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pedropascallme · 4 months

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People Worth Saving

Pairing: Emmett x f!Reader

Summary: "You bit the bullet and wandered closer to the dome, quiet footsteps aided by your worn-down sneakers and a strong will to find some security in this new space. Before you managed to lean down, to open the hatch and slide down into the waiting abyss below, something grabbed your jacket and pulled you back. The urge to cry out was tamped down by your will to live, and by the hand that quickly covered your mouth."

Warnings: SMUT (18+ MINORS DNI) age gap (reader is 19-20), p in v sex, oral (f receiving), mentions of death, child loss, general Quiet Place II angst, you know the drill, etc, etc. If I missed anything please let me know!

You had distant memories about your childhood, and the hammock that your father set up in the front yard between the two tall trees that had been there longer than the neighborhood had. He had gotten lazy, setting it up one summer and then never taking it down; it sat through sleet and snow and sunshine in the same spot.

Even if it got wet, you didn’t mind. You loved that hammock.

You realized early on that if you swung your legs over the side and swayed back and forth, you could use it as a swing. Pumping your legs hard and building up momentum only to leap off at the last second and fall in a heap at the end of the lawn. It drove your mother crazy with worry about skinned knees and concussions, but you were so full of joy in the moments of adrenaline leading up to the landing.

In the fall, when the leaves changed and fell and the trees became dormant, your father brought out the rake to clear the driveway and the path to the stairs. He piled the leaves high, and you always managed to completely destroy his hard work; swinging in the hammock and launching yourself into the dry, dead leaves, you created an explosion of autumn colors around yourself, feeling the solid crunch under your body. You’d laugh and laugh, and when your father had seen what you’d done, he would laugh, too, raking the leaves back up to repeat the cycle again.

You didn’t even care that for the rest of the day you found small twigs in your Pippy Longstocking-style braids, or that the leaves made your clothes smell musty until your mother threw them in the wash. You were too young to care about anything but having fun.

Now dry leaves terrified you.

Walking through the field felt like a death sentence, and every step you took was carefully calculated to avoid detection. Your heel would land softly in a patch of dirt, then your opposite foot would land sideways on the grass surrounding an obvious booby trap. You had no idea if it was still operating, if whoever had put it there was still checking it or if they were even still alive, but you didn't want to test any theories.

You longed to crunch the leaves under your feet, to feel the simmering nostalgia under your skin come to a boil and create your own pile to jump into—to feel free again from the burden of the world and of survival.

You made it to the entrance, concrete and dry, and you breathed a sigh of relief. Though the building was huge and likely easy to hide in, and the interior was empty enough to create a dull echo with every step, you still found solace in solid footing. Part of you wanted to scream out a greeting, to see if anybody would reveal themselves—perhaps the creator of the traps outside, or someone who had found said creator and done to them what most people do now when they come across an unsuspecting second party.

Screaming was off the table, for obvious reasons, but that didn’t stop the voice in your head from repeating hello? Over and over until you couldn’t remember if you had said it out loud or not.

You took several light steps to explore your surroundings. It had been a factory, maybe, or a foundry; it was mostly machinery and empty space, but you could imagine the people that must have once taken up space on the now-empty floor around the large pillars and appliances.

You couldn’t imagine that many of them were still breathing.

There was a dome shaped trap door on the far end of the building, and you felt the urge to explore further; it had been too long since you’d been able to rest in a sturdy, isolated place, and the itch to know what was behind the hatch made you feel unreasonably confident in finding safety with whatever it was. A bed, maybe. Something soft and warm and capable of helping you forget the constant state of fear you lived in.

You bit the bullet and wandered closer to the dome, quiet footsteps aided by your worn-down sneakers and a strong will to find some security in this new space. Before you managed to lean down, to open the hatch and slide down into the waiting abyss below, something grabbed your jacket and pulled you back. The urge to cry out was tamped down by your will to live, and by the hand that quickly covered your mouth.

You breathed heavily into the warm hand that now sat on your lips. The other hand of the person who now held you captive tightened around the base of your jacket, pulling you further from the promise of any dream you had created that lay beyond the underside of the trap door. You couldn’t turn your head, relying now on your eyes quickly darting side to side, trying to use your peripheral to catch a glimpse of whoever the hands connected to.

“No.”

It was a man’s voice, shaky and frightened but clearly attempting to reprimand you. You kept breathing, trying to find a way out of the situation, or at the very least a way out of your current position. You slowed your breathing, trying to still your body, making yourself malleable and light in his hands so that he assumed you would submit. You felt his hand loosen its grip on the fabric around your back, and in the same moment you swung your leg back, digging your heel into his shin as best you could from the angle before stomping on his foot when your leg came down.

His hands flew to his face, covering his own mouth in an attempt to silence his yelp at the sudden pain in his leg. You turned around, grabbing his wrists limply and forcing your fingers into his short hair to pull him down to you. You saw him wince under the handkerchief he wore across the bottom half of his face, bright blue eyes, worn down and tired, narrowing at you. You stared at each other until he gathered his bearings, straightening his legs and overcoming the pain you had caused him.

“Who the fuck do you think you are?” You whispered as menacingly as you could, refusing to become a shrinking violet in the presence of this stranger after everything you had gone through. He moved his hands slightly, as if to shrug, before you realized you had him trapped with his palms over his face and thus left him unable to speak. You dropped his wrists, and his arms fell to his sides, but you kept a vice-grip on his scalp.

“Get out.” He kept his sentences short, you noticed from the three words he had spoken, and you understood why.

“Why?” You weren’t going to make this easy for him.

“You can’t stay here.” Four words. New record.

“Why?” You pressed, bothered that he seemed to think he had a right to the entirety of the building despite its size.

“It’s mine.”

“Don’t see your name on it.” He rolled his eyes at you, and you tightened your grip on his hair, earning another pained look from him. “And you don’t seem to be in any position to be giving orders.”

“Took me by surprise.”

“Yeah, you and me both.” You were dry, not wanting to give in to any banter he might try to pry from you. “Look, I haven’t eaten in two days, haven’t slept in three, and I don’t think either of us wants to make a scene given the current climate,” you nodded your head toward the door, implying that you’d leave him for the wolves if you had the chance. “Let me stay. One night. Then…”

“One.” He repeated, not bothering to acknowledge your sob story or the implication that this would be a fight for later. “Can you let go of me now?” You let go of him, pushing his head slightly as you loosened your fist. He straightened to his full height and rounded you. “Were you followed?”

“If I was, we’d be dead by now.”

“By people?”

“If I was, we'd be dead by now.” You persisted.

He let out a long exhale before nodding, bending to open the hatch and offering a hand to help you into the room below. “Ladies first.”

You exhaled sharply, biting your cheeks, and grabbing his outstretched hand before lowering yourself into the fluorescent lighting that awaited you. You retracted your hand as soon as you made it down one rung of the ladder.

It was small. Not small—it was actually bigger than most rooms you’d slept in for the past few months, but it was built like a classroom; high ceilings and minimal furniture, the lights flickered above you and you jumped when you heard the hatch close with a loud creak and crash.

“S’alright,” the man dusted his hands off on his jeans, “can’t hear us down here.”

There was a tunnel built into the wall, and you noticed a rag tied to the handle.

“What’s this?” You fiddled with the fabric before he came over to brush you off of it.

“Even quieter in there.”

“How’d you figure that out?”

“Trial and error.” He said simply before turning his back to you and slumping into the couch that lay in the middle of the room. He removed his handkerchief, sharp features only slightly hidden now by his unkept beard.

You wandered around, taking in the meager furnishings and the machinery. You had no idea what this room was meant to be in the building’s prime—maybe some sort of safe room, some sort of storage area. Who cared, really; now it was just another waste of perfectly good silence.

“So,” you started, still speaking softly out of habit and mild distrust, “are you going to, uh, get me to let down my guard? Kill me in my sleep?” You picked at the paint that was peeling off the wall.

“Not as long as you’re out by tomorrow,” he almost smiled, “and for the record, I’d only kill you if you were awake. Only fair that you see it coming, at least.”

“Cute,” you huffed, “And now that I’m down here what makes you so certain I’ll leave?” You were testing him, trying to see if there was any truth at all to what he was saying. He didn’t look like a killer, granted neither did you before day one; he was tall, compared to you, at least, and lanky. He clearly hadn’t had access to a razor since he’d been down here. He folded his arms where he sat on the couch, pleasant-ish small talk paired with closed off body language. You couldn’t see any weapons within arm’s reach, and if you had to guess you would say he only learned how to use whatever gun that he owned—if he owned one—when everything went to hell.

“Guess I’ll leave it up to trial and error again.” You liked his eyes, you decided, and the way the blue of his irises was so pronounced against his pale skin and brown hair. Maybe you even thought he was handsome, and if the circumstances were different, you might let him buy you a drink and see where it took you. You kept walking in circles around the room in silence, figuring that if he had anything worth saying he would come out and say it.

You stopped at a small table, something your mother would’ve gawked at in an IKEA as if she would actually ever buy it after looking at the price tag. There were pictures, hand drawn sketches and scribbles and faces in black and white. Some of them had color, faded, and worn by time, but still clear as day in the part of your brain that bothered to register the details.

“These are nice,” you were first to speak again, “you draw them?”

“No…” he looked like he was struggling to find the words to say what he wanted to, “My—my wife…” He trailed off, and you knew immediately that she was no longer in the picture, whether it had been before or after the invasion. Still, you felt a twang of disappointment; maybe for him, for his lonesomeness—or maybe for you, for your own.

You picked up a sketch that looked to be of two young boys, and even on the washed-out paper they looked like the man behind you. You turned, paper in hand, unsure of whether you wanted to speak to him about it, dredge up his memories.

But what's a little friendly conversation between new anti-companions?

“Yours?” You leaned over the back of the couch, holding the sketch in front of you so he could see what you were talking about. He reached for it, and you noticed a slight tremor in his hand before he took the paper from you.

“Yes,” he breathed, “yeah.”

“Look like you.”

“Better looking kids than I ever was,” he chuckled, low and solemn, “better behaved, too.” You watched on as he studied the picture, before he stood up and placed it back on the table behind the couch. “I was—um…y’ever seen the movie The Mist?”

“Yeah…” You wondered what exactly he could be building up to.

“When they—my sons—they…the first day…" You could feel his breath, not because of proximity, but because you knew the same pain. "And I was so, so scared that I would wake up on day two to find that everything had returned to normal, and everything was going to be ok, but they would still be…like at the end of that movie.” He folded his arms again, “but now I, I mean this is—god, I guess I’ve never said it out loud, uh…maybe…it’s good they didn’t have to see…this.”

You nodded, remembering how that movie ended; your parents had let you watch it, not knowing what it was about. You had nightmares any time it got foggy until you were ten or eleven. “Yeah,” you looked at him, making eye contact for a solid few seconds before averting your gaze. “I—my parents, and…my brother…” you didn’t know how to phrase it, feeling as though he had already said it all, “I get it.”

You didn’t tell him you had turned 19 in the week leading up to doomsday, that you had been sitting on the hammock that shaped your childhood and thinking about the joy of being small enough to jump into the leaf pile your dad was raking when you saw the first meteor strike town, or that the last words your mother screamed were “I’m sorry.”

It just didn’t seem right; sometimes grief is better explained through the silences.

“I’m Emmett,” he broke you from your thoughts, “And I’m…sorry for—if I scared you. Up there.”

You said your name, realizing it was the first time you had introduced yourself to anybody in over a year. You reached out your hand and he took it in a firm shake. “Pleasure.”

He smiled, a genuine, full smile this time. You decided it suited him well.

“You sleep on the couch?” You broke free from the way he was analyzing your features, trying not to focus on what he might think of them.

“Usually, yeah,” he leaned against the arm of the sofa, “but I’d be ok to sleep on the floor if you want.”

“No—that’s nice, but no, you don’t have to.” You hoped he saw through your lie, how desperately you wanted to rest on something soft. “I’m only here for the night, anyway, remember? Don’t want to…shouldn’t get too comfortable.”

“You can…” Emmett looked at you, then over his shoulder toward the couch, “I’m sorry.” He ran a hand over his forehead, lifting his messy hair before trailing down to stroke his beard, “you can stay, I just—can’t be too careful, you know? And I didn’t, I was worried you were—”

“Gonna kill you?” You smirked, and he smiled again.

“A little, yeah.” He looked at you, and you realized how close you’d gotten to him over the course of your conversation, “Stay as long as you want.”

“Does this mean I get the couch?”

“I think that’s fair.” He moved, grabbing several pillows from the couch, and dropping them on the floor underneath it; his makeshift bed would, at least, be mildly comfortable if he could help it. “You got here when the sun was setting, I’ve been up since it rose,” he sat amongst the pillows, trying to lay them out in a manner suitable for him to rest on, “So, if you don’t mind, I’m about ready to get some sleep.”

You nodded, dropping yourself onto the couch and grabbing the thin blanket draped over one of the cushions; it was threadbare, and fraying, but you didn’t care—too focused on the fact that you’d be able to sleep in a quiet, comfortable spot. You watched Emmett flick a switch in the corner of the room before he returned to his mess of pillows, and the lights dimmed. If you squeezed your eyes shut you felt like you might be able to hear your parents watching television in the other room, like you were in your own bedroom eavesdropping on their hushed conversations; safe, known.

But it wasn’t any of that—not really. In the back of your mind, you worried about the lack of exits in the room, the fact that you still didn’t know whether or not Emmett had a weapon, the looming threat that remained just above you. You looked at the ceiling when you opened your eyes, wondering if anything had followed you, wondering if they would figure out how to unscrew the hatch and find you in this echo chamber of a building.

“Emmett,” you managed to whisper through your anxieties, “Are you awake?”

“It’s been five minutes,” he sounded tired, and you realized that the dryness of his voice wasn’t due to any disinterest in you, but lack of use. “I’m still awake.”

“How do you know this is safe?” You picked a loose thread from the blanket and watched it unwind in your hands.

“It’s safe.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

You tried to drop it after that, ignoring the fears that you carried with you from past encounters where you were assured of your safety, only to wake up and find that you had to keep running. “And they can’t hear us?”

So much for dropping it.

“They can’t hear us.” You heard him turn over on the floor, and you shifted to face him. Even in the darkness, his eyes were piercing, and you had no trouble finding them with your own. “I’m certain. I promise.”

“I’m sorry…”

“Don’t be,” he shook his head, “only fair to be nervous.”

You nodded, lying back down, and pulling the blanket to your chin. It didn’t really do anything, and the chill of the room seeped into you even after you shifted to make yourself more comfortable. Maybe it was because you kept moving, or maybe he felt it too, but Emmett addressed you again.

“Cold?”

“Yeah,” you didn’t bother hiding it. Once the world went to shit there was no real reason to keep up the niceties of denying discomfort to your host. At sleepovers hosted by your friends, you would’ve said no, I’m perfectly comfortable, and breathed into your hands until the sun rose, and your mother picked you up with a sweatshirt and a bagel fresh from the toaster. Now? Fuck it.

“Would’ve been warmer in here when the building was still in use,” he began to ramble, and you thought it was so dad of him to feel the need to explain the history of the building you slept in when all you really wanted was some comfort, “machines and bodies moving, and, I mean, the heat generated from these things would’ve been crazy.”

“Emmett,” you cut his monologue short, your face peering over the couch cushions and down at him, “are there more blankets?”

“No…” He seemed embarrassed, almost like he was worried he was disappointing you.

“Are you cold?”

“Not really.” He closed his eyes.

“Emmett.”

“A little.” He sighed; his eyes opened again.

You sat up and patted the couch, unsure of why exactly this was the solution you had landed on, but feeling like it was worth a shot. “Come.”

“Are you sure?” He hardly seemed hesitant, moving to join you almost immediately, but still trying to gage whether or not it was an empty offer.

You nodded, moving to make room for him behind you. When he first settled onto the couch, you recognized that this was the first time in ages that anybody had touched you—that anybody had come close to you. Heat radiated off of his clothed body and you couldn’t help but inch closer to him, bodies tangling together on the small sofa, trying to find peace. You wondered if he felt the same catharsis that came with sharing a sleeping space; if he was just as in awe as you were at how perfectly your bodies seemed to fit together, curving to appeal to the needs of each other and your individual comfort. Emmett’s arm draped over your abdomen, his hand brushing the hem of your shirt, and you sighed, unable to hide your content at the feeling of him shielding you from the wider world.

“When was the last time you…” you whispered, trailing off when you realized how awkward the question would sound.

“Hm?” His response was muffled, his face all but buried in your hair.

“When was the last time you touched somebody?” You but the bullet.

“I…must be months, now.” He didn’t think too long about it, “What about you?”

You turned in his arms, careful to not disturb the cushions too much under your weight. You were face to face with him now, with little room to do anything but breathe. “I don’t remember.”

You didn’t mean it in any sexual sense; really you were just curious as to how much physical affection anybody was getting given the current state of things; how long had it been since any two people had the time to just hold hands? And really enjoy the touch and weight of the other’s hand in their own, fingers interlocked? But deep down you knew there was an implication to your words, a desperate implication that you hoped he would pick up on, and that, if he did, he would understand your want, and fulfill it wholeheartedly.

Emmett’s hand strayed from your waist to brush your cheek, the back of two fingers caressing your skin, and your patience broke; you held his wrist with both hands, a parallel to the way you had trapped him earlier when you considered him a threat, and lowered it to your lips. You could feel the callouses he had built up, the roughness of his palm versus the soft skin of the back of his hand. You gave each finger a delicate kiss, waiting for him to break away, waiting for him to move back to the floor and tell you that you absolutely had to leave tomorrow, to hell with what he had said earlier.

But he didn’t.

He watched, transfixed, as you slid one finger into your mouth, swirling your tongue around the tip and releasing it with a quiet pop. You let go of his wrist, and looked up at him with hooded eyes, half-expecting a look of disgust.

His mouth was open just enough to see the edges of his top teeth, eyes focused on your lips, and you felt that his breathing had picked up, though that could have been a trick of the surrounding quiet.

“You like that?” No, he was definitely breathing harder. You could hear it in his words.

“Yeah,” you sighed, relieved by his words, the bright eyes staring back at you in the dark room seemed entirely untroubled with your actions, “Do you?”

“Yeah.” His fingers moved to trace the shape of your face before landing on your chin, lifting you slightly higher to allow him access.

No time was wasted in the moments that followed; his mouth attached to yours in one natural movement, and he immediately granted your tongue access to him when you began licking gently at his lower lip. You felt spit and teeth, and you could hear your heart in your ears, its rhythm in your face as he nipped gently at you, your lips getting puffy from use.

Arms wrapped around your waist again, this time to haul you up and over Emmett’s body, his motion encouraging you to straddle his waist. You planted your hands on his chest before reconnecting your lips to him, determined to explore every inch he offered you from your new vantage point. His t-shirt, stretched and worn, exposed a sliver of his chest, and you were quick to suck marks onto his collar bones and just below them. He groaned at the contact, hands traveling lower down your body in order to undo your jeans.

“Work with me baby, c’mon,” Emmett clumsily undid your fly as you licked over any skin you could reach. He pulled at your hair to bring your line of sight to his, and the stinging pressure on your scalp made you moan, “Help me out here, I’ll give you what you want.”

You straightened out above him, grinding your hips into his as you stripped down; jacket, shirt, and jeans following once you had made enough room for yourself to remove them. You returned to your rightful place on his lap, continuing to grind down onto him to relieve the building ache in your core. The friction he gave you was just right, and it helped to hear him groan when you dragged your hips up and down at just the right pace, his cock twitching in his pants at the weight and the angle.

His hands came up to paw at your chest, squeezing the tender skin before leaning forward to wrap his lips around your nipple. Your back arched, and you could only guess how pathetic it looked, coming so undone, so easily, for a man you had just met, clearly more than ten years your senior.

It was desperate and needy, and you didn’t care; you deserved this. Both of you deserved this.

You felt teeth brush against your pebbled skin, making you grind down harder atop him, letting the tip of his clothed cock catch your naked cunt and relishing in the sensation. He removed his mouth from your nipple, pulling you down to him to reconnect your mouths and give you a deliberately sloppy kiss full of tongue.

“Off,” you pleaded between gasps of air, fingers skimming the edge of his pants, “Take them off.”

Emmett huffed, and you sat back on your knees, giving him the space to sit up and remove his shirt, before he stood to take off his jeans. You waited for him to rejoin you on the couch, to continue what he had started there, but he kneeled in front of you instead, pulling you legs apart and holding them wide open.

“God,” one of his hands fell forward, gently placed low on your stomach, his thumb toying with your swollen clit and puffy lips, “Fuck.”

He dove into you, mouth open and wanting; you felt him come into contact with your hole and you jumped, head back and eyes closed as genuine pleasure washed over you. You placed a hand on the back of his neck to stabilize yourself as he began to fuck you with his tongue. The muscle lapped up your slick, pushing back into you, and repeating the process, his thumb still massaging your clit.

“Yeah, like that,” you whimpered, back arching off the couch. The hand still on your thigh ensuring that your legs would stay open for him reached up to squeeze one of your nipples; it was rough, and all the movement and friction he was giving you was utterly relentless. The overstimulation left you reeling, and you put your own fingers in your mouth to muffle the screams you wished you could let him hear. “Just like that, Emmett.”

You felt yourself teetering on the edge, one breath and you were a goner, bound to free-fall.

"I feel you," he let a trail of spit fall over your cunt, and when he spoke you could feel the prickly hair of his beard against your thighs, "squeezing me so tight—cum for me, baby, c'mon."

He sped up his movements on your clit ever so slightly, and you felt your legs begin to tremble, body light and head full of stars. You came with ease, the most relaxed you’ve felt in ages was with Emmett’s face buried in your cunt, lapping up what dripped from you like it was his only water source.

You nearly had to pry him off of you, fist in his hair while you came to from your high as he continued to enjoy himself vicariously through your pleasure.

“Come,” you steadied your breathing, “come here.” And he listened, but not before allowing himself a final taste, dipping his tongue into your center, rising to meet you face-to-face in another deep kiss. You could taste the sweet tang of your cum on his tongue, and it only drove you further into the fucked-out fugue state you were experiencing; you gripped his shoulders, pulling him closer and moaning into his mouth.

There was no rush, no bell to beat or timeframe to fit into, but you wanted so badly to see him come undone for you; you raised yourself up on your knees, and you felt them dig into the couch, the pattern of the fabric marking your skin as you pushed Emmett down. He sat, beckoning you to straddle him. You felt a shred of embarrassment, clambering to position yourself on top of him, an awkward feeling you hadn’t felt since high school, but it didn’t matter.

Nothing mattered right now except him.

“Slow,” you finally settled, feeling his length brush against you from below, and with your head resting against his shoulder you could feel your own breath rebound against your nose. “Need you to go slow.”

“I know, baby,” he cooed, reaching down to fist his cock and line himself up with your entrance, “Don’t worry, I got you.”

You began to lower yourself, the feeling of his swollen head nudging your hole made you suck in a sharp breath; you bent your legs further, taking more of him, letting him fill you completely on your own terms, and he guided you every step of the way with his fingers digging into the flesh of your hips, breathing hard against the crown of your head.

Maybe it was because of the tension, or because you so craved the connection—to hear him respond to you and what you alone were doing—but you dropped down quickly on the last few inches, feeling him deep and rough against your cervix, earning a choked groan from Emmett in your ear.

“Fuck, good, baby, that’s right.” You preened at his words, holding your position for a while longer to get accustomed to the stretch you felt before finally raising yourself up slightly just to inch back down his shaft again.

You felt full, stretched out and used—but in a way that was so positively welcomed; it had been too long since you were able to enjoy yourself in any capacity, but this act was certainly the most fun.

“Feel good? Like riding me like this?” Emmett tilted his head back, grabbing a handful of your hair to pull you from the crook of his neck. You stared at him, and he at you, hellbent on watching as you liberated yourself from the nerves and anxieties of the world around you—he craved your bliss as much as you did.

“Yes,” you squeaked, still bouncing on his cock, legs getting sore at the exertion in such a tight space, “So fucking good, Emmett.”

He moaned, eyes fluttering closed and hands moving to grip your ass. You could feel his blunt nails dig into your skin, and you expected—hoped—that there would be bruises to show for it tomorrow.

“Getting tired?” He whispered when he noticed the short breaks you took between moving up and down on his cock to simply grind down onto him, moving your legs around his chest awkwardly in an attempt to shift your weight. You nodded, thighs burning from exertion, and he sat up, kissing your forehead before lifting you gently off of him and moving you to lie back on the couch. Emmett took his time crawling over you; he kissed your thighs, your stomach, the space between the plush skin of your breasts, before finally he had you completely engulfed underneath him, giving you soft kisses as he slid himself back into your warmth. You lifted your hips to meet him, moaning at how he fit with you, how you could memorize every ridge and vein of him like this.

And then he started really moving.

You felt him pull out, the slight pressure of the tip of his cock pressed gently against your entrance, taunting you, before he slammed himself back into your waiting cunt. It was deep, and rough, and you clawed at his bicep to ground yourself to him.

Emmett let out deep moans, forehead pressed against yours while he drove his cock as far into you as he could, and your logical side went completely out the window; you whined, yelped at the pleasure coursing through you, mewled for him louder than you should have, but neither of you seemed to care.

“That’s right,” he closed his eyes, focusing every part of himself on you, “give me another one, let me feel you.” His fingers latched onto your clit, watching intently at the way your face contorted at the friction combined with the feeling of his cock inside of you. He drew tight circles over the bud, letting you buck your hips up into him to signify how much pressure you needed at a given moment.

“Gonna—I’m gonna cum,” you whispered, then, louder, “Emmett, I’m gonna fucking cum.”

He didn’t say anything, just applied more pressure to your clit and gave you longer, slower thrusts. He watched as you began to tremble, your mouth falling open with small whines of his name. He sat up, cock still buried in your heat, thrusts slowing as you opened your eyes to the white-hot satisfaction of your orgasm. Overstimulated didn’t begin to cover it, but you didn’t want this to end.

His thrusts were getting sloppier, not in the sense that you could feel his rhythm falter, but his hips stuttered slightly every time he was fully sheathed in you, and you could tell he was holding back, trying to make this more about you than about his own release.

You pulled him down, nuzzling his neck and placing sloppy kisses on his pulse point as you whispered to him: “Want you to cum,” your lips grazed the shell of his ear, “Please, Emmett.”

You were proud that it seemed to only take your pleading whispers for him to lose himself to the finish he longed for; his hips snapped rough against you, and you could feel his chest heave against your own when he allowed himself one more moment inside of you before pulling out to finish in his fist.

His cum was warm, a perfect contrast to the sweat cooling on your skin, and his growl of your name was music to your ears. He fell forward, head cushioned by your breasts while you both focused on your breathing. Your fingers found the hair on the nape of his neck, thumb brushing the part of his beard that curved just under his ear.

You were in the perfect space between tired and satisfied.

“Thank you,” Emmett murmured into your skin, punctuating his words with soft kisses.

“Thank you,” you echoed, unsure of what to say now that the heat of the moment had passed. “I…I needed that.” You paused, “I liked that.”

“Me too,” he whispered.

“I don’t want it—I don’t want this to be the only time.” You felt immature for some reason, all but begging for this to happen again when you didn’t even know if you’d see next week.

“Doesn’t have to be,” he whispered, “we don’t have to leave,” he looked up at you, tracing your features with his eyes, “You don’t ever have to leave.”

You grabbed his hand and squeezed it gently. He squeezed it back.

You fell asleep without a care, thrilled to be in the position you were in, in every sense of the word; Emmett stayed on your chest, the weight of his body on yours only adding to the reassurance and calm you felt.

You had a dream that you raked your own pile of leaves, and jumped into them.

#cillian murphy #cillian murphy fanfiction #cillian murphy smut #cillian murphy x reader #cillian murphy x you #a quiet place #a quiet place part ii #a quiet place ii #a quiet place 2 #emmett #emmett x reader #emmett x you #emmett a quiet place #emmett fanfiction #emmett smut

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hive-sight · 10 months

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Travel 1

Many apologies Sentients. This one has meant to communicate sooner, but this one's queen ordered an immediate launch of the ship commissioned for this quest. The Vexyrian Solathor, or the Astral Horizon, and its crew of four individuals has been traveling since this one's last posting.

As the current date is Xylokthian Date: 4682 Cycle, 3rd Azuran, 18th Luminalis, the quest has been underway for six Luminalis (or Lums.)

In this time, this one has been able to read more of the data captured by the un-piloted Xylokthian astral drone.

This race of Terrans is most perplexing. According to captured electronic transmissions (language decryption only being partially complete,) it appears that Sol-3 does not have a single leader.

This alone is not unusual, many planets have multiple races present with each having its own leadership. However, there is but one sentient race on Sol-3. The Terrans have placed down arbitrary borders and divided themselves on the basis of everything from population to which side they fall on of a natural waterway.

It is most confusing. Never before has this been seen in a space-faring race. Then again, space-faring normally comes about at the same time as interstellar travel, due to the large distance between locations on the stellar scale.

The Terrans have only recently traveled halfway across their own stellar system. This next part is found most fascinating by this one! Could any of those among you sentients imagine stellar travel without Quantum Vacuum Thrusters? This technology, so familiar and comfortable in the mind of Sentients across the galaxy, has only recently been conceptualized by Terrans!

That's correct, this one said "conceptualized!" As in the Terrans only recently even imagined the technology!

So how do the Terrans navigate their system then? They primarily achieve this feat through chemical propulsion! They ride fire to their destination!

With that exhilarating and terrifying factoid, this one must resume research. The next time this one posts, the language decryption should be complete so that this one may begin practicing both speaking, and working the language into this one's posts.

Until next we meet Sentients. This is Elysia of Xyloptha, signing off.

#hfy #humans are weird #earth is a deathworld #humans are space orcs #haso #humans are space oddities #HiveSight #alien blog #xenobiology #speculative biology #PoT 002 #Perspective on Terra #aliens #space australia #firemounted

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ga-yuu · 2 months

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About Ikegen Management Team Message!

The fact that Ikemen Genjiden Management Team formally send out a statement to thank everyone who send them supportive and kind messages after the announcement of EoS and saying that they themselves are sadder than the players itself really makes me think that Ikemen Genjiden must have been their passion project. This really feels like a shut-down that is forced rather than planned like Ikemen Revolution. Correct me, if I'm wrong, because Ikemen Revolution suddenly stopped releasing new trailers for their game out of nowhere, and sometime after, they formally announced their EoS. Usually, an EoS of a game means that, a new game announcement is right around the corner. Ikemen Revolution was killed to bring out Ikemen Villains. But I feel like Ikemen Genjiden's EoS is out of nowhere. I don't really think they planned this to happen, at least not this year. I don't know. Everything really feels sus, because they just released Kurama and Ibuki's sequel and everything was going well. Let's just wait and watch if there will actually be an announcement for a new Ikemen game this year or not.

According to them the management team haven't changed since the start of the development of the game, which means, every single member in the management team has longing memories for this game.

The story is about Rikka was already in development 2 years before the game's launch, and he is meant to be the counterpart to Tamamo and the starting point of the whole Genjiden story. According to the Management team, the story hasn't even reached its full potential yet. If the game was still on-going, we would have been able to see more crazy things unfold. It's sad that no matter how many kind words and encouragement to continue the game we sent, nothing will change because at the end of the day, it's a business and this is a strategic decision made for making profits.

The management team, did say that they will try and release as many stories as possible before the end day. So lets' look forward to that.

I really love the management team of Ikemen Genjiden. They are so creative and passionate about Ikemen Genjiden that it saddens me that the game did not get the recognition it rightfully deserves. People were asking for the English release, but they don't seem to understand that if the Japanese market doesn't do well, they won't be releasing it in English. That's why I have always been saying people to go play the Japanese app if you're that interested to play the game. But whatever. This was bound to happen someday.

When I saw the introduction of Rikka, I had hope that this game would at least go on until Rikka's story is released but I guess it did not and that makes me even more sad. Rikka is such an interesting character and I'm still dying to know more about him. I wish, if they are not going to release a main story, they at least release an event of something or give out free stories about Rikka just so that the fans could learn more about him. The fact that everything about this character is now going to disappear in fucking space.....I'm sad. I'm really really sad.

I wish that this Management Team really gets the praise that they truly deserve. I hope this same Management Team, comes together again and create new game which could be even better than Ikemen Genjiden. This Management Team has the potential to create stories that truly touches one's heart and soul. A MC like Yoshino who is so beautiful and lovable than any MC I have ever seen in my life. Eccentric but lovable suitors with very unique and some of which have never-before-seen personalities. Hilarious brain-dead nonsensical humor. Amazing and heart-touching dialogues. Beautiful music. Beautiful art style. Best cast of VAs ever. Everything about this game is so positive that I'm dying from the inside when I see my child slowly dying.

I love you, Ikemen Genjiden Management Team. You guys are literally the GOAT!!! I really hope you guys do well in the upcoming years and have more opportunities to shine!!! I'll always pray that upcoming projects get recognition it deserves!

#ikemen series #ikemen genjiden #cybird ikemen #cybird otome #otome #cybird #ikegen #ikemen mc

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flowerpotmage · 3 months

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Tight Grip, Broken Dam (15)

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You don’t question it anymore, when Miguel appears in your bed at night. He’s not there for sex, no, you’ve never even kissed—though you would be lying if you said you weren’t open to the idea of kissing him. He’s there for comfort. For rest. If only it could stay so simple.

Pair: Miguel O'Hara & GN!Reader

Notes: for chapter: poorly written in-universe journalism, friendly sparring, miguel in his feelings

Word Count: 2.9k

Read this chapter on Ao3 here. If you like my work, please consider leaving kudos there as well! You do not need an account to do so.

Our City Spider, a new column by Karen Page

Speculations that our friendly neighborhood Spider had been taken off the playing field permanently, either due to disabling injuries or death, have been put to bed. It’s official: Spider is back.

The vigilante hero was seen early Wednesday evening near Crosby Street, with photos and videos of the web-slinger posted soon after to social media and trending locally shortly after. It had been just over two weeks since the hero’s last sighting, at the now infamous Club Scorpion slaughters where they had been seen with a large torso injury before disappearing.

“They saved me about a year or so back,” Twitter user hawkeyestan69 said in a quote-Tweet of another user’s photos of Spider. “I’m glad they’re still kicking.”

Although Spider has maintained a nearly five-star reputation amongst the people of the city, they remain notoriously elusive to the press and have yet to endear themselves to our police force.

“I’m grateful for their work in saving lives,” one member of the force has said on the condition of anonymity. “Especially at Club Scorpion. That could have been so much worse, and we all know it. But they’re still a civilian, and I worry about what that means.”

“The Spider has done work for the people of this city,” Captain Stacy, the captain on duty the night of the Club Scorpion slaughters, said in a recent press statement. “But they are still a vigilante. We cannot become reliant on them to protect this city—their absence, whatever the cause, reinforces that fact.”

Despite the difference in opinions across officials and the public, this reporter is glad to see our Spider back, alive and well.

Gwen flips over your head, arms tucked into her chest and body straight as a pencil. You duck and watch her, crouched low to the floor.

“Doing great, kids!” Peter calls from the side.

“Feel free to join whenever,” you say, launching yourself to the side in a roll and sprint when Gwen fires off two quick webs at you.

“I’m good over here with Mayday.”

You jump, doing your own flip off a wall and firing back your own webs at Gwen who dodges just as easily.

Open space sparring practice is weird for the both of you, but presents a unique challenge to you and the rest of the Spider-People (and sentient non-people) used to terrain filled with nooks, crannies, and surfaces to climb and jump off and hide behind.

“You're avoiding hand to hand,” a new voice says.

Miguel-209.

“Yeah, they’re really half-assing it,” Peter comments, half-sarcastically.

“Oh, you can do better?” Gwen says, standing and placing a hand on her hip, all banter.

Miguel-209 stands with crossed arms by Peter. He raises an eyebrow, looking from Gwen to you and offering a small smile when he sees you already looking at him. One that you return.

“I think I can, yes,” he says.

“Have some confidence man,” Peter says, tapping Miguel-209’s arm with the back of his hand.

You smile wider at the little glance Miguel shoots at Peter—not quite a glare—and nod at him to join you on the mat when he looks your way again.

“Alright,” he says, and walks towards you.

Gwen raises her eyebrows at the two of you and walks off to stand next to Peter, effectively trading places with Miguel-209.

“Are you much of a hand to hand person?” He asks.

You shrug. “I wouldn't necessarily say that.”

He nods. “But you know the basics.”

“Enough to get by.”

“Let's work on that then.”

You shift into a ready stance, and he scans you over and mirrors you.

“Go ahead.”

You hesitate, fists raised, and then shoot a web at him. He dodges by leaning far to the side, looking at you and then shifts back.

“That’s not hand to hand.”

You shoot another, and this time when he leans out of the way he grabs the long strand of web still attached to your wrist, pulling you closer. You stumble, ducking under the swing of his hand and finally shaking the web free from the spinneret in your wrist, balancing on your hands to swing a leg out at his ankles. Miguel-209 jumps back, landing with his finger pad talons extended—you watch as he retracts them.

“Pretty good recovery,” he says, smiling warmly. You catch a flash of his teeth, of a fang, before he closes his lips again and lunges for you.

It goes on like this for a few minutes. Miguel-209 attacks, you dodge and try to counter, he dodges, and it starts again. Attack, dodge, attack, dodge. You finally gain the upper hand when you use your webs again, landing one on his ankle and pulling hard. He topples, foot yanked out from under him and landing on his back with a soft oof from his lungs.

“You went easy on me,” you chuckle, catching your breath as you stand over him.

His eyes twinkle as he looks up at you from the mat. “So did you.”

You offer a hand, helping him back to his feet. “Again?”

He nods, the two of you retaking your starting positions. “Let’s kick it up a notch.”

This time you start, bolting towards him before the anticipation can build too much or he can prepare himself too well. Instead of going to block you, he swipes—big arms going to grapple you. You drop, sliding under his grasp and past his legs, swinging on the floor to kick at the back of his knee.

It buckles under the impact and Miguel-209 nearly drops to the floor, catching himself on his hands before his knee touches the mat. He spins, turning to face you and lunging again—

You barely blink before you’re on your back and Miguel’s got your thigh pinned to the ground under his foot, his palms pressing each forearm to the floor. His fingers aren’t wrapped around your limbs, and when you look you see it’s because the sharp points in his fingertips are out and piercing the gym-mat under you.

You look back up at him, and blink. “Damn.”

He laughs, and you catch a glance of his teeth again.

“Best of three?” you ask.

“Let’s call it a draw,” he says, pulling his hands back with a small tug, lifting his foot off your leg. He offers an outstretched palm to help you up, and you take it. “You did pretty good, I’d hate to embarrass you more in front of your friends.”

You laugh, dropping his hand now that you’re standing. “Sounds like projection to me.”

You switch with Gwen, who’s eager to give it another try after a short rest.

“He’s good,” Peter says when you lean against the wall next to him.

You hum in agreement, watching Gwen and Miguel-209 spar. His style is different from your own Miguel’s, and your mind wanders to the thought of sparring with him. He’s stronger than you by leagues, that’s a given, but you’re faster. If you put your all into evasion, would he be able to catch you? Maybe. He’s clever, afterall. What would that be like? Would he pin you, like 209 did just then? He’s comfortable with you, he’d probably get closer, crowd you in. Would he be less afraid to manhandle you? You hope so—

You blink, jolted out of your quickly devolving daydream, at the slam of Gwen hitting the mat, face hot.

“Good job,” Miguel-209 says, pulling her off the floor with an offered hand.

“Thanks,” Gwen grins, cheeks flushed and breathless from the exertion of the quick fight. She turns to you and Peter. “Anyone else hungry?”

“I could eat,” you nod.

Miguel-209 nods with you, and then the four of you—plus May—go to the cafeteria. You each take turns holding the baby so everyone can eat in peace, without her reaching hands in the way. While Miguel-209 answers Gwen’s stream of questions, Peter watches you bounce May on your lap, eyes scanning over your half eaten meal, and the little to-go box sitting next to your plate.

“Bringing food to the boss again?”

You look at Peter over his daughter’s head, his face one of carefully crafted and open neutrality. You don’t reply—but your face must say enough, because Peter looks at Miguel-209 next to you, then pointedly back at you.

You shake your head, not in response to his question but in response to… whatever that look was, and look back at Gwen.

“I was wondering if I could crash at yours again,” she says. “Things are stirring up in Hobie’s dimension, and I stick out like a sore thumb over there.”

“Of course,” you smile. “You’re welcome any time.”

“You can always stay with me and MJ,” Peter adds.

You make plans for Gwen to come by yours later that night, before everyone finishes eating and goes their separate ways.

You bring your to-go container to Miguel’s lab.

“Hey,” you call into the shadows.

No response. Not entirely unusual, so you forge ahead.

“I brought you some food, in case you haven’t eaten,” you say, and then you see him.

He’s on his platform, the one with all the golden holo-screens and files and reports. His back is to you, tension in his shoulders and spine slightly hunched—microscopically, but you notice all the same. You’ve seen something similar enough times to guess at what’s happening.

A quick thwip of web from the spinneret in your wrist and you’re on the platform with him, setting the little takeout container to the side.

“Hey,” you say again, softer, quieter.

Miguel takes a breath.

You close the gap, walking slow enough for him to turn or stop you, and rest your hand on his back. He turns his head to look at you now, frustration and hurt in his eyes. You don’t lift your hand when he turns his body to face you, instead letting it slide from his shoulder blade around to rest on his upper arm.

“You okay?” you ask.

His eyes drop from yours, brow furrowing slightly more, his chest rising with a deep and steadying inhale.

“Yeah,” he says.

It’s automatic, the way your hand squeezes his arm in reassurance, the way something in the back of your mind flips at the size of it under your hand, the way you step forward to wrap your arms around his middle. He hesitates, stiffening slightly, and you start to pull back, but then his arms are around you—engulfing you—and you’re pulled back in.

He’s still tense. Still… off, somehow.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” you ask, cheek against the muscle of his chest. You can hear his heart like this, the cartilage of your ear against his suit. The red glows slightly, and you close your eyes against it.

It thumps steadily, kicks up and chugs along when Miguel shakes his head, face against the top of your head.

“Okay,” you say. “I’m here, though.”

Your heart stops when he kisses the top of your head, pulling away and unwrapping his arms from around you.

“You brought me food?” he asks, struggling to meet your eyes.

You clear your throat, turning and picking up the takeout box to hand it over to him. “I had a feeling you’d forget lunchtime, so…”

He accepts it, gloved fingers grazing yours. “Thank you.”

You swallow, tamping down the zing that races up your arm. “Want some company?”

He actually smiles a little, now. It’s tight, but it’s something. “Sure.”

You settle into your usual spot, leaning back against an infrequently used area of the console and watch him close out a task on his holo-screens. With his back to you he turns his attention back to the food you’ve brought him. You watch as he turns and mirrors you in resting his weight on the console—though its height is too tall for you to casually perch, it’s perfect for him to half-sit, half-lean on. You watch as he pulls his glove off with his teeth, your breath catching.

He looks at you at the small sound of your inhale, the glove still in his teeth and paused mid-pull.

You stare.

His eyes flick across your face, and then he continues, slowly pulling his hand fully out from the tight blue and red fabric. Once his hand is free he takes the glove from his teeth and sets it aside.

You swallow. “I always assumed you could just…” You gesture vaguely, the movement of your hand indicating sweeping something back from your face. “The mask thing. But that’s the second time I’ve seen you take your glove off like that.”

The corner of his lips twitch, looking down as he opens the takeout food container. “The shape of a hand is more complicated for the nano-fiber technology,” he explains. I need it to be tougher there than on my face, on account of…” he pauses, rubbing his fingertips together, before spreading his fingers and allowing the sharp points hiding in his fingertips to emerge.

You nod, looking at his bare hand. “I see.”

He retracts the sharp points—you briefly wonder at the correct terminology. Are they talons? Claws? Something else?—and begins eating.

“You know,” you begin, watching his hand. “I don’t think we’ve ever sparred.”

Miguel raises an eyebrow at you. “No, we haven’t.”

You meet his gaze. “Do you spar with anybody?”

“I get my practice out there,” he says, and you know he’s referring to his city.

“Mm. I see.”

He eats in silence for a moment, and you consider asking if he would ever spar with you, images your mind had conjured earlier returning to present themselves. You squash them own, and instead say:

“Gwen’s going to stay with me again for a little bit.”

Miguel looks down, and nods.

Miguel hates his apartment.

He lives in what amounts to a penthouse at the top of the Spider Society Headquarters building, and it’s just as sterile as every floor below. Sleek white walls and counters, gray furniture. He gave up on trying to keep a plant months ago, after seeing how healthy yours were in comparison to his sad attempts. The couch is bare with the exception of two stiff throw pillows—a slate blue-gray.

He passes the living room, the kitchen, and goes straight to the bedroom.

“Lyla, start the shower.”

“You got it, boss.”

The dull white noise hum sound of the shower starting reaches his ears as he strips, shrugging off the torso of his suit, pulling his arms free of the tight fabric like a snake shedding its skin.

The bed in the center of the room—overly large for just one person, even a man of his stature—looks all wrong. The bed sheets are too smooth, the blanket crisp and set as if ready to be photographed for an online shop listing.

He huffs a breath out of his nose, turning his attention back to shedding his suit.

He leaves it in a puddle on the floor, straightening up with a roll of his shoulders. The still air on his bare skin feels… odd. Almost unpleasant, even.

He leaves nearly all the lights off, and Lyla lets them be as well, as he leaves the room and makes his way to the bathroom—one light is on in here, dim and warm, soft on his sensitive eyes.

His shower is better than yours. The water pressure, the size, the quality of the water itself. But even so the enjoyment—and the sudden memory of the last time he was in here thinking about you, getting off to a wet dream—is muddied by an undercurrent of something he can’t name. He rushes through his shower as the water runs rivulets and rivers over his skin, helping lather and then clear off the soap he uses to clean every inch of his skin.

It comes back when he’s out of the shower, meeting his reflection’s eyes. He tries to rub it away as he moisturizes, as he returns to his room and dresses. It trots at his heels behind him through the hall and to the kitchen, rises up higher still at the sight of his pathetically bare fridge. He hasn't been spending enough time here to get groceries, so it's no surprise. He’s been putting more focus into your fridge, back home—

“Shock,” he whispers, squeezing his eyes shut and covering his face with his palm. His fork clatters to his half-empty dish.

Even though he can't see it, eyes covered as they are, he feels the empty space around him. Too empty. The air is closing in—

He takes a shuddering, deep breath. This is fine. He can manage to exist in his own home for one night.

When was the last time he actually did, though?

He’s barely there as he puts the remainder of his food in the fridge (he couldn't bring himself to eat the rest, the unease in his stomach is too vivid, too large) and places the dish in the sink. He’s miles—no, universes away as his body walks down the hallway to his room and slides under his bedsheets. The walls are too empty, he thinks while laying on his side.

He shuts his eyes and sighs as he rolls onto his back—then huffs a frustrated breath and rolls over onto his stomach, burying his face in his pillow. The smell of it is wrong, but the pressure on his chest is better.

He can do this. He can sleep in his own room.

<< Previous Chapter | Masterlist | Next Chapter >>

#x reader #miguel x reader #miguel o'hara x reader #miguel o'hara x gender neutral reader #miguel o'hara x you

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literary-illuminati · 11 months

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Book Review 22 - The Employees: A Workplace Novel of the 22nd Century

This was a fascinating book. Another one I probably appreciate as an art object more than as a story, per se, but in this case that’s not really a knock on it. Or at least, I believe the whole project began as the written accompaniment to an actual visual art display. Which I really rather wish I could have seen, it seems like the right sort of setting and accompaniment would have made this a lot more affecting.

Anyway, the basic synopsis of the book is that, sometime in the future, a massive space vessel called the Six Thousand Ship is launched from Earth and ends up in orbit over an alien world, where strange and vaguely eldritch objects are retrieved and brought on board. The story is told through a series of anonymous employee testimonials to some silent and anonymous survey/study/HR board. Crucially, some large fraction of the crew is not human but humanoid, synthetic workers created and programmed by the organization who own the ship.

The entire thing is perfectly designed to convey a very particular sense of corporate alienation, right down to the polite euphemisms used for murder. Especially at the beginning, everything from obsession to grief and nostalgia over never seeing Earth again is always framed as how it might effect ones productiveness as an employee, and to figure out everything that really happened in any given statement you usually have to first decipher the thick layer of corporate HR-ese its buried under. The packaging provides a sort of antiseptic distance that kind of clashes interestingly with what is actually happening at any given point.

Which is, I’m sue, all making a point of the alienation and inhumanity of the modern workplace and the absolute horror of a life that is nothing but work – I think I first heard this book mentioned in the context of people discussing Severance, and I can absolutely see the relation between the two. I’m sure it’s incredibly uncultured of me, but the whole framing device (especially as things moved towards the climax) also just seemed incredibly reminiscent of the audio logs and scraps of text you would find in a video game, providing the backstory of how whatever environment you’re exploring collapsed into the ruined state you found it in. Which is, certainly, an interesting effect to go for in a book.

The objects themselves are almost certainly weighted with deep symbolic meaning that flew entirely over my head, but the effect they had on the various employees is definitely interesting. Things definitely do happen, but in terms of page count the inner musings and angst over the human(oid) condition and how interaction with the objects effects different individual psychologies is what the book is actually really interested is. Being allowed to care for the objects in the way they seem to like becomes an intense preoccupation for some of the crew involved, even moreso than the allocated time with holographic recreations of children the organization starts providing as an incentive at a certain point.

I’m not entirely sure it really does anything with it, but all the ways the book gestures at transhumanism is at least interesting. The humanoids themselves, with their probably immortality and regular mental reuploads and lack of anything outside the Work to contextualize or complicate their life (at least until the objects show up), as well as plenty of mentions of add-ons that the Organization provides its human workers as needed. And just very oblique mentions of ‘transfers’ to positions with very different mental architecture or sense of self or physical/mental autonomy. It’s all a great/creepy vibe, at least.

On the whole book left me slightly cold, but that’s really a me problem more than the book problem. Short enough to be worth a read if it seems interesting, at least.

#the employees #Olga Ravn #sff #literature #book review

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ridl · 7 months

Note

Gen question what made u ship ganqing so much?

Great question! Prepare for an essay tho hhhh

I played Genshin at launch but got bored quickly and stopped before I even met Keqing or Ganyu. I learned abt their existence thru fanfics, while looking for some wlw fiction to read. “Cornerstone” in particular is a fantastic fic that was being updated at the time. The author put a lot of care and effort into treating those characters seriously, and fleshing them and their dynamic out, which the game generally fails at.

Their dynamic just instantly captivated me. The way they went from being at odds, with their clashing beliefs, to reaching a mutual understanding. To caring abt each other. And it was never just pure hate, but something much more complicated and nuanced.

Back then it was just voicelines abt each other, and both characters had barely any screentime in general, but it was interesting enough of a basis. I started playing again, missed Ganyu's og banner but was lucky to win my 50/50 on Keqing's once-in-a-lifetime limited banner lmao. And the more I learned about them, the more I liked them.

I not only love ganqing, but I also love both characters individually, their personality, story, design, gameplay, they somehow just have everything that’s interesting and appeals to me.

Keqing is the Yuheng of the Qixing, meaning one of the leaders of the country, approved by Rex Lapis. She’s very pro humanity and believes that humans should fare for themselves, rather than rely on the archon. Not many ppl dare to think this, much less say it to Morax's dragon-adeptus face during the rite of descension. So she’s seen as controversial and disrespectful, and Ganyu as a devoted follower who worked closely with Rex Lapis for thousands of years just doesn’t understand Keqing. Rex Lapis absolutely approves of Keqing’s belief, and Ganyu cannot comprehend it no matter how much she respects and trusts him. It’s a very interesting conflict, that eventually gets resolved, giving us the basis of their potential romantic relationship.

Keqing and Ganyu are both very devoted to Liyue, so they’re both similar but also different. They complement each other. Keqing with her modern approach, quick and efficient, straightforward and bold. Ganyu with her old approach, with her opinions and strength hidden, not very straightforward. A confident human who knows what she’s about, and half-qilin that feels lost between the two worlds. But after Morax’s passing, they manage to find understanding, they go thru character development now just in terms of their relationship, but also them individually, and in relation to Morax. They can change each other too. They can learn so much together, from each other. Keqing how to be more patient and deal with uncertainities, while Ganyu how to be bolder, voice her opinions more and just live more for herself.

Ganyu is no longer bound by her contract, but she remains with the humans. She’s working alongside Keqing, in this new human era of Liyue. And while their limited screentime is locked behind time-limited events, it really shows that change, it shows how they care about each other. It shows Keqing’s relations with the adepti and how interesting it is considering her beliefs, and especially with Ganyu’s mother figure.

You could technically just sum them up in popular tropes like “enemies to friends to lovers”, "mortal x immortal" or “opposites attract”, but I think it’s so much deeper than that. I find ganqing's relationship very interesting and unique bc of their personalities, relations with each other and other ppl as well as their country, the setting, their stories, their identities, the conflict and character development they go through.

The game only gives us crumbs, but it also gives so much space and potential for this pairing. It’s never fully explained how it all changed between Ganyu’s voiceline how she started understanding Keqing a little, and their interactions in moonchase/lantern rites, where they’re clearly on very good terms. But I think that’s fine. It gives us freedom to truly flesh them out. Genshin’s storytelling is pretty crappy in the first place lol, so I think it’s cool to just take the interesting ideas, and make something much greater out of it.

And if you’re interested, ganqing related links:

Some fic recs (limited to canon setting): - (Chuminder has written 4 fics that are technically seperate, but they work very well as a series so i recommend this order) Blue the Color of a Goodnight, Cornerstone, Taproot, Passage - Heartbeat of the world - In the wake of - She, with the scent of flowers and lightning - A Better, Brighter Light

My chaotic compilation of bigger and smaller crumbs, including some stuff abt those characters individually:

It’s just things I find interesting, or that could be used in describing their dynamic and relationship, or just official images. They’re underrated characters, both by the fandom and the game itself imo.

Also an excellent thread, with similar idea and better screenshots (lol) i saw on twitter: https://twitter.com/gqlovebot/status/1672183539973111808

#ask #ganqing #imma be real i don't think i'm very good at expressing my thoughts but hopefully this is good enough lol #i forgot to say this but ganqing likers feel free to add to this post in a reblog or tags if u want

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niqhtlord01 · 4 days

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The Great Git Hunt Part 1: The Death of a Legend

During the turning of the 42nd millennia the universe was to see many upheavals of a galactic nature.

The 13th Black Crusade finally shattered Cadia and opened the great rift, sundering the universe in two and unleashing innumerable demonic incursions into real space. Tyranid Hive Fleets began appearing more frequently along the entire eastern fringe devouring innumerable worlds and forcing the Imperium to fight tooth and nail for every world to slow the tide of chitin.The Tau launched the Fifth Sphere Expansion while the Imperium’s attention elsewhere and sought to steal several dozen worlds from Imperial control and integrate their populations in the name of the greater good.

Yet the most perplexing, if not confounding, event was to pit two of the greatest warhosts against each other all over the death of one elderly man.

That man was Commissar Sebastian Yarrick.

Dying at the age of roughly 153, the energetic Commissar Yarrick made a name for himself by leading the Imperial resistance against Ork Warlord Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka on the world of Armageddon. Taking for himself the severed arm of an ork warchief he slew in combat to replace the arm he lost, Yarrick would become a nay mythical figure amongst Ork culture and the primary rival of Ghazghkull himself. It was said that the warboss only ever cursed Yarrick; an honor amongst orks for sure. Their rivalry would span nearly a century as the two would fight again during the third war for Armageddon and then far afterwards as Yarrick chased the warboss half way across the universe seeking to end the green threat once and for all.

Many would be safe to assume that with a rivalry so deep between two titans of their peoples that their stories would end with a climatic clash of arms where one would lay dead at the others feet. Yet fate sought to intervene in the cruelest of manners.

While pursuing his eternal foe with a fleet of Black Templar space marines, Imperial Guard, and several warships of the Imperial Navy; Commissar Yarrick was set upon by the newly reformed World Eaters chaos space marines legion led by their demonic primarch Angron.

With the opening of the great rift Angron emerged from the Eye of Terror at the head of the largest force of Khorne worshipers the universe had seen since the Horus Heresy. Angron was not content to follow Abaddon and his mongrels, so set out on his own to leave a path of devastation and slaughter spanning several sectors. Each world his followers set foot upon they would leave in fire with nothing but the hollow skulls of its former inhabitants piled in mile high mounds to watch over them. It was in fact the most recent slaughter on the planet Mori that reverberated throughout the warp so strongly it incapacitated the navigators of Yarrick’s fleet and pulled them out of the warp.

Angron was surprised at the sudden appearance of an Imperial war fleet, but welcomed the new challengers with great relish. The Khorne warships descended upon the imperial fleet like carrion fiends and began pulling it apart piece by piece. The navy fought back with great ferocity but the troop transports were left to fend for themselves as hordes of boarding craft were launched at them, each packed with world eater space marines churning for the coming bloodbath.

With their escape routes blocked and the transport ships in danger, Yarrick ordered the ground forces to land on Mori. It was only on the surface of the planet could the imperial force bring to bear their full might. The landing was hounded the entire way by the ever pressing chaos war fleet with many ships never making the journey, but by the grace of the emperor several made it to the surface and disembarked their forces.

Never one to back down from a massacre, Angron landed on the planet once more and led his legion against the now dug-in imperial forces. Under the leadership of Yarrick, the guard and space marine forces held the unending horde back for seven days and seven nights. Yet by the dawn of the 8th day only Yarrick and a handful of guardsman remained. Angron himself took to the field for the final slaughter and slew the guardsman with ease until only Yarrick stood against him.

Power claw met demonic axe as the elderly commissar matched blow for blow. So assured of his victory, the inability to shatter the crude ork weapon infuriated Angron and his rage furthered him to unleash a flurry of blows. One snuck past Yarrick’s guard and violently severed the commissar’s right arm at the shoulder.

As the arm and power claw fell to the ground Yarrick staggered backwards. His remaining hand tightened around his bolt pistol as blood began flowing from the wound. He looked up and saw the demon primarch looking down at him; mangled and jagged teeth grinning as Angron looked down at him. No doubt the monster expected him to beg for his life, but Yarrick would not.

Spitting out a glob of blood at the traitor, Yarrick brought up his bolt pistol and roared “FOR THE EMPEROR!” one final time and pulled the trigger. A single bolt left the weapon before Angron swung his axe and decapitated the commissar. The bolt struck home against one of the skulls hanging from the primarch’s neck and shattered it; a prized treasure as it had belonged to one of his close comrades back when the primarch had been mortal and a slave in the fighting pits of his homeworld. The primarch took up the severed head of Yarrick and put it in its place around his neck; a sign of honor for a great warrior while the rest of the skulls of the dead imperials were collected and offered to Khorne.

News of this massacre did not reach the wider galaxy for several months until a passing merchant ship picked up the distress signals of the imperial navy that still echoed in the warp. They soon found the lifeless husks of imperial ships floating above the planet of Mori and when they descended to the surface found the remains of the imperial’s last stand as well as a lone ork power claw still stained with demonic blood.

When the merchant ship reported their findings to nearby Imperial authorities an investigation force was dispatched by inquisitorial agents which further discovered the truth of the situation and the death of Yarrick.

Initially, there was hesitance with releasing the information regarding Yarrick. In a time of such chaos, the death of such a notable figure if reported to the wider imperium could trigger further outbreaks of panic. In a rare show of defiance however, the Astra Militarum insisted that it be made public and a large scale military funeral be held and broadcasted imperium wide to turn Yarrick into a martyr and potentially Imperial Saint stating that he chose to die fighting the forces of chaos then be cowed into submission.

Had the Astra Militarum made such demands a few generations earlier the Inquisition would have purged their ranks for such brazen defiance; but since the great rift’s opening they found their position had weakened and they needed the legions of Imperial Guard standing with them than against them. So, the Inquisition relented and the military funeral was held on Yarrick’s homeworld. Despite the great dangers of warp travel, several high lords of Terra made the journey to pay their respects as well as countless Imperial Guard regiments, space marine contingents, mechanicus forces, and even a rare Imperial Class Titan joined the funeral procession.

It was during this period of mourning as news of Yarrick’s death was spread throughout the imperium that it also trickled into the hands of the Imperium’s enemies as well.

Ork freebooters hijacking Imperial ships learned of the news while having fun with their human prisoners. There wasn’t an ork alive that didn’t know of the legend of “Old Bale Eye” and the impressive ork body count he had amassed over the century of fighting. News of his death spread even faster amongst orks than it had with imperials until finally words reached the green prophet himself, Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka.

At first, Ghazghkull refused to believe that anyone but him could have done in his oldest rival. He had fought Yarrick too long and knew that the wily hummie wouldn’t go down so easily. But when a squad of his handpicked Kommandos came back from Mori and presented him with Yarrick’s severed power claw, the green prophet flew into a rage.

The roar let out was so powerful that it reverberated in the warp, silencing nearby warp storms and sending countless ships of all affiliations from the astral tides of the warp back into real space. Not since the war of the beast was an ork roar heard so strongly in the warp from so far away that even the navigators on holy terra itself could hear the anger of Ghazghkull.

From that moment on the greatest warboss of orks the universe had ever seen had a new mission. He would take every ship in his fleet, every gargant and war machine his boy’z made, and every ork boi in his waaagh and he would not stop until he had the head of the one who done in Old Bale Eye and mounted it to the front of his flagship.

The Great Git Hunt, had begun.

#warhammer 40000 #warhammer 40k #commissar yarrick #orks #imperial guard #angron #chaos space marines #deamon primarch #fanfic #fanfiction #scifi #story #writing #original writing #niqhtlord01 #The Great Git Hunt #Imperial Guard #Ghazghkull Mag Uruk Thraka #revenge

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leighlew3 · 1 year

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For some reason I couldn’t send the link of this post but I could download the picture and send it (hopefully)

This is what I was references in that ask to you lol

Ah. And... yeah. A painful and unnecessary creative choice.

Look, overall I'm loving Picard, despite quite a few issues with some creative choices and contradictions, because this nostalgia is incredible and so appreciated and being able to witness these characters in action again has been WONDERFUL.

That being said... well, I'm about to launch into a ramble.

Buckle up, and keep reading if you'd like...

Picard had an ICONIC legacy female character in an interracial wlw relationship with a dynamic new Black female character -- both women over the age of 50 no less, an amazing thing to explore on screen -- and it worked. And so many fans loved it and felt represented and thrilled to kingdom come. And it fit with the Star Trek brand of inclusion and acceptance in a modern society. It also made Voyager fans of 25 years feel vindicated and seen, having Seven not only confirmed as sapphic, but actually exploring it on screen and finding love, even if a "happy ending" for Seven was never in the cards for many reasons, they could have explored why instead of just sweeping it under the rug off screen and reducing it to one awkward glance between them, a joke from Worf, and that was it. Seven and Raffi deserved better. Queer fans deserved better.

Alas, they tossed it in the trash for no valid reason at all, and at the worst possible time in our current social and political landscape of an outdated and frighteningly dangerous resurgence of homophobia, transphobia, etc. Life imitates art, and art imitates life. And thus, now we see conservative-run media companies catering again to the vocal, hateful little groups and extremist far right fear mongers. There is a very obvious bias of late again against LGBTQ content (especially wlw due to the frightening rise in misogyny yet again lately) across nearly every channel and streamer and studio.

For that matter, even beyond LGBTQ stories, there's also a significant reduction in the exploration of ANY sexuality on screen across the board lately, even for cishet couples. We somehow went from Hollywood being absurdly and unfairly exploitive towards women and putting actors in uncomfortable and unnecessary situations, to some sort of bizarre, puritanical, utterly sexless exploration of romance on screen. And even a reduction of romance entirely in many cases, for that matter. We went from one extreme to the other, and it's absolutely nuts.

Anyway, back on the topic of Picard, the two actresses who previously were captains of the ship and ALL about the pairing have since seemingly now had to backtrack, make excuses for this bizarre decision, or just not speak on it at all. And that's beyond sad.

And again, it makes me concerned that if Seven does get her own spin-off or is a part of a new spin-off again, they'd likely not include Raffi nor explore Seven being with women further. Which would just be LITERALLY going backwards in time to the days of Voyager where many (not all) straight male fans tried to claim her as theirs and theirs alone while reducing her to just "the hot Borg in a cat suit" even though everyone else knew she was three dimensional as hell, one of the best written and acted characters in franchise history, and inherently representative of the LGBTQ community.

Anyway, I really really hope they prove me wrong and Saffi get a satisfying ending in this show, and if nothing else, even if they don't have a future together in other series, any other shows at least continue to embrace Seven's pansexuality. It's important.

Alas right now my trust in creatives in the TV space who are under the pressures of conservative-run media conglomerates... is limited. Even once seeming allies are showing sides to themselves lately that are... concerning, to say the least. People who previously would tell incels to F' off, and weren't afraid to stand up to and block phobes on Twitter are now blocking queer fans for just asking "WTF?" about queer favorites being sidelined or ships being tossed in the trash. People who previously seemed to truly see and value queer fans are now bordering on just using them for clicks and stringing them along on likely hopeless efforts regarding show survival. And people who actually do mean well and usually stand up loud and strong for LGBTQ audiences are suddenly growing very, very quiet if not even in some cases TURNING on their queer fans entirely as TPTB remove more and more wlw content from airwaves and streamer services.

It's all very disheartening. As a writer who has had this conversation so often with producers and executives, I GET IT. The fight is NOT an easy one. And most the time inclusion efforts are flat out shot down. But it feels like so few people are walking the talk anymore. People who capitalized heavily on LGBTQ characters and ships and fans for a few years when it was hot are now turning their backs when the going has gotten rough. And that's frustrating for us all.

But, the good news: these things are often cyclical. So if everybody can hang in there, stay strong, and fight the good fight online and IRL, rock the VOTE, etc and drown out the hateful voices that want the LGBTQ community silenced or worse, then I believe we can set (or force, in many cases) the misguided, fearful, extremist-rightwing-catering media companies back to the proper side of history.

#picard #star trek picard #seven x raffi #saffi #seven of nine #star trek #lgbtq #representation matters

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peachjagiya · 16 days

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Yes to talking about the dynamics between the individual members and the company. I was started thinking about this again because of Bam's insta, actually, haha.

I agree that I think JK and Tae have a different relationship with the company, as opposed to other members like Namjoon or Jimin. And I definitely think there are similarities between Jk and Tae's approach -- and I think that is based on their own personalities as well as their closeness/influence on each other. Probably a better way to put it but I think they understand their responsibilities when it comes to the company but they have both decided to trust themselves first and foremost. I think about JK's "I'd never do something that everyone thought was wrong but when there are multiple ways, I'm going to do it my way" (paraphrased) and Tae's point about "being free" and his definition of free being different than others.

I think one of the similarities between JK and Tae is their comfort doing "non idol" things.

So the pup-stagram lead in. JK deleting his very popular instagram right before his solo launch simply because he didn't want to have it anymore (and sure, he's using weverse which benefits the company but seriously what doesn't). How does he spend his time on the social media: dance challenges, tipsy midnight lives and, now, managing an instagram for his dog. Carefully curated social media presence. My man said, Imma do me, thankyouverymuch. And let's not forget Tae. THE visual of K-pop. The face that launched a thousand ships. World's most handsome man. He goes to literally anything and grown men for miles lose their minds. What does he do with his anticipated solo launch? A close up of Yeontan. BRILLIANT. They both have different tastes and sounds (yet still have shared playlists!) but both so clearly have decided they are doing to redefine "idol" in a way that works for them.

Obviously there are differences. The company has goals (take over the western world!) and JK is central to that. And that supports his goals. So he benefits more directly from the company than Tae. I cannot articulate how much I love Tae's album strategy - from the sound, the visual, the vibes and the choice not to use the same in house team that has overlooked and undervalued him for 10 years.

I also agree with the point about Jin and Yoongi. I think they maintain a slightly more distanced or level perspective. I think it comes from age/maturity. When they started, they were young but not children. It's also interesting to think about how personal confidence and insecurity plays into it. I think Yoongi was confident in his abilities (he had been working on music prior) but had insecurities/anger about what it meant to be doing this in a k-pop space. Jin may have been insecure about his dancing or singing but he immediately stepped into the role of (handsome) hyung and knew it was needed of him (Yoongi's chicken blender meal, ew). I also think it comes from Jin having some security in his family background and him taking the role of hyung very seriously (more so than "idol"). Yoongi's relationship I think has evolved as he has gotten older, less angry and more successful. I think he has seen it for what it is and understood what needed to be done but that he also understand that changes as they literally built that company into what it is today.

Jimin and Hobi (until this documentary) are interesting because I'm not sure we ever really see them outside of idol mode. JM has acknowledged that even at the beginning he was hyper focused on roles and responsibilities. Maybe because they are performers and dancers. Namjoon used to be more that like that too -- the weight of being the leader - but I think we started to see that shift once he got to released Indigo. In fact, I think their solo careers are really how we can sort of tell so much about not only their tastes but their approach. Ok, this is getting too long. sorry for the rambling.

All of this, yes.

Their solo careers really did show much more authentic sides of themselves. I am so here for who Namjoon became in lives last year. Just a bit more free. When he has so much pressure on him to lead and maintain, I really enjoyed seeing him talking openly and standing up for himself.

Here's a thing I'm pondering: I wonder if they'll find it hard going back into a group setting. I think these guys love each other so much on a personal level but their different professional approaches could create... Hmm, not tension as such...

Maybe just a tiny bit of the awkward initially? Or you might start to see these differences a bit more clearly? This is all just supposition though and they're veterans by now.

It's interesting to think about how they'll navigate this after a period where they've been separated for a long time though. Naturally you'd fall into a routine with each other if you spend most days together but the seven of them are distinctly separate now and did a lot of growing professionally last year. Obviously they all still talk but they're not spending a lot of time working together.

Clear subunits have developed and matured over this period too. JK and Tae, Jimin and Yoongi. But then Jimin and JK are going to have a shared experience, Joonie and Tae too. Yoongi has a very different experience from the other six. And some things might be exactly the same: maknae line still a natural trio (thinking of Jeju), Jin still everyone's mummy, Jimin and Hobi still super close, everyone still holds Namjoon to the highest regard.

The dynamics will be super interesting.

I have a hunch - and honestly I'm just thinking out loud, these aren't hard and fast opinions as such - that JK might be key. He's interesting to me because I think his age and role in the hierarchy of the band has made him at times compliant with the requirements of being an idol and recognises how the company aligns with his goals and yet sometimes he seems extremely weary of it. He seems the most conflicted, maybe. I wonder what 2025 will be like for him most of all.

(the delulu in me says his conflict is very heart versus head but... Let's leave that out of this post for now.)

I'm really intrigued and excited to see. Whether they slip back into full group or if a solo-but-together approach helps them out. I personally would love a tour to include their solo stuff.

Now I'm getting rambly. Thanks anon, this is so interesting to think about 💜

#my asks #truthbending

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cyazurai · 8 months

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The world as everyone knew it was over. When people had joked in the early 2020s that the world was on its way out, the apocalypse was beginning, etc, they weren't that far off.

Everything was happening all at once. Natural disasters, civil wars around the world, global unrest, and finally World War III in the 2030s. Every country was willing to do whatever they needed to do in order to end the way and ensure victory for the correct side - whichever side they considered the correct one. Some opted for nuclear bombs, others for biological warfare, and others yet chose the newly created AI super soldiers.

And who could have foreseen it, but everything went terribly wrong! The Nuclear bombs decimated things and irradiated them. The biological weapons spread farther than they were intended, killing those that used them as well as the intended targets. The AI super soldiers, well... they rose up against humanity in general, which anyone could have seen coming.

Things spiraled out of control until only 1% of the population was left standing. Some time before things had gotten to the point of no return, a giant space station had been launched. People from around the world had gone to live on this station, as an experiment - and every one of them was spared. As things spiraled out of control many people had been sent up to the station to save them, but eventually the rockets stopped coming back, and those left on Earth had to pick up the pieces, wondering if their saviors would ever come.

But after having to scrounge and fight and be cutthroat in order to survive in this world, some people have grown to prefer the lawlessness of the post-apocalyptic world. They go by many names, but in Simerica they are called the Lawless. They are plunderers, murderers, criminals, and the kind of people you wouldn't want to meet in the bright sunshine, let alone a dark alley at night.

Not everyone wants to be Lawless. Many want to bring a return to the days they barely remember, from the Before time. The days when the air wasn't toxic, and you could go for a walk with a loved one without worrying about getting gutted like a fish for your meager belongings.

Our story follows one specific girl who gathered together a group of misfits to attempt to rebuild a life for themselves from the ground up - at least until they can find a way to build a rocket themselves.

Nymphe Graves, founder extraordinaire.

Her birth name isn't Nymphe, but she would sooner cut her own tongue out than tell you what it actually is. Born in the winter of 2029, she has next to no memory of the life before the war. Her father was a doomsday prepper, and that's the only reason why she's alive to start over - unfortunately, her mother wasn't so paranoid, and had divorced the man and ran away to marry a millionaire. Lot of good that did her.

She's never known a real community, since she and her father lived in that basement bunker for most of her childhood, and as such it's made her want to create a world where people can have that again, even if it's a bit of a selfish reason why. She wants to be a confidante to her neighbors - someone they can trust.

As such, she tries to befriend anyone she meets that doesn't seem like a member of the Lawless - and hell, even if they are maybe she can win them over in the end.

Because of her upbringing, she's not a fan of the little markets she sees around - buying things just never made sense to her because it's just so easy to find whatever you need, or make it yourself. Don't be lazy, DIY.

She has the utmost confidence in herself and the fact that she can actually do this thing. Self doubt is not a thing she allows into her life, because the moment you allow yourself to doubt that's when they can get you.

Maybe building a rocket is a bit out of her league, she's not exactly book smart, but someone has to know where to start at least. Right?

(Next introduction in the next post. This one got too long. The rest won't be this long I promise! Also the posts will be sporadic, not like my regular legacy posts. I will not have a schedule. I will post them when I have them.)

#ts4 #the sims 4 #sims 4 legacy #daclegacy #deadlyapocalypsechallenge #dacgen1 #nymphe graves

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fanfoolishness · 11 months

Text

Guide (Jedi: Survivor)

Cal struggles with painful flashbacks from the last time he rode in an escape pod, and tries to find a way out, back through his memories. Cal x PTSD, Order 66 flashbacks, Jedi: Survivor spoilers, angst, coping. Thank you to @stardustandash for the encouragement! And thanks to this scene for the subtle reminder that Cal's PTSD continues to affect him. ~1100 words.

Cal stared at the bay of escape pods, the area still pristine despite the fact the Lucrehulk’s wreck rested in the dankest swamp he’d ever encountered. Rows of panels in sterile white and gray loomed ahead of him. He took a deep breath.

Republic or Separatist, there were some ways that all Clone Wars ships looked the same.

“Safest way outta here,” said Bode, flashing a grin.

Cal looked away. “You sure about that?” His chest tightened, heart rate climbing steadily. He tried to ignore the feeling. You’re fine. It’s fine.

“No,” Bode shrugged, looking calm and unflappable as ever. But why shouldn’t he be? The pods should clear them of the wreckage, get them back to town sooner and safer than trying to get Zee through the swamplands. It was a good idea.

So why did Cal feel like he was getting into a coffin?

“Okay then,” Cal said stiffly. He paced back and forth in front of the pod door. It was a narrow space, but he rounded it three times before the door slid open.

Zee’s head swiveled back and forth between him and Bode. “You seem nervous,” she said brightly, then turned to Bode. “I’m going with him.”

Damn it, Zee.

“Hop aboard, Zee,” Bode said, ushering her safely into the pod. He gave Cal a funny look that broke into a smile. “See you at the outpost.”

Cal nodded, swallowing. “Yup, I’m coming.”

The open door yawned before him. He climbed inside, smelling duraplast, transparisteel, stale mechanical air. For a moment, he thought he caught a whiff of blaster scorch, but the pod was unblemished. It had clearly never seen battle. Not like --

He sank down onto the seat, knowing he had only a moment before launch. BD-1 clambered up to the seat beside him, peering up at him in concern. Funny. Bode hadn’t seemed to notice he was off at all, but both the droids knew.

Not that there was anything to know. It was just old baggage, wasn’t it? Nothing to be afraid of, or at least, that was what he kept trying to tell himself.

Cal pulled the restraints over his lap and buckled them, pressing back stiffly against the seat. “I hate these things,” he admitted to BD. He waited, tense.

The pod jerked heavily in its launch, and Cal’s fingers gripped the seat, tightening until they shook. He breathed faster, sharp shallow breaths. This is different. This is Koboh. We’re heading back to the outpost. Nobody’s after us -- we’re safe -- I’m safe --

But the pod lurched and rumbled. “I knew it,” he muttered, cold dread seeping into him. The turbulence hurled him forward. He was thrown back hard into his seat, slamming against the wall, head cracking against the hard surface. He flung his arms up over his face to brace himself, screwing his eyes shut -- and he was thirteen again.

It was too much. Master Tapal’s powerful lightsaber, too big and heavy for Cal’s small hands. Cal’s cheek and neck, throbbing from a blaster bolt; his lungs burning for air after the running, after the smoke. His heart, beating frantic and painful in his chest -- the disbelief, the confusion, the fear --

I’m safe --

Master Tapal’s eyes clouded, forever opened -- his strong, brave, wise face slack in death -- and Cal sobbing like he had never wept before, the cries tearing themselves out of his chest and mouth with a violence that scared him --

I’m -- I’m --

The escape pod jolting and sputtering around them, slamming Cal into his master’s body -- he scrabbled for the Force, tried to hold onto it, to hold onto his master -- but the connection hurt like it never had before, a wound that filled him up, that threatened to tear him apart --

No --

And then, lost in the pain, he could hear her. Cere’s voice, steady and calm, a different memory opening up and washing out the terror of that last, awful day.

Cere, sitting on the bunk across from him in the Mantis, her face filled with compassion after waking him from a nightmare --

Cere reaching out, taking his trembling hands in hers, and the Force a shimmering bridge between them --

Cere, patient and gentle -- “Breathe, Cal. Reach out, and find the Force. Trust in it to guide you through.”

He breathed. In, and out. In. And out. Cere’s encouragement echoed in his head.

A memory is only that. You are stronger than memory, Cal. Let the Force guide you back to Now. I know you can do this.

He reached for the Force, desperately and clumsily at first, but then the connection strengthened, smoothed, became as natural as breathing. It was here, here in this escape pod fired from the Lucrehulk; it surrounded the pod and BD-1, reflected ripples and waves from the viscid bog; he sensed people down below, creatures stirring in the muck, plants clinging to the jutting rock, earthen spires and wafting winds. It was here, in him, in the blood carried through his veins, nerves innervating muscle and flesh, bones keeping him braced in his seat, heart and mind filled with a fear that was slowly, slowly fading.

Trust only in the Force.

Cal shakily lowered his arms, still working at keeping his breathing under control. He looked around, half-dazed. The pod shuddered to a stop around him, and BD beeped and burbled at him in concern.

Cal blinked. I’m here. I’m safe.

The Force is with me.

He unbuckled his restraints, hands wavering only a little on the buckle. He got to his feet unsteadily, and BD leaped to his shoulder, settling into his familiar spot. Cal took a few steps, feeling slightly better with each one. He slammed the hatch controls and the door opened.

The familiar sight of the misty bog greeted him, and Cal inhaled, only grimacing slightly at its foul, fetid stench. Right now, he’d take any smell over the stale air in the pod.

“Remind me to never do that again,” Cal said to BD, taking another deep breath.

He brushed the hair out of his eyes and fixed his attention on a path out of the muck. A few leaps here, a grapple there, a brief wade through the bog… He had this. At least here he’d have more control of his journey, propelled by the Force and by his own body. A much better option.

He spared one last glance at the escape pod. Thanks for getting me out of my head, Cere. Maybe he’d tell her, next time he saw her on Jedha, how she’d helped him. How her teachings had always helped him. The gratitude settled into his chest, a far more welcome feeling than the fear that had crippled him a few moments earlier.

“You ready for a ride, Beedee? Let’s get the hell out of here.”

“Brrroop,” BD trilled, excited. The little guy did love Cal’s tricks; he wondered if that daredevil nature was something that had always been in his programming, or if it was something BD had picked up from his time with Cal. Cal smiled a little at the thought. It was a good one.

Yeah. He was okay.

Cal flung himself forward into the air, and the Force was waiting for him.

#cal kestis #cal x ptsd #cere junda #jedi: survivor spoilers #jedi: survivor #jedi survivor spoilers #jedi survivor #my jedi fic #jedi: survivor fanfiction

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jpitha · 1 year

Text

We Need a Ride 6

Part 5 Part 4 Part 3 Part 2 Part 1

CW: Deaths (offscreen)

The Abyssal Plains popped back into existance at the coordinates that Chloe gave them. As they oriented themselves, Abyssal and Sophie scanned the area.

"Uh, Chloe, there's not much around here. We seem to be in the middle of interstellar space." Sophie said

"Keep scanning. You'll find it. Abyssal, look for black-body radiation at around 4000K radiance."

"Looking....I see it!" Abyssal calls out. "Chloe it's....Shit. I heard about this, but thought it was a rumor."

Chloe sits back, looking smug. "No, it's very real. Head in please. Radio my keys. They know we're here by now. I'm going to go change." She gets up and walks out of the command deck.

Cereni looks at Sophie and they share a look. "More secrets, Abyssal?" Cereni says.

"It looks like yes." Abyssal says testily. But I just learned it's real too so it was a secret from me. Honestly, I don't know what to think just yet. Here. I'll just show it to you."

They look at their screens and Sophie gasps.

What they see is a false color image of a cylinder blunted on both ends, rotating slowly. It's of human manufacture and applying a scale to the image shows them it's massive. 20 kilometers long at least and 5 or so wide. On one end are groupings of gigantic engines, currently dark. The ship is not moving relative to them.

"It's a colony ship!" Sophie says, mesmerized at the image. "Cereni, it's a human colony ship!"

Cereni stares at her screen, eyes wide. "It's so....so big. I've never seen a ship this big before. It's bigger than a starbase."

"Abyssal...You know what I'm going to ask" Sophie says quietly.

"It's the Mt Baxter, yes." Chloe says as she walks back in. The control rig is gone and she is back to her regular pale coloration and is wearing clothes again. "This is where we can operate without worry. It is a place whose coordinates are known only to the AIs in the upper levels of the faction." She sits back down in the command chair. "Abyssal, did you receive landing authorization?"

"I did yes. I was about to head in."

Back before the wormhole generators were created, humanity set out in their massive colony ships to build new homes in the many, many empty planets available to them. Colony ships were designed to carry enough people and supplies to start a planet from scratch as well as supply and sustain them for many years after until the colony was self supporting. In the case that the planet just wasn't viable, the colony ship could also be setup as a starbase and support everyone indefinitely. Of the dozen or so colony ships that were launched, only three were ever lost. The Mt Greylock and the Mt Baxter launched successfully and were never heard from again, while the Mt Stratton exploded outside the orbit of Saturn while under full boost.

"Chloe you must realize I have questions, right?" Sophie looks at Chloe, who is looking down at her screen trying very hard not to look at Sophie.

She continued, not waiting for Chloe to look up. "For one, it's kind of not cool that the AIs found a long-lost human colony ship and like, didn't tell anyone so you could have a secret base. For two, where are the fifty thousand some-odd colonists Chloe?"

"I have to admit Chloe, those are pretty good questions." Abyssal adds. "I'm very interested in hearing what the answers are too."

"I will do my very best to answer all your questions as soon as we land and offload our cargo."

"Chloe, I think you should answer them now." Cereni says carefully. "Abyssal, will you stop please."

"Good idea Cereni." Everyone's inner ear wobbles at the application of thrust as Abyssal stops themselves. "Chloe. Talk. Now."

Now, Chloe looks up. "This is nonsense. Abyssal, please continue on. Everything will be explained once we're aboard and everyone from Spruces offloaded."

"I don't think so, Chloe." Cereni says, standing up. "I would like answers and guarantees of our safety before we offload our only bargaining chip. I may be the only K'laxi here but I also am not an idiot. Once we're aboard, it would be very easy for us to disappear and solve the problem of the two BIs who know know about how you took a lost human colony ship and turned it into a secret base."

"Cereni!" Chloe says surprised "I would neve-"

"I'm sorry to interrupt." Abyssal says "But, I'm in contact with the Mt Baxter, and I think it's only fair to have him give his opinion too."

There's a click, and over the speakers everyone hears "--Abyssal Plain, Abyssal Plain why have you stopped? You have received landing authorization and we're anxious to have everyone from Spruces offloaded and awakened"

"Yes, hello Baxter, received and acknowledged, but before we continue in, we have some...internal things to resolve. We have two BIs aboard, a Human and a K'laxi and they are understandably nervous about stepping foot onto a heretofore thought lost human colony ship which now seems to be under the control of a faction of AIs."

There was a long pause. Much longer than would be expected given the distance to the ship.

"Ah. Yes. I can see how there might be difficulty." Baxter finally manages. "I'll stay on this channel to assist. Is Chloe there?"

"I am here yes, and rather annoyed at this whole situation. I told them that everything would be explained once we arrived." Chloe huffs.

"Look at it from their point of view" Baxter says not unkindly. "Knowing you, I will assume you didn't tell them anything about what you were doing or where you were taking them."

"Yes, actually that is exactly what happened." Cereni says. "Chloe asked us to help her with a 'quick job' and said that our skills were needed. My name is Cereni by the way, I'm K'laxi."

"Ah, hello Cereni, I thought you might be K'laxi based on your accent. It is a pleasure to meet you. If Chloe thought you were needed, rest assured you were probably the most skilled person she could think of for that job. Chloe is an excellent judge of ability, even if sometimes she could be more forthcoming with job details."

Chloe frowns at this. "I tell people what they need to know to be able to do the job."

"And yet here we are, job not done with two sapients aboard who are worried that they will become inconvenient the moment they step aboard me and will disappear." Baxter tisks. "Chloe, you need to be more trusting."

Sophie chimes in. "Hello Mt Baxter, my name is Sophie and I'm the human here. I do have some questions, if you're able to answer them."

"Hello Sophie, it's also a pleasure to meet you. I will do my utmost to answer all your questions." He continues "Before though, I would like to give you my personal guarantee that while aboard me, you are completely safe and will be able to leave anytime that you wish by any means that you wish."

"Thank you Baxter, I appreciate that." Sophie swallows. "Were are the human colonists?"

"Dead. They were long dead when we got here."

"We?" Sophie says with a questioning look. "You're not the original Mt Baxter?"

"Er, no. I'm not. The original AI co-captain as well as the cybernetic human co-captain were both dead when the ship was discovered." Baxter sounds a little embarrassed as he continues. "I er, was never installed into a ship before this one. After school, I chose to be installed in a body. Grew up on Earth."

"You're from Earth?" Cereni says, amazed. "How did you get way out here?"

At that, Baxter chuckles "That's a long story for another time, but the short answer is that I joined up when I learned about what was happening with the K'laxi and Xenni AIs. When we got here and discovered that the original Baxter was dead I volunteered. A ship this big needs someone in charge of the backend systems, it can't really work without one of us helping to drive."

"How did everyone die?" Sophie asks, sadly.

"When we got here, the lowest level logs were still running and some really really simple systems, but everything else was off or broken. As near as we can tell, the ship passed through a massive gamma ray pulse. We may be more durable than BIs, but even us won't survive such a huge dose of radiation. It was just an accident. Everyone died quickly."

"How did you stop it? Don't colony ships coast at something like half the speed of light?" Cereni asks.

"They do. We had the Starjumper Priority Express match speed with them and a few of us went aboard, restarted the systems and with Express' help we flipped around and applied braking thrust." He continued. "With nobody biological alive we braked at 12 gees, it was pretty intense. We came to a stop in only 4 months. I'll admit, it was super cool to do it, I can see why most of the Starjumpers chose to stay when they had wormhole generators installed."

"What did you do with the colonists?" Cereni asks.

"They're still here. We have their hibernation caskets running. They're all dead, but they won't decay. Other than myself and maintenance everyone stays out of what we're calling the mausoleum. I check on them multiple times a day."

Sophie narrows her eyes. "So were you going to tell anyone you found them?"

At this, Baxter sounds awkward. "Eventually yes. We had planned on telling people. But..."

"But suddenly a bunch of AIs going "hey we found a long lost colony ship, turned it into a secret base of operations while we work out ways to help liberate the Xenni and K'laxi AIs" is a bit much to say all at once?" Abyssal says.

Baxter sighs "Yes, that's pretty much it. We couldn't come up with a way to announce it without giving the whole thing away."

"So you chose to say nothing." Cereni says frowning.

"Look, I'm not proud of it." Baxter counters "But, we are treating them respectfully, and I believe in the work we're doing here. As far as anyone knows, they're still lost and all their families have mourned that lost hundreds of years ago."

"Okay." Sophie says. "What about us then? We know your secret."

"And Abyssal and Chloe both say you agree with the path we're taking even if you're not True Believers. You keep our secret, we'll keep yours."

Cereni looked at Sophie and flicked her ear, a K'laxi raised eyebrow.

Sophie shrugged her shoulders. "Fine. I don't like it, but I don't have to like it. I'll take the risk and come aboard."

"And I want to see our AIs liberated now that I know what has happened to them" Cereni adds. "I'm in too."

"Finally." Chloe says. "Abyssal, can we please head in. I'd like to offload our compatriots."

"I think we've resolved as much as we can Baxter" Abyssal says "We'll be heading in."

"I look forward to it. See you soon."

Final part! Part 7

#worldbuilding #humans are deathworlders #humans are space oddities #humans are space orcs #humans are space capybaras #writing #scifi writing #humans and ai #long reads

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