#real men use 1 layer

[feline-evil]

Dick or no dick confirmation Pickles was always going to be trans to me anyways; if he's swingin' somethin that's phallo babes, if he's not then his t-dick fat. What's not to get.

[npdkondraki]

hi. kondraki scpverse is a trans woman. cope and seethe and read my essay about her below the cut. (it's really fucking long) (please god i put so much fucking work into this read it im begging you)

ok for starters for people who dont know what or who the hell im talking about right now (doubtful) (only adding this for the unitiated & newbies): this essay is about my awesome wife DR [REDACTED] HENRICH KONDRAKI(1) from pseudo-niche internet horror-fiction site THE SCP FOUNDATION(2/3). if you can't tell by our url i am Bonkers Crazy Insane about her and have been sporadically obsessed with her for several years. she sucks bad. anyways this post is about why i think she's a trans woman instead of being a "cishetallo man" like canon claims she is. you may be wondering; "but sawyer how is canon wrong about this if its canon" and to that i say. I know better than canon does dont worry about it. ok with that out of the way lets get into the schmeat of this thang

FIRST OFF. kondraki's entire view on masculinity is inherently tied to violence. she believes that if she isnt violent, cruel, and hiding her emotions constantly, then she isn't a 'real man'. her entire worldview, including her view of her own gender, is perceived through the lens of men, including herself, needing to be 'masculine', but she defines this masculinity through her own warped idea of what masculinity 'really is'. because she perceives men, and by extension masculinity itself, as violence, then she herself is violent. everything down to the way she speaks is designed to make her appear cruel, vindictive, and, most importantly, violent. she goes as far as claiming her favourite memory of working for the foundation is when she chased a man down and, quote, "[shot] his fucking face off"(4). however, despite all her tough-talk about being "badass"(5/6), she actually appears to be incredibly regretful about her actions(7), unlike her words imply.

she creates a cycle of retraumatizing herself over and over by hating everything being a man stands for, but refusing to acknowledge it. she leans into the idea that she is violent and cruel, creating a self-made cycle of self-hatred. this retraumatization makes her more violent; it causes her to lash out more, to be more vindictive, to be more outwardly cruel to people, to be more "man-like" in her eyes. she places herself into a self-made twister of hating herself enough that it rubs off on everyone else, and then positively claims its "[her] design"(8) rather than accepting how depressing it makes her life. she uses her own cruel perception of masculinity as a way to shield herself from the idea that she could ever, willingly, be a woman, because she's too violent and cruel and she'll never be a real woman, not in the same way people like rights & iris are. she fully, completely, and genuinely, believes that if she is able to "out-man" every man surrounding her then nobody is able to question what she thinks of herself.

theres an additional layer to how she views masculinity, in the sense that it makes her also view femininity as inherently docile, something that she lives by even when she is acting as a woman. in doing so she continues to perpetuate her idea that she must be violent to be masculine, because she views women (or, more specifically, the concept of being a woman) as fragile, weak, perceptible to being hurt, and she refuses to be any of these things. in refusing to view herself as a woman she, in her mind, refuses to view herself as emotional, hysterical, and, perhaps worst of all in her mind, just a woman. it's an incredibly unfortunate mix of how she was raised and the culture at her work; she is punished for being feminine (emotional, caring, nurturing, etc) and rewarded for being masculine (violent, cruel, selfish, etc) because that's just how people are in her line of work(9).

she views the entire experience and idea of being a woman as a joke. she's allowed to think about it, as a joke. she's allowed to be feminine, as a joke. she's allowed to be a girl, as a joke. she's allowed to be a pretty princess(10), as a joke. the very few brief moments where she allows herself to act on her impulses and suggest, even a bit, that she would like to be a woman is played for a joke(11/12/13/14/15). she speaks of being a woman as though it is a mystical thing, something she can only hope to achieve, less of a real option and more of a fantasy. she is acceptive of trans people(16), going so far as to say it seems that "it’s quite remarkable how productivity and morale improves once they come out and settle into living as their correct gender. [she imagines] it’s a huge relief, and it shows in everything they do." it's just that she truly doesn't view herself as being worthy of that. her entire life has been spent convincing herself that she isn't worth anything, let alone joy or comfort. she doesn't think she deserves to be allowed to transition. she believes that dr. kondraki needs to die, needs to be shot, needs to get it over with and kill herself already, and doesn't realize that the distance she puts between "[redacted] henrich kondraki" and "dr. kondraki" is a mask, a shell she can hide behind; it's a way for her to excuse any mention of her being a woman. if dr. kondraki can't be a woman, then [redacted] henrich kondraki can't be a woman either. it's nothing but a fantasy to her, something she can joke about and then discard along with the rest of her fantasies of being a good person, of being someone who deserves to be happy.

you can even bring her entire theming of butterflies into her own repression; the butterflies act as a camoflauge in the same way her mask of masculinity does. the only time she ever is truly gentle or nurturing or caring, all tasks she has deemed feminine, is with her butterflies. butterflies are specifically used in metaphors for transition, quite often appearing in trans artwork as a way to represent the death of who you once were and who you are now. the fact the butterflies also possess camoflauging abilities, which they tend to specifically use to make themselves (and kondraki) invisible, is in and of itself a metaphor for being in the closet, or, in kondraki's case, being repressed and refusing to acknowledge her transness. her transness is treated as though it's invisible, something she only looks at when it's disturbed, not unlike the way you can only see the butterflies by disturbing them. she refuses to acknowledge it, hides behind her camoflauge as a defense mechanism. coming to terms with her transness would make her have to disolve and be reborn, and she doesn't believe she deserves that. she doesn't believe she deserves to live free of the guilt, of everything she's done, so instead she stays camoflauged, stays in her bubble of masculinity where she feels her self-imposed shame and guilt.

all in all; kondraki is extremely repressed and refuses to accept that she's a woman, despite her progressive views, because she believes it would mean she is weak and fragile. she's terrified of her femininity, and uses violence and humor to deny every feminine part of herself.

DISCLAIMER. my choice to use specifically she/her for kondraki in this essay was a purposeful and deliberate choice and if you choose to use he/him after i have literally solely referred to her with she/her in this entire post i hate you personally. in other words

[niqhtlord01]

Humans are weird: Man over Machine

( Please come see me on my new patreon and support me for early access to stories and personal story requests :D https://www.patreon.com/NiqhtLord Every bit helps)

Alien: You must understand our line of thinking.

Human: I understand it is stupid beyond measure.

Alien: *Sighs

Alien: It is only logical to use mechanical soldiers in modern warfare.

Alien: Anything less is purely barbaric.

Human: You reduce war to little more than 1’s and 0’s.

Alien: What we do is remove needless bloodshed.

Alien: No longer are brave soldiers dying on forgotten worlds, no longer will families grieve for loved ones who will never return; no longer would we need monuments to the fallen.

Alien: Disagreements could be settled without a drop of blood being shed.

Human: You turn it into a game.

Alien: Exactly.

Human: No; you’d be turning war into a game, and that’s never a good thing.

Human: You can’t reduce war to a simple equation.

Alien: It sounds more like you just wish to continue your carnal desire for violence.

Human: Do you think so little of us?

Alien: Yes.

Human: ……

Human: *Sighs

Human: We’ve tried using machines in war before.

Human: On the surface yes, it did appear better.

Human: Military causalities were but a fraction of what they would have normally been had we used real soldiers, but there were other problems that soon cropped up.

Alien: Such as?

Human: Lack of morality was a large factor in the programs discontinuation.

Alien: Morality?

Alien: What use does a machine have of that?

Human: Because not everything is always black and white; there are shades of grey that only a living breathing person can recognize and handle.

Alien: Absurdity

Human: We used the robot CS95 battle machines during our initial conflicts. When it was deployed it was programmed to treat anyone holding a weapon as an enemy combatant and terminate them immediately.

Human: They cleared out an entire city in a single day before issuing the all clear signal.

Human: When living soldiers arrived to provide relief efforts they were horrified to discover that the entire city’s population had been massacred.

Alien: While tragic it sounds like a faulty programming error.

Human: I would say a big fucking program error.

Human: The programmer had not thought it necessary to properly define the scope of the term “weapon”, and so the machines began their own search on what classified as a weapon.

Human: There isn’t an item in human creation that hasn’t been used to murder another human, and so the machines deemed everyone they encounter a valid target.

Human: Men, women, children, soldier, civilian; it didn’t matter.

Alien: A lapse in programming quality still does not outweigh the benefits of bloodless wars.

Human: That’s what we thought and so we added additional layers of programming to better define combatants. So the next time they were deployed they would not make the same mistake.

Human: Unbeknownst to anyone an additional line of code was slipped in deep within the programming that designated anyone with a specific skin pigment as an active combatant, regardless if they had a weapon or not.

Alien: Why would they do that?

Human: They were what we call a “Nazi”, and thought people of a select orientation only deserved to live.

Alien: That’s horrible.

Human: Yeah.

Human: They kept spouting that shit from their court-martial all the way to the hangman’s gallows.

Human: The point being still that because the machines lacked any sense of morality they followed orders without question, causing untold damage and destruction on innocents.

Alien: Refinements in programming and further oversight can still correct such problems.

Human: So can a living soldier with a conscious.

Alien: Come now; a soldier can just as easily follow orders as the machines did and have the same result.

Human: The difference being that not all of them would.

Human: Some of them would realize what they are doing is wrong and question it, and if needed refuse said orders.

Human: We have even been aware of our short comings and made it the law of the land that if they feel an order is unlawful they can refuse it entirely.

Alien: Yet another contradiction.

Alien: Soldiers are meant to follow orders.  

Human: Wrong.

Human: Machines are meant to follow orders blindly.

Human: Soldiers are meant to follow orders with integrity.

[nanamineedstherapy]

kay s like. do u play those chill cozy games?? bc apparently mfs are calling it 'gooning' now??? 💀 like is this a meme or are girls genuinely losing their shit over stardew pixels?? i can't tell if it's ironic or if they're actually out here sweating over pumpkin crops pls explain!! I'm scared

First off: I had to look up wtf "gooning" even was—& yes, I’m Gen Z 😭

Second: I’m guessing you meant "Love & Deep Space" & the whole “men calling it a gooning game” thing? I haven’t played it since launch so I’m not super deep in the lore, but I do catch edits & memes on Insta from time to time. So I’ll answer from my perspective—feel free to correct, add, disagree, etc. 💅

Also: I got this ask super late at night & accidentally stayed up trying to organize my thoughts until 7AM. My neurons are crusty.

But don’t worry, Anon—I got you. 🔍💋

🕸️Why We Love

Gojo, Nanami, Damon, Sylus, Caleb, & The "Grey Kings"

—And Why That Scares Men

Every time I see some man sneering in a comment section about women "gooning" over Love & Deep Space or "romanticising" morally grey characters like Damon Salvatore or Gojo Satoru, I laugh a little.

Not because they’re wrong that we’re invested—of course we’re invested—but because they completely misunderstand what we’re invested in.

We aren’t attracted to these characters because they’re perfect, or because we expect anyone to measure up to their exact shape.

We’re attracted because, despite their flaws—sometimes because of their flaws—they demonstrate what real-world men around us don’t even attempt:

a willingness to hold someone else’s humanity higher than their ego.

Let me explain.

📖1: Tablecloth Men, & the Myth of the "Gooner Girl"

When I hear men call Love & Deep Space a "gooner game," it’s clear they don’t even know what that means—& worse, they’re projecting their own relationship with porn onto women.

For context: in online slang, a "gooner" refers to a man (usually porn-addled) who enters a trance-like edging state, binging porn for hours while hyping himself up. A "gooner game," therefore, is something designed to put women into a similar spiral, completely lost in lust & fantasy.

The insult is absurd on two levels:

Women engaging with romantic fantasy games are not typically masturbating to them the way gooners do to porn.

Women’s desire isn’t purely physical or consumptive—it’s layered, narrative-driven, & deeply tied to emotional fulfilment.

Women might read smut while folding laundry. They’ll sext while making dinner without touching themselves or even being "turned on." They’re capable of engaging sensually & intellectually at the same time.

The very fact that men think reading smut or playing otome equals a woman slack-jawed in a dark room, sweating over her phone, says more about how men experience desire than it does about how women do.

So when men accuse us of "gooning" over games like Love & Deep Space, what they’re really saying is:

“How dare you retreat into a fantasy world that doesn’t centre me?”

🌑2: The Fantasy of the Grey King

Characters like Gojo, Damon, Sylus, Caleb, & even Haibara from my fic "Third Wheeling" are cut from the same cloth:

They’re not purely good.

They’re not purely evil.

They are loyal, dangerous, competent, & painfully human.

But what matters is that in their worlds, they choose the woman they love & orient themselves around her in a way real-life men rarely do.

Take Damon Salvatore.

Damon is a disaster of a man—manipulative, violent, morally bankrupt at times—but his loyalty to Elena is unwavering. Even when she’s not his. Even when she chooses Stefan. Even when she tells him to stop, he does stop, because her boundaries matter to him even when his feelings make it hard. He doesn’t become good because of her; he struggles & grows because he wants to be good for her.

Take Gojo Satoru.

Gojo’s lightness is a mask. Before Suguru, he was untouchable but empty. Suguru grounded him. When Suguru fell, Gojo didn’t collapse, but he stopped caring as much about his own moral integrity, because no one he respected was watching. His loyalty & morality were tethered outside himself.

Take Sylus & Caleb.

These characters from Love & Deep Space represent something real-world women rarely see: men who are successful, confident, & powerful, yet make deliberate space for a woman in their lives. Literally & figuratively.

Another character repaints his bedroom, makes space in his closet, lights candles—because he wants her to feel at home. That’s not "gooning." That’s an emotional fluency men are rarely taught but women crave desperately.

Because love isn’t conquest. Love is making room.

I’ve been thinking about how characters like Damon (TVD) & Gojo (JJK) resonate so strongly with women, not because they’re perfect, but because they’re deeply flawed men who tether their morality to someone they love.

Damon’s loyalty to Elena—even when messy—shows a man willing to reorient his entire self around respect for someone else’s values.

When she’s gone, he spirals because he hadn’t yet internalised that moral compass.

Gojo mirrors this. He was untouchable & irreverent until Suguru anchored him.

When Suguru fell, Gojo started rolling the dice with his own ethics, because his compass shattered.

These kinds of stories show women what it looks like for a powerful man to choose to defer to someone else’s humanity. And for many of us—raised on tablecloth men who can’t hold a conversation beyond porn tropes—that’s revelatory.

It’s why games like Love & Deep Space feel cathartic rather than "cringe:"

– The men are functioning adults

– They make room in their lives (and their closets) for you

– They adapt instead of expecting you to shrink

Meanwhile, male-dominated fantasies keep glorifying underage girls, infantilization, & rape disguised as "spice."

No wonder women turn to fictional men who treat them like humans instead of props.

For some of us, it was more than just escapism.

I was barely in my early twenties when I left a 10-year relationship that left me with PTSD—one I’d been groomed into as a minor, one where I thought crying myself to sleep & being yelled slurrs at was just what love looked like.

Because the truth is—asking for someone who listens, makes room, & respects your mind shouldn’t be a fantasy. But here we are.

And then, somehow, I found Damon Salvatore.

The show wasn’t perfect.

But watching this chaotic, morally grey man choose to orient himself around someone else’s feelings & stay there, even when it hurt?

It cracked something open.

It showed me what I’d been enduring wasn’t love—because if even a fictional man could make space for someone’s boundaries & grief, why couldn’t a real one?

I see women say the same about Love & Deep Space.

You scroll through the comments on their edits, & you see it—women quietly, sometimes even tearfully admitting:

"I finally realised my boyfriend was never going to treat me like this."

"This game helped me leave him."

"I thought I was asking too much—but it turns out I was asking too little."

That’s not cringe.

That’s survival.

Psychologically, this is what we call a [Link] Corrective Emotional Experience—when you encounter a new model of love or safety that contradicts your trauma, & you internalize it as proof that you’re not broken for wanting more.

It’s why these characters feel life-changing.

So, no—I don’t think it’s embarrassing that Damon helped me escape.

Or that Gojo, Nanami, Sylus, Caleb, & many others like Jack Frost or even Nick Wilde—the Fox from Zootopia, help other women escape too.

It’s not silly to want a man who sees your humanity & adapts to make room for it.

It’s not silly to believe that love isn’t about shrinking yourself.

Because the truth is—it should never have been a fantasy.

But for some of us, it was the first step toward reality.

They give you permission to leave the story you were told you had to stay in.

🕷️3: Why Women Retreat to Fiction

Real-world dating for women today is a minefield of men with the emotional range of a dishcloth & the self-awareness of a brick.

They ask what you bring to the table, while bringing nothing but porn addictions, fragile egos, & a phone full of bikini reels.

If you talk about your hobbies? They tune out.

If you mention your needs? You’re "too much."

If you resist sex? You’re "frigid."

If you want sex but also respect? You’re "delusional."

Meanwhile, the male-centred fantasies they’ve grown up with glorify girls who are:

— infantile

— submissive

— underage-coded

— overtly mothering towards their adult partners

— purely decorative

So when women play Love & Deep Space or write fic about Gojo or Damon or Haibara or Caleb, they’re not "deluded"—they’re reclaiming a narrative in which their pleasure, safety, & autonomy matter.

✨4: Why Nanami Feels Like Home (& Gojo Like Sunlight)

And then there’s Nanami Kento.

He is not the loudest in the room.

He does not demand your laughter to feel like he’s alive.

He does not treat your quiet as a defect, or your sadness as something to fix.

He does not make you shrink yourself so he can feel big.

For many of us, Nanami doesn’t even feel like a character—he feels like a possibility we never believed existed.

When you are with a man like Nanami—even if he’s only fictional—you feel, maybe for the first time, that your stillness is allowed.

Your bad days are not an inconvenience.

Your bipolarity is not a moral failing.

Your silence is not a betrayal.

You don’t have to entertain him.

You don’t have to be "on."

You don’t have to drag yourself into manic cheerfulness just to keep him from sulking about your mood.

Nanami just is.

Because Nanami is the kind of man who would simply say,

“You don’t have to force anything. Just sit. I’ll handle the rest.”

And he would mean it.

If Nanami is home, Gojo is sunlight on a day you thought would never get warm again.

He makes you laugh, even when you feel like you’re falling apart inside.

He is a chaotic spirit, but never cruel.

And while he might never understand the weight you carry, he would at least never shame you for carrying it.

By contrast, Gojo is the opposite—but not in a bad way.

He’s not perfect—he’d probably forget the groceries & lose his keys & drive you insane—but he’d always come home to you.

Gojo is the kind of man who would lie down on the kitchen floor with you at 2 AM, telling dumb jokes until you laughed again, just because he can’t stand seeing you cry.

And when you feel ugly or unworthy, he’d just laugh & kiss you & say:

“You’re ridiculous. You’re perfect.”

Some days, you need Nanami: quiet, steady, capable, unafraid of your darkness.

Some days, you need Gojo: bright, relentless, a reason to laugh when you feel like nothing is funny anymore.

🌷 Why Both Matter

And what real life so often fails to give women is even one of those things—let alone both.

Instead, we get men who demand our light but resent our shadow.

Men who say we’re "too much" but "not enough."

Men who say "just be happy" because our quiet threatens them.

Men who cannot fathom that sometimes we are just tired—& that’s okay.

It's called a partnership for a reason. All relationships need balance.

We fall for Nanami & Gojo—as opposites—because they represent the two halves of love we deserve:

Someone who sits with our grief without fear,

Someone who can make us laugh anyway.

We don’t want perfection.

We don’t expect to find a Damon or a Gojo or a Sylus walking into our coffee shop tomorrow.

🧊5: What We Actually Want

We want what they symbolise:

A man who listens even when it’s inconvenient.

A man who orients himself around your humanity without erasing himself.

A man whose loyalty does not depend on whether he gets to sleep with you.

In real life, that looks like a boyfriend who moves his stuff so you can hang your clothes.

It looks like a partner who doesn’t treat your trauma like a buzzkill.

It looks like someone who asks, "Are you okay?" & then waits for the answer.

It’s not that hard.

It just happens to be rare.

A man who makes space for you without resenting it.

🔥6: Why It Scares Men

Because these stories show women that we don’t have to settle for mediocrity.

They teach us that "at least he doesn’t hit me" isn’t enough.

That our longing is not weakness, & our standards are not "too high."

When women retreat into these worlds, men panic. Why?

They expose the ways men have failed to grow.

The men mocking women for playing otome games or writing fic are the same men who think a romantic evening is you sitting silently while they scroll their phone next to you.

🌙 Not a Fantasy—a Reminder

When you’re a woman who has been told her sadness is a burden, her quiet is ungrateful, her darkness is too dark—these characters are not "escapism."

They’re recognition.

We don’t want perfect.

We don’t even want easy.

We just want someone who doesn’t punish us for being alive.

They’re proof that someone—even if only on a page—could hold all of you without flinching.

And in a world full of tablecloth men—who only know how to worship your light & run from your shadow—Nanami, Gojo, Damon, Sylus, Caleb…they don’t run.

They stay.

And that is why we love them.

The love stories we build—in fiction, in games, in fandom—aren’t delusions.

Of what we already deserve, & sometimes what we already are:

— the person who carries everyone else’s burdens.

— the one who stays up to fix what others break.

— the one who never stopped hoping there was more than this.

We love Gojo because he falls apart but keeps showing up.

We love Damon because he’s a mess but still chooses her.

We love Sylus & Caleb because they understand that making space for someone else is not weakness—it’s love.

We’re not "gooning."

We’re remembering.

That we deserve to take up space.

That loyalty can exist.

That love is supposed to feel like home, not a hostage situation.

So if that scares you?

Maybe it should.

Because some of us are done playing NPC to your fantasies.

We’re building our own worlds now.

They’re reminders.

And they’re beautiful.

A/N: I hope I made sense & not overshare. Thank you for the ask Anon!

Also, I feel like these two are the epitome of my argument.

[bloodyknucklesforme]

Pomegranate | Nikolai x F!reader

Chapter 1

After a series of misfortunes you've found yourself in debt to Arno, a human trafficker operating in London. You work at his club, dancing and escorting, only to find yourself deeper and deeper in debt. One night you arrive at Nikolai's. He's handsome, abrasive, gross, tender at times and he might be the most dangerous man you've ever met.

cw: cw: dark fic, dubcon/noncon, reader is being trafficked, human trafficking, cockwarming, body inspection, piv, Nikolai is evil but also kind in his own weird way

Masterpost

"Clothes off... all of them," A thick Russian accent said from the intercom. You looked up at the camera in the corner. He must have seen you hesitate, "I already paid. Don't waste my money."

It never got easier. The degradation and humiliation of stripping for strange men, being used like a toy and forced to pack yourself back up into your box till next time.  It'd been almost a year now. As you dropped your coat to the floor your anger and shame hit the ceiling. You'd trusted your ex, he promised to help you when you lost your job, when you couldn't pay rent, when you needed to borrow money. You moved to London for better opportunities now you were in some stranger's house waiting to be used. You'd lost track of how deep in debt you were to him and his 'friends'. 10k? 20k? It made your stomach clench.

"Don't cry. You'll fuck up your makeup." is what those cunts back at the club would always say before you got in the car to a client's.

Marcus, your ex, now trafficker, hammered it in that this was a very important client. Probably another criminal. A rich one at that. His house was more of a warehouse. Large, stretching for almost an entire block. Nondescript from the outside beyond the vault like door and fancy keypad, one you were given a code to on the way there. 

"Turn around," he ordered when the last of your clothes hit the floor. Checking for a wire or weapons you guessed. Knowing you were being watched like this made your skin crawl but it was better than being groped immediately on entry.

The room you were locked in was more of a safe room with steel walls and thick doors. One leading outside and the other leading further inside. No windows, just the camera, an intercom panel and a white gift box that sat on the floor. 

"New clothes in the box. Put them on."

It was a too small lacy bra and matching too small panties. A washed baby blue, all mesh so you were fully exposed. There was a loud buzzer and the door unlocked.

Inside was nice. Made to look like a palace. Wood floors covered in large red patterned rugs. The walls had large paintings you recognized from an art history class years ago. You couldn’t tell if they were real or not. The details were obscured by the darkness. There was only one light on in the hallway, a door was opened down the way. It was a maw that beckoned you toward it. 

You stood at the threshold. The living room was equally extravagant. The walls were painted a wine red lacquer, almost mirror like. The ceiling had complex molding, painted the same color as the walls. The windows were all blacked out with heavy velvet curtains. It felt cold in this room. To the left was a large bar with more bottles than you'd ever seen in your life. To the right was a large couch and projector screen. Soviet era antiques were scattered about. It felt more like a palace than a home. A palace for some dark god, one that ruled pain and death. 

"You're prettier than the photo." You jumped at the voice. He was so quiet you didn't notice him on the couch. He was big, obviously tall but muscular with wide shoulders. He had a layer of fat that only worked to increase his intimidating stature. Dark hair slicked back with a widow's peak. Stubble covered the bottom part of an aged face. He wasn't old, older yes but whatever business he was in had aged him around the eyes. Dark eyes that hid any emotion from you.

He snapped his fingers and motioned for you to walk over. He had a cigar in the other hand. The smell filled the room. 

"Good. You follow instructions. More than I can say for the last one Arno sent me." He motioned for you to spin around again, giving your ass a light spank and laughing when you yelped. "You fuck anyone else today?"

"No," you shook your head. He blew cigar smoke at you, watching the silver bisect around your middle.

"Good. I'd hate to waste more time cleaning you out. They never do a good job at that." He put his cigar in the ashtray beside him. "On your knees."

"What's your name?" He asked, making space between his legs for you. You answered softly, a lie. Never give them anything was what another girl told you. Give anything and they’ll take until there’s nothing left. Even your bones could be used to pick teeth. He held your chin between two fingers, moving your head around like a doll. "Open your mouth."

He leaned forward, looking inside you. A thumb hooked over your bottom row of teeth. It tasted like tobacco and sweat. You'd learned to hold back gags long ago. 

"I don't like girls with rotten teeth." He ran a finger over your teeth, top and bottom, occasionally pressing on one.  He frowned, "Stop shaking. I'm not going to hurt you."

A lie, most likely. Men always said that before fucking you, like they could believe you were there willingly, like they didn't pick you out of a catalogue of girls. You clenched your fists in your lap and willed the fear out of your bones. Docile thing, something to be eaten to the core. You were always good. Arno controlled his girls with an iron hand. You’d heard the beatings other girls got when they disappointed. There were clients who had girls sent to them yet never returned them. Disappointing girls got sent there. Sacrifices to the gods of gold. Arno always wore gold.

"I like girls who like you." He pulled his fingers out of your mouth and pushed your jaw shut. "I paid to have you till morning. Make it worth it."

He leaned back with a sigh, grabbing a remote and turning on the projector. A hockey game flicked onto the screen, the noise from the stadium coming from speakers you never saw. 

"Is there...uh...anything you want me to call you?" Men liked all sorts of names. Daddy, Master, Sir. Rarely creative, often repeated. Some used their real name but not many, no one wants the risk of their whore becoming too mouthy. 

He looked down at you, like he already forgot you were there.

"Sir, when you answer my questions. Kolya, when I fuck you." He undid his belt and spread his legs wider. You knew your job. He picked up his cigar again as you undid the zipper on his pants.

He laid a hand on the back of your head, pressing down your hair. "Just keep me warm for now. Don't want to miss anything."

You took a deep breath before taking him into your mouth. He was thick and uncut. Intimidating even half hard. He didn't push as you worked your throat open, slowly bobbing your head. Sometimes men would ply you with liquor, help you to relax a bit more. You wish he had. The mix of salts from precum and skin filled your senses. A hesitant hand moved to rest on his thigh for leverage. He didn't shake you off. 

You glanced up at him when you took him to the hilt. Hoping for some sign of approval, not for your ego but the sake of your security. Men in pleasure were less likely to be agitated. 

"Good job, Kotenok." He rubbed his knuckles across your cheek, gold rings cooling your skin. He let you rest against his thigh, nose tickled by his dark pubes. Cigar smoke, the drone of the tv and the blood rushing around your head started to calm your nerves. Maybe tonight wouldn't be as awful as you thought.

He thrusted lazily during every commercial break. A hand holding your head steady against his thigh. He chuckled when you gagged. Everything was in Russian so you couldn't follow the game beyond his angry or excited, more so angry, ad libs.

He finally sighed and turned off the tv. He tapped your cheek softly.

"Kotenok, I need you to make me feel better about my team losing."

He made you walk ahead of him, directing you towards his bedroom. His dark eyes dug into your spine. A step below you and still a head taller. This is what a deer feels when the wolf stalks it. 

His bedroom was dark, a single lamp sat on the side table. The walls were a lime washed white. The bed was antique, made of carved dark wood. The sheets were white silk with a matching comforter. It was unmade. More paintings lined the walls haphazardly. When you were younger you used to cut pictures from magazines and tape them up to your own bedroom walls. He had seemingly done the same. 

You crawled onto the bed, swaying your hips as enticingly as you could manage. A hand wrapped around your ankle and pulled you back to the edge of the bed. You yelped as his hips hit your ass, cock bouncing against your cheeks.

"Remember  what I told you, Kotenok?" He pulled your panties down, calloused hands scraping against your thighs. "What to call me?"

"Kolya."

"Good girl." He dragged a hand down your back, knuckles bumping every ridge of your spine. You tried your best not to fidget under his touch, not to let the chill of the air or tickle of his fingers get to you. You heard clothing hit the floor behind you. You stared ahead, picking out one of the paintings to focus on. 

A young woman stared back at you, perched in a carriage and dressed in black, a feathered hat on her head. She looked upset, like you were unworthy of looking at her and you should avoid your gaze. 

Two fingers felt around your entrance. A shiver ran down your spine. You weren't wet enough, you knew that. You clung to the comforter, waiting for pain. 

"I told you to stop shaking. I said I wouldn't hurt you." He rubbed a hand across your ass. He sounded annoyed. You closed your eyes and pressed your face against the silk. It smelled clean and floral.

There was the snap of plastic and cold fingers prodding at your cunt.

"Shhh...I don't break the things I buy." He didn't admonish you for hiding your face as he scissored you open. He was almost tender, rubbing your hip with slow circles. His fingers curved to press against that soft spot inside you, pulling soft whines from you. "There we go, Kotenok."

You were pulled back again till your pelvis was hanging off the edge of the bed, toes curling around the plush of the rug. He ran the head of his cock between your folds, nudging at your entrance. He pushed in slowly, groaning loudly as you whimpered and fidgeted. Despite the preparation it was a stretch and burn. He held you down by your hips.

"Good girl," he purred with one last push. The head of his cock bumped against your cervix , causing you to clench in pain. It only spurred him to start thrusting. Your face dragged against the sheets as he rocked your entire body. His thrusts were hard and deep, like he wanted to mark the inside of you. 

"Close your eyes and let it happen. Most of them don't last long anyways," a girl said to you early on. You didn't remember her name or face anymore. 

You forced out moans every time his hips smacked against your ass. Arching your back so he could think he was pleasuring you. There was a modicum of pleasure, chasing it was too much effort, especially with unreceptive partners.

He wrapped an arm around your waist, hand dipping between your thighs. He pinched your clit till you cried out. His chin tucked against your shoulder, pushing his full weight against you. His body was hot and the thick hair on his chest scratched at your skin. 

"I don't like liars, Kotenok." He rubbed harsh circles till you moaned and shuddered. He hissed, "Cum on my cock or be quiet."

His other hand grabbed your shoulder and hauled you back up with him. Your back still pressed against his chest. Still rubbing your clit, he hooked an arm under yours and rested it between your breasts while holding your chin and forcing you to look upwards. There was a mirror on the ceiling. He smirked at you in the reflection. You dug your nails into your thighs, tears springing up in your eyes. It was horrific and erotic and disgusting and ugly and it made you wet. Some last threads of dignity snapping under the image of him fucking you. 

"Say my name," He panted.

"Kolya...please...Kolya."

"Want to come on my cock? Beg me for it." He licked your ear.

"Kolya please...please Kolya. I want to come. Please. Kolyaaaaa!"

You watched yourself as he forced you up to your peak, clenching around his cock. He laughed harshly and smacked your pussy. He held you up as your legs failed to support you any longer. You came hard, grabbing at his arms, manicured nails digging into his muscles. You would have thrashed about if he hadn’t had such a tight grip on you. 

He growled something in Russian before biting down on your shoulder. He filled you to the brim, his cock twitching inside your still clenching pussy. His cum was a familiar warm that leaked out around his cock and down your leg. He let go and you fell face forward against the bed.

"Catch your breath. I still want my money's worth." He patted the back of your thigh. You hiccuped softly as you regained sense. Limbs feeling heavy, your whole body stretched to its limit. 

You turned your head as he sat down a carafe of water and two glasses on the side table. 

“Need any?” He asked, filling his own glass. You nodded shyly. It was the first time you really saw him naked. He had a litany of tattoos across his chest and arms, too dark to make out details but you could see angels, skulls, cyrillic writing, a fighter jet, the virgin mary and a star on each of his knee caps. Near his groin was a pentagon with letters you couldn’t make out. A gold chain with an Orthodox cross hung around his neck. A layer of black body hair covered him, darkening everything even further. 

“Thank you.” You gulped down your glass, water dribbling down your chin. He wiped it away as he took your glass.

“On your hands and knees now,” He said, pushing back his hair. You faced the woman again, glaring back at her as you presented yourself to him. The mattress dipped behind you. He said something in Russian before pushing back inside you. 

You lost count of how many times he fucked you. You were pliant and submissive, following his lead as he bent you into whatever position he wanted. He was more virile than you expected. More gentle than you anticipated with a grossness you expected. The next time you asked for water he spit his glass into your mouth. He pinched and pulled but never bent you so hard you broke. Gagging, crying and cumming but never sobbing or screaming. 

You woke up sore. Dried cum and bite marks covering your body. He was sitting in an armchair in the corner, watching you sleep. He was already showered and dressed in a silk robe. 

"You’ll shower before you leave. Scrub well." He slapped your ass before shutting the bathroom door and locking it from the outside. 

Another extravagant room. Oxblood tiles and heated floors. A large marble counter and a mirror taking up most of the wall behind it.

It was a large shower but more importantly the water was hot. Not warm but hot. You could have cum just from feeling the jets against your skin. The body wash was luxurious - sweet and woody. You scrubbed well. These kinds of men didn't want their DNA wandering all over the place. 

There was a towel left for you but no clothes and your lingerie from last night was missing as well. He did leave a cup of tea for you on the bedside table. There were painkillers too. You took it all in one scalding gulp. 

You kept the towel wrapped around yourself as you walked back downstairs. You found him through the one open door in the hall.  He was sitting at the dining table, typing on a laptop, cup of espresso cooling next to him. 

"Come here, Kotenok." He tugged your towel till it fell to the floor. He tapped the inside of your thigh till you spread them. "Don't start shaking again. Need to make sure you cleaned up well."

You bit your lip. He spread you open with two fingers, tilting his head as he inspected you. You yelped when he forced a dry finger inside you, moving it around and dragging it against your walls. He pulled it out and stared at his finger for a moment before sticking in his mouth. 

"Good girl." He nodded and got a money clip from his pocket. "I like you. I'll see you again in a week."

He handed you five hundred pounds. You stared at King Charles in disbelief. You'd been tipped before but never this much. You would have to hide it. You didn’t know where but you had to. If he kept tipping you like this it could make a dent in your debt to Marcus and Arno. 

"Thank you, sir."

"Did I ask you a question?" He didn't look away from his computer.

"No...umm...Thank you, Kolya." An offering of affection, appease the god and receive bountiful gifts. 

The corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. An actual smile. 

"If Arno takes that from you, tell me. That's your money. I paid him enough as is. Now go get dressed. Your car is here." He pointed back towards the front door.

You hurried off, afraid to go back to Marcus and Arno but also too scared of what Kolya would do if you delayed. 

Here is the rewritten part 1! Part 2 will go up in the next few days. If you have any questions, comments, thirst messages about this fic please send them. I love talking about Nikolai and his Kotenok.

[bunni-v1]

hello! can i ask for the same as this https://www.tumblr.com/bunni-v1/785529181626908672/wellll-since-you-are-taking-requests-can-i?source=share but with Rafayel and Xavier? i would love to read them! (sorry for the bad English)

Don't Hide~ (Pt. 2)

Don't Hide~ pt.1

🍓I think, objectively, Caleb is the most difficult character in LaDS to write. He has so many layers and has such complex thoughts that it's hard to portray that, but I don't feel like I struggle too hard with him. Xavier and Rafayel though... dude, I can't fucking write these guys to save my life. Please forgive me if this is OOC and dogass bootyhole poopy from butt, I cannot get my favorite little royal brats down :(

TW: Mirror Sex (Xavier); Mean Xavier (only a little); Intense eye contact; May be OOC; Lightly edited (grammar errors); NSFW

Info: Rafayel x Reader; Xavier x Reader; NSFW

Word Count: Xavier (1.3k); Rafayel (1.2k)

MDNI

XAVIER

It was nearly impossible to get under Xavier's skin. He was the most level-headed, self-assured, patient man you knew. (To which he'd often reply, asking, "What other men do you know?") His calm was a perfect contrast to your chaos, the yin to your yang, the balance on your scales. Where you were mischief, he was peace and calm. It was a good dynamic you had going, but... sometimes you wanted to get him irritated. Not that pissing him off was something you loved doing, but it was fun to see him pout and huff like a petulant child.

There was one certified way to do it, of course: Jealousy.

Xavier was confident in your commitment to him (usually), and there was no real threat of you leaving. Not for Charlie or anyone else who might want a try at your hand (which you remind Charlie doesn't want you at all, and he simply changes the subject). However, if there were someone who was... more like him... someone like Lumiere in the picture. Well, that was a whole different story.

It was so very silly how jealous he would get of himself, huffing and frowning when you swooned over the masked vigilante. Swooning over him, though he insists it's very different. Needless to say, Lumiere is your go-to for flustering your cool and collected boyfriend.

Though... this time wasn't as intentional as the others.

Shamefully, you were pretty big into fanfiction, and there was a plethora of Lumiere fanfiction across the internet. It was almost fun to imagine yourself and Xavier in these various scenarios people had written, always giggling when people got his whole personality totally wrong. You'd indulged yourself in more than a few pieces in the quiet of your own home, too embarrassed to read it in public or, god forbid, around Xavier.

This one was something else, though. It started out so innocently that you almost didn't understand why the tags were so raunchy until you got to the smut itself. Tired and exhausted after a long day fighting bad guys in the N109 Zone (incredibly corny, by the way), Lumiere finds himself taking out pent-up frustration on your body. It's hot and steamy and detailed to an impossible extent. It had you rubbing your thighs together and biting your nails to keep your hands from slipping into your pants. You can practically recall the feeling of Xavier's tongue on your cunt as the author describes in detail how he uses it for your pleasure. Remembering how messy he would get when he was-

"What are you reading?" His soft voice mumbles from beside your head, and you can't turn your screen off fast enough before he reads it.

You didn't even hear him come in - giving him a key was a horrible decision with how silently he moved. You see the recognition come over his face, the telltale sign of irritation creasing his brows just so. There's a slight twitch of his nose, like a little bunny, and then he turns to you with eyes wide and filled with betrayal.

"What was that?" His tone is accusatory, pulling your phone from your hands to unlock it and continue reading. It only seems to annoy him more, "You're reading... fanfiction of Lumiere now?"

You shrug, avoiding his eyes, "I mean, it's of you, isn't it?"

"This says Lumiere," he repeats, pointing at the screen for emphasis.

"It's just a silly little story!" You defend, crossing your arms like a huffy child caught doing something they shouldn't.

He glances at the screen, reading over it again, then turning an unimpressed frown your way, "This is not silly... We haven't even done anything like this..." he mumbles the last part, but you hear it.

Oh, you could use that.

"Well... maybe Lumiere is just... better than you." You say, almost haughtily. The effect is immediate.

His face darkens visibly, frown deepening as he leans toward you like he didn't hear it right. Surely you wouldn't imply such a thing, not when you know how easily he could prove you wrong. (You won't mention that was the point).

"I mean," you gesture at the phone, "You read it too, he's freaky. Can you really blame me for wanting a little excitement?"

The switch flips, and your phone is tossed across the room, discarded in favor of teaching you your lesson. One long overdue.

--

Your pitiful reflection glares back at you, hot shame washing over every inch of your being. Xavier never seemed like the type to enjoy mirror sex, not really caring too much about himself in the moment, though you don't think he'd be doing this for his own pleasure. He has a point to prove, and after all, what better way was there to show how well he ruins you?

One of his arms is restraining yours behind your back, the other wrapping around to rest his hand at your throat. Not around it, but rested on your collarbones like a custom necklace. Splayed across your sternum in a sign of possession, a reminder of who you belong to. Who gets to touch you like this. Not Lumiere, just Xavier, your Xavier.

You are made to look at your body, watch the way your breasts bounce with each thrust, and see how your expression breaks at each second that passes. He is nearly shrouded from your view, if not for those icy blue eyes that peer over your shoulder, watching your face as it twists up in delight. The shimmer of happiness as you crumble in his arms is the only show of emotion in his body language.

You whine at the sounds of wet skin slapping against each other, clapping, and echoing in the room, the only noise heard outside of your heady moaning. You are made to hear it, much like you are made to watch, forced to take in the proof that he is much better than Lumiere ever could be for you. Maybe he isn't as "freaky" as the fictional character his fans had made up in his mind, but he didn't need to be. He could make you feel so good without all that already.

Lips ghost up the column of your throat, working along the soft and pliant skin gently. A stark contrast to the unending pace he'd set with his hips. The hand around your throat slides down in tandem with his mouth, dragging across your sweaty skin to rest just below your naval. At the same time, he kisses the shell of your ear gently, like a show of mercy that he didn't really mean.

"Are you still sure he's so much better than I am?" He whispers, the hot air making you shiver.

You shake your head, locking eyes with him in the mirror, "Nn- No. You're way better."

He hums, nibbling on the shell of your ear, "Then, what do we say?"

You pout at him, silently begging him to let you off Scot-free, like you'd earned it. Xavier isn't having it; he doesn't think you're really understanding the point yet. Disappointing, considering he'd been fucking it into you for a while now, but... what was a little longer? He had more than enough patience to wait for you to get it. So, he slowed down, nearly stopping his movements altogether.

You whine, trying and failing to get him to move again. He wasn't budging until you got it through your head that he was the only one you should be thinking about like this.

"You want me to help you finish? You have to apologize," He states bluntly, watching you like a predator does its prey.

You don't have it in you to fight anymore, "'M sorry Xavie, I didn' mean it. You're the only one for me, I promise."

"You do?" He asks, low and dangerous.

"I do, you're really the only one, I only want you to fuck me." You cry.

And by some miracle, he takes mercy on you. Fingers dipping down to your clit as he resumes his previous pace, ripping the air out of your lungs. Your moans are proof enough to him that there was no one else in the world who could pleasure you better. Not even some idealized version of himself.

RAFAYEL

Rafayel's favorite hobby was painting, obviously. Specifically, though, he loved to paint you. You'd found your way into every single piece he's made since he first picked up a brush, and now that you were an item (officially, and publicly, much to his delight and Thomas' chagrin), it had only gotten worse. Cause now he could look at you and do it any time. He could perfect the curves of your nose, the way your eye crinkle when you smile, the softness of your plush lips.

He could ask you to pose a certain way while he sketched you out on his canvas, or get more candid shots while you were working or scrolling on your phone. Each one was beautiful in its own right, lovingly crafted to show all the parts of you that shone so brightly in his eyes. If someone were to ask which depictions of you were his favorite, he'd answer with a bright smile, voice lilting as he teased how you were beautiful in every single one so picking a favorite was impossible.

If you asked him, he'd smirk, tilting his head gleefully as he answered, "The naked ones, of course."

He wasn't the biggest fan of the human form, most women and men wouldn't get more than an eyebrow raise no matter how conventionally attractive they were. Your body, though, had him going through the five stages of grief as he struggled to put such perfection to the canvas. There was something so delightfully fulfilling to paint your bare body, having it displayed in the privacy of his home to admire whenever he wanted. More tasteful than nudes and far more intimate in nature.

You'd only allowed him to do so a handful of times, which he was rueful about, insisting hiding such perfection from him was a crime. So, when you came to him and asked him to do so, he was positively giddy. Uncharacteristically tripping over himself a few times as he rushed around to gather the materials while you readied yourself on the couch. It almost made you feel bad about your little plan, only wanting to tease him a little to get back at all the times he does you. Not bad enough to stop yourself from having fun, though.

You sprawl out on the couch comfortably, legs spread comfortably, and hair draped across its velvety cushions. Rafayel is tickled pink at the sight he returns to, not wasting time in his endeavor. You give him some time to get into it, waiting until he's engrossed in the canvas to slide your fingers between your open legs. You are already wet from the anticipation, allowing your fingers to glide along your folds with ease. Your other hand squeezes your breast, playing with the fatty tissue the same way he did all the time.

His face is priceless when he looks up, surprise, then betrayal, and finally heated excitement, "You could've told me you were feeling needy."

"Keep painting," you command, firm.

He tilts his head, "What if I dun wanna?"

"Then I guess you won't get to touch me at all then, hm?" You respond, more breathy than you'd like.

His eyebrows furrow, familiar indignant pout on his lips, "You're so unfair, Cutie, who taught you to be so mean."

You hum, "I thought you wanted to capture all of my beauty, Raffie... Is this not beautiful enough for you?"

He scoffs, almost impressed, "I think you've picked up on my habits too well, Miss bodyguard."

"Do your work and you'll get your reward, fishie," You hum playfully. He doesn't argue with you this time.

--

Rafayel's reward, which you let him choose after he worked so tirelessly on painting you, was to be between your thighs. You'd made quite the beautiful mess of yourself while he was immortalizing your likeness on his canvas. The shimmering sticky release in the painting, so incredibly detailed for how little time he took to paint it, was proof enough of that fact. Not to mention, of course, how you could feel it spread across your lower lips.

He'd peeled your legs apart so gently, as though he would ruin the sight if he were too quick. Pretty brown eyes sparkle in delight as they scan over your puffy little clit, lips quirking upwards. You think he is the art piece when he looks at you like that, cheeks flushed and eyes lidded, positively hungry for you. It reminds you that he's not human, that he's something else-something dangerous. Yet, he would never hurt you.

Not when his eyes slide up to yours, captivating you while he leans down to get his first sweet taste. Hands spreading your thighs just a little further as he licks up from your sopping entrance all the way to the end of your slit. Humming satisfactorily at your taste, licking what he could off his lips. He takes a deep breath, still looking at you, then leans back in to press a soft kiss to your clit.

His smooth lips press against the little bud, not sucking, not prodding, just kissing. Gentle. Loving. Matched with his intense eyes on yours, it gets you squirming, skin burning hot under the attention, somehow far worse than his staring as he transferred you to the canvas.

He notices, of course he does, because when he pulls away he smiles up at you, "You taste as good as you look, Cutie."

You can only offer up a shaky sigh as a response, not trusting yourself to not moan when you open your mouth to speak. It's good enough for him, because he leans down and swallows you up wholly this time. Still watching you. You want to hide your face away from him, because keeping your eyes on him while he eats you out makes you feel stupidly hot. You can't though.

A tiny little voice in the back of your mind calls your attention to him, tells you not to look away. You listen to it without argument, mesmerized by the glint in his eyes. He eats you out like you are the only sustenance that he needs to keep living. Passionate, slow, and intentional in the way he moves against you. Each suck and slide of his mouth is intended to make you fall further into his waters.

You surrender yourself with no fight. Despite how much embarrassment burns across your body, you cannot find it in yourself to deny him this. Not when he looks at you like that, not when he pleases you so eagerly, pride in the rise of his brows when you cry out for him.

This was a reward for him. You are reminded when your eyes glance up at the painting, which he purposefully turned your way. He captured every curve, every little bump, every slight imperfection as he always does. Things you normally hate about yourself look beautiful in his hand, the love he feels so deeply poured out on the canvas in such an intimate way. It only adds fuel to the growing fire in your core, especially when he adds his fingers to the mix.

You look down again when he hums, finding him still looking at you with the same satisfied expression. You can't help but pull his hair back out of his eyes, allowing him a better look at your flustered face. You are reminded again that he is not human, because no human could ever possibly draw such pleasure from you. Only him, with his ethereal eyes and passionate lips.

[noxiatoxia]

i love komaeda tidbits!!! his valley girl dialect adds so much ahhh... do you recall any particularly funny/notable instances of him speaking like that, or times where other characters comment on it?

I wouldn't go as far as to say it is a valley girl-type accent. 1, because that is just the closest approximate to English (obviously the exact same thing doesn't exist in Japanese) and 2, Komaeda does not use sa and ne nearly enough for it to be those levels...well, in my opinion. I'm sure other people could weigh in on what they think.

Either way he's still stumbling over his words a lot, and I do think that's very charming.

I guess you could make the argument that he does have a valley girl accent by proxy of the fact most other characters don't over-use filler particles as much...like I said in the post, people do it all the time in real life, but in media, characters rarely ever stutter or use filler words (unless it's, like, a super tense situation). So the casual usage, even if it is small, stands out. I guess in that way, you can argue Komaeda has a "noticeable" accent in that regard...but that's very much a topic up for debate.

I'm getting side-tricked, lol.

Anyways, while not related to ne or sa, there is another thing I love that's overlooked, and that's how he uses ってば (tte ba)!

Again, this is a very cute detail. It does not happen often, but I can recall 2 instances where he uses it.

Firstly, let me explain. tte ba in the case I'm talking about is a sentence ender used to express frustration, annoyance, urgency, etc. It can kind of sound like whining, but it's the verbal equivalent of stomping your foot.

What's fun is that this word is predominantly used by women. Men use it too of course, but overwhelmingly it just seems to be a word that girls use.

But Komaeda uses it too!

First instance is in the prologue, where he says it to Hanamura.

ちょっと！花村クンってば！

The English translation is perfectly fine. But to go more in depth, as you recall, earlier in the prologue Komaeda told Hanamura to stop pestering Sonia with sexual advances. Here, Hanamura does it again. So, naturally, Komaeda responds...

Come on, Hanamura-kun! I told you to quit it already!

The tte ba added at the end makes Komaeda sound like he's scolding Hanamura and is very exasperated.

Also, while the sentence literally is just "Hey, Hanamura-kun!" with an irritated edge, using prior context and knowing what tte ba means (kind of serving to be like "I already told you this!" sort of thing) we can make the sentence sound better in English.

Next is in chapter 2.

おーい、日向クンってばー！

This one is extra funny, because おーい (usually just おい, oi) is neutral-leaning-male, while as we've said, tte ba is neutral-leaning-female. That's what I love about Komaeda's dialogue: he mixes together "traditionally" male speech patterns and female speech patterns. While, again, not uncommon in real life, anime is so much different. Scripts and word choice are used to tell you about a character's personality. As such, you usually get characters who speak hyper-masculine or hyper-feminine or deliberately ambiguous. I'd say a character who speaks a clean mix of feminine and masculine is very rare. Although, to be more precise, Komaeda speaks masculine and neutral-leaning-feminine...if that makes sense (I will explain later).

Anyways, again, the English translation is good. Komaeda does sound pretty whiny in this scene.

Heeeey! C'mon, Hinata-kuuun!

Now, for the opposite. Something that gets overlooked is an interesting scene in 2.5.

The subtitles has Komaeda as saying "I've heard enough!" but I disagree with this. Komaeda says 黙れよ！in the dub. This is a very masculine turn of phrase because of the imperative nature of it - something Komaeda, to my knowledge, never uses. Very masculine characters do use it often - like Hinata or Oowada or Kuzuryuu - but not Komaeda.

2.5 is complex enough, but this adds a whole new layer to it...Komaeda has never spoke so roughly before. I think it shows just how emotional he truly was in this scene.

I'd translate this line as:

Just shut the fuck up!

And finally...while not canon per se, it is voiced by Megumi Ogata and is very in-character for Komaeda, so I count it. This cute little voice line she recorded for the Danganronpa x Crash Fever on Halloween. It let's me segue into something.

トリック・オア・トリート！お菓子をくれなきゃイタズラしちゃうぞ...なんてね。

Earlier I said Komaeda speaks masculine + neutral-leaning-feminine, and this probably sounds like gibberish to a lot of people because...what does that even mean?

(Keep in mind I'm speaking for the perspective of anime, where these grammar rules carry exaggerated connotations compared to real life! I am also speaking from the perspective of Tokyo dialect aka standard Japanese.)

Komaeda typically uses these particles: sa, ne, yo.

All of these particles are gender-neutral, but ne can be more feminine depending on the context. For example, Saonji uses ne constantly, and so does Mioda. But characters like Hinata and Souda still use ne because again it's context dependent.

There are feminine particles, such as wa, which Komaeda does not use. It is used by characters like Sonia and Celestia and even Kirigiri, which is surprising considering her stoic image (it's very cute).

Then, there's masculine particles, like zo, ze and na. Characters who use zo are Kuzuryuu, Souda, Hinata, and Owari to name a few. Despite Owari being female, she talks very masculine, which adds to her rough image. Ze is also used by all of those characters, as is na.

Komaeda's choice of pronoun is also mild-mannered. Boku is a polite masculine pronoun. It makes sense for him to use it when speaking casually which he is always seen doing. If he used Watashi - also gender neutral (to a point) - while speaking casually, it would make him seem feminine or like a girl.

However, the vast majority of male characters when speaking casually will use Ore, which is a hyper-masculine pronoun. I have lost count of the amount of characters who use this. Only characters I can remember who use Boku (besides Komaeda and Naegi) are Yamada, Hanamura, and Ishimaru.

And for those three, I think it makes sense - they all have this level of acting polite/wanting to be polite or seen as proper.

Which is why the fact Komaeda/Naegi uses it stands out a little bit with the rest of the cast. Makes them appear more mild. opting to use gender-neutral particles only and a mild-mannered male pronoun for your male character tells you a lot about them, especially when almost every other guy in the same series is talking super masculine.

Okay, back to that video. What's cute about it is how Komaeda switches from talking masculine to feminine on purpose.

Trick or Treat! If you don't gimmie some candy...I'mma pull a trick on ya! ...Joking!

I'm unsure how to word this in a way that sounds "masculine" or "feminine" as that doesn't really exist in English I don't think...but the first half of his sentence, Komaeda uses zo at the end to sound threatening/rough, then the last part, nante-ne, sounds feminine when pitched up at the end there. It definitely makes him sound playful.

I also want to point out...though I use masculine/feminine (as what I've talked about are usually employed by men, hence masculine, or women, hence feminine) it is not a matter of being absolute...for example, dresses are seen as being feminine, but that does not mean a man can't wear a dress and still be a man.

Wow, this post got long...I sure do talk. I hope this answers something at least haha. Thank you for the ask!

[somekindabard]

Shauna being bi is so important to me. Jackie being a comphet lesbian is so important to me.

All of these characters are so well written and the sheer brutality of trauma and how it shapes a person are displayed so powerfully. Some of the girls have trauma before the crash and you can see how it affects them. Then you can see how they are pre-crash trauma vs during vs after and how they evolve. It's just so real and raw. The writers delve into the complexities of girlhood to womanhood with so much trauma mixed in and the actors skill takes it to a deeper level.

They also showcase relationships in general so well. Familial, romantic, platonic, etc. So it makes sense for them to showcase the complexities of being gay, especially in the 90's. I was a bit disappointed with season 1 at first because so many people online were so annoyed by those of us that thought Jackie and Shauna had feelings for each other. It felt like I was queer baited again. I knew the show had representation so the most obvious pairing never happening with no chance of happening and with no confirmation of the feelings kinda hit a nerve. I didn't know the writers or much about the show yet so why would I trust them? As a queer person, I've definitely been burned before by "representation".

But Gooood the way that Shauna and Jackie look at each other. The way Jackie speaks about Jeff, about her going to college and needing to lose her virginity first and how they weren't gonna stay together, how he said he loves her and she didn't say it back but maybe she "should have". It's just so comphet and so familiar to me. And it's the best portrayal of it I've seen. And yes of course it doesn't have to be blatantly stated for it to be real, but without the confirmation I was so frustrated. People who don't get it, who haven't lived it, who probably don't even know what "comphet" means saying we're reaching and that "not everything has to be gay" really did get to me. It shouldn't have, but it did. Because yeah, we're seeing more and more gay characters in media, but they usually follow specific tropes. God forbid there's more than two queer experiences in media. God forbid we showcase how complex it is to discover yourself.

It's so frustrating when people who dated men before coming out are called liars or people don't recognize how being raised in a heteronormative society can make it really difficult to recognize your queerness. And then throw in bisexuality and that can add a whole different type of confusion. Enter shauna. It was just so so perfectly done. It felt so familiar. Finally! There's an out queer couple and then there's these two who aren't necessarily "fighting their queerness" or trying to pray it away, they just don't fully understand or recognize it yet. It was set up so beautifully. And then Jackie died and nothing was confirmed. And I was really sad, but I kept watching because the show is so good and tried to ignore the people who don't get it. But it just felt so special I was sad it went unacknowledged.

But as I've watched more and more, omg. The writers have greatly earned my trust. And I actually love how it played out. I love that we didn't get the confirmation or a love confession or anything while Jackie was alive. Because so many queer people don't ever get that and it hurts. So many queer people die before finding ir understanding themselves. So many queer people never accept themselves. It makes Jackie's death even more tragic. And then Shauna actually confirming her bisexuality adds so many layers to it. SHE'LL NEVER KNOW IF JACKIE FELT THE SAME. Even if ghost jackie confirms it, she'll never actually know. God thats so tragic. And I don't feel its "bury your gays" tropey because its just too real and I can't explain it but the way the went about it was just right. I hope she'll explore that grief later on. I feel like that could be really powerful, but so far the writers are better at this than me lol so we'll see where it goes.

No, we don't have explicit confirmation that Jackie is a lesbian dealing with comphet, but lesbians who have dealt with comphet interpret her that way. We see ourselves represented and it's so special and important to us. And her best friend that we thought could be bi? She is. For sure. And her life continued on long enough that that was confirmed. But Jackie's wasn't. Ouch ouch ouch. There's sooooo many ways that not confirming Jackie's queerness could have gone wrong. Again, bury your gays, queer baiting, all of the tropes. But somehow it doesn't feel like that. I trust the way this story is written and I trust the direction it's going. I don't know if I conveyed what I wanted to here or what else to say I just. Ahhhh I have big feelings about the representation in this show and those feelings are no longer frustrated. There's grief and desperation and sadness, but in a way that feels very healing. And then there's JOY somehow. Lots of JOY IDK I JUST LOVE THIS SHOW THX FOR READING THIS FAR

[befuddledcinnamonroll]

The Great Sotus Rewatch

Some personal reflections

Since the beginning of the year, the most fabulous @thebroccolination has been leading some of us in a Sotus and Sotus S rewatch, to prepare for the return of Krist & Singto in The Ex-Morning.

Side Note: Watching Key do fandom feels very akin to what I imagine it feels like as a 10-year-old with a new skateboard rolling up to a park to see Tony Hawk doing kick flips. It is impressive, y'all.

And this felt like a very cool thing to do, both because I like hanging out with awesome people and watching things, and also because Sotus was my very first BL.

When I first stumbled across Sotus, I had no idea BL was even a thing, or yaoi, or any of it.

I was already a fan of kdramas, with a particular preference for those of the "women pretending to be men" variety (gee, wonder why). I also had a tendency to hunt out gay indie content, and was always thrilled when I could find a cute little gay romance film.

But these treasured finds were few and far between.

Then, one day, it happened. I was scrolling through Netflix, and stumbled across a little show called Sotus. It caught my eye, I clicked on it. And, according to my Netflix data, I started watching on July 26, 2019, and then proceeded to binge the ever-loving fuck out of it.

Funnily enough, I still didn't discover BL this way. It was a few years later, when I was desperately searching around, presumably typing something like "gay romance media" into google, that I was led to a reddit thread that recommend History 3: Trapped, and the rest is, literally, history.

But as I've watched more, and learned more, and become a part of this community, I've always had this fondness for the very first one. And it was so interesting to go back, and re-experience it, with so much more knowledge of the genre, and the history of BL, and the production companies, and the actors.

So here are a few thoughts after revisiting where it all began:

(Note, this got longer than intended, so the rest is past the cut)

1. Holy shit, Singto and Krist are talented. I have always enjoyed their work, but seeing them again at the very start gave me such a renewed appreciation. I think people often undervalue the early BLs, but when you think about what a risky endeavor this was, and how much Krist and Singto had to play under the surface to keep the hets happy, it was truly an incredible job. They gave layers to their performances. There were scenes that straight people could watch thinking "oh what nice boys", and gay people could watch thinking "oh they're going home to fuck right now". Honestly, there were moments their subtle slyness blew me away. They clearly took it seriously, and are a major factor in why it worked, and why we have so much more BL today.

2. Not every BL ages well, but this one was still incredibly relatable. To be honest, Sotus S was sometimes a little too relatable to me in the workplace drama. I've worked with some of those assholes. There's a maturity there that wasn't present in all the college BLs of the time. Unlike something like My Engineer (with apologies to My Engineer fans, love what you love!) where I really struggled with the bullying dynamic on a rewatch, here the push pull with the feelings of romantic desire and the struggle of queer identity felt surprisingly deft on re-examination.

There is a fair amount of filler, of course, also in Sotus S, but when you drill down to the essence of the ArthitKongpob relationship, there's a deep sweet aching realness to what they are experiencing.

3. This series reminded me of how it is so important to appreciate the history of what you enjoy. Of course we don't all have time to be complete experts, but it does make me sad sometimes when I see people online taking so much of all of this for granted. I came from a time where there was literally none of this. None. Nothing. I grew up with so little good female representation (dear lord save me from men who try to tell me Leia, Sarah Connor, and Ripley were adequate rep), and there sure as shit wasn't any gay romance that was easy to consume.

Even when I first started watching BL, I was easily catching up on all the available series. And yet, just a few years in, we are absolutely swimming in content. I cannot keep up with everything. And there's so much more diversity in genre and representation.

Sure, the quality varies, but that's true of literally all genres. Sure, there are huge problems in the industry - I mean, capitalism fucks everything in some capacity, but again, that's true of all media. Sure, there's more ground to be gained, there always is. But that ground will only be crossed by what we're getting now forging the way.

Realities are not mutually exclusive from gratitude.

All of that is to say that this only reaffirmed my gratefulness for what we have gained. For those people almost 10 years ago who decided to take a chance on something with no guarantee. For these two actors who took on a huge challenge, and have matured into men who are so open and honest about their struggles. And for this community, which I never would have found without that very first step.

I am so damn excited for The Ex-Morning.

[newfan96]

My THT review, wherever I can post it

Season 1 and 2 of this show are some of the best tv ever made. Dark and haunting, stark yet real. Characters are complex and layered and there is a hint of love through flashbacks and two very talented actors that gave you a sliver a hope.

Seasons 3 and 4 are excellent. They move the story forward for characters we were invested in. Love and struggle continue to guide the characters as they find their way through and sometimes outside of Gilead.

Season 5 is good. It looses a little focus as characters are so spread out. Less intense. But you care now, about these characters, and hang in there to see them get a good ending.

Season 6 took 2.5 years to arrive and feels like a complete departure. Characters who navigated complexity are reduced to good or bad, based on choices made today, not over 5 seasons. A show that has claimed to be feminist falls into the "women good, men bad" mentality. Season 6 flies in the face of the books intentions and message. So I recommend the books, then watch through 5 and then let it go.

#feminism is more complicated than that #good and evil is more complicated than that #this show used to know that

[importantgalaxyrunaway]

I could never forget you (Bucky Barnes x reader) chapter 1

NOTE: I put this on ao3 first and uh it’s not doing well 😢. But I put a lot of work into it so I hope you like it. My name is Arrakisfremen on ao3 if you want to read it there check out my other stories

WARNINGS: fluff, reader is immortal. Angst (angst comes in next chapter mainly) canon typical violence

You weren’t a stranger to heartbreak but For as long as you’ve known you’d loved James Buchanan Barnes. You were always his “doll” from the moment he showed up on your doorstep in 1943. Then he was bright eyed and cheerful, in fresh clean Sargents uniform his beautiful brown hair neatly made. You had promised yourself you had sworn but soft blue eyes had you agreeing to a dance as soon as possible. He had been so kind when the two of you first met.

—— (Then 1943) “Show us again freak!” Said one of the two boys who was currently roughing you up in the alleyway . “Cmon we could make some sure money at a circus show off you” then the one boy had landed a punch so forceful spots danced across my vision. I stumbled back only to be caught and restrained by his other friend.

I was running late for my shift and considering how being an inventor especially for one so up and coming as Howard stark was a male dominated field in this time and age I was determined to show up on time. So I thought I could make up the time by running (my first mistake). Running with my papers in a flutter down the cobble streets littered with war bond advertisements I had run smack dab into a wall and opened a wound on my forehead. The two boys (men would be an overstatement as no real man would do what they did) who were friends on the street at the time looked down just to catch my healing mutation in full effect. The cut on my forehead was rapidly being stitched over with new layers of skin and tissue until only a faint baby pink new skin was all that was left of it. I felt the minor pain of course but it was nothing short of the pit in my stomach when I saw those two boys faces as I healed.

Usually I was careful usually I was discreet with it. I’ve been around since the 1830s so I have plenty of practice hiding my mutation. But I was so excited today I guess I made a lapse of judgement and allowed myself to get hurt in front of someone. Which brings me to where I am now getting pummeled to oblivion by some assholes in an alley as entertainment. Each time they hit me and drew blood they would cheer as they saw it rapidly fix itself. I’ve had worse odds. Gotten out of worse scrapes. These people are morons and easily distracted. If I could angle that scrap metal—

My thoughts of an escape plan were suddenly the last thing on my mind as another man ripped the boys off me harshly.

“HEY! Pick on someone your own size” he said in a clear voice.

I know I was supposed to have great philosophical thoughts having high intelligence mutation too. But at the moment all my pummeled brain could come up with was; now THATS a man!

He kicked them away with ease throwing a few punches before scaring them off. They ran quick as her yanked them and threw them back onto the street way. While he was doing this it gave me sometime to heal so I leaned against bricks using my forearms to shield my face and other cuts patching themselves up. It finished just in time as he reached his hand for me and pulls me to gracefully to my feet.

“Are you alright there?” He said softly brushing the dirt of my shoulders they had knocked onto me.

“Yeah uh I’m good and not getting hit” I say breathlessly from both him and the fight.

“Looks like you had to be not a scratch on you” he says suprised “maybe you should teach my friend Steve how to dodge” he laughs “my names James Buchanan Barnes but most people call me Bucky”

“I can remember that easily enough. My brothers name was James too but most of everyone called him Logan.” Sometimes I should just keep my mouth shut because I always end up saying too much I think to my self but I try to regain my composure and put my hands on my hips with a friendly smile “I’m y/n l/n”

“You’re quite a knockout if I say so doll. Why were they pickin on you?”

Why were they indeed Bucky. I’ll never understand it as long as I live

Sighing and looking down brushing hair behind my ear i inflected softly “some people just don’t have the right mindset”

“I guess so. There’s a diner around the corner if you want to rest. I’ll buy you a shake and some fries” he offered

I know I shouldn’t have I really really shouldn’t have. It’s the curse of living so long like me. If I had turned him down it would’ve saved me so much pain. But those soft brown hair and kind blue eyes were calling me that day and who was I to deny my very own white night.

I can telephone Howard and tell him I have influenza. It’s better than showing up late and damaging my reputation anyway.

“That actually sounds lovely” you replied and his hand easily found the small of your back guiding you out of the darkness into the sunny day.

—— (first person) Weeks turned into many months then into a year or so seeing this man. I don’t often fall but when you do you fall hard and fast. For an immortal like me every second is precious.

And I can’t even count how many of my loves I’ve seen come again go.

I think to myself as I pour over his love letters from the front. I didn’t want to let him in through the gates of my heart. Not after I’ve seen so many go. But he sweet talked and charmed me I couldn’t refuse.

I love him thats a fact. I won’t say I’ve never loved like this before because well….I’m not naive. I have loved like this before. But oh Bucky how I love you so. I think of you every night.

All this you pondered as the candle on your desk was dripping hot wax down the holder. Eating away at its own light as they greedily poured over the letters.

Dear, y/n,

Steve’s serum has really changed him but you might’ve seen that on your television if you have one. I know you’re well off. He’s Selling war bonds. But you know him he says he wants to fight. I’m stationed in Britain right now. Getting sick of hardtack and rations. The upside of this was I was able to pick up a copy of the hobbit here. I think I’m going to get leave soon I’ll come home to see you. How’s everything at home? I’m missing your beautiful face. I’m sorry this is short and dull it’s all I had the time to write.

All my Love Bucky Barnes

Dear Bucky,

Yes I’ve seen what happened to Steve it’s an interesting transformation. Being one of starks employees I was there when he got the serum and I confess I was worried he wouldn’t make it. Stark has moved me to be his right hand woman, he says my inventions are fantastic and he wants to take them further. I worry about you every night. It’s silly like worrying will stop anything but just know you are loved. I’m in closing a picture for you to have of me. I hope you like my new dress…

All my love, y/n l/n

Dear y/n

You’re gorgeous in that dress. I’m getting of in a few days and I hope to see you doll. After that they said I’m joining Steve since they finally let him fight. The howling commandos are wild I’ll say.

All my Love Bucky Barnes

——— You leaned against him on his chest as you slow danced in the bar. Peggy and Steve were watching from the table were we were having the double date.

You hummed along to the music continuing a dance that could be performed on a pie plate. His chest rises and falls steadily reminding you that he is alive. His strong taut body and beating heart support you gently when you sway. You had danced all day. Your lips meet his in a sweet tender kiss as he cradles your head. His lips were so warm and firmilair. You swayed together slowly.

Goodness knows how how long the two of you stayed like that

“Hey I got somethin for ya doll” he said fishing a silver locket out of his pocket with a cocky smirk. Silver and beautiful it had litter ornate designs decorated across it. I flip it open and the neat photo of my sweetheart in his sargents uniform was neatly placed inside of it.

“Oh my god Bucky I love it” you hug him squeezing extra extra tightly. Photos and momentos were something you cherished especially. And you had a special place for heart lockets, they had always been your favorite. Call it what you want, you were a sentimental Immortal with a soft spot for the pretty things in life like jewelry.

“Well I didn’t want to you to forget about me doll” he said tucking a stray curl behind my ear gently.

I press a kiss to his cheek “I could never forget about you Buck” .. .. .. .. .. And that was the last time I saw Bucky Barnes the way he used to be. Free. Happy. And your sweetheart.

[machveil]

Beautiful, cute, dulzura, A quick question, do you have any advice for drawing? I see your drawings and I just fell in love with them, I just started drawing again but it's difficult...

I don't know, sorry, English is not my first language, using translator jiji 🤎🍁

(note: this post is long, grab a snack lol) ah! no problem, don’t worry about the translator haha (pinterest link - this is my masterboard for human references! I’ll talk about it more below)

I think my best advice for anyone wanting to draw is to break down your piece into shapes! (also, depending on your style, using different line weights)

from my experience, while looking at the whole reference is good, it’s easier to break down individual parts! while some parts can look complicated, a lot of things can be broken down into triangles, squares, and circles (or half circles)

I focus on character art, so I’ll be speaking about that - but it can applied to scenery and objects too. a lot of characters clothes are broken up into colored articles already - in the top reference, Ghost has a red bandanna on his arm! that bandanna helps break up his arm: the top near his shoulder is triangular, the bandanna itself is overall rectangular, and the bottom of his sleeve is a square

of course, depending on how you’re posing the character it can change the angle of what we’re seeing - there’s also an accommodation that your art probably won’t be a 1-to-1 copy with your reference. Ghost’s right arm (bandanna) has a white rolled up sleeve - while the model’s sleeve is square, I prefer to draw rolled sleeves more triangular

I think line weight is also important depending on your style! I prefer thicker lines around the entire character, and defining qualities also get thicker lines

I like thinner lines inside the character to help define dimensional shape and form. I use thicker lines on the inside of the body if there’s a shape/area that’s more in the foreground - example: König’s chest and midsection have thick line art to help differentiate from his left arm (behind his body)

I know a common piece of advice is to use real life references, and I agree… but, I never hear people talk about how to use references in a way that actually helps (“just draw from real life”, or “drawing with a reference is good practice”). I experienced that and wasn’t able to take anything away for years!

within the past year or so I seriously took a look at how using references can help me, so I want to try and talk about that - if I had trouble learning from references I’d wager someone else has

here’s my best example of using a reference because I actually remembered to! I labeled the figure to make it a little easier to follow

(1) my first tip is using a reference to figure out how the body ‘flows’. the human body has a lot of soft, rounded lines when you look at a picture - very few things are legitimately straight and sharp. I used the reference specifically to figure out how men’s pecs are shaped (of course, this is just one reference… because this is my headcanon for König’s body type haha)

(1) looking at references can help you understand how muscles move. in the reference with the woman, you notice how her right arm (down) muscles are layered - the shape portrayed by the reference lets you see how an arm’s muscles might be laid out in that position

(2) my second tip from the König reference is to look at negative space! the highlighted red portion between the arm and midsection is roughly the same negative space as the reference. if you’re using a reference and something feels off with the placement of what you’ve drawn I’d recommend looking at the space your reference takes up

(2) the negative space trick helps me line up where proportions should meet up - the distance between her arms lets me gauge how the rest of her body should be proportioned

(2) while it doesn’t match up 1-to-1 with the reference when layered overtop, it doesn’t have to! the negative space between the arms was enough for the sketch to mimic what the reference looks like. art doesn’t have to be a 1-to-1, but negative space can help you figure out ‘why does that arm look funny?’, “that arm looks funny because, compared to the negative space of your reference, it’s too (far away/close) to the body.”

(3) my last tip is the simplest, so I’ll just be referring to the König figure! when using references I look to gauge the distance between different body parts - it helps me get more realistic proportions. the bit I specifically compared to was the man’s stomach placement compared to his waist. I didn’t copy it 1-to-1 because I like the idea König has more of a tummy, but the reference allowed me to figure out an anatomical placement for where König’s stomach would be compared to his waist

I hope my advice wasn’t terrible haha everyone’s art journey is different, but these are tips I would have liked to know a few years ago (specifically the reference material ones lol). I wanted to focus more on the reference material because when people say ‘just use a reference, it’ll help’ it didn’t do it for me

I personally needed a more in depth explanation on why I would use a reference, what should I be looking at - because just drawing a person doesn’t necessarily help, and how should I be learning from it - I accidentally taught myself negative space before I knew what it was

but uhm… yeah, I hope this wasn’t awful! good luck on everyone’s art journeys, just remember that you’re allowed to take your time and try different things

if you guys have any other questions about my art feel free to jump into my inbox; process wise, inspiration, etc - I’ll answer anything I can<3

[silverlullabies]

Harry Potter and the Coalition of Chaos (1)

Simon “Ghost” Riley remembers dying.

The bullet from Shepherd. The fire. The agony. The soul deep grief of failing Roach.

And then… a crib? A onesie?? A rattle???

What.

Or, in which ten elite special ops soldiers die, but wind up waking up as babies with the memories of their previous lives intact. And what the hell do you mean magic is real??

Or, in which:

- Puberty, Round Two: Electric Boogaloo

- A generous interpretation of “school rules”

- The Hogwarts staff reevaluating their careers, their life decisions, and whether mass resignation is a valid magical defense.

- The author wondering what Harry Potter would look like if it had anyone with an ounce of common sense

Featuring tactical cuddle piles, wand enhanced violence, emotional damage, weaponized childhood trauma, strategic snacks, and a Divination room that’s been converted into a legally gray war bunker.

Aka the Call of Duty/Harry Potter crossover crackfic nobody asked for but the author had fun writing anyway.

There was no glory in this death.

No last stand. No honorable sacrifice.

Just a blinding flash of pain, a lot of shouting, and then-

Crying.

A lot of crying.

Not from them, of course.

They were professionals.

They didn’t cry.

…Except maybe now they did.

***

Simon Riley opened his eyes to a light so offensively bright it felt like God had slapped him in the face with a flashlight and a grudge. His head lolled to the side with all the structural integrity of a half-cooked noodle. Alarm bells rang in his skull. His neck wasn’t working. His arms were flopping like overcooked sausages. His legs twitched with the violent impotence of a man used to drop kicking doors and now reduced to gently flailing in place like an angry rainbow trout.

No tactical control. No muscle memory. Not unless you counted the phantom echo of breaching a room with a flashbang, which had apparently been overwritten by the horrifying new experience of peeing himself mid-scream.

He was in a cot.

A cot.

Covered in pastel blankets. Wearing a onesie with a duck on it.

And someone-some deranged, cheerful someone-was cooing at him.

“There’s our little man, aren’t you strong!”

Strong?

STRONG??

He had killed men in the dark with nothing but a knife and poor impulse control. He had survived torture, betrayal, and a complete psychological collapse in a bathtub at 3am with only whiskey and spite to keep him company.

And now he was being called a “little man” by a man who thought peekaboo counted as a tactical maneuver.

Simon Riley, formerly known as Ghost, elite Tier One operator and human embodiment of ‘do not perceive me’, let out a shriek that could only be described as a multi-layered symphony of pure, unfiltered rage, the kind of existential horror you feel when you accidentally open your front camera, and a shrill, desperate “WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK” in B-flat.

From somewhere in the distance-possibly the kitchen, possibly hell- his new “mum” laughed.

“He’s so vocal!”

Vocal?

He was screaming for his life.

He tried to yell “WHERE THE BLOODY HELL AM I,” but what emerged from his mouth was “WaaAAAHHHHHHHHHHH!”

Which only confirmed it.

He wasn’t hallucinating. He wasn’t in a coma. He wasn’t being tortured in some weird MK-Ultra sleep regression chamber.

He was a baby.

A small, soft, baby.

In a duck-covered onesie.

Who had just pissed himself and couldn’t lift his own head.

“Christ,” he thought furiously, eyes wide with horror, “this is it. This is hell. This is divine punishment. This is purgatory, but with rattles.”

He flailed again. Useless. Tiny fists batting the air like a malfunctioning Roomba. He wanted a gun. He got a pacifier. He tried to sit up. He rolled. His body squeaked.

Unacceptable.

“Babies,” he thought, unblinking, “aren’t stupid. They’re just trapped.”

He stared at the fuzzy mobile above his crib, the soft tune of Twinkle Twinkle playing like a funeral dirge for his dignity. The spinning sheep mocked him. The pastel clouds laughed. One of the plush stars looked suspiciously judgmental.

“They remember,” he thought darkly. “They remember dying. They remember taxes. They remember the mission that went wrong in Kazakhstan. They remember crying, not because they’re helpless, but because they know they were once gods.”

And now?

Now he couldn’t even hold up his own fucking head.

But the worst part- the absolute cherry on this cursed sundae-

He was alone.

No comms. No backup. No squad. No Laswell barking orders. No Soap mouthing off. No Price.

Just him, his existential spiral, and a stuffed giraffe with dead eyes.

And so, Simon Riley-operator, monster, myth- lay back in his duck-patterned prison and let out a howl that shook the nursery.

Continue on my AO3

[metaphorical-love-for-a-car]

Paper Chains (1)—Simon "Ghost" Riley x Reader

Summary: In 1980s England, Ghost is more myth than man—Task Force 141's enigmatic frontman, known for his skull-painted face, volatile performances, and complete silence offstage. But when an unflinching music journalist is assigned to peel back the layers of his legend, they discover Simon Riley: the broken, brilliant soul buried beneath the makeup. As they investigate the web of manipulation spun by his manager and the industry that built him, their professional clash ignites into something raw and real.

Warnings: Rockstar!AU, based on the Rock of Ages movie/musical

Word Count: 1.2k

1986 — London, England

Brixton Academy, backstage

The air reeked of spilled whiskey, burnt vinyl, and the sort of perfume that came in crystal bottles but wore off like sweat. Everything backstage shimmered under red neon and cigarette haze. Cables snaked across the floor like drunken vipers, and the walls—once a dignified Victorian cream—were now covered in torn gig posters, band stickers, and hastily scrawled phone numbers with lipstick hearts. And somewhere in the center of it all was the man—no, myth—himself.

Ghost.

He stood alone, leaning against the concrete wall of the green room, one boot propped up behind him. half a cigarette hanging from the corner of his mouth. His face was smeared with sweat and smudged paint—black around the eyes, a skeletal white on his cheekbones that cracked under the heat. The skull motif, famous across the country, looked less like death and more like war paint in the dim red glow.

The room buzzed around him—roadies high-fiving, a bottle of whiskey passed around like communion, groupies whispering with smeared makeup and crooked stilettos. But Ghost didn't move, like a silent sentinel. Watching. Waiting. A specter haunting his own afterparty.

"Jesus," someone muttered near the doorway, "He hasn't said a word since he came off stage."

That was Ghost. No interviews. No press. No real name. He let his music scream louder than he ever would, and it worked. Task Force 141—the band named after some obsure military reference no one quite understood—was the most chaotic, brilliant, self-destructive act on the planet. Every show was a ritual, every city another notch in their legend.

And yet... he looked tired.

Not the good kind of tired—the rockstar, "I just slept with three women and snorted half of Sheffield" tired. No, this was bone-deep. The kind that settled into your marrow like winter. Which made it exactly the right moment for someone like them to walk in.

Their shoes clicked across the sticky floor like pistol shots. Crisp. Measured. Almost disapproving.

They didn't belong there—too clean, too put-together. They wore dark tailored trousers and a sharp blazer. The kind of outfit that said, "I'm not here for your autograph, darling." Their eyes, steel-cut and fixed like a scope, swept the room and zeroed in on the target.

Ghost didn't notice them at first. Or, maybe, he did but didn't care. They didn't flinch under the scrutiny of the band's inner circle. Not when Soap, the drummer, gave them a mocking once-over, or when Gaz, the bassist, raised his brows with a cheeky grin. Price, the lead guitarist, puffed on a cigar as he regarded them with a wary gaze. They were used to this. Men sizing them up like they were part of the scenery, but they weren't. They were a storm on the horizon.

"Stacy Jaxx with a war fetish," their editor had called him. They didn't see it. Stacy Jaxx may have been ridiculous, but Ghost? Ghost had a violence to him. Not physical, not even verbal. Just... something volatile behind the eyes, like a lit fuse coiled up beneath the face paint. Theatrics aside, there was a reason no one really knew him.

Which was why they were here.

The recorder in their pocket was already primed. "Simon Riley," they said evenly. That got his attention. The cigarette stilled in his hand. For a heartbeat, the room froze too—like the lights dimmed and someone cut the track. Ghost lifted his head slowly. His sharp gaze cut through the smeared black makeup. Cold. Curious. Dangerous.

"No one calls me that," he said, voice rough like broke gravel.

"Well, someone should," they remarked, stepping closer.

Their name was (Y/N), and they didn't ask to be assigned this piece. A "profile", they called it—more like a hand grenade. Dig into the biggest name in British rock since Bowie, and try not to get your throat slit in the process.

But the whispers had reached their editor at Reverb Magazine: the canceled interviews, the fired publicists, the revolving door of rehab clinics and backstage incidents smothered in hush money. Above all, the manager—Mr. Shepherd—who seemed to be the puppeteer behind Ghost's glitter-soaked shadow.

"Riley," they repeated, testing the name like a blade. He stared at them.

"You're not on the list."

"I made my own."

"Congratulations," he muttered, pushing off the wall. "Now, piss off."

They held their ground. "I'm not here for gossip or fluff. I want the real story. The one you've never told anyone."

His laugh was low and humorless. "That's rich. You journos don't want the real story. You want the headline."

"Then give me one worth printing." A few heads turned, and Soap let out a low whistle. Ghost approached, and the room seemed to shrink. He was tall, taller than they expected—broad shoulders under a leather vest, chest painted with sweat and lyrics scrawled in marker, tattoos coiled down his arms like ancient script. Up close, the paint didn't hide the tiredness. If anything, it magnified it. Made him look like something pulled from a grave and dressed for the spotlight.

He stopped a short distance from them. "You think you can handle the real me?" he asked, voice low. They didn't blink.

"Try me."

A pause. A long, drawn-out moment where his expression twisted into something bemused, annoyed, and possibly even intrigued. Then, he smirked. "Alright, Mx. Truth-Seeker. You want the real me?" He gestured around. "This is it. Welcome to hell."

Ghost led them through a back hallway, lit by flickering fluorescents and lined with road cases. Every few feet, a poster with his face—half skull, half sinner—stared back at them. "You don't talk to the press," they remarked.

"I don't talk to anyone."

"Why me, then?"

Ghost shrugged. "You used my real name. No one does that." They didn't reply. Not yet. They stopped at a small dressing room with a cracked mirror and a couch that looked like it might've had fleas. He dropped onto it, arms spread like a king on a decaying throne. "Go on," he said, "Start recording." They didn't, instead taking a seat across from him. Their legs were crossed, notebook in hand. They studied him like a surgeon.

"Why do you let Shepherd run your life?" His jaw tensed at the question.

"Didn't say you could ask that."

"You didn't say I couldn't."

He chuckled darkly. "Ballsy."

"Honest."

"Same thing these days, innit?"

They leaned forward. "You're not in control. You're a brand. A product. He sells the Ghost, but I think there's still a Simon in there. And I think he's screaming." Silence followed. The kind that hummed just before a storm. He stared at them, unmoving. Then, quietly, he spoke.

"You're gonna get yourself in trouble." They smiled, just a little.

"Not my first time."

Back in the hallway, someone was yelling. It was Shepherd—loud, furious, and getting closer. Ghost stood. "Interview's over."

"Not a chance," they retorted, rising too. "You agreed."

"I didn't agree to you getting involved."

"This is involved. You want to be a puppet the rest of your life?" they fired back. He looked at them like they'd slapped him. Like they saw something they weren't supposed to. And then he whispered something bitter and true.

"You don't know what I've done."

They met his gaze. Not Ghost's—Simon's. "Then tell me."

[topazadine]

Okay, okay, here's perhaps my spiciest and most controversial take yet.

Now, before I even say anything, please note that I am talking specifically about fantasy. Not retellings of myths, not historical fiction set in different countries, nothing like that. This is for second-world fantasy, where you're creating a whole different world.

Ready?

Stop making everything so damn complicated!

This is not to say that you can't have a rich and exciting world filled with lore, religion, different societies, traditions, unique geographies. Not that. Of course we want that: it's the whole reason we read fantasy. I'm talking about something else.

This is my simple takedown, and you can read the rest to better understand what I mean:

Stop jamming your story with five billion weird words.

Don't use super complicated nouns.

Keep the characters to a minimum so we can know and like them.

Don't yammer on about all the backstory.

Stop making readers do homework just to understand things.

Focus on the feeling a story gives instead of the intricate worldbuilding.

And lastly, a pre-emptive note to those who are putting their hackles up and telling me why they are an exception.

Why is it important to keep things simple?

A lot of people shy away from fantasy because they assume that every fantasy story is going to be so complicated that their head will hurt. Not in terms of plot - many people like complicated plots - but in terms of terminology and history. Things that ultimately don't really matter to the plot.

We as writers often assume that everyone cares about our story as much as we do and is equally captivated by every detail. This is simply not true.

To your reader, your story is not their life's work: it is entertainment that they want to be able to enjoy at their leisure. It's a distraction from their difficult lives and all their real-world frustrations. If they get really into it and, say, write fanfic or whatever, that's amazing! But they're not likely to do that if they feel like they'll be jumped on for doing something wrong or that they have to include every single little detail.

For example, I wrote over 1 million words of Touken Ranbu fanfic. Touken Ranbu, at its heart, has a very simple premise: you've got a bunch of legendary swords that were turned into hot men and fight evil time-traveling monsters. You can understand it with just that. There are layers to it, though, that you can slowly untangle. That makes for good writing because it works on multiple levels depending on how much you care about it.

I would have given up on the story if I felt like I needed a dictionary just to understand the plot. Most people would. Language needs to be accessible and premises need to be clear, or no one is going to want to go deeper.

Subtle little details that people can pick up are way more enjoyable than tossing every single factoid at people so that they feel overwhelmed and can't think. It's wonderful to have rich layers of symbolism, mythology, etc. That's excellent. But you can only get people to care about those things if they can actually comprehend your damn story.

A lot of the things that turn people off from fantasy are all about a writer's ego, and it oozes through the work. People can tell that you're wanting them to pat you on the back for putting so much shit in your story. It's annoying and a total turn-off when you make readers work so hard to comprehend what you're saying.

So what exactly am I talking about? This.

Using made-up terms for everything that could easily be explained with a normal English word

When I am writing fantasy, I imagine myself as a translator. After all, my made-up societies have their own made-up language (Seinish) that is referenced a few times.

However, I'm not using Seinish words all the time. I'm writing in English. I didn't write out a Seinish dictionary or even come up with most of the terms because, honestly? Most readers don't care. They want to understand what's going on in as simple of terms as possible, with only a few specific terms that remind us that we're somewhere different.

I may use some specialized terminology, but it's always couched in context clues that make us aware of what it is without actually having to just say "sdlkjfslkdjf, also known as a marketplace."

For example, in The Eirenic Verses, the High Poet Society has religious centers called meronyms. (Which actually isn't a made-up word.) We know they're religious centers because we see all the religious leaders living there. Someone sees the term "meronym" and goes "oh yeah, that's the religious place" and moves on.

It's one of the only confusing, specialized terms in the book other than place names, which people expect whenever they're reading fantasy. Because of that, it stands out and is easy to remember. It's not one of 1029310283012830132 different terms someone has to remember in order to follow along.

Even Tolkien, famed for literally writing an entire extra book full of lore for his stories, doesn't really use that much specialized terminology except for place names. My favorite author, China Mieville, only uses specialized terminology for things that have absolutely no basis in our reality and that can't be explained otherwise. And he's an extremely eloquent guy who uses the weirdest words possible whenever he can. If he can write a book that's mostly comprehensible without a cheat sheet, you can too.

If there is an English term for what you are trying to explain, just use that, for the love of god. The point of writing a story is not to show how smart and special you are: it is to tell a story. You need to remove as many barriers to access as possible.

Things that get a pass and can be made up most, if not all, of the time:

Place names (as in specific places, not categories of things)

Peoples' names

Languages

Species that don't exist in our world

Modes of transportation that don't exist in our world

Magic that can't be explained in any other way

Technology that can't be defined by our language

Look, if you have an animal that is basically a dragon, just call it a dragon. If you've got a wheeled carriage, call it a carriage. Call earth magic something based in earth terms, like "terravitae" or something, idk. There should be some connection to our world in your terminology because you are writing this in English for an English-speaking audience.

It doesn't make you a lazy writer, it makes you one that wants people to understand what you're talking about. Again, imagining yourself as a translator is a good way to keep yourself from going ham on the nouns.

Proper nouns that are way too complicated

Let's look at some well-known proper nouns from fantasy.

Middle Earth

Narnia

Earthsea

Discworld

Westeros

Ankh-Morpork

Bas-Lag

Wonderland

They're all ... simple. They're not a million syllables with weird intonations and accents and all that. If you showed this to a medieval peasant, they'd probably be able to pronounce them and would likely understand that they were place names.

Unless there's a good reason to have a weird name, don't use one. Come up with something simpler.

All of these I mentioned are three syllables or less, making them easier to remember. In fact, I'd argue that nearly every proper noun in your book should be no more than three syllables. Maybe one or two four-syllable ones.

Any very weird name should be balanced out by several easier ones so that it stands out.

40 million characters

Younger writers often want their world to feel very lived in, so they introduce dozens of characters with their own names, descriptions, backstories, etc etc etc. The problem is that this is a huge mental load on your reader, especially if a lot of the characters have very similar names. It makes reading your stuff into a chore rather than an enjoyable experience.

Now, some literary greats do have a lot of characters. But they get away with it because they're great.

I'm not great, so I don't do that.

I'd also suggest that you don't do that, regardless of how good you think you are.

To see if you have too many chracters, write out a dramatis personnae and rank it in terms of importance. Does your top tier have like 15 characters? Cut some. Figure out where they are in the story and if they don't exist for more than a few pages, delete them. Absorb them into someone else.

If a character is only in one scene, don't bother naming them. They don't matter enough. This reduces the cognitive load for your reader because they can see that character for what they are: a background person who exists only briefly.

Any time you name a character, they need to have deep plot relevance. The more unusual your character's name, the more important they should be. And they should have some sort of relationship to another character, preferably the main character. Otherwise, why are they there? Why do we care? Go away!

Way too much backstory

I am an adult and my brain is filled with 50 million other things. I have to remember stuff for my job, I have a to-do list, I have family I care about who needs me.

Your story is not the end-all be-all of my existence. Hell, my story is not the end-all be-all of my existence either. I want to be able to pick up your book, understand what's going on, and then delve a bit deeper or even make up my own headcanons.

I do not need the entirety of your story's world thrown at me right off the bat. It is overwhelming and tiring. Imagine if you visited a different country and someone immediately came up to you and started spewing the whole history of the country right after you stepped off the plane. That's what you're doing to your readers!

Think also about how you approach your everyday world. Do you reel off a million facts about your personal history the instant you meet someone? No, of course not. It'd be weird and creepy.

Are you constantly recalling facts about your city while walking down the street? Do you even know any major facts about your city? You probably know a few little trivia points and that's it. Because it's not relevant to you, and it's not relevant to your readers, either. I can't recall off the top of my head when Cleveland was settled, but I can tell you that we have the world's first Dunkleosteus fossil in our museum, because that is interesting to me. That's the kind of thing that makes a place feel lived-in, not four hundred thousand pages of exposition about the place's history.

Give your readers time to settle in, and reveal things slowly as they make sense. Maybe we hear a little bit about the country's government as they pass a parliament house, or because they have to visit the city center for a different reason. If it's not pertinent to the current scene, then don't put it there.

I've got tons of lore for my world. Some of it may be referenced one singular time, and some of it may be never referenced at all. That's okay, because it's just for me to get a better sense of the place I created. If a reader doesn't need it, then I don't bother putting it in, because it might detract from their enjoyment.

Overall: stop making your readers do homework!

We do not want our readers to feel like they are working when they are reading our stuff. Excellent writers can infuse deep themes and symbology into their stories without making it feel like work. These are the writers who are remembered forever, because not only have they made a good story that you can enjoy at a surface level, but they have also twined in deeper themes that you can dive into after you've digested the story.

I did my undergrad in British literature, so I read a lot of Shakespeare and contemporaneous authors. Shakespeare is considered complicated by modern standards because of the Elizabethan language, but if you translated it into modern terms, his stories are simple. People betray each other and stab each other, or fuck each other, or get transported to weird magical worlds.

You could watch a Shakespeare play and think absolutely nothing of the themes, but still enjoy the story. You could know absolutely nothing about Greek history and still get the gist.

This is because Shakespeare specifically wrote his plays to appeal to a mass audience. He was a god-tier author when it came to balancing symbology and plot. To be like Shakespeare, be simple. Remember that your reader does. not. really. care. all that much. They don't.

It's very unlikely that your writing is going to become someone's life's work and they're going to spend their whole existence studying. Cool if true, but unlikely.

Your job is to make a story that people like and want to read. Only when you've gotten people liking and reading do you get permission to go ham with the backstory and the characterization and the weird names, because they trust you to create a story that they will like. Otherwise, your primary objective is making people feel things so they want to feel more things and read more stories.

People care more about how a story makes them feel than the specifics

Yes, of course there are outliers to this who really want every single detail of the world, but those are few and far between. You should not tailor your story to these exceptions. Think about the average everyday person.

I have many books that I love, but I can't tell you everything about them now. I can, however, tell you how I felt when I was reading them: the plot twists that made me gasp, the thing that made me cry. I can give you a general, sweeping impression of whether I liked or disliked the story and what made me feel something. This is what people recommend books based on: how they felt.

Your story should focus on the plot and the emotion. People watch movies, listen to music, read books, or look at art to feel something, not to memorize factoids for later usage. Even if they do want to memorize factoids, they won't do that if they haven't built an emotional connection to the story.

While in life, we want facts over feelings, it's opposite in creative writing. We want feelings over facts. The emotional resonance, the mood, the characters, the plot: that is what is important, not showing off how smart you are and how much you have thought about your story.

"But Topazadine, I am special and different! I'm not going to follow your advice."

Sure. Go ahead. I can't stop you. If you want to have a million characters and an entire dictionary to explain everything, that is your choice.

No one can tell you how to write; my advice is just advice.

If you don't like what I have said here, then feel free to ignore it. You don't need to justify it to me or anyone else.

However, you must recognize that this may not resonate with readers. It will turn people off.

I'm not a completionist, and neither are many others; they'll roll their eyes and click out when they are faced with ten pages of character names upfront.

Of course you should always write for yourself first, but if you are planning to write fiction for any level of commercial appeal and you intend to make any amount of money on your work, then audience does matter. If you want kudos or comments on your AU, audience matters. You won't get engagement if you are alienating people.

Your writing decisions are always your own and no one can demand you do something different. You just need to decide whether your personal satisfaction in writing your story in a certain way outweighs your desire for validation, and, perhaps, money. I can't tell you the answer for that; it's up to you.

If you enjoyed this, maybe you'll consider reading my fantasy book, 9 Years Yearning, which does not have 121238103 characters and 3230123 strange words. It does, however, have double-tsundere-mutual-pining-gay-boy-awakening. And horses. It's also just $3.

[seagull-energy]

An Ode to Antonia

Spoilers for Thunderbolts* ahead

As I'm sitting in my screening of Thunderbolts* having the time of my life watching the four way battle between Yelena, Ava, Antonia, and Walker, a shot rings out though the theater's sound system. Antonia falls to the floor on the screen, a bullet hole through her head. My jaw drops open in shock. Is this real? Surely not. Antonia has been on all the posters, all of the marketing, she is a main character of this movie... right? The scene that follows her death is incredibly well made and funny and one of my favorite scenes in the film, but I spend the entirety of it willing Antonia to get up, hoping this is a fakeout, in complete disbelief that this is an actual plot point of the movie. It's only when the incinerator goes off and the room fills with fire that I accept that yes, this is happening. She's really gone.

I enjoy the rest of the film. I grin when Bucky shows up to save/capture them; I cry during Yelena's speech to Alexei; I hold my breath as they all help Bob fight the Void; I roll my eyes at Walker a lot. But through it all, I think of Antonia. And I think of the lost potential of her story.

I do not know Antonia Dreykov. None of us do (except maybe Olga Kurylenko). In Black Widow she is silent; more of an obstacle than a character. She serves as a wonderful distillation of Natasha's past crimes still haunting her, only defeated when she is accepted and embraced, but she is not a person. She is a tool for the writers to explore thematic ideas. I suppose that's what all characters are, but most hide the inner workings of their narrative function behind a veil of personality and dimension. Antonia has no veil. She is voiceless and she is faceless, any life she might've had hidden behind her mask and the fact that she only speaks two lines across both of the films she features in. Perhaps I should have expected this, was she not marked for death from her very first appearance? A little girl, sent to the slaughter of other people's character arcs. It's an old tale, far from a surprising one at this point, but still; I had hoped we were past this by now. I do not know Antonia, but I wanted to learn about her.

My thoughts go to the others---the ones whose deaths served others more than their own character arcs, or worse, were completely pointless. Gamora and Natasha, sacrificed for a set of mcguffins; Frigga and May, victims to the age-old 'Dead Mom Curse'; Jane, brought back into the MCU seemingly just to die; and of course Wanda, unnecessarily villainized and unceremoniously killed. And outside of the MCU, Jean Grey, who can never be trusted to live with her power. I also think of the ones who live, but are pushed aside by the narrative. Sharon and America, who feel like afterthoughts in stories where they are supposed to be major characters. Maybe it was naïve, but I thought we were past this. I can't express how excited I was to see a team that was evenly split between women and men. That is so rare in this genre of stories, and has been almost unheard of in the MCU. I was excited to see more of Antonia and Ava, to see them get to be people instead of mysterious antagonists. And I got nothing. Antonia is dead and Ava got nothing to do but offer the occasional snarky comment. I am so tired of being disappointed like this.

Is it too much to ask? That every woman in a story feel like a multidimensional character? That every member of a team has time to shine and show their personality? Thunderbolts* is not a bad movie! It's not even a bad movie for female characters! Yelena is the main character and Valentina is the main antagonist and both are layered and interesting characters (although I personally can't stand Val). And then there's Mel, who has so much potential bubbling just under the surface! This is not Avengers 1, where Natasha is the only woman with significant screen time, we have come so far since those days (more MCU projects have been woman-led than not since phase 4 started) and that is amazing and so many of those projects have made me very happy. And yet. There always seems to be another senseless death, whether it's for shock, or stakes, or another character's arc. "To him we are just things." Yelena said in Black Widow. I hate how true it is.