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peppered-moths · 1 year

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Martyn is humming something behind him, a jaunty, cheerful tune that contrasts sharply with the fact that Scott knows he's sharpening his sword. He can hear that too, the soft scrrrape of metal on stone that makes his nerves stand on end involuntarily. He shakes his head, letting the sounds fade into the background of the waves, and returns to organizing the chests.

It's... nice, actually. To just be here in the moment, with Martyn only a few feet away. To simply exist in each other's space. They get this time every week, of course, six days of it, but six days doesn't seem like all that much when death is waiting on the horizon.

And they have to be careful. Attachments are dangerous. On Fridays, they are allies, nothing more. Today, they are more, but they can't give anyone even the slightest hint, for fear of that being used against them.

Scott blinks, realizing his hands have stopped moving, no longer at the monotonous task of sorting wood. Martyn has stopped humming. The small fins behind his ears twitch in confusion.

"Martyn?" He turns, peering through the slats of the walls. The Coral Isles are silent and empty, just grass waving in the wind.

Scott's not worried. Martyn can handle himself, and he can certainly hold down the fort. He just wishes- why didn't Martyn say anything? Where had he gone? He's not worried.

Okay, fine. He's a little worried. It's not like his partner to walk off without saying anything at all. Scott can't go looking for him- the Isles can't be left undefended, especially with tensions at an all-time high. There's nothing he can do but wait for Martyn to come back (what if he doesn't? what if he's decided you're too much of a concern and left to preserve his own life-) and he will come back, Scott's sure of it. He'll just ask then. The sun is high in the sky; Martyn will be back by the time it sets.

He can keep himself busy until then.

----

It is midnight when Scott hears a splash. He's lying on the floor of the beach house, staring up at the sky. No, he hasn't been crying. The sound makes him bolt upright, one hand reaching for the leather-wrapped hilt of his sword.

Martyn stops halfway up the stairs, hands held up in surrender. His eyes are wide and washed out in the pale moonlight. He has no armor on.

Scott moves faster than he ever thought he could. His blade is pointed at Martyn's chest in an instant. He knows- he knows he's being irrational. He doesn't know what to think. He doesn't know what else to do.

"Where," he rasps, trying not to let his voice wobble, "have you been?"

"Hey, Scott." Martyn laughs breathlessly, eyes fixed on the sword wavering in front of him. "Um."

"Answer. The. Question," he grits. He searches Martyn's face for anything, anything that betrays even a hint of deceit. Nothing. (Well, he's always been a good liar, hasn't he?)

"I was talking to the Bad Boys. Time got away from me." Martyn shrugs, eerily calm, even as the blade shivers closer to his throat. Scott stares at him, mind spinning. He could be lying.

"Prove it."

Martyn moves slowly, telegraphing his movements to Scott as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out- a pair of sunglasses.

"I stole these from Timmy before I left. It'll be hours before he notices they're gone." He smiles carefully, cautiously, like he's scared. Of Scott. Scared. Of him.

The sword clatters to the ground, and he crumples in on himself, ashamed and furious and guilty all at once. Of course. Scott was- he's overreacting, he couldn't even trust his own partner.

"Oh- hey, hey, hey. Scott. Scott." Martyn steps forwards, hands settling lightly on his shoulders. Scott stares at the ground. I would have killed him. I would have-

"I'm sorry, oh god, no, I'm so sorry, I didn't-" He can't finish a sentence, stumbling over himself. He scrapes at the scales on his face, a nervous habit he's picked up recently that is coming back to bite him.

Martyn grabs his wrists. "Scott. Listen to me." He swallows. Looks up into Martyn's eyes, red, red, red.

"Can you breathe for me?" Scott does his best, but it feels like he's just run a race. That's hyperventilating, he remembers distantly. Eventually, his heart slows to a more normal pace, and he can hear Martyn more clearly through the ringing in his ears.

"Yeah, yeah, it's fine. Everything's fine, see?" Martyn's humming, Scott realizes. It's soothing, as it always is.

"I'm sorry," he manages, because he has to say it. He has to, even if Martyn decides to leave. He has to know.

"I know, anemone. It's okay. We're okay."

"How is this okay?" Scott cries. He backs away. His hands are shaking. "I just- I just threatened you, Martyn. I can't-"

"Scott." He stops, stares at the blond man. He doesn't look angry. Scott doesn't understand.

"I forgive you," Martyn continues, softly. "Like you forgave me when I killed you-"

"I asked you to!"

"-and I know," he continues determinedly, "I know. You're scared. I'm sorry. For not telling you where I was going." Scott shakes his head. No. Martyn shouldn't be apologizing. This is Scott's fault. He takes a step closer.

"I- don't..." His voice fails. He stands there, mute.

Martyn approaches, carefully, as if not to startle him. He cradles Scott's face in his hands, gently forcing him to look into his eyes.

"I don't think you would ever hurt me," he says simply. Like he hasn't sent the world tumbling down around Scott's shoulders. Like he's not a damn fool.

"You're an idiot." Scott's crying again. He buries his head in Martyn's shoulder, and the other man pulls him closer. "Why are you so sappy? We're supposed to be fighting!"

Martyn chuckles. "Guess I didn't get the memo."

They stand there in silence for a moment. Scott thinks, vaguely, that he should pick up his sword, put it away. He doesn't want to move.

Finally, he lifts his head to look Martyn in the eyes again. He raises an eyebrow. Scott has to tell him. He has to get it all out, before he gives up or chickens out.

"I don't want to miss you before we die." Scott takes a deep breath. "I don't want- I don't want to waste the time we have left." The time I have left. He doesn't intend to let Martyn die first. At any cost.

"Never." Martyn promises immediately. It sounds like a vow in his mouth. Til death do us part.

"I love you," Scott says. There's no sense of immediate regret (which is good, at least he means it), but he still can't stop shaking. He leans farther into Martyn, who's still with shock.

Finally, he laughs, a strained, incredulous thing. "You really do pick the worst times to say things."

"Say it back," Scott mumbles. Martyn relaxes into him, hands curling into his shirt.

"I love you too, Scott."

#majorwood #scott smajor #smajor1995 #martyn inthelittlewood #inthelittlewood #trafficshipping #limited life smp #traffic smp #cw: panic attack #i just think that martyn calling scott anemone is cute #and also has lore i won't talk about in tags #(hint hint send me an ask /hj /nf)

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sleepymccoy · 2 months

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An intimacy, a surprise

Chapter one: Rather a good pair

McCoy spun the lady, Heather, around comfortably. They were dancing well under a speed that would challenge him. She knew the steps, and when she stumbled she stayed with him enough that he could keep them moving until she found her feet. He rather suspected she was stumbling more than natural, given how much she laughed when he picked her up slightly.

It all reminded him of Joanna.

The song came to an end, Heather laughed breathlessly as he placed her back down on her feet. She was likely thirty years older than him, but her joy for life was stronger than anyone he regularly knew. She was as thin as they come, he hoped she lived for another century. He thanked her, kissed her hand, and left for the bar.

With a thin glass of bubbly in hand he surveyed the room. Couples moved across the floor at varying degrees of skill. Still, colourful and pretty.

As he scanned his focus caught on Spock. Spock, at the same damn conference as him. He could see why, novel biology was up both their alleys really. But it still annoyed him.

But Spock looked nice now, expressionless (per usual) but fixated on the spinning pairs revolving across the room. His eyes flitted from one to another, interest held entirely.

McCoy picked up a second glass and launched off from the comfort of the bar.

“Want to dance?” he asked as he stood next to Spock.

He didn't flinch, probably heard him approach with those finely tuned, pointy ears.

“I am attempting to learn the basics,” Spock said softly. He didn't take his eyes off the floor.

McCoy placed his spare glass down by the crumbed prawn canapes. Prawn. On Mars. Heavens above who would eat seafood so far from natural water?

McCoy followed Spock's gaze and found a rather showy pair. The man's silly long tux flew behind him as they spun.

“Well, you won't manage that watching them,” McCoy muttered.

“Oh?”

“Them? He's trained in tango, but she's trying for classic.” He took as sip and decided Spock's silence was curious, not bored. “He keeps raising his arms in the hold and it's throwing her off. They're good at dips, but she keeps losing her balance on the straight stretches because they're dancing different dances.”

Spock sniffed in sharply. “Are they all dancing differently?”

McCoy hummed, swallowing his mouthful. “Everyone's making it up. Those two -” he pointed across the room at who he meant “- might've done a class, but likely not. These two near us are good at a slow waltz, but as soon as it speeds up they get messy.”

Spock turned and faced him. McCoy followed suit, giving him his attention. Face to face like this they stood slightly closer than usual.

“What are the basic steps?” Spock asked.

McCoy put his half glass of bubbly down and held his arms out, one hand hovering over Spock's waist while the other waited for his hand. “Let’s box step. I'll lead.”

Spock moved slowly, then hesitantly placed his hand in McCoy's waiting one. Their fingers dragged against each other, with Spock's hand just resting on his, not holding.

McCoy took Spock's other hand and lifted it to his shoulder. “Put your hand here,” he said. Spock’s hand sat lightly on his shoulder, touching the edge of his collar. “And -” he sighed and pulled Spock by their joined hands, “a bit closer, please, Mr. Spock - let me take a hold you.”

Spock stepped in as directed, and McCoy placed his hand on Spock's waist. Spock tensed on contact, so much muscle in him.

“That's right,” McCoy breathed. He moved his hand to Spock's lower back, holding him solidly, and took his hand properly. “Do you feel stable?”

Spock frowned at him. “Of course.”

McCoy rolled his eyes. Never mind all that politeness, then. “Right,” he snapped. “Box step, follow me.”

You can keep reading under the readmore or click this link to ao3

McCoy telegraphed his movements obviously until Spock got the swing of it, muttering vague encouragement and advice as he did.

Once they were moving smoothly he spoke. “Okay, look at me now.”

Spock looked up, glancing down every moment they took a step to ensure he followed.

“The steps aren't changing, Spock. Here-” he pulled Spock close, tugging him in by the waist. Their bodies pressed together firmly and, to McCoy pleasure and relief, Spock didn't withdraw.

He stepped the path of their dance slowly, exaggerating again. Spock followed with a breath of delay, keeping their thighs close. “You can feel what my legs are doing, yes?” McCoy whispered. “I'm pressed against you, so you don't need to see me move, you can feel it.”

They continued, Spock clinging to him like a coat of paint. Steadily they picked up speed, grace. A few times McCoy felt Spock move with a strength that was not helpful in someone meant to be following. McCoy would let it slide for now, but if they got up to spinning he was going to have to pull rank.

“What do you think?”

“There is more than just this.”

“Yes, but this is what we always return to,” McCoy said easily. “So you want it to be second nature. Is the amount of touch okay?”

Spock smirked. “Vulcan dance is far more intimate.”

“I recall you describing it before,” McCoy muttered. “Wouldn't've been my first guess. Knowing you, I've been left assuming all Vulcans are stuck up prudes.”

“Doctor, I must be allowed my eccentricities,” Spock said lowly, “but I am still Vulcan.”

“Don't I know it.”

Spock hadn't missed a beat as they spoke, he was quite the natural. Not that McCoy would tell him. “Want to try for a dip?” he suggested instead.

Spock raised his eyebrow. “You are in the lead.”

“Doesn't mean I'm in charge.”

They continued stepping together in perfect pattern.

“Yes, then,” Spock said.

McCoy talked him through it first. Spock's attention on him was absolute. “On the back step, the first we took, I'll turn you to the side. My hand will stay on your waist, but I'm letting go here.” As he spoke he released Spock's hand and placed his on Spock's trap.

“Your free hand goes to my shoulder, or wherever suits you. And then you dip. To the side. Do it shallow first so you know what coming out of it's like.”

Spock nodded. They reset their hands and continued to dance. McCoy muttered a warning, then turned them to the side. He pushed Spock back slightly, then kept his hands steady to show it was safe. Spock swayed back, his eyes unreadable on McCoy, then slowly returned to standing.

McCoy tried to keep the momentum of their dance, but there was something astounding in Spock's slow movement that broke the pattern. Still, they had to step. “And back into- there you are,” McCoy muttered. He cleared his throat. “Alright?”

“Indeed,” Spock said easily. “A simple process.”

McCoy kept the usual pattern for a few turns, letting Spock feel it as home.

It wasn't home, though, was it. This was McCoy's home, and Spock was doing well at it. McCoy grinned.

Perhaps it was time for him to step outside his comfort zone. Meet Spock halfway. Besides, all that talk of Vulcan dancing - he still couldn't imagine how Spock would embody it.

“You can be as Vulcan as you like about it, my dear,” McCoy said. “I can handle your culture.”

Spock simply raised his eyebrows.

“Going again,” McCoy warned, then stepped into position and swung Spock back.

Spock went far. His outer leg raised, dragging up along the outside of McCoy's thigh. McCoy had to bend into his lunge to keep balance as Spock leant back.

Spock stopped at the low of the dip, letting McCoy hold him. He trailed his hand down from McCoy's shoulder, dragging slowly down his arm.

McCoy realised he hadn't breathed and pulled Spock back to him. Spock righted himself at speed, almost destabalising McCoy as their chests slammed together.

One of Spock's legs pressed between his, forcing his thighs slightly apart. His other hand remained high and now slowly lowered to the ground. And Spock had, somehow, returned to him with a hand in McCoy's hair which echoed the slow downward drag of his leg, toying gently at his neck.

McCoy stepped forward with the leg between Spock's thighs, pressing into his crotch.

Spock's eyes flashed wish fiery curiosity. He straightened the mirrored leg out in line with McCoy's leg and took the step. McCoy kept him close, like orbits that couldn't split further apart now that they'd come near.

With a moment's hesitation, they took the next step, moving smoothly again. McCoy dragged his hand up Spock's back, feeling his muscles engage as they stepped familiarly. As he did, Spock's hand left his neck and traveled gently down his arm.

Spock gasped in a breath. McCoy turned his face in towards the sound and felt McCoy's skin on his lips. The air was hot here.

McCoy’s hand reached Spock's upper back, so he pulled around to his chest and pushed him into another dip.

Spock resisted for a moment, then went with the movement. His hand gripped McCoy's wrist as he lowered over McCoy's leg. They kept eye contact as Spock bent, and McCoy found himself leaning forward to stay close.

Spock came out of it slowly, and McCoy did some slightly clever footwork without really considering if Spock would keep up. He stepped over Spock, half spinning him to standing. Spock didn't keep up, but he let himself be pulled and placed standing.

They were close, as they tended to be in this dance, McCoy with a hand on Spock's back and another in his hair. Spock began to take McCoy's hand, crawling up from his wrist and pulling it from Spock's hair. McCoy clutched Spock's hand and pressed his other hand’s fingers into Spock's back muscle. He stepped forward, and Spock followed naturally backwards. They returned to the dance.

“You didn't warn me that time,” Spock breathed. His lips brushed McCoy's cheek when he spoke.

McCoy felt Spock's leg press against his thigh on one of the steps, leaving him slightly breathless. He was half hard, Spock was bound to know. He'd likely take it as a cultural compliment, knowing him. Contrary bastard.

“But you knew it was coming,” McCoy said. “We make rather a good pair.”

“We always have done, Doctor.”

McCoy laughed and felt it vibrate back to him through Spock's chest. How wonderful.

“I think we're terrible,” McCoy said.

Spock shook his head and straightened his posture, moving his mouth further from McCoy's. “You are disagreeing out of habit,” he said, his voice back to its usual unaffected way. It wasn't until he spoke now that McCoy realised how low and purring Spock's voice had become.

But he swallowed his interest and shrugged instead. “And you're just naturally condescending,” he said as blandly as he could. It didn’t sound particularly bland, he could hear the shiver in his throat coming through in his voice. Ah well, a man’s gotta try.

Spock smirked. He resisted McCoy's next step forward, bringing them to still. McCoy frowned sharply, then realised the music had been replaced with applause.

He let go of Spock's hand and stepped back. Someone was speaking into a squeaky microphone; the dancing had stopped. McCoy was breathless.

“Well done,” McCoy said quickly. He turned to the table and picked up his glass, downing the half of bubbly that remained. “We can revisit tomorrow night, maybe add spins?”

“Very good, Sir.”

McCoy faced Spock and took him all in. He was flushed, ears green. Gaze steady, but eyes bright. As McCoy looked he stood straighter.

“Night cap?” McCoy offered, his voice hushed as the speech onstage became a serious of slides presented with little commentary.

Spock glanced out at the room, then nodded.

McCoy picked up his remaining full glass of bubbly and led Spock out. “We'll have to sneak it back, I didn't bring a drink with me.”

Spock took the glass from McCoy smoothly and shrugged his long sleeve to cover it.

At McCoy's look he said, “No one questions a Vulcan.”

Well, sure. They nodded at the door attendant and made it to the lobby unchallenged.

“Cute, Spock.”

Spock made a noise of displeasure.

McCoy jabbed the elevator button and leaned against a column, watching the thoroughly innocent Vulcan.

Spock bit his lower lip, but kept his gaze steady on McCoy.

McCoy tilted his head to the side. He was going to kiss this man if something didn't change soon. That was a fucking shock. He breathed out and leaned his head against the column.

Spock broke the eye contact, swallowing hard and glancing up to the elevators current level, then over to a plant.

The lift bell sounded. McCoy laughed emptily, shook his head in disbelief, and slid into the elevator. Nothing had changed. Spock followed.

As the door closed McCoy went to him. His hand found Spock jaw first, his thumb at the corner of his mouth.

Spock went still, facing him, and McCoy continued the movement. He was a hairsbreadth from Spock when the fucker spoke.

“Doctor, they have cameras in the lifts here,” Spock gasped.

McCoy pulled back. What? He frowned. “They do?” he asked. He stepped back, glancing up for a sign of a camera. “What kind of surveillance state bullshit needs cameras in the lifts?” he muttered.

Spock's shoulders dropped. McCoy’s attention returned to him. “Wait, why don't you want to be seen with me on camera?”

Spock let out a sharp sigh. “I don't want to be seen doing anything on camera.”

McCoys head moved smoothly as he considered that, ending in a slow negative shake. “There are cameras on the Enterprise,” he disagreed.

Spock hesitated. His hand, the one not still subtly hiding McCoy's glass of bubbly, gripped the handrail. “I have never attempted to dance with you on board.”

McCoy nodded. He kept nodding as he thought.

Not on the Enterprise. That suited him quite well, really. Keep work at work.

He hadn't begun to dissect Spock's behaviour tonight, but this made sense in a way some deep seated romance didn't. He was surprised there was anything on Spock's part, but he wasn't shocked.

He wasn't going to even start on himself, though.

“Have I offended you, Doctor?

McCoy grinned sourly. “Whether private or public, Spock, dear, if you're thinking about kissing me you call me Leonard.”

Spock was quiet. The bell chimed and the doors slid open.

McCoy kept watching Spock. He needed something to go off, something to react to or he'd just get angry. But Spock simply left the elevator.

McCoy followed. “No, why the hell won't you kiss me on camera, hm?” he asked.

Spock turned his face towards McCoy once to indicate where his attention was. Their rooms, absurdly and coincidentally across from each other, were at the end of the long corridor.

“You object to my preference for privacy?” Spock asked, continuing to walk away quickly.

“Who's watching that'll care? On the ship, sure, but no one gives a fig about us here!”

Spock didn't respond. McCoy considered shouting at him, but decided he would probably not live that down.

They reached their shared end of the corridor. Spock opened his own door deftly and face McCoy.

“Are you coming in?” he asked.

“With an invitation like that, I'd prefer a lobotomy!” McCoy snapped. He turned and wrestled his own door open before Spock responded, slamming it behind him.

His body tingled with electric heat and anger. He groaned and raised his hands to his face. “Fuck.”

He was still fucking hard.

A couple of words occurred to him, and with them was an excuse to return. He threw his door open and strode across the hallway. Spock had left his door slightly ajar, McCoy was going to absolutely fuck him into the ground for that.

He let himself in and closed the door.

Spock stood at the window, lone wine glass on the table next to him. He turned silently and faced McCoy, his face again blank.

“I don't mind a one night stand,” McCoy snapped, “keeping it as quiet as you like, what I mind is the suggestion that you should be embarrassed to be found.”

“I do not feel embarrassment.”

McCoy waved his arms, immediately furious. “Liar!” He pointed at Spock. “More importantly, you feel desire.”

Spock shrugged. “That is physical.”

McCoy crossed the floor to him, aware that his tone was nearly a rant. “So’s embarrassment. And fear, and fucking joy when you get down to it.”

He drew up next to Spock, standing right by him. Spock turned slowly and met his gaze squarely.

“You let your emotions rule you more than the average human does,” Spock said. Bitchily. Like a little bitch.

McCoy swallowed, there was some emotion caught up in his throat. “Someone's got to make up for you,” he said. His voice was softer than he intended.

“I am not embarrassed,” Spock complained. “Why should I share such a moment with any other?”

McCoy frowned and swallowed again. He sighed heartily and glared at the corner of the room for a beat. Such a moment. Fuck.

“That was a bit romantic, Spock,” McCoy pointed out.

“No it wasn't.”

McCoy laughed, surprising himself with it. “You're disagreeing out of habit,” he snapped.

Spock raised his eyebrow. “And are you not condescending?”

McCoy grinned, irritation and lust both rising in him. “You piss me off,” he said forcefully.

“Like I say, a slave to your emotions.”

“Private enough for you in here?”

Spock’s eyes glanced at the door, then the window. “Yes.”

And so McCoy risked the universe, and kissed him.

Click here to read the rest on ao3, there's another 18 chapters <3

#spones #spones fic #man i hope the readmore is in an appropriate spot #so hard to gauge how long thisll be on mobile #i don't want ot give people an awful wall of text #but i also want to get to the point where they dance or you won't have the hook #grumble grumble #anyway theres 17 of 19 chpaters posted!#and the last two are posting in the next few days

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glitchy-npc · 2 months

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Popcorn Panic

Series: Fallen Hero Pairing:@silvery-bluish's Arsinoe Becerra(they/them) & Tegan Wells (he/him) Tegan's POV. Warnings: none Word count: 547

Arsinoe sits opposite me on the couch as the show's opening credits begin to play, I toss a piece of popcorn at them. Good catch, but I may have been telegraphing.

It's been nice knowing another telepath, comfortable even. A semi-open psychic connection. Less need for words. Like a radio station only we’re tuned into.

They toss a piece of popcorn back at me and it bounces off my forehead. Ah well, no connection is perfect.

Ortega’s late. Ars doesn't say it out loud but I can feel it all the same. Ric had stepped out to buy stuff for dinner 20 minutes ago.

“Traffic maybe?” I say outloud to distract from my toss. Ha, a miss.

He’s going to miss the show.

“Ah well, sucks to be him.”

Ars doesn’t call me an asshole directly but their grin confirms it.

The show is a corny superhero one, thinly veiled corporate propaganda, but I can’t knock the costumes and it's been a good excuse for us all to meet up every other friday. Free dinner, good company – ah I’m not sure whose thought that was, thoughts aren’t linear like spoken words, sometimes things get tangled. It didn’t feel like me but even I will admit it's true. I like Ars a lot. Having friends is still a foreign concept to me, someone I can trust, relax around, and they’re not invasive like Ortega, even when they have half a metaphorical foot in my mind.

I’ve got to remember not to broadcast, no need to get mushy. Bring my thoughts back to the show.

I’m not sure what genre it is. Action? Drama? Something like that. I was only half paying attention so when the protagonists kiss it blindsides me.

It's just a kiss, nothing to get weird about but the actors sure are…enthusiastic. The whole scene seems to have stalled as the leads continue making out. It's starting to feel uncomfortable, a real voyeuristic intrusion into their fictional privacy. Why was it so much easier to watch the fight scenes?

I can feel the discomfort radiating off of Ars as well, amplifying my own. That's the downside of the link, their feelings can bleed into mine and vice versa. And right now it's building to where I just can’t stand it.

“Oh come on!” It's practically a shout as I gesture towards the tv, the few pieces of popcorn I hadn’t realized I was holding fly out towards the screen.

“I’m fast-forwarding!” It's the first words they’ve said out loud to me all night but I’m grateful.

“It just keeps going!?” Even at two times the speed the two characters are still sucking face and worse, beginning to remove their clothes. There's a ping of panic I’m calling both of ours.

“Why is it so long!?” Ars squeaks in their distress.

“Why won’t it fast-forward faster!?”

“Why are we shouting!?” Ortega’s voice makes us both jump, we hadn’t even heard him come in. “And…why is there popcorn all over my floor?”

There’s a too long pause as Ortega waits for an answer but I can feel Arsinoe’s laugh even before it's out of their mouth and mine rushes out with it. All the discomfort from before chased away by a fit of giggling that infects Ortega too.

#fhr #ockiss24 #ars&tegan #my writing

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weirdozjunkary · 10 months

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A little fic inspired by the one @gaymaramada did of PIB Shadow and Sonic because I really liked it and wanted to try my hand at writing one of the best scenes of the movie. I might make another one with Sonic and Infinite’s first interaction eventually. Enjoy

——————

“Oh, I shouldn’t have telegraphed it!” The words of the mad doctor cried out as he fell into the abyss inside the nanny bag that was now shut right by the black hedgehog that threw him in there.

Tails jumped and snatched the map out of the air and slid against the beautifully crystalline floor towards the blue hedgehog, who’s eyes widened in surprise as the fox came closer and held out the map to him.

“Yeah, I don’t know what to do with this.” Tails shrugged. “But if you think you need those lives…”

“Thank you, Tails.”

Sonic gently took the map in his hands and stood up. Finally, the fight was over, he could get his wish. But before he could read the first word out loud, the fox spoke again, and he looked at him to listen.

“You know, I’ve only ever had one life, but sharing it with you and Shadow these past few days has made it pretty special. Maybe one life is enough.”

The words the fox said rang through Sonic’s head, through his soul. A wave of uncertainty came back to him, that what he was doing, what he wished, maybe it was wrong. He turned his head to face the black hedgehog behind him, who crossed his arms and looked away, avoiding locking eyes with the hedgehog that hurt him like many others have had before. It made him feel disgusting.

Sonic looked back at the map, laid neatly in his hands. All he needed to do was recite the words that magically sparkled as they etched themselves in cursive onto the dark map that had guided him to this destination. He wouldn’t need to keep running in fear, away from his problems… but isn’t that was he was doing now? Using this wish to get more lives, so he can be the legend he was supposed to be.

‘Sonic the hedgehog walks alone.’

Maybe for a moment, he second guessed his wish. He looked down at the words and inhaled, about to recite the magic phrase that would give him what he wanted.

But a sharp whistle pierced his ears. It was a familiar tune that send cold shivers down his spine and made his quills stand on end. He gasped and darted his head around, trying to decern where that deafening melody came from.

But this time, it wasn’t just Sonic hearing it. The others glanced around, confused of the sudden whistle that echoed around the area, but they weren’t as terrified as Sonic was. They had no reason to be scared. He wasn’t after them.

Sonic slowly swiveled his head behind him, eyes wide and body stiff with fear. There, he saw walking through the barrier, was Death, whistling that tune that mocked the blue hedgehog he had chased for so long.

“Sonic, who is that?” Tails looked up at him, a worried tone was laid on his throat.

The jackal slowly unsheathed his twin sickles from his ragged black cloak, his eyes fixated directly onto the hedgehog’s own, who even if he was terrified, no matter how much his body screamed at him to run away, he couldn’t. There was nowhere else to run.

“He is here for me.” Sonic huffed out of his chest.

He could only watch him slide the sickles along the crystal floor, sparking a wild circle of red flames once he shot them up high above his head, encasing them both in an arena of dangerous fire.

“Sonic!” Shadows voice called through the roar of fire. But it fell deaf onto Sonic’s ears, as he held the map closer to his chest and whipped his head around, desperately trying to find a way out, an opening, something to get away from the jackal that slowly crept his way closer and closer to him. There was nowhere to run now.

“I’ve enjoyed the chase, Erizo.” Death’s voice echoed around him, gracefully lowering his hood off of his head before raising his scythes, making them glisten in the light of the fire. “But I think we’ve both reached the end now, you and I.”

Sonic darted back to the map. Those words shining against its black page. He was so close.

“Are you going to take the coward's way out? Run away to more lives?” The jackal spoke again. Aggression and excitement grew in his voice as he began to grin wildly at the petrified hedgehog who stood only a few feet from him. Death. His death.

Sonic glanced up at him once more before he darted back to the map again. Why wasn’t he saying it? Why wasn’t he saying those words? He needed to. Once he said his wish, he wouldn’t have to be afraid anymore. He wouldn’t have to run. But he is running, like the jackal said. But if he made his wish, would he ever be free?

“Or are you going to fight?” Death spat. He tossed an object at him, something that he had left behind since their first meeting. A gold ring. A symbol of him, who he is. Something that now he didn’t deserve to have lent back to him. “Pick it up.”

He darted his eyes from the ring to the jackal who slowly kept creeping closer to the hedgehog he hunted for all this time. He shot back to the map that now had finished etching the words onto itself. All he had to do was say it.

“Go on. Pick it up!”

He shot his head away from the map, but he wasn’t looking at the ring or the jackal this time. This time he could only see it, the time he had spent alive. But this time it wasn’t full of fame and glory. It wasn’t even from the many lives he had had over the reckless years that he had wasted.

No, what he was seeing was from this one, this life, the life he shared with Shadow and Tails. The life he didn’t want to keep so short. Tails didn’t deserve this, Shadow didn’t deserve this. He had been running and hiding for so long. Trying to find more lives when he didn’t realize that he was living the best one he could ever have right now. And as he gasped in the missing air from his lungs, as tears swelled in his eyes.

He finally realized it. He didn’t want to die. He wanted to live.

“What’s the matter? Lives flashing before your eyes?”

“No. Just one.” Sonic raised his face to Death. A confident grin perked up on one side of his cheek. “I’m done running.” And the map fell from his hand to the floor, next to the ring which he gracefully picked up. And he stood there with a proud pose and a finger pointed at the reaper before him. “FEAR ME! IF YOU DARE!”

Death stared at him in surprise, then a wicked grin accompanied by a raspy chuckle grew back onto him. “This will be fun.”

#textpost #fanfic #tumblr fanfic #sonic fanfic #sonic au #sonic the hedgehog the last wish #long post

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telomeke-bbs · 7 months

Note

On my third re-watch of Bad Buddy, I've been doing a bit more reading of the comments on YouTube, which I presume will disappear if the series is removed now that it's going to Viki.

I notice from the YouTube comments at least some people think PatPran were having sex at least as early as episode 8, while I took the start of their sex life as episode 11 which was when they made it clear.

Given the lack of R scenes in the series (no complaints, if it's a great series I'm happy either way) it's hard to say for sure. I tend to be on the literal side so need more direct indications that a sex scene is about to occur or has just occurred. I'm wondering where the clues might be that others are tuning into and I've missed.

If you've already written about this please feel free to link.

SEX??? IN MY BBS???!!! 👀

Hi dear friend @pandasmagorica! 😍 You're so right that Bad Buddy doesn't show us any of PatPran's lovemaking directly, and like you I didn't miss it at all…

But before I go any further, I should insert a trigger warning here for the sex-averse among anybody else who might be reading this – sex talk incoming! (I'll be avoiding some of the coarser language as that's not my style, but I will be mentioning some details of man-on-man sex if I have to…) So minors please stay away!

‌

Like so much of BBS (e.g., the actual relationship between Ming and Dissaya in high school, Ming's relationship with his father, Pat's descent into his gangster era after his high school rupture with Pran, the foundations of Wai and Pran's friendship), Pat and Pran having sex is one aspect of their relationship that was alluded to but not shown to us graphically onscreen.

For me this was in keeping with the narrative style of Bad Buddy as a whole (in which we the viewers had to fill in some gaps ourselves), as well as its preference to focus on the emotional dynamics of their love story, rather than showing us every physical manifestation of their liaison.

On my initial watch I too thought that PatPran's first physical coupling only happened in Ep.11, during their honeymoon at the Zero Waste Village. I settled into this conclusion primarily because we weren't shown any overt depiction of the boys hooking up physically – and also because of one moment at Ep.9 [3‌/4]:

(above) Bad Buddy Ep.9 [3‌/4] 5.38 – Pat and Pran chorus "Not yet" at Korn, when asked if they'd been having sex

When Korn is made to wait before being admitted into Pran's apartment by a nearly-naked Pat – only to see a disheveled Pran in bed, and the bedclothes all awry – he assumes (at Ep.9 [3‌/4] 5.36) that Pat and Pran's sexy time was the reason for the delay. But his assumption is met with an indignant "Not yet" chorused by both Pat and Pran in unison, and this to me (at the time of my first watch) was telegraphing the message that the boys were resolutely putting off sex until they were both ready for it later.

But there's really nothing to suggest why they should be doing this (other than maybe Pran getting a case of the ick whenever Pat gets too sappily romantic and/or touchy-feely – understandable, and certainly not insurmountable for one so much in love).

And for me this view of a sexless, virginal Pat and Pran pre-Ep.11 didn't gel with the other details that became apparent on subsequent re-watches. It's possible the "yang" that Pat and Pran chorused (at Ep.9 [3‌/4] 5.38) may have an affective sense of negation that is somewhat different from the plain "no" or "not yet" suggested by the subtitles (though I haven't been able to find any confirmation of it online). But anyway I now think that they were just telling Korn that he'd caught them right before the main event (which is supported by Korn's embarrassment, and also Pat saying he wouldn't mind being late for dinner with the guys if he could just get a "reward" from Pran, at Ep.9 [3‌/4] 4.11 and 4.27). 😂

There are also some other clues pointing to the likelihood that Pat and Pran were not waiting to indulge in the physical side of their love, well before the clearly pre- and post-coital scenes that we see onscreen later in Episodes 11 and 12.

The Sexual Tension: From early on Pat and Pran had a track record of getting right up in each other's personal space, in tableaux of their own making absolutely saturated with sexual tension. These two, but especially Pat, demonstrated time and again that not only were they comfortable getting physically close to each other, there seemed to be an unspoken need to do so as well.

Pran deep in his crush was fighting it all the way (witness him pushing Pat away all the time), while Pat's motivations were a bit less clear (and yet he was almost always the one to initiate close encounters of the physical kind).

Some examples of this–

Ep.1 [3‌/4] 1.13 (when they were hiding from Korn, Mo and Chang in the side alley of the faculty Chemical Room):

‌

Ep.2 [1‌/4] 6.23 (in the toilet cubicle, when Pat "forgot" he'd not washed his hands before clamping it on Pran's mouth in some kind of an unconscious sublimation – Pran wasn't making any sound and his mouth was closed, but Pat couldn't help himself anyway 😂):

‌

Ep.2 [4/4] 11.21 (when they both realized, however subconsciously, that their competitive grappling at the apartment viewing had begun to take on strangely erotic overtones – patently obvious to all, even the hapless real estate agent who inadvertently burst in on them):

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Ep.4 [4/4] 3.41 (the rugby clinch, leading to Pat's line "If you hug me this tight, you might as well take me as your boyfriend" – sexual and other significance explained here):

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And of course Ep.5 [4/4] 11.53 (The Kiss, that literally and figuratively sucked away all oxygen from people on either side of the screen – their yearning, physical hunger for each other was already so evident each time it bubbled to the surface, but of course its explosive climax was when they both admitted it overtly to each other, during this Epic Rooftop Kiss at the end of Ep.5):

‌

BBS actually shows us Pat staying over at Pran's apartment and sharing the one bed in Ep.8 (at Ep.8 [1‌/4] 1.28. Nong Nao's presence in Pran's bed means that Pat must have been there before he got up to make breakfast; at Ep.8 [1‌/4] 5.34 Pat himself confirms that he spends nights at Pran's, "rehearsing" certain aspects of the Kwan and Riam play, in its BL reincarnation).

Given how much sexual tension is on display from early on, it seems only logical to me that there must have been some rumpy-pumpy hanky-panky going on below the waist, even though we don't get to see it onscreen. Indeed, Pa tells us as much with her observation on the morning after another such "rehearsal": 😂

(above) Bad Buddy Ep.8 [1‌/4] 5.46

Nong Nao as Agent of (Sexual) Subterfuge: In my opinion, another big tell that Pat and Pran were already doin' the deed (or at least going beyond second base) is even earlier, at Ep.7 [2/4] 5.36, when we learn that Pat had left Nong Nao behind in Pran's apartment.

(above) Bad Buddy Ep.10 [1‌/4] 8.53

We know that Pat hugs Nong Nao to fall asleep (he says so at Ep.4 [4/4] 11.30 and Ep.7 [2/4] 5.46). But the reason behind this is that Pat needs Nong Nao – his Linus blanket – to calm his fears when he's psychologically vulnerable, alone with his own thoughts and dreams (analyzed here). It doesn't make sense that he would be carrying Nong Nao around with him outside and away from his own bed, unless it was for sleepy-time comfort – so how did Rotten Little One end up in Pran's apartment?

Pat wouldn't have brought Nong Nao over to Pran's unless he knew he'd be staying the night. For example, we see this when he sneaks over to spend the night with Pran at Ep.12 [3‌/4] 4.37 – though why he'd need to kimono-cloak himself with the bedclothes like that is a little beyond me:

Maybe this is BBS emphasizing Nong Nao's role as Pat's security blanket, swaddling him in protection from his night-time fears? 🤷‍♂️ (Or is Pat naked under those bedcovers? His lust for Pran is so great he doesn't want to waste even the few seconds it would take to strip once he's with his beloved? 🤣)

Anyway, Nong Nao left behind in Pran's apartment suggests that Pat was already sleeping there as early as Ep.7. It could be possible that it was for other reasons, but I refuse to kid myself – we're talking about two young men deep in the heady flush of hormonal (and fully reciprocated) teenage love here. Given their pre-existing propensity for physical closeness (that mirrored their emotional intimacy), I can't imagine Pat and Pran would be keeping their hands off each other in private for long.

So when Pat left Nong Nao behind in Ep.7 (a ploy of course, to get Pran over for more), I really don't think he had been spending time in Pran's apartment just so they could study building construction together… any more than they would be chastely reading scriptures or practicing quilting. 😂

And of course when Pran went over to Pat's apartment to return Nong Nao, the situation soon devolved into a mutual seduction exercise that even referenced the passionate Ep.5 Rooftop Kiss (Pran's "Do you still want us to be friends?" at Ep.7 [2/4] 9.59).

‌On my re-watch, I think the competitive roughhousing we witness in Ep.7 [2/4] is actually Pat and Pran's own version of foreplay prior to actual intercourse – and they most certainly would have gone there had they not been interrupted by Pa and her wayward bladder (hence their guilty looks when she bursts in on them; they definitely had almost been caught in flagrante delicto, which Pat then has to sublimate away with bare-bodied crunches while Pran abandons the food he'd brought – and we know food is also often a stand-in for sex in Thai BL, referenced for example at Ep.12 [2/4] 11.54).

Food and Sex: Another scene where food was used as a metaphor for sex, that also suggests Pat and Pran had already been gettin' it on well before we see them in the afterglow of their Ep.11 honeymoon passions, took place during their cookout with Junior by the beach (scene starting at Ep.11 [2/4] 2.43):

Laced with lots of meaningful glances between Pat and Pran, the dialogue was peppered with several suggestive lines (mostly from Pat, but also acknowledged with knowing – if rueful – smiles from Pran) hinting at more adult meanings within the word play (all thankfully opaque to young Junior):

"All I do is eat" – the verb "to eat" in Thai (กิน/gin) is also slang for "to consume (someone) sexually";

"…I do many things for my lover too" – suggesting that Pat and Pran were already having sex;

"Like what?"… "Wait until you're older" – Pat shut down Junior's line of questioning, because the subject was unmissably adult (to the adults in the room).

And Junior's innocent comment "You don't have to pound it so hard. Cover it with your hand – it's spattering" also got Pran chuckling silently, because it coincidentally fit with his and Pat's subtextual zingers about their sex life even while all of that hidden discourse was flying above Junior's head (and rightly so too).

Pat also points a cucumber at Pran while admonishing Junior, further upping the innuendo quotient – basically his answer to "Tell me you're talking about sex without telling me you're talking about sex" 😂. (The Thai word for cucumber – แตงกวา/dtaaeng gwaa – is also slang for penis; see this Wiktionary entry linked here: ภาษาปาก, สแลง – อวัยวะเพศชาย.)

(above) Bad Buddy Ep.11 [2/4] 3.49

It could be possible that Pat and Pran had sex the night before, but I think that's highly unlikely given how exhausted they were after their bus journey to the beach. (Plus they were expected to be up early enough to earn their keep helping the fishermen.) I suppose you could read Pat's hijinks at the cookout as him setting the scene for their nuptial relations to come, i.e., that they hadn't done it before but were heading to it now, which was my asexual take on it the first time around watching this. But this doesn't align with what Pat and Pran tell us on the beach later, and I changed my mind on subsequent re-watches. 😉

Beer and "Kisses" on the Rocks: When Pat and Pran have their heartfelt tête-à-tête on the rocky breakwater at Khao Tao Beach (scene starting at Ep.11 [3‌/4] 9.50), there is a line of questioning that confirms (for me at least) they not only had been intimate before, but that they'd also been alternating their roles in bed.

What they say is perhaps open to some degree of interpretation, but I can't see how it could mean anything else…

When Pat says at Ep.11 [3‌‌/4] 12.50 "Here comes the last question. Can I kiss you?" it seemed straightforward enough at first viewing – another of BBS's nods at consent perhaps, with the boys turning quaintly Victorian about physical contact. But it's discordant with the energies we've seen them display before – at the Chem. Room alleyway, in the toilet cubicle, and on the rooftop in Ep.5. It's true the first two times Pat invaded Pran's personal space because he was trying to save him; and the third time he gave ample notice of his intentions. But the boys had never been coy with each other, so Pat suddenly turning into a bashful knight wordily asking for permission to kiss really makes no sense.

Then, however, Pran's response of "Isn't it my turn?" really puts Pat's question into context, and I think it qualifies as a lightbulb moment that illuminates an aspect of their hitherto mostly hidden sex life.

Yes, it is possible to read Pran's insistence ("No. It's my turn") as the boys simply taking turns at being the first to initiate lip-to-lip action, but even my ever-forgiving fan theorist's brain finds that too contrived an explanation. Plus PatPran's kisses are hardly about energy in one direction only – since each gives as good as he receives (e.g., at Ep.5 [4/4] 11.53 and Ep.11 [3‌/4] 13.27).

(above) Bad Buddy Ep.11 [3‌/4] 13.33 – is it really possible to take turns when doing this?

All this talk about taking turns really makes no sense – unless it's not actually about kisses.

My read is that the word จูบ/juup (whose dictionary definition is to kiss) is really PatPran's codeword for whoever gets to top the other during sex (like the verb baiser in French, which does similar semantic double duty). This also tells us that our two versatile scamps, both alike in dignity, had been alternating roles in bed like two gentlemen Romeos indeed… and trust our pernickety Pran to be keeping a record of who did what the last time! 😂

The fact that they have a working system in place with the rules of engagement already defined (and that Pat is seeking to deviate from) suggests that this isn't something novel that they just came up with in the days before.

(above) Bad Buddy Ep.11 [3‌/4] 14.00 – prelude to a "juup"

And getting graphical in an aside here for a moment – since prostate orgasms are typically far more intense than the other kinds men can experience, what we're also seeing here is Pat and Pran jostling to see who can give the other the gift of greater pleasure (and in doing so deriving a substantial measure of it for themselves too). It's consistent with the competitive drumbeat to which their couplehood thrums and marches, and is also a microcosm of their relationship as a whole – that whenever one of them lets his lover win, he gets to win as well too. 🤩

Anyway, Pran flat-out refuses to give up his turn (Ep.11 [3‌/4] 13.15), and the idea that kiss = top is borne out by his questions as the big spoon later – "Was I good?... How much do I get, out of ten?" (Ep.11 [3‌/4] 14.55 and 15.07).

I have more information about this exchange in my write-up linked here – Pat's sign language response really also points very strongly to the conclusion that Pran did top Pat on their honeymoon night. 🥰

(above) Bad Buddy Ep.11 [3‌/4] 15.25 – a satisfied Pat uses wordless symbolism to tell expert sign-reader Pran that his performance the night before deserves a top score of 10

So based on this record of alternating bedroom roles, I now truly do believe Pat and Pran had been having sex from way before (maybe even as early as Ep.7), not only going the whole distance but also taking turns equally at giving and receiving. Pran's insistence on his "turn" wouldn't have made much sense otherwise. And this was BBS also putting paid to the fascination some fans have for the formulaic stereotyping about seme/uke and top/bottom roles in BL.

P.S. Now in spite of all that I've written above, I do concede that a lot of it is based on inference and clue-reading, and that it's still possible to read Pat and Pran as doing nothing more than making out and heavy petting, right up until Ep.11. A possible reason might be a reluctance on Pran's part to go all the way (perhaps BBS playing with the blushing maiden trope?), given how much exasperation he shows whenever Pat turns clingy (e.g., at Ep.9 [2/4] 5.21, Ep.9 [3‌/4] 4.29 and Ep.11 [1‌/4] 15.19, though it's also evident he's always charmed by Pat's antics despite himself). The boys also could have begun taking turns in their matrimonial bed only after they got to the Zero Waste Village, though I don't see how they could have had the time for more than a single go (especially since they were all tired out by the family drama of Ep.10 and their journey to get to the beach). And this would make Pran's "Isn't it my turn?" a little odd, since phrasing it as a question implies enough rounds for them to be unclear on whose turn it should be. Plus (as previously mentioned) the use of the codeword kiss implies it's already an established system (i.e., not created in the previous few days) that they both understand. Like I said, it's possible – but given the ensemble of clues and signs pointing at PatPran's sex life, I really do not think it is likely. It could be that Director Aof and team were skirting the sexual dimension in order to tone BBS down enough to make it past the censors for more general viewing (and in this way allow its message to reach the younger generation as well). Thus the greater reliance on innuendo and inference to suggest rather than show outright that there was more going on between the lines (behind the curtain? Noting that the novel on which BBS is based is titled Behind the Scenes 🤩) with regard to physical love between Pat and Pran (and is an apt metaphor for the storytelling of BBS as a whole, where nothing is as it seems at first glance – discussed more in detail in my write-up linked here). And this is possibly the meaning underlying the innuendo-laden cookout with Junior – the scene is a capsule summary of BBS where the surface theatrics are inoffensive enough for viewing by the younger set, while the more adult themes embedded in the narrative will become visible only if you look at them with more experienced eyes, and thus will satisfy more mature audiences as well. The end result isn't as anodyne as My School President (nor could it have been, given the weightiness of the encoded themes) but BBS still managed to land the 13+ age rating, which isn't at all bad if they were wanting to get its important messaging about LGBTQ+ positivity out to younger teens. And that messaging would be further reinforced, and with even less sexual content – zero in my book – when MSP hit the screens later of course. 💖

‌ P.P.S. This is not 100% related, but I have to put in a little side-note here about Pran's comfort object (his PP hobo bag). In my head I'm convinced part of why that bag works for Pran as his security blanket is not just because it's a physical shield or something to hold on to when out and about.

(above) Bad Buddy Ep.11 [1‌/4] 4.24 – Pat and Pran arrive once more at the Zero Waste Village, but this time around they're a confirmed couple seeking refuge for their forbidden love

I think Pran's comfort object also functions like a Mary Poppins Bag of Requirement, allowing him to carry all sorts of stuff to counter any eventuality life might throw his way, and thus also bestowing on him a sense of control in the outside world. Now gay sex can sometimes be a messy affair – but knowing canon OCD Pran, I'm pretty sure that bag held all the necessary accoutrements for our boys to have a smooth, muss-free and fuss-free ride on their honeymoon romps, and with easy clean-up assured afterwards as well… 😉

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#bad buddy #patpran #bad buddy sex #patpran sex #bad buddy analysis #tw: sex

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enderwoah · 1 year

Text

i miss our little talks

summary:

Last Life was insane. What was that group? Two Listeners, a Watcher, a vampire, and A Normal Guy, which might actually be rarer than all of those things combined at this point. The Southlands were som'ming else, man. Really inclusive group, that was. The gold stahandahard for factions in the Life series, I'd wager. Oh, gods, not again.

or: the listeners have a very normal, free-flowing conversation. title from little talks by of monsters and men.

(ao3 link)

(2,684 words)

Jimmy crosses his arms and leans back on the cool stone wall, staring Grian down through the rushing water as Martyn flicks the sweat from his brow and vanishes his pickaxe back into his inventory. He glances at Jimmy, quirks up an eyebrow, and asks, "Why're you still here, mate?"

"Making sure you don't try anything," Jimmy says simply, not a lie and not a full truth. "Joel needs to sleep and I promised him I'd stay here and make sure you don't try and steal him again."

"Ah, right," Martyn says, nodding as if he believes Jimmy—which he doesn't. Jimmy can hear it in his voice, despite him not having actually said anything. He glances over at Grian's slouched figure in his little hole in the wall, distorted through the stream used to get back to the surface, and juts a thumb back towards him. "D'ya think he can hear us?"

"Yes," comes the short, unwavering reply. "Absolutely, unwaveringly, yes."

Martyn leans towards the stream and waves. "Hey, G. Sorry about the view. And sorry about the pufferfish, I didn't mean it at all." Jimmy huffs out a half-laugh and Martyn glares at him. "It was self-defence. Joel killed me for moving you around and is green now." He pauses. "Wait, do you think he can see, too?"

Jimmy snorts. "If we think he can hear us, why would he of all people not be able to see us?"

"Fair point," Martyn admits within a laugh. "Guess that was a bit unnecessary."

"I'm sure he appreciates the apology," Jimmy says lightly, sliding down to sit on the floor of the little cavern. Martyn mirrors him, although with significantly less grace, haphazardly dropping himself onto the ground in a way that can only be painful and makes Jimmy wince.

The silence that follows isn't uncomfortable—or, at the very least, as uncomfortable as it would be with anyone else—mostly because it isn't really silence. The running water, the rising and falling of Jimmy and Martyn's chests in tandem, their beating hearts syncing up to one another as they Hear things they shouldn't necessarily be able to hear, but are now much louder due to the not-silence. Martyn's face immediately contorts into something mildly pained, fins flicking, and they make eye contact that only seems to sound like an invitation.

Martyn?

Martyn flinches despite himself, and Jimmy wraps his arms around his knees, pulling himself further away to seem less threatening. Martyn laughs humourlessly, out loud, and wrings his hands and cracks his knuckles against the floor, the sharp pops and snaps making the physical air ripple around them, sound waves lapping at Jimmy's arms like someone threw stones into a pond.

I will never get used to that. Sorry. Don't apologise. It's not your fault. Yeah, well.

The not-silence returns, and Jimmy muses upon the fact that he forgot how much he preferred this method of speaking. It isn’t necessarily reading minds, though it could be—people talk in their minds all the time, of course, but since it isn’t telegraphed, they’re closer to whispers than true dialogue, which means you can easily tune it out. And, as expected, when Listening to a non-Listener, they can’t really speak back, so it doesn't make well for conversation. He remembers vividly the day Martyn and Jimmy stepped into their Nature, and how giddy they were when they spoke and Listened to each other without really speaking—and immediately, he remembers Martyn's panic when he realised that he couldn't actually stop.

How has it been treating you? How has what? You know. I do. It's no better, really. The usual. The usual?

Martyn sighs and rolls his eyes.

Tango is losing it because he built their tower off-centre, Scar is apologising to Cleo for accidentally killing her still, Bigb and Pearl are Watching, like, Watching with a capital 'W,' and Bigb is guilty as all hell because Cleo told Pearl that he would betray her at the first chance he got and he's not done that for a game and a half, Joel is on the border of a panic attack, poor guy— Martyn. —Etho's trying to write a note to Bdubs, it's his seventh draft and he's starting to get frustrated because he wants to talk to the guy so bad but just can't get the words out, Bdubs himself is taking apart his clock and putting it back together to calm himself down now that the session is over and no-one else will be dying— Martyn. —and what else—I can get the really juicy nonsense if you'd like, I mean, Skizz is basically on the verge of tears in the TIES base 'cause he keeps dying, Impulse is panicking and trying to help because the other two are busy, and Joel's fully tipped over into that panic attack now, but he can't let anyone see it because Joel isn't meant to have those— Martyn!

Martyn winces and lets his shoulders sag, putting his face into his hands, disrupting the stray strands of golden blond hair that fall in front of his face.

Sorry. I didn't want to hear any of that. I said I'm sorry. ...it's fine. Oh, Tim— Martyn. I'm serious. ... ...

Martyn's fins twitch and Jimmy's wings slowly fluff up, defensive and mildly upset at the invasion of privacy that's been forced upon his ears, but he understands that the idea of a filter might slip away when you're constantly hearing people's thoughts and secrets passed around the server through whispers like a disease. He understands, so he smooths out his feathers and does the mental equivalent of clearing his throat, which is more of a concept than a sound that can be described.

So you really just...Hear that? All the time? When it's quiet. I'm sorry. You already knew about it. Doesn't mean I can't be sorry, man. We got these abilities at the same time, and you haven't seemed to improve even since... Since Evo. Yeah. ... Well, I don't feel too bad about it. It's not like Grian is faring any better. Judging by the...

They both turn to Grian at the same time. Martyn laughs, and Jimmy misses whether it was out loud or not.

It's weird. I feel like Grian and I are two different sides of the same coin. Or, I guess, the same side on two different coins. We're really similar, is what I'm trying to say. How so? We just have similar experiences every season. Pledging our undying loyalty to someone in 3rd Life. Killing someone we love because of the rules in Last Life. Hating our soulbond in Double Life. Neither of us has a good handle on our Natures. But he knows how to play it all off and...adapt, I guess. I just end up dying. ...huh. I guess I never noticed. It's fair. I pledge my undying loyalty to a lot of people. Ha-ha. Is Scott your pick this season? Yeah. Not to steal your man or anything, but the Mean Gills are really where it's at.

Jimmy winces, and Martyn's eyes blow wide and immediately fill with regret.

Touchy subject, sorry, mate. It's fine. It was three seasons ago. Three seasons, gods. It feels like just yesterday that I was slitting the throat of my best friend. Dying to a terrible lava game. Running away from Joel's dogs. Gods, those stupid dogs! I'd almost forgotten about them. You should get a wolf for Joel. I think he needs an emotional support animal. And before you ask, that's just my assumption, he hasn't even thought about it. That's not a bad idea. But, like, it's Joel. ...yeah? He could either love it or immediately kill it. You know him. I mean, fair. You could just ask him. Or, you know. No.

Martyn exaggeratedly groans in his mind, rolling his head back and bonking it against the stone wall.

What is your issue with Listening? I mean, it's sort of our job, isn't it? We're just Watchers that get into the nitty-gritty of things, we're technically supposed to be abusing these powers to hell and back. Yeah, and I don't want to. Why? Just don't. Come on, Jimmy. Let me pick your brain. Isn't that what you've been doing this whole time? What? No. ...I just don't like looking into people's heads. Number one, it's rude and invasive to do it on purpose, and number two, I'd rather not come across anything...unsavoury? ...oh, ew, mate, we're in the middle of a death game— Not like that! Shut up! I'm kidding. What do you mean? I mean, like, looking into someone's head and seeing that they're speaking ill about me or...I mean, they do that out loud anyways, but I'd rather hold onto that sliver of hope that they're just joking. If they're saying it in their head, then... Oh. Mate— Don't. I don't need the lecture from anyone else, I know what you're going to say and it's not going to help. You know I'm just taking the piss. Yeah. Jimmy. I know. Do you? ...

The not-silence returns, and Jimmy distinctly looks at the ground. Martyn sighs loudly and pushes himself off of the ground, crossing the room slowly, as if Jimmy is a bird that he doesn't want to frighten away.

I know, Martyn, you don't have to—

Martyn ignores him and sits directly next to him, their shoulders touching. Jimmy distantly remembers such positions from Last Life, when the two of them (three of them, really, though Grian isn't participating in the discussion for obvious reasons) were part of the same group. The Southlands were nothing short of intimate on most days, up until betrayal tore up the ground underneath them like an explosion woven under their feet, so finding his place against Martyn isn't difficult at all.

Martyn waves his hand, summoning something from his inventory, and Jimmy finds himself flinching away when he sees it—a small diamond dagger that he's holding out in Jimmy's direction. He looks from the weapon, which is being held by its blade, condensation already forming around his perpetually damp fingertips, to Martyn's yellow eyes.

...? It's for you, moron.

Jimmy doesn't bother keeping the expression of surprise off of his face.

What, really? Yeah. Need to prove that we're still friends somehow.

Jimmy hesitantly takes the dagger, pressing his lips into a thin line.

You realise that I know people can be friends with someone they look down upon. I don't think everyone hates me or anything, but I know people think things about me. And my curse. And, y'know. Listener. Or, at least, Bigb and Pearl do. That's something I haven't been able to block out. Yeah, me too. And they're real sons o' beaches about it, too, to put it nicely. It's not like we asked to be like this. And there's no reason for them to play into that 'cosmic enemy' nonsense, either. Yeah! Grian and I are teamed, and we shouldn't even be interacting with each other, really. Last Life was insane. What was that group? Two Listeners, a Watcher, a vampire, and A Normal Guy, which might actually be rarer than all of those things combined at this point. The Southlands were som'ming else, man. Really inclusive group, that was. The gold stahandahard for factions in the Life series, I'd wager. Oh, gods, not again. That bit lasted for so long. It was impressive how it never got old. It absolutely did, but we were all too sleep-deprived and paranoid to care. I think that's the foundation of any good group. What, sleep deprivation and bad puns? Yeah. You'd be surprised how the Bad Boys have basically followed the same formula. Reusing our trade secrets, huh? Sharing 'em with Joel? We're just bad like that. Every time the three of you say things like that, I throw up in my mouth a little. Hey—! Who do you think we got it from? You're, like, the king of bad recurring bits. Yeah, yeah. You've got me there.

They slip back into that comfortable not-silence, simply resting against the wall and each other until Martyn suddenly jolts and pushes himself off the ground.

"Right, sorry," he says out loud, and Jimmy fully flinches away at the sudden spoken word—it's far too loud and crashes over him like a tidal wave, immediately making him dizzy as he rubs his temples and stops Listening. "Sorry about that. Should've warned you."

"'S fine, mate," Jimmy says through gritted teeth, eyes still twisted shut as his wings spread slightly behind him and stretch as he sits up. "You alright?"

"The Clockers are coming over to use G as a fortune teller," Martyn replies, his tone playfully dry. "And as much as I love you, man, I can't be caught cuddling with the homies when we're not on the same team. You understand."

Jimmy, still not opening his eyes (because it's just more comfortable that way; just for a moment longer), raises an eyebrow at Martyn. "Right..." he says, trailing off to indicate his obvious disbelief.

"I'm serious!" Martyn protests. "They'll never let me live it down, and then they'll tell Scott and he'll make some stupid bit over me cheating on him that spirals into him actually severing our alliance because you know how Scott is."

Jimmy's heart aches despite himself, but he forces out a laugh just to not make it awkward. He hears Martyn hiss in a break and he cracks an eye open just to look at him. He has the deepest grimace that he has ever seen upon a man's face, obviously played up for laughs but still with a twinge of realness within it. "Jimmy, you know what we both are, yeah? That was the fakest laugh I have ever Heard, ever. Christ Almighty."

"Ha ha," Jimmy says, deadpan. He squints up at Martyn and shoos him with one hand. "Get outta here, fish boy."

Martyn snorts and turns to the water stream, muttering, "Fish boy...you are just too much. I'll see you around, Jim."

"Seeya."

Martyn cracks his knuckles, preparing to swim up the stream before he pauses momentarily. He turns back to Jimmy, opening his mouth as if he's going to say something, but clamps it shut at the last second.

His voice comes through very faintly, as Jimmy already stopped Listening, but he can still hear it clear as day.

Good luck with the game. Rootin' for you all the way, brother.

Martyn grins and leaves the cavern.

Jimmy rests there for a moment, taking a deep breath in and letting out an exhale cut short by the constant tightness in his chest. He pushes himself off the ground and makes his way towards the stream, already hearing the loud voices of Scar and Bdubs above ground, only being broken up by an almost-silence that he presumes is Cleo's voice just at too far of a distance for him to hear.

Before swimming up the stream, though, he meets Grian's open eyes through the rippling distortion between them. He can see the yellow residue glowing against the water and reflecting back at him, but he can't bring himself to care enough to shake it away.

"You heard none of that, yeah?" he says, because he knows Grian can hear that and he knows Grian heard none of that; he's just driving the point home. Despite the fact that neither of them put any sort of weight in their cosmic rivalry, neither of them find anything wrong with harbouring a playful one, either. So, yes, he knows Grian didn't hear it, but he enjoys being a bastard whenever he has the rare opportunity.

He smirks. Grian's eyes are glassy and unfocused, so maybe he's imagining it, but he'd like to think he sees the smallest twinge of annoyance in the man's face. He waves the diamond dagger in front of his face, relishing in the idea that Grian will, for once, have zero context on why it happened. "Didn't think so."

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devisrina · 9 months

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I kind of love coming on here and reacting to sydcarmy this season, it’s so refreshing. I was on Reddit during last season and it was so gross how they treated Sydney and I know it’s only bc the main demographic on Reddit are white men who have a clear view of what character should behave a certain way. Like Sydney couldn’t act or do certain things or else she would be crucified unlike her male counterparts. We know her being a black woman is a large reason why most can’t see her being with a white man but are okay when it’s another black person. It’s also why they were far quicker to warm up to the potential of carmy getting a love interest that resembled him culturally. But have the audacity to call us delusional bc there are very clear signs that say and carmy are soulmates, in every sense of the word.

Thank you for being one of the many sydcarmy acc that make it fun to be on this app!

I kind of love coming on here and reacting to sydcarmy this season// Yes! All the Sydcarmy blogs have the best analysis/opinion pieces on them and I enjoy reading and interacting with them. They are also really welcoming and intelligent beings.

I was on Reddit during last season and it was so gross how they treated Sydney and I know it’s only bc the main demographic on Reddit are white men who have a clear view of what character should behave a certain way.// They never have proper arguments about her without being completely wrong. Then, they accuse us of thinking everyone is racist for disliking her, and then they bring up the other cast members with diverse backgrounds to make their opinion on Sydney seem less out of racial bias. This show does a decent job of presenting people of colour in a nice light, but the main character is a white man, his "cousin" is a white man. And most of those people on Reddit blatantly favouritism Richie. And it's so stupid having to hear the same stupid argument "Am I the only one who thinks Carmen shouldn't have apologised-" Like no, there are a bunch of you assholes on here that think that. But Carmy was at the bigger fault, and the thing is she probably would've apologised, but she couldn't even get a word out without him telling her to shut the fuck up. He got mad under pressure, and he never gave her a chance to right her wrong. I get why Carmy was stressed, but he didn't regulate his behaviour well enough and that demonstrates poor leadership. And he rightfully realised this and apologised.

Sydney couldn’t act or do certain things or else she would be crucified, unlike her male counterparts.// For real. Like, they always crap on her for stabbing Richie, but it was clearly an accident. He backed into it. Yes, she held the knife wrong, but he was pissing her off the entire day out of spite. He had the audacity to ask her if she was blowing someone at the telegraph, and this wasn't the only time he made distasteful comments towards her. And Richie already knew he deserved to be stabbed, so why do people try to keep defending him for something even though he admitted that he deserved it? I'm glad he got development though. She put up with his shit for too long, she put up with everyone's shit for too long. Carmy fucking left her to run a brigade on her own with her coworkers which she barely got in tune with. And Carmy did not defend her in front of them whatsoever. And it was wrong of her to give in her risotto to that customer without talking to Carmy first, and she did mess up the to-go system, and she should learn to be more patient in the future. But that's the thing, she learns from her mistakes and she is seen to be more patient and technical with her work now.

We know her being a black woman is a large reason why most can’t see her being with a white man but are okay when it’s another black person.// This is so annoying, but also so realistic to how people react to white men displaying any sort of romantic attraction to women of colour. They get so surprised that you're not just sidelined by an attractive white guy and that they see you as attractive. There are relationships between people of the same race. Who cares if Sydcarmy gets together? Also, I feel like they would be one of the best-written interracial couples if they were to become canon. Also, I don't feel that Marcus understands Syd in the way that Carmy does/tries to. Marcus is caring and such a sweetheart, who I hope finds someone someday. But I feel that Sydcarmy would be so good together after they both work through things.

It’s also why they were far quicker to warm up to the potential of Carmy getting a love interest that resembled him culturally.// I feel like we all tried to like Claire, but it just wasn't working for us. She's just not that great to watch and it wasn't all that surprising that the incels on Reddit would like her because she was written to purely care about Carmy. She is fine and I don't mind her so much anymore.

But have the audacity to call us delusional bc there are very clear signs that Syd and Carmy are soulmates, in every sense of the word// There are so many hints in the filming directions, dialogue, and clothing that they are soulmates which could lead to becoming romantic, and the fact that people fail to see it just feels odd. But what I've chosen to do is talk more about them as if they are going to happen. I just really like them.

Thank you for being one of the many sydcarmy acc that make it fun to be on this app!// Awee thank you <3 My heart :) It's really sweet hearing people say all these nice things, I love each and every one of you so much. I mean, if we enjoy Sydcarmy, we should be able to freely make all of our posts in peace. And I'm really glad that they are seen by amazing people like you anon. Thank you :)

#sydney adamu #carmy x sydney #carmen berzatto #Sydcarmy #chaos menu #chefs kiss

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likeadaydreamorafever · 8 months

Text

Mischa Sunday Telegraph Interview

Why Mischa Barton said yes to surprise role on Neighbours

She was the star of the hottest teen drama of the noughties, but The O.C’s Mischa Barton shocked everyone when she signed on to the revival of Aussie soap Neighbours. Now she exclusively reveals to Stellar why she gave up work in the US for a show she’d never seen in suburban Melbourne.

After starring in the hottest teen drama of the noughties and being idolised for her every fashionable move, Mischa Barton surprised everyone when she signed up for some suburban drama on Australia’s most famous cul-de-sac in a revival of Neighbours. But then the British-born, US-based actor – who started her career on the stage and in soap operas – has never relished the role Hollywood chose for her. In an exclusive interview with Stellar, the 37-year-old recalls being cast in The O.C. because she “wasn’t anything like the other young blonde girls going in and trying out” and reveals how she’s taken charge of her own narrative.

Craning her neck forward, Mischa Barton lets out a squeal of excitement as she hears the first bars of Neighbours actor Stefan Dennis’ 1989 single ‘Don’t It Make You Feel Good’ emanate from a mobile phone. “I’m adding that to my playlist!” she exclaims with a throaty laugh, before plotting how she will tease Dennis on the Neighbours set the next day, her first suggestion being that she might just broadcast the tune loudly in her dressing room.

While Barton was a fan of Kylie Minogue before joining the Neighbours cast, she was far less familiar with the era-typifying swerve into pop music made by Dennis (who has been playing the show’s “villain” Paul Robinson since 1985), let alone its reputation for turning out future Australian music superstars. As such, she can confidently say it’s “very, very unlikely” that her 10-week stint on Ramsay Street was motivated by a secret desire to follow in the footsteps of Minogue, Natalie Imbruglia, Delta Goodrem or even Dennis.

So if not music, then what did prompt the former star of the early 2000s teen drama The O.C. to say yes to a stint in suburban Melbourne working on a show that she has never seen, and that has no cultural footprint in the US, where she lives?

Certainly for Network 10, adding Barton to the cast was a shrewd move to create buzz when the series returns later this month, resurrected just over a year after its 37-year run came to an end and also airing for the first time in the US and Canada via Amazon’s streaming service Freevee (as well as streaming in Australia and New Zealand on Amazon Prime). For Barton, who wasn’t yet born when Neighbours debuted in 1985, it was a serendipitous chance to try something new, as well as reconnect with some old friends in Australia.

When Stellar spoke to Barton in June, a week before she returned to the US, she explained the role had “come at a really good time, because while I was loving living in New York, there’s a writers’ strike on. And it’s [Northern Hemisphere] summertime. So there’s really not that much work going around for a lot of my actor friends.”

Of course, the Hollywood actors’ strike – which was called in mid-July – has also compounded the issue for Barton’s fellow actors. However, practicality and picket lines aside, the real lure for Barton was the role of Reece Sinclair, a wealthy American who arrives in Erinsborough under the guise of doing business – but in reality, has a much more personal agenda to fulfil. “And then she falls for a guy,” Barton says with a smile. “It actually just felt like a very good fit for me in terms of a role I could really play. And I don’t always feel that way with television.”

Her sentiment is understandable given the 37-year-old’s most high-profile project since leaving The O.C. in 2006 was her surprising gear-shift into reality TV on The Hills: New Beginnings. A sequel to the popular MTV series that followed the daily lives of TV personalities Brody Jenner, Audrina Patridge, Heidi Montag and Spencer Pratt, it was sold to her as an opportunity to let people see “the real Mischa Barton”. Ultimately, she felt let down by the process.

“Would I do it again? Probably not something like The Hills,” Barton tells Stellar. “I think they’re even continuing to try to do it, but it just wasn’t really all the things that were promised around it, like clearing up any misconceptions or getting people to know you. There are just people putting

on too many fronts and they’re not being themselves. So if people aren’t being themselves, it’s impossible because I’m used to having a script. That middle ground is just too trying for me. It’s partially scripted but it’s not, but they can’t really say that. So it wasn’t my favourite experience.

“But I’ve never been attracted to that kind of fame, either,” she adds. “It’s not something that I chase. I actually veer away from it.”

Fame has long been an uncomfortable by-product of Barton’s chosen career. Asked whether she’s grateful to have become a celebrity in an era when smartphones couldn’t capture her every move, Barton sighs wearily. “You can always play the grass is greener thing, and I just don’t feel that way,” she says. “I mean, in a sense, it would have been much easier for me if there had been social media to combat all the ludicrous stories in the press. Now, kids can really show their own narrative. You can use your own social media to be whoever you want to be.”

She qualifies her reply after a brief pause: “At the same time, I don’t really love social media. So I’m fine with having come up in a time when it wasn’t around and things were, in one sense, a lot simpler.”

That’s why, rather than opting for a luxury hotel suite, Barton relished staying in a relatively humble cottage nestled behind Melbourne’s bustling Chapel Street for the duration of her time filming Neighbours. There, she could cook meals for friends, do her own laundry and, when her schedule allowed, walk to the Prahran Market to pick up fresh fruit and veg. She also found time to indulge in a bit of shopping, and admits that she would be going home with far heavier suitcases than when she arrived. “I really liked a vintage store I found there,” she says of Chapel Street, which is known for its eclectic mix of high-end boutiques and second-hand clothing markets. “I did a lot of damage in there.”

Filming in Australia meant such excursions could be enjoyed without being recognised or photographed, and added a layer of protection for Barton, who has learnt the tricks to staying incognito – the easiest being to steer clear of bars and clubs where people inevitably want selfies.

Avoiding unwanted attention wasn’t always so easy. When The O.C. first aired in 2003, it catapulted Barton and the rest of her young co-stars into a searing spotlight of adulation and attention. For someone who had been acting steadily since she was eight – making her screen debut in the US soap opera All My Children in 1994, and going on to appear in two of the biggest films of 1999, M. Night Shyamalan’s thriller The Sixth Sense and Richard Curtis’ hit romance Notting Hill – the sudden and frenzied interest in both The O.C. and her personal life was a shock to the system.

“I was 17 or 18 and it was a very specific kind of fame,” Barton recalls. “Most actors, they can work their whole lives and have a very normal level of notoriety or fame. But, for some reason, The O.C. was just one of those things. It was a time and a place, and it just took off in a very different direction. It was kind of an uncontrollable beast. But I’ve been in this industry for a long time and managed, for a large portion of it, to get away with just living a very normal life.”

Both Barton and her character, rich girl Marissa Cooper, became fashion icons of the time, with the actor regularly centre stage on red carpets and front row at fashion weeks, while young girls everywhere mimicked her onscreen style of low-slung jeans and spaghetti-strap tops.

Recalling her time in the fashion spotlight and the pressures to look a certain way in Hollywood, she says she’s “learnt how to get away from it. I don’t really live in LA anymore, so I don’t put myself under that constant scrutiny and pressure. I’ll only dip into [the Hollywood scene] when I feel like it’s healthy and something I want to do.”

Even so, Barton recalls how a “bizarre amount” of people found it hard to separate the British-born and New York-raised Barton from the quintessential Californian teenager she portrayed. “People were obsessed with Marissa Cooper,” she says. “I’d get sent a lot of [scripts] that are rehashes of her. And I was always like, ‘Do you not realise that’s actually not something I like to play?’ I didn’t really enjoy having to play that character. I had to find my own version of Marissa and I think the real reason I was cast is because I wasn’t really anything like the other young blonde girls going in and trying out for it.”

Barton left the show in its third season in 2006, when Marissa died in a shocking car crash. The series’ creator Josh Schwartz recently told Vanity Fair that he regretted killing off her character, saying he wished he’d found a way to give Barton “the break she needed and wanted that still would’ve allowed for that character to return”.

Fans say The O.C. never recovered from Barton’s departure, but the death scene – in which Marissa’s body is carried from the flames by her longtime love Ryan Atwood (Ben McKenzie) – is etched into TV history.

“I’ve only just rewatched that scene recently,” Barton admits. “I never watched it after I did it because there was really no reason to, but I just did the podcast [Welcome To The OC, Bitches!, hosted by her former co-stars Rachel Bilson and Melinda Clarke, who played her best friend Summer Roberts and mother Julie Cooper] and we rewatched it together, and it was weirdly emotional. I was like, ‘Oh, I forgot the car is on fire.’ And I forgot there’s no music playing for once in the show. It was done in a really interesting way.”

Despite the enduring affection the public still has for the series, Barton isn’t sure that a reboot of The O.C. would work for audiences today. “It’s not like it hasn’t come up before, but obviously, I’m dead,” she says with a smile. “Honestly, it’s more likely to work as an offshoot of it or something based around those characters that’s not exactly the same, rather than trying to simply resurrect them. You’d have to think outside the box if you want to resurrect The O.C. culture or characters.”

And while The O.C. featured former Neighbours co-star Alan Dale, who played his screen dad and is one of his good mates, Dennis had never seen the US series. He was only aware that Barton – or, as he knew her, “the vomiting girl from The Sixth Sense” – was coming to Ramsay Street.

“[I thought], ‘Oh, here we go, they’ve cast a Hollywood hero to show us how it’s done,’” Dennis admits to Stellar. “There was a cautious shyness initially as she was alone on the other side of the world, thrown into a building full of people she didn’t know and working day-by-day in a show she didn’t know or understand the way it worked. This cautious shyness was misread by me. I now like to think we have cemented a long-term friendship.”

Another castmate, Annie Jones (who rejoined the show in 2020, reprising her 1980s character Jane Harris), was equally impressed by Barton, enthusing that she brought a “beautiful, serene calmness to the set. It’s great for the show to have someone of Mischa’s calibre on it. She was gorgeous. Everyone loved her.”

And while Barton may be back in the US as Neighbours returns to air, she tells Stellar she remains excited that – unlike her very final departure from The O.C. – the door has been left open for a return. And the plot wheels are already turning in her head, as Barton teases, “Reece might pop up on FaceTime from New York.”

#mischa barton #the oc #marissa cooper

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assortedvillainvault · 2 years

Note

Hi, Chance anon again! I know I just sent in another request, but I just thought of a really good one I think you’ll like! How do you think each of Blitzwing’s personalities reacts to getting a kiss from the human reader for the first time (whether it’s on the cheek or lips or whatever is up to you)? I’m guessing Hothead’s reaction involves lots of screaming lol, but I’ll leave that up to you. I hope you’re happy, healthy and safe!

*Clenches Fist* Chance Anon I hope you're ready for some SMOOCHIN

Headcannons for first time kisses with Blitzwing x Reader below!

Icy

Icy is the most distant of the three personalities and the least inclined to PDA, it's simply how he is. Farthest he's probably felt comfortable going with you so far is idly petting you in his grasp like an oversized metal Bond villain and their cat.

Not that you OBJECTED to this treatment this mech's hands and shoulder are your thrones now - and you'll happily soak up the affection it's just you'd like something a tad more forward, y'know?

He catches you staring at him several times before his monocle finally zooms in and focuses on you right back, even as he still faces the screen and continues with his work. "Somezhing on jour mind, little one?"

You hum and brace yourself on his shoulder a little better. You need a bit more leverage to get past the sweep of his helmet guard...

"Not really. Something on your face tho."

He makes a noise akin to an alexa unit with a wonky connection and turns, one elegant optic ridge arched in his usual deadpan expression, "I can assure jou zhere is not-"

BAM you seize the moment with both fists and plant a kiss right on his cheek ridge. Distantly you feel all 33 feet of him freeze beneath you and his fans kick on. Ha!

You're sailing on the sea of triumph and make to pull away with a MWAH!. Except you. Uh. Can't?

In muffled panic you realise your lips are STUCK and your face is going through the Worst ice cream headache youve ever had, Icy FINALLY manages to reactivate his voicebox and frantically apologise, you can feel the panic rising and all you can think is please don't switch please don't switch you will rip my face off if you do pls pls pls

Turns out Icy's hyperfrost cannons mean he runs cold constantly, and when he's startled millions of years of war have ingrained combat systems to activate at a moments notice, cooling him even further. Like licking a telegraph pole in Alaska.

Officially probably the most embarrassing trip to med bay either of you have ever had.

Hothead

He's shouting about something, honeslty you tuned out a while ago and became immune to the thunderous volume of loud noises. This mech is 90% shout.

You lay a hand against his helmet and pat it gently even as he fumes. He's long since mastered the art of stomping around without jostling you (but the magnets sewn into your jeans also help, like, a lot). You're not even sure if he can feel your tiny hand through he armour plating but continue regardless.

"It's so slagging unfair!" he roars, and you make all the right noises. Absentmindedly pressing a kiss beside the place your hand rests. "Yeah, I hear you."

The silence rings between you like an alarm bell allergic to noise.

"UH-" you don't even get a minute to fling up an excuse before you're being swept up into giant hands. You clench against the whiplash as Hothead clenches his dentae in front of you.

You take a minute to admire the truly extensive blush below his visor. He opens his mouth to inhale for a new, jet engine decibel outbutrst and you abruptly decide that, yknow what, those lips are extremely plump and kissable and in for a penny in for a pound and all that.

Future safety briefings will specify that humans should not lauch their heads into a mechs mouth unexpectedly -or ever- but you can't help but feel like you've won... something even as you try and extracate your head from between said lips that closed on reflex.

Lots of kissing was techically done, just not very traditionally, and he couldn't even find words beyond squeaking and wild gestures, so you're officially counting this as a win.

Random

It's taken you more than a week to see Random after the hilarious mishaps with the other personalities, a fact that's concerned you for a while.

Random is the most openly affectionate and seems to have an addiction to touching you with his face anyway, so you thought a kiss would be within easy reach. He's already licked, nuzzled and balanced you on his non-existant nose, why the distance now?

The answer comes in the form of nightmares and cannibalism. It's depressing what you get used to these days.

You're not sure if Random gets the worst nightmares of the three or is simply the most open about expressing distress even when asleep. All you know is that one minute you're blearily forcing your eyes open and the next you're all but lauched off the berth as Random thrashes and shrieks in remembered pain.

Miraculously you're unhurt but are in no position to stop Lugnut storming in and grappling Blitzwing back down to the bed. Random snarls, and it's something so animalistic you feel it in your bones. You watch in horror as he wrestles free and sinks Jack O'Lantern knife teeth into Lugnut's arm.

To his credit all Lugnut does is grunt and let Blitzwing lap up the energon. You're certain if it were anyone else they would have lost the arm.

Lungnut holds him even as he slowly relaxes and lays prone againt the berth, fans on high and optics dim and distant. His face is still covered in energon and you can tell he'll need your help cleaning it out of the crevices later.

"Human. You can come up now."

You shakily do, trusting in the sheer force of the bomber to keep Blitzwing pinned as you come sit by his face. He slowly managed to focus on you, though all that comes out is a pitiful whine.

You've never noticed really before, but he has no lips to cover his razor blade smile, and had always been incredibly gentle when you were close. You press a kiss to his cheek in a clear spot and run a hand fondly around a wide and questioning optic.

"Going to need a bath later, big guy." You mumble and he fianlly relaxes fully as Lugnut grumbles and leaves the room, complaining about disturbance to his sleep schedule.

The tired but content purr of his dual engines is all you rememeber as you both gently drfit back to sleep.

#I YEEEAARRRNNNN #blitzwing x reader #thalassa responds #x reader #blitzwing #this was a joy to write and i fianlly had the energy #thanks once again for all the requestes chance you rule #headcannons ahoy #transformers #transformers animated #maccadam

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little-box-of-autism · 1 year

Text

Deliverance I [Spellman Siblings]

A gift for @dirtytransmasc that has been a long time in the making.

The first time Mansk sees her smile – a true smile, not a threatening display of fangs – is moments before she tips over the edge of the cliff, and something twists painfully inside him.

Irrational, he’s only known her for a week now, why does the idea of her death bother him so greatly?

The squad rushes to the edge, they just finished claiming all their banshees, and within moments a blur of teal, yellow, and light blue shoots up from below with a whoosh of air that sends a few of his fellow recoms stumbling back.

There’s a ring of laughter – high and free – and Mansk spots her perched on the back of the banshee now flying just above them, and relief fills his chest. Something keeps pulling him towards her, maybe it’s the way the darkness feels less suffocating in her presence or the way she looks at him, eyes knowing but not judging.

Later, when she is flying loops around him and her hand skims the top of his head, Mansk finds himself fighting the urge to reach out and touch.

“Come on! You’re so slow!”

Reyzì tugged on his arm, giving an exaggerated groan as she tried to hurry him up, pulling Mansk along as they moved towards the old Avatar Compound. Their arrival at Hell’s Gate had seemed to bring out a lighter, almost childish, side of the siblings.

There was no fear, no hesitation. Her hand wrapped around his wrist and pulled.

Mansk allowed himself to be pulled along – the corner of his lips just barely tugging upwards – a bit startled by her brazen touch. It wasn’t comfortable, it never was, in fact, Reyzì’s touch had felt like a balm. It had shocked him the first time, instinctively recoiling when her fingertips had pressed into his forearm through the material of his shirt, expecting the familiar burn and itch that usually came with physical touch, but it never came. They had been climbing up into the floating mountains and he had been reaching for a handhold when she had, without saying a word, directed his hand towards a vine rather than the jutted rock he had been aiming for.

Reyzì had stared him in the eye and retracted her hand, moving it to push on the rock Mansk had been about to grab. It had come loose, tumbling down past them to the ground.

She kept touching him, always telegraphing her movements before making contact and she never flinched. Her touch never burned; it never made him itch in a way that’d usually have him clawing at his skin. It was gentle and firm.

Mansk couldn’t say how much the Avatar Compound had changed for he only had vague recollections of the place, but he knew it had changed. As Reyzì pulled him into the building he could see the touches left behind by the siblings. Every pole, beam, or spare piece of wood had been carved into and decorated with intricate designs; no doubt done by Rävi. Little trinkets and bits of metal or tech were scattered across most surfaces, and Mansk knew they were left behind by Ro’eyk.

The bright colours – garlands made of beads, feathers and leaves, and woven drapes – hung from the ceilings and clung to beams and poles. Paintings decorated the walls; some were just splashes of colour while others depicted beautiful scenes.

Reyzì had dropped his arm, scurrying off to what looked like a radio, and Mansk found himself just standing to the side, eyes taking in the room around him with the occasional glance back to her.

Z-dog looked at him with a smile on her lips, shaking her head lightly before turning back to the little device Ro’eyk was excitedly showing her. Mansk didn’t notice, too consumed with her to even look at his fellow soldier.

“~ Oh, fair and flighty love My aerolite above The only dove I see ~”.

A tune started – happy and light – and he heard the tell-tale sound of a banjo. Reyzì stood in the middle of the room, smiling at him as she began twirling around with the music. Her movements were fluid, moving like she was one with the music and Mansk found himself watching her every movement.

“~ Could you love me more If by the sun and moon, I swore That I would never flee? ~”

The scream rattled the squad, but it shook Mansk to his core. The frustration, anguish, and anger had torn out of Reyzì’s throat in a way that sounded painful, the tears in her eyes and the heaving of her chest only made something in Mansk’s chest twist.

He wanted to do something – anything, everything – to help her but how? Mansk did not remember ever being comforted, so how was he to comfort her?

Mansk found himself just standing there, a few inches away from where Reyzì sat in the nook of some large and twisted tree roots, unsure of what to do. Mansk could follow orders, and he could take a gun and shoot at a target, but comforting someone was completely foreign to him.

So, he waited.

Waited for Reyzì to show him what she needed.

Then he feels it, a tug on his pants. At his knee is Reyzì’s hand, curling around the fabric of his pants while her gaze stays fixed on something in front of her – far in front of her – and she just gives a light tug.

The space isn’t very big, at least not for two full-grown na’vi. Mansk is about 9’4’’ and Reyzì is closer to 8’10’’, but somehow Mansk manages to squeeze in beside her. Physical contact, even through layers of fabric, that doesn’t make his skin itch or burn, is still new to Mansk but as Reyzì slumps against his side, the weight of her against him feels right.

They stay like that for what seems like hours, the odd sounds of the forest and the squad milling around the camp behind them become background noise; the only thing he focuses on is the weight of Reyzì against his side. Eventually, morning comes, Reyzì’s hand is in his, and Mansk realizes at some point they had fallen asleep.

The Colonel Quaritch was looking at them and his expression was…... soft, and he was smiling too.

Mansk watches Reyzì.

He finds himself doing that a lot; just watching Reyzì throughout the day, and he frequently finds her watching him in return. At first, he hadn’t been obvious about it, years of training made it easy to watch her without giving it away and the tinted sunglasses helped disguise just where his eyes tended to linger, but after Hell’s Gate Mansk had forgone trying to hide his gaze on her.

Reyzì didn’t seem to mind. In fact, she seemed quite pleased with his watchful gaze on her, smiling at him whenever she’d catch him staring, and would often leave whatever she was doing to approach him.

Though Mansk hadn’t expected Reyzì to come up to him after bathing.

It was a relaxing day for the squad – a rare thing nowadays – and everyone had leapt at the idea of being able to wash off the accumulated grime from their bodies, with the exception of Ro’eyk who had to be wrestled into the river by his siblings.

Being in the military tended to desensitize one to nudity between the communal showering and the lack of privacy in an active warzone, most people had seen their squad naked one way or another, and as such the recoms hadn’t had any issue stripping down in front of each other.

It also seemed that the siblings weren’t much different and Mansk wondered if communal bathing was a na’vi thing too, or if it was unique to the siblings.

Even though Mansk was used to bathing communally, he still preferred privacy and had taken the opportunity to go further upstream, ducking behind a large rock to breathe in solitude. He made quick work of cleaning himself, even cleaned his clothes and laid them out to dry on a rock, and then took the opportunity to relax.

The water was clear – clean; Mansk can’t remember a time when he ever saw truly clean water – and it wasn’t cold either; it was chill but not unpleasant, and as he rested against a rock he enjoyed the sensation of the moving water against his skin. It only came up to his waist, sitting down as he was, and at its deepest parts it only seemed to go up to his chest.

The telltale sound of swishing water disturbed by movement had Mansk’s eyes snapping open and the only thing that kept him from reaching for his weapon – always kept in arms reach – was the familiar scent that drifted over to him.

Reyzì

“Gideon.”

His first name comes out like a sigh, content and comforting in tone, and a small saccharine smile is gracing Reyzì’s features as she says it. It’s been weeks since she started using it but every time it spills past her lips it’s like listening to a hymn.

“Rey.”

She looks beautiful, he thinks, watching as she comes to sit in front of him.

Mansk can’t help but trace over her form with his eyes, taking her in like an art piece, and he can feel how her own eyes trace over him in return.

It should bother him more, knowing that she can easily count the tally marks on his ribcage. All 496 of them.

Reyzì’s hair is still braided but lacks its usual adornments and decorations, nor is it pulled back from her face instead it falls freely over her shoulders to where they end below her breasts. There are scars he hasn’t noticed before, all are old and faded but remain as blue-silver lines across her skin.

There are three small ones, thin scratch-like lines that are only two inches long, on the curve of her hip, and four little puncture scars reminiscent of a bite on her collarbone.

He wonders where she got them, though Mansk has an idea where the bite mark came from.

Her stripes paint a captivating pattern across her skin, stretched over lean but toned muscles, and a distant part of his mind lingers over the parts where their pattern mirrors his own in some spots.

There is a delicate touch to his sternum and a tingling warm spreads from that spot. Leaning forward now, Reyzì softly traces her fingertips over the tattoo on his upper chest – a three-headed angel of death – and for a moment his breath stutters.

“It’s beautiful Gideon.”

Later, after they’ve changed back into their clothes and made camp for the night, Reyzì has laid herself against his side and she absently plays with the dog tags hanging from his neck.

“Can I have one?”

“Hmm?”

“One of the dog tags; can I have one?”

Mansk blinks down at her for a second, and watches Reyzì rub her cheek against his shoulder while still playing with the metal tags hanging from his neck.

“Mhmm, yeah.”

She rewards him with a saccharine smile, a pleasant-sounding purr coming from her chest.

Mansk spends the next day watching Reyzì, or more specifically the silver dog tag that is now attached to a braid that dangles right beside her face. If he looks close enough, Mansk can make out his name stamped on the metal.

A low, steady purr rumbles in his chest throughout the day and builds in strength every time he catches sight of Reyzì touching his dog tag in absent thought.

The near-silent sound of soft and shuffling footsteps approaching his door woke Mansk from his sleep, his body reacting before his mind and in mere seconds he was holding his pistol, aiming it directly at the door to his room.

“Gideon?”

“Rey?”

Reyzì’s amber eyes stared back at him, head peaking past the door and the sight of her was enough to soothe the prickling nerves in his mind.

The Soldier was still close to the surface, ready to take over but it seemed the sight of Reyzì relaxed him as well.

She was already slipping into the room before Mansk had even fully lowered the gun, and he watched as she softly closed the door behind her with great care before turning back to face him. Reyzì was clad in nothing more than an oversized shirt – one she had likely stolen off someone in the squad – and what looked to be a spare set of Z-dog’s gym shorts.

“I couldn’t sleep, I was hoping I could stay with you?”

Mansk’s throat bobbed for a second, unsure how to answer in the moment. Reyzì had taken to sleeping beside him whenever she wasn’t watching Spider sleep – to make sure the kid’s mask didn’t malfunction or slip off during the night – but this was the first time she had asked to join Mansk.

Reyzì never did seem comfortable staying overnight at Bridgehead and he couldn’t blame her for it for he equally despised having to return here.

“I’d….feel safer, sleeping with you.”

Mansk didn’t speak, he couldn’t, so he instead chose to nod and shift, making room for Reyzì on the bed between himself and the wall it was pressed against. He watched her silently pad over to the bed before crawling into it, tucking herself against his side as Mansk moved to lay back down, dragging the blanket over them as he did.

It was only now, as the warmth of Reyzì’s body pressed against his side, did Mansk remember he hadn’t worn a shirt to sleep. Before her, Mansk had never found skin-to-skin contact pleasant but now he found himself craving her touch and the soothing balm it brought.

The light pull on his arm was all Mansk needed to turn over, curling himself around Reyzì who tucked her head beneath his chin in the hollow of his shoulder and neck, and slotted herself into the curves of his own body like she was always meant to be there.

It was like a puzzle piece slotting into place, or two broken pieces made whole.

Sleep was never something that came easy to Mansk, it only was made worse by the memories of his time in Black Ops, but the steady rise and fall of Reyzì’s chest and the low, soft barely there purr lulled him to sleep faster than any sedative he had ever been given.

Blood was a viscous fluid; thick, heavy, and burning hot against his skin.

The scent of iron clogged his nose and the bitter taste of it was like syrup on his tongue, choking him as it dripped down his throat.

“Mif'letzet.”

Screams; bloodcurdling and shrill, piercing into his ears like ice-picks. There was no break, no stopping for breath, the screams were never ending as they grew in into a symphony of agony and pain.

“Budelis.”

He can feel it – the bones breaking beneath his hands; that glide of sharpened steel through flesh; the rattling of their chest as they screamed and begged for mercy that would not be given, could not be given.

“Şeytan.”

There’s the phantom pain of hands upon his skin; nails tearing and clawing across legs and arms as they tried to pull him down, the deathly coldness of their skin contrasting against the molten blood that covers him.

“Qātil.”

“Ma’Gideon.”

Mansk comes back to himself slowly, his body not quite his own, and underneath him is Reyzì. His hand is on her throat, not choking but still there and a bitter coldness envelopes him at the sight.

He wants to yank himself away, tear his hand from her neck and run, putting as much distance between them as he can, but the hand that grips the back of his neck holds him there like an anchor.

“You didn’t hurt me, it is alright.”

There are more whispered assurances, soft words meant to comfort him, and Mansk can’t do anything. Reyzì slides her three fingers into the space between his four – they fit perfectly – where they remain against her neck. Mansk can’t meet her eyes, but he can feel them staring at him in a way that feels like Reyzì is examining his very soul.

In slow careful movements, Reyzì gently tugs his hand away from her throat, repositioning her hand in his as she lays them against the bed. On the back of his neck, the pressure increases minutely as Reyzì guides his face to the space between her shoulder and jaw. Mansk can’t find it in himself to resist, letting himself relax into her embrace until his entire body is on top of her own and almost every part of them is touching.

There’s no itch, no burn and urge to claw at his skin where they meet but rather a feeling of soothing calm blooms from each point of contact.

Reyzì is humming a song – its tune soft and gentle – against the crown of his head as nimble fingers stroke the skin of his neck just below his queue, and fatigue is washing over Mansk like the incoming flow of a tide, strong and gentle in equal measure. There’s no fighting it, not while his face is tucked into Reyzì’s neck and his body is wrapped in her warm embrace, and as the sleep overtakes his senses Mansk feels the ghost of a kiss press against his forehead.

#reyzi te le'ey rohoza'ite #recom mansk #mansk #mansk x oc #mansk x reyzi #spellman siblings #recoms #recom squad #i spent so long writing this #there will be a part 2 eventually #pray my adhd cooperates #avatar 2 #atwow #avatar the way of water

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