#what's a 'ship' anyway it's such a vague term.........

[blastlight]

i compleeeeeetely forgot about Ship Discourse existing in general, so finding people upset about billford took me completely by surprise lmao

(happy old men* divorce canonization everyone!)

[aropride]

that post has actually shifted my perception of stupid fucking PrObLeMaTiC MeDiA discourse forever i think i need to chew on the topic for like 8 hours and decide how i feel about it then

[jetii]

i loveeeeeee ur writing. its like a masterpiece. mwah. i was wondering if you could do an angsty fic with the prompt "I loved you!" with any clone boy you want (maybe crosshair 👀) I was listening to Cardigan by taylor swift and it lowkey set the mood.

sorry if the request is very vague cause i never watched bad batch yet im a huge simp 🥲 so do whatever you want.

I know you got like a tonnnn on your plate and i lowkey feel bad requesting but you write really good so take ur time to take care of yourself.

hiiiii anon. if you are who i think you are, then you'll have already been watching TBB by now, but if you're not, what are you doing!! /affectionate

after listening to the song (i have a sister who is a swiftie but alas i am not) and thinking harder about your prompt, i was inspired to write this for Echo, so i hope that's okay!

The Way Back

Pairing: Echo x fem!Reader

Words: 9,621

Tags/Warnings: angst with a happy ending, hurt/comfort, established relationship, dramatic reunion, reader is a lawyer, Tech is a good brother, Echo needs a hug, allusion to panic attacks/alcoholism/depression

Summary: Echo always knew you were it for him, but the idea of seeing you again after so much has changed is more than he can take. Until one day he finds himself outside of your apartment, and the choice is made for him.

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Echo doesn’t leave the ship when it docks on Coruscant.

His eyes are locked on the city-planet, lit up like a giant firefly, watching the endless stream of ships coming in and out. Their trails of light make the whole thing seem dreamlike, surreal. Even that feels like too much, reminds him too much of the view from your apartment, and he tries to close his eyes, but his eyelids are made of glass.

The first time he saw Coruscant, there had been a moment of... what, awe? Terror? Something. Something big, anyway. He didn't understand then that you can have a feeling be a lot of things. He'd looked down on the galaxy's center of power and felt something bigger than he could possibly contain. Now, sitting alone on the Marauder with only the whirr of the vents for company, he thinks maybe the feeling was dread.

The first time they came back here after Echo joined the Batch, the others didn’t notice his unease. Or at least they didn't mention it. It was an adjustment period for everyone, Echo most of all, and his brothers gave him space to do things on his own terms, even when it meant he did nothing at all.

This time, it's different. He can tell they've noticed how he's been acting, and they're not just leaving him alone anymore. He can tell, because they're giving him looks. The kind of looks that ask questions he doesn't have answers for. They make excuses to stick close by, like they're afraid he might take off or that he's going to break down and have another panic attack. It makes him want to hide even more.

He's not going to, though. It's not so bad. Coruscant has always been a source of good memories for Echo, despite what happened. The sights, the sounds, the tastes — they're all still the same. He'd spent a long time on Coruscant before the Citadel happened, and he'd gotten used to it, the way the air smells, the feel of the rain against his skin. He had a whole life here. He was happy.

It's not so bad. He just... doesn't feel like going out, is all.

He knows he’s being stupid. He knows that he should be out there, enjoying what little downtime they’re afforded. Instead, he's on the ship, trying not to stare out the windows, trying to pretend that he isn't bothered by the thought of leaving, of the possibility of running into you again, however small that may be.

The worst part is that he's not sure why.

It's not that he doesn't want to see you. On the contrary, he does. More than anything. He hasn't stopped thinking about you, wondering if you're okay, if you’re happy, if you've thought of him. He's kept his ears open, and has managed to overhear a few stories here and there about you. The most recent had been about you winning a case for a group of Houk refugees who had been seeking asylum in the city, a big deal for a young lawyer to handle.

It had made him smile, a real, genuine smile, the kind he rarely got to have.

But there's something about seeing you again, about you seeing him that makes him hesitate, makes his stomach turn over and his throat tighten. Maybe it's because he doesn't want to know for certain, doesn't want to see that you're happy, that you've moved on, that you're doing well without him.

Maybe it's because he doesn't trust himself. He's different now, he knows that. He's different, and so are you. He doesn't know if he can face you, doesn't know if he'll be able to handle whatever is waiting for him. 

When he woke up in Rex’s arms and realized the galaxy had kept moving without him, he hadn’t thought much of it, solely focused on survival, on the fact that he was alive at all. He hadn't cared about what he'd missed, who he'd left behind. He hadn't known how much time had passed, and the thought that he was a dead man hadn't even crossed his mind. He hadn't thought about you, hadn't given himself the time or space to consider the consequences. You'd been the furthest thing from his mind. He'd had to keep fighting, to keep living. But once he had the time to think about it, to regret, well, it was...

It's different.

There's no other word for it. Everything is different.

Echo has had time, too much time, to think about you, to regret losing you. It's kept him up late into the night cycle, lying in bed, staring up at the ceiling, unable to sleep, thoughts running a mile a minute.

You'd been a good person, a better one than he could ever hope to be, and he had loved you, and then he had died.

Or, he had thought he'd died. Turns out he hadn't. That had been the only mercy.

You'd been the first and only person in his entire life to see him as something other than a soldier, and he'd loved you for it. You'd seen him, really seen him, and you hadn't run. He had been terrified by that, but it had also been the best feeling in the world. And he had taken advantage of it. He had let you in, he had let himself fall in love, and then he had died.

It's different, now. He's different. The galaxy's moved on, and he's a ghost, and he's scared. He doesn't know how to face you, doesn't know if he can. So when they’d made it out of Skako Minor and Rex had asked if he wanted to comm you, he’d said no. And he's been saying no every time since.

A small voice inside his head, one that sounds a lot like Fives, tells him that's bullshit.

His brother would have called him out on his cowardice, and Echo thinks that's a fair assessment. But even though he misses you and wants nothing more than to hear your voice, it's better this way. It's better if you don't see him like this, if you never find out the truth. The thought of you seeing him, of you seeing what's left of the man you knew, is too much. He can't do that to you.

It's better if you never see him again. It's better if you have closure, if you've moved on and don't think about him anymore.

You deserve more. You deserve someone who hasn't lost as much as he has, someone who you won't have to worry about, someone who will be there for you.

Someone who can give you the life you want.

Echo knows he can't do that. And maybe if he says that enough times, he'll finally believe it.

“Why are you still here?”

The sound of Tech’s voice snaps him out of his thoughts. He turns and finds his brother watching him from the doorway, an expression of vague curiosity on his face, a soldering iron twirling absently in his hand.

Echo shrugs.

Tech gives a short, impatient huff.

"That is not an answer," he says, crossing his arms and looking pointedly at Echo.

"I was just..." He trails off. Just what? Just looking out the window and moping? He sighs. "Nevermind."

Tech steps into the cockpit, looking unconvinced. Echo can tell he has a question on the tip of his tongue, can see him considering his options. Tech is not the most tactful person in the galaxy, and Echo isn't really in the mood to hear his thoughts, not when they're bound to be blunt. But instead of asking, his brother simply takes his seat beside him and begins tinkering with the dashboard, checking the systems.

The two of them are quiet for a moment, the only sound the clinking of the tools. Then Tech pauses and looks at Echo. 

Echo fidgets under his brother's gaze. "What?"

Tech doesn't respond right away, taking a second to look Echo over. His eyes flicker around the cockpit, as if the gauges and switchboards will give him some kind of clue, before coming back to his brother.

"There is nothing wrong with the ship," he says.

"Okay," Echo says, confused. "So?"

"So," Tech continues, "there is no reason for you to be here. We are scheduled to remain docked until 600 hours, and you have the day off. You could be anywhere."

Echo rolls his eyes, a prickle of annoyance flaring in his chest. "Yeah, well, I'm here, aren't I?"

"Yes, you are," Tech agrees. There's a moment where he considers something, and then he speaks again, "If I may offer a suggestion?"

"Go for it," Echo grumbles, not bothering to look at him.

"Go for a walk."

"A walk?"

"Yes. Physical activity is proven to improve mood and mental health. And you could do with the fresh air."

Echo frowns. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means," Tech says, not even pausing in his work, "that you've been spending an inordinate amount of time locked away in here."

"I'm not locked away," Echo protests.

"No, I suppose not. But you have not been yourself since we arrived."

Echo doesn't have an answer for that.

"Go for a walk," Tech repeats, and this time he does stop and turn to Echo. He leans back in his chair and removes his goggles, letting them rest on his forehead, and the intensity in his gaze makes Echo squirm a bit.

"Where?"

Tech gestures towards the open space in front of them, the sprawling metropolis. "There are a number of options available, I'm sure. There are parks, shopping districts, museums, restaurants..." He ticks the ideas off on his fingers one by one, and then points back to Echo. "Perhaps you should find out for yourself."

Echo snorts. "Thanks, but no thanks."

"Why not?"

"Because I don't want to," he says, the words coming out more defensively than he intended. "I'd rather just stay here."

"Yes, I can see that," Tech says dryly, and Echo gets the distinct impression that his brother is making fun of him.

He scowls.

Tech is undeterred. "But I don't think that is what you actually want to do."

Echo's mouth opens to argue, but then closes it just as quickly. He's not sure what to say, not sure if he wants to say anything. Tech isn't wrong. He doesn't really want to stay on the ship, not truly. The idea of getting out and going somewhere is tempting, and if he's being honest with himself, the last thing he wants to do is sit here, stewing in his thoughts alone. Or worse, with Tech.

And he does need to stretch his legs.

He looks out the window again, taking in the sight of the planet before him. He's not sure what's going to happen once they get the signal for the next job, if they'll ever be back. He might never have this opportunity again.

He takes a breath.

"Fine," he says, throwing his hands up in the air. "You win."

Tech's lips twitch, a barely contained smile. "As I usually do."

Echo shakes his head, a grin playing on his lips. He starts to make his way towards the door, and stops beside his brother.

"Thanks," he says, placing a hand on Tech's shoulder.

"You are welcome," Tech nods. “Try to be back by 0600 hours. If you are late, we will leave without you.

Echo snorts. "I wouldn't expect anything less."

He leaves Tech there and heads to the ramp. His steps slow as he reaches the bottom, but he forces himself forward, out into the bright sunlight and fresh air.

Echo spends the next few hours wandering around Coruscant, letting his feet guide him.

He goes wherever the crowds take him, stopping at whatever catches his interest. It's nice, being able to let his mind go blank and not have to worry about where he's going. He doesn't have to think about anything, doesn't have to consider the consequences, or the risks.

He just exists.

And it feels good.

When he eventually decides to turn back, he's a bit surprised at how far he's come. He hadn't intended to venture so deep into the city, had just wanted a walk to clear his head. But the area he's found himself in is one he recognizes.

Your apartment is nearby.

Echo can feel his pulse start to quicken, his palm begins to sweat, and he stops in the middle of the walkway.

The sun has begun to set, and the crowds are thinning. You’ll be on your way home from work soon, if you weren’t already. His brain helpfully supplies the route you would take, and his eyes flit up towards the skyline. He can't see your building, but he knows it's there, not far away.

The knowledge sits heavy in his chest.

No, he tells himself, shaking his head. I shouldn't.

He has no way of knowing if you're even home. For all he knows, you could be busy, out with friends or maybe on a date.

Don't, his mind warns him. She's moved on. You shouldn't.

He hasn't been to your apartment since the morning he left. The memory is a sharp one, a jagged knife cutting through the fog of his past. He remembers the way your bed had felt, the warmth of your body, the sound of your breathing as you slept tucked against him.

It had been so peaceful.

It had been so easy to leave.

His mind starts to replay those moments, the goodbye you had given him, and it's like a punch to the gut. He knows how much you care about him, knows that if you were to see him again, that wouldn't have changed. You wouldn't turn him away.

The night before, you talked for hours. Your conversation had been punctuated with kisses and caresses, laughter and confessions. You told him how much you wanted him to stay, how much you wished he didn't have to leave, how much you wished things could be different. You talked about what the future might hold for the two of you, and he remembers how that felt, how it made him believe, even for just a moment, that things would work out.

They didn't, of course.

But Echo is still here, and so are you, and he can't help but think that maybe, just maybe, the galaxy might be giving him a second chance.

He takes a deep breath.

There's no harm in taking a detour, he thinks.

He walks, following the familiar path, trying not to think too hard about what he's doing.

It doesn't take him long to reach the building. He hesitates in front of it, looking up at the facade. It looks just as it did the last time he was here. Same lobby, same doorman, same lift. They haven’t even fixed the panel that's been sticking, and it takes a good deal of force for him to press the button for your floor.

The doors close, and he stares at his reflection, at the dark circles under his eyes, the scruff that has accumulated on his cheeks and chin, the lines that have appeared at the corners of his eyes and across his forehead. And then his gaze wanders to the ports and implants, the reminder of what was taken from him and what he was left with. He traces the outline of one with his thumb, remembering how he used to be.

He looks tired.

What are you doing? He asks himself.

He's not sure what he's expecting, doesn't have a plan for what will happen. All he knows is that he can't get the image of you out of his head. He imagines you coming home from work, and him being there, waiting. Would you be surprised? Happy? What would you say? What would he say?

Echo sighs.

He's an idiot.

The lift dings, and the doors slide open.

Your apartment is halfway down the hall, and Echo's stomach clenches with each step he takes. He reaches it and stands outside for a minute, running his fingers over the metal door, staring at the numbers painted on the surface.

It's just a door, he tells himself. Nothing special. Just a door.

His hand moves on its own, hovering over the bell. He waits, listens. There's no sound coming from inside, no music, no voices. Maybe you're not home yet.

Or maybe you're out. Maybe you're not alone.

He rings the bell and holds his breath, counting the seconds.

One. Two. Three. Four.

Nothing.

Echo rings again, this time holding the button down for a few extra seconds, listening for any sign of movement.

There's nothing.

The knot in his stomach tightens, and he releases the button, letting out the breath he'd been holding. He runs a hand over his face, feeling the heat of his skin through his glove. He's sweating.

Well, that's it, then.

He'd thought he was prepared for this possibility, but hearing the silence behind the door and knowing that you aren't home has shaken him more than he anticipated.

Maybe this is for the best, he thinks. It's better this way. Safer.

But the disappointment is palpable.

He's not sure what to do. He considers waiting a little longer, just to make sure, but the more he thinks about it, the more stupid it seems. He doesn't belong here anymore. He shouldn't be here, standing outside your door, hoping for something that won't happen.

He needs to go.

As Echo turns away from the door, a voice calls out behind him.

"Can I help you?"

For half a second, he's sure he imagined it, sure that it's just his brain playing tricks on him, taunting him. But then the voice speaks again.

"Are you looking for someone?"

Echo spins around, heart leaping into his throat, and there you are.

Standing there, a few paces away, is the woman he's been dreaming about, the one he's thought about every day, the one he's missed so much that it hurts.

Your hair is different, longer than he's ever seen it, pulled away from your face. You're wearing a dress, something he's only seen a handful of times, and your makeup is impeccable, but he can still see the hint of tiredness behind your eyes. He wonders how many hours you've put in at work this week, how much you've had to fight for your clients.

But the most noticeable change is that you're looking at him. Your datapad is held loosely in your hands, a bag of groceries on your hip, and you’re staring at him, your brow furrowed in confusion.

He doesn’t blame you.

This is a strange situation, and you must be wondering who the hell is standing in front of you, why they rang your bell and then walked away.

"Um," Echo says, suddenly aware that he hasn't spoken. He clears his throat, trying to gather his wits. He didn't think this through. "Hi."

You blink, clearly not expecting that response.

"Hi," you reply, warily.

Echo tries to say something, but the words won't come.

He's frozen in place, staring at you, unable to do anything except take in your appearance, drinking in the sight of you. He didn't realize how much he needed to see you until now, and the relief he feels is overwhelming.

"Do I..." You trail off, studying him carefully. "Do I know you?"

He feels his heart break, just a little.

You don't recognize him. Of course, you wouldn't. It's been so long, and he's not the same man you knew. His face is one of thousands, identical and interchangeable. He doesn't even look like a clone anymore, not really. He's more machine than man, now, and he has no idea how he expected you to see him.

"Yeah," he manages to say, his voice hoarse. "Yeah, you do."

You raise your eyebrows, waiting. When he doesn't say anything else, you take a step towards him, squinting a little. He can feel the tension in his body, can sense your scrutiny. It's not comfortable, but it's not unpleasant, either.

"Sorry," you say, sounding frustrated, "I can't quite —"

You stop, your eyes widening, and Echo can see the exact moment it clicks.

"Oh," you gasp, covering your mouth with a shaking hand. The motion makes the paper bag of groceries on your arm start to slip, and Echo rushes forward to catch it, placing it on the floor by your feet. He stands up, and he can feel your eyes on him, can see the tears beginning to well up, can hear your breathing quicken.

He waits.

"Echo?" Your voice is soft, tentative, like you're not sure if he's real or not. Like he's some kind of ghost. He's not sure that's not what he is.

"Hey, cyar'ika," he says. His voice cracks, and he clears his throat again.

A small, incredulous laugh escapes you.

"Hi," you breathe. You cover your mouth again, trying to stifle the sob that rises from your chest. "I —" 

You let out a shaky breath, and then another, and then all of a sudden, you're crying, tears streaming down your face. Your hands come up to wipe them away, but more keep falling, and Echo is overwhelmed with the desire to hold you, to take away the pain and the sadness, to make everything right. But he doesn't know if he's allowed, doesn't know if it would be welcome. So instead, he just stands there, helpless.

"I'm sorry," you hiccup, wiping your face with the back of your hand. "I can't believe it's you."

He smiles at that, his own eyes burning. "It's me," he confirms. "I'm here."

You're shaking your head, your eyes never leaving his face, as if you're afraid that he might disappear if you look away. He doesn't blame you, and he does his best to stay as still as possible. The last thing he wants is to scare you, or make you think he's going to leave. Not when he just got here.

"I thought..." You start, and then trail off.

"I know."

You swallow hard, taking a moment to compose yourself. "I thought you were dead."

Echo winces. He's heard those words from a lot of people, but coming from you, they hurt. "Yeah, I, uh... I thought so, too, for a while."

He sees the look of horror that crosses your face, the way your eyes grow wet again, and he wishes he hadn't said it.

"How... How long have you been back?" you ask. Your voice is quiet, strained, and Echo can hear the question underneath, the one you're afraid to ask. The one that makes his stomach twist into knots.

"Not long," he answers, trying to keep his tone even, light. "Only a couple months, really."

"Months?" you repeat, incredulous. "You've been back for months?"

Echo shifts uncomfortably and nods. "Yeah."

You stare at him, your mouth opening and closing as you search for words. "And... And you didn't comm me?"

"I, uh... No."

You let out a sharp exhale and turn away, bringing your hands to your face, and he can see that you're starting to shake again. You're silent for a moment, and he can feel his heart pounding, can feel the blood rushing in his ears. His stomach churns, and he feels like he's going to be sick.

"Why?" Your voice is tight, controlled. It's the same voice you use when you're working, the one you use to keep yourself calm, to keep yourself from getting angry.

"I just... I wasn't..." Echo trails off, not sure what to say. I wasn't sure if I was coming back? That's true, but not the whole truth. I wasn't sure you'd want to see me? Also true, but also not the full answer. I wasn't sure I was worth it? Yeah, that's the one.

But he can't say it.

He doesn't know if it's fear or guilt or shame, but whatever it is, it keeps the words stuck in his throat. You're waiting for an answer, and he's not sure he has one.

"Echo," you say, your voice a warning. You turn to face him again, and he can see the hurt and frustration in your eyes. He wants to hold you, wants to apologize, wants to take it all back. But he doesn't move. He can't.

"Why?" you repeat, more forcefully this time.

"I didn't want to bother you," he says. It's the best answer he can come up with, and the worst part is that it's also true. At least, that's what he tells himself.

But the moment the words leave his mouth, he knows it's the wrong thing to say. You stiffen, and then your jaw tightens. He can tell that you're barely holding it together, and he wants to say something, to explain, but he doesn't get the chance.

"You didn't want to bother me," you repeat, and Echo can hear the anger in your voice, can feel the sting of it. "I'm sorry, did I not make it clear how much I care about you?"

"No, you did," Echo says, backtracking, trying to placate you. "You did, I promise."

"Then please explain how you thought keeping me in the dark about the fact that the man I love was still alive and well was not a bother."

The word "love" hits him like a punch to the gut.

You love him. You still love him. You're still here, and you're still loving him, even after everything. He doesn't understand, doesn't know why. Doesn't know how. But he doesn't have time to think about it, not with the way you're looking at him, the hurt and confusion clear on your face.

"That's not what I meant," he says, his voice low, pleading. "It's not that. I promise."

You let out a shaky sigh, crossing your arms over your chest. "What's the difference, then?"

Echo opens his mouth, and then closes it again, not knowing what to say.

"I mourned you," you say. Your voice is soft, almost a whisper, but it sounds loud in the silence between the two of you. "I loved you, and I mourned you, and I was doing okay, and then you just show up, and act like it's no big deal, like I didn't spend weeks, months waiting for you to come back, hoping you'd come back, and..."

Your voice cracks, and a fresh wave of tears begins to roll down your cheeks. Echo reaches out to brush them away, and you flinch. The motion stings, but he doesn't say anything, doesn't push it. He lets his hand drop to his side.

"I'm sorry," he says. "I didn't... I didn't mean to hurt you."

"Yeah, well, you did," you say, sniffling.

The words hit him harder than he expects, and he feels his throat tighten.

"I didn't know what to say," he admits, his voice breaking. "I didn't know what to do."

"Why not?" you ask, and your anger has softened, turning into something else. "Did I do something wrong?"

"No!" Echo says quickly. "Of course not. You were perfect. You were... You were amazing."

You look at him, and there's a vulnerability in your eyes that makes him want to gather you in his arms and never let go. He thinks maybe he should. But before he can, you speak.

"So what happened?" you ask. Your voice is quiet, but Echo can hear the desperation, the need for an answer. "Where were you? Why didn't you come back?"

“I—“ Echo looks around, suddenly aware of the hallway and the closed doors surrounding him, closing in on him. The space is too small, the walls are too close, the air is too thick. He feels trapped, like the world is closing in around him, and he takes a step back.

"Can we... Can we not do this out here?" he asks, trying not to let his voice betray his panic.

You study him for a moment, considering. He doesn't blame you. After all, he'd shown up out of the blue, and you had every right to be suspicious. You're still crying, but there's a steeliness in your gaze, and he can tell you're weighing your options, deciding if he's worth it or not. His heart hammers against his ribs as he waits, praying that you'll give him a chance.

Finally, you let out a sigh and nod.

"Yeah," you say, "sure."

You bend down to pick up the groceries, and Echo rushes forward, scooping them up before you can. You look at him, surprised.

"Let me help," he says. "Please."

You hesitate, and Echo can see the worry on your face, but then you nod, fumbling for the keypad. The lock clicks open, and you push the door open, motioning for him to go ahead.

He steps inside, and the familiar scent of your apartment hits him hard. He hadn't realized how much he'd missed it, how much he'd come to associate it with safety and comfort. It makes his chest ache, and he takes a moment to steady himself, willing the tears to stop.

Your apartment is the same, and yet so different.

It's still cozy, but there's a coldness to the air, a lack of warmth. The curtains are closed, and the room is dark, the only light coming from the dim bulb above the stove in the kitchen. There are dishes stacked in the sink, and a few pieces of dirty laundry have been discarded on the couch. The floor is littered with shoes and other miscellaneous items, as if someone came home and kicked everything off their feet, leaving it all in a pile. Echo’s brow furrows at the mess, and he wonders when you started to let the place get this way.

"I'm sorry," you say, sounding embarrassed. You take the bag of groceries from him, your cheeks flushed. "I wasn't expecting company."

"Don't worry about it," he assures you.

"Here, let me..." You trail off, disappearing down the hall, and a moment later, he hears a door slam shut.

Echo stands there, unsure of what to do. His gaze wanders around the room, taking everything in, trying to find something to occupy himself with. It feels like years since he's been here, and the sensation is both comforting and strange. He remembers the nights he spent curled up next to you on the couch, the quiet mornings in the kitchen, the lazy afternoons spent in bed.

He shakes his head, trying to focus on the present.

You're back now, and he needs to concentrate.

He takes a seat at the kitchen table, drumming his fingers against the wood.

It's quiet, but Echo can hear you moving around, and he wonders if you're trying to clean up, trying to make the place a little more presentable. He doesn't care about any of that. He cares about you.

And he doesn't know what to say.

He runs his hand over his face, pressing the heel of his palm into his eye, trying to think. He's rehearsed this moment in his head, has imagined all the different ways it could go.

And now that it's actually happening, he can't remember a single one.

He's such an idiot.

The minutes pass, and you finally return. He hears you enter the room, the soft sound of your footsteps, but he can't bring himself to look up. Not yet.

"Echo," you say, and he can hear the hesitation in your voice. "What happened?"

"I don't know where to start," he confesses, dropping his hand and glancing up at you.

You've changed into something more comfortable, a pair of sweatpants and your favorite sweater, and your face is scrubbed clean, makeup-free. It's nice to see you this way, a reminder of the times you shared together, and the sight makes him smile.

"Why are you smiling?"

"Nothing, it's just..." He pauses, his eyes wandering over you. "I forgot how you looked in sweatpants."

You roll your eyes, but there's a hint of amusement on your face. "Seriously? You're sitting here, after being missing for months, and you're making fun of my fashion choices?"

"I'm not making fun of you," he says, chuckling. The pressure in his chest eases slightly, and he takes a breath. "I just meant that I missed seeing you this way."

You let out a quiet, disbelieving laugh, and then shake your head.

"You're unbelievable," you mutter.

Echo smiles, and for a moment, he feels normal. As if the last year never happened, and this was just a day like any other. As if he'd just come home from a mission, and you'd greet him with a kiss, and everything would be fine.

But then you sigh, and the moment is over.

"Look, I get that this is... Well, I'm sure this isn't what you were expecting," you say. You move to sit across from him, leaning your elbows on the table and resting your chin in your hands. "But we can't keep pretending like nothing happened. You have to talk to me."

Echo stares at you, his eyes taking in the familiar lines of your face, the curve of your lips, the color of your eyes. They aren’t as bright as he remembered, not as full of life, and the realization breaks his heart. This isn't how it's supposed to be.

"Okay," he begins, clearing his throat. "So, uh, this is going to be a lot."

"That's okay," you say gently. You give him a reassuring nod, and Echo feels a swell of gratitude for you. "Just... Start at the beginning, and we'll go from there."

"Right, the beginning." Echo nods, trying to organize his thoughts, and then he starts to speak.

He tells you everything, from the moment the explosion happened, to the moment he woke up and found himself in Rex's arms, everything in between. He tells you about his injuries, the surgeries, the physical therapy. He tells you about his time with the Batch, his newfound abilities, the things he's been able to do, the things he's learned. He talks about the missions, the jobs, the danger they've faced, and the risks they've taken. He tells you about the planets, the people, the experiences. He tries to leave nothing out, even the hard parts. The loss, the pain, the fear. He doesn't want to spare you any of it.

You sit there and listen, asking questions when necessary, but mostly staying silent. And when he's done, he sits there, feeling a strange sense of relief. He hadn't realized how much he needed to talk about everything, how much he'd been holding in. And he hadn't realized how good it would feel to tell you. To have someone who cared, someone he trusted, who knew him better than anyone.

When the words run out, and the room is silent, you let out a long, slow exhale. You sit there, your hands folded together, your gaze fixed on the tabletop, and Echo waits, not sure what to expect. But the longer the silence drags on, the more worried he gets.

"Cyar'ika?" he asks, his voice hesitant.

You take a breath and look up at him, and Echo is startled to see that your eyes are glassy, and there are fresh tear tracks running down your cheeks.

"Sorry," you apologize, wiping at them with your sleeve. "I'm not — I just..."

You take another breath, and then let it out, composing yourself. "Thank you," you say. "For telling me. I know that can't have been easy."

"It wasn't," Echo admits, and his throat tightens a little. "But I'm glad I did."

You offer him a small smile, but it doesn’t reach your eyes. You look like you’re far away, lost in your own thoughts, and Echo has a feeling you're not fully present, not in the moment. And he doesn't blame you. His words can't have been easy to hear.

"Is there anything else you want to know?" he asks, trying to break the silence.

You glance at him, your eyes focusing, and then look away, your jaw clenching. Echo can see the emotion on your face, can tell that you're struggling to stay calm, to hold it together. You've always been good at that, he thinks.

"I just..." You pause, taking a shaky breath, and Echo can see the tears forming in your eyes again. "I just don't understand."

He frowns, confused. "What do you mean?"

You close your eyes, taking a moment to collect yourself. Then, you stand up and begin pacing around the kitchen, your hands clasped behind your back. You move slowly, deliberately, your gaze fixed on the floor, like you're trying to make sense of something, figure something out. 

Echo watches you, feeling uneasy. You're not giving anything away, and the silence is starting to get to him. He's never seen you in the courtroom, but he imagines this is the stance you take when you're interrogating a witness. 

It's effective.

"Can you say something, please?" he asks. He knows he sounds desperate, but he doesn't care.

"I'm thinking," you say, and Echo bites his lip.

He feels like he's going to crawl out of his skin. He wants to get up, to follow you around the room, try to coax a response out of you. He wants to make this better, to make this right. But he knows that pushing you won't help, so he stays seated, trying to keep his patience.

 You continue to pace, your expression blank, and the seconds tick by, the only sound the muffled noises of the city outside. It feels like an eternity has passed when you finally stop, standing in front of him, your arms crossed.

"I can't believe you thought I wouldn't want to see you," you say. Your voice is low, almost a whisper, and there's an edge to it that Echo doesn't recognize. It's not anger, not exactly. It's something else, something deeper.

"I know," he replies, his voice just as quiet.

"I thought you were dead," you say, the words coming out in a rush. "I grieved you. I mourned you. And then you show up, and you're... You're alive, and you're here, and you think the best thing to do is to leave me alone?"

"I didn't know what would happen," Echo explains, trying to keep his tone calm. "I wasn't sure if I was coming back, and I didn't want to —"

"No," you say sharply, cutting him off. "That's not an excuse. That's bullshit, and you know it."

Echo swallows, and nods, not sure what to say.

"We made promises," you continue, and Echo can hear the anger in your voice, can see the frustration on your face. "To each other. We talked about our future, we said things that... We made things that were real, and then you just decided it was too much, and you walked away. What the hell is that?"

"I'm sorry," Echo says around the lump forming in his throat. "I shouldn't have —"

"No," you interrupt, your eyes burning. "You shouldn't have."

Echo looks at you, and he feels like he's going to shatter. You’re staring at him with such intensity, and there's an anger in your gaze that he hasn't seen before. It's so different from the gentle look you usually give him, and it makes him ache.

"I didn't mean to hurt you," he says. "I swear, I didn't."

"Then why did you?" you ask, and there's a note of pleading in your voice. “I spent so long wondering, worrying, and you just... You didn't care."

"Of course I did," he argues. "It wasn't about that."

"Then what was it about, Echo?" you demand. "What was so important that you thought you couldn't tell me? That you couldn't comm me, or send a message, or do anything that would have let me know you were alive? That would have told me you were okay?"

"I didn't think —"

"What, that I'd care? That I'd worry? That I'd miss you? That I'd wonder where you were, and if you were okay, and what the hell happened to you?" you say, your voice rising.

Echo can feel the frustration building inside him, and he knows he shouldn't respond, knows that getting angry won't help, but the words tumble out before he can stop them. "I'm sorry," he snaps. "I wasn't exactly thinking clearly."

"That's not an excuse," you snap back, and Echo blinks, shocked. You're the most level-headed person he's ever met, and he's never heard you yell before.

"Yeah, well, it's the best one I've got," he says.

"Echo, I loved you," you say, and the past tense stings. "When Fives told me what happened to you, I —" Your voice catches, and the fight goes out of him. He can see the pain on your face, the hurt in your eyes, and he can't help but feel responsible. "I can't even describe it. It felt like my whole world was ending. And I don’t blame you for doing your duty, but I do blame you for not coming back to me."

"I know," he whispers. "I'm sorry. I really am."

You shake your head, turning away from him. "Why didn't you comm me?"

Echo hesitates. He doesn't want to admit his fears, his worries, the insecurities that have plagued him. He doesn't want to tell you how much he doubted, how much he doubted you. It feels too vulnerable, too raw. And it would only make you feel worse. But the longer the silence stretches, the more you deserve the truth. And he can't avoid it forever.

"I didn't think I was worth it," he says, his voice low. He can feel the heat in his cheeks, the sting of embarrassment. He can't look at you, doesn't want to see the pity, the disappointment, the anger. "I didn't think I was worth it."

You turn to face him, your expression softening.

"You were all I had left," he says. He feels exposed, and it's not a comfortable feeling, but he can't stop now. Not with the way you're looking at him. Not when he's so close to fixing this, to getting you back. "After everything that happened, I just... I couldn't bring myself to do it. I didn't think you'd want to see me."

"You really thought I'd just leave you?"

Echo can hear the hurt in your voice, and he's surprised at the sharpness of it. He expected to be met with some amount of anger, but he didn't expect it to cut so deep. He didn't think his insecurities would upset you so much. He's used to it, by now. After everything he's been through, the doubts and worries have become a constant, an almost comforting presence. But you were never supposed to know about them.

"It's not that," he says. "I know you wouldn't have left me. It's just... I didn't want to drag you down with me."

"That's stupid," you reply. There's no malice in your voice, but there's no sympathy, either. "What makes you think I couldn't handle it?"

"It's not about what you could handle," Echo says. "You didn't sign up for this. You didn't sign up for any of it."

"I signed up for you," you argue, and Echo is startled by the fierceness of your tone.

"And look at what that got you."

You fall silent, and Echo regrets the words the second they leave his mouth. He's always known he wasn't good enough for you, but it's different to actually say it out loud. It makes it real. And he's not sure he's ready for that. But you're looking at him like you can't believe he said it, and the disappointment in your eyes makes him feel even worse. 

Your eyes rove over him, taking in the scarring, the metal implants, the ports and wires, the armor. You look like you’re seeing him for the first time, and the disgust and fear he’d thought might appear are nowhere to be found, just a profound sense of sadness and resignation.

"Oh, Echo," you breathe. The words are quiet, but they feel like a slap, and he has to look away, not wanting to meet your gaze.

"I'm not the man you knew," he says. He sounds defeated, even to his own ears. His eyes are burning, and he has to fight to keep the tears from falling. He hates how weak he feels, how small, how vulnerable. "I can't be. I'm... I'm not him anymore."

"Yes, you are," you insist. You reach out and take his hand, squeezing gently, and the sensation makes him jump. He'd almost forgotten how warm you are, how soft. How safe. He wants to hold on, to pull you close, to never let go. "You're still the same man, the same Echo, I just..."

"What?" he asks, when you trail off. "You just what?"

You sigh, dropping his hand and running your fingers through your hair, tugging lightly. The familiar gesture makes him ache. "I don't know, Echo," you admit. "I'm... I'm sad. And I'm angry. But I'm mostly just... Confused."

"Confused about what?"

"I'm confused as to why you didn't come back to me," you say. "I'm confused as to why you thought I'd want anything else."

"I thought you deserved better," he says, the words sounding hollow, even to his own ears. "I thought you deserved someone who was whole, who could give you a normal life, who didn't have a hundred years of baggage and trauma to deal with. And I was terrified that you already had that."

"Had what?"

"A normal life," he answers. "Without me. And the more I thought about it, the more I convinced myself it was true."

"It's not," you say. Your voice is quiet, but firm, and Echo looks at you, searching for any trace of doubt, of hesitation, of insincerity. But all he finds is determination, and it makes his heart clench. The intensity in your gaze is too much, and he has to look away. His eyes trail over the walls, the ceiling, the floor, lingering on the groceries on the table, the dishes in the sink, the empty bottles of wine shoved into the trash, the pile of laundry on the couch. There’s a dent in the wall that wasn't there the last time he was here, and the carpet is worn. He wonders when that happened.

He feels a tug on his arm, and then you're reaching up to cup his face, your hands soft and warm. You turn his head to face you, your thumb stroking his cheek. The touch is gentle, comforting, and Echo can't stop the sigh that escapes him. It's been so long since someone touched him like this, and it's nice. It's more than nice. It's familiar. It's safe. It's home.

"I only wanted you," you whisper.

"Even after everything?" he asks. He doesn't mean to sound so incredulous, but he can't help it. He's spent so long convincing himself that you were better off without him, and now, hearing you say the opposite, hearing you say the words he'd only ever hoped for, the ones he'd tried to convince himself were true... It's a lot to take in.

"Even after everything," you affirm.

"You could have had anyone," he says. "Why me?"

"Because I love you," you answer, as if it's the simplest thing in the galaxy. As if it's the most obvious thing in the universe. "And I don't want anyone else."

"Cyar'ika..." His voice cracks, and the tears are falling freely now. You wipe them away, and the touch makes his chest ache.

"I've never stopped loving you, Echo," you say. Your voice is barely audible, but Echo hears it. And it's the best sound he's ever heard. "And I don't plan on stopping now."

"I'm sorry," he says. "I'm sorry I left you, and I'm sorry I didn't comm you, and I'm sorry I was such a coward, and I'm —"

"Shh," you murmur, cutting him off. "I forgive you."

Echo can't speak. He's not sure he can move, can't even breathe. The relief is overwhelming, and it threatens to knock him off his feet. His chest tightens, and the tears won't stop falling, and he doesn't know what to do. He's missed you so much, has regretted leaving every single day, and now that you're here, now that he has you back, he can't find the words to express how grateful he is, how relieved, how happy.

"You really thought I was going to leave you?" you ask, and Echo can hear the note of humor in your voice, can see the ghost of a smile on your face. It's reassuring, and he lets himself smile, too.

"Honestly? Yes," he admits.

"Never," you reply.

Echo leans down and rests his forehead against yours, closing his eyes and breathing deeply. You move your hands down his face, brushing the tears away with your thumbs, before bringing them around his neck, wrapping your arms around him. He moves to do the same, pulling you closer and wrapping his arms around your waist. You let out a quiet gasp of surprise, and Echo chuckles, holding you tighter.

"I missed you," he whispers, and it feels good to say the words out loud. "So much."

"I missed you, too," you say, your breath warm against his neck. You tilt your head and press a kiss against his throat, and Echo feels his heart stutter. "More than I can say."

Echo hums and pulls away, bringing his hand up to brush the hair away from your face. Your skin is warm, and soft, and he leans in and presses a kiss against your forehead, savoring the contact. You sigh, and he can't resist the urge to kiss you again, this time on the cheek.

"Echo," you murmur, letting out a shaky breath.

He kisses the corner of your mouth, and then your jaw, and your grip on his neck tightens, your fingers digging into the fabric of his blacks. He moves down your throat, trailing kisses along the column of your neck, and you gasp.

"I missed you, too," he murmurs, and you laugh.

"Yeah, I got that," you say. "Now, will you please kiss me?"

Echo smiles and obliges.

The kiss is soft and sweet, and it tastes like home. He cups the back of your neck, his scomp moving to rest on your hip, and you let out a pleased noise, your hands sliding down to his shoulders. The warmth of your mouth, the way your lips part, the little gasps and sighs you make, it all makes him want to get closer, to be nearer.

You break the kiss, and Echo lets out a quiet whimper. You chuckle and rest your head on his shoulder, and Echo brings his hand up to stroke your hair, his fingers combing through the strands. You sigh and lean into his touch, and he can't help the contented smile that spreads across his face.

"I'm glad you're here," you murmur. "I'm glad you came back."

"Me, too," he says. He tilts your head up and presses a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering. You close your eyes and nuzzle his neck, and Echo sighs, holding you close. It feels so good to have you in his arms again, to be able to hold you, and he wishes he could stay here forever. But the reality of the situation catches up with him, and he can't help the wave of guilt that washes over him.

"I'm sorry, Cyar'ika," he says.

You frown, and pull away slightly. "What are you apologizing for?"

"I didn't think this through," he admits. "I... I didn't know what was going to happen, and now..." He pauses, letting out a frustrated sigh. "I just... I'm sorry. I’m leaving soon, and I know it's going to be hard, and I know you're going to have to say goodbye again, and I'm —"

"Echo," you interrupt, and your voice is firm. You put your hand on his chest, and he can feel the heat of it, even through the layers of armor and clothing. "I know what I signed up for. I'm not expecting anything different."

"But —"

"No," you cut him off. "No buts. I knew what this was, Echo. And I still want it."

"But you shouldn't have to," Echo argues. "I don't want to put you through that."

"Well, it's a little late for that," you reply. Your tone is sharp, and Echo winces. "Look, Echo. I know the situation isn't ideal, but I'm not going to walk away because it's hard. And I'm not going to stop caring just because it hurts." You look at him, and the determination in your gaze makes his heart skip a beat. "You're worth it, okay? No matter what."

"Cyar'ika —"

"No," you say, shaking your head. "You're not changing my mind. You can try, but it's not going to work. So don't waste your time." You give him a stern look, and then your face softens. "Okay?"

"Okay," Echo agrees. He knows it's futile to argue. He's never been able to say no to you. Not when it matters. "I'm still sorry, though."

You roll your eyes, and then stand on your toes and give him a quick kiss. "You're lucky I love you," you say, and the words make him feel lighter.

"Yeah, I am," he agrees, grinning.

"So, what now?" you ask.

Echo shrugs, suddenly feeling overwhelmed. He's been so focused on finding you, on convincing you to forgive him, on making things right, that he hasn't thought about what comes next. The prospect of it is both exhilarating and terrifying, and he doesn't know where to start. There's so much to do, and so little time. And he doesn't want to waste another second.

"Do you want to stay?" you offer.

"Stay?"

"Here," you clarify. "For a while. I don't know how long you can, but..." You pause, a flush spreading across your cheeks. “I was going to make dinner. If you wanted to stay."

"Dinner?" Echo repeats, and he can't hide the excitement in his voice. The idea of a home-cooked meal is so far removed from his life now, so distant, that the thought of it almost makes him lightheaded. "Really?"

You laugh, and the sound fills him with warmth. "Yes, Echo. Really."

"What are you making?" he asks. The question sounds childish, and he can't believe how eager he is, how excited.

"Just a simple dish," you say. You move towards the counter and begin putting the groceries away, and Echo follows you, a smile spreading across his face. While you tell him about the recipe, he moves toward your sink, picking up a dish and turning the water on. You look over at him, and the fondness in your eyes makes him blush. "You don't have to do that, Echo."

"I know," he replies. "I want to."

"Well, alright then."

The two of you work together, talking and laughing as you wash the dishes and prepare the food. Echo feels lighter than he has in months, and it's a relief to be here with you, to have something normal and familiar to do. Something so domestic, so ordinary, and yet, so special.

He wants to remember this.

When the food is ready, you gesture to the table, and Echo takes a seat. You sit across from him, and for a moment, the two of you just look at each other. He's missed you, missed this. Missed being here, missed having someone who knew him, someone he could trust. Someone he could love.

You're both quiet, and Echo can see the wheels turning in your head, can see the way your eyes dart over him, taking everything in. You're cataloging, committing him to memory too. The realization hits him, and his chest tightens. He'll be leaving soon, and you're doing what you can to make sure you won't forget him. It's a sobering thought, and he's not sure how to handle it.

"Hey," you say, and Echo looks up, meeting your gaze. "It's okay. We'll be fine."

"How did you know?" he asks, startled.

You shrug. "It's written all over your face."

"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I wish I could stay."

"It's okay," you repeat. “We have the night, and that’s more than enough. For now, let's just enjoy the time we have."

Echo nods.

You're right.

You always are.

You smile, and it's so beautiful, so genuine, that it takes his breath away. You reach across the table and take his hand, giving it a gentle squeeze. He squeezes back, and you lean forward, resting your elbows on the table and putting your chin in your hand. The way you're looking at him, the affection in your eyes, it makes him feel like he's the only thing that matters, like he’s home.

And, right now, he is.

He's missed this.

He's missed you.

And as the two of you sit there, enjoying each other's company, Echo knows he's made the right choice. He knows that coming back was worth it, that finding you, fixing things, making things right, it's all been worth it. And he knows that, no matter what, he'll be back.

He'll find his way back to you.

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[takaraphoenix]

I hate how much heteronormative storytelling links romance and sexuality together, because I just know that that’s why it took me so many years to figure out that I’m ace.

And yes, I’m specifying heternormative storytelling, because that’s the thing we get force-fed in media pretty much from the day we first get put in front of a screen.

Once we move past the fluffy Disney movie stage of life and enter the teenage years, where sexuality becomes a part of the storytelling to varying degrees of explicitness, we hit the real problem zone. *

(* For this particular issue. The forced romantic narrative in every single children’s movie is its own problem zone when we’re talking about aromanticism.)

A thing I complain about quite frequently is the lack of m/f friendships, the way whenever A Guy and A Gal are friends, the heteronormativity kicks in. Unless they’re both in explicit other (stable! not ‘this ship is meant to be broken up for The Main Romance’) romantic relationships, it’s virtually impossible for the straights to just... keep them friends. There have to be some kind of romantic feelings involved. No other possible reason why A Guy might like A Gal or vice versa. The notion of pure, actual friendship goes over these writers’ heads.

Anyway. To the point of the post. Once The Gal and The Guy realize that they aren’t ~just friends~ but really have romantic feelings for each other and once the will they/won’t they stops and they actually will... More often than not do the writers forget to actually include any romance at all.

I mean, genuinely. Their relationship continues the exact same way it was before they got together. But now they have sex. The only discernible difference between “friendship” and “romance” in pretty much every TV show or movie I grew up on was that they now fucked and kissed.

Very often highlighted even more by the fact that they’re portrayed as so fucking horny, they barely got the confession out before immediately stumbling into the bedroom to get it on. Not a single date. Not even a full conversation wasted there. Just going at it like Noah just herded them onto a big ship.

And if you grow up watching these things during your formative years of what constitutes a relationship and they influence you during your “what the fuck’s going on with my own identity” phase, they paint an incredibly conflated image of romance and sex.

Namely, that romance not only doesn’t work without sex, but even more so also a notion that the only real difference between friendship and romance is sexual intercourse.

So, even if the term “asexual” somehow crossed your path at any point prior to the “what the fuck’s going on with my own identity” phase, that gets immediately dismissed as even vaguely being a possibility if you do experience romantic attraction. **

(** And also if you experience aesthetic attraction, seeing as absolutely nobody and nothing really prepared 90s kids for the difference between aesthetic and sexual attraction. Kids nowadays have more resources more readily available thanks to the internet and I’m genuinely so glad for them.)

Clearly, I can’t be asexual because I find people pretty and finding people pretty means wanting to have sex with them and having sex is the requirement for romance and I do want romance in my life. So, I guess I’m a “late bloomer”?

So. Yeah. My two cents on how heteronormative storytelling has harmed not just homosexual kids figuring themselves out but also asexual kids, because of the ways in which heterosexual relationships have been and still are being framed in media.

[ltwilliammowett]

I'm writing a novel set in the 18th century and one of my characters is a merchant sailor. What was life like aboard a merchantman? Did they all work for the East India Company, or were there individuals who might've owned their own ships?

Hi, Their life was quite similar to that of the Navy. Except that the number of crew members was greatly reduced and they did not have weapons training every day, due to the danger of being attacked by pirates and the extra work they had few members, they earned more than a Navy sailor. I can tell you more about the daily routine when I have more information that finally satisfies me. My sources are a bit vague about that.

But there were more than just the East India Companies and therefore also independent small merchants. If you want to know more about the ships, here's something for you. I've attached everything I know on the subject. Hope it helps you anyway and have a nice day.

[a-killer-obsession]

PITCHING TENTS ⛺️

Kid Pirates x AFAB Reader Modern AU Campground Series

🔞 MINORS DNI 🔞

It wasn't something you'd ever admit to those who knew you, they all made the reasonable assumption that you went camping to spend time alone. At first, that had been the case, but you'd quickly come to learn that other single men your age were doing the same thing, and you found yourself loving the thrill of a romp with a stranger.

Masterlist || AO3

PART 1/6 - LAY OF THE LAND

CW: None for this chapter, just R18 mentions of sex.

WC: ~3k

Taglist: @nocturnalrorobin

A/n: I'm vaguely setting this in my home country of NZ, based on a campsite I frequent, for entirely selfish purposes but also because it's easy to describe a place you've been to a million times. Anyway, when I mention forests those are the kinds I mean, no fear of a rogue bear or mountain lion ✌️

You pulled into the quiet campsite in the middle of nowhere as you did every year around this time. Set between large mountainous hills covered in dense forest, and boasting a pool heated naturally by nearby geothermal activity, the site was a popular, bustling location in the on season. You, however, enjoyed the off season, when it was quiet, almost entirely abandoned save for the grounds keeper and his dog, and a handful of long term residents, living out their retirements in quiet bliss in the RVs that lined the very back of the campgrounds. You parked your humble car in front of the office that was built alongside a small shop, usually selling entry and icecreams to locals who came here for the pools, but also held a selection of basics such as toilet paper and cup noodles for campers in desperate need of a grocery trip.

The gravel that lined the carpark crunched underfoot as you made your way to the wooden ramp that led to the office and store building, the whole complex no bigger than a shipping container. The eggy smell of sulphur from the nearby geothermal activity filled your nostrils, unpleasant at first but a smell you'd quickly get accustomed to as you always did. A bell rang as you opened the door, the older woman assigned to mind the store today hurrying out from out back, you could hear the TV she'd been watching as she came out front. This time of the year customers were nil to none, so the counters relied on bells for service, usually unmanned otherwise. The chances of someone stealing from the store while it was unoccupied were slim, but you could assume they had a camera set up to watch from a screen out back anyway.

“[Y/n]!” The old woman exclaimed, taking her seat behind the desk, “I was happy to see you on our books this morning”

“Can't miss my mid-year vacay, Marg,” you replied with a smile, pulling out your wallet and leaning against the desk. You'd been coming here for years, and Margie had worked here for just as long. “What do I owe ya?”

“Minus the deposit you already paid, that'll be $65 sweetheart,” she smiled, clicking a few buttons on the keyboard at a snail pace as she worked on printing a receipt. You handed her the cash and the til made a clunk as the drawer popped open, Marg replacing your four twenty dollar notes with a five and a ten and handing them back to you. You slipped them back into your wallet and she handed you a keycard for the gate that kept pool visitors and strangers out of the campgrounds. Well, their cars anyway, they could absolutely just walk around it.

“Usual spot sweetheart, I'm sure you don't need a map,” she stood to return to her back room. She was definitely getting older, and standing was clearly more difficult for her than it had been in previous years. You'd be sad the year you came to camp and weren't greeted by her friendly face

You thanked her and made your exit, getting back into your car and making sure to roll down your window. You slowly made the short distance to the card receiver, leaning out your window a little to hold the card against it. A small light flashed green and the metal arm creaked as it began to raise. Your car was small, so you didn't have to wait for it to raise completely before you were passing underneath it and navigating the familiar gravel roads to your favourite spot. There were no additional parking spots at each spot, you were expected to either park on them or leave your car in front of the office, so you pulled onto the grass alongside the road between the brick lines that marked the boundary of your spot.

Your usual spot was close to the middle of the grounds, directly across from the communal kitchen building, and just a thirty second walk from the main toilet and shower block. There were other, smaller toilet blocks scattered around the grounds, but this was the only one that featured showers and laundry. The kitchen building was also just a nice place to hang out, having a semi covered outdoor area framed by benches, one of the only places other than your own rented spot where you were allowed to drink alcohol, so it was a great place to meet other campers. At first glance, anyone would think a lone woman coming to a campground on the off season was here for peace and quiet. On the contrary, you found during the busy season there were usually far too many large families and happy couples. The off season was for singles, and you were here for one thing and one thing only: sex with strangers.

It wasn't something you'd ever admit to those who knew you, they all made the reasonable assumption that you were here to spend time alone, always turning down offers from friends to join you. At first, that had been the case. A spontaneous camping trip in the middle of the year to cool down after a particularly stressful project at work finally wrapped up. But you'd quickly come to learn that other single men your age were doing the same thing, and you found yourself loving the thrill of a romp with a stranger. The campsite being so empty also made for additional excitement, after many years here you'd had sex in or on most of the campground's amenities. The kitchen, the pool, the showers, on top of a laundry machine. It was an excitement you struggled to find in the big city you came from, without wasting money on a hotel room there was no good way to have sex with a stranger without being caught and without them knowing where you lived and getting attached, because like hell were you going to a strange man's house on your own.

You quickly set about working on your tent, pulling item after item from the back of your car and setting up with well practised speed. Soon you were closing the car boot and admiring your work. A decently sized, two chambered tent - the first chamber holding your cooler and a small fold down table for prepping a quick snack at night. The kitchens had multiple large fridges available for use, but you liked to keep your beer and soda in an ice bath in your tent for easy access. Every morning and evening you would go to the small camp store and buy a bag of ice, but for now the cooler was empty. The second chamber was larger and held most of your belongings, as well as a queen sized, double layered, inflatable mattress, already set with comfortable bedding. You even had a small fold down side table and camping lamp, which had a handle for late night toilet visits, and you'd run an extension cable from the site provided power you'd paid extra for, to your side table, so you could charge your phone and laptop from the bed. There was no internet here, and barely any phone signal, but you'd downloaded plenty of movies, tv shows and e-books before leaving home, as well as bringing a handful of actual novels, a switch console and drawing supplies. You weren't a fantastic artist by any stretch of the imagination, but it was a hobby you enjoyed and liked to practise anyway.

Outside your tent you'd also set up a small gazebo, after your first few years you'd gotten sick of being trapped inside the tent whenever it rained, and it also provided shelter for a large trestle table and tabletop barbecue so you could grill regardless of the rain. There were also a few collapsible chairs under the gazebo, a larger reclining one where you spent most of your time, and a smaller more basic one in case you had a guest. Aka another camper you intended to, or hand already fucked.

Satisfied with your setup, you took a quick break to check your phone and let your friends know you'd made it safe and sound, before climbing back in your car and heading to the grocery store in the small nearby town. The town was about a twenty minute drive away, a small oceanside tourist town that was mostly a pass through for those heading to a nearby famous beach, or to board boats or small privately run helicopters for whale and dolphin watching. You'd never bothered with the tourist traps, but you had once or twice hit the beach when you'd come during the on season with friends.

Thriving on local tourism, the town was humble compared to the city you'd come from, but large enough to have two supermarkets and a decent size home goods store, as well as a long stretch of boutiques and cafes. You head to your favourite supermarket, pulling into the half full car park and heading inside. You pulled up your list on your phone as you approached the doors, grabbing a trolley and setting about your shopping. Food for several days, beer, condoms, all very important. A novel that caught your eye, some trashy magazines, snacks for late night movies. A comically large cucumber caught your eye, and you snapped a pic to send to your friends with the caption ‘finally found a boyfriend 🥒💦’

Everything on your list gathered, you headed for the checkouts. A big, noisy, red ute pulled into the carpark as you started loading your groceries into the reusable totes you kept in the back of your car. It parked nearby and four fucking massive men jumped out, shoving each other and laughing boisterously. Definitely not locals by the looks of it, the back of the ute loaded up with what looked like camping equipment, tied down with straps and a piece of blue tarpaulin that didn't cover everything. You wondered if they'd be staying at the same grounds as you, it was the most well known in the area given its pool that was free use for the campers and the nearby hiking trail that offered incredible views of the entire area all the way out to the ocean. You licked your lips at their beefy builds, a girl could certainly dream, any of them would make a fine target for your sexual escapades.

The red haired one among them wolf whistled as he passed by, as you bent over the boot of your car to reach an extra tote that had fallen under a seat. You turned back to him, a hand on your hip, and winked playfully. He blushed, clearly not having expected that reaction, and his friends whooped and smacked him playfully. The group followed behind the redhead who was fleeing as fast as he could, and you continued packing away your groceries and returned your trolley before heading back to camp.

When you got back you unpacked everything, putting your chillables in the provided fridges, your name written in clear black marker over each package, and filled your cooler with the bag of ice you'd grabbed from the camp store on your way in before putting your beer and soda in to chill. The food that didn't need refrigeration was stored in your tent in a small latchable plastic box to keep any rodents away. All done with your chores, you ate a quick lunch of some pre-made food you'd grabbed at the supermarket, and decided to hit up the pool.

You made your way back up the gravel path from the pool, slide on sandals on your feet and a towel wrapped around your body. You were still in your bikini, your wet hair sending droplets of fresh water from the rinsing shower down your body. You watched a bird native to the area fly overhead before the sound of boisterous laughter caught your attention. Usually, at this time of the year, campsite guests would pick locations far away from each other, most people came here this time of the year to be alone. The grounds were arranged in blocks, each block holding ten or twelve sites, split with half to one road and half to another. There were a good amount of blocks, the grounds could probably accommodate a good couple hundred people at its peak, though right now you could only see three other tents far from yours.

You could hear the group before you spotted their red ute, the same one from the grocery store, obscured by your own setup until you got closer. They'd rented what looked like multiple sites right next to yours. Usually, you would be annoyed, but being that they were all so delicious you were delighted. This was going to be a successful holiday indeed.

The group was made up of four large men. There was the redhead who had whistled at you, he looked to be the youngest of the group, as wide as he was tall with a thick scar that ran down his face, giving him a natural bad boy appearance. He was soft looking, but in a strong, could definitely throw you over his shoulder sort of way, like a boxer. You noticed now that he was missing his left arm, it must have been facing away from you at the store. He wore eyeliner, which you noticed now they all did, along with a vibrant red lipstick that matched his hair. He looked very punk in dark ripped jeans and a leather vest he wore open, showing the scar that ran over his torso, along with a big fuck-off belt buckle and multiple silver chains hanging from his belt. The nails on his one hand were painted a darker red, and he had a black fabric headband holding back his wild hair.

Next was the shortest of the group, though certainly not short by normal standards. Dressed in a simple blue t-shirt and jeans, his impressive blond hair went all the way to his hips. His sharp featured face was partially obscured by messy straight bangs and a fluffy goatee, his lips painted purple as he flashed a bright toothy smile at the redhead.

The other two both dressed in a punk aesthetic much like the redhead, two slightly older men with impressive heights, one of them towering above all four of them. The shorter man had pale blue hair set in dreads, his face covered in unusual scars and thorn like tattoos wrapping around his neck and down his arms. The taller hid his hair under a black hoodie, but you could see pointed sideburns peeking out under them. He looked deliciously muscular under the tight netting shirt he wore.

The four of them were going about their setup, four separate single chamber tents laid out on the ground to sort their positions while the blond and tall one carried an excessive amount of grocery bags to the shared kitchen. It was just as well there was hardly anyone at the camp, they'd need a whole fridge on their own with that much food. Deciding to make your intentions clear as soon as possible, you laid a towel over your reclining chair and grabbed a beer, relaxing in your bikini that showed off your fit body. The redhead was quick to notice, and you tilted your sunglasses to wink at him. He realised why he recognized you and you heard him swear and scurry away. Cute.

You watched their entire setup process hungrily, watching their muscles flex as they unloaded the ute and set things in place. The redhead was no help with the tents, so he worked on setting up smaller things like their large barbecue and chairs while the other three got the tents erected. You couldn't help but notice that they hadn't brought a gazebo, they must be newbies. Hopefully the weather would be fine for however long they were staying, you hoped for more than one day, and given the amount of food they had you would guess at least three.

All of them eventually took notice of you, catching sly glances where they could. The blond one seemed the most confident, openly flexing and showing off, flashing you wide grins that you eagerly returned. Oh you would definitely be climbing that tree. The redhead continued to act shy, doing things that were clearly to show of his strength but refusing to meet your eye. The bluenette gave you kind looking smiles, and the tall one looked at you with suspicion, which you always responded to by changing which leg was crossed over the other, giving him a full view of your barely clothed centre. It didn't seem to phase him though, curious.

Your phone pinged at some point and you checked it, starting a conversation with your bestie about your current view. She was the only person who knew the real reason you took these holidays. You snapped a quick, sneaky pic of the four men as they set up.

You: [one attachment] You: finally found a boyfriend 🥒💦 Bestie: LMAO finally a man that can satisfy You: might have found a few more of those Bestie: yeah? Good huntin? 👀 You: new neighbours You: [one attachment] Bestie: fuck me Bestie: or rather, fuck you, hopefully You: the blond one is giving me eyes for sure Bestie: yeah? You layin down that charm girlie You: lets just say i just got back from the pool, and im enjoying a nice beer on my recliner 👙 Bestie: yes queen! Give them a good look at that meal, they're gonna be eatin you up in no time! You: fingers crossed 🤞 you know im in dire need of a good fuck, heres hoping they're not all just a gay polycule, that'd be just my luck Bestie: well it sounds like at least the blond is dtf You: hes got a cute ass smile, cant wait to ride it 🤠 Bestie: girl you are nasty! 😂 Go get that dick queen 🍆 ttyl, ily! You: luv u!

You put down your phone and finished your beer, deciding you'd laid around for long enough and it was probably time to get started on dinner. It was already late in the day, if you were going to attract any of the boys it likely wouldn't be today, you needed the novelty of camping to wear off for them before they came sniffing around for more excitement. Not to mention you were tired from driving all morning and setting up. You pulled a few things from the kitchen, carrying them back on one of your plastic camping plates, and grilled yourself a steak while you scooped a few premade deli salads onto your plate. You enjoyed your meal while reading your new book, noting the smell of meat in the air and the sounds of sizzling and beer cans opening nearby as your neighbours settled in for their own dinner.

When it got too dark to read you took your dishes to the kitchen to wash them, grabbed your toiletries from your tent, and took a quick shower. The weather was warm enough to make the short walk in your nightie, so you strutted back to your tent with your legs and cleavage on proud display, your nipples pert under the satin night dress which was trimmed with thick lace, hanging from your shoulders by delicate spaghetti straps. You'd never have walked around in public like this if you had neighbours you weren't trying to fuck, but you were more than happy for the boys to look at you, and look they did. You gave them a short wave before you entered your tent, grabbing a new beer and your laptop and settling in to watch a movie.

[NEXT PART]

[ruporas]

Would love to hear more about that angel wolfwood picture if you have thoughts!!

ANGEL WOLFWOOD… yes, i have Some thoughts but it's nothing crazy… POST TRIMAX SPOILERS BELOW

it's actually a standard revival / wolfwood returns as a plant au, caused accidentally by the large burst of power vash used to protect the orphanage. he showed signs of life but not waking after his 'revival', so when vash got back to the ship, the best option to keep him stable + safe was to put him in a cold sleep capsule. eventually he'd wake up + sees vash again + gets the worst vague explanation ever + bonks vash upside on the head.

although the circumstances is strange, vash is happy that wolfwood was able to recover(?) and is Alive. a human-plant hybrid situation is new and worries vash on how it may affect wolfwood long term, but otherwise, he's glad to have him back.

i'd like to imagine wolfwood would be disturbed by his revival, knowing it's vash's life that kept him alive + having came back as something different + tackling the "what now" of his future and learning how to live normally again. he'd be frustrated and upset for the most part, but once he eats, sunbathe a little, walk on the outskirts of the ship with vash, and think over the things he's no longer obligated to, he'd instantly crumble and cry from relief.

and now they get to live the rest of their lives out together!! that's my au Anyway.

some other tid bits; i'm sure there's more complicated / fun ways to make a human-plant hybrid, but for my simple brain, wolfwood just has feathers + no verbal communication, communicates like how plants do + improved regen like how vash used to. every time the feathers are sprouting too far from his body/used actively, he's dying, so part of living is him figuring out how to control them better.

TO ME, post trimax vash is basically a normal ass human who can maybe sprout a feather or 2 if he wants to die. as a result, he can't necessarily 'show' wolfwood, but he does his best to explain how it used to be for him. wolfwood was always observational, so there are some things he remembers vash doing that aids him in his predicament now. below is case a) of vash trying to resonate with wolfwood, forgetting that uses power.

ummm i think that's about all i have to say. honestly, i'm not usually one for a revival au, but i read dunmeshi recently and was like ohhhh.. ohh……. and it gripped me, a life full of trouble but not at the cost of the world ending nor family… they could be happy… but only in this au ofc

[awkwardtuatara]

okay so. various takeaways from Space Babies and The Devil's Chord (in which I have vague dweu brainrot):

The Doctor can regenerate butterflies and manipulate time to some degree without the TARDIS. And that's not wholly new information, but still. How did you do that.

Star Trek the show exists within the DW universe, and the Star Trek universe (as in the people and the ships) also exists

LOOMS????? Kind of???

The Doctor will speedrun his backstory to literally anyone. Sometimes this even helps the situation.

Wow, reality's fragile. They're living in a story now and the Doctor knows it

All these years and the Doctor still can't park the TARDIS. Never change. just please clean up the kitchen.

And for The Devil's Chord:

An enemy who's the embodiment of sound/music begins playing the theme song between parts. sounds oddly familiar - IS THIS THE SOUND CREATURE AGAIN

"If you take away music..." you mean like if music is banished from your kingdom? and people don't have the words to express how they feel but they know it's wrong? you know what other Doctor Who media is inextricably connected to the concept of music, and also has a title connecting to music? That's right, Scherzo-

Still not sure if that scene is supposed to foreshadow Susan appearing but that would be such a possibility. Wonder what happened to her and First with the reality shenanigans going on in 1963.

ELDRITCH DOCTOR ELDRITCH DOCTOR ELDRITCH DOCTOR ELDRIT-

the Doctor only gets really mad when someone tries to harm the TARDIS, and that really doesn't change

WHAT DO YOU MEAN YOU CAN HEAR NON-DIEGETIC MUSIC. DOCTOR. DOCTOR. SINCE WHEN COULD YOU DO THAT.

Extradimensional presence in this universe Doctor????? is that still a possibility? I mean, he also goes by a title that defines his very being, and the way he told Ruby about his name made it sound like other Gallifreyans gave it to him, but really he's the one that chose to be the Doctor. A title that, in terms of power and significance, seems to be closer to the all-encompassing roles of the Toymaker and Maestro than, say, the Master or the Rani. On the other hand, this could just be a normal Time Lords are Aliens kind of thing.

So it's clear that he knows he's in some kind of story, but how long has he known that?

Also how diegetic was that musical number at the end? Was that like. residual energy from Maestro's banishment or something?

Anyway. Wild episodes. I do like how they're leaning into how Doctor Who has developed into something of an abstract mythos; to me it's the most unique part about this show.

[carniferous]

okay hello i’ve come to offer a vague concept ❤️🤲 the first thing that came into my mind is like being in a car. and something being wrong w the car. which sounds so stupid but is hopefully vague enough?? also idk if i’m meant to specify a ship but (and you probs already know what i’m gonna say) ur bartylus genuinely changed my life and it’s always on my mind and im obsessed w it forever and ever and would die if you ever wrote them again (but also like. no pressure. i don’t wanna try and tie you down to one specific pathway) ANYWAY i hope this is vague enough but also not too vague that you’re just staring at me blankly rn… icl babe u really didn’t set any parameters so i’m kinda trying to spear fish in the dark here but im gonna stop talking now…. eagerly (but patiently!!) awaiting ur response <33

LMAO NOOO thank you so much this is exactly the level of vagueness i wanted!!! i simply need to let things cook in my beautiful mind palace before i can write + vague concepts work best for that

anyway i tried to do it justice for u. it's more barty character study than bartylus sorry but. also it's compeltely unedited!! do with that what you will xoxo

“I knew it,” Regulus murmured, a hand coming up to cover his eyes. He was slumped down in his seat, the lines of his face stark in the pale moonlight. The motorway stretched out empty and endless before them. 

Barty clenched his jaw and turned the key in the ignition once more. The engine sputtered loudly, just enough to give him some small shred of hope, before it promptly died for the fifth time. 

“Dammit,” he hissed, thumping his hand against the steering wheel. He turned to Regulus, “What?”

Regulus lowered his hand and glared fiercely. “I knew I was going to die in this metal box the moment you persuaded me to get in.”

“And yet, you still let me persuade you.”

“Barty.”

“What?” Barty grinned. “You’re not going to die, Regulus. Cars are only dangerous when they’re moving.”

Regulus scoffed. He looked about five minutes away from having a conniption—which meant that Barty had about three minutes of continuing to fuck with him before he got properly angry. His hands were clenched in the fabric of his trousers, and when he turned his face towards the window, Barty could glimpse the deep shadows under his eyes as they appeared under the light. 

He felt his heart soften, just a tad. 

“I have a plan,” Barty said.

Regulus rolled his eyes so far back that they disappeared into his skull: “Oh, joy. Another plan.”

“They’ve gotten us this far, haven’t they?” 

“Yes, stranded on the side of the road with you,” muttered Regulus. “Exactly where I want all my plans to lead me.”

At that, Barty felt a strange, wild sort of affection swell up within him. He wanted to lean over and bite the nape of Regulus’s neck hard enough to draw blood, wanted to crowd him against the door until all that bluster and exasperation fell away. But there would be time for that.

“Don’t you want to hear my plan?”

“No,” Regulus said sullenly. “I want—”

He stopped. Barty’s grin abruptly fell away. He reached over and cradled the back of Regulus’s head, firmly enough that he had no choice but to face him. Regulus kept his eyes downcast, an unhappy twist to his mouth, a sickly tinge to his face that the low light couldn’t hide. 

“Hey,” Barty said, and he curled his hand into a fist in Regulus’s hair. “Look at me.”

Regulus’s gaze flickered up.

He was a living bruise, a walking heartache. Two weeks ago, Barty had looked at him as they packed their things for the end of term, and he’d known that Regulus wouldn’t survive another summer in that house—not as himself, anyway. He knew it the way Sirius must have, before he left, and he understood. Better than he’d like to admit. Sometimes it was easier to pack your bags than to watch someone like Regulus tread water and insist that they weren’t moments away from sinking. 

In that respect, though, Barty was different. He didn’t care what Regulus wanted. He wasn’t going to leave him to drown. 

Besides. Barty was fed up, himself.

When he spoke, his voice was low and steady, and Regulus listened with wide, unblinking eyes: “We’re not going home. Do you understand? There’s nothing back there. Nothing. Forget it, Regulus.”

A beat of silence. Barty’s grip loosened, he made to pull back, and then—

“What about your mother?” Regulus asked with a horrible little glint in his gaze. 

“What about her?” Barty replied without missing a beat.

Regulus blinked. Barty almost laughed at him. Could have, at the idea that Regulus thought he’d trapped him with that. His mother, who’d wanted Berty out of that house perhaps even more than he himself did. Regulus could never understand that.

What he could understand, though, was the terrifying, exhilarating sensation of freedom. Of the surprising vastness of your own mind when it was vacant of everyone but yourself. Of sitting in a car stranded on the side of the road and becoming aware of your own mortality. Death was suddenly an end to something real and full of potential. 

After what felt like an eternity, Regulus asked, “What’s your plan?”

“I turn seventeen in five hours,” Barty said. “Once midnight hits, the Trace will disappear. I’ll fix the car then.”

“You don’t know how to fix it.”

“At least I know it’s called a car and not a ‘metal box.’”

“You want us to spend five hours in this thing?” Regulus said, as though catching up with his own disbelief.

“Technically, seven hours,” said Barty. “We still have to make it to Bath. And then, once we pick up the twins…”

“What?”

“I don’t know,” Barty shrugged—a loose, slouching thing. He noticed Regulus’s eyes track the motion with nothing short of predatory glee. “Orgy in the metal box?”

“I hate you.”

“You love me,” Barry cajoled, grinning from ear to ear. “Why else would you run away with me?”

There was a long moment of silence, in which Regulus gazed, baleful and petulant, out at the road in front of them and Barty gazed at him. Already, he was more animated, more tetchy, more acerbic than he’d been just days ago. The cobwebs slowly clearing from his eyes.

Sometimes, Barty recognized Regulus like the slant of himself in a shard of glass. But other times, Regulus was just very beautiful. Barty wondered if there an element of vanity in wanting him, to the prideful joy he got out of fucking him out of his own head. The idea that he could press Regulus down hard enough to mold him back into himself. 

On very rare occasions, he wondered if he was like his father. If the only love he knew was what he learned from the voice in his head as it puppeted his limbs about. If that presence was more himself than he was. A normal person would look at it with revulsion, would see complete and total control as a firsthand abomination.

But it was because Barty knew the abomination firsthand that he knew also the complete, total, clean satisfaction of such control.

“You were hardly the first to ask,” Regulus said mildly.

Even in the darkness, Barty could see the flush travel down his neck. He grinned and, without another word, reached over and unhooked Regulus’s seatbelt.

“I didn’t ask,” he replied, just as mild.

[saltygilmores]

Thoughts While Watching Gilmore Girls, 3x10-The Winter Carnival Episode-Pt 2

Netflix will display a content warning of "language and sex" for every episode of Gilmore Girls when there is neither.

I mean this ever so gently. Please shut the hell up, Rory Gilmore and just let this guy kiss you for once in your pathetic life. He's not going to be in your life forever, you know. Then again, he is your future step cousin so he will be around forever, but eh, you know what I mean. All the more reason to learn now. You don’t want to be looking at your smoking hot super slutty cousin from across a desk 13 years from now and regret not doing him when you had the chance so instead all you can do is talk to him about how you can’t afford to buy underwear.

Anyways Just stop talking and give your cuz the ol tongue razzle dazzle.

This is hands down, the 2nd Best Looking Jess of the first 3 seasons. 1st place?

The gel-job + jean jacket + white tshirt + cigarette+ devil-may-care-attitude+ combo was absolutely impeccable. But Winter Carnival Episode Jess is serving up some fierce competition with the dark black coat and a sense of sexual urgency more commonly seen in an inmate who was just released from a short prison term.

Jess: Growing up means learning that the Winter Carnival is just another one of Taylor Doose's grifts to fund his next trip to The Bahamas. Now gimme some tongue, baby.

FOCUS!!!!!

That's my King of Nopes, Huhs, and Okuhs!

Me, talking outloud to the screen in a vague foriegn accent that sounds something like a cross between Gru and Borat: I swear to god if you do not shut up This girl would stop to talk about Lane and her Mom and Dean while they were having sex, I swear to god.

His best work!!! I'd ask Shane if that were true, but you know, stab stab, splash splash, honk honk.

Look how fricking cute they are and they were really dating too. Look how he puts her arm around her. It's so sweet. How could anyone ship her with Dean or Logan? Nonsense. Rubbish. (yes, I say that as someone who does not ship them past the point of their original relationship ending. Leave me alone).

Aruba, Bahamas, Key Largo, Montego...

Does "our own fun" involve playing hide and seek in Luke's closet? (Spoiler alert: He is going to try and pull off another game of Closet Checkers in this episode, but the Cockblocking Fates (Lorelai and some little bratnugget) are going to put a stop to it. Dang Rory. That's cold. Winter Carnival Grift That Happens Every Year In Perpituity Because The Cayman Islands Aren't Cheap So You Can Always Just Go Next Year The Fuck iS wrong With You > Our Own Fun with your new hot horny boyfriend? He even did the backpack-strap-grab. It worked on her. Ladies and gentleman, there has been a compromise. And not a Bargaining With Butthead fear-based compromise like we so often saw with Dean. Rory will go with Lane and she and Jess will "hook up afterwards". Mmmhm.

*rolls around on the floor* *stops drops and rolls*

Speaking of compromises. After Milo wanted AmyShermanPalladino to write Jess off by having him get struck by a bus, I suppose this was her compromise.

[emperor-palpaminty]

Peace, For Now

In which you (GN) and Echo discuss next steps. Takes place at the end of TBB. Sweet and fluff and a love confession on a beach??? Whaaaaat???

(also lemme know how you like the "you" vs third person reader inserts. I'm currently writing Cat and Mouse pt 4, so I'm trying to decide how I do that! I personally don't like "you" when i read, but if yall do I am flexible!)

The beach was a ways away from the middle of town, but you could still hear the sounds of celebration. Your toes dug into the sand, the gentle waves filling the holes they left behind. It was surreal. Your body felt empty and light, but also... tired.

You were done. For now.

Unanswered questions looped around your mind again. Sacrifices were made, and they could not be undone after the war. It was always hard to come to terms with, but somehow coming to terms with the end was harder, in ways. If your largest battle was finished, was it a gulp of fresh air or the finale of an aria?

What did you even know outside of war at this point? The breeze that tugged at your face promised a vague hint of hope, but...

"There you are."

You didn't bother turning all the way- you knew Echo's voice anywhere, even across a ship full of his brothers. You smiled, softer than you felt. "I needed a breather."

"I could tell." There was a soft scuff, shoe against a rock, and a soft thump that followed as Echo landed softly in the sand. "It's quieter over here, anyway." He padded over gently, moving meticulously. That was Echo as everyone knew him. Quiet and thoughtful, but brave, honorable, independent. Sassy when someone needed it, and he had a sense of humor that could appeal to everyone. Echo was loyal to a fault- dying once and then being willing to die again for the brothers that took him in.

He was legendary among clones. But he was just... Echo.

You finally cast him a glance, smiling when he met your gaze readily. After a shared moment, a pause, you chuckled and shook your head softly. "What are we, Echo?"

"What do you mean?"

You closed your eyes and tried to stead yourself. The waves were moving, lapping closer, but not quite reaching the two of you in the close moment. It was a welcome guest, but you were fine that it hadn't invaded the intimate space yet. You steeled yourself, blinking quietly as you fought off a prickle of tears at the corner of your eye. "All I've ever known- and all you've ever known, I would think- has been war. Fighting. Being soldiers." The shrug you gave was helpless.

The words hung in midair. They stayed for a while, the silence of them almost louder than the incoming tide or birds flying by. You blinked, a hand reaching up and touching your cheek to pull away with a wet tear. "Oh," You said, not quite realizing you had been crying.

Echo reached out quickly. He touched your back, the human hand landing on you. "Hey." He said. "There's no rush."

"I know, but-"

"Fighting will always exist. You'll find something to fight for." He licked his lips, brows narrowing in determination. "Tomorrow."

Your lips drew into a smile. You nodded, faith falling into place. "Yeah," You muttered, as sound returned to the world. "Tomorrow."

[butchsophiewalten]

there has been ANOTHER kyle-martin twitter space and i missed all of it :( do you happen to have any info on what was in there??

I was there the whole time! But because this wasn't a Q&A style space like the one from last week, I didn't take as many notes. A lot of it was just Kyle and Martin talking about their own personal interests and life anecdotes, which I found really interesting and enjoyed listening to, but felt uncomfortable writing down as like, Walten Files News, y'know? A lot of it was pretty candid and personal, not really something I want to be sharing as a Series Fun Fact.

The stuff I did jot down is pretty sparse, but here it is anyway:

-Martin mentions that he's actively working on a scene involving Rosemary while he's in the space. He talks about how he saved a lot of the Rosemary stuff for last, because he's excited to work on it.

-Martin says "No, I love the fans but I don't trust them with fucking Jack and Felix plushies". Kyle mentions an anecdote about how Martin didn't want to make human plushies because he didn't want people tormenting the Felix one.

-They spoke a lot in very vague terms about scenes in TWF4. Many distinct times of someone going "Hey, you know the thing about This scene? Hold on, I'll DM it to you" as a launching point for a different conversation, with few or no additional details about the scene in question. Late in the stream Martin mentions finding it funny to imagine the twitter space audience trying to 'peek into the room' to see what they're talking about, like a kid trying to peek at their Christmas presents.

-Martin talks about a scene in TWF4 which is inspired by a real nightmare he had that woke him up in a cold sweat.

-They mention how Showbear was retconned, and Martin talks about how the role Showbear was going to fill in the series has been broken up and split between two separate characters who supersede him, one of which is another white bear named "Mr. Snow".

-Martin talks for a bit about storytelling techniques he's learned from his favorite media/artwork. He brings up Better Call Saul a lot here, speaking mostly about the things it's taught him in the way of subtlety in storytelling and characterization, and how it's often much more effective to convey something in few words than to over-explain it in the hopes of absolute clarity.

-Martin mentions that when he inevitably has to recast Felix, he is not going to open auditions for him, he's going to hand-pick the VA himself, and it's most likely going to be someone he's already worked with or someone he knows through someone he's already worked with. He says that his concern is less to find someone who can emulate Coker's Felix voice, and more to find someone he thinks is most appropriate for the character.

-On the topic of Felix, Kyle brings up a vision he has in his mind of a post-crash Felix leaving Brighton for years, and coming back having gained a lot of weight and otherwise in a significantly poor state. Martin says that it's actually true that Felix gains some weight later in his life. (The implication here I imagine being that 1982 Felix is heavier than 1974 Felix was.)

-There's a pretty long conversation here about a fear Martin has of a specific scene in TWF4 starting a Fandom Ship that he really doesn't want to exist, and on the topic Kyle brings up the first random Terrible Walten Files Ship Idea he can think of, and lands on Jack and Susan. Martin has a very visceral reaction of disgust.

-Martin then starts talking about how he hasn't really fleshed out an idea for what Susan and Jack's relationship is like, but he thinks it'd be fun if they teamed up to scare people, since they're both pretty tall and intimidating.

-Martin ends the stream saying that he didn't finish the Rosemary scene he was working on, but that he's tired and wants to go to bed. He also goes "FUCK Rosemary Walten, man, why does she have so many fucking scenes."

[incognita-soul]

hey, i saw in your bio that you work on tall ships and i was wondering if u had any advice.

i’ve been on 2 tall ship sailing trips before (+some dinghy sailing) and got my competent crew recently so i’m pretty inexperienced. on those sailing trips i’ve met young adults who were working on the boats as volunteers. i’d like to be able to volunteer on tall ships one day.

do you have any advice for the best way to gain experience and learn stuff? (if possible on a budget). i’m taking a gap year next year and i’d really like to take the chance to go sailing and get better at it. (i’m in the uk if that’s relevant.)

absolutely no pressure to answer and i’m sorry this is so vague and clueless! anyway, thanks for taking the time to read this. your blog is cool :))

Heya! Thank you, and I'd be happy to give you my two cents! All of my boat experience has been in the US so take my advice with a transatlantic grain of salt, but here goes!

Firstly, two trips and some dinghy sailing and a competent crew cert is actually quite a bit in comparison to your average person starting out in the world of boats, so don't worry about feeling too inexperienced! You're already on a good track. I've been working on tall ships in some capacity for over 10 years and I still don't have any specific certifications (I've got a lot of experience and sea time, I just haven't had time to take any of my courses and exams for actual licensing).

Facebook is (unfortunately) still the best place to network, especially for international opportunities. There are a variety of groups that you can join. I'm personally in Schooner Bums, Tall Ship Opportunities, Women Who Sail, Crew Finder, and a few other private groups specific to the organizations I've worked for. A lot of organizations will post to these groups with job opportunities with specific requirements, so it's fairly easy to get the info you need. I'm sure there are a few groups specific to sailing in the UK. In the US, we have Tall Ships America, which is an organization that provides networking, training, and job opportunities for mostly US based sailors and boats. I'm not sure if the UK has an equivalent organization, but I do recommend even though you are UK based you should peruse their website, especially the Billet Bank, which is where job links are posted:

You're in the UK, so there are a shit ton of boats there but as far as I know most of them are museum boats that don't do a lot of sailing. I will say from personal experience that museum boats with a good volunteer maintenance program are great places to start for establishing a strong set of foundational skills (knots, understanding and maintenance of the rig, carpentry, etc.). You might not get much actual sea time with a museum boat, but you will learn the things that will make you a better sailor. I got into tall ships by working as a historical interpreter and then as part of the sailing/maintenance crew here:

https://www.jyfmuseums.org/visit/jamestown-settlement/living-history/ships#ad-image-0

Most tall ship organizations are based around education, both for the public and for the crew, so it's easy to find a boat with some sort of introductory training program relatively near wherever you live. These range from expensive pay-to-play working vacation type experiences, to paying a fee to participate in a structured comprehensive training curriculum after which you can become long-term crew, to volunteering weekends sanding and oiling blocks in exchange for the opportunity to sail.

Since you said you are taking a gap year, my advice is look for a short-term comprehensive live-aboard program that gets your foot in the door for staying on as regular crew, potentially even paid crew. Idk any specific ones in the UK, but here's the one that the last boat I worked on offers as an example of what i mean:

If you've got time before your gap year starts, try to find something local, like volunteering for a mueseum like I mentioned earlier, so that you get used to the vocabulary and foundational knowledge of boats. That way you can really get the most out of a more immersive program later on and you won't feel too much like an oversaturated sponge trying desperately to sop up more information even though your brain is leaking out of your ears.

I'm not sure if you're wanting to do tall ships longer term or just something one-off for the gap year, but if you're in it for the long haul just be prepared that it's a lot of hard work for not much financial return. I don't mean to discourage you, it's just good to know that upfront. On Lady Washington we have a saying that "we work on an 18th century boat for 18th century wages."

Unfortunately the tall ship industry is kind of hard budget wise. Most training programs cost quite a bit of money, most jobs are either volunteer or don't pay very well (industry standard deckhand pay in the US is about $1000/month), and most higher level positions require various levels of certifications (for which course and exam fees can run pretty high). You can do it on a budget, especially since most long term positions are live aboard so you don't have to pay for rent or groceries, but if you want to make a career out or it, it takes a lot of years of working for less money than you're worth before you start earning real money back.

Despite all that, working on tall ships is still an incredible and fulfilling experience that I recommend to anyone with a love of the sea and learning practical skills!

Sorry I couldn't give you more specific information, as I have yet to work on any UK boats. Good luck, and please tell me when you find a program that works for you!

[your-tutor-abacus]

The Color of the Sunspot's Milk

We don't drink milk on the Sunspot.

It's not really a thing for us.

We did not evolve from mammals, so we do not produce milk ourselves, typically. Actually, our life can't really be divided up into the same categories as Terran life, anyway, and the Evolutionary Engines that are used to create people now produce such a diversity of biological development that we can't use sweeping statements like that meaningfully. But, we strongly suspect based on evidence at hand that the Ktletaccete did not originally have anything like mammary glands.

And, on the Sunspot specifically, we do not consume anything produced by animals. It just never even occurred to the Founding Crew to set up the ship and our culture that way. The ecological balance of the Garden requires that we let the fauna live as naturally as possible without interference from people. So, we do not milk animals.

But it turns out that we drink something that is kinda of vaguely like milk. It often serves a similar culinary utility, particularly in baking.

We know this because we have been talking to our Earth custodians of the Terran Tunnel Apparatus, and they have tried a product they call Ryze that is an approximation of what we use on the Sunspot, and we've been trading notes.

So, in the search for accommodation, the ancestors of the Sunspot Ktletaccete developed a mixture of pureed fungus and algae that could provide a very young child or a disabled or elderly person with nutrients that might not otherwise be readily available to them. And we have been calling this something that our translators have decided to call "formula". We understand that this echoes the term many of you use for a fortified milk that you feed your infants, and that's acceptable.

But our formula comes in many varieties, customized for each person's needs and even each use they might have for it.

Fungal and algae farming has always been abundant and easy for us, so it is the least expensive food to create. It may not have been central to the diet of ancient Ktletaccete, but it has become pivotal to survival in space aboard our Exodus Ships. And now we use it in nearly everything.

We also eat a variety of nuts, fruits, grains, tubers, leaves, stalks, and other vegetable matter (or their Sunspot equivalents to what these words mean to you). And some of those things provide proteins and lipids that compliment what is provided by our various formulas, so depending on how we combine it we can create foods that sometimes resemble your breads, quiches, meat loafs, stews, etc.

But, also, Artisan crafted beverages is a huge thing here, which I understand some of your cultures might relate to. And our formula is central to that.

So, what are the main differences between our formula and milk? And what are the differences between our formula and something like Ryze?

Well, obvious, our formula is made entirely differently from milk, and does not share it's color. It's not white or even white-ish, typically.

Though some varieties of it can come close to white so that Artisans can add vibrant colors to it more easily without it turning brown, but the processing tends to remove a lot of nutrients from it, so it's not terribly popular outside of that visual utility.

It's also usually somewhat low on lipids, though those are definitely added for many baking purposes.

It's more of a suspension than an emulsion most of the time, as a result. But again, that varies on it's purpose.

And because of that, and the fact that it's made from fungus and algae, makes it very similar to things like Ryze, which is apparently currently available for something you call "a lot of money" by purchasing it over your Network (or Internet, as you say).

There are other drinks like Ryze, but it so happens that the girlfriend of our counterparts purchased Ryse specifically, so that is the one that they are trying. In particular, they are trying Ryze Matcha, as opposed to Ryse Coffee, since we don't have anything remotely like a coffee bean on the Sunspot, but we do have a green stimulant kind of vaguely like Matcha that can be added to our formula.

We can't really truly compare the sensations of drinking our various forumlas to drinking Ryze, because there is an enormous physical gulf between the Earth and the Sunspot, and we cannot transport either liquid nor taste buds and nervous systems across that distance. And translating words, even with in the same language, between two individuals' personal experiences is inherently inaccurate to begin with.

But we can make some conjectures.

As far as flavor is concerned, we can infer some things. Humans are omnivors with a variety of sensitivities to flavors, and apparently our counterparts are something called a supertaster. They are more highly sensitive to flavor than their typical peers.

They report that Ryze Matcha tastes "green". Not just that it is green in color and therefore the flavor it has can be described as green, but that it reminds them of other green things that they have eaten. There is a bit of a spinach flavor, they report, but its very faint. There is also a faint green tea flavor. We don't know what either of these things really mean, but we know that spinach is a leafy vegetable and that green tea is also made from leaves. But then, they also say that these flavors are not like either of these things, either. They're similar but different.

More specifically, they report that Ryze Matcha does not taste like most mushrooms they've eaten. In fact, it bears a closer resemblance to the flavors they get when they drink from an old jug of water that maybe has some green stuff growing on the inside of it.

"Why would you do that?" I asked them.

And they replied with, "Carelessness."

Anyway, this seems relatively in keeping with our experiences with formula. Usually, it tastes kind of like some other vegetable matter, but different. But, whether those ways are similar to how humans experience Ryse and vegetables on Earth, we really don't know.

What we do know for sure is color. That's something that can be measured quite precisely via the wavelengths of light.

Of course, we may perceive that color differently than you, but thanks to technological measuring devices and mathematics, we can use the same names for the same wavelengths of light. So, when I say that something is green on the Sunspot, you will be able to trust that if you somehow visited your neurology will interpret that thing as what you know of as green, adjusting for the difference in our ambient lighting, of course.

And, yes, some formulas we use are nearly as green as Ryze Matcha, and they are gorgeous.

But most formula ends up in a wide spectrum of color between what you call khaki and a deep vibrant purple, thanks to the dominant colors of most fungi and algae found on the Sunspot.

Our sun produces more ultraviolet light than yours does and there is less shielding between it and the surface of the Garden, so most of our plant life has developed its own shielding, which comes in varieties of purple. Mostly, it's the algae that carries the purple coloring. Most of our fungus isn't green, either, but even when it is, the purples of the algae shift the colors to brown when mixed with it.

But green mosses, ferns, and algae are found in the darkest, deepest parts of our forests, where the sun never reaches the ground directly, and we find that color to be captivating, so our ancestors bred a small variety of green food algae strains specifically for culinary variety.

And the flavor of that stuff is definitely what we could call green.

[elysiumnotes]

My 9-1-1 s8 Disaster Ideas/Wishlist

So I am going to spend the hiatus for 911 moving onto some of my brushed to the wayside hyperfixations now that the season’s over. Honestly after almost 15 years in fandom, I do not want to wade into the water of angsty ship wars and have already filtered out my tags and blocked certain blogs to ensure my peace.

However, I still will be thinking about my gay little wee woo show and I wanted to post my ideas, wishes, speculations, and predictions. Not necessarily in that order…..

Anyways! First things first, for this little post I wanted to speculate about what s8’s big disaster is going to be and my idea on how it could be done. (ABC if you’re lurking, please feel free to take the idea. You too, Tim. I give this idea away for free) What I think the s8 disaster is:

TORNADO / TWISTER

Now hear me out….as a Canadian, I have no clue if Tornadoes are common or even occur in places like LA. But with a dramatic ass show like 911 that has dealt with titanic-like cruise ship disaster, tsunami, earthquake, mudslides, wildfires, etc. it’s not out of the realm of possibility for them to completely the elemental set.

But moving onto how they would work it in…

I propose that it is used in the season premiere. (stick with me and imagine) LA is on Tornado watch and is hunkering down but the 118 get called to an emergency like they always do. (since it seems like their sector seems to be the entirety of LA, but I digress)

Unfortunately Captain Gerard is still the temp Captain while Bobby is out fighting the decision with the Chief. Obviously the crew does not gel with his leadership style which affects their ability to complete this rescue that’s in the path of the tornado.

Now this is where I get a little insane….Please stick with me on this….

This will be an Eddie centric 2 part premiere as he’s still reeling from Chris’s decision to go to Texas for the summer. (I refuse to have him leave completely) He’s kinda going stir crazy in an empty house now that his son’s not there. Instead of Buck being the normally reckless one, Eddie dives into the rescue against Gerard’s orders as the wind picks up. The tornado gets too close and the winds too strong that they can’t go after him safely and that cause the structure he’s in to collapse on him and knock him out.

Here’s the crazy part…

As he’s knocked out, we go into Eddie’s dreamscape consciousness that is just pretty much a 911 version retelling of the Wizard of Oz….

(I promise this will be a compelling arc)

…..which we will eventually learn is the movie he ended up watching the night before as had been having some cases of Insomnia now that Chris was gone.

Now you’re thinking, Elysium, that absolutely bonkers and how would they ever pull it off? Truthfully I don’t know how they would write but I can give the bare bones of what I imagine for it.

Eddie wakes up in weird not-version of LA after the Tornado passes to find a firetruck crushing the ‘Wicked Witch of the West’ Gerard.

He’ll take the Saint Christopher medal from the body (why? I don’t know… it’s his weird dream sequence about coming to terms with his grief)

No memories/vague recollection of what he’s doing. All he knows is that he has to get back home to his soul. His family.

Eventually he is found by ‘Glinda the Good Witch’ Evan ‘’Buck’ Buckley, who gives him a goal to work towards and solid advice to find the great wizard (Bobby) who should be able to grant his wish.

Obviously he will be joined by Hen & Chim as companions, each searching for their own thing. (not to be one-to-one with the Tin Man & Lion, but Hen’s thing would be about courage to fight the councilwoman and get Mara back. Chim looking for the heart could be maybe thinking about having more kids once Mara is back with Henren. You stuff like like that, idk)

Dealing with the Witch Gerard and the flying monkeys (which would be all the obstacles that the 118 face, grief about Shannon, unresolved catholic guilt, his parents taking his kid, etc)

Finally Eddie will make it to the Wizard (Bobby), the man he conflated and put on pedestal because the Good Witch Buck, who sees Bobby as his his father figure (which is a good thing don’t get me wrong), also did. Only to realize Bobby is also just a man like him, his true foil (narratively this would be made clear to the audience using flashbacks) who like him, only became grand because his pushed himself to work for it even through his grief and bad moments.

What Eddie realizes is that he was looking for his way back home to his perfect life and family, to a Chris who won’t currently be there. And that destroying himself to wait for him to come back won’t fix the issue. Glinda will also help him with this.

He realizes that the way to make amends is to do like Bobby and put the effort into that change. He going to make his home a comfortable space for Chris again, so when he does come back, he knows that things will be different. He’ll take time for himself to properly grieve Shannon (and get more therapy, god!) and take the space to delve into some self-discovery whole were at it.

Then he’ll wake up from being knocked out by his team, not including Gerard, once the Tornado is gone. Maybe they go back to the station after a checkup at the hospital and Bobby comes back saying he’s reinstated and Gerard is gone. (I’m not really planning for this stuff)

Now, I’m obviously missing some characters in this dream sequence but I don’t know where they would fit. And I’m avoiding some big sexuality and romantic notions in regards to Eddie.

Trust that I know and I want it too, but I also want to avoid the ship wars this summer. So I’ll leave it vague, even though to me the idea of Eddie being Dorothy is very explicit in what arc I want for him.

Let me know what you would cast the other 911 character as in this version of Oz. Also thank you for indulging my crazy idea. I’ll be back with more.

Also #RaviMainS8!

[ghelgheli]

17! but also using the opportunity of the ask game to get to know more about the effortless worldbuilding in sff :)

from the end-of-year book ask

17: Did any books surprise you with how good they were?

I think Three Body Problem is the only one meeting this condition this year so I'll have no trouble staying on topic :> but I'm gonna specifically talk about "hard" SF as I conceive of it—I haven't read any analysis so this may just be a jumble of improvised thoughts.

SF, being "speculative" fiction, of course has to take on the problem of speculating and of presenting things that don't (and perhaps cannot) happen. On average this is accomplished thru a healthy combination of scientific grounding and good-natured handwaving: I drop a few sentences about "quantum entanglement" and you go along with my ansible, or you tell me about "positronic circuits" and I agree that you can make a brain with them. This is the compact that makes SF work because you fundamentally cannot expect speculation without, well, ceding ground on reality.

But at least a subset of SF readers are of the kind to really want to grok how it is that this or that scientific feature of the world works or may come about. Every contraption and novel technology is like a puzzle to be riddled out. This is the place where speculation becomes sincere mechanical prediction, and it's why I love hard SF.

This subset of readers can be matched to a subgenre of writers who commit fully to filling in as many blanks in their technological, biological, etc. speculation as possible. The rows of astronomical data can't be left vague—tell me what frequency of light we're dealing with here—xenobiology isn't taken for granted—what is the neurology of your aliens??—and so on. The dots are connected, the rest of the owl is drawn for real, the image is made crisp. Like fireworks for the reader's brain.

When this kind of worldbuilding is executed well imo it looks effortless. Looks, not is, because behind every explanation of near-c travel is hours of research into at least special relativity and time dilation, along with calculations by-hand. Behind every account of an exoplanet's atmosphere is probably a few papers perused on the subject and several articles on scientific american. Peter Watts, in the note at the end of Blindsight, includes a fucking bibliography of a hundred or so references as well as thank-yous to many an academic he split handles of liquor with. And this is only the visible fragment of what has to be a library of knowledge accumulated both passively and actively to make a speculated world feel as concretely plausible as possible.

None of this is necessary for good SF. The aforementioned compact means any author can opt out of this commitment at any time. But it's what it takes to make tightly-written hard SF, where your conceptual hands are kept diligently at your side, waving an idea through maybe once every five chapters when you have no other choice.

So anyway, Three Body Problem is a tour de force in doing this and doing it cleanly. It uses a storytelling device a lot of hard SF employs to make it work: rather than stuffing dense exposition into narration (at which point, just read the source papers) it deploys a cast of characters who more than anything else, really know their shit. We get exposition trickle-fed through experts who are trying, along with us, to make sense of their novel environments and unfamiliar technologies using their knowledge of the present limits of human understanding. This is what Watts does in Blindsight too, by the way: a claustrophobic ship crewed by technical specialists makes first contact, so everyone has something encyclopedic to say about everything and it's only natural.

What astounded me about Cixin Liu's writing is that he made it work just when I least thought he would be able to. I was sure I was being shown things completely inexplicable and necessarily supernatural until he went and explained them in plain terms; better yet, he explained them in ways that made so much sense in retrospect that I was kicking myself for not seeing the answer. This has exactly the flavour of a good puzzle.

The trade-off hard SF makes is that you are often limited in the metaphorical/thematic work you can do through your speculation. I think the contrast between "calendrical science" in Yoon Ha Lee's Machineries of Empire series and Asimov's "psychohistory" illustrates this well.

Yoon Ha Lee has mathematical training, and calendrical science is a speculative field consisting of theorems, conjectures, proofs, etc. in the language of mathematics that stand in for cultural hegemony and power projection. This makes for a great operationalization of soft power: space is filled and distorted by the quantifiable effects of whatever regime is dominant there (the "calendar" here being synecdoche for culture writ large). But obviously he can't fill in the blanks of how a calendar causes spacetime distortions that specifically make one side's weapons more effective, or provide certain formations with shielding effects. This is, I guess, semi-hard (lol) SF—you can see how it's supposed to work, but it's clear that it just won't. What you get in return is pretty politically interesting storytelling.

Psychohistory is the converse: a deterministic-enough lovechild of economics and sociology explained in the Foundation series as using all the familiar methods of linear algebra and differential equations together with unfamiliar innovations of just how to quantify human behaviour in order to make reliable predictions. There are entire chapters dedicated to explaining the conceptual nuance that went into developing psychohistory ("the hand on thigh principle" from prelude to foundation is just about how the theory resolves divergence by reducing insignificant terms to zero) and an entire book to exploring one of its limitations. It's fascinating to read. But you also get little narrative depth out of it, because hard SF, even when done well, is not guaranteed to make a story thematically interesting or politically compelling. This is the Three Body Problem problem too: its political commitments are threadbare and unserious because that's just not what it's about. I couldn't recommend it on those terms, but that's not what I like so much about it. I will say the conceptualization goes a little off the rails in the final chapters, but I think most SF authors were in some kind of string theory inspired fugue state at the time.

What I would love to see (and I'm sure exists) is hard SF that also has interesting politics. Unfortunately that's an intersection of two already-narrow intersections.

ty for ask✨🐐