For a silent moment, you two observe each other. Though you are a hundred percent certain this is not his first time scrutinizing you. You realize his hair is a mirror-flip reflection of the other fish’s just as he raises one of his hands. 

Maybe he is like the other fish. Despite not giving the impression of a drummer, he might still want to play that rudimentary game of patty cake where you two match and copy each other’s rhythm. Perhaps it is all their fish brains can comprehend. Even though his eyes might seem intelligent, he is nothing more than a piscine creature. However, that thought stalls when a single, black-dyed claw reaches up to his own throat, tapping it delicately.

“Hm?” You tilt your head curiously. 

In response, he takes his index and middle finger and taps once more his own throat. Then, he takes those fingers and depresses them over the reinforced sheets of glass. 

“Do you want me to,” you trail off, eyes stuttering over the items at your disposal. “I can’t sing if that’s what you’re getting at. I’m no singer.”

 Eyes, one of them full of shattered stars and the other full of blown-up planets, stare on. Unchanging and showing you no inclination of what he wants you to do. The other fish will at least whine, squint, or show joy if he thinks whatever words your vocal cords stretch into will entertain him. “Though, I could,” you trail off again.

Trailing off is an awful habit of yours. You rarely can make full, complete conversation after almost half a decade of night shifts. However, those intense eyes encourage you to go on. “I could read to you?” Your fingers point towards the booklet that had fallen off your chest. “If you want?”

Once again, no answer. But, at least you are not staring alone at your desolate reflection. His figure behind the glass – the yellow eye on his left side watching each of your body’s movements – is so very real and alive. At least, you are not alone this time. Though, the company is unorthodox biologically.

“Reading … I can do that.” Only for a little while though. Eventually, your eyes will start to blur at the tiny scripture. However, as you pick up the book and place it in your lap, the first line is big enough that you can read it easily, “Once upon a time –”

As a wedding gift, Pandora received a box from Zeus. Though gifts by definition are simply something given from person to person, the word gift carries with it a subliminal, secondary definition. Gifts are to typically be opened.

Acting against that thought, Zeus warned Pandora to never open the box. You never understood that. 

Why would one dangle temptation in front of another’s face? Why even plant an apple tree in the Garden of Eden? Why even craft a box if it should remain shut evermore? Temptation is a seductive thing. It slithers up into a body with shining honey eyes and lures like a hook. Because of this, it is best to keep it under lock and key.

If Zeus really did not want the box opened, he should have kept it as a hidden secret underneath thousands of layer crusts in the mountains.

As the story goes, curious Pandora opens her wedding gift. From it, the four horsemen of Judgement Day leap and gallop out, thick plumes of disease rattle out of the box in shaking coughs, and envy and greed claws their way out with black, knife fingernails, raping Pandora of her beautiful face and stealing her glittering necklace. Bleeding scratches upon her cheek and lungs filling with disease-ridden smoke, Pandora slams the box shut with a regretful hack. 

Only one thing remains in Pandora’s box. Hope remains trapped inside the wedding gift. Alone, hope paces the perimeters of the box in their curiosity. Marveling at how much room and space they have to stretch out, hope takes a long, peaceful nap for all eternity.

You wish you could take a long, peaceful nap. You have a lot of trouble managing to fall asleep fully without waking up in intervals. When you work against your body’s natural circadian rhythm that is simply what happens.

Today, you have what Doctor Safari’s helpful tabs are telling you is a third shifter headache. To alleviate them you take no pills. Far too smart of an idea to take those. Instead, you take an iced frappuccino out of the break room’s fridge and turn off every single light in the aquarium, down to the blue LEDs that snake on the ceiling.

“Much better,” you sigh to yourself in relief. In nebulous black, your feet carry you to the place where company awaits and has been awaiting for about two months now.

It has been a slow trail of companionship. Progress is not fully linear. Part of you has forgotten how hard it is to socialize after years of isolation. 

To be honest, you feel like a man who has lived up in the mountains alone for years, living and hunting by nomad methods, only to be shown a cellphone as soon as you reach the mountain's descent. However, they must feel the same way. They have lived down in the ocean for years, living and hunting in aquatic methods, only to be brought up and shown the eye of a penlight shining in their face. The three of you are all just struggling along in finding how to make companionship work. 

But God, does it work. You hesitate with it, suddenly remembering the fins as placeholders for ears or the tails under their belly-buttons. Yet, human eyes and smiling lips will restore your content in the next moment. Something about them solves your loneliness.

They may never speak. However, you often have trouble navigating the maze of words.  In the end, you consider them friends in an unease definition of the word.

By the time you make it to Pandora’s box, your coffee is drunk down to the last drop and you use the chilled glass container as an impromptu ice pack across your forehead. Where you come through is not the typical oval-shaped room. Instead, you venture up a tongue of metal steps to the top of their aquarium tank. It is a circle-shaped room. Designed largely like a pool, the only lighting is three spheres on each wall. The room consists of a gaping black hole of water and a slight drop in floor elevation so staff can stand ankle-deep while feeding or caring for them.

At least, you assume. Because the first time curiosity lured you to the top of their tank, your fingers had been nibbled at. Nothing extreme and more like dogs cobbing to show affection, but it still surprised you when the right-gold-eyed one took your hand in his.

Now, you carry along with a plastic bag of treats and tread into the water without hesitation. Walking in the familiar steps of your companionship as you have done night after night. They are eager to see you it seems.

Too bad the world tilts and you are suddenly no longer looking down on them but eye to eye. You realize what has happened with gritted teeth. A careless trip of unbalanced feet, now you sit on hands and knees in inch-deep water.

You also realize something with more horror than before. The prescription sunglasses that were perching on your forehead have been knocked off and are slowly slipping inside the tank’s depths. 

“No, shit!” You cry out before, with one-track-mindlessness, you duck your head underwater like a hungry mallard. 

Your eyes fly open as soon as you submerge yourself. You watch as languid sunglasses drift lower and lower. Ribs tight on the cement floor, you spear out your arm in a panic, missing the edge of the glasses by a finger’s width before they go down further and further.

No, no, no! Those glasses cost a fortune! 

Stupidly, you consider the idea of diving right into the rest of the tank before you realize another thing. It paralyzes you, shocking and binding your heart. The entire sight of the tank is so easy to see. The bottom of the ocean floor is as clear as crystal, enough where you pick out each gradient of sand. It is comparable to being a person putting on their prescription contacts in the morning, everything clearing up with the right correction lens. 

Usually, your vision is always mildly blurry. Enough where you can navigate night to night without any serious medical aid. But that lingering, splitting-headache pain behind your irises dulls like a blanketed sound. 

It allows you to watch clearly as delicate, black fingertips scoop up your ebony pair of sunglasses. 

Relief fills you as the fish with upturned eyes gently brings them up to you. You surface from water just as both fish break the surface too. It dawns on you that you haven’t been this close, eyes parallel to one another with you on your knees. 

No reinforced aquarium glass separates you this time and yet, calmly, you say, “Thank you. I really can’t thank you enough for retrieving those for me.”

A giant grin grows on the one with downturned eyes. Though you hold a hand out to the other, this one seems to think your gratitude is for him for he loops his arms around your neck, squeezing you. He starts to pepper kisses on your cheek, which you suppose resembles how dogs like to lick their owners.

Your outstretched hand never receives the glasses. Instead, the fish with upturned eyes takes to placing your sunglasses back on the perch of your head. The temple tops fit snugly behind your ears. You watch as the fish with shrewdness in his eyes starts to move the tendrils of wet hair out of your face. 

As your hair is tucked and your cheek is kissed, you wonder just once more why faith has brought them to you.

“(Name)?”

You smile at Deuce’s surprised gap. Today, you wear Noir sunglasses. The lenses are as dark as vantablack, refusing to allow any light touch your retinas. Even the artificially colored lights of an aquarium during operating hours is too much for you. 

Deuce is in charge of the photography printing booth today. Twenty or so different families, couples, groups of teens flicker in rows across the screen he stands in front of. 

“You sound almost disappointed.”

“No, no, not at all,” he rushes to amend. “Just haven’t seen you out in –”

“The sun?”

“Yeah, that.”

“Even a vampire needs a change of pace.”

Like an examined showhorse, you show off your plain teeth. No fangs or shark teeth to be found. 

“I’ll tell you though. Driving here? A complete nightmare.” And, it really was. Usually you drive one handed. Your right hand lies on your thigh, tapping along to the rhythm of the radio’s drums. Today, you had to grip the steering wheel with both hands.

“Well, it is a summer weekend after all. Sucks to get stuck in traffic. ” Deuce nods his head in sympathy.

“Ah,” you look to the side. “Actually it was kind of just weird driving with other people on the road.”

Deuce’s eyes brighten in particle understanding. He might not entirely comprehend it but he still goes, “Oooh. Because you’re so used to driving at night.”

It is not that entirely. “Yeah,” you give a small, lying smile. When you remember driving, you remember it like a dream. You drive in a single lane, all alone in your white truck. Bordering you, two lanes of heavy, steady traffic move in succession towards the opposite direction. Going somewhere you are not. 

Your isolated Chevrolet Silverado was so high up on the ground that you felt a bird. The width of your truck was so wide that you felt you were shouldering your way through a crowd. That is only what felt like happened, not reality. “I just felt a little disjointed.”

The photographs on the monitor keep changing in flickers. Your eyes fall on them. Mother with daughter. Boyfriend and girlfriend. Father and mother and only son. Three girl best friends. Grandfather with two girls and one boy. Blank. 

“Did you get your photo taken?” He asks. He must have noticed your gaze. Has to do his job after all. 

“Ah no.”

You look at the empty block of spotlighted blue. Dark cobalt around the edges and white in the center. How many photos do you have of yourself? You feel in that moment … if you ran away somewhere, no one would notice; there’s no photographic evidence that you exist.

“Nah; had to fight to let them let me pass. Oh, it’s just mandatory. Completely free of charge. And then, they started thinking I was insecure or something so they started complimenting me. Had to explain,” you tap the side of your sunglasses in reference, “and then, finally they let me go. So much fuss for just a photo.”

“They’re really that insistent on it?”

You nod. 

“So what brought you out into civilization anyways?”

“Wow, rude.” 

Deuce laughs. You smile strained. Every time you speak, it feels wrong. You are being too mean or not engaging enough. God, why can’t you just talk to someone like a normal person and carry a conversation smoothly? There is no desolate reflection for you to spy on the laptop, just an empty space of spotlighted blue.

“Visiting some friends.” is your reply.

The publicity on them is quiet and hush. So much so that you feel the world has already known about them – two merman pulled from the bottom of the deep sea, sea, sea. It is entirely possible. With how disjointed you are compared to 99.9 % of the population, it is not so far-fetched to think that they have been in the public’s eyes for a long time and wonder over them has died down. 

However, this exhibit is still listed as the first one. Out of how many? Well, you suppose you will find out later if more are to come, if this is going to be a big success. You only found out from working the night shift, seeing the date on the break-room calendar. 

COME SEE, FOR THE FIRST TIME, CREATURES FROM THE BLACK LAGOON! That is the first message you spy on the aquarium walls, following along with the crowd. Must have been put up by the morning crew. In bright letters, strung underneath party streamers, a multitude of phrases bounce and shout. Instead of being in awe over the pictures of them, your mind focuses on each line detailing: unprecedentedly new; for the first time; never seen before!

Yet, no one shrieks in terror at the sight of them in the posters. Even when you and others are filed into the aquarium auditorium, the crowd murmurs to themselves softly instead of shouting. Under the hypnotic spell of voyeurism, everyone seems more anticipatory than agitated.

You fixate your glasses tighter to your face as you scale up metal stairs, looking over your shoulder at the water. This is where they do the sea lion or seals show. You have not seen a single one in an entire decade. Under the shadowed surface, you can spy two serpentine lengths flowing through currents. 

“Bet this whole thing is a scam. We should go back to Disney in Florida next year; it’s warmer there. More stuff to do too.” You cast a glance at the daughter in her early twenties sitting next to her mother before moving further up.

You do not pick the top row but you do pick an isolated section. Sandwiching yourself next to a stone pillar, your butt lands on the rickety metal bench. Just as you are about to readjust your glasses, making sure that sides of the lenses are atom to atom on your skin, you are interrupted by a loud, consecutive ‘woah’ that you are not a part of, that swims through the crowd.

But, you manage to see a glimpse of it just in time.

You are not sure which one of the two it is. Yet, all the same, you watch entranced as one of them breaches that ink pool. Bioluminescence tints his body in glittering blue topazes. It is like watching a shooting star suddenly fly across the dark night skies. 

The porcupine quills of black that make up his fins bend and the dragon tail of sapphire that makes up his lower body arches. Aerodynamic, he flies through the air and manages just in time to snag the large, squirming spider crab that hangs from a ceiling beam on a metal wire. He disappears with the same speed as his appearance, taking with him into the black hole of water his meal.

Yet, before anyone can close their hanging jaws or the water can stop rippling with the impact of the eel-mer diving back under, music blares from the speakers, moving spotlights suddenly slide over the water and crowd, and a man comes out of the backroom and onto the stage.

You are just done wincing from the bright flash of a spotlight surfing over the bench you sit on when the man suddenly exclaims, “How are we all doing?” You stay tight-lipped as the crowd cheers. “C’mon, you can do better than that! How are y’all doing today?” The crowd cheers, claps, and responds in a long Goooood! 

Cringing with shut lips, you suddenly remember why it has been a decade since you watched an aquarium show. The script is always a bit childish. 

“We have two very special guests for you today. The strong guy you saw just a few moments ago was Flotsam. His brother, Jetsam, is here too. Jetsam, why don’t you come out and say hi to everyone.”

You lean forward, enraptured with the sight. Serpentine coils cut through the water, water jetting up with the force of how quickly he swims. Onto the wayward platform that bobs in the black hole, Jetsam pushes his body up onto it. Instead of a pair of flippers, he waves his clawed fingers to the awestruck audience. 

“Flotsam and Jetsam are both eel-mers. Found and rescued from the northern waters, they are the first of their kind and are very excited to show you all what they can do!” Thus, the spectacle begins.

They go through a variety of tricks. From doing a few figure eights in the water, shooting balls into hoops, and even a freeze dance to the music blaring through the speaker, the mixture of tricks they do feels almost infinite. When the staff member rolls out a clownfish mailbox, announcing the birthdays of a few children in the audience, you wonder how long they must have been training. Days upon days of practice drilled into their memory. 

Birthday children come up to the auditorium’s yellow line as the eel-mers hand out little high-fives to them. One child even proclaims, “Ew sticky!” before his dad tickles him under the arms and picks him up, returning to their bench. Even though it is their first show, Flotsam and Jetsam seem so well-versed in social etiquette. 

However, you cannot help but find it a little demeaning. It seems so beneath them to have to perform like this to a leering audience. Sure, the rewards for each trick is generous, a stocky Japanese spider crab tossed and crushed in their razor sharp jaws, but it feels so ignominious. 

Despite the horrified joy swimming through everyone’s gasps and aws, your heart is so sad.

Another round of tricks starts up. This time it involves a dual pair of bongos. As the staff member picks up a squirting spider crab from the cage onstage, he speaks into his echoing earpiece, “Now, our here, Flotsam is an exceptional drummer. We often find him playing something new every morning, completely of his own free experimentation.” Flotsam swims and props himself on stage as the staff member continues, “Today, we’re going to have him show off a skill to you fine folks!”

Your heart buries itself deeper and deeper into sadness. Perhaps, he never was intelligent. Perhaps, he is just another dumb fish. Canine obedience hammered in through reward and punishment, rhythms only learned because it is trained in him. As you two lock eyes, you cannot find anything that would dispute this theory.

You wait, as does everyone else, for Flotsam to start drumming away as promised. In addition, you wait for his eyes to flicker away from your unrecognizable face hidden by your sunglasses. Neither happens.

“A little indecisive today. I understand, there is just so much good music in the world,” the staff member stalls for time. He rips off a crab leg, holding out the reward by Flotsam’s suddenly demure face. “Why don’t we start off with something easy, buddy. A bit of the musical scale. Do-Re-Mi?”

‘You want to watch out for his teeth,’ you think, rubbing your fingers over the little scars you have from his nibbling. They really are such sharp instruments to break through the shell of a Japanese spider crab.

Thoroughly entrenched, the audience watches the repercussions of a box that was supposed to remain closed being opened.

Disbelief ripples through the crowd like one subtle wave. It is the only sound you participate in. Finally, in sync with the crowd of awake people. Someone to your left moans out of a low groan of phantom pain. The volume of interlocking disbelief grows when the staff member raises his hand up into the light. His trembling red hand hovers in front of his face to verify the view, his ring and pinkie finger bitten clean off. 

Poor bastard’s wedding ring is probably sinking down to the bottom of the tank alongside the crab leg that Flotsam spat out.

Volume pitches and rises. A woman screams. Naturally, that rouses up the attendance like puppet strings. The staff member falls on his bottom then crawls backwards. Crawling away from Flotsam like one, big stumbling crab. Since the seatmate to your right is a stone pillar, there is no one to trip over your feet in their rush to leave but you watch hypnotized many individuals shove and trip their way through bodies blocking the stairs leading down to the exits. Then, calmly, you stand on your metal bench to overlook the crowd. 

Flotsam’s eyes are wide as he stares at you. Reminds you of two tunnels branched off in a cave’s stomach. His fusiform gyrus lights up like newly plugged in Christmas lights, recognizing you. The little pea that makes up your fusiform face area– that clocks in every night to a job rarely done, cobwebs on the cubicle's laptop and dust as a seat covering – recognizes him too. 

It already was recognizing him, seeing him as what he really is. Your lips crack open, “Flo -.” Then, you start barreling down the metal steps. 

Weaving in and out of the disjointed crowd, you race down, sometimes landing on the cement floor and sometimes landing on the metal benches in your hopping steps.A shoulder jostles you so harshly that your sunglasses fall off your face. Between rows of benches, they dive to the floor. You trip, trying to make the leap onto a metal bench. The sound you make as you fall onto metal is so tiny in the cacophony. 

The world goes white. It is like flash blindness from a nuclear explosion. 

Tears pour out your eyes. You clap a hand over them in shame and to hide from the bright … too fucking bright … lights. 

When you finally pick up your sunglasses, marks of shoe soles stamped like tattoos on your upper arms and hands, the auditorium is empty of a single soul. Not even they remain swimming in the tank. Someone must have sedated them and dragged them out. You are alone once more.

That night, you dream a dream that is more memory than a mystified fabrication of wonders or terrors. 

Tender like a newborn, you lie on a wafer-thin sheet of paper that unrolls itself from a cylinder like one big, white wave. Perhaps an iceberg is more appropriate. Hospitals are as cold as the arctic. On the paper iceberg, on the fence of girlhood and the fated teenage years, on the tongue of a vivisection, you balance with broken ankles. Under your thin gown, flowing air and goosebump-freckled skin collide. Blue tints your bottom lip.

You are laid down, anticipating future pain.

“Lay down and I will be with you two shortly.” He had said this and nothing more.

The scent at the doctor’s office is ozone with a hint of vanilla. Near your toes, the long neck of a giraffe stretches skyward, painted on the bricks. Under bright, too fucking bright, light, metal tools glitter like slick seashells. You can feel the prescribed numbing droplets in your eyeballs slowly seep in.

You pinch your eyes shut, feeling like there is a cement block lodged and scraping between the bones of your temple. Why wouldn’t they give you something for the pain? When you open them, they are held open by a speculum and hooks like you are nothing past being an animal in a zoo doing your daily checkups. 

Oh, and you are sitting upright on the paper iceberg now.

Must be the dream’s altercations. Time skipping forward in intervals. 

Dreams are always like a pile of bones. The skeleton all jumbled up and disorganized that you move from femur to ulna. You are not graced with a lot of time to think on the analogy as a very big kitchen knife leans towards your pried open eye. 

The muscles in your cheek twitch when it cuts. With the skills of a head-chef slicing an egg, your eye is cut perfectly down the imaginary midline. Both sides are even. 

He scoops out one side of your eye like a person pulling back from a whole cake with a single slice. It is more inky black and sickly gray. The hues of your eye-cake that is. Far from the bright blue or pink frosting of a cake, it stays saturated in montone hues. You always thought an eye would look like the diagrams in school, colorful with reds and blues, but it is a sickly ebon and ashen gray.

The cornea is hard as a freshly cut nail and the half globe of retina slimes in his gloved hand like glue. Now looking at it, it appears the flesh inside an eye reminds you more of a bruised plum’s insides. A muted hue of purple-black rather than full ebon.

It is the lens of your eyes that really captures the doctor’s attention. He takes the half-cut marble in a pair of tweezers. Between those lobster claws of thin steel, your lens which makes up a pupil is rotated back and forth in observation. 

An eye, though entirely soft and vulnerable, has only one hard bit inside like the tough seed of a peach. It can be cut but it will give resistance. With one good eye and half of your other, you watch the hard material between the lobster claws be pinched in and out to test the give and resistance of itself. Steadfast, it does not bend under the squeezes. 

That half-cut pearl glitters.

Time skips again, moving bone to bone like switching channels. Instead of smells and sights, sound takes over the scene. The faint buzzing of the air conditioner as it breathes over the giraffe’s neck. Water oscillating back and forth over rubbing soapy hands cries loud in your ears. Though, faintly, you can hear the blood from your eye that slips down your chin hit the pad of the paper iceberg you sit on.

The tissue in your hand crinkles softly in sound as you wipe away blood tears. In a chair that might as well be across the globe of Earth, your guardian sobs in intervals with a trembling chin. “Guuuh … gah … hu-hu-hugaaah.” You keep soaking up blood, dabbing the tissue against your face as it whispers in light friction. 

After he finishes washing his hands of your sanguine, the doctor intones two words like a priest giving the final prayer at the start of Armageddon, “cone dystrophy.” That is the last sound your ears can bear to hear before you jolt awake.

Your current doctor has given you exactly twenty-one little sheets. Ishihara tests; multiple circles with a number made of circles in the center. They are tests for color blindness. 

That morning, the colors red and orange permanently fuse into one shade. 

You took three nights off work. A little mini-vacation. The first was so you could spend the daylight hours watching the show with Flotsam and Jetsam; the second was so you could attend your doctor’s appointment; the third was so you could clean up what has been neglected in your apartment. Vacations are supposed to relieve the average worker of stress. You find yourself an outlier, once again.

“Blind by thirty? Blind by fucking thirty?” You bundle up the graphic shirt you were trying to fold into a circle and punch your mattress. The pile of already folded shirts tilts and falls in an arch to your right. “That fucking asshole,” you sneer.

Unraveling the graphic-tee-ball, you straighten your hunched posture with a deep sigh. No use taking your frustration out on innocent clothes. The wrinkled shirt joins the tower once you rebuild it. You reach out and grab a pair of socks. Foolishly, you thought organizing your apartment up for a very overdue spring cleaning would help to organize the disorder running rampant in your head. 

Forlorn and desolate, you look at the laundry mountain. Too bad that is far from happening. 

It is just … A person takes a guess at jars full of jelly-beans or what they’re significant other might have made for dinner, those are the true purpose of guessing games. The audacity of a person to guess when someone else is going to blind. You almost tear the sleeve off your cardigan when you pull in from the mountain’s maw. How dare your doctor estimate your finite health with such casualness. 

You suppose it makes sense. The Salvador Dali-esque dream you had the night before, coupled with losing the ability to differentiate between red and orange; all of these were just the bad omens setting up the stage for your doctor’s appointment. 

Mostly a homebody and not a frequent traveler, there aren’t many sights you are dying to see. However, the idea of losing your sight causes you to grieve it prematurely. Mourning the death of yourself. To just wither up inside this box-shaped apartment as a tomb, the thought of that is odious. You shudder and fold a towel.

Across the mattress, you look at your CRT television cloaked in a thin, see-through blanket to dim the lighting. On the square, a blue pick-up truck punches through metal and wooden gating. Even though the movie wrongly uses the sound effect of glass breaking, it is still impactful as you watch the pick-up truck reverse into an open boating harbor connected to the ocean. The whale and little boy harnessed to the back slowly sink in. 

Freeform is playing Free Willy. To be honest, you are just biding time until the Harry Potter marathon starts up. Thank God, this movie is nearing its end because it is putting dangerous thoughts in your head. You just want to see little Daniel Radcliffe under the staircase and be interrupted by commercials every twenty-five minutes.

The orphaned boy pushes the orca whale out to sea. You fold another article of clothing, unsure if it is orange or red. The hope that Pandora kept in her box begs for freedom.

It is an open secret now. That is a little contradictory, if you do say so yourself. 

However, it is the truth. The public now knows them without embellishment. With the shining gandour and seductive metaphorical-lingerie, it comes to their attention that predators are still predators. No matter how human they may look. 

The thought saddens you. Slowly and unsurely, you have been starting to humanize them in your mind. When you wrestle with the locked doorknob of the oval-shaped room, you grow sadder. 

It makes sense though. Flotsam and Jetsam? They should have been kept in the Oval Office or Area 51; instead they were brought to an aquarium in the middle of nowhere, used for publicity. The crux of humanity rears its ugly head. Sharing each fetish and body part to the audience is the sin of being a curious human. Everyone is a voyeur for something. No one can keep their mouth shut nowadays, always needing to post about their lives. So, they brought Flotsam and Jetsam here to do the exact same thing.

To think there was a time when you were disguised by their humanity. And now, it's all you hope to preserve and keep safe. Ascending the stairs to the circular-shaped room, you contemplate if there could ever be an inch of humanity in an animal. As a set of honey eyes peer at you from across the black hole water, you wonder if it is only canine obedience in their faces. 

Two against one, you all take a moment accessing each other. There are no plastic bags of yummy treats hanging from your arms. No thumping rhythms of songs echo on the walls. Instead of familiar friendliness and comfortable companionship, you all seem incredibly wary of each other. 

“Ya can come closer … We wouldn’t hurt ya, Shrimpy.”

Who the fuck said that?

Frozen in disbelief, you can do little besides watch the black hole ripple in violent sprays. A harsh slap echoes off the wall as a clawed hand breaches water only to grab the face with a right gold eye. Both drop under the water as your mind reels, spinning around options like a broken, juiced-up carnival ride. 

You are tired! You are so tired that you must have hallucinated that! Being awake for so long on the night shift … Why, it must be entirely possible to hallucinate every once and a while! An evolved headache of sorts! 

Yes. You grab onto that thought. Those words were hallucinations. Too bad your grip on the thought grows flimsy when Flotsam breaches the water, snarling, “I wanna talk to Shrimpy! Jade, lemme go! Get off!” A clawed hand grips the back of his hair and pulls him right back under.

A vivid hallucination you are having. Yes! A paragon of hallucinations and headaches after so many night shifts!

Despite the fear, you stay rooted in your spot. Not close enough to where the spilling water of the tank touches your shoes but close enough where you can watch the water steadily. Every once in a while, the sound of rocketing water echoes in the room. Dragon tails of green-blue fracture the surface. A clawed hand will rise up like a zombie breaking dirt only to disappear in seconds. Water flies in turrets and towers. 

Maybe because of the fear, you stay in your exact same spot and watch. Things start to calm down eventually. Bubbles pop on the surface like they are conversing under there. But, that is impossible because fish cannot speak.

‘Don’t backtrack (Name),’ you think to yourself. ‘Their entire existence is impossible. It’s been impossible since the beginning. This is just another step into that twilight zone. Another unorthodox secret brought to the surface.’ The thought makes you feel disjointed like a pile of bones.

It had hurt. The day of the show. You do not why but it had hurt to know they weren’t yours alone. That the secret had been open for some time and it was not just you and them. Thus, you stay and wait for them to breach the surface one more time.

They both do simultaneously. Water cutting the visage of the rest of their body from the shoulders down. Red returns to the scene, staining both Flotsam and Jetsam’s faces in thick scratches. You barely get a second to analyze the wounds before Flotsam shouts, “It was haaard, ‘kay? I wanted to tell them the pretty nickname I made for them! And tell them I liked the new rocks they put in our tank!” He pouts childishly. “It’s so borin’ not being able to talk. I got so bored! You’re boring.”

Even when Flotsam snaps his sharp teeth at Jetsam, he remains unpulsed. “Forgive me for trying to look out for your well-being, but both of us agreed in junction that we would under no circumstances talk to humans.”

“But Shrimpy’s different from the rest!”

“Under no circumstances, Floyd.”

“I knooow,” Flotsam? Floyd? whines. Then, his downwards angled eyes slide over your comatose form. An excited grin comes up to his face. “Doesn’t matter now though. Shrimpy!!”

You are barely given a second to gather your thoughts before Floyd barrels towards you. Spindly arms wrap around your neck and suddenly you are down on your knees in an inch of water. The kiss on your cheek this time feels much less like a dog licking to show affection; it resembles more a human kissing you on the cheek which causes you to fluster. 

“Truly, you make things so difficult at times,” Jetsam? Jade? tuts. The sound of him swimming through the water draws closer. His deep timbre sends a cardiogenic shock through your ribcage as he addresses, “I do apologize for my brother. He was a bit desolate without you here the past two nights.”

For some reason, you wonder how Jade felt in your absence too. Hands holding onto Floyd’s upper arms for a semblance of balance, you reply, “Uh, I took — I took a vacation.” The words feel like marshmallows rolling off your tongue. Gluttonous, fluffy, unreal with their texture. This really is happening, and you have to come to terms with it.

“Told ya it wasn’t because they were scared of us.”

“I never made such a connection. Merely hypothesizing.”

“Mmh, hypothesizin’ my ass,” Floyd grins as he turns to … sniff your hair?

Pushing him away to gain a bit of distance, you address the one you find the least distracted of the two. “You — You can talk? Why — Why didn’t you say anything to me before?” The companionship you had? Was it truly so fragile that you two had to keep secrets from one another?

“Well, you see, (Name),” — your name is so tantalizing coming from his voice that you feel like you are being resurrected from a heart-attack, defibrillator pounding away on your chest — “it was a matter of safety for my brother and I. If we were to say anything —.”

Floyd interrupts, “Everyone’s kind of a bigmouth buffalo fishy here so we keep ours shut.”

“The day to day conversations of the staff, the chatter from the people who visited us in the daylight hours, the unending gossip. We figured it was best to keep our lips sealed for the time being. Who knows how they would have reacted.”

“Nothing’s better than having a few tricks up your sleeve, Shrimpy.” Finally, you are done being squeezed as Floyd falls back into his tank. He rests his hands behind his head and floats buoyant.

“It is an epidemic, I fear. Fufu. Secrecy is such a rare trait to find nowadays.” Jade crosses his arms on top of the cement incline that you kneel in, looking at you sweetly. “Almost a lost art of sorts, eroded away after centuries of geological and evolutionary advances.”

Then, ping-ponging back and forth, they start to slip each secret (that others would probably want under lock and key) they’ve heard.

“Your manager’s wife is infertile thus he avoids conversations about children or preschool.”

“Lucas hit a guy with his car two years ago in a hit-and-run. Didn’t kill him but still.”

“Martha’s daughter just had an abortion. She gripes to Tatiana about how to possibly be supportive about this.”

“Ashley doesn’t like her boyfriend and they’re breakin’ up soon.”

“Deuce is going to fail his statistics class if he scores lower than a 95 on his next test.”

“Patrick is proposin’ to his girlfriend on December 1st.”

“We could keep going,” Jade says with a sly grin. “However, I think the point has gotten across.” He trails one fingernail across your thigh and smiles when you do not flinch. “All that useless prattle makes for some divine entertainment. Besides, matching up with more animalistic expectations can mean others are wildly underestimating us. Having the upper hand is better, always.”

Scrutinizing over his wandering fingernail, you ask quietly, “Is that why you attacked that man?” The question is meant for Floyd. Jade pulls his keen nail back all the same.

“Nah,” Floyd does not look at you as he answers, fixated on the ceiling. “It was humiliatin’. Being looked at that way by ya, Shrimpy.”

You blink in surprise. Shame is such a human trait. Born of social circles and social behaviors that are just uniquely tied to the bipedal species you are. The look on Jade’s face seems to agree with the consensus. You watch green-blue muscles glide through the water, simply drifting to a tame current. You watch black fingernails tap on cement in a tiny rhythm. 

Floyd continues, noticing your silence, “Shrimpy’s the only one that talks to us like people. Everyone else just treats us like a spectacle.” 

The heart in your ribcage knocks. You cannot Free Willy the entire aquarium. But, your Chevrolet Silverado has enough room in the bed for a kiddie pool or two.

Faintly, you recall a distant memory, when you read to Jade so many weeks ago, just as you open the oval-shaped room with the stolen key:

“The creatures stung Pandora over and over again and she slammed the lid shut. Epimetheus ran into the room to see why she was crying in pain. Pandora could still hear a voice calling to her from the box, pleading with her to be let out. Epimetheus agreed that nothing inside the box could be worse than the horrors that had already been released, so they opened the lid once more. 

“All that remained in the box was Hope. It fluttered from the box like a beautiful dragonfly, touching the wounds created by the evil creatures, and healing them. Even though Pandora had released pain and suffering upon the world, she had also allowed Hope to follow them.”

For the past decade, photographic evidence of your existence has been nonexistent. You have found yourself to be an outlier; the world operates to a different rhythm that you have not been able to copy, relicate, or even play along to. Living in perpetual sleep apnea of the soul, you have only found true connection with two other people.

The blue ceiling lights are off as is now the new normal. Without the aid of your penlight, you make your way into the space with confident steps. Sunglasses perched on your head, you find that what has been slowly developing has reached the summit of itself. An impromptu, unorthodox Free Willy plagiarism.

The dark is easier than ever to see through tonight. You smile back when they smile at you. 

Floyd is curled up close to the glass, calling for your undivided attention with his placement. Subdued yet stealthy as ever, Jade lingers behind yet close enough to be seen. Floyd crosses his body across the glass-canvas up and to your right. Jade crosses his body to your left, floating demurely lower. 

The glass-canvas is painted with a few smudges of handprints. Some are from yourself and others from the only and only drummer. He depresses his dominant hand on the glass, leaning in close. His right hand waves up in dark waters in a fervent, warm greeting. His excitement to see you is palpable. You raise your own. 

Both of their eyes shine like spotlights. The only light that you have looked into and found it does not hurt. Jade’s anticipatory smile slithers onto your face in a perfect mimic. You are going to rob the aquarium of those glittering gold dragonfly eyes. Tomorrow, there will be nothing for the staff or customers to find in nebulous darkness. 

Nothing. Nothing but their desolate reflection.

[glaciertea]

A Night to Prove All

A Miguel O'Hara x Fem!Reader one-shot

[Thank you @oharaslove for being my beta reader for this~]

Word count: 6K

Content warning: 18+, Pwp, PinV, protected sex, cunnilingus (F receiving), use of alcohol (nothing too wild), Miguel is downbad~

Summary: Miguel has been watching you across the way. He's curious about you.

He wants to know more about you.

He wants to show that a certain act will lead to something more.

He couldn't help but take notice of you.

He couldn't help but notice the guys who sat next to you, testing the waters. Your waters. Was it scalding hot? Or was it arctic cold?

He played a little game in his head whenever a guy would remove himself from the bar stool next to you. Depending on their reaction, he could take a guess at the temperature they decided to dip their toe in.

That's a sneer. Hot.

He appears as if he's about to cry. Cold.

He's whispering something to you. Did he get through? 

Nope, a pure look of disgust. The water was too cold, so he believed the immediate burning water would warm it up. Balance it out. But he didn't give it time to allow it to properly reach that poise, to let it fill up and mix in.

You radiated a mesmerizing energy. Perched up in the middle of the bar are your long-sleeved blouse, comfy dress pants, and heels. Two inches, to be exact.

You were stirring your second daiquiri of the night. The classic strawberry. You were very to yourself, minus the ones who would interfere and place themselves in your bubble without your clear, full-on permission. There was maybe one or two out of the possible five candidates who had the decency to pose the question “Is this seat taken?” before you gave a bowed head. And when you did nod, you looked hesitant but allowed it.

“What is it?” Miguel muttered to himself, swirling his whiskey. He was on his third one for the night, but with his powers, he could definitely handle twice as much. Taking a sip—that's when the right word dropped in his lap.

Class. 

That's what you were exuding. When you denied the offers, you did it with grace and a sense of politeness. There was one where you did have to give a vexing eye. Miguel had the urge to make his way to get the dude off your back, but the bartender came to your rescue before he could really settle on his final answer.

This wasn't the original plan. He wanted a night out away from the other spiders, as today's mission was a pain and a half. Well, hell. It was full hell... and a half.

Three anomalies in one world. Nine different spiders in three sets of three went after each one; he needed to relax badly. It was successful, as they usually are, but even he had his limits.

This was out of his nature, but a few drinks were what he salvaged after. Even he knew when he needed time away from it all.

But spotting a beautiful person across the way wasn't on the agenda.

Would he dare try? Would he try and be potentially hot or cold, number six? He could handle rejection; he's a grown man. He was taught that ‘no means no,’ and there could be no explanation needed, no matter how curious he was. Simple and straightforward.

He's used to being by himself in his own space. In the rare moments he is out like this, a few will wonder up to him and take their shot. It was also a rare moment for him to indulge in a one-night stand. So the ones who would get shooed away by him made him curious if he'd understand what it's like to be on the other end. 

Scooting out of the booth, he began to stroll in your direction. You weren't paying any attention to your surroundings; you were lost in your head, it seems. Earlier, he took note of your observing eyes, but you possibly needed a moment to recharge after the line of men wanting to pucker up to you.

Miguel stopped a foot from you. He didn't think this approach all the way through. Does he ask if this seat is taken like the others? You could've glanced at him, so there's a chance that you knew that he knew that this seat was indeed not taken. He didn't want to tap on your shoulder; that would definitely come off as rude.

Does he take the seat? Or does he go down one and work his way to that one?

He really should've had a plan from the start. This isn't like him.

“Yes?”

A voice snapped him out of his trance. He turned to the bar before peering down at you. 

You are beautiful. 

He already knew, but it's different when you're able to view a sparkling gem up close. His mouth was dry, and words and word structures seemed to fail him at the moment. He didn't want to open his mouth, or the next few sentences would be a very bad Porky Pig stuttering impression.

You raised a brow, waiting for a response. The guy in front was very handsome and muscular that it seemed comical. You did see him in the corner when you walked in, very much to himself. You can’t lie and say that you weren’t intrigued, yet you didn’t have the ambition to go up to him, so you found yourself once more on your own. 

Bars are your rare amenities. A place where many frequent for a good (or bad, depending on the party) night, whether it be an outing with friends, a casual hook-up, or getting away from it all. And that’s what you’re for. You desperately had to get away from work life and the tedious night classes because, Lord knows, waking up super early to learn was no longer in your schedule. You refused to go back to those days of being up before the crack of dawn to a bunch of teens and teachers who didn’t want to be there just as much as the next.

A drink or two, chill music, then straight back home—that’s the usual run with these excursions. No one night stands, no making friends was off the table as you found it difficult to think of conversations and will freeze up; it was merely you, your thoughts, and the bartender when he came to check up on you.

It was a plan, but it was a shame that others didn’t pick up on that memo.

You found yourself attractive—nothing too crazy like a runway model, but also not ‘bad looking,’ even though looks are preferences. Average. That was your humble word whenever someone asked how you would describe yourself appearance-wise. But tonight wasn’t the case. Tonight you were a ten out of ten and then some with the many approaches of gentlemen either wanting to get in your pants or maybe more, but the universe decided to be weird and play some type of cruel joke and went for the first one.

The joke got old very fast.

Now you were onto a new one. Yes, he has a pretty face, intimidatingly handsome, one might say, but his desires could fall under the same categories as the ones from earlier. Though he is more jittery than the rest, even if his neutral facade is trying to cover it.

“Are… Are you okay?”

Coming back to reality, Miguel sputtered out an apology and directed his focus to the many drinks sitting on the shelves. He never considered himself to be a great conversationalist, but he believes he can hold a decent chat when need be, yet suddenly, it's refusing to make its way out of him.

“I know this seat has been taken and then empty a few times before, but may I sit here?”

Biting your inner cheek, a sidelong glance reached him. You eyed the many alcoholic choices and scrolled through your options. This was going to be your last drink of the night anyway, and you paid in advance, so you could get up and leave if he started to hassle you. 

“Yeah, go ahead.”

Miguel wasn't relieved by the answer, but it was a step on a path. Taking the stool, you were fixed on his size. He was so humongous that you wanted to ask a question about whether he always takes up this much space but refrained from it. 

It was quiet for a few minutes. You were both gaping ahead at everything and everyone, but not at each other. Miguel held this etched demure attitude, terrified to even speak a single word, not wanting to mess up this opportunity. You took a sip from your cup and cleared your throat. This was straining for you both, and it didn't help that your mind was racing with a million inquiries on why he wasn't talking to you. Is he putting on a facade of being nervous, or is this how he is?

“Do you usually come to this bar?” He winced at that very generic question. 

You were ready to fling your body out of this building. “No, not really. Rare occasions. What about you?”

“Every once in a blue moon. I don't really care about frequenting bars. They're nice, but to a certain extent.” Miguel got the bartender's attention and ordered another whiskey. 

“I agree with that; bars can be pretty good, but you have moments where you run into different sorts of people.” The bartender asked if you wanted something else, but you turned it down, thanking him. 

“Yeah, I dealt with some very interesting people in my time. Ojalá me hubieran dejado solo.” 

“Care to share any?” Interest peaked, but there was still stiffness. 

“Miguel, by the way.”

You were leery, but you dropped your name.

You didn't know how much time exactly, but you were on your third drink and he was on another. You were fascinated by his alcohol tolerance because he was holding up like nothing. The discussions and rabbit holes you fell into were natural—way too natural. Your defenses still kept their guard up, but it was pleasant.

Miguel's clunky motions presented themselves; he didn't want to spook you away. He was sucked into this pulling beam, and he saw no reason to fight it.

“So your co-worker has a habit of bringing his baby to work?” You chuckled while sipping on the daiquiri. 

Miguel sighed. “Yes. No matter how many times I tell him not to, he does whatever he feels like. But she is adorable, and I do enjoy her presence.”

“But you'll never admit it?” A boastful assumption, but you got him to laugh.

“You know me too well, it seems.” He eyed his drink. “I would like to get to know you better.”

“What was that?” You hoped he wasn't thinking of a certain activity to impose.

“Nothing.” He scrunched his eyebrows and shook his head. Miguel wondered if he was seriously about to go through with this ridiculous request, but with the way the interaction and banter were going, he didn't want it to end. Not now, maybe even never, and he's usually more guarded with these things, but it'll be worth the shot. 

“No. I'm not doing that; I might as well go for it. You are a very attractive woman, and riveting as well. I would like to do something tonight–”

You had to interrupt. “I'm sorry, Miguel. I should've said this from the start, but I wasn't thinking at the time. One-night stands are not my forte. I prefer to see how things will move along and how they'll develop. Bloom into something. I'm sorry again if that is what you were expecting from this.” You should've known this was too good to be true. 

Miguel nodded his head. “I understand completely. And I will not push you into that line. You caught my eye earlier; one can say I was enthralled. I wanted to know what you were like. Merely intrigued.”

You blinked a few times. “So you don't want to have sex?”

“I won't lie and say I don't have that in mind, but I wouldn't mind sitting here until closing to continue on with our conversation and leaving with your number if you choose to give it to me.” He reached for his wallet. “I'll find value in that if it means I get to proceed knowing more about you. May I pay for your drink?”

“I can pay for mine; thank you, though.” His words caught you for a loop. He respected your choice and paid for his, not making a fuss. Your brain was battering at the cage that this was a ploy, but something stirring deep inside was whispering that he meant his words. 

You caught on to his hook.

“May I make an offer?” Miguel asked.

Your eyebrow slowly rises, caution taking hold of every cell, atom, and molecule of you. “I'm listening.”

He also wanted to know how your body felt against his.

“Tonight, I want you to give me the opportunity to prove that I am meaning all the words I'm saying.”

“You want your actions to speak louder?” You reclined to the back of the bar stool, twisting in it slightly.

“That's what I'm lying down for." It is all up to you, of course. I am willing to simply have a chat with a beautiful woman and then go on about my life.” The whiskey was finished when he settled the glass on the overly dampened napkin. “To leave with a simple number. Or, up to you, we can try something tonight, and I will still want to be there.”

The reflection of yourself in his sunglasses forced you to look at how you were thinking in this moment. You saw the want, the unsure part, and the worry, and Miguel knew it too. He was ready to back away, then you opened your mouth.

“You're clean?”

“Yes, and if you'd like, I can show proof to you.”

You nodded, paid for your drink, and slid off the stool. Miguel followed suit, freaking out himself, but he pushed down any signs of it.

You were going to step into this domain. So much was sprinting inside your brain. You were hesitant. Very hesitant. You did walk to the bar, so he couldn't have access to your license plate, which was a good thing. You think. 

Making your way out of the bar, you twisted your head left and right when Miguel stood still, rubbing the back of his head. 

“Did you also walk?” You crossed your arms, stepping over to the side to not block the entrance.

“Yes. I'm sorry, I didn't think this would go this way.”

The air was stagnant. The surrusus of winds is breezing around you two, gleaning at the buildings and streets filled with citygoers bustling along with their lives. You weren't going to take him back to your place. Certainly not. 

And do you dare go back to his? How far away is his place? Was it close by? It had to be if he also walked. Or maybe he got a cab service and then ventured his way over to this area? You scuttled more away from him by an inch or two. You wanted to be discreet, but he took notice.

“We don't have to do this. I don't want to make you uncomfortable in any way.”

You went to open your mouth to argue about his offer, but he beat you to it.

“And even if I put the proposition out, I'm sure we both know that it isn't some contract or thing you have to or need to go through.”

You hinged your mouth right back up and peered ahead. Your gut was screaming to let Miguel take you; there is truth behind his words. Yet the logical side agrees with that statement.

This isn't something you have to do; one-night stands can give you a feeling in the moment, but you crave more. Relationships can be scary, but it was something that you did lean on. That sense of security.

Your feet are already in the water, so why not dip in further? “You don't have anyone waiting for you at home?”

He shook his head. “If I did, I certainly wouldn't be here.”

That got a snort out of you. You sized him up, trying to decipher if he was lying to you, but that gaze he was giving made you feel impartial enough to believe him.

“Right. Do we go back to your place?”

“Would you feel at ease going there? And I want to hear your honest answer. No throwing it back at me.”

You had to make the right choice.

Here you are with your back against the wall of a decent hotel room. You still weren't comfortable bringing Miguel back to your apartment, but you were willing to go to a hotel with him. At least it was a public space, so a cleaner could stumble upon your body stuffed lazily under the bed or something.

Miguel did make sure to check in on you, wanting to be completely certain that you were fine with this. You were seeing green flags, but you were always ready to rip off those rose-tinted glasses.

“If you need anything, tell me. I want you to be priority number one.” His tongue trailed down your chin to your collarbone, refusing to take off any clothes without your permission.

“Can we listen to music?”

“Yes, we can.”

He gave you space to slip down, and you hobbled to your phone and searched for a perfect playlist. You did glance at the items that sat perfectly on the small stand by the bed.

Right before this little excursion fell into place, you took a detour to a local store that sold the essential items you needed. You wanted to be better safe than sorry. 

A bottle of flavored lube (the store didn't have any unscented ones, of course), morning after pills, and condoms.

The size Miguel picked up almost made you drop everything and deny him access. But that gut feeling was keeping you hostage, and that curiosity was peeking out.

You jumped when your name was called, as Miguel gave a look of concern. “You okay? Remember, we can stop at any point.”

“It's okay, Miguel. Thank you for checking in on me. I'm still up for that request, you know.” After clicking the list, the ambience settled in. “Can you dim the lights, please?”

He searched for the light source and stared at the ceiling, watching the room be shrouded in a soft glow. “You doing okay?”

Your heart and stomach flittered. Half from the nerves and the fact of how caring he was. He was really trying to do his best, but you still needed to examine him. 

“Yes, I'm fine. A bit wonky, but I'm ready to continue.”

He made his way back over and sat on the mattress, sinking it down partially. “Remember, whenever you want to stop, tell me.”

You reeled yourself up into a heated kiss. If you wake up to an empty bed in the morning, then it'll all be on you. You really hoped this wasn't some elaborate scheme to get in your pants.

You had to clear your head; you had to focus on what was going on in front of you. It was you and Miguel, and this ‘promised’ future he laid out and presented.

His lips were soft, and his tongue worked endlessly in your mouth. Your moans alone were enough to make him burst, but he had to please you first. He pulled back, scratching the nape of your neck, and took his shirt off. You couldn't help but stare. Holy shit, he was built as a tank and then some.

Miguel followed your dazed eyes down to his chest. He didn't know if that was a good stare or not. 

“Everything okay?” 

“Oh, everything is fine. It's all peachy. I knew you were buff, but behind fabric it looks, well,” you signaled with your hands at his pecs to his abs. “Different.”

“Eres muy linda. Thank you, I think.” He puffed out a laugh.

“It's a compliment.” You hesitated to touch his muscles, but he took a hold of your wrists and placed them on his chest. 

“You can touch, hermosa. It's okay.”

You took that permission and stroked every crevice of him.

“Really big.” You both giggled at that and went back for another kiss. 

Miguel's pants were tight, but he held off. You took your shirt off with help from Miguel. You removed your bra as well and couldn't help but snort at his absorbed fix. 

“I- uh, sorry.”

“No, it's okay. Making it equal.” You took his wrist, gawked at the sheer size of his hands, and placed them on your breasts.

Miguel took the hint and kneaded them, giving peppered kisses wherever he could. He tweaked your nipples, tugging and pinching at them. He dipped down to lap at one, toying with the band of your pants. 

You were feeling stuffy and warm in them, ready to get them off. You pushed him off, startling Miguel. He was ready to ask if everything was okay when you ripped the fabric down to your ankles and kicked them away.

“Your turn.” You plopped back on the bed, holding back a smile at the stunned expression.

He stood up, took a few steps back, and unbuttoned his jeans. The relief that crashed when he was free was kept hidden. You gulped at the outline. You thought you were discreet, but the sheepish blush crept on Miguel. 

“No, I mean, you're big in all ways; I wasn't expecting that. I was, but not really.”

Miguel craned his neck down. “You're fine.” He strolled up to you and right in between your legs, parting them with his body. “Just say the word, hermosa, and I will back away.”

You needed this. “It's okay. Go ahead and continue, please.”

“Ready?” He tugged at the waistband.

You didn't want to go back. “Yes.”

Lifting your bottom, he slipped them off in one fell swoop. He did it so smoothly, your brain couldn't register it. It did take note of how intensely Miguel was eyeing your pussy. You knew you were wet from the acts and his overall demeanor, but Miguel was eyeballing you like you were some sacred treasure.

You heard him gulp his steady gaze on yours. “May I?”

“Please.” You were ready to explode from that. He has you in his trance.

Miguel had to take his time; he wanted this to be a night you wouldn't forget, so when the time comes to reminisce about this night, you both will maintain this overwhelming sense of nostalgia. 

Miguel was already whipped for you.

Kissing and licking your inner thighs, he closed his eyes to listen to your sounds. Nipping the flesh earned him a soft sigh; biting led to a whiny cry; and sucking gave him a needy moan. 

He didn't pause until you were covered, or unless you spoke up, he needed to mark you for only you and him to see. He worked his way up to your glossy heat, watching as you clenched.

“Eager, huh?” He placed his lips on the folds, letting some of the delicious juices stick to them.

“You can—ah, yes, I guess you can say that.” You combed through his hair and smiled. Miguel's heart was ready to beat out of his chest. He needed to wake up to that every morning.

You bucked your hips, signaling him to keep going, and he wasn't one to tease you… Yet. Pulling at your folds, he waltzed his tongue along them, probing at the opening before lazily moving up and down along the slit.

Your toes curled, one hand on your breast and the other pushing his head further. You squeaked and mewled. It was like he knew your body; it felt so incredible. You grinded in a steadfast motion, your eyes rolling in the back of your head whenever his nose swiped against your clit.

And that's when you were caught off-guard. 

“Aah—mmn!” His tongue suddenly grounded into your velvety walls, clinging on with every sharp thrust of the soft muscle.

The sounds right in your ears, your long heaves, and the whiny calls of his name in his. Red eyes pierced into your soul as he quickened his motions.

“Fuck, Miguel—this feels—mmn! This feels amazing. You're doing so well.” You grabbed onto his curly locks, bucking your hips to have him plunge deeper.

Miguel was one for praise; he pretended to not hone in on his ego, simply brushing it to the side like it didn't exist. But hearing those cute sounds flow out of you made him feel as if he's the greatest creation in the entire multiverse.

Wriggling and exploring your tight, dripping pussy, he made sure to savor every drop of your delectable juices. Your flavor was astral—simply out of this universe.

Slurping up until he reached your clit, he toyed with the sensitive nub, allowing his two fingers to continue giving you the pleasure you desire and deserve.

“Miguel!” The shrill of great ecstasy had him almost come undone right in his boxers.

You hugged his fingers so well, stretching and scissoring for you to be able to take him. He wasn't going to neglect one inch of you; he wasn't going to neglect a single part of you. 

“Mm, how are you feeling, hermosa?” He whispered against your stomach, leaving those small butterfly kisses on it, his digits picking up in a brutal place.

“I—ngh—I feel—fuck!” His thumb danced along your stiffened clit, prodding and rolling it, carefully pressing it down.

All he could do was smirk, lay his tongue flat against your nub, and roll it with it. Your back arched, and the stars were in your vision. You wailed his name as Miguel helped you ride out your orgasm, slurping up any juices that dared not fall into his mouth.

“Shit… oh, oh, my God.” Your spent body was light as a feather, like you couldn't move a muscle.

“Was it good for you, hermosa?” He kissed your lips and your cheek a couple of times, staring at your glazed-out expression. 

You grinned, licking your mouth and tasting your wetness. “Very. I think I'm ready for you, Miguel.”

“You think or you know, hermosa?”

You gnawed at your lip and whispered. “I know.”

Miguel's stomach did a somersault. Standing up, he was fully free. Stepping out of his boxers, he went for the condoms, popping the package open and pulling out a wrapper. He climbed back into the bed and made sure you were comfortable.

Witnessing him rip off the foil with precision managed to turn you on even more. He slid on the condom as you eyed the long, throbbing penis. You didn't know whether to admire it or be terrified of it as you pursed your lips into a thin line. Miguel's eyes looked into yours, sensing the nervousness emanating from you.

“I'll go slow; I want you to experience nothing but pleasure.”

You nodded at the reassurance, needing him closer to you. Taking a hold of the nape of his neck, you bring him into a yearning kiss. Miguel's arms were on either side of your body, trapping you in, but you loved the heat leaving him.

“Ready, amor?” He nipped at the curve of your neck, wanting to sink his fangs into your delicate skin, but reprimanded himself, scolding himself for that thought.

I- uh…” you gulped.

“Yes?” His breath sent shivers down your back, and the tingling sensation between your thighs coursed from your stomach to your chest.

This man is huge in every single shape and in every possible form. You would like to be on the bottom to feel him rutting into you with every thrust, but his size scared you. And the gaze he was holding wasn't doing your nerves any better.

“Would you like to be on top?”

You scanned the room and nodded your head. With no hesitation, he flipped you both so you were straddling his hips and his back was resting against the headboard. His hands run along your sides, giving your behind a firm squeeze. Your eyes found their ways lost in his. The music gives that intimate ambience, and the dimmed lights show off the right amount of his gorgeous features.

You swore you saw his iris flash red, but you shook it away. Turning back, you took one more glance at him before grinding against the tip. A hissing intake escaped from you, nails digging into his shoulders as a grunt was left between those plump lips of his.

Biting your tongue, you continued on with your slow movements, wanting to at least get the head in, but with his size, it could be a bit difficult. You needed some more help.

“Miguel, I need to...”

Without a second thought, his hand reached for the bedside dresser and grabbed the bottle of lube. Using his thumb to pop off the cap, he held it close to you.

“Palm.” That instructive tone sent those goosebumps running all over you.

Obeying, you shakily move it right in front of him. A decent amount of clear gel squirted out. You blinked a few times, confused, watching Miguel place the bottle back in its original spot. Two of his fingers scooped up a small bit, a dangerous glint of desire and hunger.

“I- Miguel, I don't know what you-”

“Go on. Do what you need to do.” The two fingers glided in between his cock, from the head down to the base.

Creasing your eyebrows, you tried to put this puzzle piece together when it hit you. “This is a lot.”

He smirked, taking more, and went back to pleasing himself. “Still too much?”

Using the rest, you lathered up your digits and maneuvered them right to the entrance. Miguel stared passionately, his hand moving at a leisurely pace, enjoying the private experience. Sticking your fingers in, you felt yourself clenching. A hearty moan works its way out, your slick walls tender with every breach from your own attention.

You've never felt this euphoric when you touched yourself. Maybe it was because you both are helping yourselves out for one another, or it could be the fact that a beautiful man was glaring at you with an intent to rearrange your insides while wanting to show you that there is and will be more to this.

“Whenever you're ready, hermosa.”

“I'm ready for you, Mi- ah–Miguel.” He rubbed some of the transparent substance off of him onto your clit. 

Repositioning back over him, you repeated the pattern of nudging yourself down onto him, finding it easier to slide down. A strangled groan trembled out of Miguel, observing the tip disappear in you. Rolling your hips, you clenched on him from your fluttering walls to your arms around his neck. Your eyes blinked rapidly as the tandem rhythm of you and Miguel rocking out of sync held every ounce of ignited need.

Halfway in, your cries and words of sweet nothings echoed in his ears and mind. A ring of your gushing juices formed perfectly on him. The music really did help. 

with that intoxicating ache in your burning bodies. You were so glad you recommended it.

A couple of inches more down. You whine out. He mutters swears in Spanish, growling when you finally hit the base of the shaft.

“Yes, yes, hermosa. Estás hecha para esta verga. Estás hecha para mi.”

You felt full. Tears streaming down, your cries breathless, with Miguel taking control of the mindless thrusting. When you go down, he makes sure to drive up in full force. His fingers skimmed across your ignited skin, longing to take in everything.

The wet slaps were delicious. You bounced with every bit of delight, whining out when Miguel chewed and sucked on your nipple, adding to the fervid moment. 

“Fuck, Miguel! Your cock fits so perfectly!”

“For me, only for me.” Miguel's vigorous pumps sent you both in a spiral.

Your tight walls were constricted; you were experiencing his ridges and veins, all of him rubbing against you so nicely. Your fingernails leave indents on his beefy shoulders, one or two puncturing the skin. The sweat leaking down and shimmering on his chest and abs made you want to take a picture and hide it from everyone. You wanted this image to be for your eyes only, and the idea of keeping it was floating whimsically in the air.

Your murky fluids covering his, the melding scent of your carnal lust as Miguel picked up the tempo, forced you to throw your arms around his neck to not tumble over. His head is buried in the curve of your neck, biting at the flesh, his fangs threatening to sneak in.

“Tan bueno, tan jodidamente bueno. Te haré mía, hermosa.” Miguel took a fistful of your hair, pulling you into a deep kiss.

You screamed, tongues in a constant battle, his giant hand gripping your waist, surely to leave small bruises in the morning. His balls came into contact with your ass as the furious pounding made the bed shake and groan alongside. The fuse was to explode.

“I'm cumming! Miguel, I'm going to cum!”

“Cum for me; do it, hermosa, cum, cum.”

You shrieked. Shockwaves overtook your very soul as you quivered, and your muscles convulsed around his length.

“Miguel, you make me feel like I'm on cloud nine; you brought me to a new high.” You cooed in his ear.

He was close to his end, holding you tight. Your praises drove him insane; he repeated your name over and over until he finally washed over, moaning your name like you were a goddess from above.

Your head fell to his chest, loving the heaving and hearing his heartbeat slow its erratic pace. He began to soften, but he wanted the feeling of you to not disappear.

“So.”

“So.” You huffed out with a giggle.

“Did the offer leave the table? Did I give my worth?”

Digging your chin into his chest, your eyes darted side to side, pretending to search for an answer.

“Well, I suggest you better be here in the morning to get my response.”

You both smiled and snuggled up to each other, cooling down and enjoying the endlessly loving tunes.

•♡•♡•♡•♡•

Miguel stepped inside his place, closing the door quietly, and leaned against it. Every inch of his body was aching and exhausted after this tumultuous day. Disengaging his suit, a hefty exhale puffed out when he got a waft of different spices blending right in his nose. An aroma that can't be beat.

Slugging further in, he eyed the beauty in his big shirt, swaying to nothing in particular. He will always be enraptured by you. 

“You look like you need a long shower.” You eyeballed him from your peripheral view.

“That and something more.”

“And what might that be?” You were fully facing him, arms folded, a tiny smirk twitching its way on your face. “Because if it's dessert, then that's going to have to wait a while.” You didn't hold back on a cheese-eating grin.

“Then how about an offer?”

His stoic face didn't match that slyness to his voice, but you were ready to hear what he had to ‘offer.’

“Alright, I'm listening.” You loosen your arms, propping your elbows up on the counter.

The starvation in his eyes spoke for itself, but you wanted to hear them out loud. Eyes never leave, rapt by each other. Miguel stepped closer and closer, stopping right in front of you and letting his knuckle caress your cheek to your chin before grasping it and tilting your head back.

“I'll shower, but I want it alongside my dessert.” He was right next to your ear. “And I promise it won't ruin my appetite.”

“Well… I'll be willing to give that a chance on one condition.” You tip-toed up his chest with your fingers. 

“And what's that?”

“You say I love you.”

There was a mischievous hint in his eyes. “Te amo, hermosa.”

[theartingace]

Hello! I’ve seen your work over the years and every time I see it I always get a kick over it. I have a sociological question to ask you about centaurs. How do humans or other races fit into their lives? Both in a general sense of life, platonically, and romantically? Sorry if you’ve answered this before.

Thank you! It always blows my mind that I've been puttering away in my little corner of the internet with my horse people for this long!

I've covered a couple different specific situations in my cultures; re platonic and romantic? but for the most part is it boils down to that romantic would probably be rare and boil down to individual choices for how they approach it? But for platonic I have sort of covered a lot of platonic relationships just from the standpoint that basically all my centaur cultures have a deep societal tie to another race. At first it was a lot of convenience- a way to get around the difficulties of centaur bodies getting in the way of certain ways of life, but at this point I just do it cause it's lovely to me!

Like the merchants build their cities with the dwarves and they both benefit from the dwarves engineering and centaur's strength and mobility re:trade. The centaurs easily manage huge farms, trade networks, and logging infrastructure on their strength and speed but benefit from dwarves (and a small portion of other bipeds) being better set up for building (try to imagine a centaur making a roof, it's vexed me for a year now..) and generally engineering wizzes so it's a mutually beneficial relationship to entwine their cultures in the main Merchant City

Obviously my Riders are wholly entwined with their biped family as I've talked extensively about in.. too many posts probably haha

but then my very lightly covered Mountain folk have a different, almost religious relationship with the Forest Giants in which the relationship between their two cultures is separate other than the spiritual importance they hold with each other. The giants live approximately 300 years but are very slow, sedate creatures who prize a life of peace and telling stories over all else. So the centaurs almost view them as minor deities and the giants keep and love the stories their fiery little companions entrust to them.

As you can tell, I really love building all these races and cultures and then mashing them together and see what comes out! I find it makes the world feel more real and lived in when I'm not only thinking about how a culture would work and operate, but also how they interact with their neighbors! What's their main export and how does that shape their life and relations?? These are the questions I get LOST in so thank you for asking :D

[thefirstknife]

Feeling abnormal about Echoes continues. Apologies for the scrunchy screenshots, it's from a recording. Immediately starts with Saint and Osiris killing me on the spot:

A little bit of comedy to ease on the crying:

Help. Osiris obviously doesn't want to do this because like. He's seen this before and it made him very unwell. Seeing Saint's dead body is very clearly not something he wants to experience again, but Failsafe says that Saint needs him so he goes anyway. Yippee.

Then the answer to my question. Nessus basically holds an archive for the Vex which includes the archives from the Forest, which is where we're going. I expected something that doesn't require lengthy explanations about how we're getting to the Forest. Saint even helpfully asks:

Some more info:

This is a really neat explanation that migth allow us to revisit this some time without having to go through the hoops of complicated shenanigans with what happened to the original Forest (and Mercury). But also it does leave me with the feeling that they may just never give us that answer. This will take me a while to process and come to terms with.

More interactions to kill us:

And then the big room. I'll put it under read more because damn:

From above where you enter:

It's a whole new area. It's absolutely bizarrely filled with a lot of details. There's four gates to the Forest, each designed differently. Spent a long time wandering around trying to figure stuff out and it's quite interesting. Makes me feel like we will use this area for something again because this level of brand new designs only being used one would be very strange.

So this one without the actual blue barrier:

This is the "Nessus" gate. When you gate closer, you can see the new plants from this episode and stuff. It's also used at the end of the mission to leave to the core of Nessus. The other three gates have the barriers and they later open, though we can only enter one of them. The one from behind that's basically the last you can actually see... Is Europa:

The snow? The ice crystals? The blue ice streaks? This is completely new. It looks like a gate leading to Europa. When it opens later, the enemies that come out of here are the normal Vex, which you can also see on Europa. I'm saying that because other gates have Vex associated with what the gate looks like. This is unhinging me. What does this mean. It can't just be a random thing they made to use once. There's no way. Bro...

And then there's this one which is the one we use to get to Saint's tomb; it's a gate leading to the future:

VERY interested in the enemies that come out of there. Obviously Descendants aka future Vex, but that also includes WYVERNS. Which are the first Descendant Wyverns we've ever seen:

And there's this one which I couldn't originally place; it looks too similar to a lot of other stuff, including Nessus itself, but I thought it might be Black Garden or Venus. Turns out? Black Garden. When you fight in the center later, Sol Divisive Vex come out of that gate.

The Europa and Black Garden gates fully open when you start the fight and they let the Vex out; as I said, normal ones from Europa and Sol Divisive from the Garden. Then when they're cleared, the future gate opens too and there come Descendants. The other two gates remain open but you can't access them; there's a firewall. Let me in.

In the future gate, there's the worn down corridor and then directly after it is the tomb.

And then the tomb.

I highly recommend doing this yourself or checking out a playthrough for all the lines because I can't feasibly summarise it all. Osiris and Saint show up and Saint interacts with the body, then experiences its memories and finally realises that every Saint is equally the same Saint. He also gets the information on how to find the Conductor. But before that we're treated to emotional damage about Saint and Osiris. Primarily Osiris' incredible worry and also trauma which more or less sends him crying which is fine and okay (lie). Like it's not actually sobbing on screen, but it's very much implied in how he moves and the way lines are delivered.

Okay I guess! How about we all jump into lava! Just to make it clear, Saint's last thoughts before he died were of Osiris. And in Immolant, when Osiris thought he would die, his last thoughts were of Saint.

But there is one where Osiris finds happiness. He finds a time away from strife. He finds Saint—a dream of warm serenity. The peace to his purpose. With Saint, there is a future that could have been enough.

So we're all jumping into lava, right?

Outside we fight Agioktis, except this time it's "Archived Mind" aka the archive of the Martyr Mind, the Vex that killed Saint originally.

Then we move on into the planetary core which reveals... certainly a sight. Of something that looks like an alien civilisation, with like a garden and also a HUGE pyramid inside of a artificially made Vex crater. And that's inside of Nessus. And now we know what they meant in the showcase when they said we'll be exploring an ancient civilisation.

I am unhinged. We don't even get to see more because the cutscene starts when you move forward and then we get the beautiful cliffhanger that will make me the most normal Destiny fan for the next 3 weeks.

Maya explains that she's here because we all suck apparently and she wants to fix the world by using Vex radiolaria to essentially convert everyone and everything into a "better" form. She's having a normal one.

Radio message is more or less a recap on all Veil Logs for people who didn't listen to them and the lore page, which randomly now isn't on Ishtar yet even though all others were available right away is about... well. Maya and Chioma living together in the Vex network peacefully and lovingly until the page break and we see the Conductor experimenting by doing open surgery on Exo Chioma. Very normal. very fine. But I guess now we know what that Exo thing from the trailers was.

Now we have to wait 3 weeks.

[utilitycaster]

So far in campaign 3, 5 of the party have died and been resurrected and 2 have died permanently, with only Imogen, Dorian, and (presumably) Braius not dying ever. In campaign 2, again 5 of the party died and got resurrected over the whole thing with Beau, Yasha, and Kingsley surviving, and Molly permanently dying. BUT, in Vox Machina, everyone except Tary died at least once with the twins dying FOUR TIMES EACH and only Vax permanently dying. What do you think changed after the first campaign? Is it that Matt got “better” at scaling encounters, the players got better at staying alive, a group decision to take resurrection more seriously, or is it a total coincidence?

It’s just something I noticed all of a sudden tonight and I’m not sure if I’m just seeing something where there is nothing or if other people have noticed this too and have thoughts on why it is.

Hi anon,

I started to write up a massive and lengthy analysis this morning and realized it was not very good and that I had to leave for work in 20 minutes. Anyway I think it's mostly the players getting better at staying alive, mostly through party comp:

Vox Machina unexpectedly, for "Ashley got cast on a TV show that filmed in NYC" and "Tiberius's player sucks" reasons found themselves abruptly down not only a healer (most of the time) but an arcane caster, leaving Scanlan and Keyleth doing double and triple duty. Vex did a pretty impressive amount of healing for a ranger, actually, but only had touch heals and limited spell slots for them. Add the fact that Keyleth couldn't heal while in Wildshape until pretty much the endgame and Scanlan was absent for an arc, replaced by Tary, who could heal but was not a full caster, and that explains a lot.

Vox Machina also had two characters with relatively low HP/terrible con saves to go with it (the twins) and only one true, full-time tank (Grog). Vex and Percy were often out of healing range but could get hit by an AOE attack. Also, dragons are particularly lethal for AOE reasons and four of those deaths are Raishan, two from when they tried to get Raishan immediately after the Thordak fight.

Of Vox Machina's deaths, two of Vax's, one of Vex's, Keyleth's, and one of Grog's are all out of combat and primarily due to player choice. They got way better at not doing this (well, Vax's are kind of unavoidable, but we only had one in C2 of this nature with Veth and the Power Word Kill trap, and none in C3).

One VM death (two if you count the wedding one-shot) was a direct assassination vs. one in the Nein and none for Bells Hells.

Now consider:

The Mighty Nein and Bells Hells each have at least two tanks; Bells Hells has three. The Nein have two full clerics (*extremely tired voice* Jester actually is a very good healer, Caduceus is just exceptionally support-focused) even without Fjord and Yasha's healing. Bells Hells had one full time cleric, and now they have a full bard and a bard-paladin.

No one dumps CON anymore. If only I could get them to start dumping WIS again and stop dumping INT, but I digress.

People are getting better at checking for traps and not selling their souls to cursed items.

Otohan Thull's build is in fact, I must admit, pretty good and cool, her lack of any personality traits not withstanding, but her lethal nature is specifically because she exclusively faced a super tapped party in a situation where they couldn't get out of there. She is responsible for all 5 deaths that weren't a Bertrand Bell Clear Setup situation; I think if Bells Hells hadn't been trapped and tapped things might have gone differently, whereas Vox Machina often was like "rests are for SUCKERS" and got their asses beat in avoidable manners.

My other caveat is of course not to count your chickens before they're slaughtered, namely, while none of Vox Machina died in the final Vecna fight unless you count Vax, which I don't, Vecna did kill two of them earlier on, though; Vax permanently (the Raven Queen just let him hang out a bit longer). The Somnovem/Lucien hybrid killed two of the Mighty Nein in the final battle. Ludinus or Predathos could fucking level the party. Otohan could have gone much worse in episode 91 without many changes; that was the first time I've ever heard Matt talk like a TPK was potentially imminent. Some of this is also luck, and some of this with Bells Hells is that *Myst voice* the ending has not yet been written.

[angeart]

hunted hybrids au rambles

this is an au me and @linkito made for our scarian RP, so just beware it’s focused solely on these two and it’s self-indulgent. CWs, i suppose, are themes of violence and dehumanisation of hybrids, and mention of self harm (feather plucking).

the basic premise is that hermitcraft’s code got attacked. think season 8 moon big and ground deteriorating underneath their feet, but it’s all more rapid and out of the blue. they don’t get a chance to investigate or prepare. it’s just. happening. so obviously, confusion and panic.

and then the hermits get scattered, to other worlds, seemingly indiscriminately and at random, as hermitcraft implodes. 

grian and scar end up in the same world, but it takes them about a week to realise. (a very horrible week, mind you.) their comms don’t work quite right here. 

now, where they’ve ended up is a very, very hybrid-hostile world. think rough people and black markets and criminal societies. think hunters and bloodhounds and phantom-dragons that screech through the night. think traps and watchtowers and rotting forests without a bird-chirp in them.

this world considers hybrids to be something to hunt. something to take apart and sell and gloat about. vexes are disliked and killed for sport, for  bragging rights. there’s no mercy in that. avians, though? avian wings are seen as a commodity, a decoration. something to make money out of and claim a different kind of prestige from. 

... did i mention this world is permadeath?

yeah.

so here we have these two hermits, and i think it’s important to note that the life games aren’t a thing in this universe. they never experienced a situation where they have to fight for their life. they find themselves here, stranded and alone, not knowing if their home even still exists or what happened to the others and if there’s anyone left out there who will be looking for them. 

maybe they try to look for help, used to friendly communities and little to no consequences.

maybe they get glares and smirks and weapons pulled on them.

maybe they realise the error they’ve made. maybe they realise that this is no place to seek help.

and then they run.

and all they can do is keep on running.

(the wood is rotten. the animals are scarce, next to none - have they even seen any? besides the wailing hounds? they can’t remember. the resources are hidden, stashed away in the communities they are desperate to get as much distance from as possible. the land is dark, and eerie, and unfamiliar. it’s late autumn, toppling into winter, air chilly and frosty, and they are so, so very underprepared.)

i think this is a good time to note that i chose violet-backed starling as the bird-base for grian in this au. because the wings are brilliant and bright and vibrant. they’re rare. expensive. very, very much wanted. (very hard to hide in a drab late-autumn.) 

scar and grian meet under dire circumstances: a hunter de-routed from going after scar by a call for backup, to a violet-winged avian—an information scar overhears—a trophy too precious to walk away from. this is the moment scar has the startling, horrifying realisation that grian is also trapped in this world. (he hears  him before he sees him, and he’d know that voice anywhere.) (he never heard him scream like this before—)

long story short, grian gets hurt, scar goes a little feral, and together they escape, to seek out shelter and supplies in a world that seems determined to strip everything away from them. it’s getting colder, and they have nowhere to go but deeper into the forest, hoping that they’ll eventually go far enough that the hunters will give up. (a feeble, impossible hope.) 

please think about them being so confused and destabilised over the realisation that they’re no longer alone. the complicated feeling of relief of having someone familiar and safe there, and the absolutely nauseating terror of having them there, because it means they’re stuck in this nightmare, too. the struggle to keep each other alive and sane through it. the way how something so normal and taken for granted gets turned upside down—and gentle touch now feels so unfamiliar. (oh how they need that softness, in a world that is only ever harsh and cruel.)

the (so far) two drawings i made for this au are:

1. them curled up into each other, wrapped up in a blanket, trying to keep warm and survive the night. please note that scar is pressed against grian’s back, protecting the part of him that now feels the most vulnerable. (grian’s wings are a huge target. a beacon beckoning the hunters closer.) grian used to sleep (on those rare moments when he actually allowed himself to stop and nap) with his wings pressed against hard, rough, cold edges, just to hide them. just to make them less visible, just to make himself a little less vulnerable. (his feathers are a mess.)

2. on that note. the second drawing touches on grian’s complicated feelings about his wings that come from all this trauma. because all those pretty feathers do is drag danger to them. because he used to love them and they used to be his pride and joy and they let him feel free, but he can’t even fly anymore (the sky is too open; there are too many airborne hunters and watchtowers). and it’s these damned feathers that cause him and, more importantly, scar to get hurt and have to run and run and run even when they feel like they can’t anymore. 

grian is so upset with his feathers. they feel like a curse. they feel like a burden. they feel like he’ll never not be terrified as long as he has them. he’s tired and in pain and cornered and desperate, and he wants them gone. and so what if he cries. what if he starts plucking them out, urgent, frustrated, panicked sharp yanks, and—

and scar is there, and he’s shushing him and telling him to stop. telling him that his wings are beautiful, and they’re his, and scar won’t let anyone else touch them, ever. it’s okay. it’s okay it’s okay it’s okay. (nothing is okay.)

//full drawings are linked so feel free to check them out if you're interested :3

------ @motherofplatypus a bit late but here you go! the requested au rambles

[feartoxinjelloshot]

The Black Mask was both with the name Roman, to Charles and Ruby Sionis, the wealthy proprietors of a cosmetics business empire based in Gotham City.

By all accounts he was a normal toddler. He was weaned off of milk and sent to preschool and potty-trained and all of the other things small children were bound to do. He was a quiet, polite, intelligent little boy who did his parents proud - they had been trying for a child for a long time, someone to inherit the business when they passed on. They made sure tiny Roman was aware of his importance early on. What better way to make a child feel special, feel loved? They were going to trust him with everything. He was going to be just fine at it.

The company, really, was Ruby's world. She was a woman, and cosmetics were a feminine empire. Charles - though he held his fair share of business responsibilities - was always more dedicated to his lifelong passion for hunting and taxidermy, which had been instilled in him by long family trips with his own father, out to remote stretches of forest, mountain and grassland to take down all kinds of exotic trophy prizes. When Roman got old enough Charles bravely attempted the same with him, even buying him his first very own gun for his tenth birthday. Roman was shy and hesitant, sometimes to the point of vexing his father with his lack of confidence, but Charles was patient and understanding and slowly coaxed the hunt out of Roman as well. The kid had a real talent for it, when he got over himself enough to calm down and aim. He was a genuine crackshot, and his father bragged about it at every chance, talking him up and ruffling his hair fondly. Those were some of the few times Charles saw his son show him a real smile.

The other side of it was not as comforting.

See, both sides of Roman's family line, in varying quantities and distributions, had always been prone to hereditary psychosis. This particular affliction had miraculously skipped both of his parents, and in a superstitious attempt to ward it away from themselves and their son, they neglected to ever mention it to him. In fact, they made a concentrated attempt to prevent him from ever figuring out what psychosis was in any meaningful way that might affect his development.

Roman grew up surrounded by animals. Sometimes they were whole animals, deer and tigers and caribou; sometimes they were just the head, set into a wooden plate on the wall. Each had a different personality and a different voice. They had been his friends since he was a baby, and he considered them truer confidants than even his parents. They comforted him when he was at his worst, spoke to him in quiet tones that he had learned by that point not to respond to in front of his parents: it's okay, you're okay, champ and you only did what he made you do and but you won't pick that awful gun up again, right?

But he never forgave himself for killing their sisters, the ones in the woods that looked and moved like them, with beating hearts in their chests and big shining eyes that went flat when his father finished them off. He never forgave himself for skinning them with a silver knife and eating their flanks when there was nothing else in the camp at night, because his father said he was proud of him and his chest was cleaved down the middle by a child's sick loyalty.

At a lack of other avenues Roman constructed himself into two faces. The first one was a happy, healthy little human boy who went to school and smiled at his parents and never made eye contact with any of his father's taxidermy or walked around the house at night on soft padding feet. The other one was his true self - an animal, among other animals, whose face looked less like the one in the bathroom mirror and more like a black thing with white eyes, too big to be a wolf and too small to be a bear, that howled its gleeful music up the chimney along with the chorus that lit up the mansion's crowded hallways just before dawn.

And for a while he survived like that: with his mask in the day and his life at night, not content but not wholly unhappy either.

But he had done his job well. He had done his job so well that his parents, through a combination of their own prideful ignorance and Roman's genuine deception of them, had not noticed that anything at all was wrong with their son. He passed his classes and didn't make trouble and spoke of his friends on occasion, and went hunting with his father every summer, and he was fine. They were all fine.

So on his eighteenth birthday they gathered him up and had a party for appearances and said Son, we had you late. We were old then and we're older now. We want to retire. And we love you, and we trust you, and so we're going to give you the company.

And Roman thanked them, gathered every shred of his human mask up to his face, looked at it, realized it wasn't going to be enough to cover himself up, and went deep into the house with his friends and didn't come out.

His parents were devastated. They'd been working so hard for this. The past eighteen years, and they'd been raising him for this. He loved them. They loved him. How could he be unhappy? And throwing a tantrum like a child? What had they raised him for if not this moment?

Roman, in the house, had been busy with the process of taking one of his father's unused taxidermy mounts, a deep dark glossy lacquered thing, and using his hands and a whittling knife to carve it into his real face.

The black mask. The wolf.

It came out looking more like a skull, but he figured that it was penance, after all, for all the siblings he had killed. He put it on and was overcome with hysterical calm relief, which was when his parents found the spare key to his rooms and broke in.

Their anger at him for what he had done quickly turned to rage at each other, and the company, and then Roman again, and each other, and through their screaming match and Roman's hysteria and the ceaseless chattering of the animals on the walls, nobody remembered the leftover sconces of candles downstairs until the smoke alarm went off.

To be short: Roman made it out. He was the only one.

Obviously, he was the primary suspect for the fire. They didn't believe that he couldn't have engineered the physical evidence, or that he wasn't lying about where he was at the time. There was nobody else alive from the house to confirm his statement. His face would never be the same again, that much was clear: the detectives and psychiatrists made quick work of the family mental history that he claimed he had never even heard about before that point - fat chance, kid - and by the time he got around to blabbering over his so-called siblings nobody took him seriously at all. They wrote him up. He couldn't be officially accused until the hearing, but it was an open-and-shut case. Poor bastard, but hey, it's Gotham. Shit like this happens every other week.

Roman Sionis never made it to the hearing.

He was out of the hospital for three hours before anyone noticed he was gone and his trail stopped cold at the exit doors. In forty-eight hours he had gone from one of the richest teenagers in the city to homeless, penniless, barefoot, and permanently disfigured - the fresh lacquer on his wooden mask had melted in the heat and fused straight onto his face, unless he wanted a complete transplant, skin and all.

Roman didn't. He figured that he had hidden enough. In his abject shock, he was starting to show some of his father's confidence, something he really always had hidden somewhere in the back but had always been pressing himself down too hard to show. He went into the guts of the city and stole a new set of clothes - all black, like the mask. If he was going to do this, he might as well do it in style. He was intelligent, a fast-talker, knew when to be quiet, and he really was still a crackshot, even after all those years. That was shit that could get a man pretty far down where he was.

The police never found Roman Sionis. They found the man who wore his body, sure, but the boy had been gone for a long, long time.

[bones-of-a-rabbit]

Some betrothed/royalty au doodles, ft. Reader soothing Eclipse during one of his stressed-to-the-point-of-breaking-down-moments, and the first time Reader met Sun (and, not realizing who he was or that he was a royal, decided to start happily chatting with him as if they were on the same level, which caught Sun off guard lmao)

Some betrothed/royalty AU tidbits n info below the cut!

- Reader is a footman! Or,, lady in waiting. Or foot,,person,,, in waiting. Whatever the gender neutral version is, they’re that to Eclipse!

- They’ve known Eclipse for a long time! They were born to a servant who worked in his castle, and tended to follow their mother around as she worked- occasionally crossing paths with Eclipse, and sometimes playing games with him when he was avoiding his tutoring or responsibilities sjdhdjd

- They’re smart and practical, and Eclipse wants to make them his advisor as soon as he has the jurisdiction to do so. They’re very good at seeing the issues politicians debate over from the outside view, one of the people, but also can keep in mind what the political side to an issues is, and Eclipse often asks them what they think when they’re alone and considers it very unfair that their voice would never be taken seriously if brought up at the table.

- Eclipse has had a crush on them for a while lmao

- Also he’s over protective and jealous and has broken at least one(1) bone in defending reader from a rude servant or pushy royal lol :3

- (he has extensively researched ways he could possibly marry Reader without making the entire kingdom hate them n call them a manipulative vex for it)

- Sun and Moon overlook two neighboring kingdoms and have been ‘betrothed’/co-ruling them for a long time! Eclipse’s counsel has decided it would be a good idea to have Eclipse, when he takes charge of his kingdom, be the third to this ally-ship and make a trifecta of three countries that can act as one

- So they’re not really BETROTHED betrothed, but the social implication is basically the same lmao

- (none of them r super thrilled, Eclipse especially lmaoooo)

- Reader first meets Sun separately from Moon, and assumes he’s just a fellow servinghand at the banquet being held to celebrate Eclipse n Sun n Moon meeting under the same roof for the first time

- They start chatting with him like it’s no big deal and he’s so used to ppl being all kiss-ass or backhanded that he can’t stop thinkin abt it for days

- They meet Moon in the garden! They show him their favorite spots and a small patch of blue violets they’ve been trying to cultivate

- When they realize who Sun and Moon are, they just about die on the spot from pure societal horror

- They try to apologize in a thousand different ways, but Sun n Moon, more than a little intrigued/smitten with them, both won’t have it and encourage them to be just as they were

- Before Sun n Moon realize they have feelings for Reader, they realize ECLIPSE has feelings for Reader, and, definitely not bc they r big jealous and also in love with Reader, make it their personal mission to cockblock make sure Eclipse never has the chance to confess or have an almost-kiss with Reader

- Reader loves Eclipse! When that love turned romantic is unsure, and how they’ve been able to cope is by Not Acknowledging The Feelings At All and also denial lmao. When they start to crush on Sun n Moon, they can’t rlly deny the feelings anymore and have several existential and romantic themed crises over it

- None of the boys tell each other about their feelings for Reader bc they all just messy like that <3

- When they all end up confessing to Reader, it’s separately and secretly, and Reader is so shocked that they just say “HHUH UM YYEA I LIKE U ALSO” without thinking

- So now they have three secret royalty bfs and have several more existential crises about whether this is cheating and how in the good golly fuck they got THIS many sweet mans all 🥺👉👈 over them

THATS ALL I GOT FOR NOW LOL OK BYE SORRY FOR LENGTH N RAMBLES

[patchwork-crow-writes]

The RalsAlmanac, Volume I

Okay, here it is! A series of essays that will attempt to definitively explain just who or what Ralsei is, referring to scenes from the game as evidence, as well as external sources where appropriate.

There will be some conjecture, as there's just so much we don't know about him, and what little we are given isn't exactly the most revealing. However, I've done my best to cleave as closely to the source material as I can, and I believe there's a strong case to be had here.

Hopefully you'll be able to see where my points come from, or at the very least you'll learn something you didn't know before. Either way, thanks for your consideration!

Volume I - Ralsei Is A Character In A Role-Playing Game.

Self-indulgent reference out of the way, lemme ask you a question.

Who is Ralsei?

It's a question that seems like it should be easy to answer. He's the Prince From The Dark, the third of the three Delta Warriors, he exists to serve the lightners, and is the most precious little cinnamon roll that ever lived. He enjoys baking and crochet, can hold a tune, is a decent interior-decorator, and holds his friends Kris and Susie in very high regard.

Thing is, that's about all you can really say about him without veering into speculation and headcanons, and they're more surface-level observations than anything else. What exactly does "Prince From The Dark" mean, for instance? Prince in what sense, exactly? Ceremonial, or with the actual power that royalty conveys? Where does he rank in comparison to, say, King or Queen, both actual rulers of actual kingdoms? The title of "prince" would suggest that he answers to them, but while they rule their own municipalities, Ralsei's title implies he rules over ALL dark worlds. You could go on asking these questions forever, but I think you see what I'm getting at.

A more productive avenue of questioning might be: What role does Ralsei play in the story of Deltarune? Perhaps more of his underlying character and motivation could be gleaned by looking at what he does for the story and the game. And this would be correct... sort of.

We tend to think of him as the squishy healer of the party, the Heart and moral centre of the Fun Gang. And he absolutely is that, but he's also quite a bit more. He plays all sorts of different roles and character archetypes in the first two chapters of the game, including but not limited to:

the old man whose purpose is to wax poetic about the ancient prophecy...

the know-it-all tutorial fairy who walks you through the basic game mechanics...

the straight-man DM trying to keep everything on the rails...

the young sheltered noble experiencing the outside world for the first time...

the demure love-interest to the main protagonist...

the Polyanna determined to see the good in everybody...

the mysterious waif who knows things he shouldn't...

...eye candy…?

...and so on and so forth.

And so what, I hear you cry. Characters in video games can have more than one personality trait, after all. And yes, this is true! But usually, the different aspects of a character's roles, how they interact with, reinforce or contradict each other, can tell us more about their inner world - what motivates them, what they actively like and dislike... in short, it grants them depth and allows us to engage with them as actual people, rather than just a series of game functions and character traits dressed up in a pretty bow.

But that's not what we see with Ralsei. In fact, far from showing us any real, deep aspect of his character, each new guise he dons and part he plays in the narrative further obfuscates him from us. We learn no new meaningful information from any of these exchanges... except for one thing, but we'll come to that in a moment.

This vexes us, because we WANT to know more about him, but all we end up getting is stock JRPG tropes dressed up in a warm, fluffy coat. There HAS to be something deeper, we reason - he's hiding things from us, so he must be a secret villain. Or his backstory is so tragic, so traumatising, that he cannot properly articulate it to us right now. Or maybe what we see really IS what we get - a simpering, airheaded fool whose only desires in life are to be cute, please his betters and do what he's told. Yet even this explanation seems... unsatisfying, especially since we KNOW he harbours some angst about himself and his sense of identity.

And speaking of which, that one thing we learn? Right at the end of Chapter 2's Acid Tunnel sequence, he utters a single sentence:

This is arguably one of the most significant lines of dialogue in the entire game up to this point. But what does it mean, exactly? I believe most people assume it means he doesn't have a clear sense of who he is outside of his ordained purpose, which is certainly valid, and definitely something I believed for a long time. And yet, this explanation does not deepen our understanding of his character in any meaningful way; looking back over all his interactions with the cast, it does not allow us to glean any further information about him.

And you can say that's because he himself doesn't know what he's like... but again, this doesn't actually change anything, and we just end up with a circular logic trap. We don't know anything because he doesn't tell us anything, and he doesn't tell us anything because he doesn't know anything, so how can we be expected to know anything, except that no-one seems to know anything about him… which is very frustrating to us Ralsei scholars, and gets us no closer to truly understanding him.

But look at what he says again. Really look at it. It’s a very strange way of saying “I don’t really know who I am”, isn’t it? After all, if that’s what he means, then why doesn’t he just say that? I’m certain you’ve realised by now, but it’s because that’s NOT what he’s saying at all. He literally has no clue what being “himself” is supposed to be, because he wasn’t even created with a sense of “Ralsei-ness” in the first place. Little wonder, then, that we can’t discern anything about his internal world, when there is nothing there to be discerned.

But before I elaborate any further, I want to talk about a couple of scenes in Deltarune that are just... puzzling. This is relevant, I promise. The first is during the dialogue with Rouxls Kaard before the rematch with K.Round. Ralsei says something interesting in the lead-up to the fight:

Note Susie’s baffled reaction to this. Then not long afterwards, he continues with:

Throwaway joke, right? We laugh because Susie's right - K. Round and its crown do look exactly the same to us, and so Ralsei's dramatic utterances are deflated and lose their impact. We laugh, beat the boss with Susie's help and forget all about it. But here's the thing - if K.Round looks the same to us, and it looks the same to Susie, and presumably by extension the rest of the in-game characters... when why exactly does Ralsei take the time to insist otherwise?

Is he... lying? Our most precious little boy, guilty of perjury? Say it ain't so! :O

The second scene is in chapter 2 - Queen has challenged us to a game of Punch-Out on her absurdly tall arcade machine, and we can talk to the characters before trying to interact with it. Talk to Ralsei, and if you answer "Gaming is my life" to his prompt, he says this:

Most people don't even come across this in their playthrough, so I wouldn't be surprised if it's new to you reading this. But again, note this strange discrepancy between what Ralsei reports is happening and what Susie says is actually happening. It becomes apparent to most people that Kris can affect the tone of their voice when saying what we tell them to, which affects how the response is taken by other characters and gives us a subtle clue about how they actually feel about certain characters or situations.

Are we to assume, then, that Ralsei isn't actually listening to how Kris says things, but only what they're saying? And if that's correct, then... what does that say about him?

Taken at face-value, within the context of the game, neither of these events really make much sense. It just looks like Ralsei is being overly-dramatic, or lying, or perhaps even insensitive to what their friend is trying to tell him, which doesn't quite track with his per-established shallow traits of kind, all-loving and moralistic. It's perplexing and seemingly out-of-character for him. So it might help to consider, in each of these scenarios, who exactly Ralsei is talking to.

Is it Kris and/or Susie? This would make the most sense, but it's actually not that likely, considering the aforementioned discrepencies between his descriptions and Susie's observations. So is it himself? Again, if he can see things the same as everyone else in-game, that wouldn't make much sense, because then he's just saying stuff that... isn't true? Or in the latter example's case, just completely ignoring what Kris is saying, which doesn't seem to entirely gel with what we know about him.

So, who does that leave? Well, the only other person - or should I say entity - who is present for both of those scenes is... us. The player of Deltarune. And that might seem even stranger than the previous options, until you realise what it is he's actually doing - providing flavour text, additional exposition informing us of details that we wouldn't - or shouldn't - be able to make out on a pixelated display with no voice-acting, attempting to give us a richer sense of these events in order to increase our sense of immersion in the game and world of Deltarune. In effect, he's playing the part of a character in a role playing game, doling out “flavour text” that contradicts another character’s experience of the same scenes, and he's doing it entirely for OUR benefit. Not Kris’s, not Susie's – ours.

He tells us that K.Round's crown is different, and that it is in pain from its forced control, to try and increase the stakes of the fight, and to give us a motivation that's not "here's the exact same boss again lul". He responds to Kris's words the way he does, not because he doesn't understand the nuances of their tone, but to try and amp us up for the upcoming challenge, and to validate our choice when we select the dialogue option "Gaming is my life". Because we cannot hear Kris's tone of voice - and Ralsei knows that. To him, Kris's tone literally doesn't matter, because he doesn't believe it matters to us in that exact moment.

And here’s the thing: if not for Susie’s asides immediately contradicting him, we’d likely take what he says here as what’s actually going on. To Ralsei, the reality he and his friends experience is not important – it’s the image of that reality that he’s trying to convey to the player. It’s like he knows he’s part of a game, meant just for us to experience and enjoy, as opposed to a real world filled with real people having real experiences.

And the reason I brought this up is to illustrate what I believe Ralsei to actually be - namely, that he a walking, talking, singing and dancing amalgam of stock JRPG characters and tropes that's trying very hard to present as an actual person, to the point of knowing absolutely nothing about who he even is outside of that. Put in even blunter terms, he's literally a fluffy goat-shaped vehicle to set the player on their journey through the game, to keep them playing and to keep them invested. People looking for deeper aspects of his character come up short and are disappointed because they're looking for something that does not currently exist.

And just so that I'm clear, I do not mean that Ralsei is "acting", or that he's "wearing a mask", because that would imply that there was actually something underneath his "facade" to begin with. No, this is who the Prince of the Dark is - a very convincing fascimile of a person, following his directive to ensure that the story of Deltarune is resolved, and that the game of Deltarune is played to completion. And once you realise that, a lot of things that Ralsei says and does that seemed strange before suddenly make a lot more sense.

As for the why... well, that'll have to wait for another time. But hopefully you can begin to see how my future essays in this series all tie in to this one, because I think you can only really understand those with the framework that this text provides. I hope that my reasoning made sense and wasn't too difficult to follow, but I'll be happy to provide additional information, clarification, or even just discussion on any aspect of this essay... even if we just wind up (respectfully) agreeing to disagree. Would love to hear what people thought about this!

Thanks for reading!

[shorthaltsjester]

thinking about the scene between vex and percy at the end of campaign one where after over a hundred episodes of the two of them as snarky assholes (affectionate but factual) helping to fight dragons and gods, they both buckle under the weight of just. missing their families in a way that’s fresh to both of them in different ways, where percy finally has the room to admit what’s been taken from him and what he let himself lose in his commitment to vengeance (the ability to actually Grieve) and where vex just watched her brother walk into death off towards their mother. and it’s been a horrible day, and percy confesses that he was going to be a clockmaker, once.

and then, three decades later, we see the two of them elevated to a less accessible status through the eyes of bell’s hells, where they’re to be the judges whether laudna gets to come back, where The De Rolos™ are leaders and percy is a hardass and vex is a lady, except there’s an intricate clock tower in this Whitestone’s cityscape, except ashton goes to punch a statue bust and several brown bears occupy his surrounding environment. and vex sees a face not unlike her own that was killed precisely for that fact and commits to helping her and percy sees a face too much like his own and gives them a hard time until he’s standing surrounded by the crushed glass of his home and offering genuine advice about how to move forward.

and to me what was so compelling about vex and percy both as individuals and as two people who fell in love with each other was that they both had walls for different reasons that functioned in very similar ways where they didn’t have to admit the things they knew/felt were missing in themselves. but by the end of their campaign those walls aren’t gone but they have, like, doors and windows now or something. and that’s present when we see them again from the more removed view of campaign 3, percy’s harshness softens for his daughter, vex helps bell’s hells but also ensured that should laudna bring delilah back then whitestone was protected and, god!!!! they’re perfect delicious characters genuinely and the way that matt makes the duality that defines those characters (and their relationship and whitestone itself) where they are stoic and cold and harsh but they’re also warm and kind and silly. that’s narrative that’s character creation and development that’s environmental storytelling that’s to be loved (and to love) is to be changed.

sorry but tonight’s 4sd has been fantastic and the group talking about the inherent shittiness of whitestone’s geographic and historic placement and the resonance of seeing vex and percy and percy’s advice to ashton has me thinking so many thought’s because. what if whitestone was already tending towards uninhabitability and what if it got worse when the briarwoods diminished even the warmth the sun tree could provide but. what if the last son of the ruling family returned and what if he fell in love and that was enough not to cancel out the harshness of whitestone but to amend it and add something to it. something something the mistress of the grey hunt protects whitestone from the harshness of the parchwood, something something percy’s speech to vex about why he gave her the one title she’d have to earn, something something vex was already doing the work of the mistress of the grey hunt simply by caring about and standing by percy — even before it was love — in the face of orthax and the briarwoods and death blast coffins and deals with devils.

[critter-genfic-events]

Hurt/Comfort Fic Recs!

This week, we have thirteen hurt/comfort fics recced! Some emotional hurt/comfort, some physical whump, and sometimes combinations of the two. Check them out under the cut, and as ever, comment or kudos if you like them!

those that crawl and flutter towards the sun by vietbluecoeur (vietbluefic) (6163,Not Rated) Warnings: Major Character Death, Very Mild Insect Imagery, Mortality and Discussions Thereof, Sad & Gentle Ending Pairings: Jester Lavorre & Essek Thelyss

Essek has always been warned not to touch the creatures, called the in’luthin, "insects" with a lifespan of three days, but what harm is there in just looking? And anyways, when has Essek ever been one to listen?

Reccer says: From the very first words, this fic has such a luxurious weight to it. Some of the Mighty Nein appear, but this is definitively a story between AroAce Essek and AroAce Jester as bittersweet as the tags imply, only less bitter and more longing, and definitely, definitely sweet.

Spit, elbow grease, and a whole lot of gold by Multifandom_damnation (2006,Teen) Warnings: None Pairings: Ashton Greymoore & Milo Krook

The Nobodies dump Ashton off on Milo's table, and Milo does his best to fix him

Reccer says: Milo voices all of my rage at Ashton's treatment wonderfully. The fic also does a great job of managing the actual process of fixing him, along with all of the emotions involved as well

Philia, Is That You? by Professor_Rye (2034,General) Warnings: None Pairings: Yasha & Mollymauk

Yasha gets hurt protecting Mollymauk from assholes, and the Mollymauk helps Yasha make sure she's actually okay

Reccer says: QPRs my beloved

Crowned Teeth (or, An Offering Revoked) by fruitzbat (130570,Mature) Warnings: Frank depictions of PTSD/galley slavery Pairings: Kingsley Tealeaf/Original Character

Kingsley is mutinied against and sold into slavery halfway across the world. He breaks out, finds out the mutiny was the inside job to end all inside jobs, and makes his survival everyone else's problem.

Reccer says: I really, really like the way that this series explores different kinds of hurt and trauma, and how those kinds of hurt affect people's relationships and self-image. The first and second fics in the series are the most direct about the subject, but the third has a lot about what it means to lose a parental figure and complicated grief/trauma response stuff that I found really refreshing. Characters are messy and non-linear in their healing, and do their best to take care of each other. There's a lot of...I don't know how to say this, but a very no-bullshit look at the concept of the power of love that is this through-thread through the stories. Anyway, I really like them.

Trust by silversky (403,General) Warnings: None Pairings: Caleb & Nott

Nott is sick and delirious, but thankfully there is someone there to make sure she's okay.

Reccer says: the fic is very soft and warm

Scar Tissue by Belphegor (0,Teen) Warnings: scars, canon-typical violence, reference to main character death (and resurrection) Pairings: Scanlan Shorthalt/Pike Trickfoot

Sometimes surviving means learning to live with the scars that killed you. Pike knows a lot about that. Scanlan is still learning. (a little comics set a bit post-Campaign 1.)

Reccer says: Author here - sorry, I usually don't shamelessly self-plug like that, but I set out to write and draw post-campaign 1 hurt/comfort dealing with Pike's and Scanlan's different resurrection-related traumas, and I poured my entire heart into it. (turns out making comics is hard but totally worth it.)

I've Held You in the Plan by CitizenMocha (4015,Teen) Warnings: None Pairings: Vex & Vax

After all is said and done with the Apogee Solstice and its aftermath, Vox Machina free Vax from the Malleus Key. The twins are reunited. Rest, reflection, and a revelation about what happens next ensue.

Reccer says: Vex's grief is palpable throughout the entire fic, even as--especially as, actually--she's reunited with Vax. It's a heartaching yet triumphant look at what might happen when the events of C3 are all said and done. There's so many little details woven in that serve to make it pack even more of a punch ("Vax Speed" does so many things to my heart) and the dynamic between all of Vox Machina is wonderful as well.

The Night is Starting to Ache by CitizenMocha (3872,General) Warnings: None Pairings: Gwendolyn De Rolo & Vax De Rolo & Percy De Rolo

Set after episode 76 of campaign 3. It's the middle of the night and Gwendolyn is afraid to sleep.

Reccer says: I loved this glimpse of an older Percy as a loving, indulgent father doing his best to comfort his child.

maybe then my breath could embody by lunarblazes (1331,Teen) Warnings: None Pairings: Caduceus & Calliope Clay

Calliope and Caduceus have a fun bonding moment about the fucked up shit that happens when you leave home

Reccer says: There's so many little details I love in this, it's perfectly in character, and I love their sibling not-quite-comforting each other dynamic

a garden in the stars by wanderingBasilisk (2264,General) Warnings: None Pairings: Caduceus & Fjord

Caduceus stays back on the Nein's spaceship while the others run errands on a space station. When Fjord gets overstimulated from the crowds there, Jester brings him back to the ship and to Cad, who knows just what his friend needs.

Reccer says: It's very atmospheric (the description of the garden on board the Nein Heroez is So Evocative) and the familiarity and care between Cad and Fjord is so lovely and sweet. The time they've spent together and the comfort of a well-worn routine is apparent throughout the whole fic and comes together in the sweetest way.

Canities Subita: An Exploration of Self-Image by oversteepedearlgrey (1760,Teen) Warnings: Choose not to warn Pairings: Percy & Vox Machina

Percy hates looking in the mirror. He keeps his hair short and out of his face. He can’t wear his glasses during haircuts, and he certainly can’t be the one cutting it. It takes a creek, a bear, and a panic attack to find out why.

Reccer says: Percy is wonderful for hurt comfort, but I love the way that this is handling something that is more emotionally distressing than physically painful.

A Pirate's Bounty of Gold Doubloons by bluegreenamber (1823,Mature) Warnings: Graphic Depictions of Violence Pairings: Kingsley & Yussa

Kingsley hadn't been expecting any company today, especially not a powerful (and injured) elven wizard seeking refuge.

Reccer says: It's a really fun pairing!

Miles to Go by Crewe (3621,Teen) Warnings: None Pairings:

After a grueling battle, Vox Machina is hours away from the nearest cleric racing to get an unconscious Keyleth to Pike before poison takes its toll. Scanlan is hiding an injury to keep attention on Keyleth. It’s maybe a little worse than he expected.

Reccer says: Lovely fic where everyone is perfectly in-character, and the humour and tension are balanced just right, as are the worry and deflection (on both sides). Special mention to the Scanlan & Grog and Vex & Scanlan pairings, those add just the necessary acid-sweet icing on the h/c cake!

This is one of our weekly communally-generated gen rec lists. Every week we announce a new theme and allow anyone to submit a fic recommendation. Please note that the summary and content notes are provided by the reccer, and may be different than what the author has provided. Please assume good intentions all around. <3

And hey, anyone includes you!

Next week, we'll be featuring Yasha!

Then, it'll be clothes, time skip/future fics, and pranks!

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If you're looking for some more, check out some fics written in the critter genfic bingo tag, or the older rec lists! Or you can request your own card and join in on the fun!

[jadienjaystoriesandart]

Had this idea for a Super Hero AU in a dystopian future. Based slightly in Hermitcraft. With some magic and fantasy elements.

A world that is set in a post apocalyptic time.

Watchers have pretty much desired the world’s ecosystem and atmosphere.

Humans died or became pets to them. Those that did escape made these advance dome cities in the sky, land, and underground.

Two people made and created the Mod Project.

Which took 13 humans and mixed their dna with that of various hostile mobs to create Super Soldiers to fight the watcher and protect their chosen city.

Of the 13 only 8 survived the process.

These soilders don’t need sleep. They feed on the blood usually of Watcher monsters they’ve slayed.

Because most people don’t travel outside their chosen city they don’t have much contact with each other.

Meaning each solider of the dorm city has various levels of what they consider to be ‘morally right’.

They can also eat normal food but not as much as a normal human.

Hybrids do exist in this. Often these were the first attempt of the Mod Project. They still need basic human functions. And have bred with humans to make natural born hybrids by this point.

The story follows HotGuy, the ‘hero’ and ‘protector’ of the Crystal Dome City. In the east. His code name is The Vex

As to why humans don’t leave the city. The oxygen levels around the dome are of 60%

The farther you get from the dome the less you have and the more monsters you encounter.

The Dead Zone to the far west has only 10% oxygen.

Supposedly a few miles from it is a dome city in the sky? Land? They aren’t sure. And is protected by their solider called The Dragon.

There is one under ground run by The Warden

Two in the sky to the far north called the Phantom and the one to the south called The Blaze.

And one to the east also near the coast line, roughly a few weeks from HG’s city. It’s under the protection of The Guardian.

It’s unsure why the ‘Dead Zone’ is so well dead. But some speculate that this is where the Watchers first started their assault of Planet Craft.

There are 8 creatures with their own city.

-

The Vex

The Guardian

The Warden

The Phantom

The Blaze

The Dragon

The Ender

The Spider

-

The failed ones were

The Wither

The Husk

The Skeleton

The Piglin

The Ravager

-

They failed mainly because during the process the human died before the full transformation could be realized.

The Vex, or Hotguy/Scar, is able to turn into a monster like vex. He’s taller than the usual vex, about 6 or 7 feet tall. Long claws, sharp teeth, perfect hearing and smell. But has low eye sight in daylight, mostly can only see when something moves. He also has an aversion to fire in this form as vexes are cold beings.

The story in my head is HG with his friend Mumbo are trying to get back in contact with the 8 cities the Hart Foundation is still in contact with. In order to try to come together to stop the Watchers once and for all.

Of the ones he’s met so far is The Warden (Cub), The Blaze (Tango), and The Guardian (Grian). (Yes we are going with Sea Grian for this.)

Each of these groups of ‘Heroes’ have different ideas of what they consider to be ‘good’. Mainly due to the fact society is very different for each of them.

The Warden’s city is in the east but is deep underground.

The Blaze’s is in the south and is a city far in the sky. The only reason HG got tos we is is because, after contact with the Guardian and Warden, the Blaze opened up his teleporters to meet with The Vex in person.

Despite being of the same project, they don’t know each other and have foggy memories of their time being tested on.

Feel free to write for this or draw if you guys want. I’m just coming up with ideas. I’ll write a oneshot later.

If you have any questions feel free to ask. :3

Btw the ‘oxygen levels’ is mostly the amount of ‘breathable air’ for them. It’s not the amount of pure oxygen, it’s just the percentage of air that is breathable.

[serenescribe]

Hi! I saw ficlet frenzy was open so I'm jumping in! I'm a Jamil x Silver shipper and was wondering if you could do something where Jamil likes Silver but Kalim, innocently, keeps getting in the way, leading Jamil to wonder if Silver and Kalim like each other.

[✐] ficlet frenzy i've not written jamil very much before; this was quite fun!

“Jamil! I’ve been looking everywhere for you— oh, hi Silver!”

Jamil can only stifle a sigh as Kalim crashes into his conversation yet again. It certainly hasn’t been the first time it occurred, though he’s long since lost count of just how many times it’s happened again and again. Irritation and frustration flares within him as his narrowed eyes watch Kalim sweep Silver off into another tangent of a conversation, babbling on and on about something of little consequence that has captured his attention for the day.

He should be used to this by now. Kalim interrupting is nothing new. It’s nothing special; it happens all the time, as a matter of fact.

And yet, Jamil cannot help the exasperation that vexes him as he watches them. Kalim and Silver. Silver and Kalim. They’ve been friends ever since they landed in the same class together at the start of their second year, with Kalim sweeping Silver into a whirlwind of events, pulling him out of the tiny, closed-off circle of Diasomnia students he frequently spends his time with.

Prior to this, Jamil hadn’t paid Silver much mind beyond looking into him out of his duty towards Kalim’s safety. But after Halloween…

(Memories flicker to mind: the two of them, traversing a perilous Spectral Realm together. Bonding, just a little bit. The flicker of curiosity and desire to know more about Silver, interest piqued by the stories he tells him.)

He’s tried to spend some more time with Silver after that. Subtle invites to lunch together — lunches that always get interrupted by Kalim’s arrival. Asking him if he needs help with his studies, only to get crashed by Kalim bursting in, whining over how difficult a particular section of their homework is. Even when Jamil succeeds in catching Silver alone, his mood is often ruined when Silver asks him about his history with Kalim — out of an innocent curiosity, Jamil’s sure, but it doesn’t dissipate the annoyance that runs through him as he hears that name.

He simmers in resentment now as he watches the two of them talk, an ugly feeling coiling around his heart, hissing like a viper. Jealousy, that’s what it is; he envies the easygoing attitude Kalim wields with ease, the evident bond of friendship between them — a friendship Jamil cannot achieve, if only because Kalim and him are so colossally different, and he approaches Silver with an edge of uncertainty to his actions and words, his fluttering chest betraying his usual confidence and poise.

He has always lost, always coming in second to Kalim. And as Jamil watches the ghost of a smile grace Silver’s face, he narrows his eyes.

He’s destined to lose this game of love too, it seems.

(Has he already lost right from the very start? He hates thinking about that question, about the possibility that the answer to it is yes.)