#the urge to become hermit is massive

[mekanikaltrifle]

the mortifying ordeal of trying to talk to people and absolutely whiffing it

[cattimeswithjellie]

Stream Recap GoodTimesWithScar, 06-23-24

((A note to readers: I am going to spoil the cause of Scar’s audio issues right away because knowing what is going on is going to be very helpful to you in understanding and visualizing the chaos that is about to unfold. Just before going live, Scar attempted to tweet his Going Live message but had a hard time getting the URL to work. In the process, he somehow opened a new browser window that ended up having three tabs that were all running instances of his stream. This window became minimized and Scar didn’t notice it because he had a browser window already up. Scar’s OBS has a setting on it that plays desktop audio, and his microphone noise gate only works up to a certain volume of sound, after which it assumes you mean to be making that noise and broadcasts it (this is a theory). So what you have to picture is that every time Scar says something, it gets echoed several times a second later by the three hidden stream tabs. That desktop audio gets picked up as well and reflected again and again, but will eventually fade off after a few loops, softer each time. If Scar continues speaking, though, and especially if he yells or makes a loud noise, the microphone’s pickup will grab hold of it and the echoes will actually become louder until the result is an overwhelming cacophony of whatever noises have happened in the last thirty seconds. It’s really quite something. For a more coherent narrative of the first forty minutes of the stream, you can also visit the stream recap for ZombieCleo’s 6/23 stream.))

8:30 Scar’s starting stream is still on, but the starting music ends. Sub notifications are active and it is curious how the chime keeps going off even when there is no matching sub message appearing on the screen. Chat does not notice. Before this point, stream audio was apparently normal.

9:05 Scar opens the stream on studio view and welcomes everyone to the stream. About five seconds in, his greeting begins echoing overtop his words, It echoes again, and again, and again, growing gradually louder. Scar looks perplexed, then alarmed, then starts yelling almost inaudibly under the massive swell of “WELCOME WELCOME WELCOME, AND WELCOME TO THE STREAM EVERYBODY.” A chatter instantly identifies that Scar has a stream open, but Chat is moving extremely quickly with this kind of exciting situation. The echoes are getting more crackly and lower quality but also louder as they move further from the source audio. “What is happening?” Scar mouths. The echoes finally die away.

10:22 “I don’t know what just happened!” Scar cries plaintively, then puts his hands over his mouth as the new phrase starts repeating just as quickly. Chat is both deafened and incredibly amused. Because Scar was not as loud this time, the echo dies away much more quickly. Scar looks from his setup to his chat screen, ideas clearly filling his head. “If I say anything it just repeats!” he says as fast as he can, then gives into the natural urge to beatbox into an audio loop. The new phrase and the “oontz oontz oontz” begins echoing, and Scar layers more beatboxing on top of it. Chat thinks Jono and/or Cub will have fun with this. Once that echo dies, Scar makes several false starts to say something, clearly not knowing what to do. The false starts begin echoing as well, and he just gives up. He doesn’t know what to do or say, because whenever he says anything it goes crazy! This cry also echoes. Scar is getting better at timing his voice so the loops are, at least, somewhat shorter.

11:55 “Impulse where are you, I need you!” Scar cries to the heavens. ((Impulse is the go-to guy for many of the Hermits when it comes to sound tech issues.)) The echoes mock him ceaselessly and in vain. Impulse is not online. Scar puts his head in his hand and laughs. This one was loud enough that it gets much louder before it dies off. Many chatters are now suggesting the multiple-open-tabs theory. A dono activates text-to-voice, that also triggers the echo sequence. Chat has no way of contacting Impulse, but they do begin soliciting help from Ren and Cleo, who are also streaming. It is unclear what sort of help they can provide, but they both become aware of the situation pretty quickly.

13:30 Scar rests his face on his palm and lets the stream echo. Right now it is mostly “Scar enters his DC phase” from the dono message with the faint echo of “Impulse where are you, I need you!” far below. Chatters are begging him to close his windows/browser and check his microphone settings, but Chat is also going too fast to read most of the time. Scar gives up and sings the Catdog song. Everything is unintelligble chaos. The headphone chatters regret their life choices.

14:30 Silence. Scar mouths “I don’t know what’s going on.” Chat has a lot of ideas but are still moving too fast to read. He repeats the words in a whisper, which echoes and fades. He realizes he is looping ASMR now and makes several more noises, then whimpers “I don’t know what to do! Help please, somebody!” It echoes. He starts talking fast and loud, with predictable results.

17:00 Scar goes all in on Catdog. It gets loud really fast. Chat is both grooving and suffering. ((It should be noted that through this entire audio issue, Scar is averaging 2.8k viewers.)) He waits for everything to quiet down, then says “Well hello there, and welcome to the wonderful world of CATDOG!” The echo is _horrifying._

19:20 Ren’s voice becomes audible on the stream, saying something about how he’s heard Scar is having mic issues and has come to help him. Scar is still in studio view, so this is the first indication that he is already on the Hermitcraft server. Scar calls out to ask if Ren is there and if he’s come to save him. Scar asks chat why sometimes it gets louder and sometimes it trails off. Chat tries to tell him he is muted in game. Ren begins singing an improvised version of Johnny Cash’s Ring of Fire with lyrics about audio problems. ((Ren and his chat are watching Scar’s stream live and so can see and hear what is going on even though most of the audio nonsense is not actually going out on the server.)) Scar sings along and switches to game view. He is on his zoo train and Ren is standing in front of him, wearing his GigaCorp skin and taxi pants. ((The recapper’s child comes along at this point and asks what the heck the recapper is watching, because the sound is just that atrocious.))

20:30 Ren is playing that Scar has a Gigacorp microphone and he is Gigacorp technical support chat. He sings another song, this time Linkin Park’s Crawling In My Skin with the lyrics “Burning in my ears, this mic is echoing, Chat asked me to come and help you, but there is nothing I can be doing. The echoing inside me, is burning my brain! The pain, of my earholes… Maybe you should just restart your computer, that might fix it! Just saaaaying, the paaaaain in my earholes.” He says “Good talk,” and flies away, leaving the song getting louder and more horrifying behind him.

23:10 The audio mayhem finally subsides, so Scar immediately goes to find Cleo for additional mayhem. ((Cleo has a stream rule against talking about what other streamers are up to and has temporarily banned the word “Scar” in their chat at this point, but has nonetheless been made very aware that Scar is on his way and hell is riding with him.)) He finds Cleo at their base. The first thing Cleo says is a cheerful “Hi!” at exactly the tone and pitch that will echo endlessly. Scar can’t figure out how to unmute himself to the server, so she continues to talk in an increasingly incoherent loop. It gets really, really loud. Sensing chaos, Ren returns and starts singing the Burning In My Ears song again.

25:40 Scar flies away, trying to clear the echo buffer. He comes back just in time to hear Cleo yelling “What do they expect me to do?” and Ren say “This feels like a fever dream,” which form the basis of the new echo loop. Ren sings Eminem’s “My Name is” song with lyrics of his own devising. Scar flies away again. He figures out how to unmute and flies back yelling “Help me!” Ren yells “He’s back for more!” and begins hepfully beatboxing. Chat is still making valiant efforts to tech support Scar, who stopped paying attention a very long time ago. Cleo is talking and laughing in the background.

28:00 Scar makes additional communications efforts, all of them similarly useless. He and Ren sing a song about Mr. Kirkland and his four-pound pie, which seems to be a song Scar made up about the virtues of the Costco chocolate-peanut butter pie. Cleo has been trying to pass along some tech-support tips but is quickly drowned out. She joins in the song.

30:15 Scar does something that abruptly cuts the audio chaos. There is a moment of silence, then Ren and Cleo begin talking and looping. The audio is full of Cleo’s intention to eat a sour jellybean. Scar yells “It’s getting worse!” and flies away. He thinks he is onto something, so he lands on a tree and begins playing with his settings.

31:30 Scar changes something in his settings which completely fixes the problem from Chat’s POV. Scar sounds totally normal, no looping. He himself is still getting one echo over his headset. Chat celebrates wildly as Scar interacts with the echo that only he can hear, paying it compliments and having a conversation. He insists he’s going to have a burial ritual for his headset later on in the day and complains that everything in his life is broken. He is not sure how he got things almost fixed but not fixed and decides he will try unmuting, and muting another source.

32:40 Chat’s moment of peace is over. The echo comes back, everything is unfixed again. Scar does not appear to have realized at any point that Chat’s audio was fixed or that he was the only one still getting echo, but now everyone is echoing again. Scar sighs heavily, a sound that repeats again and again as he flies back to Ren and Cleo. Now game sounds are also in the echo mix. Scar flies away again.

33:50 Scar mutes and makes the loop stop. Everything is fixed to chat. He still has the echo for himself. He is still talking to a voice no one else can hear. He mouths something to chat. He unfixes it again. He flies back to Ren and Cleo, who sing Bohemian Rhapsody to him. It immediately becomes overwhelmingly loud. ((It’s much nicer on Ren and Cleo’s streams.)) Scar has given up. His fingers are off the keyboad and he is slumped with his head in one hand. Cleo manages to get through the din to tell him that they are sending tech support photos and information from their partner via Discord. This is ill-timed because it means that they are tabbed out and Ren is absolutely not paying attention as a Drowned sneaks up and murders Scar before he can straighten up and get his hands back on the keys.

36:10 Scar respawns in the zoo train with the echoes of his ignominious demise ringing in everyone’s ears. Chat, at least, thinks this is very funny. Because Scar was yelling his way through his death, it is the sort of echo that gets louder as it goes on, until his screams are nearly deafening as he flies back to Cleo’s base. Scar looks about as done as it is possible for one man to be.

37:10 All the noise stops. “I muted it,” Scar whispers to chat. No echo. He tells Chat that he’s going to get his stuff and then he’s going to look at the troubleshooting info. He tries to follow some of the troubleshooting info and immediately unfixes everything again. Chat didn’t even have time to celebrate. Scar muses that it seems like he’s getting multiple sources repeating themselves. He thinks he’s on the right track, but he needs to get his stuff back first. He returns to Ren and Cleo and asks for his things. Ren is wearing the Poe Poe hat. It looks good on him, but he tosses it back, then starts in with Sandstorm by Darude, a whole new audio hellscape especially once Scar starts throwing in rockets.

39:40 Cleo tells Scar that he is awesome, and that is funny that it’s Ren being the menace today, when usually it is Scar. She asks Ren when he thinks Scar will mute them. Scar asks for more compliments instead. He mutes again. He’s back down to one echo. Chat has no echo. There is no game sound. Scar gets a thoughtful look on his face. Game sound comes back. Cleo reminds Ren that they are trying to be nice to Scar, even though it is difficult. Ren doesn’t know from being nice, he is trying to make loop tracks here. “Oh, this is your Woodstock, got it,” Cleo jokes. “What about wood?” Scar asks, and immediately regrets everything as it begins looping back on him. Cleo is amazed that he recognizes what he just said, Scar says yes, because it is playing back to him over and over. Cleo is amazed and sees the potential of Scar’s conscience being simply “Play back every out of pocket thing he says”.

41:50 Cleo gives Scar more advice, he drops back down to one echo and no in-game sound or voices audible to chat. He moans an “Oh no.” He tells Ren to keep going with what he’s doing and unfixes everything in time for chat to hear Ren’s rendition of the “How much wood would a woodchuck chuck” chant. He is dancing. Scar is firing rockets. Everything is echoing. It is chaos.

43:30 Everything stops. Scar admits that he may have figured out what is wrong. If someone were to have three open sources of their own stream running in the background, would that be enough to cause this? Cleo pointed out that was literally the first thing they asked. Chat is melting down with YES and laughter. Laughing, Cleo yells at him as he tries to explain that he had a second set of tabs behind his main tabs and that secret second set of tabs had three extremely sneaky instances of his stream that he’d accidentally created while trying to do a Go Live tweet.

44:40 Ren tells Scar, very sincerely, that he is easily in Ren’s top ten favorite humans. Scar cannot hear him because his headphones have taken this opportunity to fall apart again. Ren types it in the chat instead. Scar realizes that Ren’s mic is quieted in his audio mix and tells him that he is pumping him up. Cleo says Ren does not need pumping up, Ren comes fully inflated at all times. Chat has a lot of feelings about that phrasing. Scar tells everyone that this has never happened before. Cleo says at least they know what the problem was: ineptitude!

((I will not be recapping the next section because it is functionally the exact same as what I already recapped in this section of Cleo’s 6/23 stream. It’s a very long but entertaining podcast-style conversation that eventually encompasses Joe and Cub as well as they discuss Scar’s headphones, Ren’s traumatic boarding school memories, Scar’s history as an archer and whether or not Scar may have helped himself to a “layaway” plan at Cleo’s book shop after he fell into some lava and lost all his stuff again. Eventually the topic turns to possible identities for the Ore Snatcher, and after a long run-through that provides no concrete evidence or conclusions, they all fly over to the armor trim shop.

1:55:50 Scar follows the others to the armor trim shop, taking several potshots as he goes. He pulls out his Poe Poe horn and begins playing it to signify that this is the official Chief Investigator on an official Investigatory Visit. He is immediately distracted by a Wandering Trader who has blocks he wants, including gilded blackstone miniblocks. The others are already inside though, so he follows them into the shop. Ren thinks the redstone looks very scary, but Joe knows enough to be pretty sure that most of the blocks in the circuitry would be easy to replace so long as the machine was not presently active.

1:57:10 Cleo groans as they look at the armor stand work, which Doc spent a long time on because he has alienated his best source of armor stand sculpture work. Some of the statue postures are pretty tortured, especially under the hood, and nothing is locked. Joe and Scar cheerfully tell Cleo to go ahead and fix it, Doc definitely won’t mind somebody messing with his stuff, especially in this shop! Cleo begins working on the armor stands, declaring confidently that Doc won’t even know.

1:57:20 It occurs to Scar to ask if the shop is even open yet. The machine seems complete, but there’s no obvious mechanism by which to buy anything. Joe chooses to deliberately misinterpret the question and points out that of course it is open, look how easy it is to walk in and out of the wide open portal! Cub lays down several magma blocks in the doorway, presumably to prank Joe, but Joe has already gone back inside. As Ren checks the redstone for more missing blocks, Cub takes down the magma blocks he placed, thus triggering the alarm and jumpscaring everyone. The Hermits do not know exactly what set off the alarm. (Ren has helped with testing for the alarm and should know that blocks breaking set off the machine, but he presumably did not see or hear Cub break the blocks.)

1:57:50 Ren warns the others not to go down into the circuits, there’s an alarm system. Scar peers into the guts of the machine and catches a glimpse of said system. “It’s a Warden, what the heck!” he yells. Chat is already gleefully predicting how mad Doc is going to be about all this nonsense. Scar is reduced to sputtering, Cleo is cackling. Ren proudly announces that he has been killed by this Warden before. Ren tells them that the Warden is coming up the stairs now and they’d better leave before there is chaos. Just as he says that, the whole world goes dark. The Hermits make a run for it.

1:59:00 The Hermits regroup on the grass outside the shop. Ren points out that if the Warden is going to get out and wreck Doc’s shop it should be on a video and not a stream, because the content would be much better. Scar’s just glad he already finished his shop so he won’t have to listen to the alarm until Doc comes to turn it off. Cub and Scar worry about the Wandering Trader, but there is no sign of the Warden so far. Cleo is not afraid of wardens. Cub and Scar think about investigating, but the sound is terrible. Joe goes straight in but only stays for a moment. Scar shoots at him anyway. The Hermits wonder what triggered the alarm. Chat knows and informs Scar that it was Cub’s fault. Cleo realizes it is going to be _so easy_ to annoy Doc and is thrilled to death. Scar wonders how anybody is supposed to pay for anything if nobody can get their wallet out in the shop.

2:01:10 Joe returns and Cub decides he’s going in. Scar is having Decked Out flashbacks. Cub says in chat that it’s fine. Cleo and Ren never got far enough down into Decked Out to be scared of wardens. Cub returns and proudly declares that he got blasted. The hermits discuss whether they should leave signs explaining what happened or just leave the alarm running and Doc wondering what happened. Cleo points out that now The Glitcher can do whatever they want. The other Hermits have not heard the name “The Glitcher” before (except Scar has and has forgotten.) Cleo thinks The Glitcher is a very Cub name. Scar gets out his Darth Vader breathing horn to attempt to intimidate Cub into an immediate confession. It is super-ineffective. Cub accuses Scar and Grian based on history. Ren plays Etho’s “What’s going on” horn.

2:04:20 Ren sums up that the group has been at it for an hour and fifteen minutes and are literally no closer to determining the identity of the Ore Snatcher. Scar points out that at least they found there’s a warden in the trim shop. It seems bad for business. Cleo doesn’t think Doc cares about business and it’s all about the drama. Cub makes a little show of not remembering the name “Glitcher” and asks if they left a sign. Scar gets Chat to send him one. Ren suggests the possibility of a copycat. He wants to put up a sign that suggests a new villain on the scene, for the “rascal energy.” Scar suggest Wells and/or Hypno, but they haven’t been around. Ren thinks the new fake villain could be “The Pincer,” but he can’t put up the sign himself because he is Doc’s husband. Cleo is happy to do it. Scar insists that he is the investigator and can’t allow this to happen, but is effectively powerless after Cleo, too, proves impervious to the power of Darth Vader Breathing.

2:07:30 Cleo and Ren approach the sand pile to create sign-based mischief. Grian signs in. Chat sends Scar a message with the Glitcher$ sign, Scar remembers it now. Ren and Cleo return, arguing because Cleo thinks “The Pincher” is dumb and won’t put it on the sign. Scar is affronted remembering that Doc thought he was the culprit because the sign was misspelled. He objects to being accused just because he’s “the dumbest one in the crew.” He is paying so much attention to Doc’s accusations, in fact, that he misses Joe mentioning that there is another sign up there that looks like it comes from Scar (that Joe put there.) The Hermits retreat from the sand pile because the noise is terrible. Cleo says she would feel bad about winding Doc up, except he completely deserves it. Ren agrees that even though he is Doc’s husband, he has to admit that a price must be paid for pig murder. Cleo hears “price” and remembers it’s time to spread a little bribery around. Ren tries to double-dip and winds up getting Joe accused of diamond-snatching and chased away by Cleo. He deserves it though because he actually does steal Scar’s diamonds while Scar is distracted by his Chat.

2:09:40 Scar asks why his Chat is convinced Big Salmon is the culprit. He doesn’t even know what that means. As he looks around, he catches sight of a very tiny figure far away, hopping up the side of the sand pile near the goat statue. It disappears before he can zoom in. Scar says he swears he just saw Grian, except Grian’s not even online. The others tell him that Grian is indeed online. Scar flies over to the shop to investigate, but Grian has disappeared. He was not near to the door and so probably could not have gotten into the shop, but where he did go is a mystery. Scar blankets the shop with Darth Vader Breathing, just in case.

2:10:40 Scar returns to the others and reports no luck. Cleo thinks Grian is absolutely the perfect fit for this crime. Ren objects and says Grian wouldn’t incriminate himself in front of four Hermits, Cleo says that is exactly something Grian would do if he thought he could get away with it. Ren sees the sign Joe put up on Scar’s behalf and everyone is confused and suspicious until Joe scolds them all for not paying attention to the fact that he told them he was putting up that sign ten minutes ago.

2:12:20 Cleo sighs and says she loves it when a plan comes together, she just wishes it were hers. The others give her weird looks for that and say that if she doesn’t want to be perceived as the villain, maybe she should say fewer villainous things and possibly praise the villain a little bit less. Cleo says that whoever did it is awesome, but that she would’ve told everyone if she’d done it. Joe points out that he just told everyone he was putting a sign up and got ignored, so Cleo could easily have told everyone and nobody remembered. Cleo tells Joe that it is different because people listen to Cleo. Joe is not so sure about that. Scar brings up the Big Salmon thing again and Cleo reminds him that all the Hermits present know it was not Beef because of Reasons that she very clearly is not sharing with the Chats. ((This is one day before Beef announced publicly that he and his partner are expecting a baby in October, making him way too busy and preoccupied to be doing much in the way of Glitchering.))

2:14:00 General consensus is that whatever feud happened between Big Wood and Big Salmon, it is old news now anyway. Salmon lives peacefully in the hourglass, after all. Chat is convinced by Cleo’s certainty and no longer thinks it is Beef. Ren and Scar both know it’s not Mumbo, but they wish it were. Cleo and Joe would like it to be Joe. Everyone names one suspect (Cleo names Cub, Cub names Scar, Joe names False, Ren names Joel, Grian does not answer). Scar thanks them and tells them that was entirely unhelpful. Next step is to get a search warrant and look through everyone’s storage. Doc can look through his storage. Cleo laughs at the idea that turning up some deepslate diamond ore in someone’s storage room would prove anything. A chatter says Xisuma, Cleo is super unconvinced, Scar is also not enthusiastic.

2:17:40 Joe says that his favorite best-ever theory is that the SciCraft folks are allied with Doc’s partner Karin to steal the diamonds via Karin accessing Doc’s account. Everyone thinks that idea is very funny. Ren asks if that means Karin needs to come to court and testify. Karin may or may not have a Minecraft account. Scar muses that his brother would absolutely do something like this. One of Ren’s chatters says that, as a wife, they would totally do that. Cleo jokes that this was all a ploy to jumpstart Karin’s YouTube career. Joe thinks it would be an amazing Hermitcraft spinoff, Karin and Mrs. T and Lizzie, but they’re thieves… Ren thinks it might be Lizzie pranking Joel by pranking Doc. That’s a little complex, though. Cleo accuses “Everyone else’s spouses” and says next seasons somebody needs to have their spouse start pranking. Joe warns that now that Cleo has said this, Joe’s fiance Badgerspanner is going to demand to be allowed to do it. Chat pops up with the name “Desperate Hermitwives,” which Scar thinks is very funny. Ren adds “The Real Housewives of Hermitcraft.

2:21:20 Ren has a Bdubs theory: The best way to create business for your brand new courthouse is to create a huge story arc that involves crimes and gets Hermits suing. There is a brief argument over whether court cases cost anything (tips are welcome, according to Bdubs, and there’s definitely been some bribing involved.) Cub points out that the police stand to benefit from an increase in crime. Scar protests that he is the judiciary! Cleo laughs and says of course cops cannot be corrupt. In any case, Scar goes on, he touched Doc’s boring machine, he blew it up, he banged it too hard, and he’s not interested in banging Doc’s redstone anymore.

2:23:20 There is a long moment of silence. Cleo says she is leaving, that it’s been lovely, they should do this again never. Cleo, Cub and Joe leave. Scar confesses to Ren that he’d said the worst thing he could think of to get rid of the others, and it worked! Ren is impressed. Chat is impressed, once they stop losing their minds over what he said in the first place. Ren and Scar have a conversation about who might really be the Ore Snatcher and who is playing “third impostor.” ((Third impostor is Scar’s favorite way to play Among Us, someone who is not a real impostor but who plays like they are in order to sow chaos and confusion.)) Ren makes a reference to the movie The Usual Suspects that Scar does not understand, but it boils down to “the best place to hide is in plain sight.”

2:25:00 Scar and Ren proceed to have the same conversation the large group had earlier about who is a suspect and who is not. They come to no conclusions and eventually realize they have wasted half a Sunday on accomplishing nothing. Grian says in game chat that it’s pretty obvious but then immediately logs out. Joe flies past, right to the door of the armor trim shop and logs out midair. Ren finds this behavior wildly suspicious and accuses Scar of being the worst poe poe for not noticing. Scar admits he’s not very good at being Poe Poe, but he works hard.

2:30:00 Scar tells Ren that he really did have plans today, but the echo threw him off right from the jump. Ren agrees, but the echoing thing was really way too much fun. He is already nostalgic about the fantastic amount of noise that was generated. Scar says again that he can’t be the Glitcher because is so busy, with wheelchair appointments, surgery appointments, and trying to build the Poe Poe HQ. They decide to go look at the new build. Ren tells Scar that he believes Scar is innocent. Chat asks if Scar is okay. Scar says he hopes to be okay by the end of next week. ((Scar has an upcoming surgery scheduled to correct issues in his implanted feeding tube that are causing illness and pain.)) Chat notes that Joe logged out and on quickly again, suspicious behavior!

2:32:00 Scar is too tired to be an investigator, he’d rather be the third impostor, but a good impostor would be making lists of potential suspects (or rascals, as Ren calls them). Ren encourages Scar to start an investigation board with red strings and stuff. He tells the Chat to make one for Scar. Scar shows Ren the countdown clock but won’t let him look at the redstone. He promises Ren that the redstone is definitely doing things, even though he hasn’t decided what he is counting down to yet. Ren suggests eliminating any store that took less than five minutes to build. Scar agrees that’s a good idea and he will run it past Permit Officer Grian, who is a different character than Regular Grian. Now that the POE HQ is done, it’s time to enforce some laws. Chat agrees too, nearly unanimously.

2:36:30 Ren and Scar explore the SD and look at how the pop-up shops are taking up beautiful prime real estate. They definitely need to go. A chatter asks if Keralis has been considered as Ore Snatcher. Ren says Keralis just isn’t enough of a rascal. Thinking about Keralis makes them think of the crab rave though, so they go to see it at Keralis’ base. Cleo made the little crabs a while ago, but now Cub has added the crab rave music and it is pretty great. They spend some time appreciating K’s base, which is gorgeous. Scar wants more airport, but it looks like Keralis does have plans for more of an airstrip. They see the birch forest in the distance and start talking trees. The number and quality of custom trees this season is amazing. Scar is self-conscious because he’s having so much trouble making a redwood tree. Ren admits that his custom trees are actually just copies of Scar’s custom trees, and he’s sure Scar will get it right.

2:41:30 Ren learns that Scar has never seen The Mummy. He is appalled. Chat is appalled. Scar gets really confused when Ren gets confused about whether The Rock was in The Mummy (he was) and also is confused about who The Rock is (Dwayne Johnson). They get super-distracted talking about the movie The Rock, which they both love. Scar had to watch it in secret because his mom thought he was too young. Scar has not seen True Lies, but now he remembers The Mummy, so that’s something. He has not seen The Whale, and Ren has not seen House of Dragons. They talk about how expensive streaming services are. They agree not to talk about VPNs on stream, then do talk about it, but just a little bit. Ren canceled most of his streaming services a few months ago because they were so expensive. YouTube Premium is Ren’s favorite stream service.

2:49:00 The inevitable happens and Scar and Ren start talking about Star Wars. In chat, Grian advises Ren to flee for his life. Scar protests that Ren loves Star Wars and wants to talk about it. Grian is deeply unconvinced, especially when Ren reluctantly admits that it’s 11pm and he does need to sleep. But… he’ll stay just a bit longer. They run around Keralis’ base, looking for a bed and talking about Star Wars. Grian realizes he’s getting sucked in via stream sniping and logs out immediately.

3:01:20 Star Wars talk continues, Hermit Podcast style. Grian logs back in. He has clearly continued his stream sniping and wants to say something about the Jedi wookie. They encourage him to speak his truth. Star Wars talk continues. Grian’s hatred of Star Wars talk has suffered a severe credibility blow, even though he logs off again.

3:25:00 A brief detour out of Star Wars and into Dune. Scar talks about storytelling in Hollywood and the lack of innovation for a few minutes. Some Disney ranting, and a discussion about how sometimes it’s okay to scare kids. It’s good for them. Time to talk about old Disney movies from the golden age of animation. Scar reveals he’s never seen The Land Before Time. Chat is _so_ upset. Ren talks about how he lost his dad when he was six, and cartoon movies that had sadness and loss helped him come to terms with it. It’s important not to take that kind of thing out. The deeper stories and lessons aren’t really there so much anymore and it hollows out the films.

3:40:30 Ren admits that it is almost midnight now and he really does need to go to bed. Scar laughs and agrees that Grian is probably out there somewhere screaming at him to go to bed. Scar compliments the way Ren talks, always interesting and with good things to say. When Ren talks, people listen. Chat loves Ren and the Ren and Scar podcast. Scar promises he’s going to watch Dune. Ren is happy until he realizes that Scar, who does not have access to a TV, will be watching on his iPad. Ren thinks that is criminal. He nearly swears. Scar adds that he will be using airpods. Ren is so sad. Scar holds forth for a minute about how Airpods are just not as good as a headset with a jack. Ren points out that there is also a difference between an iPad and a cinema screen. Scar laughs. They do a bit of old-man complaining about how movies don’t look good on computer screens. Ren asks if Scar really doesn’t have a TV in his house. Scar explains that it’s inconvenient, either he’s stuck in his wheelchair or he has to go through the entire process of transferring to a chair or couch, getting strapped in there, it’s a whole thing. His headphones fall off mid-description. Ren suggests he could stay in his wheelchair, get a blanket, get some popcorn, wait, no popcorn, and just enjoy the film. Scar points out some more logistical concerns involving bathroom breaks and says it’s much easier to watch in bed on the iPad. Ren admits he is a hypocrite, he watched Hermitcraft videos on his phone in bed. (Chat feels very seen.) They talk about the high price of iPads. Chat calls Scar an iPad kid, to his protests. Ren is mad that his old tablet is bricked because of lack of software updates. They agree that should be illegal.

At least they get to live in Minecraft, where things are nice.

3:47:40 Ren really needs to go to bed. For real this time. Scar follows him back to his base, still talking until Ren insists that he stop talking and go away or he will never get any sleep. Scar flies back to the train and thanks subs and donos. He did not get everything (anything) done that he planned to this stream, but he will probably try and stream tomorrow as well. Surgery is definitely planned for next week and hopefully a little less intense than originally planned. If things go well, it will not be under general anesthetic and that should keep him out of the ICU. The surgery itself is not such a big deal, but the sedation is the issue. Hopefully this surgery will correct what was done wrong in 2021 and 2022.

3:51:20 A chatter donates $100 for Scar to buy some new headphones and let the old ones go to the farm. Scar promises that this is the last time Chat will see the old headphones. They’re getting buried in the backyard. He’s just weirdly sentimental about a few things. The sunglasses he lost last year and these headphones. But it is time. Scar’s goal is to get the surgery done and then get the new wheelchair (which he has finally been measured for). It will be smaller, lighter and more comfortable. Chatters send in dono messages of love and support. They also have opinions on movies.

3:56:00 Scar reassures Chat that this surgery will not be like last time when he was out for months. This surgery is much smaller. A chatter sends a dono message with train talk. Scar is enthusiastic about train talk. He reminds Chat that he lives near a real-life permit office and shows off the dig progress on Magic Mountain. Every scrap of dirt has been removed and saved for later. Beyond IRL things, Scar has to do the POE HQ interior, Doc’s investigation, landscape the area around the train, and add the caboose, which will be floated in on balloons. The mini-mountain needs to come down and Magic Mountain needs to be dug out. The zoo must be built and Scar has several shops to build. He has so much to do! Some chatters mention the Jellie plushie and Scar admits inflation has made it really hard to make merch. Anything good costs so much money these days!

4:00:00 A chatter asks for names for their dark oak forest. Scar throws it open to the Chat, who are full of ideas. Scar likes “Mythwood.” He shares one last thought: Universal’s Monsters Land is so cool. Scar is very happy about it and thinks it is great. He switches back to studio view, says this is probably the weirdest stream he’s ever done, and that he hopes to do more streams this week. Nobody Scar knows is streaming so he doesn’t raid, just ends his stream.

[weebsinstash]

Maybe it's the primal/prey in me. But I like the idea of fighting a werewolf during a camping trip because my friends are pusses who'd try to run while I would be like bring it on bitch. And they feel the urge to mate me instead. So they then have them try to befriend me and learn my routine as a human so they could get me alone when I'm not protecting anyone else so they could see that fear in my eyes and try to feel the urge to kill me, and they still find feel the need to make me their mate. They've seen me both vulnerable and powerful and they need to possess all of me

God, there was this idea I've been having and building on about a Reader who retreats to a small town that's more rural and closed off than a typical city and you're basically becoming burnt out on modern human society to the point you quite legitimately feel the urge to just turn into a hermit living in a shack somewhere just to get away from it all, and one night you're so sleep deprived because those goddamn wolves keep howling near your place and you're struggling with your job and you hate your life and your family and all the bad stories in the news that, you just walk outside and start running through the woods on a moonlit night, just running and running because you just feel afraid, trapped, you need to get away, you dont even know anymore, and eventually going really deep into the forest into a clearing or something before you just start screaming and wailing and calling out, just crying with your entire soul, and suddenly there are the wolves, they're there with you, not attacking or anything, just beginning to all howl with you as you scream your anguish out to the night sky

And the next morning you're going to the grocery store and your eyes are all swollen and puffy and people aren't like completely mean mugging you as an outsider anymore and you go to check out your groceries and you realize you forgot your wallet and you're about to start absolutely bawling your eyes out and about to put everything back when suddenly multiple people are stepping forward to chip in, oh its their pleasure, everyone has struggles, we've all been there right? Except?? They were all treating you like shit basically since you got here, what changed?

Gee it may have had something to do with like having a massive ass breakdown in front of a really suspiciously large number of wolves who just kind of watched over you and lowkey herded you back towards your home when you were done crying. You know how fucking big wolves are? They sure ain't dog sized. Some of these werewolf audiobooks describe the alpha wolves nearly rivaling the size of bears sometimes 😭 you're just crying and suddenly you're ready to piss yourself because the biggest wolf of the entire group is like, gingerly stepping up to you with paws the size of your fucking head and you're thinking it's slowly approaching because it's about to attack or give you a "test bite" like when bears are checking if something is edible and it just. Gives you a quick nuzzle, maybe a lick to your wet cheeks

Like imagine if, obviously you don't know this is a werewolf pack and you're probably none too keen on having your snow white moment, so if they pretended to be vicious creatures by, say, growling and approaching you really aggressively, well, youre going to take off running (unless you faint which is an entirely different problem) and maaaaybe it's a total coincidence they chase you all the way back to your house when you hadn't realized how lost and far from home you were? And maybe they also thought it was quite fun to run with you, even if you were crying and acting like a little bunny, a little piece of fragile prey for them. Wolves do love a good chase, platonic or otherwise c;

I know I derailed from what you were actually talking about though lol, but I guess the more "feral" nature of the two ideas reminded me of each other lol. I HAVE listened to werewolf audiobooks where the guy was into his mate fighting back because as a wolf, male, and alpha, it sated his natural desires to like impose dominance and control, and also just the primal sloppiness of it, so like, imagine you've got this werewolf sonuvabitch just chasing you and trying to you know "mate" and he's all but open mouth drooling because he "likes em feisty" and its like boy I am literally trying to KILL YOU? Like imagine managing to get the jump on him, like you hide and jump out from around a corner, amd bash him over the head with a rock or a big stick, and it would have worked, IF he was human, so he just turns around all "you know what, im actually impressed c:" before, you know, folding you like a pretzel and breeding you 😩💦

[lingshanhermit]

Ling Shan Hermit: The Battles Within Our Innermost Hearts

When we truly embark on the path of cultivation, the Demon King already has us in his sights. He watches us from the shadows, observing, scrutinizing, waiting for the right moment to strike. True cultivators are in constant battle with the Demon King, every day, every hour, even every minute. These battles are clandestine, taking place deep within us, invisible to the outside world. There are close combats, minor skirmishes, and massive wars. In these battles against ourselves, we both win and lose, and only true cultivators will go through these experiences.

The Demon King Mara is never an easy opponent to deal with; he is incredibly intelligent and patient like a crocodile. He stays out of our sight, unseen, his whereabouts unknown. We don’t know what he's doing or when he might suddenly attack. But he sees us, he lurks in the shadows, he knows everything about us. He is aware of our actions and inactions, our likes and dislikes, our noble and selfish thoughts, our glory and secrets. Many people may not even realize that the Demon King is lurking around, ready to detect even the slightest ill thought. Then, he would whisper in our ears, incite us, coax us, urging us into action. I am someone who frequently falls into the Demon King's traps, and then climbs out feeling embarrassed and dejected. For me, there are times when I know that a certain action is wrong, but I still proceed. This can be attributed to habits and the thought that I can always repent afterward. Please take note, this is a trap set by the Demon King, do not fall into it. More often, we are not used to the view of emptiness, the state achieved in our meditation begins to fade after the session ends, and our habits are strong. Therefore, when faced with situations, our first response is still that of an ordinary person.

The Demon King has many traps. One of the most common is to let your emotions and thoughts take control, causing you to become angry and lose your temper. When you have accumulated some merit, he will try to overturn it. You might suddenly encounter unreasonable circumstances or people, which then stirs up your emotions, and you end up arguing with them. That's when you lose because you have departed from the perspective of your meditation. You perceive yourself as a real, substantial entity, the others as real entities, and the things they say or do as substantial realities. You treat all of these as real existence. You forget the view of emptiness that you've experienced. That's why you lose. In these minor skirmishes, you are defeated. As practitioners, you may encounter numerous such battles daily. Every day there might be a multitude of people who irritate or displease you. Suddenly, it's as if they all conspired, their minds seem addled, they lose all their usual sensibilities, and fail to comprehend things they normally would. When you face such situations, it's possibly because you've accumulated significant karmic merits or generated bodhicitta, or you're nearing enlightenment. The devil doesn't like this. He dislikes your nearing enlightenment, your liberation, your bodhicitta, and everything related to these. Thus, he plans meticulously to ruin all this. To do so, he has designed many strategies. The best approach is to manipulate those around you, those you're familiar with, making them seem as if they've lost their minds, inciting them to provoke or anger you. If you fall for it, your merits, virtues, and level of practice will be destroyed. This is the devil's trickery.

During practice, you've accumulated a lot of merit and wisdom. And then, you encounter various situations and people. If they provoke anger or various emotions in you, make you perceive yourself and everything around you as real existence, make you forget the view of emptiness that you've already experienced, and make you fall back into the view of an ordinary person, then this might be the devil's interference. The devil's purpose is to destroy your practice, make you lose compassion for sentient beings, lose your meditation state, and if possible, even make you hate them.

I frequently fall into such traps and then regret deeply. When the devil's tactics work, he will temporarily cease his actions, disappearing for a while, hiding somewhere, watching you from the dark, waiting for the next opportunity to provoke you. You will have a period of peaceful days, as if the devil does not exist at all. When you accumulate certain merits again, he will reappear, using the people around you again to provoke you, overturning your merits once again. Although such tactics are not fresh, they are effective.

We all have strong habits. One of our most potent habits is the desire to correct or control others. Therefore, the devil can always accurately locate your weak spots, knowing what you care about, what you like, what you cannot tolerate. If you guard on the left, he will attack from the right; if you guard on the right, he will switch to the left. Perhaps twenty minutes ago, you were immersed in the view of the emptiness of manifestation, but twenty minutes later, you're angered by someone's foolish actions. When you get angry, you've actually forgotten your view, forgotten that everything around you does not possess any real existence, and lost your previous state. This is his goal.

We've said before, the devil knows everything about you. He can see all your hidden thoughts. He will not miss any opportunities. He will whisper in your ear, stirring up your greed, anger, and ignorance, rationalizing them. Of course, he won't persuade you to suddenly buy a million-dollar luxury car, but he will quietly increase your greed. He will start with the small things and slowly pull you under. Initially, you didn't have so many material needs; your life was simple. Gradually, more people come into your life, they bring various little things, and you start to increase your material needs. Then you find it quite pleasant, you start to like these things, and gradually you become accustomed to them.

When you have become used to these, you will fear losing them. You will try to maintain this state, for which you need to do many things. Then he can negotiate with you, you will have no choice but to make a deal with the devil. In this skirmish, you've been defeated. As a practitioner, you might experience many such battles daily. Many people may provoke you or upset you daily. Suddenly, everyone seems to be acting stupidly in concert, void of any normal reactions and suddenly ignorant of what they normally understand. When such things happen to you, it might be because you have accumulated a great deal of merit, or have generated the bodhichitta, or are near to enlightenment. The devil doesn't like this, he dislikes your approach to enlightenment, dislikes your liberation, dislikes the bodhichitta, dislikes anything related to it. So, he cunningly seeks to destroy it all, devising numerous methods. The most effective is to target those around you, those familiar to you, making their minds seem clouded, provoking you and infuriating you. If you fall for it, your merit and spiritual achievements vanish in smoke. This is the devil's trickery.

In your practice, you have accumulated a wealth of merit and wisdom, and then you encounter various things and people. If they cause you to become angry, evoke various emotions, cause you to regard yourself and the things around you as real existences, and make you forget the understanding of emptiness you have already experienced, causing you to fall back into the mundane view, then this may be the work of the devil. The devil's purpose is to destroy your practice, causing you to lose your compassion for sentient beings and your meditative state, and if he can make you bear grudges against them, so much the better.

I often fall into such traps and then regret it deeply. Once the devil's tactics work, he will temporarily cease his efforts, disappear for a while, hide somewhere and observe you secretly, waiting for the next opportunity to provoke you. You will spend some peaceful days, as peaceful as if the devil did not exist. When you again accumulate a certain amount of merit, he will reappear, again using those around you to provoke you and overturn your hard-earned merits. Although such methods are not new, they are very effective. Because we all have powerful habits, and one of our strongest habits is the desire to correct and control others. So, the devil can always accurately find your trigger points, your weaknesses, he knows what you care about, what you like, what you cannot tolerate. If you defend on the left, he will attack from the right, if you defend on the right, he will switch to the left. Twenty minutes ago, you may have been immersed in the perspective of manifest emptiness, twenty minutes later, you may be furious because someone did something stupid. When you get angry, in fact, you have forgotten your understanding, forgotten that everything around you has no intrinsic existence, and you also lose the state you were just in. This is his goal.

We have said that the devil knows everything about you, he can see all your secret thoughts, he won't miss any opportunity, he will whisper in your ear, incite your greed, anger, and ignorance, and rationalize them. Of course, he won't let you buy a million-dollar luxury car all at once, but he will quietly increase your desire. He will start with those little things, gradually pulling you in. Initially, you didn't have so many material needs, your life was simple, but gradually the people around you increase, they bring various trinkets, you start to increase your material needs, then you find this is quite nice, you start to like these, and gradually you get used to these. When you get used to these, you will fear losing them, you will try to maintain this state, for this, you need to do a lot of things, and then he can negotiate with you, you will have to deal with the devil.

Previously, I mentioned that those who practice Buddhism must have time, and plenty of it. This is because you need to quiet your mind to observe what you're doing, why you're doing it, and who you really are. All of these tasks require time. If you are constantly busy and scattered, you won't have the time to do these things. Without doing these, you cannot possibly experience these secret battles.

Real practitioners will go through these experiences. In their journey of practice, they will face various trials and tribulations. Throughout this process, they will be defeated, battered, disheartened, rejuvenated, and defeated again. However, in the end, as long as we don't give up, we can definitely defeat the demon and exhaust all of our habitual tendencies.

Lastly, I want to remind you that in this article, I used the word "real" many times. In fact, I often use phrases like "real practice" and "real practitioners" in many articles. It's important to emphasize this.

This article was first published on October 14, 2021 on Lingshan Jushi's Sina Weibo, Google Blogger, and other self-media platforms. All rights reserved. Violators will be prosecuted.

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灵山居士：那些发生在内心深处的对决

当我们真正开始修行的时候，魔王就已经盯上我们了。他会在暗中窥伺，他会观察我们，会审视我们，会伺机而动。对于那些真正的修行人来说，他们每一天每个小时甚至每一分钟都处于和魔王的战斗之中。这些战斗都发生的很隐秘，它们都发生在内里，外人完全不得而知。这些战斗有短兵相接，有小型战役，还有大会战。在这些与自我的战斗中，我们有胜也有败，只有那些真正的修行者才会经历这些，才会有这些体验。

魔王波旬从来不是一个好对付的对手，他是一个非常非常聪明的对手，而且他像鳄鱼一样有耐心。他不在我们的视线之内，我们看不见他，我们不知道他在哪里，不知道他在做什么，不知道他何时会突然发起进攻。但是他看得见我们，他在暗处，他知道我们的一切，他知道我们做了什么知道我们没做什么，他知道我们的喜好和憎恶，他知道我们所有崇高与自私的心念，知道我们所有的荣耀与所有的隐秘。很多人可能根本不知道魔王在周遭窥伺，只要我们动了一丝不好的念头，他马上就能发现，然后他会在我们耳边吹风，会鼓动我们，怂恿我们，让我们付诸行动。我是一个经常会掉进魔王设置的陷阱然后再灰头土脸的爬出来的人。就我而言，有时候我明明知道那样做不对，但是还是会去做，这一方面是习气，另一方面是因为我会想：之后可以忏悔啊。请注意，这是魔王的陷阱，不要掉进去。更多的时候是因为我们还没习惯空性的见地，我们禅修中的境界在禅修结束后开始慢慢减弱，而我们的习气又很强大，所以当遇到事情的时候我们的第一反应还是凡夫的反应。

魔王的陷阱有很多，他最常使用的一种陷阱，是让你被情绪被念头带着走，让你生气，让你发火。当你累积了一些功德的时候，他会想办法把它打翻。你可能会突然遇到各种不可理喻的事不可理喻的人，然后你会陷入情绪，你会和他们争吵，和他们争辩，然后你就输了。因为你脱离了禅修中的见地，你把你自己当做实存的实体，把对方也当做实存的实体，把他所说的话所做的事当做实存的实体，你把这一切都当做是真实的存在了。你忘掉了你已经体验到的空性的见地了。所以你输了。在这场小战役中，你被击败了。作为修行者，你可能每天都会经历很多次这种战役。每天都会有很多人激怒你，或是惹你不高兴。他们突然之间全都像是商量好了一样，脑子全都秀逗了，该有的正常反应一点都没有了，平时明白的东西一下子就不明白了。当你遭遇这样的事情，那可能是因为你累积了很大的善业功德或是发了菩提心，或者是你接近了证悟。魔王不喜欢这些，他不喜欢你接近证悟，不喜欢你解脱，不喜欢菩提心，不喜欢与此有关的一切，所以，他处心积虑想要破坏这一切。为此他设计了很多种方法。最好的方式是从你身边的人下手，从你熟悉的人下手，让他们脑子像是被糊住了一样，让他们来触怒你，惹火你，如果你中计了，你的功德善业境界就烟消云散了。这就是魔王的伎俩。在修行中，你累积了很多福德资粮和智慧资粮，然后你会遇到各种事情，遇到各种人，如果他们让你生起愤怒，让你生起各种情绪，让你把自己和周遭的事物都当成真实的存在，让你忘失你已经体验到的空性的见地，让你重新堕回凡夫的见地。那么这些可能是魔王在作祟。魔王的目的就是毁掉你的修行，让你失去对众生的慈悲，失去禅修的境界，如果能让你生起对他们的仇恨，那就再好不过了。

我经常掉进这样的陷阱，然后自己懊悔不已。当魔王这样做奏效了之后，他会暂时偃旗息鼓，他会���失一段时间，找个地方躲起来，暗中观察你，等待下一个可以惹火你的机会。你会过一段时间平静的日子，平静的好像魔王根本就不存在一样。等你再次累积到一定的福德资粮，他就会再次出现，再度利用你身边的人来激怒你，再次打翻你手上的功德。虽然这样的手法一点也不新鲜，但是却很奏效。因为我们都有着强大的习气，我们的习气里有一种想要纠正别人控制别人的欲望，这是我们最强大的习气之一。所以魔王每次都能精准的找到你的点，找到你的软肋，他知道你在乎什么，知道你喜欢什么，知道你不能忍受什么。如果你在左边设防，他就会从右边进攻，如果你在右边设防，他就会换成左边。可能二十分钟之前你还沉浸在显空不二的见地里，二十分钟之后你就因为有人做了一件蠢事而大为光火。当你发火的时候，事实上你已经忘掉了你的见地，忘掉了周遭的这一切都没有丝毫的实存，你也失去了刚才的境界，这就是他要达到的目的。

我们说过，魔王知道你的一切，他能看到你所有隐秘的心思，他不会放过任何一个机会，他会在你耳边絮语，会鼓动你的贪嗔痴，会把它们合理化。当然，他不会让你一下子买一百万的豪车，但是他会悄悄增加你的贪欲，他会从那些小东西下手，慢慢拉你下水。起初，你并没有那么多物质上的需求，你的生活也很简单，慢慢你周围的人多了起来，他们带来了各种小玩意，你开始增加了一些物质上的需求，然后你发现这样也挺好，你开始喜欢上这些，慢慢地你就会习惯这些。当你已经习惯了这些，你就会害怕失去这些，你会试图护持这样的状态，为此你需要做很多事，然后他就可以和你谈判了，你就会不得不和魔鬼做交易。如果你是一位佛法老师，可能你之前很清净，你不会以一个人供养的多寡来决定你对他的态度，但是慢慢你就会这样。对此你可能有所觉察，也可能完全没有觉察。如果你觉察到这些，刚开始你可能还有些不好意思，有些惭愧，但是慢慢地你就会觉得理直气壮。我们的心就是这样慢慢中毒的，我们就是这样堕落的。

请记住，只有当你认为自己是真实的存在，对方是真实的存在，你给了对方一只梨这件事情是真实存在的时候，魔王才会有机会。真正的大圆满禅修从根本上断除了这些，它让我们安住在没有能所二取的境界中，如果我们能一直维持这样的禅修，我们就不会堕入魔王的圈套。所以，它是魔王最为憎恶的教法。

虽然大圆满的禅修能够抵御我们强大的习气，能够让我们安住在魔王无法下手之处，但是我们的习气并不会乖乖就范。我们不可能一直安住在大圆满的境界里，我们不是生活在森林里的舍世者，我们中的大部分人都要上班养孩子要做���给家人吃，我们周遭有各种各样的人，为了生存，我们必须和他们接触交谈，这就给了魔王很多机会。我们的修行就像是在和习气在进行拉锯战，有时候我们被习气拉了过去，有时候我们自己又拉回来一点。那些真正的修行者，当他们进入大圆满的禅定的时候，一切都很好，但是当他们出定的时候，很多事情会一拥而上把他们拉回原点。有时候甚至都不需要别人，我们自己也会这么做，那些修行不得力的人，他们只是偶尔才想起禅修的见地，大部分时候他们都处于凡夫的状态之中。当他们看到一朵花他们会马上认出那是一朵花，他们用的当然不是佛的妙观察智，而是凡夫的二取习气。这是我们的习气使然。我们已经这样几千万亿大劫了。所以，我们的习气没那么容易被改变。

对于那些真正在修行的人来说，这些每天发生在内心深处的战斗才是真正的修行，他们每天都会经历很多这类战斗。但是有很多自认在修行的人根本没有过这样的经历，因为他们一直忙于和外境互动，他们一直处于繁忙的能所二取自我满足之中。他们可能修了一辈子也没搞清楚什么是法，什么是修行，法应该怎么用，修行应该怎么做。这些他们完全没有搞明白。他们只是在做一些很表面的看似修行的事情，只是在念念经修修法，他们以为做这些就叫修行，平时他们无时无刻不处于心随外境游走的散乱状态，从来也不会看一下自己的心，所以他们完全不会经历这些真正的修行。他们甚至都不会招来魔王，因为他们的修行对于习气没有丝毫的耗损，在“修行”多年之后，他们的习气甚至更牢固了，佛法对他们来说是用来坚固我执的，他们会一直沉浸在自己在修行的迷梦里。魔王最喜欢的就是他们这样的人，他们都不需要魔王亲自出手。

以前我说过，修行佛法的人必须要有时间，而且是大把的时间，因为你需要静下心来看着自己在做什么，看看自己为什么要这么做，看看自己是什么人。这些都需要时间，如果你一直很忙一直很散乱，你是没有时间去做这些的。不去做这些，你是不可能经历这些隐秘的战斗的。

那些真正的修行者，他们会经历这些，在他们的修行历程中，他们会经历各种佛考魔考，在这个过程中，他们会被击败，会被揍的鼻青脸肿，会灰头土脸，会灰心丧气，会再次振作，会再次被击败。但是最终，只要我们不放弃，我们就一定能击败魔王，能耗尽所有的能所习气。

在最后，我想提醒你们的是，在本文中，我用了很多次“真正”这个词，其实在很多文章里我都用了“真正的修行”，“真正的修行者”这样的语句。强调这些很重要。

本文于2021年10月14日首发于灵山居士新浪微博，谷歌Blogger及其他自媒体。版权所有，侵权必究。 

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[gaiuswrites]

King of Cups || Chapter 5

Chapter 5: The Moon

Archive: ao3 | masterlist | four

Pairing: Din Djarin x fem!Reader

Summary: All relationships are about give and take.

Word count: 7k~

Rating: Explicit (Mature until the last few paragraphs)

Warnings/tags: nightmares, trauma, drinking, fluff and pining, drugs/being drugged (medicinal), wound care, blood, shots/needles, mature themes/language, emo shit, masturbation (f)

Notes: Hi friends. This is broken up in two portions: the first, being in Nevarro, and the second taking place some time later (hopefully that becomes clear when you read it heh). I'm hoping I captured the varying, distinct tones in each of the sections. Please feel free to reach out to me. :) Enjoy x (gif credit: @skyshipper)

They come at night.

The visions.

Your legs are rock, crumbling - eroding - with each weighted step, trudging through the city you once knew, laid bare to waste all around you. The air is grey brown, chalked with dust—with ash. There are bodies lining the road like trimmed hedges, floating by their ankles—ugly, corporal zeppelins. They’re pale. Their eyes are burned to coal and their tongues hang dead and waxy from their mouths.

They begin the same, choreographed like this; you follow the paths your mind has carved out for you, time and time again.

You spot him, plated in silver at the end of the row. Your feet stop. You see him, and he sees you. You feel his eyes - hawkish, piercing - under the murk of his visor. A predator’s gaze. He’s got a man in his fist—you think you recognize him, you might not—held by the scruff of his neck.

Sometimes it’s X’elo, bending to break in his gloved grasp. Other times, a stranger—a half remembered photograph—a memory of a memory of another dream entirely.

And sometimes, it’s you.

You hear the howl of wind scream through your bones—through the bones of the ruins there—but you don’t feel it. There’s only heat—the kind that’s unavoidable and omnipresent, as heavy as guilt. The hunter brings his hands to frame the man’s temples—yours too, sometimes— pebbles and slate trembling off you as you move towards them. You’re running, you realize, immobile but running and you’re not sure how or why—you never get there in time to find out.

He snaps his neck. You hear the crunch in your own ear—inside your own head.

It becomes night—blood moons drip wet from the sky. They splash onto the dirt. It turns to mud, caking the underside of your boots, squelching as you walk. You round a corner and—

You don’t recognize this. This is new. This— no, this is wrong.

A door. Rutted, freestanding—a dark monolith.

You stutter in your sleep, a crease in your brow.

It’s just a door.

No, not here—

A door. Black wood, a brass handle. Just a door, and you’re sweating. Just a door, and you’re suffocating—you’re being smothered—like your outsides are clawing to get back in through your throat and it’s sucking you in—this door, it’s just a door, it’s just a—closer, nearer, looming taller overhead—

You gasp awake, clutching at the scratchy blanket drenched cold with your sweat. Your rasps echo against the hull, sharp pants scraping the hollow metal, and you bring a hand to your chest—steadying, steadying, the fear of your racing heart.

You sit up, throwing your legs over the edge of the cot, and rake a shaky hand through your hair—the damp of the strands sticking to the nape of your neck. Your breathing evens out, tampering, with your forearms braced on the plats of your thighs; the rise and fall of your breasts against your sleep shirt quiet until you’ve stilled.

You roll off the bed, the aluminum frame whining with the shift, and you knock a knee into one of the carbonite pods as you stumble out of the storage room—your bedroom, now.

You couldn’t handle much more of it. You bought a bedroll the first planet you stopped to refuel at after Bajic, hermitting yourself away into the bowels of his ship. It was the only smidgen of untapped real estate left in the Crest, and it was far be it from you to complain about location. You were just thankful to be out of that copilot’s chair—no amount of bacta could unwind the knots in your neck after sleeping there night after restless night.

So you bunked with the bounties Mando had brought in, like one big macabre slumber party—the chrome slabs slotted up - watchful - in their chambers.

You try not to spare it much thought.

Padding through the Crest, soft bare feet leaving crescents on the steel deck, you step into the fresher to splash water on your face, jolting you back into the present and out of the nightmare, out of—

Just a door.

No—

You towel off, patting yourself dry. Inhaling, your lungs expand with the massive rush of air, and you hold it there until it hurts, until it prickles the corners of your eyes, and finally - deliberately - you release.

You look into the mirror.

You blink. She blinks back.

///

You make breakfast now.

It’s not something you both agreed to, it’s just something you do. Funny, how quickly you adapt to new normals, to new routines. You have rituals now—you two. You make breakfast, and you leave a bowl for him out on the counter before you slip into the shower. When you get out, the bowl is empty and the dishes are washed clean, drying face down on a rag. You smile. You never speak of it. Like ivy crawling up cobbled walls towards the sun, it happens— without prompt or feed, it simply is.

///

Nevarro reminds you of Dallenor—the craggy blandness of it, the endless black sands—and you fight the urge to hate it solely based on this principal alone.

You stay on the ship with the little one while Mando goes into town, meeting with some Greef Karga character to sew up Guild business. You have no idea how he ever managed to get any hunting done with the kid always acting up, pulling hijinks and inciting anarchy. He’s nearly torn the whole place to shreds. How such a tiny body can produce such a massive wake of damage is a mystery you will never solve.

You make yourself watch.

You force your jaw, set and held, as Karga’s men haul the quarries out of the ship, hovering eerily down the ramp.

X’elo, the smuggler from Vohai, some two-bit thief, and a woman Mando caught before you met, all parading single file out of the Crest like a funeral procession. They’re criminals, each and every one—they’re violent and they’ve done terrible, irredeemable things—but they’re people, too.

And isn’t that what makes it all so cruel. So sad.

The least you can do is give them an ounce of dignity before they’re subjected to their fate— however harsh, however fair.

So, you watch.

Maybe they don’t deserve it—they’re here by their own hand, after all, a bed of their own making— and maybe they haven’t earned it back any. But perhaps it’s less about what you can offer them and more about what you refuse to let the galaxy take. Because don’t you deserve to stay unfragmented? Complete? Would you rather be robbed of this humanity, your sense of decency—have it stolen from you?

Doesn’t it cost you nothing to be kind?

You pray neither sound nor fury will strip you of this—this open-eyed tenderness. You beg that you remain, undistilled, despite despite despite.

///

You’re so much more relaxed now then when you first came on board. You were as quiet as a church mouse then, tip toeing around the ship like you were afraid you’d ruin her.

Din will never admit it, but you even managed to get the jump on him once or twice—appearing exactly when and where he least expected. And he didn’t - couldn’t have - he didn’t expect you.

This.

And he looks at you now: lit by lamplight—the kerosene filament flickering warm in the dark hull— slotted back and humming to yourself as you swipe a finger over a holopad, feet propped up on a crate by the table, and it all looks organic. Right.

The drink in your hand, sloshing against the amber jug, no doubt eases your mood. You’re drinking it right from the bottle. He thinks it’s fucking charming.

“Enjoying yourself?”

“Maker above,” you hiss, startling a foot out of your seat. You shoot him an accusatory glare, but there’s no malice in it—there’s laughter ringing around your eyes.

Honestly, that man needs a bell on him.

“Don’t let me interrupt you,” he comments dryly, stepping past.

You move your legs from their perch and sit a little straighter. “You- you could join me,” you chime, “if you want.”

His feet slow until he’s stopped completely and he pans over his shoulder to you. You can’t read his expression—it’s steel all the way through— but you think you feel the air around you both quiver - shudder - with something unspoken, something kinetic.

The scrape of the chair as he pulls it out from the table is deafening, the thunk of his metal body sinking into it even louder.

“What are you reading?” Mando asks.

You cast him a sheepish smile. “CoreWorld News.”

“Anything good?”

Your mouth twists, biting the inside of your cheek. “Never.”

He huffs a breathy chuckle.

There didn’t seem to be any good news anymore. You forage for it—scouring the net for just a whiff of it, of something pure. There is plenty of greatness left in the world, but you find that what it lacks most is goodness— humble and precious. More often than not, you come up empty and disappointed—but never so dissuaded that you do not search again the next day, and the day after that, and after that and after that again.

“How’d it go with Karga?” you ask, setting the holopad down and switching off the display.

“Fine. Good.”

“Good,” you smile. He’s terse—sparse. You think it’s endearing now—vexing too, without a doubt, but the two aren’t mutually exclusive anymore.

“Nothing close to Coruscant yet. More outer rim chaavla,” he grits out, swallowing. “I’m sorry.”

There’s a tickle of bemusement in your voice and a quirk to your chin. “What are you apologizing for?”

“I know you want to get back.”

You hope the glow from the lantern in the galley is dim enough to camouflage the tinge sprung on your cheeks. The truth is becoming more and more clear to you, whether you like it or not: with each passing day, you want to go back to Coruscant less and less. You have to—you know you have to. You have your career, your whole life, waiting for you. But—

But.

“You told me it would take a while—longer than I’d like.”

“I know.”

“I’m happy to be here— I-I’m grateful,” you catch yourself.

He clenches his fist under the table, beyond your line of sight, gnarled tight into a ball. It tethers him down, anchoring him in place—because if he weren’t, fuck, he’d fly out of his seat so fast—

“Alright,” he chokes out.

“Alright,” you smile, glassy.

There’s a kind of mist encircling you two, an incense of a sort, intoxicating and sinewy and lulling you into a hushed calm. It’s thick around you - lush - and you can feel it settle like lead behind your eyes.

“Can I pour you a drink—for later?”

It’s late into the evening, well beyond the hour where the lines of decorum blur. You’ve crossed into the Other—that tarred, limber undertow. Dangerously weightless and free. The liminality between here and there— that twilight place.

Shadows bounce along the walls. Your outline—his too.

“I’d like that.”

///

You’re not as tipsy as you could be, but you’re less sober than you’d like.

Subconsciously, buried somewhere deep, you’re aware that Mando is humoring you and that you should let him get on with his night—but you don’t.

You’ll be annoyed at yourself later for this.

“Okay okay, what are your hobbies?”

A deadpan tilt of his helmet. “I—I don’t understand the question.”

You gape at him, your bottom lip glossed as it parts, plush and wet, and you laugh. “Hobbies,” you reiterate. “You know, stuff you like to do? For fun?”

You see the gears under that helm wheel and spin. It shouldn’t take anyone this long. The question is basic and the answer should be relatively immediate—but Mando has to mull it over. In all of his cycles, as hardened as they’ve been, he hasn’t been gifted the luxury of leisure - fun - and he hasn’t been afforded the time to dwell on the lack of it.

Selfless, without a moment of ownership to himself. This is the way.

“I-,” he pauses, mouth clamping shut. “Skip.”

“Fine, fine,” you tut. “What is... your favorite planet?”

Din stretches back, his beskar groaning against the chair.

All the planets he’d visited were out of necessity—out of demand and credit, never because he wanted to be there and certainly never out of favor. They were tainted—made insipid and unremarkable by the quarries he chased to them.

But there is one in particular that stands out; he remembers a planet the kid seemed to like—how he babbled the whole time, slung in the satchel at his hip, entranced and enthralled. He was on his best behavior, too—the little womp rat didn’t even try to stuff his tiny, wrinkled face with anything. Not once.

“Adega.”

“Adega,” you repeat, testing the name. “I don’t think I’ve heard of it. What’s it like?”

He draws in a long breath, his ribs yawning against the corset of his armor.

He should’ve gotten up by now—fuck, he shouldn’t have ever sat down in the first place. It’s not like he didn’t have anything to do; he needs to downshift the Crest’s power converters, switch off the shield projectors, chart a course to his next job, get some damn sleep if he’s lucky…

But you’re here before him. You’re here and he can’t deny you—not when you’re looking at him like that, like the sun shines out from his fucking face—far softer, far kinder than he deserves. Not when you’re here now, and you won’t be for much longer.

He’s racing against the clock—the swinging inevitability of it. Each moment he shares with you, is a moment that brings him closer to taking you back.

Din is a fool. He knows he’ll lose. He races anyways.

“It’s a water planet—mostly ocean,” he begins.

You allow your eyes to dip close, savoring the description, and you tuck your legs up to fold over themselves.

“But there are islands. Some are small, private—with red trees that go all the way to the sand. Others have whole cities on them.”

You remain quiet - patient - like marble, chiseled and sanded as thin as chiffon, veiling over your face in fine, cascading sheets. Transparent - ethereal - you listen to him blind, letting his words guide your sight.

“The kid-"

Your tongue darts out over your lip and he stutters. Din has to shift his hips, relieving the growing heat that’s tightening below his waist.

“T-The uh, the kid loved it. I’d never seen him like that. The bogwing didn’t want to leave,” he chuckles. He conjures the details he thinks you want—the details he thinks you might like most. “The people are honest—generous. The days are long, and the nights are warm.”

He’s no poet, but it doesn’t bother you.

“I can see it,” you say, before blinking your eyes open. "I'll have to go some time." There’s pink on your cheeks, seeping past your jaw and below the neckline of your shirt to the swallow of your breasts.

You look at him— he looks at you.

A noise hums from somewhere inside the ship.

“Are you scared of anything?” you murmur.

Mando lets a beat pass.

“I don’t think so. Not yet.” You smile at that—small, wistful. You’re not even sure why. “You?” he asks.

Your chest rises with a deep inhale. “I used to be scared of dying. I thought I was gonna die young. I was convinced—I had dreams about it all the time as a kid.”

But maybe that’s not it entirely. Maybe it’s not the fear of dying itself, but the dread of living and dying alone. And isn’t that at the heart of it—at all of this?

I just don’t want to do this all on my own.

He’s never been privy to this version of you—this sloping tone, the liquor buzzing through your speech, churning your words to treacle. You sound nonchalant in way that’s jarring, as if you aren’t talking about death— the fear of your own tenuous mortality.

“But I bet everyone does,” you continue dismissively, “just one of those things.”

He’s almost cautious when he replies. “I’m not sure they do.”

Your expression contorts, knotting for an agonizing moment—until the tension all but disappears. “Huh,” you shrug flippantly, and take a swig. That heaviness, that fog, dissipates nearly as soon as it arrived. “Anyways, favorite color?”

He rolls his eyes; you can see it in the way he tilts his head to you. Really, he seems to say, how old are we?

“You’re right, you’re right— that’s low brow. I can do better…” You melodramatically tap your chin, eyeing him pensively.

“Okay. What’s that?”

“What’s what?”

“That,” you nod to his pauldron, “that symbol on your shoulder.”

Tawny fingertips trace absentmindedly over the emblem. “It’s a Mudhorn. It’s-” Mando hesitates, before his hand returns to his lap. “It’s the sigil of my clan.”

You arch your brow. “I didn’t realize you had a clan— is it- is it like, big?” Stars, you sound dumb—and there’s no excuse. You’re not even that drunk. “How- what is a clan, exactly?”

“In Mandalorian culture, your clan is your family. Aliit. Mine, it’s—it’s a clan of two.”

Something in the pit of you stirs, a sickly warmth, pulling at your gut like a rope. You glance over to where the child sleeps, snuggled away in his pram and your lips curl into a smile, hidden behind the bottle you bring to them.

“You’re lucky to have each other,” you say gently, taking another sip.

“We almost didn’t—shouldn’t have.”

His hands tense into his legs—the creak of leather against his thigh plates is audible even from where you sit.

You narrow your eyes curiously. He heaves.

“He was a bounty and I did my job. I turned him in. I went back for him, but—the kid, he saved my life, and I could’ve left him there—I would’ve, before.”

It all comes out like tires grinding through gravel, bruised and roughened. It’s regret, you realize—this is the sound of guilt, frigid and rued, pushing through his modulator. It makes you want to reach out to him, put your hand on his, comfort him, reassure him—something. But you can’t. He’s too far away. He’s on his own sea—untouchable.

You decide it right then and there: you can’t bare that sound, the wracked timbre of it. You hate it. You think you’d do anything to rid the way in constricts his throat—makes him hoarse and clipped, even through the guise of his helmet. It pains you, a visceral stabbing, right to your core. You could go a lifetime without hearing it, and it still wouldn’t be long enough.

“But you didn’t,” you offer.

“No,” he utters. “No, I didn’t.”

Mando gives you these tortuous, beautiful previews of himself. Like light passing through stained glass, you sneak brief glimpses of the paintings there, the stories and fables and the lessons they teach, until some great cloud drifts past, blotting out the sun, and all goes dark again.

You know this is rare. You know you’ll be home soon. You know to cherish it—to relish what he gives, when he gives it, if he gives it at all.

But—you want more. You’re a simple woman, at the end of all things: all you want is to hold him.

“I think you’re a better man than you let on, Mando.” There’s a knowing twinkle in your eye, a coy lilt to your loosened tongue. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think you were flirting.

“You don’t know that,” he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest.

“I have my suspicions." You're smirking something awful - deadly - as it sears into him.

He grunts, flames licking up his chest. Din has to bite back his grin, making careful it doesn’t shape the sound of his vowels; grateful for the helmet that buffers him, the mask that seals him away into anonymity, into apathy.

If he can convince you, maybe he can convince himself too. Maybe.

“Next question, dala.”

If he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were flirting.

///

Your eyes are blown wide, gawking at him.

“I’m not a medic, Mando—I’m not a fucking surgeon!”

Mando crashes through the Razor Crest, red dollops trailing in pools behind him. He grunts, hand pressed to his side, blood pushing out of the gash that’s torn into him— a canyon down his unplated body, spewing angry and insistent with each spasm of his heart.

With a broad stroke, he sweeps the clutter off the table and onto the floor, spraying across the deck.

“Medkit,” he barks, hoisting himself up to lie, hulking and pained, out on the slab. You scamper to it, ripping it off the wall, and return to his lumbering body. His breathing is labored—he’s forcing it, seething it out.

Mando’s legs bend off the table at an uncomfortable angle and he rasps when you crane them up by his booted ankles – fuck, he’s heavy – to situate a small crate under his feet. They drop with a dulled thud— without muscle, without resistance. The languid weight of a dying man.

You’re stationed beside him, medkit spilled open. “W-What now, what do you need?”

“I need you,” you heard him say, deep and bassy, as he ascended the ramp. With a colossal drum of your heart, you spun around - I need you - a blush stippling your jaw. The pregnant expectation built behind weeks and weeks of stalemates and stolen glances - I need you - all rearing to a head here and now and finally, finally something—until you saw him, doubled over, bracing himself on the wall, a line of blood smearing behind his palm.

“Bacta-“ Mando wheezes, “bacta shot.”

You rifle through the supplies, littering them as you dig through the box.

Sure, you had gotten your first aid certification with the Movement—it was required, and you retook the courses every few cycles. But that was gauze wrappings and mouth-to-mouth and anti-inflammatory tablets—that was not this, and this is fucking surgery. You’re out of your depth—and Mando must be out of his damn mind.

“I nee-“ He inhales sharply, and his body spasms, gripping the ledge of the table like a vice. “My chest plate—take it off.”

He’s told you bits and parcels of the Mandalorian way—of his Creed— and you aren’t under the impression that this would be strictly sanctioned.

“M-Mando, I thought— are you sure?”

“Yes I’m kriffing sure—do it. Just do it,” he snaps. He hates this—he fucking hates this. Soft. Weak—weak weak weak, he’s so fucking weak. Laandur.

You fumble over the armor, uncoordinated as you unclasp it from his cuirass and Mando strangles out a sigh as soon as it leaves him. At last, you fish the shot from the medkit and hold it up to the light, the medicine like venom as it whirls in the tube. It’s uncomfortably large—simply holding it makes you squirm.

“W-What is that?”

Your eyes flit over the needle and then back to the bounty hunter. “What do you mean ‘what is that’? It’s a shot.”

“That’s a lance,” he growls.

“It’s ebacta-”

“It’s green!” he hisses out incredulously.

“It’s all they had!” you bite back, panic skipping through your veins.

You’re practically yelling at each other, the tension winding and coiling tighter and higher as the seconds tick by. You feel each one, tapping along your vertebra like a metronome, keeping time, keeping time, wasting time—all this back and forth is a waste of time and—

You’re nervous—you’re fucking terrified—and Mando doesn’t frequent this position either—this vulnerability. He doesn’t know what to do with it, where he belongs in it. I need you, he said. He hadn’t needed anyone before and now look at him, bare breasted before you, wounded and mewling like roadkill.

You rap the needle with a knuckle, banishing the air pocket, and test the plunger. Droplets of liquid spurt from the tip, and he begins to rile.

“Dala,” he warns.

“Mando,” you mimic.

“Nu draar-”

“Do you want my help or not?” you spit out, and he shrinks, visor trained on the jab, that unnatural chartreuse swirling inside the glass vial. “Okay. Okay, on three.”

“Wait, wait-"

“One..." You try to sound firm - competent - but you’re a fucking mess. Your breathing is erratic, tunic soiled with sweat, and you’re trembling.

“You don’t-“

“Two...”

Mando huffs exasperatedly, “Ah, fuck it-”

“Three.”

You drive the syringe down, stabbing into him. His body seizes—flexing rigid—as soon as the viscous gel is injected, oozing oozing oozing until it’s pumped empty and spent.

And then— nothing.

All that whirlwinded frenzy, that raging tempest, and now silence— dead silence. He lays there motionless, fidgeting ceased, that ungodly needle pitched like a flag pole from his chest.

… Shit.

“Hey,” you touch a hand to his shoulder.

The smug bastard could be having a laugh under that helmet and you’d have no idea. That’s what you tell yourself—that’s what you’d prefer to believe anyways; it’s better than the alternative, better than—than than than fuck—

“Hey, this isn’t funny...” A little rougher now, you jostle him. He doesn’t react.

“… Mando?”

His head lolls to the side.

With a whistle, the room goes mute. Sound and oxygen alike, it all gets vacuumed out, and your senses invert. You can hear every tick of your body: the bone of your jaw as your teeth mash together, the pulse at your wrist, your stammering heart beating beating beating in your inner ear, the bob of your trachea as it grates against your neck.

Kriff. You killed him—you killed the Mandalorian.

Oh Maker, oh shit-

You press down around the puncture site with a wide palm before yanking the syringe out, flinging it away. You’re shaking him now, wrestling with his limp body, and you’re shouting—croaked with worry, with fear.

“Fuck, Mando—Mando!"

The sound is like glass shattering.

He gasps wildly, gulping down air as if he’d been drowned, writhing like the undead from your operating table. You buckle over him, fatigued and slumped, and cry out in blessed relief.

Your instincts, those poor frail nerves, tell you to smack him—but given that he’s bleeding out, you refrain.

“Don’t do that to me!” you exclaim, breathy and strained.

“Don’t do that to you?” Mando retorts, panting. You let out a weak crackle of laughter and he moans. It’s like he’s been hit by a speeder - twice - forward and then reversed over again.

“Maker, what did you give to me?”

“I got it on Vohai. They uhm- they said it was good quality-“

“And you believed them?”

Your mouth twists shyly. “I-I wanted to believe them,” you correct him.

It’s his turn to laugh now, tired and raw. Oh, you sweet little thing.

You swallow, saliva coating your ragged windpipe. “I’m sorry—Maker, I’m so sorry, a-are you alright?”

“Yeah,” he scoffs, gargled, “but remind me never to have you save my life again.”

That earns him a light slap to his arm. If he’s well enough to dole cheap shots, you figure he’s fit enough to take yours too. He’s spliced open, whole chunks of him missing, and he still has the wherewithal to be an ass.

“Well, you’re not out of the woods just yet.”

///

Regrettably, Mando might have been spot on about the bacta—in fact, you’re starting to question whether it’s really bacta at all.

A delirious grunt ripples through the bounty hunter’s modulator as you cut open his ripped flight suit, careful not to slice him with the vibroblade. His black undershirt is matted to his gaping wound, the blood bubbled over and through the rough material, and you have to peel the fibers out of his coagulating flesh to get to it. You toss the fabric into the bucket next to you with a sloppy, wet plop.

It didn’t even occur to you. You were so swept away by the state of him—by the dizzying carnival of it all as soon as Mando breached the Crest—you didn’t consider the fact that you’d be seeing him. Touching him.

You have to mask your expression when you meet his skin for the first time. He’s golden—he’s golden everywhere—like desert sand dunes sizzling under ripe, afternoon suns—dappled with memories of violence, branded into him.

You’ve never heard him like this. He keeps noising these feverish little nothings— gasping, moaning in a language you don’t recognize—and you do your best to distract him. It’s one of the tenets you recall from your aid training: keep them talking, keep them sharp—engaged.

“Do each of these have a story?” you ask, eyeing the marks that riddle and pucker him.

“Some of them.”

“What about this one here?” You touch a faded ribbon of scarring. It’s older than the others—paler. Your fingertips are cool and he blazes beneath them.

He tries not to twitch. You try not to notice.

“Fell out of a tree when I was a kid—haven’t thought about that in a while,” Mando pants. “B-Broke my wrist, got scraped to shit— my buir, m-my mother, she chewed my ear off.”

“Mm, I bet she did,” you smirk—you can relate to the feeling.

“I-I remember the lines around her eyes. H-Her eyes— they were green, bright green— jade.”

He lets out a wince as you swipe a disinfectant soaked rag over him. You cringe and flash him an apologetic look.

“Sounds beautiful,” you muse, a quiet smile pulling at you as your deft fingers work. “Did you get her pretty eyes too, Mando?”

Something is caught in his throat— a chuckle, or a cough more likely. “No, they’re brown. Just brown.”

Your whole body locks.

Just brown.

Two words - just brown - and suddenly you’re rich— full to the brim with him.

And fuck, if it doesn't feels like a gift. Like he gathered something precious and laid it in your arms and said here, you can have this now. We can share. Sometimes you forget that there’s a man under all those layers; a man— a warm blooded, tanned skin, brown eyed man. You hadn’t often wondered what the Mandalorian was hiding under his armor—he was so finite, so unmovable, the mask he wore became him. He was beskar - indistinguishably - through and through.

But that was before. And now you’re blinded with him— with all the details you cannot unsee.

“S-She was the last person to take care of me—like this.”

It comes over you so suddenly, you’re taken aback by it: that knee-jerking gut wrench. And not because there’s heartbreak in his voice, but because there isn’t. Because he’s had to be so invulnerable—so unyielding and invincible for so long—that he doesn’t even realize what he’s without.

And you, if only for a silly, naïve moment, wish you could give it back to him. Every little ounce of goodness that he’s been deprived of—to dip into his time stream, and rewrite.

To plant but a seed of it there, even if you don’t stay long enough to see it’s harvest.

“Tell me more about her,” you say.

And beyond expectation, beyond reason, he does.

///|||///

This—this is wrong.

He feels pulpy - soggy - wrong. He’s more liquid than he should be—there’s nothing solid about him now. He’s swept away in the tide of it—this green current charging through him and he let’s go - what is there to hold onto anyways? - floating belly up on his back.

Din spills—like the aperture split into his side, he gushes. Whatever dam he’s forged around himself, the beskar and duracrete there, cracks.

The stream trickles until he floods and like any good story, he starts from the beginning.

He tells you of home—his first home. Aq Vetina.

You’re plucking spikes and nettle from his side, and he barely feels it—all he has is this sinking, unending wet—and they hit the tray with dull plunks, punctuated and staccatoed.

He tells you of the adobe dwellings and the domes and columns. Marketplace canopies and caravan bazaars.

plunk

The oak trees, the willow bark, the spires he’d climb until the sun set.

plunk

The tall mountains and the dry, rubbled earth. Of the nameless neighbor children he played with, kicking a ball through the dirt. Red robes trailing, fraying.

plunk

His mother. The shawl she wore. The copper of his father’s ring. The herbs she grew by the light from their kitchen window. How he held her hand while they sat by the fire.

plunk

His tongue doesn’t belong to him—it wags numb and supple. He’s lost his sense of direction, unbound by north or south, and these words are simply happening to him. They keep happening and happening and escaping and—

It’s not just the off-bacta speaking for him, making him pliant. He wants this. He wants to bend—he wants to bend for you.

And now there’s no stopping it—there’s no breaking this, no halting it's downhill momentum. Din describes the attack, the heat of the fire as his town - his world - burned down, of his parents concealing him—a child, abandoned and bunkered away in a cellar to live or die with or without them— being rescued by the Death Watch and raised as a Mandalorian himself.

Your bandaging has long since finished, but you remain, hovering over him as you listen—listen as the jigsawed shards of his life stitch themselves together. Like a moth to a flame, you are drawn in and in and in, until you’re butted against the wick of it. Inseparable.

When the well of his words runs dry, neither of you go to move. Pin-drop silence envelops you. Your hands still on his chest, palms like a weighted quilt—warming him, securing him. He feels-

He feels safe.

“Mando,” you murmur, and the epithet has never sounded so fucking sacred, whispered from you like a prayer. You cripple him; the web of concern along your brow, the sheen in your eyes, the breathy part of your lips.

His throat has gone dry and he shakes his head left right, beskar grating against the makeshift gurney. Mando. No. No, that’s not right—that’s not who he is, that’s not who he wants you to know.

He draws his hand up—it’s so fucking heavy, he can barely lift it—but he tries, he tries, he wants to. You’re right here, you’re touching his chest and you’re healing his body—his mind too, if he’d only let you—and if he could just get to you. If he could just lace his fingers with yours—would you let him? Should you?

“M-My name-"

A warbled wail from the kid’s alcove rips through the cradling hush, and you both react immediately, lurching up to tend to the child. Din forgets—he hears his foundling and his reason leaves him—and he flinches with a grimace. You urge him down, steadying him with a pointed look.

“Rest.”

It’s a command, there’s no question to it, and it’s teeming with all of these unrecognizable concepts— care and assurance, worry and compassion. So impossible to disobey in the way that gentle things are—too soft and too right to say no to. He relents - gives - helmet thudding when it connects back with the table.

Din, he pleads, desperate for you to read his mind. Like a mantra, his subconscious rambles it on a drug addled figure-eight, coming around only to repeat itself again, infinite and wanting. Din Din Din-

Only when the child’s cries muffle into hiccups and his hiccups slur into coos does he let his exhaustion get the better of him. There was too much—it was an assault from all fronts. The blood loss, the drugs, his life like a monsoon as it crushed him open. And all it took was a wound, a brush with his mortality, for him to surrender it to you.

He turns his head, searching for you through the blur of his vision. You’re there in the doorway, rocking his boy in your arms, haloed with light.

I need you, he said. I need you I need you I need you I need-

Din’s eyes shut.

He doesn’t dream. He sleeps like the dead, blissful and undisturbed.

///

You spend hours scrubbing the deck on all fours, spine hunched and aching, cleaning scarlet off silver steel. It got everywhere, the splatter of it—even on the surfaces Mando didn’t come in contact with. The smell of blood, that nickel musk, it lingers long after its welcome—long after the stain of it, the stain of him, has vanished from the Crest. From your skin.

At some point during the night you nod off next to him, curled over a crate, and when you wake Mando is gone—presumably back to his quarters but gone all the same. All traces of him gone - expunged - and the ship feels hollow and gaping— a sterile Mando shaped hole in his absence. You follow his lead, retreating to your bed for a few more hours of sleep.

The next morning doesn’t go as you’d like.

You weren’t sure if he would remember any of it—of what he confided, of what he almost confessed— but by the way the tension ferments between you, you can only assume he does.

They go through their routines, stilted as they are.

He’s up early— unnecessarily early. Mando goes to the cockpit to rouse the ship, plugging in the coordinates from his tracking fob to chase after the escaped bounty. Thrusters set. Repulorlifts and auxiliary engines engaged. Deflector shield generator on. Weapons check. Atmospheric pressure regulator switched.

He’s slower, you note— his movements are crawled—with only half the feline agility he typically possesses and you want to tell him to sit, to take a break—to get off his damn feet and to let you help him—that it’s okay if he rests. That he can take time for himself. That it doesn’t make him any less of a Mandalorian—any less of a man.

But, you can’t.

And so the day is pulled taut like this—a bowed string ready to snap, chalked full of false starts and tinny stoicism. A sharp, intentional air of avoidance with every action. They were out of step, out of sync, and it reminds you of the first days you’d spent on the Razor Crest, orbiting each other—planets apart.

Because he’s shared too much. You knocked, Din answered. He opened the door and he let you past and now he has nowhere left to go but inwards. He’s cornered with no exit strategy - no option - but to close back up again and furl in on himself like a fern in the dark. Curling - evaporating - until he’s nothing but armor—nothing but mirrored edges and metal plates.

But—

you still made his breakfast and he still washed your dishes—and maybe that is enough.

///

You pass each other in the corridor, as you have done before.

You smile gently—soft as sin— and it breaks him, like it always does.

You have a hand on the rung of the ladder when he calls your name, and you turn to him, bright eyed.

“Thank you,” he rasps, “I never thanked you.”

He’s so strikingly sincere— standing there, arms dangling stiff by his sides. He looks different now, somehow— different, but the same. Fuller, bigger—smaller, too.

Human, you realize.

Your heart flutters in your chest. “Of course, Mando-“

“Din.”

You forget to breath. Time forgets to move.

“My name is Din.”

///

Din. Din Djarin.

It takes you almost a week to say it—to even utter the syllable aloud—and you only ever risk it when he’s gone on a hunt and you know you’re alone.

“You like it when I touch you like this?” you hear him say, the fabricated echo of his voice in your skull. He’s got two fingers in you—you can envision them now, clear and potent, the golden hide of them—and he moves slow as he takes you right to the edge, dancing dastardly along that cliff side before retracting himself and backing off. You can’t see his face, but you know he’s smirking; you can feel it in his fingertips, how they mock you—how they scorch into you and leer.

Even in your fantasy, he’s a prick.

“You like it when I make you cum on this filthy fucking cot?”

You keen into your hand, whimpering into your bitten raw lips. The scene is playing on without you now, writing itself. All you can do is lay here and take it, succumb to it, starved and desperate and vile as you thrash on your bedroll.

You rove your palm over your chest—

He snakes up your shirt, twisting your nipple until it’s peaked and perked under him, until you yelp with that muddled jolt of pleasure and pain. He’s lazy and fitfully unhurried, each movement sauntered and proud. He’s coaxing it out of you, this orgasm, as he kneels over you, your vision flooded with the cold menace of his beskar. Finally, tortuously, he traces his thumb over your clit, toying with you in small circles until you’re shaking—vibrating, every molecule of you—like you’re going to burst, incinerate there in your bed. He’s urgent now, demanding, and thrusting into your swollen cunt and the pressure mounting in your heat swells until, until, oh my st-

You fuck your fingers until they prune, drenched with the thought of him teasing you, stuffing you full with anything he’ll give you; his hands, his cock—Maker, his tongue. You let it roll around your mouth when you touch yourself like this in the dark belly of the ship—heels digging into your thin mattress, knees steepled together—and you’re panting, wanton and velvet, before a fist shoots up to muffle the moaned name wafting from your lips like smoke.

“Din”

@girlimjusttryingtoreadfanfics @pedros-mustache @miranhas-art @djarrex @djarinsbeskar @bookloverfilmoholic @keeper0fthestars @misguidedandbeguiled

[justletmeplayminecraft]

So um. I saw the dialing thing and the line “never speak of this again” with Scar and Mumbo or smth? I dunno I just really liked their dynamic together in their recent eps and I’m super interested in what you’d do with this :D

i couldn't resist the urge to write some fluff with these idiots. based in a future where mumbo's base is fully operational, here's ~1.7k words of mumbo & scar desperately trying to share their single braincell. i hope you enjoy !!

Of all the stupid things Mumbo has done this season, he did not expect getting trapped in his own base to join that list. But, here he is, in his pitch black storage room, in a smaller yet cobblestone and dirt shelter. Trapped for the foreseeable future as he frantically scrolls through his communicator to see if any other hermits are online. It's embarrassing. Absolutely and utterly embarrassing. And the worst thing is, he should have been able to see it coming!

There are reasons he's part of the one braincell squad. Several, in fact, but this moment has to be up there in his top ten.

On the other side of the wall, a zombie groans too close for comfort. He's sitting on grassy ground in a one block space, with only the light of his communicator for comfort. His stuff is going to de-spawn at this rate. This is terrible. Why is nobody else online? Usually there's at least a few others around at this time of day!

<GoodTimeWithScar joined the game>

Ah. Mumbo's not sure if he should be relieved or kiss his items goodbye. Maybe both. He sighs, fingers already moving to send a message.

<MumboJumbo> scar

<GoodTimeWithScar> Mumbo! Good morning!

<MumboJumbo> i need your help

<GoodTimeWithScar> Oh?

<MumboJumbo> could you come to my base? with a golden apple please?

<MumboJumbo> i promise i will pay you back but im in a bit of a pickle

<GoodTimeWithScar> The great Mumbo needs my help?

<GoodTimeWithScar> What do you even need a golden apple for? Just a normal one, right?

<MumboJumbo> second question, yes

<MumboJumbo> first question, my base died with me trapped in my storage room and it needs feeding to revive it

<GoodTimeWithScar> You know maybe I shouldn't have asked.

<GoodTimeWithScar> I'm on my way. Call?

<MumboJumbo> thatll work.

Mumbo leans his head against cobble, navigating through Scar's contact until he's able to find the call icon. He takes a deep breath, thankful for the good connection across the server. What would he do if he couldn't contact anybody down here? Cry, probably. Die a lot. His communicator dials, then rings for two seconds. Two seconds too long, if you ask him.

"Mumbo!" Scar's voice is accompanied by the explosion of a rocket, wind crackling through the call. Mumbo sighs in relief.

"Scar you are a... sound for sore ears?" Scar laughs, and Mumbo can't help a small giggle in response. He moves to his headphones, hoping to block out the mobs filling his storage room. Why did he think this was a good idea for a base?

"Okay, Mumbo, you're going to have to guide me through what I need to do here." It's strange to hear Scar so straight forward, honestly. His voice still holds that light-hearted note in it, it'll be dark day when Scar loses that.

"Right, okay." Mumbo takes a deep breath, picturing his base in his mind. What's the most Scar-proof way he can explain this? Oh, if Scar dies as well- "So, on the outside of my base, there should be these big towers of redstone lamps, right? They'll all be off right now. But, near the bottom, there should be a chest. You put the golden apple in there."

"Ah, in the like. Big blocks of four?" Mumbo claps, before wincing at how loud that probably was over the microphone.

"Yes! That! Can you see a chest at the bottom?" Mumbo listens closely to the burst of a rocket, the sound of feet stumbling on the ground. He holds his breath, waiting for the confirmation that this situation might finally be over.

"I see it!" His body sags with the release of air. "Okay, uh, I've put the apple in." Mumbo listens closely, taking out a headphone. Distantly, underneath all the mobs, he hears pistons, a familiar heartbeat starting up. If he sinks down any further he's going to become a puddle. "The lights are coming on!"

"Okay-" Mumbo's hands wave in front of him as he speaks "-Go to the centre of my base, there should be nether portals and a massive hole leading downwards." The sounds of movement, footsteps echoing on the walls.

"What the heck, Mumbo, how many mobs do you have down there?" Mumbo sighs, closing his eyes. They're so close.

"Are all of the lights on?" He checks.

"Well, it's lit up. I can see your chests, and I think that's your stuff? Jeez, if I knew I was going to need to fight I would've been more prepared."

"How bad is it?" The high hum from Scar is a pretty good answer.

"Could be better." He hears a block move, followed by Scar telling him, "Alright, I've set my spawn. I'm gonna try to snipe them." Mumbo leans forward, awkwardly manoeuvring so he can break a dirt block against the ground. Light floods into the one block space. He can see the feet of mobs wandering between tall grass. In the distance, there's a clang of an arrow finding a skeleton. He breathes out, wincing at the ache as he pushes up from that position. He's too tall for this.

He thinks he remembers where his stuff was. If the coast is clear, he might be able to run for it and duck back in here. Get his sword equipped, elytra on, and things will be fine! He could salvage some of his dignity. Hopefully. Probably not.

"Scar?" He asks, "Could you tell me if the coast is clear so I can grab my stuff?" It takes a second to get a reply, marked by the ding of a successful hit.

"I can do that." Scar sounds distracted, focused. "Wait- oh, nononono-" Mumbo's communicator dings. He doesn't need to look to know what message will greet him.

<GoodTimeWithScar fell to his death trying to escape a skeleton>

"So, uh, Mumbo. We might have a bit of a situation." Mumbo buries his face into his hands. He twists his body down again to get an idea of how many mobs are left. Counting the number of feet and shadows he can see, it's not looking good.

"Yeah, we certainly might." His voice is high, stressed laughter escaping him with his face pressed into the dirt. "What do we do now!" Scar's bubbling giggles are accompanied by the scramble of feet across stone.

"Um, die a bunch?" Scar suggests. Mumbo's arms give up and he falls into a heap. His shoulders shake with his own giggles, the two in harmony over the call.

"Maybe it's a good thing nobody else is on."

Scar has to wait for his laughter to die down to speak, "I bet I'll die less than you." Mumbo smirks.

"You're on."

-

About half an hour later, Mumbo is sorting his stuff whilst Scar scrolls through their death messages. He's bruised all over, has collected a few scratches from loose arrows, but it looks like all of his items are here. This has gone better than he expected. He still wants to crawl into bed and never get out again.

"You know, I'm pretty sure I've won," Scar announces, looking up from his communicator with a pleased grin. Mumbo makes a noise, pulling up his own screen.

"Absolutely not. There's no way, you died so many times!"

"Yeah, but I died eight times. You died ten." Honestly, he's probably right. Mumbo lost track after death three. Everything blurred into a mess of sprinting off the bed to get his items, picking up half of them, maybe getting a swing or two, dying. And then repeat that apparently ten times.

He sighs as he finishes counting up the deaths. Scar did indeed win. He puts the last of his items in the right slots, leaving the rest to the sorting system. Finding his bed, he flops onto it. Scar is sitting on the stone centre beaming at him. The cut on his forehead is barely healing up, a bruise on his cheek.

"No, no. I want to know exactly how you ended up in this position." He's leaning forward, smug curiousity on every inch of his expression. Mumbo shuts his eyes, whining at him.

Mumbo lifts his hand, gesturing towards his chests, "I should have potions in here somewhere, if you want one." Scar giggles, shaking his head.

"Do you have to?"

"I want to know why I died eight times, Mumbo!"

"You're going to laugh."

"That's the plan." Mumbo shakes his head, rolling around so he can sit on the bed. Scar is waiting patiently, even crossing his legs like he's expecting a bedtime story.

"I made my base alive?" Mumbo explains, not sure why he's questioning himself. He did the redstone and everything. "And, as it gets unhappier, more things close off."

"Including your storage room?" Scar asks, clear amusement in his voice. Mumbo finally breaks into a giggle, falling onto his knees.

"I thought it was a good idea at the time!" He exclaims. "It stops sorting items, the lights go out, and then it locks itself down!"

"With you in it."

"I forgot Xisuma was working in the area!" His groan gets mixed with a laugh. "Oh, I am such an idiot."

"How about we agree to never speak of this again?" Scar suggests. Mumbo's halfway through nodding when Scar adds, "For a few diamonds?" Mumbo bursts into surprised laughter, quickly dissolving into giggles.

"You know what, you deserve them after this." Scar laughs.

"Maybe I'll have to die for people more often," he teases, watching Mumbo as he heads to his diamond chest.

"I wouldn't advise it personally." Mumbo looks over his shoulder at him. "That's how Grian gets you."

"Mm, very true." Scar takes in the storage room again, pocketing the diamonds Mumbo offers him. "Do you think you could show me some of the redstone behind this place? I am absolutely fascinated by how you managed to make such a counterproductive system."

"Well, you know I'll never miss an opportunity to show off my redstone." Scar takes the hand Mumbo offers him, smiling.

-

It's an hour or so later. Mumbo is showing off how he sends the signal between floors when their communicators beep.

<xisumavoid> should I be concerned about the number of deaths in the log?

They share a look and laugh.

[trashmenofmarvel]

Branded - Chapter 16

Pairing: Demon!Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: You and Bucky have “The Talk.”

(This is a fan AU of Falling’s Just Another Way to Fly by @araniaart​ . Please check out this incredible series for all of your demon Bucky needs.)

Chapter Warnings: Angst, miscommunication, mild sexual content

Word Count: 6k

AO3

After washing away the weirdness of the last few days and pulling on your most comfortable pair of jeans, complete with an old, baggy sweater and well-worn boots, you were ready to tackle the next problem of the day: how to get to Brooklyn.

You’d left your car, dead battery and all, back at the office. But when you got out to the parking lot, you saw your car sitting safe and sound in your spot. Cleaned. The battery magically coming to life when you turned the key in the ignition.

Huh. Maybe it really was magic that had charged your battery. Being a wizard was kind of super convenient, and you almost regretted being just a normal, average—

Your shoulder gave a twinge, throbbing under your sleeve.

Okay, maybe not entirely average. You sighed through your nose as you drove out of the parking lot and into traffic, once again reminded that you were going to Bucky’s place to do more than just talk.

As it turned out, it wasn’t too difficult to figure out who Jacob Miller was when you took two seconds to think about it. Though you began to have your doubts once you were standing outside of the historical condo. It was even less reassuring when you were let past by the doorman into an intricate, opulent lobby.

A multi-million dollar apartment didn’t really seem Bucky’s style.

“Ah, yes, Mister Miller said you would be coming,” the desk manager informed you with stiff politeness, directing you toward a small bank of elevators.

It was too late to back out now, so you let yourself be led along, trying not to feel like a lost, wayward lamb.

The elevator operator—because apparently those were still a thing that existed this century—hit the PH button for you. The knots in your stomach tightened as you realized the clock tower you’d seen on the outside of the building, was in fact, part of “Jacob Miller’s” residence.

God, you really hoped this guy was Bucky. It made sense. He wouldn’t use his own name, even if the world thought he had died in 1991. Especially with all the business a few years ago of Hydra trying, and failing, to take over S.H.I.E.L.D., he would want to be careful.

Once you reached the top and the elevator doors opened, you were surprised to see the elevator itself open directly into the penthouse suite. The floor plan was open, spacious, almost empty… until you realized this was just the foyer.

Feeling like an intruder, you called out Bucky’s name as soon as the elevator doors shut behind you. Your echo faded into silence with no answering reply. You winced as you checked your new phone to find it was only 8:30 PM, your anxiety having forced you to leave too early to give yourself time to navigate the roads. With the holiday shopping traffic a nightmare, you were surprised you’d arrived so soon.

Too soon, apparently, if Bucky wasn’t here. But wouldn’t the desk manager have said something if that was the case? Where would Bucky even go?

With slow, careful steps, you walked across the hardwood floor into the apartment proper.

It was… not what you had been expecting. There were no walls to separate the space, apart from an alcove you suspected was the bathroom. The living room was off to the side near one of the large clock face windows, of which there were four, each in the middle of the four opposing walls. The entire apartment was in a perfect cube space, set directly in the scooped-out brains of the former clock tower.

On one side was the living room, complete with a plus couch and a widescreen TV on an elegant mahogany stand.

In the middle of the square penthouse was a raised dais, empty except for a nice teal rug, and a glass elevator just beyond. You stood beside it and peeked upward into the “shaft,” open enough to show that the elevator went up at least two more stories, a railed staircase wrapping around it like a wood-and-steel boa constrictor.

Just how big was this place?

On another side was the bedroom, if it could be called that, being so out in the open. The bed, an extra-large King-sized piece with a modern, black wood frame, was situated in front of one of the massive clock face window, giving a breathtaking view of the Manhattan skyline across the river.

The kitchen was in a corner between the bedroom and small dining room. It was ultra-modern: sleek, clean, and would put most cooking shows to shame with its burnished silver and white appliances and smooth granite countertops. It made you wonder for the first time if Bucky actually ate food, real food, or if he just survived on… well… sex.

The thought made your stupid, gremlin libido perk with interest. You ignored it, not too difficult to do when the object of your involuntary lust wasn’t even here.

Overall, it was not the kind of home you’d imagined Bucky having. You weren’t sure what you’d been expecting, maybe an off-the-grid cabin in the middle of the mountains. Or even a boat he let stay anchored off port, flying back to the city if he needed something.

That’s what you would do if you had to live as a demonic hermit. Not lavish in luxury in a multi-million dollar penthouse in a clock tower.

Okay, actually, you did love the clock tower part. He was like a real-life gargoyle, and now you wanted to ask him if he perched on the ledge of his roof and wrapped his wings around his shoulders like a medieval French statue.

Your humor faded, curiosity dimmed as you remembered why you were here. And it wasn’t so you and Bucky could become friends.

Morose mood restored, you sat on the edge of the plush microfiber sofa, set your purse on the ground, curled your hands in your lap, and waited.

It was exactly the last thing you needed, to sit alone with your thoughts. You’d be able to distract yourself all afternoon and evening by getting cleaned up, watching TV, and spacing out on your phone. You might have spent the time doing the housework you’d put off, but it seemed the wizards had done it for you.

Just like your car, your apartment had been completely cleaned. Which was nice, if not kind of weird, but you definitely weren’t going to complain over a clean apartment.

You’d just wished you could stop thinking.

Since Davin remembered everything, you weren’t sure you could show your face at work ever again. Funny how that seemed to be your most pressing concern, but honestly, working at an office was bad enough without a coworker knowing you had to have sex with a demon because the alternative was a gruesome and tortuous death.

And then there was Bucky. You’d thought you were getting somewhere with him at the wizard’s palace. You’d thought he cared about you. Was it all a lie? All a manipulation to get an easy meal?

You shifted on the cushions, stomach aching as your stress increased. Please, let me be wrong. Please let this be some kind of horrible misunderstanding—

You jerked your head to the side, tilting it at a sudden noise somewhere above you. Low and thudding, rhythmic, like a bass beat.

But you were in the penthouse, there was no one else above you. No one could be playing music up this high, could they?

Curious, you got up from the couch and returned to the elevator shaft, placing a hand on it as you looked upwards. The sound seemed to be originating from there, and it hadn’t stopped.

Worrying your lip between your teeth, you took one last look at the living space. Fuck it.

You took the stairs, not willing to use the suspect-looking glass elevator. The shaft was open, allowing you to walk past thick cables and steel beams as you continued upward, a hand steadying yourself on the smooth railing.

The sound was like a drumbeat, but the pacing was uneven. It sounded like… like a heartbeat. And with each step upward, the pace seemed to quicken, grow stronger, as if urging you onward.

You swallowed heavily as you kept going. The higher you went, the less it looked like a condo and the more it looked like the inner workings of a clock. Old, wooden beams crisscrossed from wall to wall, dust motes floating in the pale light cast from a light somewhere above you.

It was cold, very cold, as if the heating system didn’t go up this far. You suspected it didn’t, and you wrapped your old sweater tighter around your chest as you shivered.

Reaching what you could only describe as the “abbey,” you saw the large space where the mechanical clockwork had actually been stored. It had all been removed long ago, but the wooden scaffolding remained, high above your head. There was a wrought iron staircase that led to the roof, free of rust but still looking as if it was over a hundred years old.

There was no reason for you to keep going up, anyway; the sound was originating from the wall to your left. The beat was urgent and so loud you could feel the pulse in your chest and fingertips.

You should have been terrified, would have been terrified, but you were trapped in its pull. It wasn’t an urge, or curiosity, but a soul-deep need to find what it was.

You dropped to your knees before the wall, seeing just the faintest shadow between one wood plank and the next. Digging your fingernails into the crack, you pulled at the plank, sweat almost running into your eyes despite the chill that formed puffs of white from your lips.

Pulling so hard you felt a nail almost break, you yanked the wood out of place, tossing it to the side where it clattered against the floor.

The beating stopped.

You stared at the black space, completely dark inside the wall. There was absolutely no reason to stick your hand in there, where you with either find a still-beating, tell-tale heart, or a cursed children’s board game that transported you into a magical jungle.

How messed up your life had become that neither of those things seemed far-fetched.

Your decision was partially made for you. Even though the thumping had stopped, the urge to reach in and grab, to pull, to hold whatever it was that had made the noise to begin with—it was growing stronger by the second.

So it was with a shaky hand that you reached into the hollow crevice, your heart pumping madly as your dry throat compulsively swallowed, and wrapped your fingers around…

…soft, plushy fur?

After a moment of confused hesitation, you retracted your hand and stared down at the object in your grip.

Covered in a light layer of dust, grey tabby stripes faded with time, there was no mistaking the onyx glassy eyes staring back at you.

“Mr. Squiggles?” you asked, sounding so much like the ten year old you’d been when you’d lost him. Vanished into that unknown place where all lost childhood toys went.

Or so you’d thought. Why the hell did Bucky have… your… your…

Your thoughts ground to a halt, a crowbar thrown into the gears as you stared down at the toy in your hands. Your favorite toy in the whole world that had disappeared around the time the cursed book had said the demon pact had been formed.

You probably wouldn’t have made the connection so quickly if not for how the tabby cat felt in your hands. There was something about it that felt horribly visceral, like you’d reached down into your chest cavity to give your organs a direct poke.

It was extremely disturbing, but when you pressed the stuffed cat to your chest, it felt… better. You could take a full breath and loosen your muscles, no longer sensing the tension on the back of your neck.

You closed your eyes and didn’t move for a good while, trying to come to terms with the fact you were holding some kind of… piece of your own soul in your hands, if the book could be believed. So far, everything that damned thing had said seemed to be right.

Wincing at the stiffness in your knees, you kept the toy tight to your chest as you went back downstairs, being extra careful on your way down the stairs. You weren’t concerned for yourself, exactly, but the thought of dropping the toy made your heart race with anxiety and your vision slightly spin with vertigo.

The legs that carried you to one of the couches were numb and cruising on autopilot. You sat down—perched on the edge of a cushion, more accurately—and set the toy in your lap.

You didn’t move from your chosen spot, not even when your phone read 9:14 P.M. Bucky was late, and you didn’t feel anything. Numbness had seeped through your entire body at this point, refusing to believe the implications of finding this toy in Bucky’s possession. Holed up in a wall like some kind of dirty secret.

You heart began to race. Okay, maybe you weren’t as numb and disconnected as you’d thought.

The sound of your name being spoken by a familiar voice only a few feet behind you startled you so hard you jolted to your feet.

You spun around and banged your calves against the coffee table as you tried to retreat. The furniture stopped you cold, your arms wrapped protectively around the toy pressed to your chest.

Bucky stood absolutely stock-still. His half-curled wings gave him an intimidating silhouette, further strengthened but the outline of his curved horns and the flickering tail near his legs.

You hadn’t heard him come in, as silent as a big cat stalking through a forest, eyeing the tree line for a meal.

But he wasn’t looking at you like a predator. There had been very few occasions where you’d’ seen the blood drain from Bucky’s face, leaving his skin pale and his eyes haunted.

This was one of them.

He said your name again, this time with an unsteady questioning. His eyes, slightly wide as he stared at the toy in your arms, finally rose to your face.

You expected him to ask how you’d found it. Maybe even get angry, yell at you for snooping in his house and sticking your nose where it didn’t belong.

Instead, he said nothing. Still as a real gargoyle stature. The silence that surrounded him was so much worse than anything he could have said, and it was far more damning.

“Bucky.” Your voice shook. You wanted to be wrong. Had to be. “Why do you have this?”

His lips slightly parted but no noise escaped. Bucky closed his mouth and his brows deepened into an almost pained look. It was guilt you were seeing. Guilt, because he had done something wrong and he knew it.

The confused hurt, the suspected betrayal, all of it rose to the surface in a fury that left you feeling like you might explode. You maneuvered around the couch, walking fast up the two steps onto the dais before coming to a halt.

You were still a few feet away from him where he stood frozen next to the elevator shaft. From this height, you were almost eye-level with him.

“This is an animus, isn’t it?” The words were sharp and accusatory. Bitter.

Bucky’s eyes went comically wide. He took a step forward, tail flicking with distress. “How do you know about that?”

“Does it matter?” you choked out, tone rift with sarcasm. “Is it true? Did you force me into a pact with you? When I was just a kid? Did you?!”

He said your name again, low and even, his hands out as if trying to soothe a spooked horse.

“I need you to calm down and tell me exactly where you heard that word. It’s important.”

“Important?” you repeated, angry tears filling your eyes as your throat tightened. You hadn’t wanted to believe it, every part of you had wanted to prove the book wrong. Instead, you’d found your worst fears confirmed to be true.

“You know what’s important? The fact you’ve been waiting for me to grow up. Fattened me up like a lamb for the slaughter. That’s what I am to you. Just a meal.”

The tears clouded your vision and you wiped them viciously away, just in time to see the wince in his expression. Bucky had nearly reached the bottom of the dais, about to put his foot on the first step, but your next words stopped him cold.

“Did you really rescue me that night? Or were you and the Alpen in on it together?”

The open look of shock on his face was wretched, as if you’d plunged a knife straight through his chest, leaving him raw and bloody.

You regretted the words almost immediately, but the damage had been done.

Bucky stood there with the look of a man who was trying to steady himself, reel back the emotions that were rarely so exposed. His Adam’s apple bobbed, brows lightly furrowed in anxious worry as he dropped his gaze to the hardwood floor, somewhere near your feet. His wings were tucked as far against his back as they would go without folding up, shoulders hunched as if to make himself smaller.

Despite how hurt and betrayed you felt, there was a large part of you that wanted to reach out and wrap him in your arms. But you didn’t. You remained completely still as he began to speak.

“I found out just before you were attacked.” His words were flat, a hint of sadness to them. “I’d been searching in the Sanctum’s library for weeks. Never found an answer. So I went to Wong, asked him if he knew anything about humans bearing demon sigils. As it turns out, he did.”

Bucky took a deep breath, his wings shifting uneasily on his back, tail wrapping around his leg in a tight coil.

“He explained how pacts are made. It still didn’t make any sense; they can’t be made on accident, both sides have to agree to it. We never did anything like that. And then… I remembered the toy.”

Bucky rose his eyes high enough to stare at the stuffed tabby in your arms. You squeezed it tighter, holding onto it like a lifeline.

“You wouldn’t remember, but you gave it to me, soon after I came through the portal. I guess… that was good enough for whatever fucked up magic creates these things,” he said, his pointed ears drooping miserably. You hadn’t even known they could do that, and it made you feel even more of an asshole, a feeling you were becoming all too familiar with.

Tilting your head with a frown, you said, “I don’t… understand. Why would I give you Mr. Squiggles?”

Bucky’s morose expression lifted the smallest degree as he met your eye.

“’Mr. Squiggles?’”

“It’s his name.”

The faintest twitch touched his lips, the gesture making something in your chest stir, but then he grew serious again.

“I don’t know why you did it, if I’m being honest. I wasn’t exactly stable. Not to mention a fucking demon had just landed in the middle of your bedroom. You should have been terrified. Instead, you… just. Handed it to me. Said it would help.”

He gave a small shrug. If you hadn’t gotten so good at reading his tells, the way his tail uncoiled and twitched as his wings shuffled, you wouldn’t have realized he was actually embarrassed.

“And you… kept him? All these years?”

His tail swatted like a cat’s, his wings unfurling enough for you to see the warm glow of the lamps shining through the webbing.

All easy, obvious tells. Also, he was blushing. The sight of it was like injecting your libido with steroids, and you had to fight to pay attention and not do something crazy, like, jump his bones.

“I didn’t want to get rid of it,” he grumbled, unable to meet your eye. “Would have seemed like an asshole thing to do. Plus I was… drawn, to it? Should have known there was something more going on than me just being a sentimental idiot. I had no idea what it actually was. What I’d done to you.”

Bucky licked his lower lip before lightly sinking his teeth into it. His sharp teeth, your horny monkey brain supplied helpfully. He raised his head to finally meet your gaze, his pretty eyes almost enough to distract from what he was saying.

“And then when the heigore nearly killed you, I just… It didn’t seem all that important, at the time. That’s why I told you to come here. I was going to tell you. Tonight.”

“Oh.” Shame flooded your cheeks, but it didn’t completely sidetrack you from something else that had been bothering you. “But… why didn’t you tell me afterwards? When I was stuck in that room. You didn’t come see me again, after I woke up…”

You let the words die when Bucky winced, drawing up his shoulders and shuffling his wings again.

“I couldn’t talk to you. Not there. Not when Strange himself was probably spying.”

“But you could talk to Davin.” Some of the steel had returned to your voice. “You could visit and threaten him—“

“I didn’t threaten him,” he huffed out, a measure of hardness in his own tone. “I told him the truth. Said that if he told the sorcerers what the heigore knew about the demon pact, they would lock you up. Strange would, too. Do you know how lucky we are that he didn’t sense your sigil?”

It was like a cold splash in your face, dampening your anger, and the tension from Bucky’s expression drained as well.

“Why didn’t he?” you asked, voice small.

“Honestly? No idea.” He licked his lip, once again annoyingly distracting. “But, after everything that happened, with the heigore, and with your friend… I think it might be a mistake to keep all of this from Strange. I should have gone to him after… that first time.”

Bucky seemed to have sudden difficulty speaking, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he looked up and studied your face, long enough that you had to fight to not squirm.

“I think that’s what I’m gonna have to do. Tell Strange. He might keep you at the Sanctum, but he would find a way to break the bond. It’ll be better than—“

“No!”

Your sharp denial echoed off the hardwood floors and plaster walls, slightly startling to yourself but apparently more so to Bucky. He stared at you, frown steadily increasing.

“No? What do you mean no. We’ve got no other choice.”

“You can’t,” you choked out, fear clutching at your throat as you took a step forward. “I won’t let you.”

“You won’t… let me,” he repeated, voice lowered in confusion.

You plunged forward, desperate to tell him what you had found now that you actually could. You knew he’d be pissed, but it was better than him being dead.

“I… I saw something. While I was there. I didn’t mean to. I was just following Monster, he opened my room somehow, and I followed him down to the basement. And, and there was this, dungeon.”

You took a breath, running out of air from your panicked rambling, now standing almost directly before Bucky, still meeting him at eye-level.

“Bucky… it was a trophy room. A demon trophy room. There were horrible things in there, demonic taxidermies and babies in jars, and—“

“You…” The pitch of his voice had dropped again, this time definitely not from confusion. “You went into the dungeon?”

“You’re missing the point! If you tell them about the pact, they’re going to, to… I don’t know! Turn you into a rug, or something!”

Bucky actually groaned and pinched the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. When he spoke your name, it was with barely-contained patience, as if he was doing everything in his power to stay calm and not shout at you, which was kind of super hot—

“That’s not a trophy room, girl,” Bucky growled. “It’s a vault.”

“A… what?”

“A vault.” He lowered his hand and leveled a loaded gaze at you. “For the last two decades, I’ve been helping the sorcerers raid old HYDRA bases. Abandoned labs and private collections, shit like that. Whatever I could remember, making sure we took all their occult stuff. I didn’t want them doing this to anyone else.”

Bucky’s eyes hardened and you sucked in a breath, gut tightening as your body had all the wrong reactions to his stern tone.

“So yes, a vault. A place where the sorcerers store incredibly dangerous demonic artifacts to keep wandering guests from accidentally cursing or killing themselves.”

The darkness that enveloped his features made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, and when he took the short stairs to stand on the dais directly in front of you, you took two hurried steps back.

“Did you touch anything?”

You mouth opened, useless, like a gaping fish. Bucky snatched your upper arms in his grip, halting your retreat as he glared down at you, the toy trapped between your chests.

“I need you to answer me. Did you touch anything.”

“I…” Your voice was a pathetic squeak. “Y-yes? I, I know I shouldn’t have—“

“What was it?”

“A book!” you blurted out, equal parts scared and unbearably turned on. “Just an old book!”

Bucky’s fingers tightened on your arms as his eyes widened.

“A book? What kind of book? What did it look like?”

“Uh, it was, I donno. Really old? Wrinkly leather, old musty pages—“

“Did you open it?” Bucky cut you off, and when you didn’t respond fast enough, he actually gave you a small shake. “Did you open it?”

“Yes!”

Survival instinct finally overtook the unnatural, magically-fueled arousal. Tears blurred your eyes, fear clutching your throat. Not from Bucky’s anger, but from the color that was receding from his face for the second time tonight. It was his fear that was making your knees tremble and your words spill out of you like a wound.

“I… I opened it. And the pages cut me. It formed w-words from the blood. It asked me wh-what I wanted, to know, and that’s how I know about the… the animus. It told me—told me about—the pact. And it can’t be broken, it’s permanent, nothing can break it but—but death. And it wouldn’t let me go, Monster had to shut it—“

Panic and terror weighed on your chest and coursed through your veins as the full weight of what had happened crashed down on you. Seeing Bucky’s reaction had made it suddenly far too real, and you couldn’t handle cope, couldn’t breathe—

You clawed at his jacket for purchase the same instant Bucky moved forward, grabbing you and holding you upright as your knees tried to buckle.

“I’ve got you, okay? Just… take deep breaths. Slow your breathing. I know you wanna take big, gulping breaths, but that’s the opposite of what you gotta do.”

As he held your shaking body to keep it from falling apart, Bucky’s speech took on a slightly different inflection, forming around a light New York accent.

That more than anything snapped you out of the feedback loop of panic. You clung to him tighter, one arm still around your stuffed animal as the other gripped his jacket tight, your face half-buried in his neck.

The scent of pine and fertile earth flooded your nostrils and immediately grounded you.

Breathe. Yeah, you could do that. You could breathe. Especially with Bucky murmuring comforting words to you, one large hand rubbing between your shoulder blades while the other was slung around your lower back.

“I’m sorry,” you choked, trying to gulp and gasp at the same time. “I’m sorry I keep freaking out. And messing up. Everything I do, I just, I make it worse. I know—I know I shouldn’t have followed, but Monster led me there, and I thought… I mean, it’s Monster. He wouldn’t lead me somewhere dangerous, would he?”

Bucky snorted, tickling the hairs on your head.

“Hobgoblins are a pain in the ass on a good day. They do what they want, when they want, and you just gotta kind of accept the fact you’ll never really understand them. I don’t think he was trying to put you in danger, but…”

He loosened his hold and pulled you away gently, at arm’s length, looking down at you with a strange, reluctant expression.

“That book shouldn’t have opened. Not for you.”

You tried to swallow the sudden lump in your throat.

“W-what do you mean?”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed into thoughtful slits, his brow furrowed and uneasy.

“Only the Sorcerer Supreme can open the Necronomicon.”

“The… what? Can open the what?”

“The Sumerian Book of the Dead,” Bucky explained, not really explaining anything at all. He took a deep breath, as if what he was about to say caused him great pain.

“It can only be opened by the sorcerer’s leader. I don’t think Strange’s tests worked. I think… he might have been right that you had something to do with that portal. There’s a reason that book is locked away. It’s extremely dangerous. The fact it opened for you…”

Your eyes widened as his hands dropped from your shoulders and his flesh arm reached into a pocket—and for the second time that day, you snatched someone’s hand as they were about to dial their phone.

“Bucky, please.” Your voice was tight, afraid, and you were past caring if he heard it. “Don’t. I can’t do this. I can’t go back there.”

He didn’t remove your hand, but he didn’t put away his phone, either. He just watched you, expression unreadable.

“Can we just… wait?” you asked. “At least until after the holidays? The wizards just let me go, and I can’t… I need a chance to breathe. And sleep. And absorb everything.”

It was true; you were seriously at the end of your rope. One more encounter with demons and wizards and you were going to lose your goddamn mind.

When he didn’t seem entirely convinced, you threw pride to the wind, willing to beg if you had to.

“Bucky, please. Davin’s safe, I’m fully recovered, and… whatever’s going on with me isn’t going to change over the next few days. So can we just… take a breather?”

Bucky’s expression, at first hard and unconvinced, had slowly loosened into something so soft it tugged painfully at your chest.

“Yeah,” he finally said, voice a little rough. “Yeah, you’re right. You need the rest, and I need to figure out what to do about all this—“

“Okay, no, right there, that’s a problem.”

Bucky blinked when you interrupted him, stepping into his personal space and tapping him on the chest, fixing him with a stern glare.

“You. You keep thinking you can do all this yourself, but this is a we problem. You and me. We’re in this goddamn mess together. Which means no more secrets. No keeping anything from each other. Full transparency.”

For a moment he just stared at you as if you’d spoken in tongues. Well, maybe not tongues, he was a demon after all, but he definitely didn’t seem to comprehend what you were saying.

“Look… we’re both stuck in this situation for the time being. And avoiding it until the last possible second and not talking to each other is clearly not working.”

You didn’t know where this was coming from; you certainly hadn’t planned to make a speech about it on the drive over. You guessed it had been building up for a while, running in the background while you dealt with the crazy shit that was your life.

Bucky seemed to be listening intently, focused on your face with brows furrowed, and you were encouraged to keep talking.

“I know the pact is meant to be some kind of ownership thing, but even the book said you can’t control my soul, or mind, or whatever. So… who’s to stop us from treating this thing like a partnership, instead of a one-sided power trip? Neither of us wanted this, but we’re both adults. We get through it, do what we have to do, and we stop hiding things from each other.”

Blowing out a shaking breath, you winced and added, “Or am I just… being stupidly naïve about it?”

Now that you’d finally said your piece, rambling and awkward as it was, you felt both freed of some invisible burden, and very, very nervous as you watched Bucky for his reaction.

He looked completely caught off-guard, but his eyes shone with something like understanding. Maybe even some kind of relief, too.

“No,” Bucky said, his voice slightly lifted in surprise. “You’re not stupid or naïve. I actually think that’s… a very mature way to think about it.”

You felt warmed by his praise for all of two seconds before Bucky’s face folded inward.

“To be honest, I’m surprised you still want to talk to me at this point. I thought maybe you would hate me. Not that you don’t have every right to hate me. I’m expecting it, that’s all.”

“Why would I…” You shook your head, hugging Mr. Squiggles to your stomach as you tried to grapple with Bucky’s words. “Hate you? No, of course not. I was scared, and angry, because I didn’t know all the facts. I got upset because I don’t hate you.”

Because I think I love you.

You shut your eyes, squeezed them hard as if the act would force the rebellious thoughts back into the farthest reaches of your brain. You were trying to patch things up with Bucky, and him knowing the truth about your feelings was not going to help.

The irony didn’t escape you that after just promising to be transparent, you were still hiding something. But this was different. God knew how Bucky would react. No, that wasn’t true, you knew exactly how he would react. He’d tell you you’re not in your right mind, that the bond is influencing you, as if you don’t know your own feelings, and then he’d probably go directly to Strange.

So, no, this was a truth that was safer not to tell.

“It’s getting bad again, isn’t it?”

You hadn’t realized Bucky had moved, and you opened your eyes to find him standing inches away, watching with close attention.

“What?” you asked, mentally rewinding your conversation to see if you’d missed something.

“Your sigil.”

“Oh.”

You hadn’t actually thought about it for a few minutes, distracted with your own inner turmoil, but now that you took stock, the throbbing between your legs had increased to an almost unbearable degree.

You gave a shrug, oh-so causal and fake.

“It’s manageable.”

Bucky gave you a look that said bullshit but he didn’t contradict you. Instead, he reached forward and took the stuffed cat from your arms, his flesh fingers holding it as carefully as if it was made of fragile glass and not cotton stuffing.

“I’m gonna set this over here for now,” he explained as it perched on a chest-high cabinet. “I have a safe I can use. Now that I know what this actually is, I’m gonna make sure no one can find it. But that can wait until—“

Bucky’s words cut short with a choked noise of surprise, pulled from him when you had pressed yourself, full-bodied, right up against the entire front of his frame.

When you had first grabbed the toy, it had felt horrible. Unnatural. Like you’d reached inside to prod at your own organs.

When Bucky had held the animus, you’d felt like your entire existence had been placed within the palm of his hand. And for some reason, that massive, overwhelming, existential feeling filled you with the craziest need to press every inch of your body against him at once, as well as to rub your face against his neck, which you did now.

And while you were there, you decided it would be an amazing time to stick out your tongue and lick a long stripe up his warm skin. He tasted just as good as he smelled, and you hummed in delight as your body valiantly tried to meld with his on a molecular level.

“Okay—that’s, uh, fuck,” he choked out, his hands on your arms in a half-hearted attempt to pull you away. He ended up doing the exact opposite, pressing you closer, his hands now digging into your back. Something large and warm covered you, and you didn’t even have to break contact to see what it was, your lips hot on his neck as his wings wrapped around you like a second set of arms.

Bucky was already hard in his jeans, pressed taut against your hip, and when you reached under his arm and stroked your fingers down the curve of his extended wing, his cock twitched and he gave a hoarse groan into your hair.

Planting his hands under your ass and lifting you off your feet, Bucky didn’t waste another second closing the distance to his bed.

Next Chapter

[goldenponcho]

A Cruise Fit for a King Chapter 4

I’m going to preface this chapter with a hot take:

Scarlemagne is absolutely a Karen.

Previous | Chapter 1 | Next

The erratic slapping of Hugo’s hand against the water as he attempted to paddle for shore, in hindsight, had most likely been ineffective. But in the moment, in his still stir-crazy mind, it felt like it was making him go faster. He tired himself out long before he would make it, however. The horizon, he soon realized, was much further away than he had once thought.

It was a good four hours before his strange little craft got anywhere close to perceiving much of anything about the island, but when he did, his hopes rose. The island was massive, for all he knew, an entire continent. He could make out a scattering of small architecture, nothing like the massive high-rises of Skyscraper Ridge, but it still promised some manner of life. Hugo was so mesmerized, it nearly gave him palpitations when something hit his vehicle with a thud.

“‘Ay!! No floaters in the reef, land-crawler!!”

“Huh?” Hugo leaned to see who was speaking to him, only to be shocked into silence. Below him was a bustling rainbow of colors and shapes. There were hundreds…thousand of all sorts of marine mutes weaving in and out of a labyrinth of radiant coral. The water was so crystal clear, he could see straight down for what must have been at least thirty feet, and he quickly sat back down in the passenger seat, as actually seeing how deep the water was was much more unnerving than just knowing it in the back of his mind, no matter how much infinitely deeper the actual ocean was.

There was another thud and a squeeeek! as another mute raked the side of the car.

“Hey! You don’t belong here! Get out of our shoals!!”

Hugo, more cautiously this time, craned his head to address the second irritated mute, a porpoise with a fanny pack strapped to her pudgy neck.

“Apologies, madame! I just need to get to shore so I can-”

“Officer! Arrest this baboon!”

Hugo bristled with an affected gasp, “I am NOT a baboon; I’m a MANDRILL! And I’ll kindly thank you not to-”

“Alright, King Kong! Outta the water! Beat it!!” The black and white “officer” fish berated him and blew a shrill whistle.

Before Hugo could begin to reply, his craft was rocked to the point of nearly capsizing as a mega octopus surfaced, and began flailing its massive tentacles to send his vehicle careening toward shore. He could hear angered jeering aimed toward him, and he gripped the door and the seat beneath him as his craft skidded through the surf and onto the shore.

His car came to a nearly instant halt in the sand, and his nose pressed painfully into the windshield before he was tossed back into his seat. Hugo rubbed his aching snout, groaning as he sat up from the slouched position he had been forced into. He quickly saw that he had been lucky enough to stop just short of a substantial piece of driftwood.

“Thanks for the ride, gents!” He leapt to balance himself on the edge of the driver’s side door, holding onto the windshield frame for support as he cupped the other hand to project his voice, “This is exactly where I wanted to go! I’M MUCH ABLIGED!!”

He was barely through with his taunting when a nasally, monotone voice interrupted him, “Sir, I’m gonna have to ask you to move your car, or I’ll have no choice but to tow it.”

Hugo looked through the windshield to see a seagull mute wearing a crooked baseball cap and a heavily stained navy jumpsuit.

“I beg your pardon, but I was most unceremoniously surfed here completely outside of my own control,” he stepped back onto the seat behind him and opened his door to release a stream of seawater before stepping down to the beach with a haughty strut, “AND if you could see beyond that BEAK of yours, you would notice that this vehicle has no wheels to speak of.”

“I’m sorry, sir, but I couldn’t be less emotionally invested if I wanted to… Tough break, I guess.”

With a wave of the gull’s feather wing, Hugo heard loud flapping and turned in time to watch a mega pelican with two heads that would have dwarfed even his own personal flamingo several times over thud to the sand on the other side of the car. The creature lowered one of its heads and opened its beak to reveal a whole pile of mostly metal flotsam and jetsam. Hugo was left uncharacteristically speechless as the beak latched onto his car and engulfed it completely before the bird waddled with heavy steps away from the beach and further inland. It stopped in front of what looked to be a large wall made of garbage that spanned the entire length of the shore as far as Hugo could see both ways, then practically vomited his precious luxury car onto the top of the wall along with the pile of scrap metal.

“Are-you-JOKING?!!” he resisted the urge to stomp his foot, “That convertible is my ONLY mode of transportation!”

The seagull didn’t look up from his clipboard to gave a wide eyed, tight beaked stare at nothing, “Well, you should have thought about that before you bought a car with no wheels.”

Hugo’s eye twitched, and his fur bristled as he clenched his fists in front of him with barred teeth. Before he could retort, the rude mute had ripped the the sheet of paper he had been writing on and held it in front of  Hugo’s nose. “If you want it back, sign this and take it to Maggie at the kiosk. Have a nice day.”

Hugo glared daggers at who was now his least favorite mute in the world, raising a hand slowly, then violently snatching the paper from him. “Thank. You.” The words were punctuated in a way which insinuated that in spirit, he was saying something much less kind. He huffed as the bird left to torment some other poor soul and glanced to scan the form he had been handed.

He glared at the entry for “year” where the gull had written “old”. “Old?! That car was a classic, fully restored, in mint condition!” He slapped the back of his hand against the form, “At least it was.”

His eyes scanned over the total for the pickup fee to see scribbled there “five small shells, three medium shells, or one large shell”. That was all? He looked to his feet where there was nothing but a mixture of seashells and sand, and he gave a shrug before scooping up a handful. He sorted through the gritty mixture with a finger to study its contents. There was one shell. Two. Three, four…and five! He dusted the rest off on his coat, taking extra care to make sure none of the sand stuck there, then made his way to the kiosk next to the wall.

Hugo approached the large crab mute behind the counter and tossed the form and the shells in front of her. “I’d like my automobile back, ma’am. The fuchsia convertible with the silver hood ornament of my very own likeness,” he gave a “get going” motion with his hand. “Please and thank you.”

“What the hell are these?” The crab’s voice grated as she put a cigarette out on the counter, but she didn’t budge from her spot, arms crossed and leaned back against her own massive shell.

“Five small shells?” Hugo jabbed a finger to the form, “I believe this is sufficient payment for you to release back to me my vehicle that your DELIGHTFUL little mom and pop operation took right from under my nose.”

“You ain’t from around here, are ya, monkeyshines? These measly little suckers ain’t worth squat. You need a few o’ these bad boys!” She gave the shell behind her a slap, “We’re talkin’ ‘bout conchs, whelks, cones…even a pitiful little nerite  would be better than this. How ya ‘spect the young’uns ta keep their keisters covered with a couple’a little, cracked surf clams?” She moved to open the curtained bar flap next to her which revealed a tiny horde of baby hermit crabs, all of different sizes, one skittering out of site with a squeak at being caught mid shell exchange.

“Listen!” Hugo howled, pointing an assertive finger, “THAT car has been with me for a LONG time! If you think I’m about to let it become a BRICK in your wall of RABBLE, YOU ARE SORELY MISTAKEN!!!”

Hugo breathed loudly and rapidly, now hunched forward on his knuckles, but the hermit crab wasn’t at all threatened.

“You ain’t got SHELLS, monkeyshines, then you ain’t got a CAR!!” And with that, she slammed the rolling counter door above them shut, nearly catching the tip of Hugo’s nose on the way down.

He inhaled before releasing something between a snarl and a scream through clenched teeth, then shuddered with a growl before almost immediately composing himself with a proper, upright posture and a stiff, manic smile, “I…HATE it here.”

[lotusillustration]

i know there’s a hnk tarot deck which i own and ADORE but here’s my take

I tried to keep this based off the rider-waite deck, but I’ve used some interpretations from my personal favourite deck too.

mobile users: I’m so fucking sorry

0. The Fool - Phosphophyllite Upright, The Fool represents new beginnings and innocence. It’s numbered 0 as it’s the beginning of the journey through the Arcana. The Fool encourages a free spirit and diving into the unknown. Reversed, The Fool represents being unprepared, taking too many risks. “What am I getting myself into?” could be an interpretation if you draw this card, and that you should reign back the once carefree energy.

I. The Magician - Euclase Upright, The Magician represents power and resourcefulness. To draw this card may mean that your current plans are in order, and ready to be acted upon. It represents clarity and focus. Reversed, The Magician means you may be unsure how to act upon a situation. To draw it may mean the universe wants to to reign back, and you’re out of touch with yourself.

II. The High Priestess - Lapis Lazuli The High Priestess signifies one’s subconcious mind, which constrasts The Magician’s focus on the concious mind. She represents that the world is not all it seems, and can be a fascination with higher powers, and unseen events. She essentially represents enlightenment and psychic insights.Reversed, she represents withdrawal and silence. She can represent manipulation, secrecy and hidden agendas - even when that knowledge should be shared.

III. The Empress - Red Beryl The Empress is a difficult card to explain to non-tarot users, as the “base” for her is femininity. In this sense, femininity is not being a feminine person, but rather represents traits such as creativity and connecting with your senses. The Empress sees beauty in all things. Reversed, The Empress may show you’re throwing yourself into your work too much. You may be neglecting your own needs. Red Beryl is the only gem who creates clothing for the gems - that’s their only purpose in life. Rx, The Empress suggests you take time for self love, enjoying beauty for oneself rather than the world around you.

IV. The Emporer - Kongo The Emporer is the perfect card to describe Kongo-sensei. In a literal sense, The Emporer represents a father figure. The Emporer is a strong, powerful man, who status and respect come naturally to him. He also represents a social system, a strict way of living, and order. He also signifies knowledge and expertise. I don’t to go too far past these literal meanings of The Emporer, since he already reflects Kongo perfectly. Reversed, however, he can represent a system that has too many strict rules. To pull The Emporer rx, you may be struggling with a person in power over you, you could be struggling where you’re the person in power and don’t know how to act. It could mean unhealthy and unequal relationships that, over time, become toxic.

V. The Hierophant -  Yellow Diamond Upright, The Hierophant could show that oneself is seen as a mentor, the one who people look to for adivce, for teachings. He represents someone with strict family traditions, who will pass these traditions down generation to generation. The reversed Hierophant is a card that isn’t nessicarily bad, like many other rx cards. It may show you that you need to assess your own wants and needs, to teach yourself before others. It encourages one to really think about the world they live in, and challenge the status quo if deemed appropriate.

VI. The Lovers - Rutile Upright, The Lovers represent passion and how one chooses to interact with those around them. While it can represent a close one-on-one relationship, it can represent relationships in general. To go deeper, The Lovers represent one's personal values, and carrying out tasks that are most important, and making difficult descisions. To draw The Lovers, it is a sign that one should focus on self love first. Reversed is where this gets juicy. Reversed, the Lovers represents an imbalance in relationships, communication is difficult and ones values may change or no longer match. To pull The Lovers rx, you may be facing a difficult choice, perhaps with no perfect outcome. One may be having severe inner conflicts, unsure of current values, and disharmony within oneself. Interestingly, The Lovers rx are encouraged to seek out The Hierophant's advice.

VII. The Chariot - Cairngorm Upright, The Chariot shows determination and willpower, potentially for a specific project. Once one decides on their project, they will try, to no end, to complete it. Ignore those trying to block you, move forward. In an incredibly literal sense, The Chariot can represent moving from one place to another Inversed, however, The Chariot is a warning to stop. Your plan is failing, you may have lost motivation. You're focused too much on yourself, and ignoring your Higher Self and what the Universe wants for you. You may find yourself controlled by another person, or controlled by your own thoughts in a negative way.

VIII. Strength - Diamond & Bortz Strength is often depicted with an image of a ferocious lion, being tamed by a gentle woman (in my deck, it depicts the constellation Leo). Upright, Strength represents raw power, internally (this contrasts to the external powers of The Chariot). To draw Strengh, it shows that you have a lot of raw energy and, well, strength, However, you need to control, or “tame” this raw energy, which is why I’ve included Dia. Strength reversed may better depict Dia, to draw it means you’re full of self doubt, unsure of your power and overall lacking in self confidence. As a side note, Strength rx can also depict explosive anger.

IX. - The Hermit - Cinnabar I'll start with the inverse Hermit for this one. Inverse, The Hermit represents taking too much time to yourself, hiding away, and ignoring the Higher Self. In a relationship sense, one might be withdrawing aggressively, despite the reaching out of another. Upright, The Hermit is representative of a more healthy self reflection - stepping back from "real life" to focus on yourself for a little. Upright, The Hermit appears at a pivotal point in one's life, an important changing point. At this point, one may need to stop withdrawing in order for personal growth. Priorities and understanding of the Higher Self may be deeply improved, and one may move away from an unhelpful society.

X. The Wheel of Fortune - Ventricosus The main reason I selected an Admirabilis for the Wheel of Fortune is that this card can represent the fleetingness of life. Upright, the Wheel of Fortune represents rapid change and the cycle of life. The Admirabilis are the only species in the series with a “regular” lifespan, and their society behaves as such. The Wheel of Fortune can also relate to karma and lovingness. For the Gems and Lunarians - the world is not in a state of constant change, while the Admirabilis live and die.  To draw the Wheel of Fortune, one may have a difficult choice on their plate and urgency to change. The Wheel of Fortune urges one to believe in the Universe’s plan, and may represent critical turning points in life. To draw the Wheel of Fortune reversed asks you to step back from taking matters you shouldn’t into your own hands, and can flip the balance of your Higher Self. In order for good karma to come back to you, you must accept responsibilty for your wrongdoings.

XI. Justice - Jade Justice, of course, represents justice. Digging deeper, though, it represents one's alignment with the Higher Self and how one interacts with others. Justice tried to keep others in order, possibly even trying to distract from the negative in the world. Justice is a search for the truth, despite adversity. Reversed, Justice can reflect your inner self, and not believing in a choice you've made, or been forced to make. One may be at conflict with themself due to actions they've taken, or even unwilling to take accountability for the poor choices one has made. Justice rx can also represent a severe inner critic, or, again, facing a descision with no truly "good" outcome.

XII. The Hanged Man - Benito The Hanged Man represents taking a break, a step back to assess your situation. Thing is: these pauses may be voluntary or involuntary. The Universe may be at play, allowing you time to take a break, reassess yourself and your life. He can also represent feeling "stuck" with oneself.  Reversed, The Hanged Man can show a resistance to change, filling your life with distraction, ignoring the real issues. Inversely, The Hanged Man rx could mean your life is already on pause, and has been for a long time. One could be frustrated by this, wanting to live again. Benito feels “boring” or “normal”, but this is one of the most positive traits a gem can have.

XIII. Death - Morganite & Goshenite (both old and new) Death upright can mean sudden, unexpected change, and as a whole the card represents death, rebirth, transformation and transition. The deaths of the original Morga and Goshe were sudden, unexpected - but needed. To throw in a headcanon, I believe they chose to die together - opening death with open arms - which is a very literal interpretation of the card. The birth of new Morga and Goshe also came as a shock, restarting the cycle of the beryl-class gems. Inversed, Death represents a need for change, a need for a restart and a need for deeply meaningful change. To draw Death rx, the card offers one a chance to restart, be reborn, on their own terms. The card can often also mean one is going through a massive personal transformation, and often requires a follow up card to be drawn for context.

XIV. Temperance - Red Diamond To draw Temperance (upright) enourages one to bring more balance to your life, and take the middle road. Red Diamond was the first Gem, the one who started it all, and the one who gave Kongo a new purpose in “life”. Temperance is all about changing, combining and mixing one’s life - Kongo and Red had to mix their traits to create a space for themselves and the future Gems to live.  Temperance inverse isn’t quite the opposite, and rather signifies the end of a time period - to keep the balance in order, To draw Temperance rx one should evaluate themself and the life they’ve lived, and try to restore the balance. Perhaps, Red Diamond’s death was all part of the balance.

XV. The Devil - Aechmea I did initially want to not be generic and not assign The Devil to Aechmea, but it really fits him more than anyone. The Devil is deeply representitive of the Shadow Self, and could certainly be related to the cardinal sins. To draw The Devil it may represent that you’re controlled by your impulses; greed, lust, etc. It represents addiction and obsession, as well as close personal bonds that are still in the “honeymoon phase” To draw The Devil reversed, it urges you to let go of unhealthy obsessions, addictions, and sins in order to reach the Higher Self. Obviously, this can be taken quite literally for Aechmea.

XVI. The Tower - Alexandrite The Tower is representative of change and disaster. In most cards, it’s depicted as a tower - a stable structure - built on the top of a small clifface, indicating that it’s fall is near. One bolt of lightning hits the tower, and it falls. The Tower is another card that represents change, however it’s change is one of chaos and violence. You might pull The Tower if you’re experiencing trauma or massive, chaotic change. The best way to cope with The Tower’s symbolism is simply to let it fall, so you can rebuild and start anew. To pull The Tower inverse, the chaotic energy is caused by an internal trigger, rather than external. You may also be resisting change, which makes the inevitable change even worse.

XVII. The Star - Ghost Quartz Again, I’ll start with the reversed meaning. The Star reversed is a symbol of loss of hope, overwhelmingness and may test your faith in the Universe. It represents one who was once full of hope, and had it all crashing down upon you. Upright, The Star follows The Tower, and is the glimmer of hope in the aftermath. The Star upright symbolises coming to terms with yourself and the future. The main symbol of The Star is hope, and rediscovering your sense of meaning (such as Ghost gaining more purpose upon being paired with Phos)   XVIII. The Moon - Zircon The Moon represents fear and illusion, which I think fits Zircon well, being tossed around between partners and feeling inadequete. Fears from the past become projected into the future, and descision making becomes hard. The Moon should ask for advice from The Empress, as they may be losing touch with their “femininity”. Interestingly, The Moon is often depicted with two towers in the image, still coping from the stress of The Tower. Reversed, The Moon often means these insecurities are beginning to fade, and one is able to put their fears aside. One may also be recieving messages from the Universe, but unable to quite comprehend them. XIX. The Sun - Watermelon Tourmaline The upright and reversed meanings of The Sun are quite similar. Upright, it is indicative of success and happiness, while inverse it can indicate one’s inner child. We know that Melon is a younger Gem, and with recent parts of the manga we can see how their “inner child” has been warped and manipulated. The Sun can represent a longing for an easier time, a time in one’s life where they felt more carefree and happy.

XX. Judgement - Diamond, Yellow Diamond, Alexandrite, Amethyst 84, New Goshenite (think I got them all - the Gems currently on the moon) Judgement can definitely tell a bit of a story about the Gems on the moon. Upright, the card is indicative of new hopes and life-changing descisions. To draw Judgement upright, a pivotal life event could be on the horizon. Reversed Judgement, however, indicates self doubt, fear, and regrets. When one pulls judgement, they may be ignoring a descision that needs to be made. Getting too comfortable in putting off the descision can become dangerous. (side note: I just noticed some lotus root symbolism in my personal card)

XXI. The World - Phosphophyllite, Euclase I didn’t particularly want to reuse characters so much, but these two fit in for The World perfectly. For Phos, the story started with them, and should end with them. For Euclase - the figure depicted in The Magician is the same as the figure depicted in The World, The Magician has reached their enlightenment. To draw The World, upright, is to show that one’s journey is near completion. Euclase is the last character Gem to be worried about Phos, to even remember them. For Phos, their determination to finish what they started may be nearing it’s end. Reversed, The World is about seeking closure. Perhaps one is seeking out shortcuts rather than completing the task.  It represents nearing closure, but some sort of barrier being in the way.

anyway thanks 4 coming 2 my ted talk if u actually read it

[vinylexams]

A very special fireside interview with XUXA SANTAMARIA

Check Insta for our thoughts on this landmark album from Oakland duo XUXA SANTAMARIA. Stay right where you are to read a really fun interview I scored with the band this week. They’ve just released Chancletas D’Oro on Ratskin Records out of Oakland and Michael blessed me with my very own copy. It was so good I knew I needed to tell you all about it and I wanted to pick their brains a little bit, too. Without further ado, please enjoy:

//INTERVIEW

You’re still breaking into indie world at large, but you’ve already got a huge following back in California and your home-base in Oakland. What has it been like to be featured in major outlets like The Fader?

SC: We are a funny project; we ebb and flow from being total hermits to having periods of relatively high visibility (relative to aforementioned hermit state). I wouldn’t say we have a huuuge following in CA but I do think that the ‘fandom’ we’ve developed here is really genuine because we don’t play shows out of an obligation to remain visible but instead do so because we feel super passionate about the work and the audience and I think people respond to that energy. I for one, and perhaps this is because of my background in performance, have a hard time performing the same stuff over and over without change which accounts for us being selective with our playing live. That’s also why videos are such an important part of what we’re about. The piece in The Fader was important to the launch of this album because it established some of the themes and, to an extent, the aesthetics of this album in a way that can be experienced outside of a live setting. None of this is to say we don’t like playing live, in fact we love it, we just like to make our sets pleasurable to ourselves and to our audience by constantly reworking it. We strike a weird balance for sure but we’ve made peace with it. If we ever ‘make it’ (lol) it’ll be on these terms.

Chancletas D'Oro is a pretty incredible record and while it reminds me of a few bands here or there, it’s got a really fresh and unique style that merges dance with all sorts of flavors. How would you describe your music to someone who is curious to listen?

MGK: Haha, we generally struggle to describe our music in a short, neat way (not because we make some kind of impossible-to-categorize music, but just because it’s the synthesis of a ton of different influences and it’s hard for US to perceive clearly). But with that caveat in mind - IDK, bilingual art-punk influenced dance/electronic music?

SC: Thank you for saying so, we’re pretty into it :) Like Matt says, we struggle to pin it down which I think is in part to what he says – our particular taste being all over the place, from Drexciya to The Kinks to Hector Lavoe- but I think this slipperiness has a relationship to our concept making and world building. As creative people we make and intake culture like sharks, always moving, never staying in one place too long. Maybe it’s because we’re both so severely ADHD (a boon in this instance tbh) that we don’t sit still in terms of what we consume and I think naturally that results in an output that is similarly traveling. Point is, the instance a set of words - ‘electronic’, ‘dance’, ‘punk’- feel right for the music is the same instance they are not sufficient. I propose something like: the sound of a rainforest on the edge of a city, breathy but bombastic, music made by machines to dance to, pleasurably, while also feeling some of the sensual pathos of late capitalism as seen from the bottom of the hill.

The internet tells me you’ve been making music as Xuxa Santamaria for a decade now. What has the evolution and development of your songwriting been like over those ten years?

MGK: Well, when we first started out as a band we were so new to making electronic music (Sofia’s background was in the art world and mine was in more guitar-based ‘indie rock’ I guess - lots of smoking weed and making 4 track tapes haha), so we legit forgot to put bass parts on like half the songs on our first album LOL. We’ve learned a lot since then! But in seriousness, we’ve definitely gotten better at bouncing ideas back and forth, at putting in a ton of different parts and then pulling stuff back, and the process is really dynamic and entertaining for both of us.

SC: This project started out somewhat unusually: I was in graduate school and beginning what would become a performance practice. I had hit a creative roadblock working with photography - the medium I was in school to develop- and after reading Frank Kogan’s Real Punks Don’t Wear Black felt this urge to make music as a document of experience following Kogan’s excellent essay on how punk and disco served as spatial receptacles for a wealth of experiences not present in the mainstream of the time. I extrapolated from this notion the idea that popular dance genres like Salsa, early Hip Hop, and Latin Freestyle among many others, had served a similar purpose for protagonists of a myriad Caribbean diasporas. These genres in turn served as sonic spaces to record, even if indirectly, the lived experiences of the coming and going from one’s native island to the mainland US wherein new colonial identities are placed upon you. From this I decided to create an alter ego (ChuCha Santamaria, where our band name originally stems from) to narrate a fantastical version of the history of Puerto Rico post 1492 via dance music. We had absolutely no idea what we were doing but I look back on that album (ChuCha Santamaria y Usted - on vinyl from Young Cubs Records) fondly. It’s rough and strange and we’ve come so far from that sound but it’s a key part of our trajectory. Though my songwriting has evolved to move beyond the subjective scope of this first album - I want to be more inclusive of other marginalized spaces- , it was key that we cut our teeth making it. We are proud to be in the grand tradition of making an album with limited resources and no experience :P

We’re a big community of vinyl enthusiasts and record collectors so first and foremost, thanks for making this available on vinyl. What does the vinyl medium mean to you as individuals and/or as a band?

MGK: I think for us, it’s the combination of the following: A. The experience of listening in a more considered way, a side at a time. B. Tons of real estate for graphics and design and details. C. The sound, duh!

SC: In addition to Matt’s list, I would just say that I approach making an album that will exist in record form as though we were honing a talisman. Its objecthood is very important. It contains a lot of possibility and energy meant to zap you the moment you see it/ hold it. I imagine the encounter with it as having a sequence: first, the graphics - given ample space unlike any other musical medium/substrate- begin to tell a story, vaguely at first. Then, the experience of the music being segmented into Side A and Side B dictate a use of time that is impervious to - at the risk of sounding like an oldie - our contemporary habit of hitting ‘shuffle’ or ‘skip’. Sequencing is thus super important to us (this album has very distinct dynamics at play between sides a/b ). We rarely work outside of a concept so while I take no issue with the current mode of music dissemination, that of prioritizing singles, it doesn’t really work for how we write music.

MGK: We definitely both remain in love with the ‘album as art object/cohesive work’ ideal, so I would say definitely - we care a lot about track sequencing, always think in terms of “Side A/Side B” (each one should be a distinct experience), and details like album art/inserts/LP labels etc matter a lot to us.

What records or albums were most important to you growing up? Which ones do you feel influenced your music the most?

SC: I know they’re canceled cus of that one guy but I listened to Ace of Base’s The Sign a lot as a kid and I think that sorta stuff has a way of sticking with you. I always point to the slippery role language plays in them being a Swedish band singing in English being consumed by a not-yet-English speaking Sofía in Puerto Rico in the mid 90s. Other influences from childhood include Garbage, Spice Girls, Brandy + Monica’s The Boy is Mine, Aaliyah, Gloria Trevi, Olga Tañon etc etc. In terms of who influences me now, that’s a moving target but I’d say for this album I thought a lot about the sound and style of Kate Bush, Technotronic, Black Box, Steely Dan, ‘Ray of Light’-era Madonna plus a million things I’m forgetting.

MGK: Idk, probably a mix of 70-80s art rock/punk/postpunk (Stooges, Roxy Music, John Cale, Eno, Kate Bush, Talking Heads, Wire, Buzzcocks, etc etc), disco/post-disco R&B and dance music (Prince, George Clinton, Chic, Kid Creole), 90s pop + R&B + hip hop (Missy & Timbaland, Outkast/Dungeon Family production-wise are obviously awe-inspiring, So So Def comps, Jock Jams comps, Garbage & Hole & Massive Attack & so on), and unloved pop trash of all eras and styles.

Do you have any “white whale” records that you’ve yet to find?

MGK: Ha - the truth is that we’re both much more of a “what weird shit that we’ve never heard of can we find in the bargain bin” type of record buyer than “I have a custom list of $50 plus records on my discogs account that I lust over”.

SC: Not really, I’m wary of collectorship. That sort of ownership might have an appeal in the hunt, once you have it do you really use it, enjoy it? Funnily, I have a massive collection of salsa records that has entries a lot of music nerds would cry over (though they’re far from good condition, the spines were destroyed by my Abuela’s cat, Misita lol, but some are first pressings in small runs). For me its value however, comes from its link to family, as documents from another time and as an amazing capsule of some of the best music out of the Caribbean. I’m glad I am their guardian (a lot of this stuff is hard to find elsewhere, even digitally) but I live with those records, they’re not hidden away in archival sleeves, in fact, I use some of that music in my other work. Other than that, the records I covet are either those of friends or copies of albums that hold significance but which are likely readily available, Kate Bush’s The Dreaming or Love’s Forever Changes, or The Byrds Sweetheart of The Rodeo as random examples

Finally, is there a piece of interesting band trivia you’ve never shared in another interview?

SC: haha, not really? Maybe that we just had a baby together?

//

Congrats on your new baby, and also for this wonderful new album. It was a pleasure chatting with you and I can’t wait to see what the future has in store for you and your music!

[myrfing]

ima just fucking RAMBLE massively about some present-time ocs because I think about them way too mach for months. for ever

Gourd: Gourd

Strike: AKA SVANGEIR/SVAN he’s an ex woodwarder Rava WAR who made a living as a sellsword before he was cursed to swap bodies with an ul’dahn lalafell merchant he got into a bar fight with because he refused to escort his caravan through the golmore jungle. He’s initially very selfish/vain/arrogant albeit undeniably a very skilled tracker and combatant, but much of this personality was constructed out of guilt for abandoning his people. He actually is very sensitive and gets lonely easily. He goes to eorzea in pursuit of his “rightful gods-crafted form” and Gourd saves him from an ambush, which is how they meet. He doesn’t realize gourd is the warrior of light until he gets his body back and constantly tried to convince him he was extremely sexy as a viera (he is, unfortunately). He used to look down on adventurers because they constantly naively took his jobs for little pay.

Dozu & Nomolun: i jus talk about them. Dozu eventually reunites with Gourd in post-SB and thinks he’s dating Strike, which Strike lies about and says yes he is because he’s really stupid. Dozu is defo over gourd, but she was really in love with him and used to be kind of broken up about him not being able to love her back as deeply. He did like her a lot and was sweet to her, but they couldn’t ever bridge the gap. Gourd buys them both a shitload of gear and encourages them to go adventure together. Nomolun is seen as a good daughter and generally does respect her elders a lot, but she secretly lets her hair down when she’s alone and sings and daydreams about the world putside of the steppe. LNC & BRD/CNJ respectively.

Xeda’a: The moonkeeper ARC/ROG elder brother of one of the guys in his old mercenary band (Teq’sae, the second youngest and only other living member of the Spires). He’s a manipulative and pretty horrible person. He simultaneously protected and picked on Teqs (when he was still with his family) for being a weakling. He enjoys seeing him suffer because of his inadequacy with combat and refusal to kill people because it validates his own choices to not really care about other people’s lives, but then offers kindness and protection afterwards to get him to rely on him. After Teqs runs away, he loses his outlet and eventually goes to search for him after letting the rest of his family die in a failed hunt (he found out he was fatally sick so he just started doing whatever). He’s an extremely skilled archer and is beautiful & charismatic. He’s the main reason why Teqs couldn’t reunite with Gourd after the calamity.

Sayo: Gourd’s biological mather. She did love him, but she was constantly tired and very unhappy, so she pretty much never really engaged with him & only ever spoke to tell him to stay out of trouble and not bother her, which made him extremely quiet and then later just straight up mute after he got his head knocked around in the ocean for a long while. She’s a sui-no-sato exile, she’s extremely beautiful but didn’t want to conform; she ended up suffering from a lot of abuse from her family, which she took refuge from on a cove above water. She met an adventuring ex-samurai raen there who brought her books to read and told her she was freer than she thought (this is gourd’s father). but alas he was a jackass and vanished one day and so Sayo ended up travelling to a Doman valley post-exile (after they figured out she was pregnant with an outsider’s kid) to live essentially as a virtual hermit bar her jobs (farmhand, dancer). After Gourd disappears, she becomes even more of a recluse and falls ill after a desperate search for him that lead her as far as kugane before an imperial soldier messed up her leg. They reunite post-sb after Teqs urges Gourd to find out who he really is, where they reconcile and gourd stays with her for the last of her days. He learns he was originally called En from Eisen) from her.

Yoshimi & Souya: A hyur kugan..ite....? painter and her son. Around 15 years ago, they were on their way to a harvest festival in Doma (where she originates) when they get jumped and kidnapped + seperated by imperial soldiers. Gourd was heading to the same festival (see: his mother was very hands off) and witnesses this, and his genius 7 year old brain sneaks onto the imperial ship she was carted off to and frees her; she then panics and mentions her son (who is around his age?), which he also goes off to save. Unfortunately, considering he’s like, a baby, a garlean was basically about to kill the kid as he was useless as a slave and so gourd stabs him, frees the kid, but falls into the ocean in the ensuing struggle...though taking the officer with him (baby sicko mode). Thanks to his mom making one last prayer to the kami before she left sui-no-sato, he did luckily possess the blessing of the water and with the power of his fucking shards basically fucking drifted all the way to eorzea. Yoshimi & Souya feel extremely indebted to this kid and try to help Sayo find him, but are eventually tracked by imperials who are looking to kill Gourd’s family. Yoshimi glamours herself to look like Sayo as a distraction while she escapes, and is grievously wounded and blinded. She also meets Gourd again in post-sb (where he is looking for his birth family). She is a very warm but mysterious person. Souya grows up to become an adventurer as well (SAM/PLD lol), making the promise to both his mom and Sayo that he’ll find her son one day. He’s standoffish and sharp-tongued, but somewhat gullible and easy to fluster. 

[padawanlost]

... at least their mothers would have been easier for them. Add that to the fact they would have had less emotional control and you could argue that being separated from their families would have been no less traumatizing for at some of these Jedi recruits than it was for Anakin. Is there any canon or legends that explains how the Jedi would have handled any of these cases? If not, what would be your personal headcanon on this?

Do you meancases where the baby is already attached to the mother when the Jedi removethem from their families? The only can I can think of is the baby Ludione.  and even that case is hard to tellbecause we never got to see anything from the child’s perspective.

For thosewho don’t know the story baby Ludi was ababy the Jedi found during a rescue missing following a massive earthquake. Asthe baby receive medical attention she was recognized as force-sensitive so theJedi assumed her mother was dead, changed the baby name and took her to theTemple to begin her training. When the mother recovered she demanded her childback, the Jedi denied it and transferred Ludi out of Coruscant.

We onlyheard from the mother side, since the Jedi were keeping Ludi hidden butassuming the baby and her mother had a healthy relationship I’d bet she wasattached to her mom. Their separation was as traumatic as Anakin & Shmi’s(who at least had the illusion of it being their choices).

As I saidbefore, removingbabies from their families is pointless because it doesn’t prevent themfrom experiencing attachments or “negative emotions” after the separations. Theonly it really helps is with their indoctrination into the Order. Because, as adetachment strategy, it absolutely fails.

“Anyone who trains to become Jedi knows theywill have to give up many things.” [Obi-wan] nodded in agreement. “[Anakin]fears he will never see his mother, whom he loves very much, ever again.”

“That was a terrible mistake. Force-sensitiveinfants are removed from their families before they can form such dangerously lasting attachments.”[Luminara] sounded momentarily wistful. “Isometimes wonder what my own mother is doing, even at this moment, as we sithere discussing such things. I wonder if she is thinking the same thing aboutme.” She looked away, off into the darkening prairie. [Alan Dean Foster’sThe Approaching Storm]

The Jediknew they were removed from the families and the fact they were taught todismiss it as a good thing doesn’t change the fact they were fully aware theywere denied the option of another (normal) life. That affects someone. Itclearly affected Dooku,his behavior and beliefs.

“I supposeso. I hope so.” The student looks down at the shell in his hand. “I found thison the bank. Abandoned by a freshwater hermit crab. They don’t have homes oftheir own, you know. They keep outgrowing them. I was thinking about that, how the Jedi found me on Serenno. With mymother and father, I suppose. I can’t remember them now. Do you ever stop tothink how strange that is? Every Jedi is a child his parents decided they couldlive without.” Yoda stirs, but does not speak. “I wonder, sometimes, if that is what drives us, that first abandonment.We have a lot to prove.” [Sean Stewart’s Yoda: Dark Rendezvous]

Most ofthem didn’t think too much about their biological parents but only because theywere so deeply indoctrinated. But some of them did think about which means theseparations from their families did affect them.

“Obi-Wan?Do you ever think of your parents?” “Ihave too much else to think about. Besides, every Jedi who is given chargeof an apprentice has become a kind of parent. Being one leaves me with no timeto think of my own. When such feelingsdo intrude, I find myself thinking of my teachers or Master Qui-Gon, and not mybirth parents. Sometimes—sometimes I wonder if it isn’t a flaw in Jeditraining to take infants from their families.” “The proof of the truth lies inthe success of the system. That, no one can doubt.” Alan Dean Foster’s TheApproaching Storm

Even Obi-wan,the poster child for Jedi success, had doubts.Thinking about their families (attachments) was normal and yet, it wasforbidden. That means the Jedi, as an Order, had no idea how to deal with. Theirsolution to attachments (and the conflict they caused) was to bury it, to “letit go”. there was no therapy, no communication or support. Their known solutionwas to further separate the Jedi from attachments and to threaten or shame theminto giving them up. Like they did with baby Ludi, Anakin, Luke, Obi-wan, etc.

Yoda’sstare was bleak. “Great are the challenges your Padawan will face. To be his friend your heart will urge you.But Obi-Wan, a mistake that would be. A friend young Skywalker does notneed. A Master he needs, and a Master you must be.” [Karen Miller’s Star Wars:The Clone Wars: Wild Space]

“While Anakin sleeps, to Senator Amidalayou will go,” Yoda continued. “Ended hisrelationship with her must be, before more trouble it causes. Know this better than most do you, Obi-Wan.”[Karen Miller’s The Clone Wars: Wild Space]

In onesentence, Yoda manage to order Obi-wan to end Anakin’s relationship with Padméand shame him for his feelings for Siri. That doesn’t sound like the behaviorof someone who understands (or cares) how traumatic such the permanent separationfrom a loved one can be.

“MasterYoda, is there really a need to be precipitate? Surely it would be unwise torush Anakin, especially now. His injury … and Master, his mother is dead.” Yoda nodded, short and sharp. “Yes. But mothers die, Obi-Wan. Sad itis, but distract a Jedi death must not.” [Karen Miller’s The Clone Wars: WildSpace]

The Orderdoesn’t handle such cases (babies and their attachments to their families)because they don’t know how. The indoctrination and detachment became such asystemic problem they – as an organization – no longer understood what it meantto have families. It’s a vicious circles. The babies removed from theirfamilies, became detached Jedi so had no problem removing other babies fromtheir families.

For us, thebaby Ludi case or Yoda’s “mothers die” may seem terribly callous but for an indoctrinatedJedi it was the correct behavior. The Jedi Order is not known for their self-awareness.

[rarestereocats]

Those of us with magic aren't stranded long,  leaving TT and Inami to saddle up with the newcomers.  They have a boat docked nearby and while it may look like a rickety,  little thing;  it comes with enchantments!  They get seated and the boat rises to float above the waves.  After a warning from Nyctos for everyone to hang on for dear life,  it starts violently shaking the entire way back to our ship.  There's a lot to tackle,  so I pay Julius a visit,  immediately pissed off by the small bird fluttering around his room.  He tells me not to worry about it and ignore it,  but eventually,  said bird drops back into Noah's form and is shooed from the room.  I'm disgusted.  The useless boy wonder can now become a fucking bird. 

I gather all I can from Julius on rakshasa and he sends me off with a few books to look over,  including a raunchy romance novel.  I want to ask so many questions and judge him harshly,  but he quickly shuts me up by saying he didn't realize it was a work of fiction.  Sure,  buddy.  Whatever you gotta tell yourself in order to push that shame deep down.  TT decides to interrogate Lonnie,  thinking that she has to know something of fiends considering her status as a shapechanger.  Lonnie's a little less than thrilled that TT's throwing that around and tries to insist that she isn't a shapeshifter of any kind.  She simply knows a lot about transformation magic.  She does give TT some information on rakshasa,  mostly on how they rank themselves among their own kind. 

After,  me and TT head off to look over the books I have,  only to get interrupted by Nathan's somber mood.  Asking him about it gets us nowhere,  but we eventually crack him open like a pistachio.  The boy's going through a rough break-up because he didn't want to keep his relationship with Stabby a secret anymore.  Stabby obviously didn't like this and instead of having a conversation like an adult,  they dumped Nathan and sent him on his way.  Perfect opportunity for me to go harass Stabby and see what the fuck is really up before Nathan explodes from his anger.  TT takes him out shooting and Amelia arrives much too late to steal away with the books I got from Julius,  but I make sure to pass along the romance novel,  knowing well that it'll find its way to Owkbanok eventually. 

I head to the kitchen with a pair of voodoo dolls to serve as my cover story,  asking Stabby if they know how to make them work.  While the dolls do have some magic left in them,  they're the least of my concerns and it isn't long before I'm terrorizing them.  By terrorizing, I mean that I'm giving them the opportunity to stop being a goddamn hermit.  They take this a sign to drink and with enough booze in them,  I finally get some answers.  They broke up with Nathan because they were afraid,  though they refuse to admit to said fear.  Basically,  they've broken out of jail so many times and have so many bounties that it's too dangerous to have anyone they care about thrust into the public eye for being with them.  As if the rest of this crew isn't filled with wanted criminals who are publicly hooking up with one another,  but alright.  It's not long before we both get tired of the sentimental bullshit and opt to drink the night away,  Owkbanok joining us once he finds us holed up in Stabby's room.

He had something important about a possible rakshasa location,  but who cares about that when there's alcohol?  While he blacks out in the kitchen surrounded by an absolute mess of pots,  pans,  and his own puke;  I make the mistake of sleeping with Stabby...only to wake up to the sound of Nathan's voice outside the door.  Luckily,  Amelia is there to save the day and turns me into the dirty rat I am at heart.  I scurry out of the room,  coming back later to hear about the ritual she learned.  Apparently Owk's plan is going right out of the window because Amelia realized she can simply summon a rakshasa whenever she wants to.  After spending some time with that raunchy book,  she had strange dreams of them and somehow this ties back to her magic.  The details don't matter,  so Nathan suggests we do the ritual in the kitchen because he's still pissed about the break-up. 

That's all fine and dandy,  but I don't relish getting stabbed by the guy I boned the other night,  so I try and convince everyone to move the party upstairs.  No dice.  The minute they all realize Nathan wants to explore his vengeful side,  they jump on that shit without a word.  I manage to turn things around after a private conversation with our disaster gay.  Once upstairs,  Amelia slaps that magic circle down,  prays to any god willing to listen to this lot of assholes,  and a rakshasa is gifted to us in a display of twinkling lights and rainbows.  Not very fitting for a fiend,  but we're not going to waste time dwelling on it.  Cue ambush scene and us screaming at them to hand over their eyes.  It's a massive failure though because as they call a truce,  they pull back the leather flap that was obscuring their face and surprise!

This rakshasa doesn't have any fucking eyes.  The urge to kill them for that alone is high,  but we strike a deal with the bastard.  If they can take us to a rakshasa who's confirmed to actually have a set of working eyes,  we'll give them the location to the coven of hags once our deal with them is done.  They agree to these terms,  so we gather our party (conveniently forgetting about Nyctos and Darcy who were a part of this deal),  explain the situation to a very exasperated Julius,  and teleport away.

[wheredidhiseyebrowsgo]

You guys are incredible! Could you add more creature stiles stories 💚

Creatures galore, coming right up!   -Emmy

Trampolines are Distracting by kungfunurse 

(1,345 I Not Rated I Complete)  *sterek, fox!stiles

What it says on the tin.

The Kit ( Series) by TriDom 

(1,980 I General I Series WIP)  *petopher, fox!Stiles

While hunting, Chris and Peter find a fox kit in one of their traps.

Son of the Sea by cheshirecat101

(3,326 I Not Rated I Complete) *sterek, selkie!Stiles

Derek knows for sure that Stiles isn’t human. The problem starts when he finds out what he is.

Treetop View by ya3ani 

(3,347 I Explicit I Complete)   *sterek & laura, weresquirrel!stiles

While running through the forest Derek captures a creature the likes of which he’s never seen before. He takes his find back to the cabin he shares with his sister.

They have a lot of fun with their new toy.

(ie “the one where weresquirrel!Stiles gets fucked.”)

Chase Me Through The Trees, Mister Wolf by MissDizzyD 

(3,418 I General I Complete)  *sterek, fox!stiles

“Stiles was… happy. Really happy. Happy in a way that had the forest singing to him, urging him to go and play and frolic and let his fox have some fun for once.”

All the Movements of the Stars by skoosiepants 

(3,578 I Teen I Complete)  *sterek, otter!stiles

Stiles says, “Derek,” and his voice is hoarse, like he’s still unsure how to use his vocal chords even after all this time. They have no idea how long Stiles was stuck as an otter, let alone trapped in that cage.  According to Dr. Martin, Stiles doesn’t even know.

Derek doesn’t say anything.

After a few minutes, Stiles sighs and gets up. There’s a rustle of clothing, and Derek grits his teeth against the image of Stiles wearing his things, and Derek doesn’t relax until he hears the door open and close.

Tale of a Little Nut by morganrules

(3,646 I General I Complete)  *sterek, squirrel!Stiles

Stiles Squirrelinski would never pass the oportunity for a new adventure!

Safe and Warm by TriscuitsandSoup

(5,574 I General I Complete)  *steter, squirrel!Stiles

 As a squirrel Stiles was always on the lookout for the safest, warmest place in a room; and right now what looked to be the safest, warmest place was a long, black, coat, belonging to Peter Hale.

Stiles X Peters Coat. Very short.

A Rose Petal of White Stained by Red by paintedwolfdragon 

(5,879 I Mature I WIP)  *maze runner fusion, erica/boyd, sterek, rape, mpreg, fox!stiles

After being possessed by the nogitsune stiles is quickly dispatched from the Hale pack. Having no one he can turn to for trust or to listen. He faces raising his new day old cubs alone in the woods in the middle of winter. With four territorial packs of weres fighting over the land that is his and his cubs call home. And how do the fur hunters who follow no rules  come into play?

Fish Don’t Have Legs by MadnessofVoid

(8,934 I Teen I Complete)  *sterek, merman!stiles, fisherman!derek

Finally, the net broke. Derek sighed with relief, rising to his feet and grunting at how stiff he felt. The boy continued to sit there a moment longer, staring still. Derek was about to attempt interrogating this boy again when he saw something that about made him check in to a mental hospital.Instead of legs…there was a glistening, blinding, orange tail.A fucking tail!orDerek is a reluctant fisherman in order to pay off his parents’ debt and he caught one hell of a, well, catch

Fox Tails by AwesomeSterekUniverse 

(9,179 I Not Rated I Complete)   *sterek, fox!stiles

Stiles knew something wasn’t right after the Nogitsune was killed. He still didn’t feel human. When he wakes up later with glowing eyes and a tail, he flees, not wanting to still be possessed and with a desire to show who is in control. Months pass while the pack search for him and when they finally do they find him feral and with no idea who he is. Can they get him back?

“Stiles?” The dark haired wolf with the glowing red eyes says. Stiles knows his name, but he doesn’t know who this wolf is or why he knows his name.

He runs.

The Weathered Shell by trilliath 

(14,356 I Explicit I Complete)   *sterek, selkie!stiles

The young man is standing with an arm casually thrown up to lean against the door frame, displaying his bare torso to advantage, his powerful swimmer’s shoulders and lean body pale with moonlight. His cocky grin, however, is fading quickly into a look of shock and confusion. Other than a pelt shaped into a sloppy kilt, his legs are bare too, despite the chill winds coming in off the ocean.

“You’re not a girl,” he says in a gently lilting accent that’s like an odd blend of all the coastal voices Derek’s ever heard, squinting at Derek like his eyes might somehow be deceiving him.

Unlikely, given his dark beard and broad, well-muscled shoulders, let alone what he’s got under his kilt.

Love on the Lake by TheBiPenguin 

(15,634 I Not Rated I Complete)   *sterek, merman!stiles

Derek just has to get through one more week of school and he’s free. After that, he has no idea where his life will take him.

That’s until a near drowning experience opens his eyes to a whole new world, one too alluring to turn away from.

Trees are Always a Relief When Dealing With People (Except When They Aren’t) by ravelqueen 

(15,889 I Mature I Complete)  *sterek, nymph!stiles

Derek Hale decides to become a hermit before he reaches 25. Too bad he picked Beacon Hills as his retirement home.

(Or the one where Stiles is a wood nymph/pixie/human hybrid who falls in love with his new grumpy werewolf neighbour)

Alone Together by asocialfauxpas (fuzzytomato) 

(16,277 I Explicit I Complete)  *sterek, kidnapped, mermaid!stiles

Derek has lost his pack. Stiles has lost his pod. They find each other on the high seas.

Anteocularis by Aravis 

(19,393 I Explicit I Complete)  *sterek, weredeer!stiles

Allison meets a strange deer in the forest. Derek may have found someone who can match his level of bullshit. Stiles is running from a murderer. Pack-feels and cross-species bonding.

Derek Only Speaks to His Cat by grimmfairy 

(19,751 I Not Rated I WIP)   *sterek, cat!stiles

Derek has a cat, and his cat is the only one that doesn't look at him differently after Kate tries to burn his family. Years after the fire, Derek returns to Beacon Hills to be near his pack, which has begun to take on new members that are all teenagers. Derek is still lonely though, and keeps his family at arm's length out of guilt even as they strive to get closer to him.

Derek rescues a mysterious stranger from being mugged in an alley one night and he's told he get's one wish.

Then suddenly there's a naked, cuddly teenager in his loft that doesn't speak english or know how to walk on two legs, and his cat is missing. All Derek wanted was someone to talk to.

Captive Hart by road_of_ruin 

(23,236 I Mature I WIP)   *sterek, Hart!Stiles

There is a werewolf on the Argent throne. The war is over, the lands united, and peace has been declared between werewolves and hunters.

On the eve of the peace treaty signing, Lord Derek of House Hale is presented with a Stag shifter by the very woman who started the war. Decorum demands he accept, despite his misgivings on the matter, and thus a red Hart joins the ranks of its mortal enemy.

Derek learned long ago that Kate was never to be trusted again. If Stiles is her gift, then he must be watched. He keeps up a firm wall between them, even as society forces them together, a Lord and his pet, and readies himself for anything.

Though there's really no defense against Stiles.

---

(Game of Thrones/Captive Prince fusion)

Fox Fire by Decemberangel

(37,950 I Mature I Complete)  *sterek, fox!stiles, rape

After nineteen years of experimentation and abuse, Stiles and Isaac are left to die in their enclosures. Abandoned by the only woman they ever depended on and loved, Melissa McCall. Or so they thought. When she comes back with them, she brings the pack and together, they bring the two home and struggle to get through to the broken teens. But there's another problem, the pack aren't the only one's who want the two for themselves.

In the Woods Somewhere by ME (what WHAT)

(44,958 I Explicit I Complete)   *sterek, stiles/peter noncon, fox!stiles, feral!derek, wolf!derek

Peter travels with various carnivals, showcasing a massive black wolf he parades as a man-eating beast.  In his caravan he keeps Stiles, his most precious possession who is much more special than he may outwardly appear.  Stiles feels a kinship with the creature through their mutual captivity, so when he makes his escape he frees the wolf as well.  Like Stiles though, the wolf is also more than he appears.

Pure as the Driven Snow by RenSweets

(54,996 I Explicit I WIP)   *steter, fox!stiles

It was a stroke of Luck Peter found him.

It is Stiles lack of Luck that continues to harm him.

[yourhealthmattersblog]

lice of Life manga referrals

kishuku gakkou no juliet is a really trendy tale. That is the simplest method. It is the upsetting story of a shateringly antisocial woman's upsetting life. In addition, there are massive negative aspects that may feature this, although there are fairly huge pros to getting a story this way. WataMote is no exception, it is flawed however also incredible. There is no in between, as the issues with stories in this way is that they're completely hit or miss. It is quite clear that it might be a start out, although for me it was a home run.

Baseball allegories away, let us enter why it is dreadful as well as WataMote is fantastic.

It is relatable. The most effective thing that traumatic tales have is that individuals that've felt similar discomfort can link to the key character, when that takes place a man is able to conveniently drop in love utilizing a storyline. In case you are a person that's antisocial, socially unpleasant, shy, or can not share yourself well then you will certainly uncover Tomoko practically reviewing your thoughts at several stages.

Nevertheless, what concerning those that are not like that? What of you people that have a great deal of pals have the ability to readily speak to people as well as head out in addition to have fun usually? What you end up with is a gruelingly tormenting narrative of a depressed lady futilely trying to make pals. You go "Oh, my god that is so depressed. Poor Tomoko."

While you see you could believe, "When is someone only gon na increase and attempt to at some point become friends with her?" In the event you are believing "That Is horrible." After that you definitely probably will not appreciate reading kishuku gakkou no juliet!.

Some defects additionally open up to you directly. There's practically no story. The total storyline is simply the life of Tomoko, period. That is an impressive amount of repeating and points can lastly end up being rancid. To a guy that is experienced similar pain yet, these problems are nearly undetected as a result of exactly how close to life it's. Nevertheless that does not excuse that the issues exist.

There are just 2 various other well-known characters and they're extremely small to matters. The whole tale revolves around Tomoko making comments and viewing the world around her, aiming to at some point come to be prominent, and also reverting back to her NEET state in remediation from the pain.

No matter what way you examine it yet, Tomoko is a great character. She's reasonable at quantities that are frightening. She's obtained no close friends, but needs to make some. So does she spend all day? It is because that is just how she's established to live. She understands that discomfort anticipates outside her space, although she requires to head out along with have a good time. Tomoko is nice as well as natural.

A read manga component of her personality is the fact that no matter what occurs. Nevertheless nice she's, she's never ever moe or shrewd in any way that is truly substantial for this certain program to make her relatable. Your moods get lowered to an identical degree as hers as she and you directly attach.

Kitta Izumi does an amazing task as Tomoko. Her voice is conference, extraordinary, and also satisfying. The opening is brilliant in my viewpoint. It takes an extremely various means than regular openings by truly being a major dramatization of the urge to break from her hermit nature of Tomoko. Completion in contrast exposes the depiction of the internal understanding of Tomoko that she can not burst out of it.

The artwork of kishuku gakkou no juliet! is, furthermore, noteworthy. It is unpredictable at numerous points and simple yet additionally fairly meaningful.

With what I Have said, so it could look like WataMote is the an enormously disappointing storyline, that is not completely inaccurate. As well as when they inevitably define the discomfort as pain instead of black comedy of Tomoko it genuinely resonates with you. But if it is possible to tolerate seeing a woman that is absolutely dismal. The severe darkness of the comedy can really quickly turn away a lot of individuals.

The final thing I require to state regarding WataMote is that much of others, for instance, dawn, maintain the narrative is a child that ultimately brings about absolutely nothing. Throughout the entire point there's much more discomfort, pain, as well as pain. Where is the benefit? There's none. The storyline is excessively practical to offer something comparable to salaries. WataMote has among these ends that when you see it appears like nothing, yet in case you offer it another wonderful hard appearance you'll have the ability to see that a great deal in the long run changes. To me, the end is the incentive of everything and it's big incentive. Itis a rather realisstic and also fantastic end. But it is not easy to see just those who comprehend can likely see it, the benefit, but it exists.

In case you see WataMote? Not here. As a matter of fact, I think most folks would likely not enjoy WataMote. I think that just those quiet, antisocial, loners are the people that would certainly compliment WataMote the exact same way I do. Yet you sociables all most likely need to prevent this set. Compassion will certainly not take you enough to mark down the issues the very same manner associating with her can, although you may think you can have compassion with Tomoko. If you like my review then provide this anime manga a try.

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[easkyrah]

Elorcan Werewolf AU Part 4

I apologize if I put you to sleep. I’m in dire need of sleep myself.

“it’s hard to wake up from a nightmare if you aren’t even asleep”

Elorcan Werewolf 4

Six months later

Having Lory around almost fulfilled the absence of her pack. The dog was a menace to anyone she invited over, and Elide learned the hard way to not invite her business interests or corporate companions over.

Today, mercifully, was her day off. She was lazily sprawled across the couch, scrolling through all the romantic puns on twitter in event of Valentine’s day.

Aelin: I want to burn my mate’s nonexistent dick off.

Manon: No amount of magic could enlarge an already dead thing.

Rowan: You don’t hear my other consorts complaining.

Aelin: Mmhmm. Why am I wasting time on you when I should be preparing for my date my boyfriend’s holding?

Rowan: Since when do you have a boyfriend?

Chaol: Since you failed your mate.

Elide rolled her eyes. Manon had informed her later on that Aelin had paid Chaol, her past ex, to keep up the facade of the fake boyfriend to see if Rowan did indeed care about her. The only response she’d gotten was Rowan leaving the Fireheart Pack and storming back to the castle where the Princess Remelle awaited.

Aelin had decided to reject Rowan tomorrow, Valentine’s day. A symbol of the utmost love at its highest failure. 

“I hate the moon goddess,” Elide moaned. “She paired me and Aelin with the worst.”

Lory lifted his head off the mattress, and scooted closer to her toes. Elide snuggled into the animal’s warmth, stroking his head.

“I mean, why do we have to be paired with unfaithful males? I want someone who will prove their love to me, but also someone who had proved their love to me.” 

The dog jumped up onto the couch, snorting as Elide popped off the couch. He was so large that Elide wanted to check if he was overweight, but Lory had adamantly refused to go to the vet’s.

Letting out a sigh, Elide stroked Lory’s soft head. It took awhile for the beast to get used to Elide constantly petting him, but a few days later, all he did was demand attention, even when she was on a phone conference. When one client even asked for a date at the end, Lorcan had knocked her couch over.

Needless to say, she didn’t get the date.

But Elide was determined to go out on a date tomorrow, Valentine’s day. She deserved a chance at love. No mate was going to stop her.

Lory let out a huff, placing a massive paw on her thigh, almost as he were urging her to continue.

“His name is Lorcan,” Elide said, looking out the window. “He’s a Lycan. And apparently my mate. It’s weird, because he’s apparently almost as old as Manon. Isn’t it cradle-robbing?”

Lory let out a low growl, his ears twitching back — as if he disagreed.

“Anyways, if he really treasured a mate, he would have waited for her — like I waited for mine — only to find out that I wasn’t going to be his first. Ridiculous, isn’t it? Why am I still hung up over this?”

Lory gave her a stink eye that might as well said you should be hung up over this.

Elide heaved a giant sigh. “He’s probably at some she-wolf’s house right now.”

Lory let out a disgruntled snort, placing his snout directly between her breasts. Elide let out a squeak as the animal licked her collarbone, and snuggled against her. Five seconds later, when Elide started scratching the fur along his neck, a giant purr erupted from his throat.

Elide let out a screech in surprise, and slid out from underneath. Lory let out a discontented growl, and jumped off the couch, pacing in circles around her.

“Sometimes you really confuse me,” Elide said. She dusted off her jeans and headed to the closet. She needed to get ready for her blind date tomorrow Aelin had set her up for.

Elide slammed her fists against her work table, and rubbed her eyes. All the types of diseases were blurring her eyes, and she couldn’t even differentiate between the two main parasite branches of the mermaid currents.

Lory lifted off of his haunches and then placed his paws onto her knees. He rubbed his maw against her, repeating the motion. She loosed a breath, and closed her eyes. Instead of choosing a dress, she’d ended up studying her notes for her aquatic parasitic exam in three days.

“I don’t even know how I’m going to get a perfect sore!” Elide rolled off the chair and onto the floor. Lory immediately pounced onto her, settling himself over her prone form. She let out a giggle as Lory started licking her face, his tail wagging vigorously. She itched his ears, a satisfied sound emerging from Lory’s throat. “It’s sad. Valentine’s day is less than three hours away and I’m studying.”

Lory let out a noise that oddly sounded like a confirmation, but remained lying on top of her.

Elide lazily glanced at her open closet, staring at the hanging dresses. She only had one dress that wasn’t business related, and it was a provocative, short, and skimpy, her breasts nearly spilling out of the thin material. Manon had sent it to her a week ago, and Elide had immediately shoved it into the back corner of her closet.

Lory followed her line of vision and let out a questioning bark. Elide smiled and scratched his head reassuringly.

“I’m going to go to the grocery store. You seem to have a penchant for raw food. Be a good boy and I’ll buy you some.”

Lory let out a yip, and bounded off of Elide, galloping to the front door. He swerved to avoid knocking down the clay vase she had bought a day ago, and she crossed her arms, smiling fondly down at the animal that had become so essential to her life.

Elide opened the door and watched the animal bound towards the forest. She knew it wasn’t healthy to keep a large dog like Lory inside all day, so she had let him run loose for hours a day, trusting him to return.

He always did.

As soon as she pulled up along the gravel, Lory shot from the trees, bounding towards her and barking merrily. She smiled, and lifted the trunk open. Lory dutifully gathered the ends of the plastic bag in his mouth and carried the groceries inside.

Elide gathered the rest and slammed the trunk close. She was lucky that Ansel’s Assortment Store was open 24/7, even though the cashier hadn’t been happy to see her at 11:30 pm.

Elide glided up the porch and pushed passed the door. Lory was already pushing the containers of food out of the bags with his jaws. She smiled at her companion. She couldn’t imagine a life without him now. Maybe she didn’t need a mate nor a male if she had Lory. She started to realize she preferred things that didn’t talk and that she didn’t mind the silence the cabin gave her.

In fact, when Manon had visited once, the only sound that had pierced the house was the wind blasting down the chimney and slamming against her windows. Lory had always demanded to go out for his runs in the woods whenever company came over, even though she’d always wanted to introduce her pet to others, and she’d come to realize that her dog was as much as a hermit as she.

She set the foodstuff in their respective positions, and took the packaged raw meat out of its syringe wrap. “Here you go, Lory,” she hummed.

Lory wagged his tail in anticipation as she lowered the container to the floor. Her canine companion merely looked up at her as she washed her hands. “What is it?”

Lory moved away from the meat and brushed his nose against the bucket full of plums. He nudged it to her, rolling the fruit out onto the floor. Elide blinked. “Do you want me to eat, too?”

Lory nodded and pawed the plum near her feet closer. Grinning, Elide plucked it off the floor and rinsed it in the sink. Lory watched her the entire time and didn’t touch his own raw meat until Elide took her second bite. She ruffled his head as he greedily finished the remains of his food within record timing.

By the time they had finished, Elide had collapsed on her bed, Lory curled up at her feet. She smiled fondly at her companion, grateful that he had come into her life. Even though she had to buy a new bed that could stand his weight, she wouldn’t replace him with anything.

Elide yawned, and flopped over the bed. Her eyes widened and she hopped off the bed, not noticing Lory anywhere. As much as he hated to admit, she loved the animal’s warmth and security he seemed to bring.

Her clock drearily blared 8:00. Her date was supposed to pick her up at 9:00, for Hellas’s sake.

She quickly showered and scrubbed her teeth and face. Slipping into her slippers, she cursed Manon as she slipped into the black dress. After a moment’s thought, she tossed on a ruby red blazer that draped past her knees and switched her stilettos with black flats.

As she moodily tromped down the stairs for single’s awareness day, she spotted Lory eagerly panting at the bottom. He cocked his head as his eyes swept past her outfit, and a growl rising from his throat. Elide patted his head, and immediately stacked his food bowl. “Didn’t you eat around midnight last night?”

When she set the plate down, Lory refused to touch it, and clawed the edges of her blazer. Elide tried to unhook his abnormally large claw away from her blazer, but instead shrugged off the material, the sound of cloth ripping as her cover fell to the floor.

Lory let out a loud howl as he stared at the dress she was wearing. Elide immediately felt self-conscious and tugged the material down. “What?” she snapped. Seriously, was her dog bullying her into what to wear?

Lory closed his eyes and stared at the ceiling for twenty long seconds. When Elide was about to move to the pantry, Lory wagged his tail and bolted down the foyer. Smiling, she chased after her dog, and nearly slammed into the door as he abruptly stopped.

There, on the middle of her carpet, Lory had ripped open her bag of candied, valentine hearts. Her canine companion had laid out the pink hearts in an own heart formation with the candied enscript of be mine in the middle. The other colors dotted around the room in mini hearts and swirls, ribbons torn from the plastic bags hanging near the windows.

Lory blinked up at her.

A sob wrecked itself out of Elide and she rushed for Lory, burying her head into his chest. Lory let out a content noise and buried his own snout into her head, his tongue licking her neck.

“I’m yours.” Elide smiled faintly. “I love you, Lory.”

Lory barked, a noise of agreement. The satisfied sound easily turned into a low growl as the doorbell rang, and Elide sashayed away to greet her date.