#as long as it makes sense for the character/setting and it isn't the author trying to write A Good Role Model

[irrealisms]

every time i see a post on therapyspeak in fiction being Annoying these days i want to defend its honor. people can make compellingly bad decisions while self-aware and with a large vocabulary. i need to write more di!will

[miraculouslbcnreactions]

Wait, I was reading your posts and came across something I've found confusing. How is Adrien asking Ladybug wth she is doing in Volpina a bad thing? From Adrien's perspective, Ladybug's a celebrity tracking down a middle schooler with zero clout and humiliating her for lying about meeting her before. That's, uh yeah? Imagine if that happened irl lmao. Millions of teenage girls would perish at 1D's hands. My middle school would be a horror story. And it's made clear multiple times in the episode that her motivation is jealousy. It's one of the few episodes where the lesson Marinette gets makes sense I think, because she was genuinely spiteful in shitting on this random girl in front of her crush. That's significantly different than Ladybug just asking for a retraction from the Ladyblog. It's also one of the few times when Adrien's celebrity background actually affects how he acts, and it makes sense that Marinette doesn't make the connection between superhero=celebrity=not allowed to scream at middleschoolers in public. If half the kids in her school didn't lie about meeting Ladybug before, my suspension of disbelief is gone.

I've seen this argument before and it makes no sense to me, especially in the context of the lie that Lila actually told and the way the Lila confrontation actually goes down. A lot of people who have this take seem to think that Lila's lie was, "Ladybug saved me," and that Ladybug made a big public confrontation which is not what canon actually gave us. The confrontation was done in a mostly private setting and, while we never see Lila's full Ladyblog interview, this is how Ladybug sums up the interview in Volpina:

Ladybug:(sarcastically) Well hey Lila! How's it going? Long time no see. I saw your interview on the Ladyblog, awesome job. Oh sure! I remember our instant connection when I saved your life and we've been really good friends ever since! Practically BFF's! Uh actually, when did I save your life again, Lila? I don't recall. Oh yes! Of course, now I remember. Never! And we're not friends either! Miss Show-Off here was trying to impress you and everyone around her.

Lila didn't just lie about meeting Ladybug, she lied about having an ongoing, close relationship with Ladybug, two very different things. And Ladybug isn't just a celebrity, she's a superhero who is fighting an active terrorist. If I had to rewrite this confrontation, I'd keep it pretty much the same and just change the "Miss Show-Off" line to something like:

Miss Show-Off here was trying to impress you and everyone around her, putting herself and all of you at major risk! You know that Hawkmoth would do anything to get these, right? (gestures at her earrings) Did you even stop to think about what he'd do if he learned the identity of my supposed best friend? Of course not. You were too busy trying to look cool to stop and think things through like an actual superhero! We keep our identities and relationships secret for a reason!

Is this the kindest, most gentle way to confront someone like Lila? No, but it's very in character for Marinette to be filled with righteous fury when she sees someone using her name for their own personal gain. I really can't blame her for getting incredibly angry at this total stranger presenting herself as a Ladybug authority and using that authority to manipulate Marinette's friends. As I've said before, take away the crush complication and Marinette's actions still make total sense to me.

I'm not a huge proponent of virtue ethics. That's the idea that you need proper motivation for an act to be morally justified. If you do the right thing for the wrong reason, then the act is bad no matter how good the results and vice versa. If you view the world that way, then sure, you could possibly argue that Marinette's actions were wrong just like you can also argue that Gabriel's actions were totally fine, but I don't view the world that way. Switch Marinette's motivation from jealousy and a little righteous fury to pure righteous fury and almost nothing changes. She'd still need to confront Lila, the words would just be a little different.

It's not like this confrontation stops Lila, either. Chameleon gives us this:

Lila: (in flashback) Not only did Ladybug save my life, we've become very close friends. Marinette: She lies with every breath. Nino: Wait. You eavesdropped on Lila and Adrien? That's not cool. Alya: A good reporter always verifies her sources. Can you prove she doesn't actually know Ladybug?

Quick mini rant before I give the next Chameleon quote: this isn't how verifying your sources works, Alya! You should be verifying that Lila does know Ladybug, not the other way around! Right now, Marinette and Lila have equal authority on the topic as far as you know and there is no evidence to support either claim, so you should be looking for proof that Lila isn't lying! Proof isn't a first come, first serve problem even though a lot of people fall into that trap. This is especially true since Lila goes on to make claims like this:

Lila: Of course Ladybug saved my life. She never misses an opportunity to rescue her best friends. Max: Didn't your tinnitus give you vertigo when you went up the Eiffel Tower? Lila: Oh no. Ladybug knows me so well that she brought me an earplug to stick in my right ear.

So Lila keeps right on lying about her relationship with Ladybug, presenting them as close friends, making it even harder for me to get on the "Marinette was in the wrong for privately confronting Lila" train. If anything, Marinette was too tame! She needed to go full scorched earth and have Alya post a public retraction that included a message about the dangers of claiming to be personal friends with someone you don't actually know.

If the show went that route and had Ladybug give an equally furious smack-down and Alya posted it without a second thought, THEN I'd probably be on team "Marinette needed to tone herself down because she went too far" because that isn't a heat-of-the-moment reaction. It's something Marinette would have time to think through. But Volpina didn't go there. Instead, we just get Marinette reacting live to someone using her name to flirt with her crush. Remember, this is the setup to Marinette transforming and jumping in to stop Lila:

Lila: Not only did Ladybug save my life, we've become very close friends because we have something very special in common- it's what I wanted to tell you about. I'm the descendant of a vixen superheroine myself, Volpina. Adrien: Volpina? Marinette: Volpina? Adrien: Wait a minute! I think I read about her in my book. Lila:(stopping him from grabbing the book) Of course she's in your book. She's one of the most important superheroes. More powerful and more celebrated than Ladybug. Between you and me Ladybug doesn't even make the top ten. My grandma gave me this necklace. [Marinette runs off to transform] Adrien: (holding Lila's necklace) Are you telling me this is a Miraculous?! (Ladybug lands in front of them)

This wasn't a planned confrontation. It was Marinette reacting live to some pretty massive lies. If Ladybug had been swinging by and just overhead this, then the scene once again wouldn't change much. That's why blaming Marinette for confronting Lila in the "wrong way" feels so victim blame-y to me. "How dare Ladybug not be perfectly poised at all times and react with grace when someone lies about being her close friend and teammate!" is not a take I'm ever going to agree with. And if you want to use the middle schooler defense? Then it applies to Marinette, too. She and Lila are the same age. Why the different standards just because Marinette has fame that she never asked for or sought out?

I've never been much of a fan of holding celebrities to an "always on" standard where their every interaction needs to be done with poise and grace even if the interaction happens out in the wild and not at a planned even where the celebrity can be mentally prepared for dealing with fans. That's extra true for accidental celebrities like Ladybug. Marinette didn't take up the earrings for fame and they certainly haven't brought her fortune, plus she has no PR training. Expecting her to be a PR master who knows how to handle her accidental fame is, once again, a little too victim blame-y for my tastes. Ladybug is here to save the world, not sign autographs. You can hold her to politician standards when you start paying her for risking her life on the daily.

There's a version of Lila where I would have a different take. A version where the lie really is minor and Marinette really did "overreact", but even there my lesson wouldn't be "Marinette was totally in the wrong" because I genuinely think that sends the wrong message to kids and kids are the show's target audience. Think about what you're actually saying here, "Because Marinette is famous, she needs to accept that people will lie about her and just ignore them even if people believe the lie."

While that isn't exactly a wrong take, it's still really messed up. It's not okay for people to use Marinette's name like that just because she's famous. The reason she needs to learn to let it go is because that's what's best for her mental health, not because her fame makes her lesser than others when it comes to things like personal privacy. The lies are not magically okay just because she's well known.

Remember, Marinette is a fictional character, but the kids watching this show are very real and they're way more likely to be Lilas than Marinettes. And the kids that do relate to Marinette in this episode? They'll be kids who have dealt with the rumor mill spreading lies about them or their friends without the celebrity complication. The show should not be telling either set of kids that Marinette is the one in the wrong here. That is the wrong moral and why I hate this episode so much. I might feel differently if the intended audience was teens and if this plot was allowed to be more complex, but none of that is true. The show is aimed at kids ages 5 to 12 and every episode is supposed to teach its own moral with Volpina's moral being "Marinette was explicitly and totally in the wrong here."

This is the age of internet personalities where there are more easily-accessible celebrities than ever and where many of them do not have the wealth needed to protect themselves from fans nor the PR training to know how to handle extreme fans if there even is PR training for that! That means that it's honestly really important for kids to learn to view these individuals as people who it's wrong to lie about and who deserve the same respect as non-famous people. Treating celebrities as public commodities is how we get things like the Kit Connor scandal where an 18-year-old actor felt forced to publicly come out because the internet wouldn't shut up about his sexuality. Oh, and since you brought up one direction, I'll also note that the band members have publicly stated that online shipping discourse has negatively impacted their relationships. So, yeah, I'm never going to agree that kids should be told that it's okay to lie about celebrities or treat them as fictional characters to play with and that the celebrities are the ones who are wrong if they get upset about that behavior. That shit is toxic.

If we go the "minor" lie route, then my version of this episode would be a very sad one where Marinette learns that people are going to ignore her boundaries and lie about her and there's nothing she can do about it. A lesson in mental health training that will hopefully help kids who are dealing with bullies, but that does not present Marinette as totally in the wrong. It just teaches her when to pick a fight and when to let it go, which is a very important skill to learn even outside of lies about your own person. There will be many times when you hear people say something that you vehemently disagree with and it's important to learn when to pick a fight and when to just let it go, knowing that no good will come from speaking up even if you're 100% in the right. It's a very sad, but also very necessary skill.

I think Adrien has a place in that story. A place where he still tells Ladybug to let it go, but it should NOT have been played the way it was in canon where he acted like Ladybug was totally out of line. He needed to be way more compassionate and understanding of her very justified anger. I've written Adrien giving advice on this topic before and it's always presented as, "people are going to be assholes and you have to learn to ignore them for your own well being," not as, "you are wrong to be upset about strangers telling lies about you. You agreed to deal with this when you decided to be a hero" because what kind of asinine lesson is that?

You could also keep Adrien's canon reaction and have the lesson be him learning that it's okay to have boundaries. That his fame doesn't negate his bodily autonomy and right to be treated with dignity. That people chasing him down, invading his personal space, and otherwise preventing him from living a normal life is wrong. I love it when fanfics take this approach to Adrien's part in the Lila conflict. It's very cathartic to see his friends supporting him and protecting him from Lila.

I really have tried to see Volpina from the "Marinette was totally in the wrong" perspective because I've come across it several times, but I just can't wrap my head around it. If you've got a counter argument, then feel free to try to change my mind because I've given you my full thoughts here, but know that I'm probably not budging on this one. You'd have to make some pretty dramatic changes to canon for me to feel like this take has a point. I think the only way that I'd be on Lila's side is if it was very clear that no one believed Lila and Marinette still had the same reaction that we see in canon as that does feel like going too far. But everyone believed Lila so that's not a solid argument and I'm just never going to agree that people have to be cool with others lying about them just because they're famous. I honestly despise celebrity culture so much and hate that people are basically forced to deal with that bullshit if they want to be successful in certain artistic fields.

[nik0nk1]

CAN I REAUEST MARK WOTH A S/O WHO IS LIKE SHADOW MILK COOKIE..?

SO SHINY SO STRONGGGGG

Author's Note: After a lot of begging from my friends and some request of it, I finally made this fjdbbdj hope y'all like it, it's gonna be a bit short and it's not only Mark on it hehe

SMC!Reader

Crossover shenanigans, Mark is frustrated, Debbie needs a break, Eve is lowkey spiraling, Omniman has had enough, Mauler Twins are fighting themselves(or are they?), [Name] wants chaos

♪•|~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~|•♪

Shadow Milk Cookie!Reader Headcanons + Invincible Characters' Reactions

What if [Name] is Shadow Milk Cookie inspo!

You embody deception, illusions, and trickery, with an unsettlingly playful demeanor.

Your words are laced with half-truths, riddles or just straight up lies, making it hard for people to tell when you're being serious.

You have a theatrical way of speaking, always performing as if the world is your stage.(maybe the world really is just a big stage and were- Ahem)

Your jester-like attire and mask add to your eerie aesthetic, making you look like you belong in a twisted fairytale.

Your abilities revolve around shapeshifting, creating false realities, and manipulating minds with your elaborate tricks.

You revel in chaos but are not entirely evil(or..?)—your motives are complex, and your allegiance is as unpredictable as your magic.

Sometimes, you switch from playful banter to chilling, calculated menace within seconds, making it hard to trust you.

Invincible Characters First Reaction to ShadowMilkCookie!Reader

Mark Grayson / Invincible

At first, Mark is kind of confused. You look like a jester but talk like a villain in a Shakespearean play. When you suddenly disappear and reappear behind him, whispering, "Oh, dear hero, what would your mother say if she knew how fragile you truly are?"—he immediately gets on edge.

"O-okay... what the hell was that?" He’s wary of your illusions and hates how you keep making copies of yourself, laughing in his ear. Mark tries to fight you, but it’s like trying to punch a dream—nothing ever lands. He’s frustrated as hell but also a little terrified.

Omni-Man / Nolan Grayson

Omni-Man is not amused. At all. He doesn’t like mind games, and he especially doesn’t like being made a fool of. The first time he encounters you, he swings at you full force—only for you to vanish into thin air, your laughter echoing around him.

"What kind of trickery is this?" he growls.

"Oh, my dearest Viltrumite, I do wonder... what would it take to make you truly doubt yourself?" You smirk, summoning an illusion of Debbie crying and cursing his name.

For the first time in a long while, Omni-Man hesitates. His fists clench, his eyes flickering between rage and something else. But then—he snaps out of it, flying toward you at full speed. You barely dodge, grinning.

"Tsk tsk! So easily fooled! You really are all muscle and no mind!"

If you actually manage to make him doubt himself even a little, congratulations—you just made one of the most dangerous beings in the universe furious.

Debbie Grayson

Debbie doesn’t trust you one bit. The way you talk, how you always almost tell the truth but twist it just enough to keep people guessing—it sets off all her alarms.

"I've dealt with liars before," she says, arms crossed. "What do you actually want?"

And you? You just grin. "Want? Ah, dear lady, isn't that the eternal question? I want what you want. A moment of peace. A truth that doesn’t hurt. A world where love isn’t a lie… But alas! That is not this world, is it?"

She HATES how much your words make sense.

Cecil Stedman

Cecil has seen a lot of weird things in his time, but you? You’re something else. He’s immediately suspicious and keeps you under constant surveillance.

"I don't trust you, clown."

"Oh, Cecil, you wound me! I am but a humble performer! A mere weaver of stories! Why, the real villains here wear capes, not jester hats."

He doesn’t laugh. He just glares at you, muttering under his breath about how much of a pain you’re going to be. But deep down, he knows you could be useful—if he can figure out how to keep you under control.

Atom Eve

Eve is cautious around you. She wants to believe there’s good in you, but she can also feel how dangerous you are. Your unpredictability puts her on edge, especially when you start saying things like—

"Ah, Eve, you have the power to reshape the world, and yet... you hesitate. Tell me, how does it feel to hold the divine in your hands but fear to use it?"

She clenches her fists, glaring. "I don’t have to prove myself to you."

And you? You just smirk. "Oh, but darling, you want to, don’t you?"

She HATES how you get under her skin.

The Mauler Twins

At first, the Maulers just think you’re some kind of joke. But then, when they try to punch you and end up hitting each other instead—oh, they start taking you seriously real fast.

"What the hell?! Where’d they go?!"

"I dunno, but I swear I saw ‘em over there—WAIT, HOW AM I PUNCHING MYSELF?!"

They get so frustrated that they try to just blow you up instead. Too bad explosions don’t work well on illusions. You leave them screaming at each other while you skip away, laughing.

Overall:

Omni-Man is pissed.

Mark is frustrated.

Debbie doesn’t trust you.

Cecil is stressed.

Robot is confused.

Eve is questioning herself.

The Maulers are punching air.

And you? You’re just having the time of your life watching it all unfold.

After all… isn’t the world just one big, delicious lie?

♪•|~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~|•♪

Author's Note: Making a part two, cause I'm adding Robot, Thragg and Conquest cause why not?

Toodles~

[waterlilyprincesss]

My Sasuhina Fanfic Recs Masterlist

I have been rediscovering my fixation on sasuhina these past few months so i figure i'll make a list on everything i found on ao3 and ffn since all the other recs i found on the internet are from years ago. Enjoy! I'll update this.

They Know Me Here by chancewriter

Summary: Sasuke came back from a year long mission to find that Naruto and Hinata had divorced and nothing was ever the same again. As Sasuke tries to help Hinata come to terms with a devastating, life-changing event - denial, resistance, submission - they're unaware that these are also the steps they must take to find each other's hearts. 

Post-War.

This one has NaruHina background in it but that what makes it interesting. Very well written and it's so refreshing to read post-war fanfic where Sasuke is somewhat healed and willing to seek a new purpose in his life. One of the other thing that i especially love in post-war sasuhina fanfic is the journey on how he discover love and attraction and this author presented it very well and in a subtle way so the relationship between SH develop slowly (the best way for this pair). Actualy i found their interaction quite funny because in this story Sasuke trying his best to court hinata but he obviously has no idea how so you could imagine haha. Hinata in this story is very broken and a bit reluctant to enter a new relationship. We'll learn the reason along the way and i promise the author handled the heavy topic very well. As in many SH fanfics, i wouldn't called it exactly character bashing, but yeah Naruto and Sakura is behaving quite messy in this. But i think it makes sense and not over the top. They aren't a bad person, they're just behaving in regards of situations and choices that presented to them. Naruto and Hinata here actually has chemistry. Naruto isn't just a total jerk that just blatanly hurt her, no, their separation is very complicated and hurt both of them. The other side characters are also very well written like Hanabi here is very competent adult and yet she still behave like a pesty little sister to Hinata.

Another thing that i could note is how the author wrote the overall ambience of the story like where the scene take place, what they're wearing, etc. I can't describe it very well but it's just so.... serene like if you ship SH you would understand.

2. Forced Paths by MarsForce

Summary: In an alternative universe of ninja and swordsmen the clans are trying to perceive their existence and grow their strength. The Hyuga heiress and the Uchiha successor are placed in the centre of it.

Samurai AU.

Arranged marriage is a very common trope in SH stories but among tons of fics that i' ve read not many could delivered it very well. Sometimes it's just plain boring or too cliche. But this is one of the few that done it very well. The story is placed in edo (ish) samurai clans settings so clan politics is a major point in this story. World building and characterisation is done very well. There's so much thing to unpack so it's definetely gonna keep you interested.

Even though it doesn't necesarilly a battle-focused story, i feel like if you're looking for strong-Hinata story this one is probably one of the best that i could reccomended. Sasuke's attitude in the beginning is very distasteful omg he's so embarassing i swear but he'll redeemed himself i promise. This an AU so of course things are gonna be a little bit different but it still retain the dynamics of both hyuuga and uchiha clan. Like how Hinata is deemed inadequate as an heir, how Sasuke always felt inferior than Itachi, how hard he try to impress his father, etc. This story also deals with patriarchy, we could see how it affect many of the characters and how they deal with that especially Hinata. Her character developement is very satisfying. I like how the author build up the relationship between the two and how it's not just about the romance but how they develop as an individual.

3. Midnight by MarsForce

Summary: What good is power when it comes too late to save your loved-ones. What remains after?

Post-War.

Do you ever feel not quite content with the way how Hinata react towards Neji's death in canon? Well i do. Given her personality and how their relationship developed i feel like she would not take his death lightly. This story explore exactly that. It shows us how Hinata and Sasuke deals with grief. The pararel between them and how they together they try to overcome it. The author really hit the nail with how they desribe how Hinata feel about how she should continue living knowing she's alive because someone sacrifice his life for her. The immense guilt and hollowness that she felt. It's very sad, i remember crying on every chapter the fisrt time i read it hahaha.

4. After by Marsforce

Summary: The last Great Ninja war ended eight years ago, giving time to a world of peace. Sasuke returns back to Konoha, where Hinata Uzumaki is Hinata Hyuga again.

Post-War.

Hinata is not the usual shy and timid Hinata that you would find in other stories. Some people maybe find it OOC but i personaly think that characters behave according to the circumtances that happened in their life so as long as it written well enough it would still makes sense to me. The story start with sasuke coming back to the village pretty much not knowing what to do with his life and how he try to found out about how his bestfriend's marriage ended. Both Hinata and Sasuke is very stubborn. Hinata is very closed off and her divorce is like a mistery that clouded and kind of torn of the bonds between characters in the story. We're gonna see how sasuke unveil the mistery of the divorce little by little and how he's unknowingly involved in it. Don't read the comments if you don't want to get spoiled haha. Sasuke is also dealing with existensial crisis, he's not sure about what he's gonna do with his life and his clan. and oh this story also has Sasuke discover love and attraction. It's awkward and it's also kind of cute.

Like the other 2 stories from this author, this story contain many long paragraphs that explore how the characters feel. It slow burn and quite long but it's not boring at all.

5. How A Cat Became A Matchmaker by PianoCoat

Summary: Of all the people, the elders thought Uchiha Sasuke would be a good match for Hinata? Neji aggressively disagrees ... until Sasuke changes his mind. And now, under interesting circumstances, Neji has to figure out how to make these two click.

Post-War.

Again classic arrange marriage trope but with interesting twist to it. Neji is ALIVE! and he's being the over protective cousin that he is, spying on sasuke to make sure he's the match for Hinata. It's just so adorable, there's no grand plot but this author is just very good. I've read some of their stories and all of them is just so beautiful. It feels like i'm reading a shoujo story you know like the one that makes you giggling like a teenage girl.

6. Direct My Wrath by Emikka

[Uncomplete] Modern AU SasuHina, Itahina.

Miscommunication really fucked them up. This one is sooooo messy. The characters is not perfect and you're probably gonna hate Sasuke in this. But just keep going i promise there's a reason why he behave like that. It'swell written and it's interesting. The side characters are also well written and it's also quite funny in some parts. It's uncomplete and sasuke and hinata barely interacted so far, itahina on the othe side is also has very good chemistry.

7. UNDERBELLY by angel222you

Summary: After Hinata receives a top-secret mission to enter the belly of the beast—-the Uchiha Crime Syndicate—she learns that sometimes you have to go under it to get on top of it. Unfortunately, there might be more to life than simply following orders. This is a story about family, secrets, and the bonds that hold it all together.

Spy-Yakuza AU. Slight GaaHina.

The plot, world building, and characterisation is on point. Sasuke as a oyabun is just so hot even though he's a bit unhinged sometimes. Hinata is strong and smart even though she's still dealing with the same issues of being inadequate in front oh Hiashi's eyes. The dynamic between Hinata and Sasuke is full of tension and intrigue. We see how they try to figure out how they feel about each other while at the same time reaching their personal goals. This story has spy, yakuza, rich kids having fun, politics, romance, all the good stuff!

8. A Water Lily by theGeneralissimo

[Uncomplete] Post-War.

A very interesting take on how fragile the so called 'peace' after the war. I'm so sad that this is most probably abandoned. At this point (Chapter 11) there's really no romance developed between two yet but the plot itself is very interesting. It explore the civilian vs shinobi trope which is very unexplored in canon material. We see Hinata found herself in very difficult situations and how sasuke got tangled in it.

9. Recreant by wasuremonogatari

Summary: In the aftermath of Neji's death, Hinata's Byakugan evolved into an incredible force. Driven by struggle against power and her need to protect those around her, she joins the ANBU and distances herself from family and loved ones. Hinata embarks on a mission to retrieve Uchiha Sasuke where with a single glance, from Mangekyo Sharingan to Byakugan, a bond is created between the two.

[Uncomplete] Post-War.

In many stories that attempted to write Hinata as stronger shinobi, many failed and ended up making her character a one dimensional mary sue type of character. But this one able to execute it very well. It show us how shinobi is basically viewed as a weapon for their village. Their strength could easily viewed as a means to protect but also a threat at the same time. It also show us how that very power could destroy the life of its wielder.

The story definetly heading to some kind of fated bond between sasuke hinata but the recent chapters barely cover the first encounter between the two. I hope there's still hope for the author to continue this story.

10. She Holds The Cards by PianoCoat

Summary: Hinata was the messenger of the school, and messenger weren't really supposed to get their own letters. Apparently, Sasuke didn't get the memo.

High-School AU. Slight ShikaHina.

The prompt is very simple so i didn't expect the angst to hit that hard omg. The author just wrote it very well. Its so beautiful and poetic. I could feel all the emotions and feelings of the characters. It shows us the unrequited love between NaruHina. Hinata's feelings are so well described, her insecurity, shame, and pain. Sasuke is so... Sasuke. 

11. They Hold The World by PianoCoat

Summary: So it was out. She liked him, he liked her. No more need for secrets or subtleties. But if that were the case, then why did Hinata feel like things were getting harder? And Sasuke didn't help much with that, either. Sequel to 'She Holds the Cards'.

This is a continuation of “She Holds The Cards” and focused more on Sasuke’s background story. Again, a complex and touching story. There’s Itachi and Shisui here but maybe don’t expect some silly and wholesome siblings interaction :’) That’s all i got to say, just read it.

12. Endless Journey by Tingshui

Summary: "There is...nothing left that I can give you, Sasuke Kun." "Then, I want your misfortune."

This is a translated version from a Chinese fanfic. There’s some awkwardness here and there but for me personally it’s still enjoyable to read.

So we start with divorced NaruHina. Upon this separation Hinata retreats from his ex-husband, kids, friends and her clan. This then leads to some kind of relationship with Sasuke which is btw a very very reclusive person in this story despite being married and has a kid. Sasuhina doesn’t even have “official” relationships here, they barely touch, i don’t know how the author did it but the yearning especially on Sasuke’s side is so palpable. Just prepare to cry because i sure did cry a lot every time i reread this fic 😭

13. Love You Two by MrsMessy

Summary: Reeling from a discovery that shatters the façade of her fairy-tale romance, Hinata finds solace in the most unlikely person.

Hinata finding out the true nature of Naruto and Sasuke’s relationship is a very common prompt in s n s fanfic but i notice that in those fics usually Hinata is depicted as the bad person somehow??? even though she’s most of the time has no idea about their relationship in the first place and her love for Naruto is canonically so selfless.

I haven’t really dug deep into NaruHina fanfic so idk if there’s any NH fics that deals with this prompt but i found some in SH! I guess SH provides a unique angle where both Sasuke and Hinata could relate on how much they treasure Naruto. How they doubt themselves and the love that Naruto’s has for them. Which one is the true love? Could it be both?

Anyway in this fanfic, the moment when Hinata discovers her husband secret relationship and the event that happened afterward is so devastating 😭 looking at the tag i guess this story is heading into naruhinasasu so i’m really curious how NH would patch their relationship and how SH gonna develop.

[alexanderwales]

An Idiot's Guide to Creating Themes

There's something that Wildbow says about themes, which I'll paraphrase here: themes are something that grow without you even necessarily wanting them to, so long as the characters have strong traits and act consistently.

What this means is that if you have a character who has a real problem with authority, then naturally they're going to frame a lot of things through the lens of authority, and they're naturally going to get in conflicts with people in a position of authority. Suddenly, without even really trying to, you have created a Theme.

I don't really think that this by itself is enough, and think that it helps to bring some intentionality to the process. For one thing, if you have two protagonists who have their own strong traits, you might develop two different competing themes that do not work in harmony with each other, and suddenly people will start asking you "why isn't this two separate stories" and you'll come to the grim realization that they're right.

So if you have a single strong trait, you want to pick your other traits to be in harmony, and you want to do the same when you're thinking up secondary characters, villains, etc. Themes tend to flow a lot easier if all the stuff you're putting into the pot has something that links them together. Ideally you want a funhouse mirror where you get to see a bunch of different sides of your theme, different ways that the characters react to it, their different takes on it, even if you're just doing big shonen battles.

Doing theme construction in this way often involves trying to have the story as a prism, and your job as someone writing the story is to break that beam of light down into its component parts. Find as many pieces as you can, then make those into plot points, characters, side stories, etc.

Let's try an example!

I'm writing a superhero story and want to pick a theme, so first I think about what theme I want to spend a novel exploring, and I decide that the idea that's tickling me is the alienation of globalization and the information age, the way that everything feels overwhelming and Too Big sometimes, like there are a thousand things clawing at me for my attention.

So we start with our protagonist, and he's being pulled in a thousand directions at once, never feeling like he has enough time for anything, but paradoxically, for all that people want his attention and focus, he also feels alone. I haven't yet said that he's a superhero, but sure, it's easy to see how we can fit that in: people want him to solve their problems, to settle their disputes, to use his talents, to help them rise through the ranks, and that's not necessarily what he wants, but he feels trapped by it, like there's no other way to live.

If he's a superhero, he needs a superpower, and writing a story like this I would be extremely careful with what I picked since it needs to help carry many many fight scenes and plot points, but teleportation is my first thought: there's disorientation as he enters a new place, a feeling that he's never really anywhere because he could be everywhere, and maybe some secondary sensory powers on top of that, an ability to see and hear that can help evoke an internet connection (I have not at this point decided whether the setting has smartphones or internet, but I think maybe it works better if it doesn't, because one of the things about themes is that sometimes it's best to come at them from an angle).

So I kind of have a sense of the main character at this point, if not an overall plot. If the guiding star is "information age alienation and how it overwhelms us, offering infinite connection that leaves us lonely", then maybe the plot can be something about that. We can go toward the theme by having some plot about alienation, a society that's drifting apart, and probably a significant figure pushing that, or we can go toward the theme from a different direction, having someone who promises an answer. I like the promise of an answer better, something that our hero has tension against, so we whip up a villain whose whole thing is that the world has gotten too varied, too complicated, and promises a return to simpler times. Maybe they're a cult leader, promising family, promising that through their high-control group everything can be reduced down to something understandable.

(There are at this point many many options for our main villain and his/her powers. Maybe it's a woman who makes the world go still and silent in her wake. Maybe it's a time-traveler acting as a specter of the past. Maybe it's someone with mind control powers seeking to expand their reach until they can put the whole city under their thumb. Maybe they're a former superhero who couldn't take the constant desires and demands of the public and have twisted into a dirty form of self-induldgence. There are many "villain" answers to the question of alienation.)

So we add in some side characters. They should also approach our theme in some way. Here's a quick and dirty brainstorming list:

A friend who is terminally cape-brained, always keeping track of their specific domain of expertise, retreating hard into a niche where they know everything, which takes monumental effort and a sort of nervous anxiety approach to information. Probably a superhero with an info power, name of Dispatch or something.

A father who is blissfully unaware, but shows the flaws of that approach, always ignorant, knowing little about the goings on of the greater world, alienated in his own way by that, unable to connect to people because of it.

A government handler/contact who is a friend, but always pushing our hero, always ready with another thing that needs doing, another cause that needs nudging, a criminal manhunt to help with. A symbol of pressure, anxiety, and overload, but friendly in a way that makes it tough to say no. (A stand-in for the kind of friend who always wants to tell you about the latest atrocity, who doesn't quite demand that you know the name of every person brutalized by the police, or the latest list of people whose shittery has come to light, but does seem mildly disappointed that you're not as tuned in.)

A mentor figure who burned out, maybe a speedster who ran too fast, did too much, let themselves get run into the ground both figuratively and literally.

I think that this is a good enough starting point that if I wanted to writing this story, I probably could, and maybe the core of it would evolve as I wrote, but I have a guiding star to look toward, and one of the great things about setting out to write a theme is that if you ever hit a bump, you can look over at the post-it note that describes the theme in a few words and hopefully, get back on track.

[isawritesshit]

jjk men as disney princes/other male love interests

images taken from various pinterest users. borders created by @anitalenia.

Synopsis: Pretty straightforward! Comparing JJK men to various Disney characters and their relationships with their s/o :)

Warnings and Content: written generally for fem!readers but i feel like it can be taken in any way; overall just fluffy stuff.

Characters: Gojo, Geto, Toji, Nanami, Yuta, Choso, Sukuna, Itadori, Megumi

Author's Note: Hello lovelies! I've returned with my first headcanon post. I hope y'all enjoy it! If you haven't watched any of the character's respective movies you definitely should if you get the chance! I apologize again for falling off the face of the earth (again). I'm on a break from my studies, so I have more time to write. If y'all have any asks or want me to continue any of my other stories, you know where to find me :)

Word Count: ~1.6k

gojo: naveen

y'all saw this coming.

like it was probably your first or second guess let's be real.

gojo has lots of expectations put upon him that he would rather not adhere to/just wants to be able to do his own thing.

the personality lines up pretty well. he's a cocky lil shit sometimes but he genuinely cares.

okay but SPECIFICALLY getting into though

think about this. naveen was only ever a prince to everyone around him. lottie only would've wanted him because he's a prince. dr. facilier only wanted to trick him because of his influence as a prince. even tiana's judgement at first was biased because he's a spoiled rich guy.

however, when he's not seen as a prince, he's able to have fun and relax. he discovers more about himself, and we sympathize. tiana falls in love with him when they're fucking frogs for gods sake, so she falls in love with naveen and not prince naveen.

i think we can all agree that if gojo were to have a long-time partner, it would be someone that sees past him as being the strongest sorcerer. someone he could cut out a separate life with. so it was upon this that i based my decision.

also lowkey, the scene where naveen set up a little date for tiana and was going to propose to her is gojo-coded to me and idk why. i could see him getting flustered and all that cute shit before trying to propose.

geto: kristoff

i'll admit this one didn't hit me at first, but i slowly found myself thinking this makes sense.

let's think about this right?

like sassy, hardworking man doing what he got to do to survive? right, right?

but he has a soft spot for those he cares about ofc, his found family and gojo sven.

also both are estranged from most of society both by circumstance and choice.

bet then idk just something about the scene where he immediately sees that anna might be in danger and he just rushes his ass over and across a frozen fucking lake.

idk

like it could be said for any of the characters listed, but i think that geto wouldn't admit or want to realizes that he cares that much for you until you're put into danger like that.

which sounds bad buuut at the end of the day when you're finally safe and the two of you are together he doesn't want to hesitate to show his affection for you.

both of them are just chef's kiss.

lmk if you agree.

toji: flynn rider

i know i keep saying here me out but HERE ME OUT-

there's just something about a hot criminal yk.

anyways, i was never thinking of this all along, but when i made this connection it sort of surprised me.

like, he would never approach your relationship romantically at first. there would only be something in it for the both of you before he realized he was royally fucked aka falling in love with you.

i feel like the only difference is just toji's over grumpiness but isn't flynn's cynicism almost similar?

furthermore, i think they both became the way they were because of the way society set them up to be with their born circumstances. but with the right person, they're willing to begin to go against that and what they had thought previously about themselves.

idk maybe i'm making a reach with this one.

just let him be loved.

nanami: shang

no brainer in my opinion.

both these bitches are GETTING DOWN TO BUSINESS.

but i def think the whole thing playing out between duty and heart would be an interesting dynamic for Nanami's character.

especially when talking about the SECOND MULAN MOVIE WHICH EVERYONE IS SLEEPING ON.

like i'm immediately thinking about the scene in the second movie where everyone thinks shang is dead and then boom he hops out all hot on a horse looking all disheveled and shit

then that got me thinking about season 2 nanami y'all know what im talking aboutttt.

plus having someone to challenge him but also introduce him to new concepts and ideas?? we all know he need dat.

anyways i love hot hardworking men.

yuta: aladdin

idc what anyone says this is the MOST accurate one.

both these dudes was in the TRENCHES when we first meet them, doing what they could with given circumstances.

but when it comes to getting what they want? setting out a goal and achieving it, whether that be to be with the girl he wants or save jujustu fucking society? yes ma'am he'll make sure it gets done. (even if they need a little help sometimes but that's besides the point-)

anyway, i think just the way he would treat you compared to how aladdin treats jasmine would be so similar idk. that sort of boyish shyness that he can get around you while still being able to impress everyone around him with his skillz.

brotha just wants to impress you doh.

he would do anyyyything for you.

choso: tarzan

barking for both of them i swear-

anyways, whole thing i was going after with this was the whole two worlds, one family thing yk? i feel like there are a lot of similarities with both tarzan's and choso's characters for it to make sense?

like he's been caught up in the curse world for so long, that when it comes to you, he needed/wanted to delve more into his human side.

he wants to know your interests, things that are important to you. bonus points if you were to be a jujustu sorcerer because you're supposed to be studying/exorcising curses.

choso really has to make a choice between you and his goals as a curse.

ofc, he's gonna choose you.

also, if we wanna get into to details. the scene where tarzan looks at jane? YOU KNOW WHICH ONE I'M TALKING ABOUT!!

yeah.

sigh anyways.

this one might've gotten a little too literal but i like it.

sukuna: adam (da beast)

okay.

yes the immediate connection was that they're both always angry i will admit.

but let's sit down and tinker with this mmm k?

everyone around both of them fear them. they were both cursed for the great power that they held.

now let's sit and imagine that we replaced him and you into belle and adam's situation? you cannot tell me that shit wouldn't pan out in a similar fashion.

i can irl that attraction to sukuna would not come immediately, but over time. learning about his past and him learning what's important to you, all of these things would contribute to your relationship.

but how could you love someone so terrible? so vile? someone who lived their life tormenting others?

now they said that to belle too.

but people, even monsters, can change under the right circumstances.

anyway, that got really serious.

but on a side note y'all were definitely having stupid arguments starting out just like in beauty and the beast.

and imagine if for whatever reason you saved his life.

oh brother he would never want to admit it.

of course, he would later be thankful for it.

belle and adam are probably my favorite disney couple also, so i liked diving into this.

itadori: hercules

THESE BABIES.

off the bat let's look at the similarities shall we?

both freakishly strong. both determined with a goal/called destiny from a long lost family. both new to the hero game and went through intensive training. both had cool mentors. both sweethearts.

but omg the way that hercules is so DOWN BAD AND IN LOVE with meg ugh. itadori is the same with you when you both meet fr.

and obv they are both extremely awkward but it's really endearing. aww.

but omg they would go BLOW FOR BLOW with any bitch that dare mess with y'all. whether it be some random ass man on the street or sukuna or a curse, itadori can FIGHT.

and we've seen the same thing in the hercules movie too ofc.

i think personality wise they are both similar matches which is why i made almost an instant connection between these two.

but they're also afraid of a lot of things too. they want to complete their goals but don't want anyone around them to die as a product of that. i feel that itadori's mind would think about that constantly with you, similar to how it happens with hercules in the movie and trying to save meg's life.

anywho

megumi: robert

okay now.

if you're thinking to yourself

who's robert

i need you to go get a disney plus subscription or on some random pirating website

and WATCH ENCHANTED

ONE OF THE MOST UNDERRATED DISNEY MOVIES EVER

and then come back to me and agree with me :)

now obviously it's kinda hard to compare like 15 y/o megumi to a fully grown, single father/divorce lawyer, but i feel like what that story represents in that relationship is sooo good.

megumi's had a very practical/cynical view on life since he was a child, as his circumstances forced him to. he does what he does to take care of his sister and still wants to look after her even after gojo comes around.

robert is someone who's also very practical and takes those views into everything to make sure he's making the right decisions for himself and his daughter. when his daughter asks for a storybook, he gives her a book on successful women. when asked why he hasn't proposed to a woman he's been dating for 5 years, he just wants to be sure in case anything falls apart.

but then you/giselle come along and completely break those realist mentalities, almost instantly. you don't encourage him to let go of what's important but rather view what's important through a happier/more positive lense. through those lenses, he falls for you, even when he never planned to.

like megumi's been through so much, but someone that could rework all of that and get him to relax would be the best thing for him imo.

anyway probably a weird one to end off on but yeah.

how many of y'all agree with me or are there any other ideas y'all had? 🥺

[the-kingshound]

I hope my criticism (more like opposing opinion because I fully acknowledge that this story is your creation) doesn't derail things/come across as if I'm trying to insult you but I'm not a fan of Arthur being trans or labelled as a lesbian.

It's definitely a subjective opinion of mine that with historical fiction I like having a well known constant, while that is my preference, I realise that fiction is fiction and not every or even most historical fiction works will be for me. But even though Arthur is generally more fiction than fact anyway, I think long repeated legends of a particular figure should be respected. But again: fiction is fiction.

The whole trans and lesbian thing is a separate issue. Trans, straight, gay, bi and lesbian are rooted in sex not gender and blurring the lines is just erasure the long way round. As a bi woman I already feel that social media has destroyed what it means to be bi and made everyone pan, the same is happening with lesbians imo. To be homosexual, you are sexually attracted to the same sex and for heterosexuals it's the opposite. If an individual couple decides to shirk all labels between themselves then that literally has no bearing on anyone else and I have literally no problem with what individual couples get up to beyond both parties consenting but the idea that everyone should partake in such loose labelling is the very antithesis of language. We give meaning to sound so we can all understand eachother. If everything is without a label how can a person discern or describe anything?

I went on a bit about sexuality but onto gender expression, it was very important historically as in a lot of importance was put on it at the time but from a modern perspective a feminine man does not immediately mean a trans woman and while I have no idea what your narrative choices are, I hope that it's not just because Arthur isn't a knuckle dragging bore in your story that he can't be a man.

To be trans, as in medically alternating sex characteristics, automatically means a rejection of your birth sex. Dress sense, hobbies and occupation has nothing to do with that hence the very real warrior women and nurturing men in both human past and present that are at peace with their birth sex.

Wall of text over, just wanted to add my opinions into the mix.

Hi, thank you for sending this in!

But even though Arthur is generally more fiction than fact anyway, I think long repeated legends of a particular figure should be respected.

I think I am respecting Arthuriana, not by making it as accurate as possible to the original legends or historically accurate (and even then, Arthuriana was born centuries after the time period it was set in, with Arthur Pendragon not being an historical figure at all). I am respecting Arthuriana by taking its characters, rewriting the story, making them relive a thousand years after the legends were set - as many authors have done before me.

I do not believe making Arthuriana as historically accurate as possible would be the only way to respect it.

We give meaning to sound so we can all understand eachother. If everything is without a label how can a person discern or describe anything?

I agree, however labels are always just a way to try to convey something that is deeply personal, and in the LGBT community more than most, it's difficult to make a definition that works on anyone - without exceptions or variations. At the end of the day, the way a person is comes first, not their label. And even then, finding the right label can sometimes take years, especially when one is assumed to be conforming to the current set standards of being.

In this case, Arthur simply would need years to explore themselves, their gender identity in all its complexity.

To be trans, as in medically alternating sex characteristics, automatically means a rejection of your birth sex.

Being trans doesn't necessarily mean medically transitioning. In Arthur's case, while being AMAB, she would simply want to be adressed by she/they pronouns, and find herself more comfortable with identifying in a feminine way. In regards to their transition, they will do whatever makes them feel more comfortable in their body.

Dress sense, hobbies and occupation has nothing to do with that hence the very real warrior women and nurturing men in both human past and present that are at peace with their birth sex.

I very much agree with that, but in Arthur's case this doesn't apply. Arthur, cis or trans, is the same person. Same personality traits, same hobbies - some that could be considered more feminine, some more masculine. They do not define them.

It's Arthur who chooses how to define themselves, in the way that feels most true to what they are.

[leuke-rants]

Webtoon female leads that I cannot stand (part 1):

5) Lariette Blanche (I thought my time was up)

This woman is so annoying and obnoxious, I can't stand her.

Now don't get me wrong, at first her actions make sense: she thinks she that she has only a few months to live so she tries to make the best out if her remaining life

But becoming a guys girlfriend for only 6 months is hella messed up and selfish.

The man she chose is guy who suffers from a curse that rots his flesh and she has healing powers that help with the rot. Abandoning said guy after 6 months would be extremely messed up

I know that Lariette isn't actually dying, so she won't abandon the ml, but holy fuck, she is so obnoxious and creepy trying to make him like her

She ignores his boundaries that he had clearly set from the beginning of their relationship and then she throws a toddler level tantrums when he doesn't act the way she wants him to. Hell, she even hits him a few times. I don't care what anyone says, this is abuse!

Lariette is also a hypocrite. When a guy flirts with her and doesn't take no for an answer, she snaps at him and tells him that "no is no", even if she herself has never cared about the ml telling her to go slow and not to touch him.

She is such an annoying protagonist, I can't stand her her ass

4) Hestia (For my derelict favourite)

As a greek, I feel hella offended about her name. This character does not deserve to be named after our Goddess.

Hestia is very similar to Lariette, she is obnoxious, annoying and wants things to always go her way.

She could have easily lived a normal and peaceful life with her favourite character, but instead she decides to be all over the original fl's business, because she has the incel mentality that Diana owns Cael a relationship because he killed for her, even if Diana never asked him to do anything. The saintess doesn't like murder, I know, shocking news 😒

Hestia is suppose to be a fl in a story that deconstructs the typical manhwa cliches and storylines, but she isn't any different that the others

She is always in the right and the og fl is nothing compared to her. Everyone who loves Hestia is a good person and everyone who hates her is the scum of the earth that deserves to die. Everything just so happens to work out for her because she is the main character and gets exactly what she wants in the end, with only the plot armour protecting her.

I don't have anything alse to say about Hestia, she is a bad protagonist in a bad story

3)Ariande (Sister I am the Queen in this life)

This woman pissed me off so much that I wish I could go into the comic just to beat her up

Ariande is even more annoying that Lariette and Hestia combined. Her "woe is me" personality makes me unreasonably mad, especially when she acts like a spoiled brat who thinks she deserves good things just because she suffered, even if that suffering was her fault and her fault alone

She murdered the king and helped a man usarp the throne in her previous life, but she did it out of love, so it's ok.

The Golden Rule gives a new chance at life to fix her mistakes, but she decided to be as evil as she was in her previous life. Although I understand that she does most of the things because she wants to survive, some of them (like threatening a maid who doesn't like her) are completely unnecessary and if the Golden Rule worked properly she would have been punished long time ago

She is also a huge hypocrite. She claims that poor people don't deserve a chance to become better and don't deserve to be in heaven because of the mistakes they did in their previous, even if Ariande herself was a murderer in her previous life, but it's ok for her to still live in luxury and go to heaven because she is the fl

The only reason this woman is able to secure Ws is because the author decided to lobotomize Isabella. If Ariande was dealing with the Isabella of her previous life she wouldn't stand a chance and the comic would be over in 5 chapters

2)Navier Trovi (The Remarried Empress)

It kinda hurts to put Navier on the list, but I can't help it

Navier was interesting in the beginning, I could understand her struggles and I could empathise with her. Only for me to despise her later on

For one thing, Navier is one of the biggest Mary Sues I have ever seen on webtoon. She is the perfect empress, everyone loves her, and those who don't are all evil leeches who deserve to get tortured and die, she manages to triumph over all her opponents and everything just works out for her without her putting too much effort

Navier has the personality of a wet towel, she is too perfect and the author clearly wants us to see her as such, because all of her flaws are either not acknowledged or are completely ignored.

She is also a massive hypocrite. She didn't like being replaced as empress, but had no problem taking another woman's title. She made such a huge deal about her husband cheating on her, but had not problem when her brother cheated on his fiancé with her lady in waiting. She never gave a shit about slavery until it was one of her simps who got enslaved, suddenly it's bad.

I can go on and on about how Navier is a terrible person and a badly written character, but we'd be here all day. I just despise the way she is written in later seasons and hate the fact that she basically allows criminals to get away with their crimes, so long as said criminal is one of her allies and it benefits her

1) Ariana de Secramise (The Princess's Jewels)

Take every bad thing I said about the previous fls and crank it up to maximum because this is how bad Ariana is

She is the biggest Mary Sue that I have ever seen on webtoon and in general. She is so beautiful that everyone wants her, everyone including her brother gets charmed by her and even the ladies fall for her. She is a prodigy who is an expert at swordfighting to the point where she can beat knights and war generals and her magic powers are second to none.

The author and the narrative go out of their way to present Ariana as a goddess in disguise who has no flaws, even her entire existence is just flaws.

She is swallow character with the personality of a dry wall. Her only characteristic is the fact that she simps for hot men and wants to create a harem. She doesn't have any other personality traits other than horny and she doesn't have any other goals other than to get into men's pants. The only reason she wants to become empress is so that she could legally have a harem and that's it.

She is also a huge hypocrite. She feels disgusted by a man who uses his title and power to sleep with women, even she does the exact same thing.

Ariana took a general from a foreign country, a general who told her that is attached to the queen and king since they took care of him, but our princess didn't give a shit about it. She basically kidnapped a dude, threatening war with his country if he doesn't submit to her. It's bad when an ugly fat man is a abusing his power to get some laid but totally fine when the beautiful girlboss protagonist does it.

Again, I can go on an on about how awful of a character Ariana is, but we'd be here all day.

[rei-ismyname]

UNCANNY X-MEN #5 From The Ashes

First of all, I should acknowledge that something I've been calling a missed opportunity has received an attempt on page - the X-Men killing in FotHox, specifically Kurt. It's a single line and doesn't make a lot of sense, trying to have cake and eat it too by nodding to it in issue 5 but not meaningfully engaging with the recent past. Kurt did NOT think he was a killer, ever. That's just a bad faith reading of the text. He was in a war against genocidal fascists, come on.

Cool new form for Calico, though.

Kurt putting his sword/s away doesn't quite cut it. Errol Flynn swashbuckling has been an influence on him since he was a child and he's been big on sword usage almost since the beginning of his publication history. It's his thing, and he badly needs personality in FTA. Also, he didn't kill anyone with a sword in Fall, he teleported them into space. Swords parry and block, they disarm and intimidate. They have use outside of combat. They look cool, and it's something Kurt is very good at. So yeah, the barest attempt was made, but it didn't land for me. There could have been space to set it up and sell it too, perhaps by toning down the Charles Xavier/Sarah flashbacks that were ultimately just a fakeout.

Speaking of things that were given lip service in issue 5 and could have benefited from more attention, Jubilee told us who she is - kinda. A panel or two of origin story that was established in the 90s, but nothing about why she's here or what she wants out of life. How she feels about the loss of Krakoa, where the hell her baby, Shogo, is. It fits in with Uncanny's overarching sense of unfocusedness and her role could have been performed by anyone - not a good look for the end of the flagship book's first arc.

We get the resolution to and defeat of Sarah Gaunt. 'She's crazy, always has been' is so unsatisfying. I can't think of any other description. It's nice that we don't have another sin to lay at Xavier's door, but attempted baby trap is not a frequently used trope for a reason. She acknowledges she was lying, but then blames him for the loss of her son years later in a different country - then transfers that hatred to all mutants? Comicsxf have criticised her characterisation as 'Monstrous Mother' and I agree. What was the point of giving it so much space, to the extent that we spent more time in the past than with most of our putative main characters? She beat the shit out of Logan and Rogue the last two issues, nearly killing them - only for Rogue to draw strength from deus ex dead kid and completely wipe her out. It's lovely that Rogue is able to summon empathy for her, it shows us why she's a hero, but taken as an arc she's rewarded with victory despite making bad decisions. Long time readers know Rogue can lead, but I think Gail Simone is going to have to do the work to convince new readers that she's right for this. It's well and good to have moral authority but leading your team to death isn't.

Harvey X was unexpected but felt unearned. Surprise is fun but internal and narrative consistency is better. I thought it was Charles moving people around, because it was signposted. Harvey X being the puppet master felt almost silly as he revealed previously unseen very powerful abilities. Why would he wait for Rogue and Logan to be nearly dead to act? Maybe that's the only time he can act, because he's dead? Idk, at least he didn't scream how hot Rogue is again. He speaks about a sacrifice he's making but what sacrifice is that? Is his power finite and burns him out, Proteus-style? It's not quite clear, and I guess we'll never see him again.

Precognition. Healing. Telepathy.

Gambit and the Eye of Agamotto was a Chekhov's Gun that mostly worked (and made me feel sah smart for calling it.) Remy prays (?) to it and then blows the possessed cultists away. I'm pretty sure Jubilee could make a bigger boom than that (I know she can) but rule of cool wins the day.

These are/were captured and possessed mutants. I hope we see them again, especially after Fawn's introduction in #1. They're not doing this willingly.

Rogue flies to meet Warden Ellis to give her Sarah back, further muddling Ellis' characterisation. I have no idea what she's about now. Nuance is good in antagonists, but for someone who wants to crush mutants with her government mandate she's awfully cooperative with them. No threats, no riddles, no ultimatum, just meekly accepting two threats? I want to give a fuck about the closest thing we have to an antagonist (for a crossover event right around the corner) but there's nothing there! This was an opportunity for something, anything. Gah! I don't understand this writing.

Rogue's threat is interesting, though I have to wonder what she and Scott are going to disagree about. It's implied Jubilee will get captured, and we know Beast already has been. 2/3 X-Men teams have their motivation to wreck Graymalkin I just struggle to see them coming to blows over it.

Rogue and her elocution lessons feel very out of character and came out of nowhere. If it was setup earlier and tied to insecurity or identity that would work, but being introduced and haphazardly paid off in issue 5 baffles me, frankly. Rogue's southern upbringing is never something she's been ashamed of, her angst has almost always been related to her powers. She's a confident woman. A story where she struggles with that could have legs, but that's not the story that's been told. She certainly doesn't need Gambit or Logan to tell her - I'd expect it to be the other way around.

I'm not sure what to make of the images we get from Harvey X's visions of the future. I'll write about them separately if I find an interesting hook.

So ends the first arc of Uncanny X-Men volume whatever. My main issue is that it doesn't meaningfully engage with what came before it, and it doesn't quite manage to establish its own identity either. What is its mission statement and what kind of book can we expect? I don't know, and I hope Gail Simone does. It's not the end of the world, mind you. Following Krakoa was always going to be tough, and the world was going to feel smaller, less connected. I can't help but wonder what it might have felt like without a lot of Charles Xavier flashbacks amounting to nothing. Maybe we'd know more about Kurt or Jubilee, even the Outliers. Ideally that'll be corrected. I don't do number ratings so I'll just say it was okay, higher if you are a Rogue stan.

[yummy-ki]

Why is the ML so hard to please?

Chapter 1: Why You Shouldn't Spite Your Readers

ML! Sae x Author! Reader

You stared at the hate comments flooding your latest post, fingers trembling over the keyboard.

"This story is trash."

"The FL is so annoying, just die already."

"Worst novel ever. The ML deserves better."

Your grip tightened. They loved to complain, didn’t they? Every chapter, every twist—nothing was ever good enough. You had poured your soul into The Crimson Dynasty, a historical enemies-to-lovers novel set in ancient China, only to be met with endless toxicity.

Well, fine. If they wanted a villain, you’d give them one.

With a sharp exhale, you opened your drafting software and began rewriting the next chapter. No more slow-burn romance. No more redemption arc.

Sae—your cold, ruthless male lead—would slaughter the FL’s entire family.

And you’d make it graphic.

---

Three Days Later

The backlash was instant.

"WTF IS THIS?!"

"YOU RUINED EVERYTHING!"

"I HOPE YOU DIE IN A FIRE, AUTHOR!"

You just read the comments blankly, I only have 100 fans anyway, you thought before tossing your phone. They’d taken your work for granted, and now they’d see what happened when they pushed too far.

Then, an unknown email popped up.

Anonymous: You think this is funny?

Attached was a single file: Crimson_Dynasty_Finale.exe

You rolled your eyes. Probably some fan’s pathetic attempt at a virus. But curiosity got the better of you. You clicked it.

The screen flashed white.

Your vision blurred.

And then—

---

Pain.

Your head throbbed as you gasped awake, the scent of incense and silk flooding your senses. The ground beneath you was cold green grass.

Where…?

You tried to move, but your limbs felt heavy, draped in unfamiliar fabric. Lifting a hand, you froze.

Delicate fingers. Long sleeves of embroidered silk.

And you seemed to be straddling a very handsome man.

Your breath hitched.

Who is he? Some kind of celebrity or something?

"Has the young miss played enough already?" a cold voice cut through your thoughts.

Then you noticed the blood. Your hairpin was buried in his chest.

"OH SHIT! THIS ISN'T MY DOING!" you said as you jumped away.

"Young miss, you stabbed my chest with your hairpin using your own two hands, and now you're trying to get out of this?" He replied passive aggressively.

Your stomach dropped.

Wait a minute... This scene... Why is it so familiar..?

"I'M YOUR MASTER AND YOU'RE MY SERVANT. IF YOU WON'T LISTEN TO ME THEN YOU SHOULD JUST DIE!" she spat, before she stabbed Sae with her hairpin.

Oh wait... He's the ML of my novel! SAE!

So... What's happening right now?

You both stood there looking at each other, you the novels cannon fodder, and him the future tyrant that kills you and your entire family.

It... It can't be... Was I really cursed?

"I... I didn't do it on purpose." You said as you approached him, trying to look like you were sorry, Girl nobody is believing you, you suck at lying.

"You're right you didn't do it on purpose but meant for it to happen."

Then you saw it, a strange bar on his head.

MALEVOLANCE: 65%

WHAT THE HELL IS A MALEVOLENCE BAR!

"I'M SORRY I DIDN'T MEAN FOR THIS TO HAPPEN!!!" you shouted as you yanked your hairpin out of Sae's chest, causing blood to splatter all over both of you.

Wait... YOU YANKED YOUR HAIRPIN OUT OF SAE'S CHEST!?

...

"QUICK SOMEBODY HELP, THE SEVENTH MISS HAS PASSED OUT!"

___

"Where is this place?" you said as you continued walking, your voice echoing

"Y/N L/N! SINCE YOU MADE SAE A BAD CHARACTER YOUR READERS HAS CURSED YOU TO GO IN YOUR NOVEL AND PLAY THE CHARACTER THAT HELPS THE FL LOOK NICE! TO RETURN BACK HOME YOU MUST MAKE HIS MALEVOLENCE DOWN TO 0, IF NOT YOU WILL GET KILLED!"

"Who tf are you?"

"I..." Some strange blue light glowed before you, revealing a poorly drawn stickman "I'M THE “HELP I DON'T WANT TO BE THE FEMALE SUPPORTING CHARACTER” SYSTEM, WHO'S HERE TO HELP YOU RETURN HOME!" the strange stickman striked a weird superhero pose.

"I don't care who you are, send me back home" you said as you grabbed the poor stickman and began shaking it.

"I CAN'T I DON'T HAVE THE AUTHORITY TO DO SO! YOU'VE GOT TO COMPLETE THE STORY IN ORDER TO GO HOME!"

"Is that so..?" You tightened your grip around it causing it to choke.

"I DON'T WANT TO STAY HERE I WANT TO GO HOME!"

"Young miss, this is your home. Where do you want to go back to?" A maid next to you asked. You were in a lavish bedroom, your bedroom or more likely the character's bedroom.

Then a notification popped up

SAE'S MALEVOLENCE BAR IS INCREASING QUICKLY

Well I guess the stick man's not that useless at all.

"WHERE'S SAE? AND HOW'S HIS WOUNDS?" you blurted out quickly while shaking your maid trying to get an answer.

"Sae? Are you talking about that servant? The third miss stood up for you and tied him up at the front yard to give him a beating."

A WHAT? GIRL I'M SO DEAD

You quickly jumped out of the bed and bolted outside barefoot and still in your sleepwear.

"YOUNG MISS! PUT YOUR CLOTHES AND SHOES ON!" your maid shouted behind you, trying to catch up.

---

The sound of whip hitting skin was getting louder and louder,

"You don't put them in their place for a while and they forget who their masters are"

"You're just a servant you miserable wretch!"

---

To be continued

[jinnaizaemon]

I've been thinking a lot about Doi and how the third movie, Dokutake Ninja Corps' Strongest Tactician, really is a brilliantly executed love letter to his character and what he represents for the narrative, the characters, and the audience too, so I wanted to write about it a little. I'm going to talk about Nintama as a franchise in the larger sense, and how common motifs are used to portray Doi across different media, but since I feel the third movie manages to crystalize it all in its story, I will focus on it a lot. So if you haven't watched Dokutake Ninja Corps' Strongest Tactician and don't want to be spoiled, please stop reading here! Also, this is just me having fun tying different motifs together. Consider it just food for thought or, the rambling of a nerd who's a little too passionate. Finally, I might edit this post later when the movie becomes available and I get my own copy so I can add screenshots to illustrate. Again, it's not available to watch at home yet, so everything about the movie I write about is from memory. That's another thing I might need to edit later in case of inaccuracies!

The manga and anime being aimed at children, it's rarely in your face, but the setting is central to Nintama, it justifies both the existence of the Academy and the characters' motivations. It's war out there for unifying the country, and it's important context to know it lasts for more than a century before the relative long peace of the Edo period. The franchise plays with history, of course, but by its rules ninja are either soldiers loyal to a specific castle or mercenaries, making Ninjutsu Academy a school made in response from a need to produce more trained soldiers for the ongoing wars.

I find it interesting that Doi runs away from his ninja duties and ends up teaching instead, because while it gives him a break from actively participating in battles, in the end he's still eventually sending kids to the Sengoku meatgrinder. My point is that Doi as a person is far from perfect, but is actively trying to better himself. I'd say he's in the process of finding ways to repent for his past life : showing gratitude to the Yamada family, teaching children, "adopting" Kirimaru... there's a lot of talk about tsudoi and Doi opening an orphanage in the future, and while it's not canon at all, he's an inherently nurturing character with no interest in the war, so this kind of epilogue makes a lot of sense for him, doesn't it?

Doi's backstory from volume 50.

Contrasting with his early characterization that is more like a sometimes immature older brother to Rankirishin, Doi got wise with time and is known as a caring teacher to the ha-class, and parent/caretaker to Kirimaru. His shift to a nurturing figure might have started when the author of the manga, Amako Soubee, started associating him with Hounen in her mind. Doi has had ties with Buddhism for a long time now, something that is made quite explicit in the third movie. I remember thinking Doi is kind of like of a boddhisattva (one delaying his own state of Buddhahood to help others reach enlightenment) to others, as a teacher to the nintama, but also as an inspirational figure to more characters. But as well-meaning as Doi can be, he's not quite there yet isn't he? He's young and prone to failure, something he acknowledges at the end of the movie, making a point to apologize to his students. Also obviously, despite all the goodness in his heart, he was a ninja before being a teacher, and worked for an aggressive castle according to Ninmyu 12. It's never made explicit, but the story takes place during wartime, so it's easy to imagine what Doi had to do for the sake of his job.

In his quest for betterment, Doi not only appears as an anchor for many characters, the ha-class, Kirimaru all especially, Rikichi too- but also ends up offering an interesting alternative to the cast : teaching instead of ninjutsu, nurturing instead of killing, peace instead of war. Ninjutsu is what Nintama is all about and the reason for being for most of the cast, and yet Doi goes against it... And he's probably right in that peace and happiness are to be found beyond ninjutsu. When children look at professional ninja like Rikichi for example, it's with stars in their eyes, but episodes that focus on the characters' adult worries show stories more grounded into reality. Rikichi has a troubled relationship with his family and ninjutsu, making him jaded about his job, Teruyo and Bouta struggle to find proper work, Demoshika wants the comfort of an office job above anything else, and then you've got Tasogaredoki and their mutual suicide ideation out of loyalty, etc etc. When you start thinking about what kind of future awaits the nintama it can get bleak pretty fast... which is probably why the franchise is stuck in a status quo. We do get peeks at what life could be like for nintamas after graduation, like for example with Ouji and Kouun in Ninmyu 14 being tasked with... going against Ninjutsu Academy and harming their juniors, or Seiemon and Kanbei getting violently beat up by Zatto in The Strongest Tactician.

In short, outside of the safe bubble that Ninjutsu Academy represents during wartime, things aren't so great right now. Which is why Doi is such an important figure, and key to a happy end for the cast.

From 30-35. "I think that young man would make a fine teacher. He might even become even better at it than you, dear."

30-35 is such an important episode because it shows a turning point for Doi that ends up being a huge butterfly effect on so many characters. Doi may have relied on Yamada then and still does, but Yamada's wife showed great insight here. It's thanks to her Doi ended up teaching after all... When Doi plays with Rikichi, it's the first time he offers a child "an alternative" to the warrior path. He doesn't do it consciously, it's something he has in him without his knowledge (and 32-64 shows us he still has a lot to learn), but his influence becomes a central part of Rikichi's character (more on that later).

My general point being made, let's get into some more specific aspects of Doi's character. Since the mangaka mentions shugendou's relationship with ninjutsu, let's take a look at Doi's alter ego in The Strongest Tactician, Tenki, and his design ;

Tenki, scanned from The Strongest Tactician's limited pamphlet.

After Doi loses his memory and becomes Tenki, it's important to know he doesn't become an "evil" version of Doi or a new person altogether ; he's who Doi would have been had he not met the Yamadas. When Doi regains his memories at the end of the movie, the very first thing that comes back to him is a vision of the Yamada family. If Doi's work outfit is all black, as Tenki he's dressed all in white. It signifies a complete tabula rasa for his character and the development he went through since meeting the Yamada, back to a warrior in a blank state. But the white color and this specific headscarf is also reminiscent of yamabushi, mountain ascetics and practictioners of shugendou. The manga takes a shortcut by calling shugendou "mountain buddhism", it actually takes beliefs and practices from multiple sources such as Buddhism, Shinto, Taoism, and local folklore. Practices involve magic and fortune-telling which historically influenced daimyo's decisions during war, so there's no doubt that as Dokutake's tactician, Tenki, dressed as yamabushi with his background of having a religious education in the mountains, used such practices too to establish military tactics! The headscarf he wears is called houkan, literally a jeweled crown, and seems to hold multiple symbolisms. Overall, the white color of the yamabushi outfit expresses a symbolic death to be born anew, and the knotted crown around the head symbolizes afterbirth, placenta... I've seen others sources relating it to shimenawa, the purifying rope in Shinto you've probably seen in shrines, or around significant trees or stones.

The Strongest Tactician continues to tie Doi/Tenki with religion with two specific statues appearing at two points during the movie: when the sixth years are investigating Doi's disappearance, there's a shot of a statue on the roadside of Hayagriva, or Batou Kannon, the wrathful form of the compassionate female boddhisattva Avalokiteśvara. Similarly, in the room Tenki occupies at Dokutake, there's a statue of Daikokuten, a deity of good fortune and abundance in Japan, originally Mahākāla, a wrathful deity destroyer of all things.

Not related to religion, but another obvious motif of duality is in the moon, of course : at the end of Sonnamon and Doi's duel, Doi jumps into the river and what he thinks is the reflection of the moon in it (...It ends up being Happousai's bald head.), and this is when he loses his memory. The typical motif of a rabbit on the moon pounding mochi is replaced with a much more ominous rabbit grinding skulls into its mortar.

...Of course, it turns back to normal at the end of the movie.

I keep talking about how Doi actively chose to dedicate his life to peace and nurturing, and with all these symbols of duality, the movie manages to show us what it would have been like had Doi decided to remain a warrior. Tenki still dreams of peace and justice, and it's how Dokutake manages to manipulate him, but ultimately nothing good comes from participating in war. Had Tenki not been stopped in time (not by force like Zatto attempts, but ~by the power of love~ from Rankirishin), he would have committed the irreparable by murdering children, then not being able to revert back to his old self, and perpetuating the cycle of war and violence.

This is quite a simple pacifist message in a children franchise I think, but I find it interesting how it's delivered through different visuals!

The moon brings me to another thing The Strongest Tactician does a brilliant job portraying, and it's the passage of seasons.

The movie starts with a flashback scene and red spider lilies symbolizing splatter of blood. In Japanese, these flowers are called 彼岸花 higanbana, the higan part refers to the equinox week in March and September when Buddhist services are held and people visit the graves of family. The red spider lily, growing in September, is associated with the dead due to being planted in and around cemeteries.

Soon after, when Sonnamon and Doi are having their duel, it's in a field of susuki grass, associated with tsukimi, the moon-viewing celebrations held in September (that can be related to the Chinese Mid-Autumn festival). Later in the movie, more red spider lilies are seen blooming on the roadside, and people are busy with the harvest. The story is definitely set at the beginning of autumn. Interestingly, the second movie takes place after summer break. In this story, the villagers are in a hurry to get a protection decree probably because harvesting season is coming soon, and the pressure that the lord of Tasogaredoki is exercing on them is a mean to tax more crops from them in the upcoming harvest... Anyways, it's interesting that the third movie takes place soon after. The franchise is over 30 years old, but everything happens during the same school year! there's never a boring day in Ninjutsu Academy lol.

On a practical level, the beginning of autumn means that most people are too busy with harvesting crops to be conscripted at war (back then, most foot soldiers were hired farmers, etc), which explains why Tenki chooses to bluff an attack against Suppontake with the fake branch castle and all, since he had little troops to use.

But I want to focus on the seasons on a more symbolical level this time.

Ninmyu 12 tackles Doi's backstory and the complicated relationship he has with Nue, the ninja who kidnapped and raised him as a child. The canonicity of Ninmyu is discutable, so if one chooses to not take into account Doi's history with Nue and Kaentake ninja it's understandable, but I want to talk about Doi's solo song since Amako Soubee wrote it. It's called 半助春秋 Hansuke shunjuu, literally "Hansuke's Spring and Autumn", but expresses the idea of "the years of Hansuke", "Hansuke's life and times", something like this. I absolutely love this song, but it's a difficult one. I tried translating it and now that I look back at it I already see mistakes haha.. ha. Anyways, the lyrics are divided into two parts ; Doi first describes an dream-like spring scene which seemingly never happened, making it his own picture of peace itself. The figure of a young girl picks up flowers in a field, but that idyllic scene is cut short : "Had that warm spring day been longer," flowers would bloom, and all of nature would bear witness to Doi "returning home with you." The second part mirrors the first, but this time is more grounded into reality. On an autumn night, "remnants of a battle are buried in the overgrown ruins of a castle" ; it makes Doi reminisces the past. This time, the stars and the moon comfort Doi that "he will return home someday". There's that idea of high and low here, where everything dies in autumn and nights become longer with the upcoming winter. And of course, that recurring hopeful idea of "returning home" that is so so so dear to Nintama.

I want to relate this to The Strongest Tactician first, with Doi's symbolic death and rebirth in autumn, the spider-lilies, etc. During the climax of the movie, in an effort to make Doi-sensei remember, Rankirishin try to get a reaction out of him with lines such as "We haven't learned it yet!" "I value money over my life!" and such. But what finally makes Tenki go back to being Doi again is Kirimaru telling him through tears, "Let's go home together." That idea of home is dear to Kirimaru obviously, but it's something Doi has always longed for too. Doi and Kirimaru's back and forth of "let's go home / i'm home / welcome home" comes up repeatedly in the anime, and Ninmyu 12 as well. Did he not stay with the Yamada because he didn't want to impose, or does he wish to have a family of his own? I genuinely think that meeting Kirimaru made Doi more certain of what he wants to do with his life. After autumn comes winter, which is depicted in the movie through a visual of a young Kirimaru trying to keep warm wrapped in straw and taking shelter from the snow. A snowflake falls on his eye, and when you think that all hope is lost, Yuuki 100% starts playing and it cuts to him together with everyone at Ninjutsu Academy. If Doi didn't get to have springs, he'll give some to Kirimaru! The idea of Doi trying to preserve the little childhood Kirimaru has left and that he himself never got to have is so so so important to me lol. Happousai says "If I have Tenki cut these threes[Rankirishin], even if he were to remember who he is, he wouldn't be able to ever go back to Ninjutsu Academy." It goes back to my initial point that Doi is so central to everyone in Nintama ; with him gone, so is the alternative to war for a good chunk of the cast. It's something I talked about before, but another character who has a strong independent mindset regarding peace and ninjutsu is Isaku. The movie does a great job showing how important Doi is to Isaku as well, but his "health committee" philosophy seems to come from elsewhere...? I talked a little about it in my post about the second movie.

I'm not done with Hansuke's Spring and Autumn yet, I also want to relate it to another song Amako Soubee wrote, 利吉のテーマ Rikichi's theme. The two songs have very similar motifs, depicting nature and the idea of going home. But while in Hansuke's Spring and Autumn, nature is depicted as friendly and comforting, in Rikichi's theme it's a lot colder and distant. For Rikichi, he "has no need for stars" / "the moon is an enemy." For Doi, "the stars whisper / the moon reveals / that someday, I will come back home here" The wind "smiles" for Doi, while it just "makes sound" to Rikichi. In the end, Rikichi only finds comfort hiding in the darkness and turning his back to the dawn... But both songs end with hope among ruins, and both express the same wish to go home.

I talked about Doi being in a personal process of betterment, his relationship to Kirimaru and the influence they have on each other, but I believe it's important to address his relationship with Rikichi too. Little Rikichi showed Doi that he had it in him to teach and care for children, having innate pedagogy even Yamada lacks / lacked at the time?. Rikichi was taught ninjutsu and martial arts in his secluded home with high expectations from his parents that are ninja themselves. He barely got any childhood, the marriage situation of the Yamada is so messy it deserves its own post, so much that a picnic together and away from ninjutsu meant everything to little Rikichi... If there's one thing that characterizes Rikichi in my opinion it's loneliness that follows him into adulthood, and the tragedy of his character is that Doi showed him an alternative to the life he had always led thus far, only to leave soon after. Of course, Rikichi is younger, but I think he's mentally much more fragile than Doi is - again, The Strongest Tactician did an amazing job showing how much of an anchor Doi is to Rikichi, portraying both his anxiety and his relief brilliantly, I love how expressive he is in this. The most telling scene, that shocked a lot of people too lol, is of course when Tenki draws his sword at Rankirishin, Zatto is about to throw him a poisoned shuriken, and a desperate Rikichi grabs his wrist to stop him. First, poison is dripping from that shuriken, so Zatto is wearing a leather glove to protect himself, but Rikichi grabs him without hesitation. Second, and most of all, in the spur of the moment, Rikichi clearly made his choice between Doi-sensei and the children..... It's tragic how Doi has no responsibility to Rikichi in the end, beyond showing gratitude to his parents for saving him. Realistically, had he stayed at the Yamada household, it might have done Rikichi a lot of good growing up, but it would have put Doi in a very uncomfortable position, stuck in the middle of a very shaky and bizarre marriage. Back then, Doi probably didn't picture himself as a teacher, or caring for kids at all, so it makes me wonder how he would tackle little Rikichi's situation had it happened in present time. Would he feel more involved? Could he have "saved" little Rikichi? I have no doubt Doi sympathized with Rikichi's loneliness back then, but did he grasp the extent of it?... What is sure is that while it's certain Doi has a strong influence on Rikichi, Rikichi is also extremely important to Doi. I said it before, but the very first thing Doi remembers when he regains his memories is little Rikichi, after all. I don't want to diminish the bond between Doi and the Yamada at all ; the third movie makes a point of showing Denzou's concern and affection for Hansuke, that he named himself, making him a son of sort. The Yamadas are home to Doi, and even if he wishes for independence and maybe even a family of his own, time spent with the Yamadas and Kirimaru might be far from what he envisions in Hansuke's Spring and Autumn, but it works perfectly as a picture of peace, doesn't it?

Anyways, all that to say that despite the bleak implications of its setting, Nintama manages to remain so cheerful and hopeful in great part thanks to Doi. He grew both as a character and as a person throughout the story, pays for past mistakes and actively tries to do good in the present, symbolizing peace in time of war. Isn't it interesting that what causes his "defeat" against Sonnamon is him trying to protect a bird and its nest? Again, it's quite the simple message, but I'm so charmed by how it's delivered through his influence on the rest of the cast, and how he's portrayed especially in The Strongest Tactician. Doi is also a great bridge between the children and adult audience of Nintama, families watching together of course but in general, him being a reminder of the responsibility we have as adults towards children moves me a lot personally...

That was quite the long rambling.. ahhh.. I love Doi-sensei.

[joannasteez]

tanks of blood (8) - muddy coffee & supermarket cake

pairings: biker!dean ambrose x june (plus size black!oc) | biker!cody rhodes x black reader (fluff) | biker!roman reigns x black reader (mature/explicit) warnings: mentions of criminal activity. descriptions that imply stalking. story dialogue that implies suicide, but not from any of the in-universe characters, reader being a little needy and making selfish decisions? unsavory language concerning addiction (cigarettes) which isn't present much but is mentioned with a one off line. description/talks of reoccurring panic attacks. authors note: multiple pov's in this chapter and intro-ing new characters! some world building. this chapter might take a long, thorough read, which is a bit time consuming BUT i think, for whoever reads it, you'll be thoroughly satisfied by the end... i hope... HAPPY READING! word count: don't get me started (17k) tagging: @333creolelady @harmshake @kill-the-artiste @sortudademais

only at june's house, does this spooky, overworking buzz come. a dizziness. an undulation. like being caught up in the ripple of vigorously treaded water, but behind the eyes. the pull out before that tall, wavy, rush in, crashing over him in the morning. a float in his bones, in the body, his head drifting a ways away from him. from arms and legs and that grimy, nightly fearsome sense that sticks to him like thick summer air.

warmth covers deans face and his feet give an easy take to the floor boards. steps so light it's like he's hovering over. and fuck what a feeling it is. a feeling that yes, happens to only be a morning thing. a too bright summer daylight happening. gently giving a stir into a mug. having the type of patience and attention for such quiet work here that he teems with too much energy. almost like he can't hold the softness of it.

coffee thats not too light but not too dark either. an even brown with hints of sugar. because june likes it like this. likes the curtains peeled back to let the sunrise in. likes to nest under pillows and have her breakfast at her bedside. likes to wake up too damn early before her rush to leave the house because perhaps she'll cave under the pressure of the day if she just doesn't soak in that morning glow. 

the waft of the coffee curls up at him. blows in thick and homey. steams white over his bones till they ache from the weight of having to carry him up whole. brewing and lazying under the sunrise as it comes, a ritual he'd miss once upon a time to beat it entirely. a barely heard departure before the shutter of his car engine broke over the early morning day air. his walkings and his doings and his business better suited sunless. before june could ever have the chance to come from that sleep of hers.

but now he stays. stirs coffee filled mugs. bones and brains like feathers. high off that terribly spooky feeling that sweetens the blood just too much. makes everything sharp. the mint on his tongue. the emptiness in his belly. the break of light pass the window. that earthy coffee smell that pulls in strong. it's all just a little more here. the boldening of usual thin lines. a filling in, a filling over, till it's doubling to spill and flood and consume. only in the morning though, and only at june's house. 

"we playin house now?" 

june holds sleep in her voice well. so good that it makes dean shiver. like old, tired, almost too sad jazz. warm to him. cradling and soothening up against those dirty strong bits of resolve. an easy persuasion for him to come in further and further till he's setting down the cup of coffee and claiming her full soft cheeks instead. his lips trying to savor the life of this good sort of troublesome, spooky little whatever that rattles him whole. tongue unable to perform fast or deep enough, because this is june's house and dean can't work now, with the same ease and finesse that he uses on his bike when he's roaming about and doing club related business.

yeah, no, not on this street, in this house, where his precious little june stays. and she hates that name. precious. but he loves it. her body taking a smooth glide up and over the muscle of him till he's nestled under her and laying against the sheets. silently arrested. his fingers at her nape, running over short, tapered, coiled up hair, her touch curling into his chest. like carving into him to open him up wide. he groans, like he's content to rest here for sometime, moving and pushing against her till they lay parallel. pecking and licking and teasing at each other. 

her lips thick and gentle. meshing and pulling and the air that rolls out between them accented with bright thin sounding short caught up breaths. 

his chest does away, a hint of inconsistency. a beat that skips. fingers strong, curling into the warmth of her skin. her eyes so dark, they're near black, even when living amidst that spill in of shine from beyond the windows. eyes like the night, like the ether. 

dean nestles into her neck. nose running to get it's fill. something sweet with hints of spice. far too earthy to be wholly summer inspired. a groan lingering there as it escapes his throat. that swimming sensation behind the eyes still rocking with great force. lulling and caressing and coaxing him in. his tongue slipping over his lips. athirst. 

his teeth nip into her neck. fingers finding a home in the bend of her knee till they shift one of her thighs to fall over his waist. "this is premium domesticity", a mumbling sort of purr. oozing off the tongue like it'd been aching to leave him. mouth pursing to litter affection along that column of skin. "white picket fence, house on the prairie shit". reaching over to grab the mug he'd spent too much time stirring. because june hates when those bits of sugar remain at the bottom with the coffee dregs. her round cheeks grimacing, mouth full of unmixed sugar and coffee sediments. and dean doesn’t like the unhappiness of that expression. the way it casted over to rule with an unsavory air about everything. "two sugars and a splash of cream". 

june sits up from under his hard body. the sheets joining her to cover well as she rests against the headboard. eyes like obsidian. sharp and with a means, if hot enough, to cost him terrible ruin. cutting over him without delay. "this is a ploy", she gives. a smile thats all knowing. wry and anticipatory. "i'm gettin buttered up for grade A fuckery". 

he chuckles. palms running over thighs under the sheets. "fuckery requires plots and schemes and a whole lot of trouble honey. i got a maybe simple question for you at best, but nothing worth that look you givin me".

the air stutters. that dreamlike glow it'd helplessly soaked itself in dimming abruptly. june blinking. like the waking up from a daze. a blank destructive stare over the rim of her mug. like she's just gotten a mouthful of grainy sugar and those coarse grounded sediments. the porcelain of the cup clacking hard against the nightstand as it rests, a hardening of the eyes. this grand assessment. "so what?", she starts. a flare in her nose before it settles. "you couldn't inquire about nefarious little bullshit before sticking your dick in me last night?..." her fists balling and retracting. an edge to the voice, even in the permanence of its softness, these jagged corners about her words, shaped in a way as to mimic the dangerous work of shards of glass. a cutting sort of quality that pierces better than it should. better now than it would've some months ago. the natural dregs of him muddying her morning. something she has never been too fond of. "...and again after i woke up earlier?" the sheets ruffling, flipping over at the expense of such sudden anger. 

and dean is lost. dizzy still, like that ugly forceful jolt the body takes after an abrupt wake up. because they'd had a delicate passion before early daylight. something tender and skin burning. but this was not that. this was the beginning of its end. that harsh final moment of a dream, knowing the body will break and become alive again out of all that made up, distorted greatness. june's body naked now as she plucks up a robe to cover herself. giving the loose belt of it a mean, swift knot tie. 

"that's not what—"

"thats some wierdo shit ambrose", she cuts. a snarl of words that itch his skin in a bad way. and then they take on a smallness. like the low affections of their existence is too much to say loudly. "that doesn't feel gross to you? like—like a transaction?"

dean's palms grow damp. a slipping off sensation. the morning light stabbing his eyes. that lulling little swim behind them calming to a terrible stillness. like the receding pull in before a storm. "well...thats just wrong...", dazed and his words failing to meet strong. confusion forming still. because they were fine. wrapped up in each other and such. "thats not what this is". 

june scoffs. shimmy's into a pair of slacks that form over her legs just right. refusing to meet his eye line. the stark feel of something vicious in his chest, a pang that works so well he might bruise from it. going on with a greatness that he refuses to acknowledge the full brunt of it. 

"you have impeccable fuckin timing then", her voice gritting out. cold and loud. a steel impact.

and then comes a deep wavering, like the silent, disruptive ask for a reprieve. and this is no sign of some humble defeat no, but a tactical retreat meant to benefit them both. a fluid lift up off the bed to garner more space. to breathe in full, till the air encompasses his lungs enough to settle nerves. counted breaths. maintenance of a once piss poor disposition at the arrival of—of inadequate communication. the shock of her voice, the pitch and the height of it, jostling his belly. cold eyes a terrible opposition to how cute and full her cheeks are. but this abrupt elevation does him a shitty bout of violence. harsh bellows and mean crackling smacks against wood dirtying his ears. his fathers older brother, making it everyone's business to know of his wrath. memory working cruel. 

"hey", dean gives. eyes flitting up. the semblance of a warning. "lets keep it at an eight AM volume alright?"

"yeah keep your bullshit at an eight AM volume". 

"june...", dean sighs. restless in the space he's created. a cautious stepping up into her semi-walkable closet. fingers reaching for a touch. for that tender slip of skin that makes him feel high. 

she shifts hard. snatches herself away. "don't touch me". 

dean is grateful, he hasn't eaten yet. belly whirling about ridiculously. something akin to fear silhouetting already dark eyes. the hesitation of it cruel all on its lonesome. like she's unsure if her denial is sin. a punishable offense. the way his body holds up the space of the door, looking to envelope without any initial regard. like that way of being is something of a second nature to him. sewn into fabric. but dean steps back. releases the tension without much delay. closing in and crossing up his arms for good measure. "listen", watching her button up a collared shirt. "i'm not checkin in on you weekly and layin it on you raw just to tease little bits of information from you. i could do that with anybody that calls themselves a lawyer. especially greedy ones looking for a little extra cash—" 

"but you just implied—" 

"i misspoke, alright? i don't got the way you take coffee committed to memory cause i'm lookin to gain something. it's cause i like remembering stuff about you". 

june does that blinking she likes to do. assessing and reassessing. blank stares and wordless little evaluations. 

"look, lets drop it. i don't have shit to ask, ok?" 

"ok", she relents. meeting his eyes wearily. 

"can i touch you now?"

hesitation plays. performs in the fingers as she fiddles with the buttons of her shirt. mulling over the request. testing the weight of his desire to be near her—dean is sure—to see just how true it feels to her. something she does often. a short shuffle up to his hard body. peering up just under her feathery lashes. a gentle resignation she won't rest in for too much longer before her uncertainties take her again. because it's in june's job description to question and nitpick and pry and pull. but the tug of her lip under teeth is evidence enough of some wiggle room being granted in his favor. a chance to remedy. her own release of tension made despite poorly placed words and odd timing. 

"yes". 

stalling isn't dean's game. never has been really. the boots he wears too thick and loud to ever hesitate on anything. the vice president's patch on his kutte silver and too prideful about how long the stitching has lasted. a forever condition made by that earned worn leather, so surely theres nothing stopping him here. no hindrances in his spirit or ill skittish feelings that leave him unable. palming june's cheeks to kiss her firmly. lips meshing quick to dampen all that unwanted, shaky, shilly energy binding her up stiff. and when she's melting into him again, albeit slow and half committed, fingers running up his arms and her breathes short and pitchy, he peaks his tongue out for good measure. lures her into the beginnings of a dazing distraction. the wet slight of it along her full lips, drawing up a moan from her throat that sinks into him cunningly. like it's been formed and made as a counter to his own ministrations. her palm sweeping low. over the end his hard belly, just near his-

"how you gettin to the office?", thumbs over her cheeks. 

she pushes. slots her lips over again for delicate takes of affection. pats his arm dearly, a smirk playing as she steps back into her closet for shoes. "you're taking me. call it premium domesticity". 

"touche". 

but this all feels too easily done away with. surely the other shoe will drop soon. she'll rear back with something else. proclaim him guilty again of poorly chosen words given at terrible times. revoke her affections. point to the leather hanging over her dresser messily . cast a darker hatred over it. 

...nefarious little bullshit... as she so nicely put it. 

"hey", dean calls. that sensation in his hands again. a grief the palm feels after something has been dropped from the safety of it. "i'm sorry".

she hums. consideration. packing an accordion briefcase., with documents and slimmer folders. "it's noted". 

he dresses. a quiet efficiency. those harsh rays of daylight falling away to hide behind the build of the house to give his eyes neither that stabbing pain or the accentuation of some swimming daze of a dream. it leaned into neither extreme, but suffered the room to live as it did any other. with a normalcy. like the coming together to meet in the middle, the compromise of violence and a dream. because that's all there is to anything. violence and dreams. 

he plucks his leather off her dresser to put it on. the material heavy and singing in that odd scrunchy way that only leather can. eager maybe to fill the air. to attempt to conform to it, or have it be conformed to. who knows? 

"i'll be in the car when you're ready".

and remember? stalling isn't deans game. boots too thick and heavy and dark and worn and terrible to be anything else but sure footed. so why does his step falter, making to leave the bedroom, the house, foot hitching like it means to stop and retrace. waiting for another word of something to lighten the damn air. just a little something to re-brighten the room. restore it to former glory. an unrests of movements that usually live with a predetermined motivation. and he hates this. a calculated silence isn't it? punishment. torture. for letting the night in during daytime. for not keeping his boots and his leather far enough away from her bed. 

the summer breeze is as thick and mean and chill-less and disgusting as its ever been. the crown of his head performing dramatic like it's already been hit. like the other shoe has already dropped. something about his chest squeezing so odd, enough that it's troubling. the car air blowing hot and gross as he waits for it to cool. that inconsistency again. a skip near where his heart beats before its plummeting sorely into his belly. laying at the base there, spreading about to undo him messily. 'it's noted'. what the hell does that even mean? like she'd taken his sincerity and scribbled it on some feeble piece of loose leaf. words in the breezeless wind. the summer heat singeing the lined paper till it's a palms worth of billowing ash. 

...nefarious little bullshit...

..."its noted"...

he wants to bang his head into the steering wheel. feel it bluntly till that sweet swimming sensation is given back to him. 

the passenger door opens. a settling in accompanied with a long, thought filled sigh. like she's prepped for the ride. prepped to deal with the silence she's so graciously ushered in to sit between them. 

"what was your question?" 

dean can see the brown in june's eyes. curiosity fragile and warm. and he rather her eyes be darker, blacker like in the safety of her house. an unmitigated replica of nighttime. piercing him whole and sharp and without delay. but not this, an earthier blooming of a softer color. he doesn't like it.

"june...", like a plea to stop. 

"just ask". 

his throat thick and the words forming solid, almost cruel like. which is odd, silly even. because didn't there always live an intention to pick her brain? to ask? to meet at that middle place of a sweet dream and the reality of some always alive, waiting in the shadows violence. dwell in it for a moment before the easy retreat into a too beautiful thing. her lips and her skin and her hair and the smooth aching take of her words over his skin. a simple question that she'd answer without wait or overthought. a done up finely concession. dean huffs. his thumb and pointer squeezing to pull at his nose. a reprieve frustratingly sought after, in vain. 

he'll settle for a minimal thing. broach with a less worked curiosity. 

"had a car come by the shop recently. i think the plates on it might've been a clone. know anything about that?' 

she sighs. words cautious as they give. "i've heard some things, a few cases...", her lip skating to pull from under her teeth. mulling over her phrasings. "...charges for speeding, drag racing, red light runs. stuff like that...and then just clients disputing the fines, fighting charges...". her fingers pulling to press a scratch into the roots of her hair. brows pulling. everything of her unsure. a display dean's yet to witness till now. "...the cloning stuff, it's not new but, it's a bit more dialed for sure".

"ok". 

finally the air in his car blows cooler. rushes out hard and fierce. like it means to ache him quickly. 

"why'd you wanna know?" 

june's eyes are not so dark like obsidian. beautiful still but no, they are not colored with a nighttime darkness. june's eyes are burnt umber brown. an old, earthy, fine, warmth. it would be terrible wouldn't it? to ruin them. 

"don't make me lie to you". 

suffocating. roman is got-damn suffocating. a terrible issue since you were sixteen. hitches in your breath and small tremblings under the skin. and yeah, it was petulant then. a little gross in how full of adolescence it was. excusable behavior though for a young girl who'd never been touched by the crazed, racy desire of a boy. but this? this is stupid. that tight, airless feeling in the lungs still, after so much time. stifled and choking and helpless and weak. his mouth soft and his hands too strong for the body to do anything within them but succumb to that exacting tug and give. and yes, you were exhausted from work, delirious even, but it didn't mean you were supposed to like it. like the lazy slip of his tongue and the grip of his palm at your neck. his groaning and the flex of taut muscle under the pull over of your nails. teeth sinking into your lip to prick mean, like he was forcing you to remember him, to acknowledge the weight of his existence. his body tall and wide and fastening you to the wall and—

it's all your father's fault really. because kendrick greggs was a picture taker. kept memories stilled forever like any enthusiasts of a thing would. aimless photos of wheels and fenders and chrome, till the interest grew. his camera everywhere, clicking at everything. at his biker brothers, and his wife. so it didn't take long, for his lingering eye to catch you wrapped up in the arms of a boy amidst the reveal of the viewfinder. but not just any boy. roman and his fingers filled with finesse. mouth inching close and sneaky and faint. like that lewd twist of a kiss would give up everything. 

"don't pussyfoot around with my kid. if you gon kiss her, then do that shit with some balls!"

he'd made a fucking spectacle of it. the both of them did. KG smiling mischievously behind that metal little camera, clicking away as roman smothered your mouth whole. stealing the air from your lungs and humming. 

and he hadn't said much then after. your nerves split raw at the seams, waiting for him to draw up ballistic, because you'd heard the menace he could fall into. could feel even the darkness of it settling in, roman pressed into your body waiting just the same. but your father had only ever tugged a smile onto his mouth. something small. an acknowledgment that lived minimally. enough for recognition and nothing more. 

"i'll allow it", he'd given. turning to leave you be. 

it was enough for roman then. at seventeen and eighteen and nineteen and twenty and then at twenty one. it was enough for him to grow eager in how breathless he left you. and the time, the distance, did nothing to change it. 

it's a haunting really. something like a repossession. a mixture of both. the way he'd held at your nape, breaths cascading, like he'd meant to drape himself over you. it'd only been a week, but the impression of it stuck. nestled it's way to live in already terrible dreams. his presence troubling your sleep, rattling an imagination with a penchant for disturbed things. because the busyness of new york had done well in drowning out the older, terrible, unspeakable things. things riddled with blood and bones and dust that not many knew about. but your old house and the hot florida air and roman's everything, have all managed to fall into one another with this painful compliance of tearing you apart. a violent undoing that leaves you to break awake, sweaty and looking for air. 

you're sure, your heart would trouble itself with a dramatic rupturing if it were any weaker. 

and your phone bursts alive. a blaring little ringer and it does your head in. the morning's here at your parents' old house, too quiet. pin drops like the awful droning tumble down of an avalanche. 

but the number is unknown. (850) 201-7794. "hello", your throat dry. scrapping together to give weakly into the phone. a heavy breath plays. like it only means to listen. like it's waiting. "hello? who is this?" a growl gives. performing in the background. the snarl of a dog maybe. surely. disgusting, curt, barks echoing to punch into your ear. 

"who the fuck is this?", you grit. a small shake in your hands. a weariness from poor sleep and the disturb of this.

movement goes over the line. those heavy, painstaking breaths again, before an abrupt, nervy "fuck", is left, the dread of an accident already done, just before the drop of the call. leaving you alone to deal with the aching swim in your gut. a war of a headache at the forefront of your skull. pain just behind the eyes. 

8:22 AM. all this bullshit at 8:22 AM. 

a tired breath blows. surrendering to that sluggish, restless nag coddling your bones. a grogginess that leaves the eyes dazed and your hands slow. reaching for your phone again to tap at the screen. leaving it to ring in your ear. bottom lip tucking under your teeth as you wait for him to answer. and it's new york all over again. slipped under the cool of those too grey sheets, laying up in the bed of a cramped apartment amidst the dreary, rainy, bustle of the city. the drone of it lulling you in and out of a hazy sort of sleep. flashes of dreams but nothing sticking well enough to settle with a true definition. the disjointed blur of something awful, taunting. your hands shaky and unsure, the drag of your phone against the bedside table, a terrible fog behind the eyes as you make to call. looking for that thing, for him. for the sweetness in his tone and the warmth of whatever words would come with it. 

but that was then, the distance making it hard to reach him. clinging only to his voice, begging for it to settle your bones, and the aching cold growing over them.

now though, now is something else. something a ways more liminal and undefined. 

"yes?" a tired, deep drawl to his voice. skating delicate, seeping in, unfurling hot. 

you hum, nestling into it. "did i wake you?"

he's groaning in your ear and shifting about, the rasp of it taking you in whole. a small smile pulling even as you tug your lips still with your teeth. imagining all that taut muscle moving about. pale gold and herculean. the shine in his sky blue eyes and the slipping take he gives with his tongue over his teeth—

"i gotta get up anyways, s'fine", his throat clearing. trying to get away from the sleepiness of it. "you alright?" 

"yeah...", reaching over to the nightstand for a loose torn piece of paper and a pen. "yeah, i'm good", writing out that number from moments ago. "can you stop by before headin' in today?" 

"what's wrong?" 

a sudden shift into readiness, into urgency, this endearing little work that makes the nasty remnants of sleep and terrible dreams less awful and a little further away. phone tucked in to hold at your ear. rising up to throw on thin shorts and a loose—just on the precipice of too worn—flannel. tucking that piece of paper into the chest pocket. 

"might just wanna see you. is that allowed?", you play. 

"you'll see me then". 

the call drops comfortably. the air less thick. moveable, though remaining in it still is that almost silence. a just barely perceptible chord. this dull, bass filled, strumming hum. the compilation of everything far and deep and odd and unknown. the graceful taunting performance of a foreboding thing. or maybe you just need coffee. a bit of fresh air. some sun. the quiet of the house too quiet. from your bed to the bathroom, and then from your bathroom to the kitchen, a heavy stillness that is just too surrounding to live well enough in without the self given threat of going mad. but that's always been a condition of the house. the creaky hardwood floors and the walls and the air forcing you to fill in it's silence. to save it from itself. from the emptiness given to it. 

a light, sweet, melodic tune plays, setting an old record onto the player your father kept in the living room. 

...the deep rumble of his humming, taking against the air feather like. soothing and tender. his body sitting leisure on the floor, tall and upright against the couch. your mother tucked into his side. their fingers folded, one into the other...

fifteen and wondering then, slowly creaking in from that long stretching hallway, to watch them sit in silence. the florida nights not nearly as hot as they are now. the house smelling like lavender and leather and little bits of tobacco. sticking so well into the build of the walls that it still lives here. like a stain of fragranced oil on the skin.

there are remnants of it still. that lavender and leather and tobacco. earthy and old and thick in the nose. filling up the lungs like the rising in of a well. seeping into the cracks till its soaked to the core of that strong brick. and this is what that light, gentle work of the melody does faithfully. it fills in. brings life to dead things. folds over to embrace with tender touches, humming a soothing, ache-less song. carries over in the air like a breeze with sure directions. 

and kendrick greggs loved music. loved his wife, his daughter and his motorcycle. but God did he love his coffee. would pour out great, disturbing heaps of it to be filtered into water. a muddy, thickness to it. the smell filling up the house whenever he decided it was a good time to return. his palms holding the cup strong, despite the scars from old wounds over his knuckles painting the skin and etching in permanent like white inked tattoos. his silver rings clinking nearly everything they touched. leather over his shoulders like it'd been sown into the skin beneath it. the grays in his beard more white than gray and his eyes a mahogany brown that lives richly enough still to haunt your dreams. sipping his coffee and staring over everything. his kitchen and his couch and the walls cluttered with too many pictures. the patterns of the floor boards and his old record player and your face. 

sipping muddy, sugarless coffee, his eyes forlorn, prickling your skin.

"...you look like your mother...", he'd said. "...and i ain't all that pretty so...that's a good thing...".

you'd smiled tight lipped. sipped muddy coffee with him and dealt with the silence together. formed a thousand questions and had them die on the tongue before you ever mustered the courage to ask. because if you looked like her, enough for his sorrows to drown him whenever he looked up to meet you at the eyes, then it was true, you'd wind up leaving like her too right?  

the percolator rumbles to life. begins that process of making too strong, muddy coffee. the knob of the front door twisting as the lock clicks. heavy boots trying not to be too heavy. 

"it's me!"

the domesticity of it all runs a skitter under the skin. a comfortable feeling. 

"kitchen!", you throw over your shoulder. pulling draws to bring pots and pans up onto the stove. 

his approach is cautious and gentle. rounding the island as you maneuver about. his hand giving a squeeze to your arm, "good morning", before he's pecking your cheek gingerly. the touch of it safe and quick and not enough. 

"i got up, so i guess so right?" 

you wrangle a number of things from the fridge to set them aside. a line of a shiver drawing small down your back. those sky blue eyes trailing, and digging softly, looking. you can feel them working. cody's voice less horse from sleep but sure moving still. tired and sweet and low. 

"talk to me". 

"s'nothing...", trying to abate the mess of the morning. the aches and the shivers from unknown things. "...just a bad dream"..., turning to face him. "...it kinda fucked me up a bit but i'm good".   

"you shouldn't sleep in that room", his arms folding up to cross. a regard filled with concern. too much concern. "my mother sleeps in their bed still, says she can feel him at night, can smell him. thats not easy to deal with". 

"m'still cleaning up the others...", eyes squeezing tight. your hands slipping over your eyes and cheeks, as if it'd wipe away the full, overwhelming warmth stored there. "...it's a whole process". 

"cause you're refusing help, my help". 

you sigh. "i need to do it for me cody". 

"i hear you". 

and this, here with cody, is different. something like the deep pull of an inhale. tired muscles, tired still, but that faithful pulse of an ache, wavers. conceding for a moment. a strong, fine, tenderness that can only be made in the stillness of this liminal space. all the words of sharply defined things left to be nestled on the tongue and at the back of the throat. lodged for safe keeping. waiting to live and be spared from their silence, even if they're made to leave a little sputtered and awkward and graceless. and of course it's no different from that terrible suffocation, just as adolescent feeling under the skin. a frustration there too. like maybe you should have more finesse about this. not be so hesitant and artless. 

you reach for him. pulling at the fold of his arms, bringing him in to close up all that dead, needless space between the two of you. "be closer". 

he leans a hand against the counter, peaks of tattoos drawing up the arm, exposed by the scrunch up of his sleeves. fingers adorned with silver rings that used to be his fathers. his body leaning in so well that it fills the air in your nose with the spiced smell of his leather. his other hand pulling up under the baggy fall of your flannel, thumb nestling where the line of your spine ends. a shiver and a hum playing as you move to cradle his face. closer till he's nudging his nose and skimming his mouth to tease. his jaw cutting sharp, but the skin soft. your touch playing in delicate circles. shuddered little breaths that grow sore in wanting a better fullness. 

the splay of his palm, pushes in. brings you to flush against him. "m'following your lead on this. i don't wanna overstep and it takes us somewhere we don't want to be". 

you smile. "such a gentleman". 

"so i've been told", words licking into your mouth with the slight of his tongue over his lips. taking a small little taste before he's on you and pulling tender. warm lingering kisses that leave an essence of mint in your mouth. his throat humming again, deeper this time. not like contemplation, no, like satisfaction. like the enjoyment of this is too much for words and all his body can spare is the buzz and rumble of that noise. 

and then he sweeps in wet. teasing like. a sharp, fierce, excitement. lapping at your tongue in a thick, languid fashion that forces you to inhale. to breathe before pushing in for more. a purr bleeding hot and easy from your chest till it's alive in your fingers. clutching at the silver skull buckle of his pants. nipping his mouth and smiling delirious into his touches as his palm lowers and presses in. long fingers curling in at the fat of your ass. smothering there then with a kneading touch that makes you pulse between your thighs. 

another deep breath as you part to look at him. fingers having traveled into his hair. holding him so you can see that hot glimmer amidst all the soft blue in his eyes. "the coffee is almost done. you should stay for breakfast". 

"can't". apologetic. a short kiss to your mouth. then to the corner of it. "gotta be in on time. a lot of stuff to handle today".

your touch plays persuasive, drawing down his arms till you're guiding him to hold you closer. impossibly closer. hugging him in.

"you're handlin now". 

he chuckles. perfect teeth and all. a thumb of his raising to catch at your lip. your lips tender and swollen some. "i'd love to take care of you, i really would, but i can't stay that long". 

you kiss his thumb. short lingering little pecks. "that long huh?"

"it's been a while, a lot of ground to cover. i need time". 

"good to know". 

he sweeps your cheek. a gentle little strum along your face before it's meeting his other hand to rest comfortable at your hips. making a home out of the heat teeming there. "am i seeing you later?" 

a dramatic breath huffs, the evenings events forming back into a shapely remembrance. not just any welcome home celebration, but a bloodline welcome home celebration. the night bound to hold some fuckery to it somewhere.  dropping your head into his chest. "i don't have a choice", you grumble. "i was told to make a cake. m'being reeled in by naomi for hospitality duties". 

cody chuckles. rubs up your back. consoling. "like you never left. this is a good thing".

"is it?"

he takes your face. cradles it firm. forces your attention on him. "yes. stop worrying". stepping away to walk heavily towards the door. "walk me out". 

you follow. that spiced leather smell trailing in towards you still as you step behind him. the slim take of an emptiness growing in your belly, like a slow paced simmer, where the warmth had decided earlier to bloom and spread at the touch of his fingers and mouth. need. it's need. the same need that worked and curled in your voice with bits of persuasion to get him to stay. to get him keeping his mouth on you and his touch as firm as it was. the same need that fluttered your chest to live amidst the heavier morning aches and pains. that twisting in your belly after breaking awake hard and the unease beneath your skin after the strangeness of  that phone call—

"wait", pulling his arm to stop. his body standing tall in the doorway. "forgot to give you this". pulling out that torn piece of paper from the chest pocket of your flannel. giving it for him to take. "got a call from this number earlier...it was before you got here. something felt off, weird. look into it maybe?"

his eyes don't break from the paper. and he doesn't move in the doorway. giving short hard blinks. like he's gathered his thoughts away from you to be else where.  

"cody, is everything—"

he moves. quick. abrupt. out of his head. a firm peck at your cheek before he's stepping down swiftly to his bike just in front your house. "i'll see you later". he mounts. swings his leg over and secures his helmet. that playful, teasing air to him gone away so well, it's like it never was there. "call if you need anything".

the engine roars to life, a rumble forward till he's gone and disappearing down the street. 

sixteen and seventeen and eighteen, jitters all up in your skin from the slyness of him. that breathlessness of yours and those sweet bouts of trembling, nearly half his height way back when, just where his chest puffed out strong, but always having to look up to take him in. little flinches away but tugs to his belt loop to bring him closer too. hitches in your breath before that melt into the softest sound. a drawling, helpless little moan of a thing. like your needs and wants were playing too well against each other, warring and laying waste enough till there was nothing much left for you to do but grow weak and breathy for him. all the noises charming his ears. and it's natural isn't it? eventually growing out of all that unruliness in the body. being able to take the force of him without losing yourself. hell, by twenty four, trembly and overworked or not, you became real good about accepting the finesse of things. him handling your inner thighs and the hot whispers in your ears. his tongue pressing into your neck and his teeth pulling over your lips. the weight of him blanketing over. sounds he'd never heard before, sounds he fought to remember. 

but no, the unruliness of it all, that part of you is still there. a permanent housing that makes his chest swell. 

there in the bathroom of the clubhouse, grazed and bleeding and depleted of a long standing control, roman had done a not smart thing. throwing away nearly a decades worth of resolve and patience for ancient feelings. like the buzz of a taste after being faithfully cold sober. that slipping chill that courses the body. a too friendly reacquaintance.  

it was one of the dumbest things he'd done in a long time.

"can we see each other later?" a working there in giana's voice and in the run of her fingertips. gentle circling motions that attempt to root up a deeper intimacy. a leg thrown over his waist and her lips laying to kiss him. fingering with his beard and snuggling in closer every second. all this delicate allure draping over her, a thin veil to cover that growing necessity for other things. hooded eyes trying to claim him to a focus. a reel in from those far away thoughts—you— that plague him brutally in the mornings. "we could have a part two of last night", purring smooth and slipping over to straddle him more. her warm legs spread over him and her lips taking him in for another kiss.  

sharp quick flicks of tongue. exacting. like with the make of it comes too much method. too much forethought. like maybe it's all meant to please him. 

but bullshit begets bullshit. one dumb thing after another. a snowball of errors that roll into an avalanche. 

your face, the taste of your mouth, and the way your tired body surrendered with a faithfulness in the small corner of that clubhouse bathroom. memory sore as it corralled back into place under your skin. one image and then another, till he could hear and feel you too. his belly tight and his breath shuddering in that disgusting way. stuttered and weak and all consumed. loud and messy and lax all over. subdued and—

it was dumb. caught up in whatever throes of passion then, just last night, with a beautiful woman, with giana, but thinking about another. his everything haunted and possessed. crawling from the ground these undead things, pulling his muscles up taut to yank and prop and puppet him. his tongue curling in giana's mouth to find that taste again. holding her tight, and moving and doing, and these dirty little whispers in her ear, just the way you always liked it. a secret just for the two of you alone. shivering delicate in his hands so good, so sweet, that he'd kiss you sloppily from the drunkenness that came from him being all wrapped up in your embraces. nails in his skin, just deep enough there to make him groan and shake—God!— 

roman shifts, slips out of the sheets. the bed too hot and his chest racing. blood pulsing about the lightening draw of his veins, thundering hard there after. 

he slips on a pair of sweats, baggy and black and sitting low at his hips. fingers combing and tying his hair up into a knot. something untidy and loose and rushed, much like that curling feeling beneath his skin. eyes else where. trailing and cutting up and away and skating along but never meeting giana really. like coasting the borders of the bed where she lays still. beneath fluffy sheets all content and comfortable. 

his bedroom connects to a bathroom. flicking the light on quick. everything in his body, pressing out with a particular speed. that leather over his shoulders, resting over thick and black and absorbing, can't come fast enough. the rushing wind from the drive of his bike and the blurs of lights and bodies along the street. 

water over his face. a splash that chills the heat over his cheeks. his routine as efficient as it is hasty. like the time in the day here, in this bed-connected-bathroom, is passing too slow, forcing his bones to form over with metal. weighty and tougher to carry. a swirling in his belly, mint on his tongue and his eyes fresher now. is it horrible to leave her here like this? to deny her requests for something a little more? not extra, no, but more? padding back into the bedroom for a t-shirt. white and bright against the sun. plain but contrasty against that old, worn, black, grimy leather. 

this ugly little stomach feeling, it isn't new. no it's old. has upturned, pretty little defying eyes and a sweet mouth made just for him to feel. it presses his gut and roughs his nerves hard. almost like it's daring him to do something about the way it's living again to oppose him and all the progress he's made living without it. and so be it then. so fucking be it. 

"there's a thing happenin' tonight...", he gives. words working against that continuous twist in his belly, but against the other hesitancies as well. a war with many armies. "...one of our guys just got out, s'like a little welcome home party...", black jeans pulling up to rough along his legs. eyes flicking to giana in the large dresser mirror before he's moving and skating away from that lingering regard again. "...i'll be tied up there for the night if you wanna—but...", stopping hard to break course, because she doesn't want that. it's not really in the bounds of their situation, "...chillin with the club ain't all that appealin to you—"

"should i bring something?" 

no one ever really wins, when the war has too many armies do they? and if all the battles are within him—the work of keeping you undone from him, from his blood and his brain, something like the greatest brass shield and keeping giana's curiosities from lingering too far into a dangerous territory, like the finest double edged sword—housed in his belly so that it tatters him raw, then he becomes the only one to triumph and be defeated yes? right? a win and a loss just the same. 

but bullshit begets bullshit. one dumb thing after another. a snowball of errors that roll into an avalanche.

"a dessert or whatever...", looping his belt through his jeans. the buckle of it a snake. the head eating the tail. the silver metal of it so cold it tingles. looking to her finally. expectant, hooded eyes. "...nothin over the top, and no alcohol. punk doesn't drink". 

"punk?" 

and this is it no? the product of their agreement. a situation. because her eyes always slid over his leather with bits of apathy. flinching in his hold when he touched her with rings decorating his fingers. never remembering the names of his street brothers and cringing at the sweet nasty song of his bike engine. shuffling up to his door step only after the sun had set and leaving just before it rose up. there was never reason to know anything about anything. so yes, this was the product of a pre-determined wish. something she now so suddenly wants to break. to overcome and reset for whatever reason. 

roman sighs. a slight bristling effect in his shoulders. "thats what we call him". 

"oh..", eyes wide. a new understanding. settling into it before that full acceptance. "..uh, ok". 

and he waits after that. sipping coffee with a terrible sensation in his palms, in the fingers they stretch to, holding a mug. fully dressed and his feet begging for the mercy of leaving. for a reprieve. for fresh air and the way his bike cuts through it. waiting for her to ready herself. waiting for giana to leave. but it seems all her maneuvers vie for some form of normalcy. for an air that only settles comfortable with slow sips of morning coffee and talks about the weather. little pan sizzling pops and the steeping in of a heavy hot aroma that clues into the greatest breakfast. but this was not that. could not be that. and damn it, she'd agreed it'd never get there didn't she? so what was this? her lingering? her attitude at the funeral. a little brazen and curious then too.

when giana does go, she parts with a kiss. presses and holds at his mouth dearly. like his mother would his father. a tight look over him like an attempt to keep him hostage. some delicate arresting that never really takes him completely. 

and it irks him. he should want this shouldn't he? move onto something new and let those old failures be? 

the ride to the clubhouse isn't as comforting as he'd hoped it'd be. the air hot, always hot, but it seems that the mugginess of it all just presses into him so that it dirties everything. muddying up already terrible nerves. like that awful, grainy taste of the dregs and sediments left over at the base of good coffee. the goodness of it no longer mattering, because all thats there, sticking to tongue and teeth, are the loose, earthy bits. 

that slipping off sensation living in his palms still. like the dropping of some fragile thing is soon to come. looming to tease with a vicious smile. it flutters his skin when he handles the bars of his bike, hot wind zipping over, and when he bends the corner to enter the clubhouse lot, and even now, never leaving, as he moves to dismount.

and he shuffles up to hard, overworked, wooden steps. the face of the clubhouse like a porch. painted a black once that looks more gray now. a shabby, distressed, unreliable looking thing of a build to the eyes. an outward deception. but that seems to be the beauty of it. the way the wood and the work of it have all managed to survive in spite of. a consistency not known to many, not even to the most faithful of men. but it doesn't do much to help roman. no it makes that terrible grief in his hands worse. 

because it was sure to happen then right? all that beautiful rich color of control and command will wither and distress into a graying one day wouldn't it? ease out of his hands and crash into a sharp breaking. 

the wooden boards of the porch creek. roman caught out of his daze to find cody standing in the corner. his eyes facing out just opposite of where roman is, staring out somewhere far. here but not really. leaning against the banister and his cheeks hallowing to pull from the burn of a cigarette. 

the smell of it carrying over too well, roman stepping up the porch till he's just in front the double doors of the clubhouse. the acrid twist of it, thick in his nose and ugly feeling in the lungs. a grimace tainting his lips, his face, but not from the smell, no. it's from the way cody inhales the plume of smoke. the way his teeth clench to pull it back into himself. unrestrained and needful. like he's looking for a full consumption of it. that slip in roman's fingers again, like he's losing. because this is not such an unusual thing, but old things never are. habits and copings dying so hard they only really lose breath for sometime before reaching up again to feel the fresh air. yeah, roman has seen his before. stood in front the terrible reflection of this mirror. 

"i thought that was done?", roman gives. voice cutting hot, thick, air. 

cody turns. sighs. blue, far away, eyes coming back to the safety of this off-colored clubhouse. taking in the burning end of the cigarette before looking up to roman, "it is. just needed...y'know...something to carry me over till later". 

"you sound like an addict", roman cuts. annoyed because the anger becomes real in his belly now. because wasn't this over a long time ago? a fire snuffed out at it's core. "stomp it out. eat something", he roughs. trailing in with heavy thuds of his heel toe. the sound along the floors like a wordless call. like a command to move and do under the eye of his will. and it happened, as it always does. the guys all falling in behind him, wordless or loud or somewhere in between, till the double doors of the church push to their limits, accommodating that great big swell of men. 

the table still a polished perfection, ageless in that way really. the image of a snake carved at the heart of it. deep moving grooves and ridges that make the image of the soul of the clubhouse. 

the ouroboros. the head and the tail. the beginning and the end. one taken into the other to complete a never ending circle. 

roman sits at the head of the table. slips the handle of the gavel in his palm. the shine of it eternal. his wrist giving an upturn before it lays to knock the wood into the sounding block. a hard thwack! that silences the room. a call to order. 

"first order of business, before we get into all the ...extracurriculars...", he starts. eyes falling on him expectant. always expectant. "...we had a brother come out the cage yesterday...", the room erupting with a hasty excitement. fists banging the table and deep, doggish hoots. "...so if you gotta show up later filled with bullet holes and half yah dick in hand then thats what it is, but ya'll better show up. i need to be seein' all of ya'll there...", tone as meaningful as it is serious. "...punk did five for us, so we can take a night off from the shelf—"

the room breaks with a chorus of groans. childish little rumblings. teeth sucks and "boo's", thrown in the air. a semblance of a smile slipping onto roman's lips at the way they mock and scoff. 

punk's ideals were always a little more controversially charged than some others. a faithful way about him when it came to living his life completely dry one hundred percent of the time. 

those firsts taste for most of them, of whiskey or rum or tequila or vodka, as young boys woefully playing as men, like a baby's first ride atop a bicycle. 

"..you killin' me here uce...", jey drags. 

"...no bullshit...", jimmy chimes. 

dean scoffs, laughs, a mixture of both really. "cold sober and listenin' to seth whine about a bullet lodged up his ass for the tenth time this week like it's a day old IUD...", he jokes, fingers at his temple like a gun to pull the trigger. "...mine as well be showin' up with half my dick in hand. could give the people a real show, somethin' to remember".

"only half?...", seth rasps. a wicked sort of smile playing. "...figured you be dickless by now, the way june's got that shit choked up in a vice grip, you're givin' all the beta's with real commitment to the cause a bad name". 

the room "Ooo's". chuckles and grins spread about everywhere. dean flipping seth off before directing his attention back to roman. 

"speakin of june, if this issue we got is real, cloned plates and all, then it's not the first case of it". 

roman's jaw clenches slow. a pressing in that lives to stress that meddling skate beneath his skin. "what'd she say?" 

dean slouches, settling into the creaky wood of his chair. "s'alot of fraudulent games being played...of the vehicular variety of course. spooky petty stuff though", his hand smoothening over the reddish color of his beard, "red light runs, drag racin', etcetera. mostly with ghost cars". 

"rhea got pinched for racin' a while back...", the natural soothed drawl of jey's voice playing. "bad plates too. took the fall for mysterio's boy". 

jimmy chuckles. a wry little go of it. "you still messin' with screamo?"

and little noises of amusement ruffle the air. jey's eyes cutting to his twin brother. "she listens to metalcore dumbass, and we not messin with each other...", his neck maneuvering oddly. awkward. like the beginnings of a secret threaten to inch their way up his nape for some untimely reveal. "...it's just a calm..lil vibe".

jimmy points. "was". 

"was", he huffs. "…a calm lil vibe", arms dropping from that cool, eased, positioning. flustered and flailing down for some strained release. "...we just cool like that, damn". 

roman sighs. the sun breaking through the window behind him to heat up his neck and the leather draping him whole. "make your point jey".

"point being, if it's anybody that knows something about all of this, then it's her...", his fingers twisting the metal rings about his fingers as he thinks. "...it'd probably be better though to connect with priest. whatever the maneuver is, if we get in alright enough with him, she'll follow". 

"set up the meet then...", roman charges, to which jey accepts. "...i want a place and time tomorrow latest". the room falling quiet again. an inching in the air that forwards itself towards the head of the table. carries with it the eyes and ears of all these metal clad, leather born men. an expectancy that itches and delights roman in equal measures. sweetening his blood and aching his fingers. the impression of the gavel there still. always there. "what's the word on nico? he discharged yet?" 

the attention shifts in intervals. those fall of eyes staggering away from roman to cody. his bout of silence being urged to be done away with. 

and roman's words bite along the tongue as he speaks them. bits of a bitterness that form ugly and loose. something similar to bile. like the slip of it, is an admission only now given to live along the air, for, if given any earlier would cause for this taste in his mouth to live longer. breathe and rage and fester and spread and mold over. "you said before that she mentioned nico...", because mentioning nico, to cody no less, means that they'd had moments together wouldn't it? would affirm a fall they've taken, into a sort of vulnerable intimacy, where such unsavory things can be brought into question. his jaw pressing again, beneath his beard, where none are wise to notice. "...did she say anything else?" 

cody clears his throat. his eyes a cold blue. bright and unrelenting. softening at the mention of you. something in roman's belly jostling then as he listens. "i didn't give her anything worthwhile. she took the hint and stopped asking". 

a sharpness in his hand twinges. like the prod of a thousand tiny terrible little needles. that impression of the gavel still breathing to live in the skin. "...this shits gotta be flipped around quick...", his nails digging into the palm there, the ball of a fist that begs for it's own relief. "...i wanna know where this kid eats, where he sleeps, what room he stinks up when he shits, where his burnt skin peels and falls...", that wood and shape so true and longstanding in it's touch that it burdens him. wills roman into something hot and nearly unmodified. "...he's too unim-fuckin'-portant to be this much of an inconvenience". 

seth scoffs. grunts hard as he shifts in his chair. eyes narrowed and harsh and bordering on the promise of some ill-advised action waiting for it's release. "those assholes put a bullet in me. i'm sorry but i need a little more than some street espionage". 

"easy", dean pipes. "you'll get yours soon".

"solo", roman calls. his younger cousin stepping forward. "...the info, get on it".  

solo nods slow. a quiet steady air about him that promises.

the gavel catching up in roman's palm again. swinging to crack against the sound block. a call to order once, now a call to completion. but that usual wholeness of the moment is lost here. the bits of it chipped like too old, too dried up paint. the rich brown finish of the sounding block rubbed away to reveal the inner color of the wood and the head of the gavel slightly splintered with a faint crack. like a small break finally, from time and too much violence. from too many summers and schemes and leather bound meetings. words a little thicker and heavier in the throat and on the tongue. like the finality in them, the way it plays to be sure, is the greatest falsehood. 

"we're done here". 

sometimes he can't breathe. an exaggeration maybe, because yes, he is breathing. he has a pulse. can feel that intake that funnels the air into his lungs. but isn't it just easier to say he can't breathe when it feels like this? and well, he won't say it with his mouth, because no one needs to know he can't breathe. but here in the face of this bathroom mirror, he can tell himself he can't breathe, can rest odd in the terrible restriction of it. an ache in the chest like something there has decided to slowly tear him asunder. a meticulously drawn out clawing up to the surface. shuddered breathes and a running under the skin that goes on long with the fear of being caught. a marathon of anticipation. but this is not the first time this has happened. no, six days before his release he'd told the county jail nurse that his teeth ached and that he couldn't breathe. she said he was having a panic attack. he told her she was full of shit. 

the bathroom sink water rushes out cold. punks hands tight against the counter. for stability. he might fall if he lets go. because the weakness here in his knees, was not a symptom before. it's a new arrival. the toilet untouched. maybe she was right. fuck. maybe she was. 

a knock on the door, and then doom curling under flesh, giving a cold bite to his bones thereafter. his stomach lurching, from this coat of fear that comes with lack of breath and from the stomachs own emptiness. "m'takin a piss, gimme a second", grumbling. the water rushing still. coming down and out too fast, with too much pressure to ever successfully simulate a decent sounding ten-one. but he tries anyways, to hide behind this water white noise sanctuary, till it's no longer the sink of an old, still standing house, but the great pouring down of a waterfall. a flow strong enough that it undoes his feet from the ground and takes him in. takes him away. but that can't happen so swift and as easy as it used to, because it doesn't have to happen anymore. but whose going to tell his mind, his body, that neither need an escape to that drowning sort of safe space?  

another knock at the door. a quick steady pace into the wood. like it means to pry him from the closeting of this bathroom. like a call meant to will him up and out of drowning in that white noise waterfall. 

the door handle twitches. sharp and impatient. a warning before entry. the threat of seizing his space against his will. his shoulders hitching to tighten, squaring off. ready. that tingling in his fingers performing sorely, an exhausted guard that brings itself to work in spite of its age, as he holds his side of the door handle. "you wanna come hold my dick for me or you gonna let me finish?" 

"open the door punk". 

but it's not a command, no. not urgent or mean. it's something far worse. the type of plea that mixes itself in with a concerned sort of compassion. pity. fucking pity. and punk can't fight against that can he? not when the voice of a brother goes on with this tone of sadness. to work and war against it, would only serve to affirm his standing in this low place. so he opens the door. tries his hand at a deep breath. his palm slicking back his hair and the other twisting the knob of the door to open.

randy orton, the sergeant at arms, standing here in all his protective glory. tall and wide and with a look to his eyes that punk decides, leaving the full safety of the bathroom, he hates. the natural low sitting of them, always calling for the anticipation of something menaced and brutish. but they're far too tender for that here. too warmed over and patient as they wait. 

and this means the following in of an explanation doesn't it? his chest aching and the words lodged in with those shallow bits of air, needing to corral something together anyways to appease. to mend the confusion after his sudden disappearance. if so, then how does he explain this weak kneed, heavy chested problem without the exposure of that terrible fragility attached to it? 

"you got a bunch of people out back waiting...", randy gives. the voice of him deep and mellow and too cool to live amidst this awful, silent, ripple in punks skin. in his fingers and toes and about his bones. "...grand entrance out of the hole remember?"

punk scoffs. "oh?...", pulling air tight in his nose. his hands falling over his face to push in there. like if he wipes away at the skin, then the warmth in his cheeks will disperse enough to chill him. but that is not the case. the heat remains, pricks his neck and draws out into his shoulders. "...didn't realize the festivities were in my honor". a mirthless little chuckle. 

"you need another minute to bitch, or you gonna talk?" 

it's evident isn't it? the war, the silent hell in him. metal caged and immovable from the depths of this too low place. the smell of iron stuck in his nose and the repetition of that rattling song. the shuddered knock of the doors pulling to close in on him. "i did five years randy", he gives. hands resting on his hips and his head hanging low. the belief of it never taking him whole till this very moment. 

"i know". 

the darkness is clear. a nothingness that gives no rise for escape. "that's not a hole. holes have air. they have a way out". 

randy leans up against the wall opposite of punk. a resignation into something less protective. that faithful shield of a disposition waning till it's diminished enough for punk to breathe easier. without the threat of judgement from it's weakness. and this simple maneuver has somehow made randy appear less large. his eyes more curious than pitying. searching for the answer too. "what are you in then, brother?" 

punk lets his eyes meet here, and for the first time since his release, they linger. taking on the regard of another despite the turmoil of being seen, of being looked upon and read. "there's a book by this guy, Jerry Mayer, s'called 'the last man', you ever read it before?" 

randy motions with his hand, come hither like, curious to know. "tell me about it". 

"its a collection of short stories written by the last man on earth...", punk starts, fighting hard to hold randy's eyes. because maybe, if he keeps him here long enough, holds his attention, then all the novelty of the moment can be replaced with a question-less understanding. "...and he's just roamin' around. he's got all this air, all this space, but it's just him. nobody to share it with, and no rhyme or reason to do anything but be alone. in the last chapter of the book he digs a ditch. he said,

‘for the first time in a long, long time, i feel the embrace of something warm. the earth smelling strong as i lay, as my fists knock in, power in me once again, commanding the dirt to cave in over head. the sleep is good here, in this low place, and all the words i'd have to speak for how well this does me, stay laid, waiting in my throat. mixed in with that good bitter grain of dirt. finally, i am no longer the last man on earth'

"you remember all that?" 

"yeah", punk sighs, wearily. "i do". 

and randy hums. a slow, low, consideration that eats at the air. at the silence of it. his palm rubbing up at the stubble along his chin and his cheeks. and maybe this is too much. an overshare that unveils the scattered, caked up, muddiness of the mess sitting low in his underbelly. where all the other easy to break things lie. the pit beneath his stomach that rolls over sore, making him hungry and hunger-less just the same. yeah, this type of talk isn't for other ears is it? it's for those lonely, muggy, sheet-less nights. a deep stare into the ceiling as the fan whirls a janky tune. for him alone—

"well...", randy says. a drawling inflection to it like he's concluding his thoughts as he speaks. "...you're not dead till you're dead, and you're not alone". 

"five years...", chuckling mirthlessly. "...what do i have to show for it? gray hairs and shitty tattoos". 

randy smiles. "you'd be surprised, chicks kinda dig the grays now..."

"i'm being serious". 

randy pushes off the wall. standing to full height again. his palms coming up to rest along punks shoulders, as if, at one time or another, he'd been split into two halves. his heavy hands pushing in, thumbs into his shoulder blades, to will the two halves into a whole. and even if this isn't the intention, the burden of his hands and his height and his eyes, all speak for randy like it's true.  

"walk briskly to what you want. run to get the shit you need". 

punks eyes roll. "and what genius said that?"

"me". 

the hallway fills with small, comfortable amusement. punk's breathing not so caught up, and randy's eyes less pitying. 

"c'mon", randy patting punks back. "let's go get some cake". 

an error made by and against the self is the more terrible of the two, the other being, errors made against the self by others. yeah, the latter calling for a rich sort of righteous anger. done up so well in the blood that it draws in delicious. days, weeks, months even, settling to sit in high and justified. but this is not that, no, this is the sharp sickening twist of the former. a disgusting trouble that undulates the belly. makes it swim and swish and roll. because it was a funny little thing wasn't it? a short, sweet, silly little go of comedy to giana. because a guy could have enough morals to be straightedged, but not enough to keep himself out of jail? she needed someone to make it make sense. the store bought supermarket cake weighty in her hands. eyes slipping over the homey decor of the address roman texted her. framed photos littering everywhere, like the house was built to be more of a memorial sight than a living space. 

and the endless stretch of hallway connecting the kitchen to the backyard stands a little too lively for giana's taste. cluttered, maximalist bullshit. photos and paintings and plants. like the regressed, toothy smile, of some nostalgia ridden "remember when" story threatening to break against the air. a flavor so rich it becomes too thick in the mouth to handle. those little jogs to the past are terrible and lengthy, her feet a perpetual skate at the border, waiting for entry. to be folded in. on jokes and tears and old bouts of anger diffused now to underbelly deep bits of laughter. 

but this is the way in right? this is the key that opens the door. that settles her in more comfortably. store bought vanilla icing cake and a toothless smile. and how could she be any worse than him?, than punk—or whatever the fuck his actual name is—if she happens upon hypocrisy just as easily, making the mistake of a self made error. 

the photo at the end of the hall, just before the sliding door that leads to the backyard, works like an old, tired anchor. takes a joyful rusting to her eyes and her skin and the sure breaths in her chest. the patience in her body, stored in her fingers holding this cake, trembling, warming red and chemically undone. a tiny mahogany frame to enrich the delicate form of this memory. teenagers all lined up chaotically, drunkenly even along a sandy beach. the sun beating over harsh. twisted in an endless glee. and roman can't be unseen. his height and his face noticeable anywhere. a cheesy adoration about him. his arms holding a girl like she's his bride, eyeing her as she points to the camera. and he pays the picture no mind. seemingly enraptured and fine with his arrest. 

and the girl is not so unfamiliar. her face similar to the woman giana saw at the funeral some weeks ago. the same funeral she could not wait to escape. the same woman roman could not bother to speak to, but could not bother to look away from. 

surely, the hypocrisy of being here of her own free will without wanting to is no different from a straightedged man going to jail. it's just as laughable anyways. hypocrisy is always laughable. 

but the backyard is lively, loud and full in the ears enough to deaden that taunt of amusement she can't help but to give herself. bodies everywhere and a soft bass bleeding into the short grass so well it thumps into her feet. and this is ridiculous isn't it? the sudden shift. impatience. an appetite for more. feeling odd enough for an uncomfortable suffocation to come about amidst the boundaries she'd created. because they were fine. giana and roman were fine, albeit existing along a blurred line of a relationship in ways. not together but... together. ending and meeting where it only felt viable. so yes, only at night or, only when bored. 

that woman from the throwback photo, from the funeral. giana can see her face more clearly here, as she stares and stands intimately in front one of roman's boys. his hair cut a short blonde and his expression playing with notes of admiration. all of this she gets just next to the sliding door, but to decipher the skitter here in her skin is harder. theres no reason for hatred is there? for disdain towards a woman she doesn't know. but her familiarity is troubling. even as she moves away from him, floating almost and speaking and indulging about the grass and amidst this great guarding fortress of people, with hugs and smiles and those pretty shaped eyes. and God no, giana doesn't want to be her, but the comfortable way she goes about all this is envying. to have to not impress, is it's own nice little thing. 

the dirt and grass and wood chips crunch. roman and a new sort of color to his eyes as he comes up slow.

“you made it". a statement of surprise giana is sure. the way he says it, like he's trying to confirm more with himself than with her. like the possibility is so unbelievable. 

and he looks good. smells better. hair tied into a knot and those stray lines of gray in his beard like some tantalizing decoration. leather over his shoulders. an itch to touch him, to feel the worn texture of his jacket. to have it, for once, not tingle wearily and stress her nerves there in her fingers. but how do you find favor with a dead-lively sort of thing like this. his leather, just a tough little fabric stretching over skin, but the wrinkles and slim distresses like veins full of blood. pumping and beating to give life to something so far beyond her, but connected dearly to him just the same. this sort of urge new. rolling in with her appetite for more.

“i did". 

his eyes flit to the covered dessert. a blink-less stare that doesn't mean to offer anything but the blank of it. and maybe here, for the first time, or the second even, giana can feel it in the pit of her curiosity. this short, fast uprooting desire to know his thoughts. to look past the guard of his eyes and feel him wordlessly. forgoing the usual resignation that befalls her when he chooses to keep things close to the chest and undiscovered, for the sake of course, of staying within those drawn boundaries she'd made. but that was a while ago wasn't it? when she told him the conditions. made it so that they'd only meet to fulfill something lustful. but rules have always been made with the possibility they'd break. right? 

"you bought cake". 

the curt way it leaves him. like she wasn't supposed to. 

"you said to". 

and when the weight of the cake finally leaves her, giana is glad for it. roman taking it upon himself to set it along a table lined with other sweet treats. 

she could very well be wrong about this too couldn't she? those distracted little glances he'd taken at the woman from the funeral, the same ones he takes now, these could all be intricate looks of disdain maybe? a sharpness to his eyes that lends to some deeper hearted vexing. 

the grass and the dirt and the wood chips making terrible little impressions beneath her sandals. the air hot and thick. made thicker by this energy of celebration giana has yet to really settle into. like even the access of it is limited to just breathing. words and gestures too valuable for her to afford. 

and roman is there still, not at the center of the life of this thing but amidst it. orbiting close enough that his importance doesn't go without notice. but he's far away still. captured else where as he smiles and indulges in his own ways. like any president would. 

he's only abiding by the conditions isn't he? the rules of engagement made at giana's word. 

...only when bored, only at night....

giana could very well be wrong. the twirl in her gut. the warm prick at her ears. they all speak wordlessly, saying so with great volume....no, you're not wrong...these are not intricate looks of disdain, but the terrible masking of undead desires. and here, giana feels like nothing more than a bystander. a witness. watching on as roman gives away pieces of himself in the silence to be known to this woman. like a reveal of his hand, a proud little daring statement only made with the way his eyes bore into her. undressing and taking and spreading without ever moving from where he orbits the center of this celebration. 

giana's fingers tremble. the sort of shake that happens after a faithful endurance has waned from holding a too heavy thing. that store bought cake cut up and plated but somehow in her palms still. 

a coarse voice breaks. scrutiny and amusement bleeding. "...what dumbass bought supermarket cake?..." 

because her's was vanilla flavored. brightly colored and pristine in that professionally made way. packaged with the store label and too damn perfect. the other cakes and pies and pans and trays of food, housed in those homey little containers, like they came straight from decades-owned-home-kitchens and into cars and to this hot as hell backyard. 

her rules of engagement and conditions didn't involve fucking home made cake. fingers tingling as she moves quietly to the sliding door, a deep regret running to bed itself into the skin. the type of ruefulness that comes after the fall away from a not tight enough hold on a fragile thing. 

that old, hanging photo just inside by the sliding door, and this too long stretch of a hallway. minutes that feel like hours, till she can get to the front of the house. the air not so thick, not so filled and taken up by that overworking of a celebration she can't seem to break into. her temples pulsing sharp and an itch on the mouth. feeling her way into the bag slung over her shoulder till a box of cigarettes slip in her palm. an opaque orange lighter flickering before it burns the end. her cheeks hallowing for a deep generous pull. white plumes into the air to join the sticky heat. 

that dirt deep bass of the music, bleeding in faint from the backyard to the slab of sidewalk just in front the house, like it means to run under and loom over. have giana remember her failures. 

the front door opens as she drags long from her cigarette. hissing to pull in the smoke of it. hesitant steps that follow a gentle closing click. 

she looks over her cigarette like she would a fresh set of nails—a chilled satisfaction—and then casts a glance over her shoulder.

the woman from the picture, from the funeral. the one roman can't seem to stop eye fuck—

"giana right?" 

her throat clears. wrestling out the inconsistencies for something whole and uninterrupted. "yeah". 

and as she, you, step down the summer warm steps, giana wonders if this is a game. that when you stop at the step just before the sidewalk, do you mean to look down at her purposefully? to make it known without words what the balance of this is. or is this all by chance? coincidences and nasty, tired, angry tricks being played by the mind to ruffle her into some irate storm to punish her for trying to impress the black leather crowd with supermarket store bought cake and a silent disposition. another pull from her cigarette. a simple drag and a flick to watch the embers fall and die. the silence threatening to swallow them up whole less they say something. but giana's already failed once tonight, and never has such a thing happened before. she doesn't wish for that type of emptiness again. 

"look...", you start, shifting terribly odd till your arms cross up. throat clearing in that same way giana had done, to rid your words of inconsistencies. for something sure and measured. eyes carrying a serious weight. regret. "...m'sorry about that...the guys can be dickheads sometimes, but it was sweet what you did. bringing the cake". 

"s'alright". 

"you mind if i bum one?"

"uh..", frozen amidst the heat of the night. giana, of all the things she'd expected, had not expected this. "...yeah, no, sure". the silent intimacy of giving away a measly cigarette and reaching to burn the end of it with her lighter. your bodies so close for these little slip aways of some seconds. the fire of the lighter and your eyes meeting. 

"thanks".

there is no reason to hate you. to grow weary from a stomach troubling sort of disdain. not yet anyways. 

but you don't pull from the cigarette like you need it. small, dainty takes that barely get the end to burn. like maybe this is all for a better establishment of rapport. and giana wonders, as you look to the orange burn of tobacco, if your hands grow tired the way hers did. aching from the weight of supermarket cake. from a try that doesn't hold enough effort. 

giana smiles at all this. amused by your trying. "you don't smoke much do you?"

"i used to...", sheepish. like the call out isn't something worth defending much. "...or tried anyways. i think i wanted the addiction too much, so it didn't really stick". your eyes taking to every part of her. but not like you mean to commit to memory. more like, you're attempting to remember. to sift through the histories to place her face. a look thats unnerving. the way it lingers here. like her face is only good enough for some distant recollection, but not for a readymade decent into remembrance. a bystander on the peripheral too far away to leave a stark enough of an impression. 

"do you know me?" 

"i think i do". 

giana hums. chuckles a little. "is this the part where you ask me who my father is?"

you smile. understanding. "it is".

smoke pulls from that burning orange. tobacco full in giana's nose. "he's done with it now, but he used to make jewelry". 

your eyes light. forsaking your smoke to eat at itself as it burns the paper. "ronny right? simmons?" 

"yeah". 

"he made all my fathers rings... small world". something soft and wistful in your tone. notes of a somberness that cool over the heat in giana's belly. and it'd be terrible to decide on some resolute disdain now, wouldn't it? when you've gone about bringing yourself to the front of the house to mend up that awful attempt of breaking into the seams and vein like distresses of all this ancient leather. giana is unsure of where exactly all this goes. the pleasantries and silent tobacco filled air. adjusting the sling over of her bag against her shoulder as you go to speak again. "...the guys are good people...it takes time, they just—they take some warmin up to". 

the picture near the sliding door that leads to the backyard. how would you know that exactly?

giana's cigarette proves shorter as she holds it up to her lips. a patient pull before release. "how long did it take you?"

"we were all young when i met them...just kids...the history there, for me, is different". 

"so i guess you wouldn't really know then..."

"i guess not". 

"you looked real cozy with him, so i just assumed you and blondie were together", giana gives. "i guess that's why i asked".

"oh?...", pulling the cigarette to your lips finally. a longer draw from it than giana has seen before. cheeks hallowed and that white plume meeting the air with the strain of a laugh that dresses over a minor cough. "...yeah thats...thats complicated". the air in your throat restricted. the bane of every amateur smoker who feigns the need to look professionally verse and addicted. but maybe it isn't the smoke, giving another one of those lingering glances giana's way. thinking and sifting. that pull in of toxic air just a nasty blanket for the dirtiness of words that hesitate—"how long have you and roman been—"

"together?" giana wants to laugh. wants to feel the richness of this reversal in it's fullest fashion. because this isn't a pure streak of kindness is it? it's the heaviness of supermarket cake. that after taste of the too sweet icing thats coated itself on the tongue. the way it vies to impress the palette but fails from overwork. "we're not...it's just. it is what it is with us". a phrase he'd used before, when giana's appetite for more began to simmer hot, abruptly so, from a lukewarm staleness. flicking her cigarette to the sidewalk in what feels like some small victory. because theres room for some contempt now isn't there? "so should we get into it now? hash it all out or do we wanna twiddle our thumbs a little more for the fuck of it?"

"excuse me?"

giana's eyes roll. mirthful. "...we could make a schedule for it...something tentative...", body buzzing over. a frenzy. bliss. that faux clueless light about your eyes darkening slowly. "...we could meet up. exchange notes on how absolutely fan-fucking-tastic the dick it". 

incredulous. "wow, ok". your finger flicking away the cigarette you'd let burn to nothing. 

like you're suddenly unaware of such context. 

like giana is stupid. 

"or am i still pretending thats never happened ever?"  scoffing dirty. an annoyed disgust. "or that he hasn't wasted a second eye fucking you since we've been here?"

and here giana can see the dissipation of all that terribly built cordiality. the complete draw back of the curtain. an amusement to you that aches her belly and heats her blood. standing on that step above her still, looking down. "blaming me because the man you let hit it raw or otherwise has no self control is nasty work. very much, unwell behavior. lets maybe reevaluate who the issue is for you". 

"lets dead the formalities yeah? you thinking you need to play nice". the air hotter than it's been all night. and that grass deep bass of the backyard music finding it's way to her feet again. to pulse and disturb. "i don't need you rollin out a welcome mat, and i don’t need to be small talked 'cause you're all curious, and feel some way about fuckin' my man once upon a time, thinkin' now, that you need to connect with me. trust, it's no sisterhood here 'cause we both happen to know what he tastes like". 

your feet take to walking up back to the door. something wry and rotten spreading a smile on your mouth. "not to be that pedantic bitch but he can't be your man if you aren't together. thats not how those words work". 

this is all so damn silly, isn't it? the smoky burning taste still lining itself at the back of your throat from that cigarette you'd attempted to suffer through out of obligation. and yes, it was out of obligation, out of a sure founded kindness because the guys could be so brutish and exacting and ill-fit to empathy sometimes. just a little too comfortable in their insensitivities when it comes to the smaller, more trivial things. the apology was a nice thing to do wasn't it? an attempt at mending her feelings. to set over a new foundation after the careless breaking of the old one. because she was new and out of the loop on all the nuance. how would giana know that dean was being a dick, but in a simple, amusing, non-threatening way? a rough sort of fun making. no, what you'd done—trying to bridge the gap—is initiative is what it is. fucking initiative. right? right. 

and to think that you'd spared her from the details. eye-fucking is just the tip of the iceberg of whatever mischief she thinks her boyfriend-not boyfriend gets up to. 

a feverish buzzing, helped by the summer heat, sticking to your skin till its beneath it and melting over bones. talk about fucking audacity! being blamed for his lacking in decorum. it's pure bullshit. 

and was it so evil, to hold a bit of curiosity about the status of their...thing? considering roman had put in a sizable amount of effort into blurring the lines of your perception on it all. again...sparing her the details out of kindness. 

but there is another issue to all of this isn't there? a smaller formed thing, that lays at the base, waiting for some much needed uprooting before it can expand to a full truth. takes the burned bitter taste of that cigarette on as it's own till it's painting over your tongue and down low to bruise your stomach. but you were being nice, had left the backyard party with the fullest intentions of—then why did this feel so odd? an unsettling drive in the line of your fingers. something impending in your palms. like the endurance of them is sure soon to fail—

steps sound over the hardwood floors, inching towards the kitchen from that endlessly long hallway. heavy boots that make no qualms about their heaviness. and you know it's him, can feel it in the way the heel-toe drops into the floor. a patient swagger thats paced only to please himself. a sort of rhythm that conquers the time and space it walks through. 

an unsettling drive in the line of your fingers. like the endurance of them is sure soon to fail...

and you'd made it a point to engross yourself in the festivities of the night. break so deeply into the celebrations that you wouldn't have to face him. but now it all seems like a complex task done in vain. his leather dressing cooly over his broad shoulders and his fingers adorned meticulously. hair pulled out of his face enough that you can spot the edge to his eyes as he makes to pass the kitchen, phone slipping from his ear to his pocket. 

but this can't be ignored too much longer can it? someone will have to take a knife to the air eventually. cut through it deep enough for a compromise of the shared space. your arms folded up, and your teeth threatening to bite sharply into your lip as you lean against the kitchen counter just where the sink is. "can we talk?" 

he stops. bringing himself to the edge of the u-shaped counter space to lean over onto it. his leather singing as it bends and adjusts and touches up against the marble as he moves. the kitchen lights yellow and far too dim feeling here, or maybe it's just him. a moment of a drink in to really look at him. the night time rendering the homey space darker than usual even with all the small kitchen fixtures giving off their bits of brightness and warmth. the way they spill above him, shinning his hair but never really catching all of his eyes. a curl in your belly as you watch his jaw shift beneath his beard. like whatever he's thinking can't help itself enough to remain hidden away from his tells. that jaw tick did always give him away didn't it? 

'm'listening". 

"...we're in, maybe? stable situations right now...", fighting to keep that strength of voice. "...you have your person and i have—which...y'know, i'm happy for you", the waver of it just there. amidst the way the words tumble. forming as they air without much forethought. "...an i'd just—it'd be nice to co-exist without all the..."

he sighs. "say what you mean". 

you clear your throat. ridding it of all those nasty, bitter inconsistencies. "it'd be nice if you didn't stick you tongue down my throat again without permission". 

he scoffs. a dirtied sort of wryness to it. "without permission?" 

and maybe your wording wasn't the greatest in the world there. thoughts stuttered by the width of his presence. by the air about him and that ruinous look in the eyes. yes, maybe it'd be better to just have him leave you be all together wouldn't it? conditions of permission aside. a peaceful compromise of co-existence where you don't have to worry about the darker lustful streaks of his intentions. attempting maybe to relive something ancient and far away. yes. it's better this way. for all involved. especially for his girlfriend, whose not really his girlfriend, but wants or thinks the position is assumable off the basis of whatever bullshit she's got cooking up in side that smoked out brain of hers. 

that acrid taste on your palette again. less like burnt leaves and more like bile maybe. a small thing trying to expand to some bigger truth. but thats a worry for later, when you're alone enough to roam freer in all this uncomfortable thought. 

"...i spoke to giana". 

he stands to full height. leather sounding just the same. breathing to take bits of the air with it, with him. "about what and why?"

...say what you mean...he'd said that didn't he?...

"i've taken up so much of her attention tonight, i figured thats what she wanted...", a mirthless spread over your lips. all those former pleasantries and bids for something diplomatic and cordial, shedding off like a fast to slip second skin. because no one wants the niceties it seems, so why should you? "...i guess i didn't realize you fuck girls with no etiquette till now, so yeah, thats on me for trying to be nice". 

you hate his laugh. the way it plays snarky and oddly pitched. too high to be suited to his regular tenor. almost like the unusualness is on purpose. "nice?"

"m'not sure why she isn't, but she should be just a little more receptive when someone makes an effort to—"

"effort huh?", rubbing up along his beard. thumb and pointer tugging and combing through to play at a mull over. for some better take of amusement obviously. mouth spreading for a coarse smile. "you tried to take a big dick swing, i already know". 

"thats not—"

"that toxic nice bullshit". finger jutting out to point. the sharp precision of a dagger. nicking the air to poke at the thickness. like if he wanted, he could give it a less dull slicing for some fuller feel of relief. but he doesn't. heavy boots claiming the kitchen floor slowly. a steady-tempered pace. the patience of a snake. laughing in that way again that shivers your skin. "you played a game and loss". 

"you think everything is a joke". cutting thin through your teeth. 

"you tryin' to play the manipulation game for details on my dick is funny, so yes, it's a joke....", and where did all the light go? all those small bursts of warmth from the kitchen fixtures swallowed up as he makes to creep up closer. a devious streak against brown eyes. "...especially since it didn't need to be done...", those mellow notes of pine pulling in full to swim in the lungs. clinging to his leather for some years. now stretching out for an embrace, making to ruin your sense of—"...it's clear there's a deficit in attention being given if you're so curious". 

this is sixteen and seventeen all over again isn't it? the body outdone by history. that dangerous inability to do or be anything but weak and arrested. "i don't need a damn thing from you—", an abrupt press in. slotting up short to wedge you in place. your arms unfolding fast, fingers bracing against the counter. palms digging into where the edge starts, and his thigh slips out to nudge. breaking in to push between. "don't—"

and he's hot everywhere. his breath and those sly touches. or maybe its the summer air. that saturation of pine. ancient things sweetening your senses. arms like pillars for a fortress, holding the counter at your sides. that small, nasty, disturbed thing welling up so well in the body as it expands, you can feel it in your ears and behind the eyes. dazed and wordless from it. from him. from the way he uproots it. 

"the only thing new york made you is distant and delusional, but i see you. i know you. been knowin' you all your life, and this shit is so shameful you can barely look at me". his pointer curling beneath the line of your jaw to bring your eyes to him. "you left me, could give less than a fuck about what and who i was doing, but now that you're here, you gettin' real bold ain't you?" thumb sweeping in to roll over the soft line of your lip. his sights taken there. but taken at your eyes to. "got the nerve to feel threatened about a position, a space, you gave up" and then that pitiless streak, in his brows, in the firm touch at your jaw. triumph. "you can't get rid of me, and that eats you up bad don't it? because now you gotta remember how needy you used to be. so damn greedy for attention. you still are". 

and theres no fight really. not anymore. all that wrestling for air in the lungs gone and the small buried things you'd hoped saw no great uprooting, fully bought up pass the surface. nerves in disarray and his thumb pulling up to sooth over you cheek. hooking the other fingers under to hold your face. seated in his palm just right. but he had to be wrong. the cigarettes and small talk, it wasn't all a facade. there were bold enough streaks of  sincerity there. you felt for her. felt for that on the outs feeling. but it couldn't be helped. soft, pitched breaths, almost tasting the ginger beer on his tongue. no it couldn't. that nagging curiosity, a terrible need in the pit of your belly. having to know just what it all was between them. it'd make this better wouldn't it? or maybe easier even, to sit in. the desire and the suffocation. 

"i need that permission of yours". 

that dark tenor rumbling into a strong bass. rolling over till you're shivering. 

"we shouldn't—", pushing at his leather jacket. or bracing into it maybe.

"look here", tugging your face. 

a hum like thunder from his chest. meeting him whole at the eyes. a string together of silence to catch those deeper breaths. and you hope this fall into him is enough permission granted. slipping your tongue through to push pass his mouth. slow and languid and slightly messy. desperation corralling sharp in the skin, like all that space and time apart has no use for anything refined and modified. a drawling mezzo of a moan that spurs him into action. palms shaping down the outline of your body till he's pulling at and kneading in. something firm and testy just under the zipper of your jeans. palming to cup there as you grip into his jacket tighter. 

nose knocking into yours. a little more tender than expected. his tongue lapping over into a kiss to savor. "you're still the same", he hums. peeling down the zipper. smiling and so damn satisfied. "still so responsive", fingering pass the thin underwear to glide through slowly. your head falling into his chest. a warm embarrassment in your cheeks. "always been sensitive, right?", hooking in to swirl two fingers against your wet clit. breath hitching at the touch. that firm tenderness old but new. "real nice for me". adulation. his other hand bringing you back into him, cradling your nape to adjust for a lingering kiss. 

you can feel him breathing. stealing all of your air. your body trembling and clenching about nothing but that sweet anticipation. and he knows it doesn't he? smiling and tensing his teeth over your mouth. groaning long and lazy, rubbing sweetly into the tender beginning of your pussy. prolonging and biding time, like it's been made for him. like at any moment all those backyard eyes and ears wouldn't be turned to the both of you. 

"spent the last week wondering if you feel the same. kept dreamin' about it". 

"...please...", your hips twisting into fingers for better friction. clit catching to work along the length of it. lips falling open in that swimming daze. 

his mouth trails over your cheek. kissing and breathing to pull in the scent as he goes. tongue lapping into your neck, the wet slight of it just where your pulse is. a groan breaking through in attempt to mask the deep tremble that takes him. nose roughing in as he suckles and prods wet. "still smell the same". dipping his fingers in easy. gathering the drool of arousal to push in patient till he's nestling in at the base of his knuckles. 

"..ohhfuckk..", a tight breaking out from the throat. rutting into his palm again as he holds, cupped against your clit. a salacious little song playing as he drags out to just the tips of his fingers. stroking in shallow to tease and play before he's slipping in again to the hilt. nudging softly at that sweet, deeper place. resting and sweeping just how he used to. to elicit a more reckless tune. broken little things that just barely form. "..ah—rightthereee.." 

he grunts. scoffs. a mixture of the two and something a little lighter in amusement. taking the grip at your nape and placing it to guide and push into the back of your jeans. shoving off the fabric there to claw in and tuck his fingers where your ass curves under. steering the soft, tight, riding grind of your pussy as keeps his fingers slotted deep. "...after all this time and you still can't take much without makin' all that noise...", mouth breaking from your neck to kiss at your lips again. "..s'pretty though..". messy still and indulgent. but he'd always kissed you a little messy. not like he had no qualms about it, no, more like, he just couldn't help himself. like he couldn't make a more refined work of it, if he tried. 

your body seizes, holds in to clench dangerous about his fingers, nailing into his leather as all the breath you'd lost returns. funneling in fast with that hot take to bliss. the summer heat breaking over your forehead and cheeks and at the back of your neck. hushed little curses tipping off your lips in between the kisses of his. 

the backyard music cuts abruptly. voices carrying in loud. a rush in that breaks the ending bits of all that lingering pleasure. your awareness coming back to you in a less than steady fashion. shaky and drunk still. his hands easing out to let you fix yourself up. 

but you don't miss the way he suckles his fingers clean. like that course of action was somehow more functional and faster than using the sink just behind you. snagging a piece of tissue to wipe his palm before he's creating the distance again. heavy boots thudding against wood till he's out the door. 

[roboj0e]

Wade would bully Peter bc someone said he would and wrote it happening and bc y'all are so boring and annoying. Fanfiction isn't about what's canon or strictly in character thats why they're called transformative works. I think y'alls weird obsession with what's cannon while also trying to heavily police what and how ppl make fiction is honestly been the death of fandom and creativity.

There hasn't been a large scale cross over in fandom in years that either wasn't completely ironic or torn down by bullies that it fizzled out bc y'all don't know how to have fun. Even that recent debate over how sans would react to his brother death is further proof of y'all's lack of understanding of interpretation and fan works. Fanwork are supposed to exist in the reality of the fiction of the person who wrote it. NOT what IS the right interpretation bc there are NO right interpretation except for what is made canon which can be anything bc WE aren't the creators.

Who cares what happens in the comics. The comic themselves don't care what happens in other comic runs unless it's specifically meant to be a spin off/continuation.

Wade is SUPPOSED to be a morally ambiguous character. I know y'all have washed him of all the ambiguity bc ppl have told you that how ur supposed to approach fiction and y'all can not perceive a protag who might not be the best person who ur also NOT supposed to hate (god forbid a protag not have Jesus adjacent morality) but thats what he is. He'll do whatever anyone wrote him doing bc he's not real and also anything thats morally ambiguous or toxic bc that's one of his character traits and what was supposed to set him apparent from other heros he's not even a hero he's an antihero. I can not believe y'all are moralizing something as tame as bullying. Bullies making up with their victims happens in DISNEY movies now y'all tryna make that into some problematic take. OMG. And this is from someone who WAS bullied briefly until I learned how to fight and stand up for myself.

Thinking that someone who romanticizes something morally wrong couldn't have possibly been through that experience is the direct antithesis of fiction. It also makes no sense. Plenty of ppl write from experience but also sometimes turning it into a story in which they control how they interact with a bully does A LOT FOR REGAIN CONTROL OF THOSE NEGATIVE EXPERIENCES. STOP TRYING TO SUS OUT WHO HAS TRAUMA OR NOT. also STOP thinking that you are an authority of certain traumatic experiences you aren't every experiences are very VERY personal and the portrayal of those experiences should have NOTHING to do with yours bc there is NO way to encapsulate all lived experiences. And even if someone hasn't been bullied who cares again decenter yourself from a fictional scenario that should in now way be a representation of you bc u are not the center of the universe.

(THIS SECTION UNDERNEATH IS MY HEAD CANON U DONT HAVE TO TELL ME U DONT LIKE AGE GAPS IDC)

Secondly wade only wouldnt bully Peter TO ME bc I'm not a teenager in highschool like some of y'all and highschool fics don't interest me and wade to me shouldne even be in highschool and always be the much older one in the dynamic. They shouldnt even be near the same age for me. But whatever floats ur boat. You can do whatever you wan't but when y'all make these long posts telling OTHER ppl what they can and can't do OR how you think YOUR interpretation of the character is the most right your crossing a line frl.

Edit: I read both Deadpool and spiderman comics btw plus the very wonderful spiderman/Deadpool run. GASP I know someone who likes the source material but doesn't adhere strictly to it bc I actually have an imagination and like to have fun instead of kissing marvels feet and remaining in a narrow interpretation of a character. A rare breed I guess.

Edit edit: I also think alot of y'all have a very romcom take on spideypool. And thats definitely fine love my fair share of fluff. But I have a much more complicated take on them. Again I think an age gap compliments these complications. It adds to an imbalanced perspective of both of them towards each other. I'm also very uninterested in a spideypool that grow healthy together or peter "fixing" wade. I want them to overcomplicate their relationship but for it to also be a healthy balance of comedic and fun and hot monkey sex that keeps them interested in a less than perfect relationship. A sorta push and pull from both sides.

[ask-whitepearl-and-steven]

Would you mind sharing your planning process of the comic? I'm starting to brainstorm a fiction idea and right now the ideas are very messy and I wanted to know if you could show how you plan what happens on a season and on an episode, maybe with an example of a season episode you already published, so I can learn how to organize myself?

I really, REALLY appreciate you coming to ask me for help with this. It's awesome to hear that you respect my writing enough to seek me out as an authority on such things, or at least enough to ask for advice.

But I'm gonna be real with you - what you're asking for is not a quick slapdash reply that I can whip up in my free time. What you're asking for is an hour long video essay (with examples) on the level of an educational creative writing online course.

And I--I don't know if I have it in me to do that right now. Not with everything else I'm trying to do. (Sorry.)

BUT.

What I can give you instead is a basic rundown, and maybe some recommendations for where to this stuff.

To be absolutely brief: For me, the best way to visualize how I plan would be to make a flowchart.

Keep in mind that....... I don't ever actually.......MAKE. A flowchart.

Mostly, I am just using this as a visual representation of how my ideas flow from and to each other in a coherent way. The reality is that this skill is something you have to develop until it becomes second nature.

As an example, let's take the episode(s) where I introduced Seaglass.

This little arc was planned in season 3, but really started to come into play in Season 4.

To make it happen, I started with the obvious main idea: SEAGLASS.

I then broke it down into multiple smaller ideas:

If you notice, the main plot of this doesn't even start when the Seaglass exposition does. Steven makes Seaglass back in season 3, but doesn't know about it. But these ideas are still important to acknowledge as being a part of the main plot.

I then fill in MORE space between these larger ideas.

This whole set of steps is just a logical progression of me playing 'how do we get there'. I make up plot points and say 'what happens to get from A to B?'

And keep in mind - this may seem kinda obvious. That's because... it should be! But that's how the planning happens.

Realistically, it's just a bunch of asking myself questions. The same exact questions I refuse to answer in asks.

"What happens next? What would happen if....?" "Why doesn't Steven know about ....?"

"How would Steven find Seaglass if he doesn't know she exists?"

Well she's small and green, kinda like Peridot. So he goes looking for Peridot and mistakes Seaglass for her.

BAM! You've got yourself a plot point. That's a plan, baybee!

And then just kinda rinse and repeat.

And eventually, you want to make sure that you have some sort of connection back to the main plot point. In this case, it's the realization that Steven CREATED LIFE.

Again, I want to stress - I don't actually........plan.... by writing this down.

I do this process in my head. Often, multiple times per chapter, writing and editing to make it make more and more sense. The important part is about asking yourself questions. The same questions your readers should be asking.

"Why is this character doing this?" "Why is this event happening NOW?" "How will A find out when they realize what B has done?" "What is the BEST time for B to find out...? What is the WORST time?"

All of this takes imagination. It isn't about organization. It's moreso about learning to tetris plot events into their most snug spaces. It's about thinking of events as a staircase, which eventually leads to a larger staircase of plot arcs.

And as a final note, I will say that someday, when I'm less busy, I may make a video about plot. But it will take more time and effort, and for now, please just watch videos by other creators! I'm sure they're just as good at it as I am.

[gffa]

On the topic of book recs, what do you think of Master and Apprentice? I read it when it came out and it’s been so long the only thing I meaningfully remember was liking Rael and I’m honestly still surprised he hasn’t shown up more.

Oh lmao what to say about that book--there was so much I liked! But there was also so much that utterly baffled me! I spent a lot of time trying to get my head around the narrative of the book, what it would tell me versus what it would show me, and that kind of drove me crazy and I wrote so many posts about it, to the point that I'm sure I was deeply annoying lol. Ultimately, I like the book! But I like it in a very specific way--that I think it shows Qui-Gon as someone who is deeply flawed in a very caring way and he should be allowed the space to be flawed without it being used to condemn him. Like, so much of that book drove me crazy because Qui-Gon would say he didn't think the Jedi should be so tied to the Republic and that it was mistake, but then what saves the slaves at the end of the story? That Obi-Wan acts as a representative of the Republic so that the organization was forced to let them go. But this isn't remarked on, it's just there! Or Qui-Gon would say that the Jedi aren't doing more to change things and then, when he is offered a chance to be on the Jedi Council, where he could make the changes he was looking for, he turns it down because he doesn't want to stop being Obi-Wan's Master and wants to continue doing whatever he wants. But I'm not sure the narrative recognizes the structure it's setting up, despite that it kept coming back to it again and again. So, ultimately, I recognize I may be reading against authorial intent (but honestly I'm a Lucas-centric fan, so that's the only word of author/authorial intent I often care about XD), but to see Qui-Gon being written as kind of full of himself, but in a likeable way, someone who didn't see the things he was doing while preaching at others, who was kind of terrible with actually talking to Obi-Wan (the book does acknowledge this!) made me actually enjoy it, but in that specific lens, rather than with Qui-Gon being 100% right or 100% wrong. My other qualm about the book is that it was billed as a Qui-Gon & Obi-Wan story, but honestly it's really not. Obi-Wan is there a lot, he even gets many point of view scenes, but the story didn't really have much to say about him (and it's not the author's fault, I thought she did great with Obi-Wan's character in her From a Certain Point of View story even when it was from Qui-Gon's point of view!) and I wound up with nothing to say about Obi-Wan in that book. Me! Nothing to say about Obi-Wan in a book! How??? But I loved the relationship Qui-Gon had with Dooku--for memory, I think it was a lot warmer than some people see it? Which made sense to me, given that Dooku seemed to genuinely think Qui-Gon would have joined him when he talks to Obi-Wan in AOTC. And I enjoy Rael as a character, too! I wish he'd shown up in more, other than Dooku: Jedi Lost, because he's such an interesting addition and a semi-reflection of Anakin's character (given his struggle with the Jedi lifestyle, the late adoption, etc.) There were also some banger lore quotes (that one about Qui-Gon saying that the Jedi creche taught them all about how darkness was inside them all is one I trot out often) and I think I'd enjoy a reread. I know it sounds like I'm bashing on the book or on Qui-Gon, but honestly I don't intend it that way, and I'd actually like to reread it someday to see if my feelings have evolved on it.

[sassysnitch]

Twisted Wonderland Headcannons:

The Housewardens finding out they have a secret/long lost sibling

Authors note: I was thinking about how in 2012-2017 it was so common for people to make their OCs a long lost sibling of a canon character and that's how I got this idea. Enjoy(?)

__________________________________

🌹Riddle Rosehearts♥️

-If Riddle had a sibling all of the sudden it would either be an younger sibling or half-sibling for this situation to make the most sense.

-In other words: For Riddle to have a sibling and not know of them it would either mean his father was cheating/left his mom for obvius reasons and got with someone else, OR, they'd have to be born before him and have gone somewhere before he was born.

-Now his reaction at first would definitelly be shock. Right after a lot of questions for his mother.

-Would also be really angry and perplexed on why he didn't know he had a sibling sooner

-Despite his anger and confusion he'd most likely see connecting with his sibling as an important responsability

🦁 Leona Kingscholar 🐾

-Now for this one, Leonas long lost sibling would need to be older or else it doesn't really work.

-I'd say either said sibling was actually born before him AND Farena but went missing and so the parents had to make another heir and then Leona came after, or, said sibling is actually the second born and went missing so their parents had Leona to try and fill in the void in their hearts from the dissapearance of the missing child.

-Leona would also defenitelly be suprised, as well as in disbelief

-If it turns out the lost sibling is still alive, Leona probably wouldn't really mind them, but also wouldn't really see the need to fully connect.

-(he cares for them a little, don't worry)

🐙Azul Ashengrotto🔮

-Either younger sibling, older sibling or half-sibling could work in this situation, especially considering Azuls dad is kinda out of the picture.

-Would choke on his food/drink when he finds out about them

-I feel like he'd be somewhat eager to get to know them, concidering he was a rather lonely child (He was probably one of those kids who'd ask for a younger sibling as a gift on the Holidays)

-if said sibling is anything like him they're probably gonna become bisness partners (yay~)

✨Kalim Al-Asim🥥

-Considering Kalim has a bunch of siblings this can go either way

-The long lost sibling probably got kidnaped because of their status, survived, and couldn't find their way home until now

-Boi would be devistated to find out that one of his siblings was just, forgotten like that! He'd also feel sorry for what they went through

-But hey, once they go through a DNA test, (to really make sure they're an Al-Asim) all will be good, Kalim will also check up on them here and there, making sure they're adjusting back to their home well

⚗️ Vil Schoenheit 👑

-this one is also kinda easy, since we do know that Vil has a dad, but there's not really any information about his mom

-They've probably just been living with Vils mom their whole lives and that's why he didn't know

-his reaction would be the most dramatic "what" you've ever heard.

-would be very set on meeting them, he'd also most likely be a very caring brother

-(that's it I don't have any more ideas for Vil-)

💙 Idia Shroud 💀

-The sibling would probably have to older than him and Ortho for this scenario to work

-Once he's told about a "long lost sibling" he'd at first think his parents are talking about the original Ortho, is confused and somewhat scared when he's told that the conversation is infact not about Ortho.

-once he's calm he'd call it an "Anime plot twist of the century"

-Said sibling probably didn't want to keep on the STYX family bisness and went out into the world to pursue a diffrent passion and that's why they never met.

-Idia isn't super pumped about meeting this "long lost sibling" of his but is defenitelly curius about them and what they decided to pursue in life

🐉 Malleus Draconia📜

-Also would have to be older than him

-Would not be the only one that's suprised, the whole Diasomnia gang would have questions

-The sibling was most likely abducted as a child and suddenly have turned up now, this one however would probably not need a DNA test as long as they have the classic Draconia horns.

-They'd probably also be autamatically respected by Sebek and Silver, meanwhile Lillia is trying to figure out when exactly they could have been born for this situation to make sense, would be a total dad to them afterwards.