#And that's why the only way he can actually articulate it is through self destruction

[panvani]

Ig all coming of age fiction is like this bur it's like Catcher in the Rye without the irony

[orbital-inclination]

Moltendreams - Error Sans Alias - Static Pronouns: he/him, they/them Personality: Petty, holds a mean grudge, Big Tsundere, Complete Shut-in, Quick Tempered and Moody, fanatic with his interests, externally aggressive when in actuality he is quite shy. An absolute troll. His favorite passtime is messing with others. Paradoxically touch starved and suffers from haphephobia. Reckless with his own well being.

This variant of Error is capable of both love and compassion, he just hides it under a grumpy exterior and several layers of denial and self-destructive dogma. Other Notes:

Reluctant to harm Papyrus directly, though Static can't articulate why, and will generally avoid encounters Papyrus in any given AU.

Had a good relationship with his dad/W.D Gaster, actually.

Relates to "pest" pets; rats, mice, snakes, spiders, beetles, he loves them all.

Would have a pet rat of his own if he wasn't afraid of it shocking itself by chewing on his wires.

His favorite kind of chocolate is mixed with a hazelnut filling.

Views Frisk as a younger sibling.

Into Parkour.

-More Info undercut! -

Abilities: Static uses wire instead of string. Wire and summoned attacks can and do hold an electric charge. His presence alone messes with electronic devices. Residents of a particular AU may get a few minutes or seconds of warning as sweaters get staticy, computer screens glitch out, and anything with a battery spontaneously dies or gets super charged. By creating a circle of alternating RED and CYAN bones, Static creates a sort of reverse faraday cage. While Static can produce electricity, he can't directly control the voltage. He can only hope to direct it. The voltage of a charge is directly influenced by his emotional state. If you touch him, you will find his clothes zappy with static. Do NOT attempt to fight him in humid or watery environments for, hopefully, obvious reasons.

About: Static originates from a pre-Pacifist timeline that was followed by a looping Genocide Route. Through repetitive iterations, and an escalating instability in the timeline, the monsters of the underground began to recall events they didn't witness and memories they shouldn't recall.

Working together, Static, at that point still Sans, and Alphys were able to pin point the root cause of their timeline's instability. They made a plan to save the underground and separate Frisk from the Anomaly but when it came time to execute their plan something went catastrophically wrong. As a result Sans was torn from reality, and caught in the space in-between. Eventually, he escaped but not unscathed. Static has vague conflicting memories of his past, and to this day, questions if any of it was real. He can't find his original AU and secretly fears it may have been the first world he destroyed. He is still looking for it.

Outcode Politics: Static views all outcodes the same way he views every iteration of the original timeline that even slightly deviates: as glitches to be terminated. Bugs in the code he needs to hammer out before it all goes to hell. Static believes that by destroying deviating timelines and AUs, he is preserving the stability of the original. He is “saving’’ it from corruption by trimming the branches back. Despite his position as the self proclaimed Destroyer, Static is not above biases and making exceptions. 

Static includes himself on his long list of glitches in the code to be terminated. Static has a different view on the Spirits of Creation that Fable/Ink does. (Spirits of Creation are the in-universe term and stand-in for the creator of an AU). He calls them eldritch parasites. Abominations that should be avoided at all costs. And absolutely should not be encouraged or interacted with. Though he won't admit it out loud, Static is terrified of them. OG Error @.LoverofPiggies/CrayonQueen) Moltendreams @.me Edit: he has been named! Edit 2: revised his profile a bit

[indigo-scarf]

Hii 💖🫶🏻 I have a question. Who’s worse, Draco Malfoy, James Potter or Sirius Black?

Hi :)

I love this question, because those 3 characters are very significant to me.

Back when I couldn't accept the gospel of Drarry, I settled for Wolfstar and took Sirius as my blorbo. He is just like me fr in that he has an aggressively abusive racist family; he did destructive, impulsive things; and he has the conflict of wanting to reject his family but having to wonder if he is just like them. So Sirius's violent streak is very much relatable.

Draco was always my #1 blorbo since I first read the books (it just sucked that I didn't like any of the popular ships with him). He is also just like me fr in that he's an attention whore and a spiteful little bitch when he doesn't get attention and praise, especially if someone else steals the spotlight. Plus, now that I do like Drarry, and even see one-sided Drarry as one possible version of canon, there is also the relatability of being toxic as hell to your crush because you want to interact with them but they don't like you back and you don't know how/hate to be vulnerable. Plus, I find his whole dramatic and self-centered privileged boi personality both hilarious and endearing.

(why do I only bond with characters through negative things idk haha ask my therapist)

And then there's James, who is possibly my least favourite character in the entire series. It's surprising, because I usually like bullies and bad people in general in fiction — see how I like Draco — so why does James squick me? Well, now I feel like maybe writing a whole post about it someday when I can articulate it better, but for now:

I think it's the mix of his offences involving creepy male heterosexuality and him being portrayed and accepted by much of the fandom as a good person overall — there's much there to repel me and nothing for me to relate to or enjoy.

Misogynistic fictional fuckboy behaviour to me is like, I could actually be into him if he were portrayed and seen as a predator who harasses women because he's such a sick and twisted tortured soul (fic recs welcome); but he's potrayed and seen as a righteous wholesome hero who just made a few mistakes as a teen, and I really do not vibe with that, when the mistakes include being a sex creep to a woman.

I'm not shaming anyone for being James fans, people can be impacted differently or give different subjective weight to different traits of a fictional character (I literally just said my fave is the racist). It's just that to me personally James's flaws outweigh everything else about him, so I could only like him if he were a villain, but then I don't usually see him be framed that way.

[the1975attheirverybest]

Hi Hala! So, I know your opinion on matty not speaking up about Palestine but I was here thinking about it, follow my train of thought.

Considering everything he ver spoke, we know where he stands on this issue, right? So It's not that we want to know his opinion on this. We want him to speak because of the "signing towards utopia" thing.

But then we get to something he has already talked about his tweet about George Floyd, that is the dicotomy between long and short term expression (I don't remember the exact words). But he said he thinks It's better to speak through his songs, cause he actually work oh the lyrics, think deeply about the issue and can articulate his thoughts in a better way than in a tweet.

In fact, that was what happend when the whole bomb thing on People mv happend.

That being said, I don't know why but I think It's possible that he addresses this issue on a song for the next album.

Now, I don't agree with you on this matter for reasons that I don't think are important, but I wonder: if he really talks about it in a song, do you think It would be enough or anything he does from now on is already overdue?

Hey anon!

You can hear the gist of my take on the matter over here. It hasn’t changed recently. I suspect it won’t ever change. Barring some like exceptional circumstances.

I’ll address some of the points that you make here and iterate what I say above.

1. There is a difference between speaking out about every bill that is ever proposed to be made into law ever, and speaking out against genocide. Do you understand me?

Let me put it this way: let’s say Utah introduces a bill to ban even more books that show queer love stories. Or Alabama starts a debate about the age of consent. Or a school board in South Dakota has an initiative about critical race theory. I do NOT expect Matty to get onstage every single time that any of this happens and start yelling about it. He said something very poignant in the ION PACK pod. He said that artists used to be bohemian outsiders. Now everyone expects them to be liberal academics. And he’s just not the liberal academic type. I AGREE WITH HIM. TREMENDOUSLY. I don’t want him out there as a political pundit. I think punditry is one of the dumbest most self-absorbed jobs lmao.

HOWEVER genocide and ethnic cleansing is VERY different. It is a humanitarian crisis. One that demands all of us be accountable. Literal bloodlines have been wiped from the earth. The Palestinian ministry of health has had to delete family lineages from their database because Israel has killed them all. Like there is not a single person remotely related to them who’s been left alive. The family name is gone forever. Children are being starved. Tortured. Literal kids.

In my opinion, it’s not a valid argument to say that because he’s pro BLM then he’s obviously pro Palestine. If you talk to liberals, if you watch the news, if you speak to majority white communities, you’ll see a curious phenomenon. The most progressive of folks suddenly turns into a bloodthirsty animal horny for the destruction of Palestinians. This is due to 75+ years of propaganda by Zionists. Even the “good guys” are against Palestine because they genuinely believe we have to destroy Palestinians for the safety of everyone else (especially Jewish folks). Being pro-Palestine has gotten people fired from their jobs, black listed in hollywood, influencers have lost sponsorships, authors have been dropped by their publishers. This wouldn’t happen to anyone who says Black Lives Matter.

Moreover, regular methods of advocacy are not working for the same reasons. Biden and Congress folks are staunchly pro Israel. It’s the same in the UK, France, Germany. you’ve seen what has been happening to student protestors. Suspensions, expulsions, jail, physical injury.

If, at times like these, people who are of immense privilege, who claim to be brought up on punk values, who “make standing up for human rights as part of my schtick” are not only SILENT but say “really? You wanna hear me and Brittany broski on Israel-Palestine?” “I’m just a singer.” Then tell me what’s left?

2. How is saying “he spoke up once about one political issue years ago shouldn’t that be enough.” Any different from saying “Taylor swift spoke up about queer rights once when she was trying to sell an album. Therefore she’s a queer advocate”?

3. I can’t speak about the song hypothetical. In other words, I would have to see the song. My reaction would be different based on if it’s one line or a whole song and what the context and message etc. but I will say that he has already used Gaza in the show. The barrage of news stuff that plays before POTB. Where he has the clip of the lady saying “the woke left are angry with my favorite artist even though he’s on their side let’s talk about it” or whatever the fuck.

4. The right time to speak out was October 8. The second best time is now. Every day that goes by where he’s silent, more and more blood is shed. And it’s on his hands and his consciousness whether he wants to admit it or not.

5. Finally, I’m sorry, but it’s a tad disingenuous and bad faith of you to say you “disagree for reasons that aren’t important.” If you’re going to scrutinizes me for my words you should be willing to lay yours out first.

[transboykirito]

okay, i mentioned it in this ask here but a couple of people wanted me to open this conversation, so let’s do it

tw: mentions of alcohol, drinking problems and generally heavy mental health stuff

again, a disclaimer, this post is just my opinion and my thoughts based on what we see in the series. i’m not saying this is what reki intended to be canon and i’m not saying you have to agree with me.

i can’t see [kazuto or asuna] being regular heavy drinkers but i think if they’re out with friends and the mood is there they might have a drink or two

but i do think kazuto would ~drink iykwim

i said i thought kazuto would ~drink, and what i meant by that is, i think kazuto has/is vulnerable to developing a drinking problem. i don’t think he would necessarily be a heavy drinker in every social situation, nor am i saying i think he would be consistently drunk or dependent on alcohol for significantly extended periods of time. but i do think that, at times, kazuto would drink as a way to cope and we already see him struggle to decline alcohol in the series.

in volume 10, chapter 6, kirito says that it was a “considerable act of self-control” to only have two glasses of the wine leina serves. this isn’t really “evidence” (? i can’t think of a better word atm) of an issue on it’s own, but this combined with a couple of other things made me want to keep it tabbed as a minor flag.

in volume 9, chapter 5, kirito says that, despite it not being articulately strong, one long swig of the alcohol in the village is enough to make his face hot. we know that kirito has a relatively low tolerance for alcohol anyway (i don’t have the source off the top of my head, but i believe it’s mentioned in one of the lisbeth (?) scenes in lycoris), but he drinks way more than he can handle and ends up needing selka to walk him back to the church while she scolds him for drinking too much.

particularly notable, kazuto says that he drank so much because he was trying to forget his uneasiness and his general homesickness/anxieties/etc. “it took another three cups of the apple beverage for me to forget about my unease and rejoin the intoxicating dance circle.” NOTE he says another three cups, it’s safe to assume he’d only had one cup before, but we don’t know how much he actually had that night.

okay, so... why does any of this matter?

kazuto has ptsd. kazuto has severe ptsd, as well as depression and anxiety. kazuto admits to the fact he doesn’t always cope with that in healthy ways. he often shuts people out and self-isolates, self-destructs, and engages in reckless and harmful behaviour. it’s not much of a stretch to think he could, potentially, drink to cope at times.

i think, when kazuto is going through his moods when he’s shutting down, he could potentially drink as a way to distract himself and make himself forget. we see him do it in volume nine, where he drinks to forget the fact he feels upset.

say he had a bad ptsd attack irl, it’s entirely plausible to think that he would use the alcohol he can readily get (midori keeps beer at the house, at the very least, and one of his close friends own a bar) as a way to cope with it.

personally, it’s just something i believe because of kazuto’s personality, his ptsd and the way he acts. i have personal experience with this kind of thing and notice a lot of the red flags in kazuto (i could go into it more, this post is already too long and a LOT of my other thoughts on this general topic also lead into a discussion of kazuto and bipolar disorder, which is a conversation i’m happy to open as well)

[franki-lew-yo]

The Romantic (2009, R, Gothic Fantasy/Horror), aka the most forgotten animated film in the world

What if I told you there was a movie under serious threat of becoming lost media with no clear reason as to WHY it's been lost other than no one has apparently watched it besides me and a few people on Reddit? What if I told you that movie wasn't half bad and would no doubt have some interest peeked if anyone DID know about it?

The name of that movie is The Romantic.

It was released in 2009 and it's Rated R for nudity and sex scenes [insert Robbie Rotten meme here], though none of it too graphic. It was a pet project created by animator Michael P. Heneghan, originally starting as a flash project for his animation class before he expanded it into a feature film. The film was inspired by movies such as The Dark Crystal and Labyrinth, but what I see every time I look at it is a touch of Jhonen Vasquez, Tim Burton, and Roman Dirge- the guy behind Lenore the Cute Little Dead Girl. It's flash animation especially remind me of the puppet-rigged toons of the 2000s (again like Salad Fingers or Lenore). It's not bad, it's just not inherently 'feature film' quality flash, nor is it exceptionally artistic like Sita Sings the Blues in it's simplicity. Like, really, if you happen to find this thing it's not the worst animated project at all it's just amateur for a professional production. I've seen worse flash movies. Heck, if The Romantic were released in separate parts on youtube or Newgrounds as a series (ala Homestuck) I'm sure it would have been really successful and totally in it's element. But it wasn't.

Because next to no one has seen it and I'm lucky to have not only ever seen it when it was available for free but have also found it recently (hush hush, I ain't telling you how) I'm going to actually give you all a plot synopsis under the cut. There will be some details I leave out and I think I've spelled some characters names wrong. It's a bit of a surrealist film as well, so you might need some things explained.

Spoilers ahead:

The Romantic is set in an autumnal, surrealist world inhabited by humans and monsters and ruled by three gods; Po the goddess of love; Pik the god of Hate; and Pjorrc the god of time though Pjorrc was made to live inside a pumpkin moon as everything he touched rabidly aged and died.

((Tapestry art featuring the main three gods of the film.))

A young man (called “Romance” or “The Romantic” by the other characters) performs a bull sacrifice in order to summon Abbledepopa, the unseen creator of the other gods and ‘storyteller’ of the world. The sacrifice does not conjure Abbledepopa but, when Romance spares a monster that was ready to eat him, the monster tells him of a profit named Patience. Patience is a foul-mouthed dwarf living alone with an army of babies who points Romance in the direction of Po.

((Romance outside of Patience's house.))

Romance wants the god’s help because he has fallen out of love with his girlfriend. Po grants him his desire and restores his love only for Romance to return home and find his girlfriend with another man. Blinded by heartache and rage, Romance kills her. He then swears vengeance on the gods for ‘making’ him do it. In the midst of this vow, a corrupt prophet called Fat Daddy kills the queen of Vauxhaul (Romance's home) and her guards, and forges a new body for his newborn son with their bodies. Fat Daddy rallies the townsfolk behind him in supposedly finding the Queen’s murder into follow a new religion called "The Poetic End".

((Romance (right) besides the monster he spared at the beginning of the movie.))

Patience accompanies Romance on his quest and tells him to take Po’s mask, which hides her true face, once he kills her. Romance buys Po’s trust by weaving her a tapestry that tells her story: in the dawn of time Po and Pjorrc were in love. However, Pjorrc gradually became distant and Po became resentful when their daughter, Love, earned Po's original title as the god of romance and love.

In the present day, Romance sleeps with Po for over a year before finally killing her and taking her mask. He and Patience return to his home of Vauxhul only to be chased out by Fat Daddy’s personal army. They flee to Marshallton, the town nearest to the god Pik.

((Romance's hometown of Vauxhul. ))

The king of Marshallton, King Crookie, tells Romance of a prophecy he, Patience, Fat Daddy and all the gods are a part of and that the world is soon to change. Romance then fights and successfully kills Pik when he shows the god of hate his reflection in a mirror King Crookie gave him, but not before losing his hand to Pik.

When Romance comes down the mountain he learns from Patience that nine years have passed since his fight with Pik began. Patience reveals to Romance what Pik saw in the mirror that allowed Romance to take the killing blow; after Love had grown up and married, Po asked Pik to tell her where her husband was always running off to. Pik reluctantly revealed Pjorrc was disguising himself as a human and married a mortal woman. Po found Pjorrc and his pregnant second wife, forcing Pjorrc to leave his human family behind, but not before asking his wife to name their son “Patience”. In retaliation for his treachery, Po proceeded to sleep with fifty men and produce the fifty bastard children in Patience’s house.

((Fat Daddy, the main villain.))

Marshallton and the entire rest of the world has fallen to the rule of Fat Daddy, who captures Romance and Patience. Fat Daddy tortures Patience into telling him how to get to Pjorrc but is unable to convince Romance to take part in his ‘new world’ or give him Po’s mask. Romance and Patience escape and leave the village to be torn apart by the fifty babies Po had, now transformed into veracious monsters after Patience didn’t feed them for the past ten years. Romance confronts Patience when he realizes the latter is Pjorrc’s son. Patience calls Romance out on his mantra of vengeance and points out that all his decisions are his own, not the gods, and instructs him to seek Love herself in Po’s basement. Patience then attempts to confront Pjorrc but is cornered and killed by Fat Daddy before he can do so.

In Po’s basement, Romance finds Love nailed to a wall, her face torn off and half eaten by her deformed husband. Love tells Romance that Po ripped off her daughter’s face in rage over Pjorrc’s infidelity and Pjorrc did not intervene fast enough. Po then threw Love into her basement, turned Love’s husband into a monster, and wore her daughter’s face as a mask - which Romance had broken into pieces moments ago after Patience had shown him his face in King Crookie’s mirror. Romance then finds Pjorrc hanging himself. As he dies, Pjorrc tells Romance to take the hand Fat Daddy had cut off and sew it onto himself, which will in turn help Romance defeat Abbledepopa.

Romance traverses the wasteland and does not find Abbledepopa, but instead a golden loom. Having seen all the destruction he and others had caused, Romance sits upon the loom and accepts his fate as the new ‘storyteller’ of the world, as he begins weaving a new one...

---

I mentioned before the animation quality of the film and why maybe that caused people to overlook it. The only other thing I could complain about on a technical level with The Romantic is it's sound design. Some of the voices and music is a little too quiet and so all these key details I had to go through the film a few times to really piece together. But that leads me to the thing I like about this movie and I'm sure others would to: the lore.

It's very hard to create a new fantasy world w it's own customs, religions, history and rules out of the blue as any YA Harry Potter/Hunger Games ripoff book could tell you. The Romantic is so unique in how it handles the pantheon and culture of these three gods and their kin; really only four or five characters throughout the entire story aren't connected to the gods or prophecy in some way, as there's the main three gods, Abbeldepappa, and the prophets Patience, Love and Fat Daddy, who make up your main cast besides Romance. There's a lot that's intentionally left unexplained and other info that must be explained, like Pjorrc and Po's marriage and Romance's feelings towards the gods, if we want to understand the former. The movie is paced pretty well and knows when to follow up on what, it's just that again some of those animation and editting shortcomings might make it hard to understand...but I don't think THAT hard. Look, if someone can enjoy Starchaser: The Legend of Orin or even better surrealist world-building films ((Fantastic Planet comes to mind)), then I say there's no reason The Romantic wouldn't have a following. There's no other way I can articulate why and what doesn't work about the story except just to recommend you watch it yourselves, but before I get into that I want to talk themes...because I love the themes and tone of The Romantic.

I revisited The Romantic a week before I made myself watch Centaurworld and The Owl House for the first time...and what a week that was~! The Romantic has the vibe of those kinds of shows along with Adventure Time and Infinity Train ((so I hear, I haven't watched the latter)). It's surreal and you'll only marvel at 'woooah wut an acid trip' for so long before you get into the vibe of the universe. It also reminded me substantially of the Broadway musical Hadestown and not just because this movie is also a self-contained, somewhat self aware fable about the relationships between humans and gods - it's very raw in how the characters talk. It's very emotional and blunt in how kind and how cruel they can be, and it doesn't make excuses or really worships any one of them. Romance himself is the world's most likable Incel: he murders a woman he thought he needed to love and blames his emotions on the gods of those passions...except the gods AREN'T the manifestations of love, time, and hate - they simply dictate and oversee it in the lives of men. It's a dynamic I really like in religious works where Gods are powerful but not all knowing or puppet masters to everyone's design- they have morality too and there is only so much you can blame and get from them.

"You made your gods into excuses and your excuses into gods!"

-Patience. This here is a cool quote. I like this quote.

No matter what, The Romantic is not gonna be a film for everyone. We all have our tastes - I think I'm drawn to it and accepting because I've come to love these kind of worlds that used to keep me up at night - these trippy 70s inspired fantasy landscapes given a whole Avatar: The Last Airbender degree of worldbuilding and character worth. It also doesn't feel exploitive in it's violence, it's sexuality, it's grimmness - it doesn't feel like it's trying to hard or going over the top because it happens to be an adult animated film, something that I love in movies like 9 or Hair High but really turns me off in stuff like Sausage Party or Wizards. Whatever go watch The Romantic...

if you can.

-----

When I first saw this film in 2016 it was actually very accessible and was even uploaded to youtube by the creator himself. I don't know WHAT happened to Michael P. Heneghan, but simply put, the man's disappeared...like...REALLY disappeared.

Lookit his IMDB. He has The Romantic and a wapping two other projects to his name. His Twitter isn't very helpful either. He last updated in early 2020 and he says next to nothing about The Romantic. It's so odd that he would one day be happy with the film enough to host it on Vimeo and Youtube but then just cop out.

According to a Reddit user: "On Valentines Day 2011, Heneghan released the film for free online through all kinds of platforms including direct download, bittorrent, Vimeo, and even directly through Archive.org. He even joked about releasing a 300 gig uncompressed version.

I know I watched it on Vimeo probably as recently as 2016. Now I can't find it anywhere. The website is dead, the Vimeo video went private, even the archive.org version has been taken down. It really looks like he wanted to wipe it off the face of the internet. His newer website mentions it, but again, the Vimeo link is dead and even that website is closed for business."

It's weeeird. What happened Michael?

And yes, obviously, other people worked on the movie.

No - I can't find out anything about them either.

I'm betting on three theories at the moment: 1) this film is an SCP or some Candle Cove weirdness with only me and a handful of people ANYWHERE remembering it, 2) something weird is going on w Michael Heneghan and it involves too something about this film. It was a scam or a scheme or a hidden agenda weirdness, 3) Heneghan's doing okay he just doesn't like this film anymore and wants it hidden while he takes a break.

Look, I get it Michael! What was once our life's worth can become cringe as you improve as an artist - you're not the person making the stuff you were ten years ago...but you should still have the film kept alive somehow. Someway.

I'm seriously the only person to have ever made fan art of this movie on the internet. That just doesn't happen, and I don't think I like being in a fandom of one. The Romantic is a testament to the power of design and storytelling > animation quality itself. Too often I see people equate good animation with smooth animation, with a budget with squash and stretch. These animations are good but art is diverse and there's so many kinds of films out there, the value of the medium can't just be in one style/form. There's a lot of honestly wonderful pieces of art out there if you know where to look and you're willing to see where it leads you.

Don't let The Romantic be the most forgotten movie of all time. Reblog this post. Show it to your friends. PM the animation community reviewer people like Saberspark and someone who isn't Saberspark and smuggle them a copy.

Keep telling the story...

[hargrove-mayfields]

more religious Billy pls

trigger warnings for homophobia, child abuse and religious trauma.

From family, to friends, to neighbors, everyone around Billy always said, people like Billy were never supposed to get their happy endings. You sin, you repent, you get to live it up in paradise. But if you don’t repent, you go to hell. It was simple the way they taught it.

And that’s exactly the problem. Billy never knew exactly how he was supposed to earn forgiveness when his sin was just being himself, simply existing, but he tried, for years he did.

He went to every Sunday service and prayed each night like a good Christian boy was supposed to. He did everything he could to make up for being the way he was, from asking out all the pretty good girls at school to participating in the anti-homosexual pushback at the town hall even if he did go home and cry so hard he threw up after that, but those things were all just a performance, cowardly, futile attempts at pleasing the big man in the sky (and at home) that were getting him nowhere near any closer to the pearly gates.

Eventually he breaks. He starts drinking and smoking and screwing around with as many men as will take him out for the night. He grows his hair out long and pierces his ear, gets a tattoo and wears makeup he stole from the church store to sneak it to a gay bar. But still in the end, he just feels worse.

In the moment it’s like a high, like he’s finally getting to see even just a glimpse of who he, who Billy Hargrove really is and not just he was told he had to be, but Neil makes sure to remind him how wrong he is. He cuts his hair with a knife and beats him bruised and bloody, he makes the family go to church on Wednesdays instead of just Sunday, he puts the Bible on his night stand every night and he prays and prays and prays the gay out of that boy, most nights making Billy do it too through his tears.

And Billy tried, desperately he did to believe that all they said and did to him was wrong, that he could be who he wanted without all these rules just to please some unseen dictator that may or may not even be real, but the things he had been taught were so deeply ingrained into his mind. He knew he wasn’t bound for anything better, and he blamed himself for that.

On the floor of the mall, he doesn’t mean to think about it, what will happen after the fact.

He knows he should be thinking about how Max’s life is going to be once he’s not there to protect her, how everyone’s lives will be plagued with all of the destruction he caused, the grief that would come from the deaths of the people he killed. The irony of the Saint-Christopher pendant around his neck when he’d attempted to carry a child to her death instead of to safety.

As much as he’d like to see a familiar face, between everything he’d done, what he put Max and her friends through, all that had happened this past week, he knows he doesn’t have a place in paradise. Not that any of that even matters. He’d had a special spot in hell reserved just for him since he told his momma he had a crush on a curly headed boy named PJ in the second grade and the poor woman almost fainted.

Billy is terrified to be facing it now, but all his life he’d known this was coming, and he thinks he deserves it all the same.

Except, the next time he opens his eyes, he doesn’t see that he’s surrounded by hellfire and tortured souls, instead he’s staring up at a white tiled ceiling, the sound of the steady-unsteady beeping and whirring of machinery filling his head.

He tries to speak, but he doesn’t think anything comes out. A panicky little redhead leans over him in the bed to press one of the buttons. He looks at her face and he concentrates hard, and thinks he knows her, but he doesn’t know her.

A nurse comes at his sister's signal, and they first make sure he’s fully responsive, which is somewhat hard when he can’t speak, and then they inform him he’s been in an induced coma for months. They tell him that anything he saw on the other side wasn’t real, and he was alive that whole time. It doesn’t do much at all to comfort him though. How can it, when he doesn’t even know who he is?

He learns that his name is William, Billy according to the snappy girl who he knows is his little sister now, but whose name he can never seem to remember. His name feels strange in his throat when he repeats it back like a question, “Billy..?” That doesn’t feel like who he is, not anymore at least.

They have to teach him literally everything all over again. All he knew how to do when he woke up was facial expressions and vague, but very painful as he learned, gestures with his hands. Anything else was fair game.

It takes a whole year in the hospital, things going so slowly because of the pain, but even more so because of the setbacks he faces.

Two days after he woke up, when he still couldn’t speak, Neil had showed up. It wasn’t for a visit or even to see his son was going now that he’s finally awake. Neil is there to first ask him what he saw when he died, and when Billy just stares blankly, his vocabulary still too small to articulate anything, to accuse him of being the devil and deliberately mocking Him by coming back.

Needless to say, Neil isn’t allowed in for many more visits.

But it still resets those two days of progress they’d made, and it was like he’d just woken up that same day. This would keep happening every time anything distressing happened around Billy, and they had to find the perfect balance between having too many nurses and visitors in the room at once that he’d get overwhelmed and distracted, or not enough and get lonely and regress.

But once they’re out of the woods with that, things go mostly smoothly. Eating and drinking and walking, he’s gets that all down pat pretty easily, but his memories just aren’t coming back to him. He remembers a few insignificant childhood memories, but it’s mostly the bad things, things like his mother leaving or his father kicking him out for a week when he was fifteen, and so on. He still has no idea what happened to him though, and Max and her mom and the nurses are all telling him these stories, trying to persuade him into remembering, but something is just not clicking.

That is, at least, until he’s allowed to visit with Steve again.

Doctors worried showing him someone who had so many bad memories associated with him might be confusing to Billy, so they held off on allowing visitation from Steve, or anyone else who wasn’t immediate family, but he was at the hospital a few times dropping Max off when Susan was working, and he wasn’t allowed to see Billy then either.

They planned on keeping it that way until they could either be sure Billy’s identity was more secure, or if they were really desperate to get Billy's gears turning, and unfortunately the latter came first, so seven whole months after Billy woke up, Steve is allowed in his room.

The thought process was that the boys were on the basketball team together, at least until Neil pulled Billy as a punishment just before the season ended, and even if all he remembers is beating Steve up, he’s still a familiar face, and it might help, so once when Steve’s about to turn around and walk out like he always does, Max comes back out, wide eyed and flustered looking, and tells him he’s allowed to come visit with her brother.

Nobody can understand why Steve is so teary eyed, or why he says Billy's name with so much desperation, but his reaction quickly gets ignored when Billy responds with a simple, “Stevie.”

It shocks everyone, Steve was the first person who Billy remembered without months of work, sometimes he still called Max by her mother’s name if he was having a hard day, but with Steve it was like there was nothing even wrong. Like it had only been a couple of days since he’d seen him.

Before, if they asked Billy anything about high school, he couldn’t tell them much other than the bad things. But with Steve, those memories that had once been impossible to touch, the blurry images of a past he wasn’t even sure belonged to him, were unlocked, and with time Billy returns to himself. Remembers everything.

His overall progress goes much quicker after that, to the point where they’re planning on letting him out as soon as his medications are all in order, and still nobody can figure out what is so special about this boy.

That is, until a nurse walks in on them, holding hands and sitting on the bed, foreheads pressed together like they’d just been kissing. She goes a little pale in the face, but she says she’s not going to tell. That doesn’t stop half the ward from knowing in less than a week.

Nurses refuse to care for him. Susan starts standing by the door in case anyone comes in. They are told their love was sinful, but it was exactly that that had saved Billy.

Without Steve and what they had, Billy still would have no idea who he was. This wasn’t something the hospital would ever actually admit to Max or his parents, but after so long, they were sure he was never going to have his sense of self back. Because while physically he was recovering, until he had that extra push, he just wasn’t himself.

That was more of a blessing than any holy figurehead could offer. When he finally, after a year and a half in the hospital, got to come home, into Steve’s care because Susan refused to take her stepson back to Neil, his space with Steve offers Billy more comfort and safety than any isolated house of God or reformation camp ever could.

And most of all, Billy isn’t afraid to be himself anymore.

[nothing-more-than-hot-leaf-juice]

Hi fren! Been following ur blog for a while and honestly I love it! I was wondering if I can get ur thoughts on something :)) remember in sozins comet when Iroh refused to fight ozai becuz “history will see it as more violence, a brother killing a brother to gain power” but then cue to Azula and Zuko who are fighting for the throne and it’s fine?? with them?? doesn’t that count as more violence as well? Thank if you ever come across this :D

Okay, first off, I think it needs to be clarified what Iroh actually said in that scene in regards to sending Zuko to defeat Azula because the two situations are very different and everyone involved knew that. The exchange went as such:

Zuko: Uncle, you’re the only person other than the Avatar who can possibly defeat the fatherlord.... we need you to come with us. 

Iroh: No Zuko, it won’t turn out well. 

Zuko: You can beat him. And we’ll be there to help. 

Iroh: Even if I did defeat Ozai, and I don’t know that I could, it would be the wrong way to end the war. History would see it as more senseless violence: a brother killing a brother to gain power. The only way for this war to end peacefully is if the Avatar defeats the Firelord. 

(dialogue, etc.) 

Iroh: Zuko, you must return to the Fire Nation, so that when the Firelord falls, you can assume the throne and restore peace and order. But Azula will be there waiting for you. 

When I see the argument that Iroh sending Zuko after Azula was hypocritical, I think it ignores the reality of the situation and the pragmatic approach. Because Iroh was absolutely correct throughout this whole exchange. Here were the facts as of this point: 

1. Iroh and Zuko were declared traitors and could not legally assume the throne once Ozai was defeated, meaning Azula would assume the throne by default.

2. By this point in the series, Azula had shown at every point that she was just as enthusiastic about waging war and had shown no remorse for the suffering of the Earth Kingdom at the hands of the Fire Nation. She was particularly enthusiastic about the two major affronts against the Earth Kingdom: conquering Ba Sing Se and using Sozin’s Comet to burn down the Earth Kingdom. 

3. Azula was the one who had the idea for the ‘let’s use the comet to burn down the Earth Kingdom’ plan in the first place and was proud of that plan. If Ozai was defeated, she would have used her position to go through with the plan anyway.

Realistically, this situation is in no way ideal, but the reality is that Azula did need to be stopped from assuming the throne. Make no mistake, if she had the opportunity to do so, she would have been at Ozai’s side burning down the Earth Kingdom instead of staying in the Fire Nation. She was dangerous and needed to be stopped and that was evident from her actions throughout the entire series. 

And the situations of Zuko defeating Azula and Iroh defeating Ozai are completely different, mainly because it was never Zuko or Iroh’s intention for Zuko to kill Azula like everyone else was planning with Ozai. The intent with Zuko going after Azula was to stop her from being crowned, which was a thing that needed to be stopped, otherwise, the war would have continued. And Iroh was absolutely correct in his assumptions: Zuko and Katara arrived in the Fire Nation just before Azula was crowned Firelord. And in the end, as we all know, they didn’t kill her, they just removed her as a threat so Zuko could assume the throne. There is a difference between taking out an actively harmful force in a position of absolute authority (Ozai) and stopping a harmful force from taking a position of absolute authority (Azula). 

There’s also the facts that 1. Iroh had his own history as a general who held siege on Ba Sing Se for 600 days, allegedly committed war crimes, and wasn’t exactly well regarded in the Earth Kingdom. 2. Like he said, a fight between Iroh and Ozai was not one that had a clear victor. Iroh was not the right person to defeat Ozai, Aang was, for many reasons. (There’s also the fact that Iroh’s arc came full circle as he freed the city he once laid siege on, but that has less to do with the pragmatic rationale behind the match ups and more to do with thematic purposes.)

And this is a thing that also bothers me. There’s an argument that Iroh failed Azula and that part of the reason she was how she was fell on him and I don’t think that’s fair. And this post by @withyoutilltheendofthecredits articulates why: 

the ideas “azula was a victim of abuse who was manipulated and hurt by ozai” and “azula had a hand in a lot of trauma for zuko due to her awful treatment of him” can and should coexist

I think it’s important to keep in mind whenever we talk about Iroh, Azula, and Zuko how their dynamic was in season 2. Firstly, Iroh’s priority through this show was to keep Zuko safe. In season 1, he wasn’t so much there to actively help Zuko find Aang (and on multiple occasions seemed to work against Zuko’s mission), but rather was there to stop Zuko from making stupid decisions that would get him killed while offering emotional support and training him to be a better firebender. Does he actually want Zuko to kidnap the Avatar and return to his awful, abusive father? No. But he does want Zuko to have something that gives him hope, something that keeps him going. And Iroh’s priority is to be there to make sure this kid doesn’t do anything too reckless. 

 In season 2, Zuko technically no longer has his mission as he’s deemed an enemy of the Fire Nation and Iroh more explicitly works to help his nephew mentally and emotionally extricate himself from the family members that hurt him. At the beginning of the season when Zuko is excited about going home after Azula lies to them, Iroh voices his suspicion because unlike Zuko, who’s still holding onto the idea that he can win his father’s love, Iroh is able to look at the situation objectively and knows that if Zuko goes home, he’s not going to be safe and he is not going to be met with any sort of love. 

Zuko: Did you listen to Azula? Father’s realized how important family is. He cares about me. 

Iroh: I care about you!

And through the rest of the season, Iroh tries his best to take advantage of their new freedom by showing Zuko that he does deserve control of his own life, happiness, and unconditional love. He’s trying his best to help him through this difficult time because part of Zuko’s emotional struggle in this is reconciling with the fact that no, his father doesn’t want him, at all. When he was banished, he had the ‘if I get the Avatar I can go home’ thing to cling onto, but Iroh and everyone else knew that Ozai never actually intended for Zuko to succeed or return. So Zuko has to deal with that in season 2 and doesn’t get to that point, he still tries to capture Aang and he still joins Azula in Crossroads of Destiny because he’s not ready to let that little bit of hope that he could return home go. It isn’t until he takes a stand against Ozai with the “it was cruel and it was wrong” speech that he really discovers who he is and what he wants and the main reason he’s able to come to that conclusion is because of Iroh’s treatment of him in season 2. 

In season 2, Iroh not only protects Zuko from physical harm and takes care of him in regards to sickness, food, and water, but tries to drill into his head that he didn’t deserve the treatment from his father and shouldn’t throw his life away trying to please him. That he can have and deserves a peaceful life. And Zuko keeps going down the self destructive path because he’s been convinced for so long that him proving himself to his father is more important than his personal safety or happiness. Iroh just wants him to put himself before the man that abused him. He hates it that Zuko almost gets himself killed multiple times for the sake of Ozai. There’s their talk in The Avatar Day and their fight in Lake Laogai that bring this to the forefront: 

Iroh: Even if you did capture the Avatar, I’m not so sure it would solve all our problems. 

Zuko: Then there is no hope at all 

Iroh: No Zuko, you must never give into despair. 

Iroh: And then what?! You never think these things through. This is exactly what happened when you tried to capture the Avatar at the North Pole. You had him and then you had nowhere to go. 

Zuko: I would have figured something out. 

Iroh: No! If his friends hadn’t found you, you would have frozen to death! 

Zuko: I know my own destiny. 

Iroh: Is it your own destiny? Or is it a destiny someone else has tried to force on you? 

And as Iroh acts as Zuko’s protector and tries to break him away from his self destructive mentality, how does Azula fit into that? Here are the interactions between Azula, Zuko, and Iroh in season 2: 

Azula trying to take Zuko and Iroh as prisoners to the Fire Nation with no remorse 

Azula attempting to shoot lightning at Zuko in the first episode of season 2 and Zuko only being saved by Iroh redirecting it at the last second 

Azula shooting Iroh and seriously injuring him (it could have been lighting, but I think it was just fire) 

Azula trying to capture Iroh and Zuko in Ba Sing Se and succeeding 

Azula manipulating Zuko into going back to Ozai 

Objectively, Azula is a threat against Zuko’s safety and there’s a good chance she would have killed him in the first episode of season 2 if Iroh hadn’t stopped her. He knows exactly how dangerous she is and made the decision that he was going to do what it took to keep Zuko safe, which he did. With this exchange in Bitter Work. 

This isn’t Iroh saying ‘I have no sympathy for my niece whatsoever and am choosing to ignore her’. This is Iroh saying ‘Azula has proven herself to be an objective and real threat and I need to keep Zuko safe from her.’ And he was correct. I feel like this stance is reasonable when the last two times she saw them she tried to shoot Zuko with lightning and actually shot Iroh. 

And the reality of the situation is that Iroh shouldn’t have had to be the one to raise Zuko or Azula. He wasn’t their parent and he shouldn’t have had to be responsible for them. Ideally, Ozai should have been the one to do that, but that wasn’t the reality of the situation. And Iroh was faced with a choice: go with Zuko who was banished, injured, and lost, or stay with Azula who was not in a good home with a good influence, but who was still the favored, prodigy princess. He had a choice of which kid to stand behind and I think it’s fair to say that Zuko needed Iroh more when he was banished. 

Ideally, there shouldn’t have been a choice for Iroh. Ideally, Iroh shouldn’t have had to raise his nephew. Ideally, Azula should have had a better parental influence who didn’t encourage her violent streak. But it was by no means an ideal situation. Azula was dangerous and remorseless and Iroh was entirely correct when he saw her rising to power and realized ‘if she isn’t stopped now, there is no telling what she’s going to do’. Because he knows exactly who raised her.

[aimeelouart]

Repurposing a bit of server freewriting for part 2 of purring!Cloud (Saving Subject C AU). Lil’ bit of whump, lil’ bit of hurt/comfort, and lovely fluffy cuddles

Also doubles as a preview if we end up going in a certain direction, but tbh I doubt it. Either way, spoiler free.

--

Cloud held pressure across his stomach, grimacing as the pain came and went in throbbing waves. He’d already pulled the shrapnel out so his body wouldn’t seal around it. Now it was just a matter of staying still and keeping pressure on until it closed enough for him to safely move.

His chest was doing the fucking thing (he refused to put a name to it) but he couldn’t make it stop, which didn’t make any sense. Didn’t cats only...do the thing when they were happy? Why was it happening to him now? 

Fuck, at least the SOLDIERs weren’t around to hear it.

“Cloud!”

The call was still fairly distant. Cloud loosed an involuntary, irritated grunt at the sound. Shit, they were persistent. Maybe that wasn’t surprising. He had run off and destroyed Shinra property at the first available opportunity. With any luck, his hiding space would work until the hole in his side closed and he could make a proper escape. It didn’t have to be long. Just...long enough.

Gaia, he was starting to feel lightheaded. He cracked an eye open and checked the size of the blood puddle spreading from his side. It was much wider than he’d hoped. He might be in more trouble than he thought.

“There you are.”

Cloud breathed out a heartfelt “fuck” as Sephiroth’s voice reached him. Grimacing, he tilted his head enough to see the silver-haired demon kneeling and peering into the dark space beneath the broken lift Cloud was using for cover. He snarled at the man, but it was half-hearted at best. Even if he somehow found the strength to take up his commandeered knives again, he was too weak to run, never mind fight.

He’d miscalculated, and how he was going to pay for it.

But…

But.

Sephiroth didn’t sound angry when he dropped down onto his stomach and slid as far into the narrow space as he could. “Cloud, where are you hurt?” He sounded…concerned, alarmed, maybe even a little bit…afraid? “Cloud?”

“Fuck off,” Cloud slurred, confused. His sight was starting to gray a little bit around the edges. A real pang of concern shot through him. Had he missed an exit wound?

Sephiroth snorted a little, disbelieving. “Even when you are bleeding out, you still…” He reached, but even his long arm wasn’t quite enough to snag Cloud’s shirt. “Cloud, can you move toward me? Just a little bit.”

He hunkered down into himself, trying to apply more pressure. The pain was fading, and he still couldn’t make the stupid rumbling stop. “No.”

“I can’t help you unless you move a little bit, Cloud.”

“Fuck off,” he repeated, eyes starting to slide shut.

Another voice. “Seph?”

“He’s here. I can’t reach him.”

Cloud’s eyes shut all the way.

“Let me try. Here, Angeal, take my coat for a second.”

The voices were starting to sound like they were coming from underwater. Cloud felt, distantly, that this was definitely the point at which he should have been outright alarmed. He’d missed something. Probably an exit wound on his back, based on the blood loss. He’d be fine, even if they left him where he was, but they weren’t going to do that. He wished he had the strength to grab one of his knives.

“Cloud, sweetheart, can you say something?”

He found the will to say “fuck off” a third time. It sounded like “f’k ov.”

Genesis—that was Genesis—snorted. “Okay. Okay, I’ve…” Fingers snagged the edge of his sleeve. “…got you! I’ve got you, come on.” He pulled, sliding Cloud across the blood-slicked ground until he could grab an arm, and then Cloud was dragged from the safety of his hiding space and out into the light. Alarms were still going off in the distance. He smirked weakly.

“Shit, kiddo,” someone breathed as he was rolled onto his back. He couldn’t quite find the strength to keep his hand over the wound and it fell limply to the ground. “Did you⁠—is this a shrapnel wound? Cloud, did you pull it out?”

Duh, he thought, unable to articulate his disdain.

“Later, Genesis,” someone else said. Large, strong hands provided the compression Cloud wasn’t able to any more.

“I need to see his back. Get the shirt off.”

His shirt was cut off as he drifted in and out of consciousness. He was shifted, then propped up across someone as two more hands pressed down on either side of his torso. Magic flooded his body, sealing the path carved through his flesh. The gray retreated a little as another flood of magical energy compensated for his blood loss until his body could make up the difference. 

And, finally, the stupid purring stopped. He really, really hated that it seemed to be involuntary.

Cloud was shifted again, wrapped up in something primarily leather and then picked up like a swaddled infant. Fucking rude, he thought, struggling to drag his leaden eyelids up. A vaguely silver blur hovered above his face. He tried to object, but what came out of his mouth was closer to a grumpy kitten growl than articulated displeasure.

“Hush,” someone said. It might have been the silver blur. A water bottle was pressed against his lips and since he wasn’t completely self destructive, he drank.

“Little idiot. What was your plan, hmm? To bleed out under there?”

That was probably Genesis. Out of pure spite, Cloud managed to spit out a “yeah” in response.

A frustrated noise. A tired sigh. A rumbling, half-stifled laugh against his ear.

“Stop antagonizing him,” someone said. A hand passed over his face, brushing his staggering eyelids down. Tired, he let them stay closed. “We’ll have plenty of time to talk about appropriate responses to severe bodily harm later.”

And Cloud was...increasingly confused. It was hard to think, drained and cold and barely hanging on to consciousness, but none of this was what should have been happening. They were threatening...scoldings? No one was angry. He’d destroyed a massive amount of Shinra property, practically spat in their faces, and somehow no one was angry.

He shivered, and it had nothing to do with the chill.

--

Cloud’s little stunt had scared the hell out of them. It wasn’t that they didn’t care that he’d demolished Shinra property and made their job fending off the Turks much, much more difficult—they did—but when they’d started searching, they really had thought it would be a tiny, lifeless body they found. Any anger and frustration they might have felt paled in comparison to the sheer relief of finding him alive.

Sephiroth was the one watching him (hiding him, more or less), while Genesis and Angeal dealt with getting all of them back to the Tower in one piece. It wasn’t going to be easy, but Cloud was so little and this event just reinforced the fact that only SOLDIERs had any hope of containing him. Hopefully that would bolster their argument rather than encourage Science to get involved, because...well, forget what he and Genesis and Angeal would do to save the kid, Cloud himself would rip the whole department to shreds using only his teeth if they even tried to take him.

On some distant level, Sephiroth wondered how Cloud had managed to ensnare the three of them (and more SOLDIERs besides) so quickly. Or at all. Sephiroth wasn’t supposed to have a heart. He was supposed to be the pure paragon of SOLDIER, a soulless weapon forged only to mete out death. But here he was, holding a child safe in his arms and feeling his breath stutter every time he wondered what it would have been like to find a cold, unmoving body beneath that broken equipment.

Cloud was asleep, face milk-pale where it rested against the dark leather of his coat. He had proper blankets now, and Sephiroth’s own body heat besides. Angeal had been very clear about that—Cloud was not to be without a heat source until he was no longer anemic.

Not that Sephiroth would have willingly put him down. He found himself oddly agitated at the thought of not being able to feel the boy’s heartbeat beneath his palm. And, more than that...he felt unwilling to give up the strange, powerful contentment he felt just having Cloud safe in his arms.

“Seph?”

He startled a little, moving his eyes from Cloud’s face to find Genesis standing with one hand on the door frame, watching them with an unreadable expression. “...yes?” Sephiroth responded when Genesis didn’t continue. He realized that he had been shifting back and forth from foot to foot without noticing. When had that started?

“...you’re purring.”

What? He stopped—he stopped breathing entirely, actually. They’d told him about Cloud’s near-violent reaction to his own purring weeks before, but only now did he really understand. Because humans weren’t meant to be able to do that.

“Hey,” Genesis said quickly, crossing over to touch his arm, “stop. I know what you’re thinking.” His eyes were unusually gentle, maybe because he was riding the same relieved high Sephiroth was. “But...aren’t you glad Cloud isn’t alone?”

Aren’t you glad you’re not alone?

And he...was. He really was, once the thought was put to words. Cloud had been frightened by his own body and abilities, but he didn’t need to be anymore. Not when Sephiroth was with him. Neither of them were alone.

The rumbling started back up. He thoughtlessly leaned his head down and pressed his cheek to Cloud’s damp, unruly hair. The boy smelled like mako and blood and explosives. Sephiroth didn’t mind at all.

Genesis huffed a laugh, but it choked a little, and Sephiroth cracked an eye open inquisitively. “You’ve...you’ve never been injured enough or happy enough to do this before, have you?” he asked.

Oh. Was that it? He thought it might have been in response to Cloud, somehow, but...he really hadn’t ever felt such powerful relief and contentment until today, had he? Objectively, that was probably sad—that’s what Genesis’s expression was telling him. He didn’t much care though. There were more important things to think about.

So he just hummed noncommittally and gathered Cloud a little closer, shutting his eyes again. When Genesis huffed a second laugh, it was much lighter.

“So,” Genesis said, nudging him, “when is it my turn to play space heater?”

Sephiroth growled.

[projectdreamcatcher]

Thinking about tubbo at las Nevadas. And how much his like... very blatant words are being misinterpreted. Also bad fandom takes.

By far I gotta say any c! Tubbo detraction is not at all because “he got a job” like. What? Are people like... genuinely getting mad at that?

trust me if there was actual tubbo detraction other than “I’m upset that tubbo told ranboo some things that could be interpreted as not being happy with ranboo” I would know

If anything I feel the takes defending him are way worse. (Rant under the cut)

Some of the tubbo defense takes are just. “It’s HIS CHOICE to get involved into a soul sucking food service job! He wants a community! Ranboo is overreacting and it’s hypocritical bc he lives with someone who blew up tubbo’s nation like 6 months ago this is obviously an equivalent thing and not something I pulled out of my ass”

First off bold of you to assume Las Nevadas is a community and not a back breaking retail job in a flashy, americana country coat of paint.

That being said- Do I think tubbo wants a community and had tried to get it with snowchester, which failed? Absolutely. But to say that’s the only thing is just misinterpreting his words tbh. Tubbo wanted a new purpose, too. He wanted shit to Do.

We can probably break it down really simple, too. “He got a job” why did he get one, tho? “He needed a purpose” good, why does he need a purpose? “Because he feels useless without a country to serve” THERE IT IS!

So yeah like! Idk about everyone else, but. Personally I’m not “mad” that tubbo “got a job” or anything. I am, however, concerned as shiiit considering. I’m seeing the reason why he’s getting that job. and maybe I think that tubbo putting his value and worth into how well he does at a job or serving a country is a bad thing actually. If anything, he’s feeding into unhealthy coping mechanisms that will end up hurting him (AND HAS HURT HIM, before!)

I don’t think this is all set in stone but I also. Know what the past looks like. And I don’t trust quackity and Las Nevadas as far as I can throw em. And when las Nevadas to start fucking over tubbo big time, all of these people’s velhemently defending this job will look so stupid.

At the end of the day, it’s not me going “oh tubbo is a bad person for taking a job at las Nevadas” I’m saying he’s making an Incredibly Bad Decision by doing this and that decision was informed by his own mindset of feeling like he can only be happy through work and sacrifice and allegiance to a collective/country/etc. that has been self destructive in extreme circumstances.

the best way i can best articulate my feelings is that while it is tubbo’s choice to get that job and I’m happy he’s doing things for himself for once, but I’m also. Very fucking concerned considering how these sequences of events usually end with tubbo dying, nearly dying, and/or loosing all self worth he had in the process.

[solactier]

This one’s for you @heytherestilinski

This is going to be quite the mixture of emotions, so I apologise in advance if my expression of said feelings is all over the place, but I simply must talk about the golden fanfiction that is Heat Waves and how it has swayed my soul with sounds of sweet bells.

To start, I should say, I’ve been in love with writing and reading for as long as I can remember. The ability to weave an entire world with mere threads of words is fascinating to me, always has been. I’ve taken in quite the number of books and fanfictions throughout my period of living, and considering so, I can confidently say:

Dakota’s writing is a force to be reckoned with.

But the force I speak of is the kind that is emitted from ember sunrises that one witnesses during moments between summer and autumn. They hold a certain glow that keeps a person sat there, for incessant hours, in pursuit of a special warmth that will leave them settled and content.

I have never been captured and pulled in by a descriptive style more than I was with Dakota’s, and I say this having read a multitude of her work. This author is admirable in a multitude of ways, and I’m genuinely excited for anything and everything they will produce in the upcoming future. 

I could ramble for a good bout of time about many of Dakota’s works, but that would result in a document longer than Dream’s 19 page rebuttal, so let’s focus on one (for now).

Heat Waves

Two words that hold a grand amount of weight and cause hearts to shift.

I have a lot to say about this prosperous and glorious story, but at the same time I don’t because upon finishing a chapter, be it one of the first or the last, I am rendered speechless. My words of explanation and admiration morph into vibrations of zeal flowing through my veins as I absorb beautiful descriptions and powerful dialogue.

Heat Waves chapters aren’t ones I find myself totally rereading often, and here’s why:

When reaching the end of whatever chapter and scrolling through the final notes, I am left satisfied, completely. Dakota’s style is captivating in a way that allows me to read their sentences and phrases carefully and attentively, making sure the picture painted in my mind is as accurate as possible. I will encounter a certain, strong line and read it again, and again, and again before continuing on as to ensure I consume the sentiment being served, and mind you, it was served.

I came here at first expecting the usual or normal plate-size of feelings, but oh was I wrong, I was quenched, fully fed, if you will lol.

The reason for that is this narrative is not your typical fanfic troupe.

Heat Waves is a story about messy, unpredictable love, and that’s what makes it as enthralling as it is. It is poetic as it is real.

It’s thrilling lust turned to excruciating yet oh so warm love.

Dream misses and wants to hold onto George’s presence regardless of the pain it causes him, of the internal conflicts that have suddenly surfaced, of the changes he must face and make, of the haunting dreams. 

Even if George’s actuality distresses and brings Dream affectionate confusion, he will still reach for him. He will hurt and hurt and hurt in order to grasp the heat he’s grown a little too addicted to because he prefers when George is around, rather than when he isn’t. 

Dream’s mind spirals and his feelings scatter over interactions due to him knowing George very well, yet not knowing him at all. The two could flirt and exchange the most ridiculous of dialogue and nothing would change, and that’s where a certain dilemma is contrived: How much of this is real? What is considered serious among the numerous jokes him and George make? How far is he allowed to go? All of these questions tug at the curves of Dream’s brain and heart, and he is unsure about much, but despite that, he finds himself thinking all about George, during late nights, in the middle of June. 

Dream undergoes a series of emotional disputes over whatever the fuck is happening between himself and George, and that, my friends, is the heartache that comes from truly having feelings for someone and wanting their every speckle. Of course, such strong desires can sometimes be unhealthy. Dream, at one point, is a bad friend to Sapnap (whom we all must agree to stan because damn sir your back must be hurting from carrying your two idiot friends’ passionate but disordered baggage. a king) by ignoring his calls and messages due to being caught up, tied, and trapped in the strings of yearning. This one guy is doing so much damage to Dream, but he’s fallen too far down the pit of affection to care, in fact, he luxuriates in it.

(I also honestly do not blame Dream for playing the song on loop, because same, really does make you feel things)

Dream loves George. He loves George so much that the simplest of phrases and statements set his nerves ablaze and sparks his soul with hope.

It’s so painful but so fucking invigorating.

Which is why, at one point or another, he must learn to let go, not completely, but enough to stop the analysing and obsessing and sweating and dreaming, and that’s what’s so enticing about this tale, that among the reaching, there must be patience in order to reach something stable. Dream has been going insane for far too long, pouring his heart out to the one he so desires, but with such want comes uncertainty and surprises. Who the hell would’ve thought George had feelings for Dream for a good while before reeling himself in, only for his emotions to be stimulated with affection all too unexpectedly.

and who would’ve foreseen the slap of pure angst that were chapters 9 and 10, George’s hopeful rejection.

We read the two flirt, smile and laugh until their chests ached, connect, talk and call for hours, send fucking snapchats to eachother, telling sentimental stories, and much more.

All for Dream to crumble, piece by piece, until he is on the floor and crying over missing a chance he’s been so desperately trying to take. After what felt like a blooming relationship, Dream is seen breaking.

Because George wasn’t ready.

Because George was hit by a sudden wave of emotion that is so confusing and overwhelming and what the fuck Dream.

Yet, not all has been lost. The blazing fire of yearning may have been rained on, but it has not gone out.

Because it’s not a no, it’s a not yet.

And I cannot tell you the power such a statement holds. It was such a simple phrase, yet it shook my core as it delivers something raw, something hopeful, something to look forward to and have you inhaling a breath of longing because embers are still sparking and maybe, maybe, that chance isn’t completely out of Dream’s reach.

He just has to work on listening, bettering himself, healing and reaching a point of self-contentment. A point where he knows: he’s right for George, he’s enough for George. And the same goes for the latter.

Everything is so messy and destructive and confusing, yet they still reach.

And that, that, is such a raw form of love that it left my chest tight. They both want to be the best for eachother. They want to work and try for eachother despite the pain it may bring. They wait, and with their patience comes progression, which slowly but surely, will turn into comfort.

And to have the ability to articulate and describe such a journey is insane in every sense of the world. This story takes your collection of emotions and rattles it, making you feel so much at once that when ending a reading session, you release a satisfactory breath.

It didn’t end with attained love, or accepting confessions, or a romantic moment during the visit, or promises of kisses, or whatever cliche closing you could think of.

It ended with two friends saying “see you soon”

And that was perfect.

Perfect enough leave me, the reader, content and in awe. Because this is a slow and difficult love, one that will simply need time, as time is what will heal.

I couldn’t have asked for a better ending. Dakota is truly an inspiration.

Thank you, for creating and sharing such a masterpiece of a story, and having your readers go through the entire spectrum of emotions.

I cannot wait for Helium.

:)

[abandonedcyberpunkspidermech]

Character Bio: Peni Parker (SP//dr)

Name: Peni Parker

Hero Alias: SP//dr

Bio:

Let’s do this one last time.

Peni Parker was born on October 15th, 3132, to Richard Parker, the first SP//dr, and New York City chief of police Yuriko Watanabe, the latter of whom died shortly after giving birth. Being the daughter of SP//dr, and all that came with it, defines her life. From a young age, Peni had little opportunity to actually bond with her father. He made sure she was well-fed, had a roof over her head, and fixed her boo-boos, but he was always too busy defending the city to really BE with her. Part of why the kid got into robotics and science was to try to bond with her dad, to give them something to talk about. School has never been an issue for her, with her regularly acing her classes. As the daughter of a celebrity (most superheroes are idolized in this world, and SP//dr, New York City’s finest outside the police, is no exception), she always attended private schools with enough protection to make villains think twice about trying to attack her to get to SP//dr. There’s also the fact that most people only want to befriend her for the clout, but that’s a story for another day. She isn’t necessarily friendless, though. One of her closest friends is Harry Osborn, son of Norman Osborn, CEO of Oscorp and one of her father’s bosses in the SP//dr program. The two of them hung out a lot as kids due to their fathers’ setting them up on playdates while they were busy with Oscorp and SP//dr, and they have been friends ever since. All in all, Peni leads a fairly normal life. However, things change at the ripe age of 9 years old.

Richard Parker was a hero. The guy who was bit by a spider and became the one and only SP//dr. The hero who saved the city again and again. The man who, no matter how many times he got hit, always got back up. But after one too many battles with one Doctor Otto Octavius, he didn’t. Couldn’t. Just like that, the man she wanted so badly to be with was gone, and with him, her world shattered. To say she was heartbroken would be an understatement. The next morning, still raw with grieving, Peni moves in with her aunt and uncle, fellow SP//dr program employees May and Benjamin Parker, but not before they introduce her to a certain opportunity. As it turns out, Peni had the right genetic material to be able to pilot SP//dr, just like her father. And so, May and Ben inform Peni that she’s the only suitable replacement for her father as the pilot. Basically, they tell her “Let this spider bite you and get in the robot, Peni”. In spite of knowing how dangerous it is, how massive the responsibility is, and how great a legacy she’ll need to uphold, she accepts. She lets the spider bite her, forming a psychic link with it and gaining a supportive friend in the process. But there’s one problem: She is nine, and thus has no idea how to actually fight or be a hero. After a few months of training under the tutelage of SHIELD and Daredevil, a friend of her father, and connecting with the other heroes based in New York City, she finally takes the leap of faith and starts her life as SP//dr, the hero of New York City.

Abilities:

Psychic Link: The spider bite granted Peni a psychic link with her spider by essentially setting up a wireless connection between their brains. What this means is that the two have access to one another's brains, including senses, thoughts, memories, emotions, and instincts. However, this isn’t always a good thing. While it does allow the two to share experiences, it also has possible consequences such as sensory overload and mental contamination.

Psychically-Operated Mech: SP//dr, the mech, exists on the bleeding edge of mech control systems. How it works is that the spider is half of the mech’s CPU, and a human pilot can link with the spider and become the other half. For Peni, this means that she can control it in tandem with her spider like it was her own body, with all the relatively enhanced agility and dexterity that entails and few of the harmful side effects normally associated with using brain-computer interfacing to control extra body parts. However, like the psychic link, this comes with consequences, such as mental contamination, sensory overload, and the sensation of damage. With the ability to move the mech like a body comes the ability to use the mech’s senses like her own, which extends to feeling damage like physical injuries. The mech’s armor and coding reduce the sensory data her brain receives, but she still feels pain when hit.

Physical Strength: The mech is capable of lifting and moving approximately 45000 kilograms of mass without risk of critically damaging itself. However, both pilots hold back to preserve the mech’s internals and to avoid collateral damage, such as undue property destruction, injury, or death. Without restraint, the max lifting capacity of the mech has been measured between 60000 and 70000 kilograms.

Webs: SP//dr is capable of shooting webs composed of fluid that solidifies into an adhesive solid in the presence of atmospheric conditions. These webs serve a variety of functions, including but not limited to the mech’s famous web-swinging, incapacitating enemies, and grabbing objects from afar. SP//dr can utilize a variety of varieties of web fluid (with different chemical compositions) for a variety of functions, such as electrocution, bandaging, and temporary welding. However, most webbing breaks down within an hour, the only exceptions being designed to last longer.

Adhesive Limbs: The hands and feet of the SP//dr mech are designed with microscopic, artificial “hairs” that allow the mech to adhere to objects by use of van der Waals interactions.

Magnetic Suspension: SP//dr is equipped with a magnetic suspension system enabling it to manipulate its limbs (as many as eight limbs composed of two or three segments) in ways that would be impossible with a conventional articulation system. However, this does come at the cost of increased power consumption, and the limbs are paralyzed without power.

LCD Screen: SP//dr’s cockpit is headed by a screen with an LCD display allowing the mech to display emoticons to show emotions, messages, visual aids, or other images. However, the screen is more fragile than the rest of the hull.

Hull Durability and Armor: The chassis and limbs of SP//dr are durable and well-armored enough for the mech and pilot to be able to walk away from being struck with a bus without losing function.

Miscellaneous Gadgets: Depending on the need, SP//dr can be outfitted with a variety of tools, such as scanners, enhanced sensors, saws, welding torches, fire extinguishers, and weaponry.

Neurogenetic Technology Compatibility: Peni Parker has the correct set of genes to be able to interface with SP//dr (and other technology by proxy) given the proper apparatus. The effects, in addition to operating SP//dr, consist primarily of limited neural hacking ability and enhanced thinking speed (mostly subconscious), memory backup, as well as other general abilities usually granted by neural cybernetics. Oscorp scientists have noted a similarity to a cyberbrain, except entirely organic.

Spider-Sense: One of the few superpowers not entirely dependent on a giant robot, Peni Parker, the spider, and the robot all have a Spider-Sense. It functions as a general danger sense, allowing them to sense dangers other senses can’t detect and avoid them almost autonomically. It can also detect other Spider-People. However, scientists have noted that the sense sometimes acts in complete defiance of scientific possibility.

Intelligence: Even as a child, Peni Parker was a genius, having been one of the brightest kids in her school, a trait that will only grow with age. However, she isn’t a “Renaissance woman”. She specializes in STEM subjects, most specifically robotics and computers, but would be nowhere near as competent with Shakespeare (unfortunately, still taught in schools) or ancient history. She’s also trilingual, with fluency in English and Japanese and some knowledge of Braille.

Fighting Skills: As part of her training to pilot SP//dr, Peni learned fighting skills to enable her to better fight villains. This included boxing, self-defense, martial arts, firearms training, general combat skills, and enhanced physical condition. Aside from “anime moments”, she isn’t superhuman though, merely an athletic baseline human.

Emergency Response Skills: As another part of her training, Peni received training in responding to a general assortment of emergency situations she’d face during her career as SP//dr, including fire rescue, first aid, and water rescue.

Weaknesses:

Peppermint: Spiders hate peppermint, Peni’s spider is no exception, and the psychic link means that Peni shares that resentment. A sufficient dose of peppermint around an area will make SP//dr run from it, at least temporarily.

Vibrations: One of a spider’s most powerful senses is its ability to detect vibrations. This hypersensitivity can also serve as a weakness, as the psychic link means that if the spider senses a particularly strong vibration (or the mech does through onboard sensors), the feedback would be paralyzing. The effect is like a loud guitar riff being played on an amplifier turned to 11 directly attached to both of one’s ears.

Pesticides: Any pesticides that would affect an arachnid would affect SP//dr, so if the spider gets exposed to (or detects through onboard sensors) any of several pesticides, the mech will flee the area as soon as possible to allow itself to stave off the effects of the pesticide. Onboard filtration systems would and do nullify this weakness, however.

Power Grid:

Intelligence: 3 (Grows to 5)

Strength: 2 (5 in mech)

Speed: 2 (3 in mech)

Durability: 2 (5 in mech)

Energy Projection: 1 (2-3 with specific mech weapons)

Fighting Skills: 1 (Grows to 4)

Additional Trivia:

Ideal English VA: Kimiko Glenn

Ideal Japanese Seiyuu: Rie Takahashi

Peni Parker is a vegetarian (like in the comics). This is due to her finding it weird to eat other animals after psychically linking with SP//dr. Similarly, she has an aversion to any animal products requiring killing the animals. Except for insects for reasons most likely related to the psychic link.

As a consequence of being psychically linked to a spider, Peni is one of the more “spidery” Spider-Heros/Spider-Totems/Spider-People. This means that she has a few additional miscellaneous traits only actual spiders would have.

I’m aware of the Web of Life and Destiny and the supernatural aspect of Spider-Totem powers. Thus, I’m going to leave the balance of technological/scientific power origin versus mystical power origin for you to find out.

The SP//dr program has multiple mechs for various situations. The abilities above mostly refer to the primary mech (The same as ITSV), although some things could change with in-universe time and upgrades.

Peni and her spider use “SP//dr” to refer to the spider, the mech, their hero identity, and the program of which they are a part. Due to the psychic link, they always know what they mean.

I don’t have a section on her personality because that would change a LOT in-universe. She goes through a lot, both good and bad. SP//dr stays a supportive friend though.

The SP//dr program is run by Oscorp under the supervision and oversight of SHIELD and the Commission on Superhuman Activities.

In case you’re wondering, I use “neurogenetic” instead of “psychogenetic” because psychogenetics, the word her comic uses, is actually another world for behavioral genetics, the study of how genes influence behavior. Neurogenetics, however, is the study of how genes affect the function of the nervous system. Thus, considering SP//dr’s control mechanism, “neurogenetics” is a more accurate word.

Also, I apologize for any formatting flubs. I copy pasted this from a Google Doc.

[complicatedandstained]

Every Rose

A Grass is Greener AU fic, for / inspired by @snowflake-of-destruction  and @shaky-mayhemm​ because their soap opera AU is everything

Warnings for strong language, melodrama, rich people, cheating, minor alcoholism, minor smut, some abusive behaviors, and completely made-up gardening facts. 

Axel crouches low to the ground, a bead of sweat dripping down his nose, and gently takes a thorny stem between his thumb and forefinger. He exhales, nostrils flaring, the taste of salt hitting the top of his lip, and carefully shifts one of the vines of climbing roses, more tightly interweaving it with the closest bar of the black iron trellis. The patterned trellis arch casts intricate shadows across his sun-freckled arms, and he thinks back to the better part of an afternoon last week he had spent with those shadows playing across his body, positioning both it and the trellis to Roxas’ liking. 

He’d stood just about right here then, glancing up at Roxas. Adorable, clever, sassy Roxas, with delicately rendered and neatly labelled sketches of the garden in hand and a pencil between his lips, had been perched in the mouth of a nearby, low-lying window, offering the occasional “A little to the left,” “What if we trimmed down the shrubbery, just there?”, and Axel’s personal favorite, “God, could you be any sexier?”

This last comment brings to mind a more recent encounter. Roxas’ tongue trying to knot with his, tasting like salt—like the Margarita he’d been sipping was a little on the strong side. He can still feel Roxas’ soft, glossy, dark gold hair between his fingers. Roxas’ hands hot and certain, pawing at denim and then his belt buckle. Roxas below him, kneeling in the grass beside an Andromeda bush blooming with sweet-smelling white bell flowers. Roxas murmuring “God, could you be any sexier?” yet again with something like actual reverence before he’d unzipped Axel’s jeans, tugged away plaid boxers, and licked—

“You’re still here, are you?” 

Axel’s entire body tenses and he closes his fist in reflex, clenching the rose vine. A thorn bites through the worn palm of the gardening glove he’d been meaning to replace and gouges the center of his hand. 

The slow, regal drawl coming from somewhere just behind Axel continues, “I was certain you’d be finished by now. You haven’t been slacking off, have you?”

“Fuck,” Axel gasps as the pain kicks in and then he bites his lip, tilting his head to gaze up at Roxas’ husband, standing just a few yards away on the front walk. It appears Isa had been watching him for God knew how long, while Axel fantasized about his lonely, jaded, sexy, blond, trophy husband complimenting his yard work and making him moan. 

Fortunately, this is not the first time Axel has had to work out such excuses on a dime, and he reaches for the most tried and true one, “No, sir. Just trying to make the gardens every inch as lovely as your home and its owners.” 

“Hm…” Isa fidgets with a key ring, and pockets it, the lights of his black Corvette blinking once behind him, as if, Axel feels, in belated warning. 

Isa crosses the last few yards toward him. He’s wearing the kind of suit that Axel’s sister Kairi would know the name of, tailored to make him look like he was born to wear it. He walks with the self-important purpose and dismissive confidence only a lawyer can, his brow raising only slightly, as Axel hisses a strangled “Ah, fuck” again, tugging the thorn out, and clutching his hand to his chest.  

Axel takes a breath to calm himself, and this time not from the sharp pain, which is proving to be a welcome distraction. It’s the entirely new-to-Axel sensation of paranoia that he wants to send packing—paranoia that’s drawing the acidic taste of bile to the back of his throat. 

At least Roxas isn’t out here with him. He’s long gone for the evening at this point, off to “Girl’s Night” with a few neighbors. 

But Isa’s asking him why he’s here so late. Isa suspects something—somebody—held up his progress. If Isa finds him out, Axel could lose this ludicrously lucrative job and his entire business and his reputation and his chance to further seduce Roxas. 

Okay. So, maybe seducing Roxas shouldn’t be on this particular mental list, but it could be his only shot at getting the sweet but dangerous, hot, blond tease out of his every waking thought. 

And, all this aside, Isa, who’s got the body of a cross-fit model and the resting bitch face of a Doberman, might literally murder Axel for touching his bored, stay-at-home boy toy. 

Axel scrambles to think of a more specific excuse for why last-minute touch-ups on the trellis and minor maintenance to the hedge would take him this long, but he’s spared from voicing them, as Isa speaks again.

“I’ve heard talking to plants helps them grow...” 

Isa comes to a halt closer than Axel was expecting him to. Axel could easily reach out and run a hand down his toned thigh and calf. In other circumstances, the silken gloss of the man’s trousers accentuating toned muscle might make him want to...  

“...But I’m not certain that kind of language is what the botanary community had in mind.” 

Axel takes a long moment to process this response to his pained swearing, staring up into Isa’s soft blue-green eyes and the light crinkle of the nose just between them. Isa’s thin lips don’t seem as taut as they usually do, curving up just the slightest bit in the corner. Over all, Isa looks almost… Fond?

He had spoken completely deadpan, but rather than the admonishment Axel had expected—almost hoped for—it had sounded more like… A joke? 

Had Isa, his latest lover’s jealous, serious, apathetic, workaholic husband, just made a joke? A joke to amuse Axel, his lowly gardener, the one he may or may not have just subtly accused of screwing his husband, or at the very least, wasting his money and time? 

Axel’s going to have to reevaluate Isa’s opinion of him. He’d assumed it was low-grade-dirt poor. But the way Isa’s staring down at him right now… Well, Axel knew the guy was gay, obviously, but with his sights set on Roxas, it hadn’t occurred to him that his other employer might have been taking a look. 

Axel figures there’s only one way to know for sure. He slips on a practiced, easy smirk. “Didn’t hear you walk up, that’s all.” He slowly reaches back and rubs the nape of his neck with the palm that’s not bleeding, giving his arm a nice slow stretch and watching Isa’s eyes follow with... Admiration? Axel’s smirk broadens. “You ‘bout gave me a fucking heart attack.” 

Axel doesn’t usually swear around his classier employers—Xigbar being the main exception—but the slight quirk of Isa’s lip earlier makes Axel think the man might find it charming. And even if Axel has no idea what the hell he’s doing right at this moment, he figures charming can’t hurt. 

“Apologies,” Isa drawls without any sincerity behind it, examining the open knuckles of his black leather gloves. The gesture might have come off as bored, but the slight lift of Isa’s lip proves enough to tug up Axel’s own. 

“I was just…” Isa’s gaze strays only briefly to the saplings, hedges, and artfully arranged flower beds Axel had slaved over, before landing on Axel himself, raking the muscles of his back through his taut white tank, “admiring the view.” 

The fuck am I doing? Axel asks himself as he plucks a soft pink rose from the vine he’s working with and offers it up with his signature blinding white smile, giving Isa a better view of the ribbed tank top stretching across his wiry but muscular chest. “You like what you see so far?”

Isa’s smirk turns patronizing as he accepts the rose, but his green eyes catch onto Axel’s with surprising steadiness, confidence. “I wouldn’t mind a closer look.” 

Axel supposes, technically, they could still be talking about the garden, but he’s starting to doubt it. He tells himself a little harmless flirtation with Isa won’t hurt anything. It’s just necessary job security. He’s not trying to hurt Roxas. Roxas doesn’t even have to know. Also, it doesn’t hurt that Isa happens to be turning him on right now with his slow, articulate lawyer voice, his gorgeous, fancy-ass suit, and his incredibly uncharacteristic, mild flirtations. 

So, Axel sits back on his good palm, stretches out his legs in front of him and purrs, “Think that could be arranged.”   

Isa nods, as if they’ve just shaken hands over a business merger, says, “Very good,” and then checks his antique looking gold and brown leather wristwatch. “It is getting late. You’d best pack up your things.”

“Uh…” Axel, sits up straighter. Maybe they were just talking about gardening after all. “Alright.” Being ginger with his injured left hand, Axel stands and tucks sheers, twine, spray, and the other tools he’s most recently been using back into the bag he’d used to transport them from his pick-up, occasionally glancing back to Isa, who’s alternating between watching Axel and examining the most recent yard work. Gear collected, Axel shoulders the strap of his bag.

“You didn’t stay late waiting around for me, I hope?” Isa asks as Axel steps up. His overly casual inquiry makes the hairs on the back of Axel’s neck stand up. Is Isa still wondering what took Axel twice as long as necessary, or is he hoping Axel wanted to see him?  

Once again, Axel opens his mouth to bullshit a response, and Isa starts talking again before he can, shrugging his shoulder, “Hm. No matter. I expect you know you’ve done an exceptional job, Mr. Emberson. And I’m glad I caught you.”   

Axel quirks a brow. “Are you?”

Isa scowls mildly, flutters his hand to indicate Axel follow him back toward the towering expanse of his mansion, and then sets off at a brisk pace. “Roxas told me he forgot to pay you earlier.” 

“Oh.” That had not been at all where Axel thought Isa was going with that.  

Isa spares Axel a backward glance, frowning now, voice softening into something that almost resembles sympathetic, “I do apologize. I can’t imagine what he was so distracted with that he couldn’t manage to do the one thing I…” 

Axel’s initial irritation at Isa putting down his husband with an ease that feels like habit gives way to a deeper heat in his chest. Maybe Isa’s tone is sympathetic, and Axel’s heart rate is just picking up because once again Isa is dancing so precariously close to the truth that it feels calculated.

Isa’s thoughtful gaze feels like ice pressed to Axel’s face and he thinks it would suck to stand in court with him, because those eyes alone make him feel guilty as sin. 

“Well,” Isa corrects, smirk knowing, if brief, as he taps his chin, “perhaps I can imagine…” 

Fuck. He knows.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Axel offers, forcing his brows to furrow lightly. 

Isa snorts. “Of course.” He pauses in front of the front door, a broad, darkly elegant wood with an opaque glass window inset with crisscrossing silver. Isa taps at the security keypad and produces his key. “Well, regardless. If you’ll follow me inside, I’ll write you a check for all your, ah, hard work.” Isa’s lips stretch into an actual, full, tight-lipped smile, as he holds the door open for Axel and gestures for him to enter with a sweep of his hand like some sexy Victorian gentleman.  

Axel thinks vaguely of that John Mullaney bit. You ain’t getting me to no secondary location. 

He thinks vaguely about Roxas straddling his lap on a garden bench, pressing featherlight kisses up his neck like a lovesick teenager, while Axel rubbed his back and whispered “You’re so beautiful” over and over again. 

Axel hesitates in the door frame, lips fumbling for an excuse, eyes catching sight of his clunky black work boots. “Probably shouldn’t, boss.” He smiles, lifts a mud encrusted boot, and crosses his arms. “I’ve been known to wreak havoc on the upholstery.”

Isa’s brows rise suggestively, and his thin smile only widens. “Don’t worry about the dirt, darling. I have people for that.”   

“I, uh…”

Isa frowns when Axel fails to step inside immediately, and sets his hand firmly on the gardener’s tanned bicep. The thorns of the rose tucked under his thumb snag gently at his skin. “Axel.” 

Heat rips through Axel’s veins from the point of contact. Isa has the kind of voice you don’t say no to. 

Axel sets his hand over Isa’s and follows him inside.  

*          *

Isa has the study of a Sherlock Holmes villain. Neatly organized bookshelves studded with the occasional curio fill two walls from floor to ceiling. Above his desk hang twin abstract paintings reminiscent of evening thunderstorms, all blotted hues of blacks, blues, and violets, lit with streaks of flashing gold. An astrological globe printed with constellations sits in one corner and a potted fern in another. 

Isa makes his way over to a wide, disgustingly well-organized mahogany desk. The only sign that the space is not sheerly for show that Axel can see is a collection of coffee mugs abandoned beside a powered down MacBook and a single framed photo of a beaming Roxas hugging at a Siberian Husky Axel’s never seen a hair of in real life. 

Axel wishes he hadn’t noticed the photo and steps closer to the large fern to his left, crouching to run his thumb along its discolored fronds. 

“Can’t help yourself, can you?” Isa asks.

Axel glances up with a start, but Isa is no longer looking at him. He’s pulled a leather checkbook from a desk drawer and begun thumbing through it. 

“This little guy could use a bit more sunlight,” Axel glances to the distant window across the room, its blinds pulled down and curtains drawn. “Indirect, don’t need to burn it to a crisp or anything, but… should liven him up a little.”

Isa chuckles, a brief, dry thing, as he picks up a pen and starts to write Axel’s check. “I’ll take that under advisement, Mr. Emberson. Thank you.” 

Axel notices Isa’s set the rose Axel gave him in a half-full water glass beside the coffee mugs, and smiles to himself—in spite of himself. 

He shuts his eyes, rubbing his thumb between them. What the fuck am I doing?

“Here you are, darling.”

Axel opens his eyes and drops his hand to see Isa holding the check out. 

Darling rings in Axel’s ears as he crosses the room to accept it with a slightly bowed head and a gracious, “Thank you, sir.” 

Roxas had asked Axel not to call him ‘sir’ within two sentences. Most clients offer him their names on Day 2. Isa seems to have no intention of ever doing so. 

“Don’t spend it all in one place.”

Axel’s not sure if he’s imagining it, but he thinks he’s starting to catch a slight slant to Isa’s words that say he’s teasing. He glances up to see the slight smirk again.

Axel chances another flirtatious smile of his own. “No promises, boss.” He takes the check between two fingers, waves it slightly, teasingly, before turning and straightening it, just to double check Isa spelled ‘Emberson’ right. Axel halts abruptly and rereads the numbers a couple times. 

“Something wrong?” Isa asks, stepping up behind him, hand on his shoulder as he peers at the check as well. 

“This isn’t the amount we agreed on.” 

“No.” 

Axel glances up to Isa, who slides his hand down his shoulder to his bicep and then pulls him toward the black leather futon adjacent to his desk. 

“Take a seat, Axel. There’s something I’ve been meaning to discuss with you.”

Seeing no other alternative, heart rate picking up again, Axel reluctantly sinks down into the expensive smelling cushions. Isa crosses to the double doors of the study and snaps them both shut.

“It’s about my husband.” 

Axel’s boots press harder into polished floorboards, ready to spring up. His cock throbs at the memory of Roxas’ smooth hard abdomen hot under his hands, the beachy smell of Roxas’ hair under his lips and the taste of him like salt and coconut and burning tequila. Roxas’ eyes, wide and blue, alternatively coy and teasing and desperately wanting... Sex with Roxas had been like being pulled gently and firmly underwater and drowning in him. 

Isa knows.

Axel crosses one leg over his knee. “What about him?” 

“It has come to my attention that you have had the misfortune of witnessing a few,” Isa hums, swishes his hand dismissively, “spats between Roxas and I. No marriage is perfect. Some words were said…” Isa tilts his head in implication, frowning, nose crinkling again around his scar.

“Some dishes were broken…” Axel counters, not wisely, but if Isa’s accusing him of something, it doesn’t hurt to accuse back. He’s heard multiple arguments, both hushed and roared, at this point, but what has most stuck with him is the telltale glint of shards of plate and million pieces of a splintered wine glass scattered across the front hallway. 

All Roxas had said in explanation that day was: “Watch your step. I didn’t.” 

Isa freezes, fist clenching and unclenching and then nods, something Axel wants to call hurt in his eyes. It’s strange to hear a perspective outside of Roxas’ reluctant ones: He’s bored with me. He’s done with me. He doesn’t give a shit what I…

“Yes. Well… We all do things we regret. I assure you, we did not mean anything by them. Some relationships are more passionate than others. It’s our way. At the end of the day, Roxas and I are deeply committed to each other. We rely on each other. The pair of us haven’t always kept to the status quo and there are those who would like nothing more to see us torn down, and we must keep a united front. As far as our family and friends are concerned, we are madly, deeply in love and we cannot afford to put that perception in jeopardy.”

Isa paces forward, closing in, and Axel once again pictures him in court, addressing the jury, telling them what to think and how to think it with a natural authority that offers no space for doubt or disobedience. An openly gay, big shot lawyer with blue fucking hair and a sexy husband with an attitude and a day-drinking problem. Axel realizes not for the first time that Isa has to be better than everyone else, stronger, more cut-throat, more perfect than anyone else just to exist. And it seems like he damn near is.

“As you are all too aware, rumors in this neighborhood spread rampantly as weeds.” Isa’s eyes catch Axel’s. “I need you to prove as adept at killing them at their source as you have with my lawn’s dandelion population. Naturally, I am willing to compensate you for your discretion, and to recommend you to some of my colleagues who may be interested in a wide variety of your services.” 

Axel doesn’t miss the half-dozen implications weaved within these words, but he’s also not entirely sure he wants to correct them. 

“I trust this arrangement is amenable to you.” Isa’s standing above him, at this point, his knees pressed to Axel’s, his arms crossed, discerning. 

Axel has a feeling sex with Isa would be like being slammed back to shore by a cruel wave and then receiving CPR, having his chest—his whole body—pounded back to life. For a moment, with Isa tense and poised like he might pounce on him, striking green eyes staring into him, through him, Axel wants to find out. 

“Yeah.” 

Axel’s mind floods with relief that apparently none of this actually has to do with his fling with Roxas. He might actually get away with Roxas and whatever the fuck this conversation is.  

“Yes, of course, sir. Your business is your business.” Axel waves a hand as if to wave off his own knowledge of the subject and moves to get up. “Say no more.”

A heavy gloved hand lands on his shoulder, stilling him. 

“I’m afraid it’s not quite so simple as that.” Isa smiles sadly. “You’ve no doubt noticed that Roxas has taken an interest in you.” Isa’s thumb skims along Axel’s skin, below the strap of his tank top.

Axel finds himself nodding as his throat threatens to close itself off entirely. “Yeah, yeah.” He coughs. “He has shown quite an interest in my work. His designs for the gardens are really quite impressive. We’ve been fine tuning some of the details together to make his masterpiece a reality.”

Isa gives a world-weary sigh. “Yes, he thinks so, at any rate. Thank you for humoring him.” Isa’s gloved fingers knead into Axel’s shoulder in a kind of smooth leather massage, tone turning teasing again, “I hope he hasn’t been too much in the way.” 

Axel frowns. Isa speaks as though Roxas is a lovesick puppy nipping at Axel’s heels as he works, instead of the entire reason their garden is going to be the hottest garden in Radiant Garden this season. 

“Really, I’m not. His designs are stunning, insightful, and intricate,” Axel remembers a conversation they had had earlier, momentarily pushing aside the rising suspicion of what this conversation is actually about, “If he were interested in taking on clients, I know plenty of folks who’d be interested in seeing ‘em.” 

Isa rolls his eyes but then meets Axel’s again with a momentary, indulgent smile. “You’re too generous. Roxas doesn’t need the work, I assure you.” Isa’s hand drops down Axel’s shoulder to his bicep, squeezes. “My husband wants for nothing.”

Isa releases Axel’s arm and Axel’s free hand rises to touch him on the arm in return.

Yeah, Axel’s brain bites back skeptically, except something to do with himself every fricking day. 

“Everybody needs their hobbies…” Axel suggests more mildly. 

Isa scowls. ���He has more hobbies than he knows what to do with: painting, ceramics, equestrian training, amateur bartending…” He paces in an impatient circle, ticking off on his fingers, and then turning on his toe to face Axel yet again, “expensive hobbies that he abandons within a matter of months. This is only the latest. I fear he’d only grow bored and leave your clients wanting.” 

Axel may not have known Roxas long but he can tell that his passion for design is more than just a passing fancy, and from what he can tell, the guy had some schooling in the subject as well. Axel forces himself to smile softly, “Well, if he wants. He knows where to find me…” 

“That’s what I wanted to discuss with you,” Isa lifts his hand again, pats Axel on the cheek so briefly he thinks he might have imagined it. “I wasn’t referring to his interest in your work…I’m afraid you’ve quite charmed him.” He glances to the ceiling for a moment, grin wry. “At least his tastes remain impeccable as ever...” 

Axel decides to play dumb again, since it’s gotten him this far. He spreads his palms open, lifts them in the smallest of shrugs. “I don’t follow…” 

But Isa blatantly scoffs, glancing down his front, tight tank top, tight jeans. “Please. Neither of us are stupid. You’re an attractive, well built, welcoming man, Axel, and Roxas is…” Isa halts, reaching out to grasp Axel’s wrist, and lift it up, “Are you bleeding, Mr. Emberson?” 

Axel lets him tug at his arm, ignoring the jolting prick as the fabric of the glove shifts against the clotted cut in his palm. “Oh, not so much any more…”

“Unbelievable.” Isa abruptly drops his wrist and gives him a hard glare that makes Axel suspect the rest of the conversation had been going remarkably well in comparison. “Jesus Christ, Axel. Don’t move.” With this Isa sweeps out of the room. 

Axel stays put, his back sinking into the swanky futon, deliberating over what Isa does or does not know, and does or does not want from him.

In a few minutes, the door opens, and Isa pushes through, a bowl cradled in one arm and white dish towels draped over the other. He’s hovering over Axel again in moments, their knees pressed together, Isa’s palm reaching out. “Give me your hand.”

“It’s nothing. Really.” Axel winces and retracts it, clenching it to his chest. It’s just a thorn prick. He’d had a hundred of them. It’s strange to see Isa so concerned over it.  

“Your glove is filthy. You’ll get an infection and it’ll be on my head. Give me your hand, you senseless, pretty fool…” 

Axel gingerly removes the glove, hissing as the dried blood pulls off and the tear in his palm starts to bleed again. 

Isa reaches out his hand once more, and Axel hesitantly places his inside it, blood dribbling down the side. 

“I’m terrified I’ll drip on that fancy suit of yours,” Axel admits as Isa dabs his wound with warm water and heat seeps up his arm, pain chased with soothing. “Maybe you oughta take it off.”

Isa bites off a smile that makes Axel groan when he realizes what he’s just said. 

“Do you often find yourself overly concerned with the welfare of other men’s suits?”

“More than I’d like,” Axel mumbles, though Isa doesn’t immediately reply, rinsing dirt and blood from the towel and then cleaning the rest of Axel’s hand, wrist, fingers, before slowly patting them dry.

“You have the hands of someone who’s worked hard to get where he is.” Isa muses, wrapping bandages in an X across his palm to keep a strip of gauze set in place. “Roxas’ hands are soft as snow. He’s pampered, spoiled. He hasn’t known a day’s hard work in his life…”

Whose fault is that? Axel wants to reply, but Isa doesn’t notice Axel’s expression momentarily darken. Isa’s being sweet to him, but the way he treats Roxas...

“He needs attention, romance... He needs everything to be about him.”

Axel thinks again of the way Roxas had beamed and smothered him with kisses while Axel whispered to him how beautiful he was.

Axel decides he doesn’t necessarily like Isa, despite his attempts to be pleasant, but with Isa standing between his legs, working a fresh towel up Axel’s neck and across his cheek, muscular arm brushing Axel’s chest, Axel can’t deny that his body wants Isa’s hands all over him, or that he does, in fact, want to see how Isa looks without the suit.

Isa continues gently wiping Axel’s face of sweat and dirt and then sets the bowl aside. 

“Better?” Axel whispers. 

Isa gently cups Axel’s cheek, apparently not oblivious to the heat building in Axel’s chest or the way his pupils have blown out, eclipsing green with something darker.

“What Roxas doesn’t understand,” Isa says slowly, “is that after a hard day’s work, sometimes all I need is a quick, rough, hard, dirty, meaningless fuck. You understand, I think.”

Axel grins. “I think so.” Axel reaches with his good hand to grip Isa’s hip and pull him down onto the futon. He’s aiming to get Isa in his lap, but Isa’s stronger than he expected, and pulls Axel’s back to his chest instead, not hesitating to begin tracing kisses up his neck and toward his ear. 

“How rough are we talking?” Axel purrs, reaching back to rub Isa’s thigh. 

Isa’s teeth tug at Axel’s ear. “I can show you where to bite Roxas to make him come completely undone.” 

Axel breath catches. He tries to twist his head around but Isa’s hand is secure on the back of his neck. “What?”

“It’s only a matter of time before he tries to seduce you,” Isa says and Axel can hear the slant of a smile again. “If he hasn’t already. You ought to be prepared.”

“Isa,” Axel sucks in a quick breath, “we’re just friends. I wouldn’t dream of—”

Isa sweeps the strands of Axel’s bun away from his neck and bites the nape, sending a jolt of pain and pleasure straight down his spine. “Hush, Axel.” Isa’s hands drift down Axel’s chest and lower, fitting their bodies more snugly together, and cleanses Axel’s skin with his tongue. 

“God, Isa…” Axel grins and moans, as Isa continues his attentions, rough and direct. All thoughts clear his brain aside from the after image of the last object his eyes landed on before he shut them—across the room, on the desk, a pink rose, a silver glass, black thorns. “Don’t stop,” he murmurs, hoarsely. “Don’t stop. Don’t stop...” 

[ghostmartyr]

SnK 129 Thoughts

This month: More people screaming and dying.

Next month: Probably more people screaming and dying.

Eventually: Just a whole heck of a lot of screaming.

(Not dying because there will be no more people.

They will be dead.)

Sooooooooooooooo.

Uh.

This chapter has people screaming and dying in it.

As well as the continuing strangeness of actively rooting for Reiner and Annie.

Ayep.

Ding-dong, Magath is dead?

Yet again, we land on the problem of a chapter that is largely self-explanatory, and the perhaps deeper problem of people committing themselves to doing a thing once a month, even if they’re not sure they’re able to do said thing. There’s good stuff here, I’m just hesitant to start talking about it lest it comes out like a random spew of instantly forgettable bullet points.

Since I don’t care, I guess we’ll start with Magath dying.

I don’t care. Moving on!

Theo Magath is a man who has always cared for the children under his command. Even though they’re Eldian, he has routinely gone above the expected amount of effort in securing their safety. He is the one who worries and waits for Reiner, Annie, Bertolt, and Marcel to come home. He is the one who destroys the worst of the military he’s a part of so they can stop depending on titans. He cares.

What a fucking bastard.

Keith Shadis dies with him. After a life of trying to make himself special, putting lives at risk every step of the way, he finds an appropriate time to make his exit. He’s the one who raises every fighter out in the port. He’s the one who has watched as the other instructors kill them so that they can find the ones strong enough to make the cut.

He’s the one who picks Eren up and brings him back to his bed after he inherits his father’s burden.

One thing I do think is important to note, whenever I’m inspired to say, ‘Fuck Marley,’ is that Paradis is not great.

Paradis has child soldiers too. They’re just slightly older.

Paradis fully expects their soldiers to go out and die too. Their consent just skates through needing air quotes.

Paradis has a corrupt government run by self-interest -- until they have a coup.

Magath’s job, his entire career, has been to make the most of the enslaved Eldian lives he’s been handed on a platter. It is his job to train children up to murder people. If they are not good enough at murder, they will be fed to other children.

Shadis feels more comfortable. He’s been a reasonable authority figure for most of the manga, with his worst crimes being in his past, and even that reveal coming with a greater show of humanity than any other displayed that night. He tries to run Eren out of the military before he destroys himself. He worries for the boy, and gives a voice to the struggle of trying to be special when you’re most gifted at fucking up.

Paradis’ military, at the start of the main plot, gets its recruits via shaming teenagers into being willing to die, or starving teenagers into being willing to die.

The primary difference between it and Marley’s system is that in that section of the totem pole, the oppression level is relatively neutral. The wall systems are kind of fucked, the nobility is kind of awful -- but like. Their last genocide was what, two years ago? And it was killing poor people, not people people.

Everyone in Paradis’ military has to deal with the fact that they’re in a shrinking safe space and they’re either going to starve, or monsters are going to eat them. That is the great equalizing force. If their commanding officer fucks up, he is going to get eaten. If the person next to them fucks up, they are going to get eaten.

They are not crouching down, approaching tiny children, and explaining that it is for the good of humanity that they are the ones eaten because their blood is dirty. Anymore.

Fuck Marley. Fuck its internment camps, fuck its slavery, fuck its brainwashing, fuck how it turned Good Eldians and Bad Eldians into war rhetoric. Fuck just about everything it has to offer.

Paradis is fucked up in the spirit of everyone there being equally fucked (unless you’re rich) (or nobility). Marley is fucked up because it’s made being fascist, warmongering assholes a national policy.

So you have two men on a boat waiting to die. They’ve both sent children to their deaths. They’ve both pushed over the lines trying to let their uniqueness carry change instead of doing the difficult legwork it actually takes.

One of them is not an active agent of genocide.

One of them is.

They both have sad feelings.

It is sad.

The important part is however badly they fucked up, the traumatized children they’re leaving behind are about to be more traumatized, and they’ve realized what a bad thing this is.

Only not really because Keith did his job, did his first job badly enough to find a new job, did that new job, and has continued doing that new job up to the point where he’s blowing himself up, and has no particular qualms about any of that since he’s pretty much been acting his conscience the whole time.

I’m lingering on this because you have both people who trained up our primary cast making a choice for the good of humanity, and dying the same way. It is a clear and obvious parallel, and it is being milked.

But it’s one of those parallels that makes me twitchy the longer I look at it. Probably because of that conscience part. These men play the same role, but besides their stages having massive differences, their choices do as well.

Magath’s conscience doesn’t stop him from shouting racist rhetoric at a preteen on a battlefield. In his introductory scene.

Shadis’ conscience, however warped some of the intent is, leads to him quitting and passing his job up to someone more qualified.

...Essentially, Shadis is kind of a bastard for a lot of things, but Magath is a fascist bastard, and continues to be a fascist bastard even when he takes steps to overthrow a fascist regime, and I know and appreciate that Magath realizes this and feels bad about it, but it’s hard not to resent the manga comparing Shadis and Magath so strongly.

Magath’s fucked up a lot. It’s good he admits it.

Shadis feels like one more person who sees death as all he has to offer the world.

In a series that actively opposes that line of thought whenever it comes up, it’s really difficult not to find the whole dynamic frustrating. Yes, the manga doesn’t say these two people are the same. They’re just in the exact same boat making the exact same decision.

Like that other group over in their boat.

Shadis is looking to die. Magath is looking to make a last stand.

I don’t think I’m doing a great job of putting into words why it’s so aggravating for me, except, you know. Fuck Marley. Also Magath helped cause all of this. Keith’s sort of sat around feeling various forms of guilt for years over things he screwed up because he was trying so hard.

Shadis forfeits his life.

Every other time someone with that mindset is ready to die, it’s met with no, you’re not done yet.

Shadis doesn’t get that. He’s done. Magath is the only one there to tell him otherwise, and Magath has his own problems.

There’s a vibe here that these two old teachers have outlived their purpose. Their kids are grown, for better and worse, and they’re the ones who will control the turn of the future. I don’t oppose them making that decision, but in Shadis’ case, it really comes off as him being cool with whatever, now that he’s made his stand.

Ugh. I don’t like it, but articulating why is probably best represented by me sulking and crossing my arms. Artistically, I get it. They’re the same piece on opposite ends of a chessboard.

But they’re different people and aaaargh.

Anyway, we continue the proud tradition of making Gabi cry.

Sorry about your life, Gabi.

In other news, we continue to not have any way to stop Eren.

Like.

At all.

We have an estimate of four days before Eren succeeds in wiping out a continent.

Their only chance of stopping that is powering up an airship, using some of that good ol’ talk-no-jutsu, or killing Eren.

If they take the route of killing Eren, all of the Colossals he’s been ordering on their walk will stop being under his command. Because he will be dead. Meaning that the continent, as well as our heroes, will now have to contend with a wild hoard of Colossal Titans out for a stroll.

Which is bad.

It’s basically where Paradis started out, but worse in every possible way.

Even if they manage to have someone on their team eat Eren, there’s a good chance that OG Ymir might not react well to her savior being axed. There’s a similarly good chance that the ability to use the Founder’s power just won’t be functional.

So if they kill Eren, they will stop having intentional destruction.

Instead, we will have unintentional destruction, of which there will be a lot.

Leaving us with talk-no-jutsu.

When the last attempt at talk-no-jutsu led to Armin punching Eren and being bad at it. And Eren punching Armin and being less bad at it.

Basically, everyone’s really hoping that by communicating with Eren, they can somehow make this all go away. There is no evidence that this will work, and no evidence that any of the added backup plans will do anything but cause different problems, but by golly, they’ve completed step .5 of their 3-step plan to maybe changing their circumstances.

(Step 1: Get Air Boat Step 2: Fly Air Boat To Eren Step 3: Talk Eren Out Of Genocide)

BOY I SURE AM HAPPY FOR YOU GUYS PUTTERING ALONG WITH THAT FORWARD PROGRESS. WHAT CHAMPS. GOOD FOR YOU.

YOU’RE STILL FUCKED.

I AM SO HAPPY THAT WE ARE SPENDING ALL THIS TIME ON A PLAN THAT DOES NOT SOLVE THE FUNDAMENTAL PROBLEM OF HOW COMPLETELY FUCKED YOU ALL ARE.

IT IS NICE THAT YOU ALL FEEL LIKE YOU ARE CONTRIBUTING USEFUL THINGS TO YOUR SOCIETY. YOU DO YOU.

YOU ARE NOT ACTUALLY HELPING.

BUT MORE OF YOUR FRIENDS ARE DEAD FOR A GOOD CAUSE.

I’m not upset, I would just really like all of this to feel meaningful. Right now there’s a ridiculous amount of stress and dead bodies going into a goal that could easily end up pointless.

There’s merit to that as a story, but none of that stress lands properly, because the tension of “will they save the day or won’t they” isn’t dependent on what they’re doing here. The ticking clock might be making the characters stressed, but it’s not where the consequences lie.

I will continue to complain about this every month because I can.

In more positive news, Connie is best boi and no one appreciates him they way that they should.

Once upon a time, Reiner bullied Annie into taking a more active role in murdering Marco.

One of the arguments he used to provoke her was that she saved Connie’s life.

Not long after that, Reiner and some other recruits find themselves stranded in Utgard Castle, where a titan gets in and goes after Connie. Reiner charges in, gets his arm chomped on, and through everyone’s combined efforts, the titan gets shoved out a window.

Annie and Reiner both make the choice to save Connie’s life, even though it does nothing to benefit them.

In this chapter, beheaded and missing their arms, Connie swoops in and saves both of them.

The first taste of this technically goes to Mikasa, because she can’t help being a hero. She doesn’t like Annie. Annie is about the only human being whose existence can make her lose her temper. When a soldier gets behind Annie, Mikasa is there to back her up. It’s done casually and smoothly, because Mikasa’s just that good.

We’re still left with multiple shots of Annie staring at Mikasa.

Later followed with her staring at Reiner.

Annie and Reiner are used to being the traitors. They’re the ones their friends have every reason to hate. They’re the ones who spend years living with the victims of a war they brought to their shores. They’ve never expected forgiveness. They’re condemned, and almost welcome it.

Their trio interplay is never great. Reiner is trying too hard, and shielding Bertolt. Annie gets stuck with the grunt work, and knows they’re the bad guys. They don’t get along. They’re comrades, and allies, but their friendship is never portrayed as anything but their last lifeline.

Reiner and Bertolt are friends.

Annie’s the only one who has her fight with the Survey Corps alone.

This time, Reiner’s there, and he’s protecting her.

If you dig into any combination of these relationships, there’s not exactly a shortage of rot. They’ve all hurt each other, and they all know it.

But at the end of the day, they’re all just a bunch of damaged kids looking to be found.

None of the surviving cast is without a shoulder to lean on. They’ve made the decision to be there for each other, and as bleak as circumstances are, Annie’s face spends so much time this chapter shouting that she’s never been able to have that.

Even Magath, who goes off with the intent of dying alone, doesn’t.

There’s still some human warmth left in the world, and that’s what they’re trying to protect.

Please just do it with an actual plan, I’m begging you guys.

Also, Floch gets shot! So that’s nice.

I do not see a corpse.

That is less nice.

Isayama also gave Falco a fucking birdsona titan.

We’re not without things to cheer.

Tune in next month for more screaming and dead bodies.

[warrioreowynofrohan]

I'm loving your stormlight posts! I just had a thought about Silmarillion characters as Knights Radiant and the only thing I can settle on is that Fingon would probably be a Windrunner. Agree/disagree? Thoughts on other characters?

Ooh, great question! And thank you!

(Silm fans who haven’t read the whole Stormlight Archive yet and might want to - shoo! Spoilers!

The first thought that comes to me, which is Hobbit/LOTR rather than Silmarillion, is that Gandalf is definitely an Edgedancer. Nienna’s entire ethos is Edgedancer, and Gandalf is very closely connected with her; all his work in Middle-earth revolves around paying attention to, and valuing, the ignored and the forgotten. Finrod, with his deep interest in and respect for the Edain (and willingness to really listen to them, even if with some initial difficulty, in the Athrabeth) his intercession for Haleth’s people, and his willingness to value the life of a homeless mortal guerilla as equal to his own, is also definitely an Edgedancer.

If Fëanor was a Radiant, which I din’t think he would be (or at least not for long), he’d be a Willshaper. Their fundamental ethos is freedom, they’re highly self-willed to the point of their colleagues finding them frustrating, and their love of adventure and novelty, fits well with both Fëanor’s explorations around Valinor and his later drive to return to Middle-earth. Ironically, the Oath is one of the greatest constraints on one’s freedom that can be imagined - but that fits with the events around the Return involving not only Fëanor’s betrayal of everyone around him, but also of himself (as the Oath is a betrayal of his own drive towards lack of constraint, the destruction of the ships is a betrayal of his identity as an artist and creator). And of course Willshapers are associated with crafts and creation as well!

(Unsurprisingly, when I read Oathbringer and got to the Stormfather’s line There are no foolish oaths. All are...the mark of intelligence, free will, and choice, it immediately made me think of the Oath of Fëanor. And want to reach into the book and guve it to the Stormfather to see what he thought.)

Haleth is probably a Willshaper too - she’s certainly determined and independent-minded enough for it!

Sam Gamgee, I would say, say, is a Stoneward - steadfast, relaiable, dependable, determined, and inclined to be stubborn and set in his ways and attitudes. One of the lines that draws this out to me is on the final road to Mount Doom: He felt as if he was turning into some creature of stone and steel that neither despair nor weariness nor endless barren miles could subdue. Fans of The Stormlight Archive will,of course know why characterizing someone as a Stoneward is a high compliment.

Húrin is also a Stoneward - he’s the closest in Middle-earth to actually having gone through what Taln has, and is pretty much a synonmyn for stubborn unbreakability.

I thought about how to characterize Lúthien as a Radiant, but I can’t get away from the hilarious fact that when you look at her character arc, she’s basically Syl. Semi-divine and supernatural? Runs away from her controlling father to be with a human despite her father’s hostility to humans? Provides physical and emotional healing to the depressed and traumatized veteran that she loves? Is, for a long time, basically the only positive thing in his life after years of misery and losing everyone he loves? Continually rescues and supports him? Is in large part responsible for manynof his victories (Lúthien because she wins them personally, Syl because she’s both weapon and shield to Kaladin)? I don’t exactly ship Sylladin, but I can’t get away from the parallels!

I agree with you on Fingon being a Windrunner! I have to think he’d have hit the Third Ideal at the time of the Thangorodrim rescue - it doesn’t have to be someone you hate so much as overcoming a major obstacle in protection, and after all the people they had lost on the Helcaraxë, it couldn’t have been an easy decision! I find it important to remember that it took him a few years to get to the point of doing it - it wasn’t an instantaneous “no thought head empty Maedhros” kind of thing.

Beleg is another Windrunner - protecting and leading is pretty much everything he does!

Elrond, as of LOTR, is a Bondsmith. I considered Edgedancer, but there’s a readon by the Fellowship of the Ring is formed in Rivendell - he draws disparate people together and welcomes them, and the Quest of the Ring could never have succeeded without Rivendell functioning in a way as Middle-earths’s center of gravity.

I think I’d put Fingolfin as either Bondsmith or Stoneward, but can’t really decide.

I’m sure there are others, but those are the ones I can think of at the moment! It’s weird how they’ve clustered - didn’t come up with any Truthwatchers, Lightweavers, or Elsecallers, among others! I lean towards Galadriel as an Elsecaller, but I don’t have a clear rationale for it at the moment. I’m going to go with Faramir as a Truthwatcher, though again it’s hard to articulate why off the top of my head, aside from that honesty and sincerity clearly matter to him and he values knowledge for its own sake.)

[BTW, on another note, I can’t get over the fact that Sanderson wrote a series that he openly acknowledge was inspired by The Lord of the Rings and then named a major character Elend (<—Elendil). A bit on the nose there, Brandon!]

Would love to hear other people’s thoughts!

[chloefrazer]

with bloody knuckles (i’d follow you anywhere) [3/3]

title: with bloody knuckles (i’d follow you anywhere)  relationships: nines rodriguez/the fledgling  words: 4.7k warnings: smut chapter: three of three  chapter summary: It’d been two weeks since the fall of the Ivory Tower in Los Angeles and Mickey, finally, has Nines all to herself for the night.

            It had been about two weeks since the assassination of Prince Lacroix. The Camarilla was on the run, but a few stubborn pockets still lingered in Los Angeles. Even without their leader, they clung to the city like vermin, but those that attempted to stay paid for their stubbornness. Their assets and havens were targeted by the now dominating Anarch population and the Unbound were determined to send a message: the Camarilla were not welcome in their city.

         With the war between Camarilla and Anarch forces winding down to a close, Los Angeles was returning to a relative state of normalcy. The Kine had no idea of the battles that were waged outside their doors under the cover of darkness, but the prolonged tension that had lingered in the air was starting to dissipate. The explosion at Venture Tower was enough to keep the Kine occupied for a while, at least. The news had speculated on the circumstances of the explosion; whether it was a freak accident or a premeditated attack. The Kindred that had control of the media made sure to keep the details of the events vague; not that they had much to go on in the way of specifics, either. 

         The one person who had a firsthand account of the events that transpired was currently MIA. After assassinating Prince LaCroix and Ming Xiao, it was decided that it was best for Mickey to lay low for a while. With the newfound power and influence that Mickey now held, it was bound to draw some negative attention. In the events leading up to the Prince’s demise, Mickey had made quite the name for herself across the Kindred circles of Los Angeles; which was both good and bad. She had her fair share of enemies, but she hoped they had a good enough sense of self-preservation to stay the fuck away from her. 

         She’d been holed up in some cushy hotel in Hollywood on behalf of Isaac Abrams. The two had gotten off to a rocky start, but when Mickey made her Anarch loyalties clear — and when she sweetened the deal by helping him with his little gargoyle problem — he was more than willing to offer her a temporary haven in his domain. 

         Mickey had never stayed in a place so nice before. It was a little more bougie than she would have liked, but she wasn’t going to turn down a place that guaranteed her a little privacy. Only a handful of people knew she was here; Nines, Damsel, and Skelter namely. For the first time since Mickey had been Embraced, there wasn’t someone breathing down her neck, telling her what to do or where to go. The comforting isolation that Mickey desperately tried to cling to was back in her grasp. 

         Pure, blissful, isolation. 

         Once the heat died down, Mickey knew that she would have to return. Besides, she didn’t think she could just run away and hide anymore. It was strange; for once in her life, Mickey had a reason to stay put. It would have been easy to pack her bags and disappear into the night, never to be seen or heard from again. LaCroix wasn’t around to drag her back. Ever since that night she and Nines were attacked at Griffith Park, that little voice that urged her to pick flight over fight was quiet.

         Whether she liked it or not, Mickey’s actions had consequences. By officially allying with the Anarchs and taking down LaCroix, her name carried significant weight within the movement. When she returned with Nines to the Last Round the night LaCroix became a pile of cinders, the Unbound that were gathered there looked at her with something like admiration. They actually clapped for her. They didn’t know that the explosion wasn’t by Mickey’s hands — at least, not directly — but that didn’t seem to matter. Not when she came back alive and the Prince was dead. 

         Leadership was a foreign concept to Mickey. The way the younger members of the Anarchs looked at her, Hell, the way they looked at Nines sometimes, was unnerving. She wasn’t used to her voice carrying the weight of authority; all she’d known was following someone else’s orders, but maybe it was high time that changed. 

         She never liked being told what to do, anyway. 

        The future was full of possibilities; possibilities Mickey hadn’t considered before. Before, she had only one goal: survive each night. Now, though, it was about more than just survival. It was about keeping Los Angeles free from those who wanted to control it, whether that be from the Camarilla, the Kuei-jin, or the Sabbat. It was about taking a stand for a cause that she believed in. It was about finding a group of people, learning to trust them, and discovering a sense of belonging. 

        She wasn’t alone anymore and, in a strange turn of events, she actually liked it. 

        The Anarchs of downtown had noticed her absence; one specific Anarch in particular. Two weeks since they had their little passionate reunion amongst the rubble and debris of Venture Tower. Two weeks since they realized the extent of their feelings for each other. Not that they’d been able to talk about those feelings yet, but Nines had promised her a long overdue conversation. 

        Which was why she wasn’t exactly surprised when she found a text message from him that night as she woke up, wondering if he could swing by so they could talk. Mickey sent him a confirmation, something along the lines of not having anything but time lately, and he promised to be over soon. 

        She decided to take advantage of the rather luxurious shower in the meantime, the hot water allowing her body a fleeting, false sense of warmth. For once, as Mickey cleaned and scrubbed at her body, she wasn’t washing off any dried blood from her skin. All of her wounds had healed up nicely, her body taking these two weeks to properly recuperate and knit itself together. For once, her Hunger was satiated, and the Beast didn’t have anything smart to say. 

        After months of destruction, carnage, and death at every corner, Mickey finally felt clean; she felt safe. 

        She emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam, hair still damp, wearing nothing but a charcoal colored, oversized t-shirt. The clock on the nightstand read 8:38 PM. Her nights had been rather monotonous these past two weeks. She rarely left the hotel and when she did, it was to feed, and she stuck to the neighborhood as best she could. Mickey liked the privacy, but she wasn’t quite used to the stagnancy; she’d always been on the move, so sitting in one space for too long was starting to make her antsy. 

         When she heard a soft knock at her door, she had a gut feeling tonight was going to be anything but boring. 

         Combing her fingers through her damp hair, Mickey opened the door, a grin already in place to greet the person she knew was on the other side, “Hey.” 

         Their usual banter got lost somewhere in Nines’ throat as he took in the sight of her. Her legs, toned and bare, the curve of her shoulder that was left exposed, dark ink of a tattoo slightly visible along her chest. The grin that tugged at the corners of her mouth was anything but innocuous; it matched the flash of something mischievous in her eyes. 

        He cleared his throat, his face a mask of barely-held-in-place neutrality. A quirk of his brow, followed by a nod of his chin, “Can I come in?” 

        She bit back a chuckle at the formality, but stepped aside nonetheless. As she shut the door and Nines entered the room proper, he let out a low whistle. 

        “Abrams really doesn’t hold back, does he?” 

        Mickey barked out a laugh, “It’s… flashy,” her nose wrinkled slightly, but she shrugged, “but if he’s payin’, I’m not complain’. Besides, you can’t deny the view.” 

        The view from the large, glass windows overlooked Hollywood, the city lights illuminating the night. Even though it was night, the city was still very much awake. Nines hummed in agreement, but turned his attention from the city back to Mickey. There were thousand things on his mind, a majority of them revolving around the woman who sat opposite him, making herself comfortable on the edge of a rather large, expensive looking desk. 

        Another thought flashed through his mind revolving Mickey and that desk and he felt his composure struggle to slip. 

        “So,” Mickey said, drawing the vowel out. She was leaning back, her hands braced behind her, and she tilted her head to the side, attempting to play coy, “you wanted to talk?” 

        Nines nodded, the ghost of a smirk pulling at the corners of his mouth. Christ, she knew how to be distracting. He wondered if she was doing it on purpose and the answer to that was, yeah, most likely. He cleared his throat again, mustering up the words he needed to respond, “We got a lot to talk about.” 

        “Oh? About what?” 

         His eyes narrowed, an expression of playful exasperation, “Me. You. Us.” 

         Mickey was never good at words. Talking her way out of something was never her strategy. She was all hard edges; her words were sharp with a brutal honesty that kept people away. Articulation, too, was something that wasn’t in her wheelhouse. Taking her feelings, putting them into words that someone could understand — that wasn’t just a string of vulgar expletives — was hard. 

         Her feelings about Nines, though, weren’t hard to understand, but they were at first. He had kept sticking up for her, saving her life multiple times, and she didn’t understand why. Then he came to her office that night, kissed her breathless, left her wanting more. What she couldn’t say in words, she made up for in action. Maybe she was too cowardly to say it out loud, but she could show him; show him how much he meant to her, how much she loved him. 

         A notable shift in the air, like the calm before a storm; a spark before a wildfire. 

         Mickey shifted her posture, moving to sit up right, her hands resting against her knees. She glanced at Nines from beneath her lashes, her fingers trailing up the apex of her thighs. She parted her knees slightly, her fingers catching the hem of her t-shirt. The smirk on her lips was coy, but the look in her eyes was anything but. 

         “Do you wanna talk before,” she paused, taking the moment to whisk the t-shirt over her head. Tossed the garment at his feet, “or after?” 

         The sight of her, then, was nearly enough to undo him. Whatever composure he had was taunt like a wire, threatening to snap at any moment. His icy gaze took in the sight of her, fully, as though burning the image of her into his mind. Her movements were languid, lazy, almost feline as she sat back on her elbows, one hand resting against her abdomen, fingertips ghosting against the waistline of her panties. Her touch, ghosting lower, a little gasp as her hand connected with damp cotton. The barest hint of pleasure, a spark to ignite the growing fire in her belly. All the while, her cold steel gaze was locked on his. 

         A low growl rumbled in his chest, the sound like rolling thunder. His tongue darted out, wetting his lips. Any coherent thought Nines had was out the door, now. He had only one thing on his mind: her. He stalked toward her, slowly, like a predator circling prey, though he knew she was anything but that. His gaze lingered on her hands, the feather-light movements of her fingers. Mickey reveled in the delicious sight of his hungry gaze, another gasp escaping past her parted lips as she added just a hint of pressure to her touch. 

         “Take ‘em off.” 

         “You first.” 

         A raised eyebrow at her reply, the challenge in her retort loud and clear. They were playing a dangerous game, waiting to see whose composure would slip first. Nines had years to practice the art of patience, but Mickey was stubborn. She quirked an eyebrow right back, thumb hooking through the waistband, tugging at the fabric. Teasing, tantalizing, pulling at the strings of his resolve so that they threatened to snap. 

         He moved slowly, stealthily, a glimmer of something wild shining in his gaze that he kept hooked on her. She rose from her elbows to meet him as he stood between her legs, her knees brushing against his thighs. Another low growl in his chest, another command of off, now. His voice, like gravel over glass, the burning intensity of his gaze, the feeling of his hands as they gripped the flesh of her thighs, was enough to send a wave of heat down her spine. 

         Her hands — her bloodstained, ruinous hands — shook slightly as she moved to tug the blue button-up from his shoulders, his white undershirt close behind. Discarded on the floor along with her charcoal t-shirt, forgotten and unimportant. It was her turn to take in the sight of him, then, her teeth biting down on her lower lip. 

        Her hands cupped the sides of Nines’ face in a poor attempt to hide their trembling. The past crept up on her, like an unseen knife sliding between her ribs. He’d seen the worst of her, seen her carve a path of carnage and destruction, seen her when she lost control and the Beast had its hooks in her. Broken, bloody, bruised; a mess of righteous anger and bitterness. Her hands that have maimed, killed, and tortured, cradling his face with a gentleness that was reserved just for him. 

        Lost in her thoughts, her doubts, that wild look in her eyes dimmed, and her gaze was stuck somewhere over Nines’ shoulder.

        “Mickey,” he muttered, another soft reprimand, “look at me.” 

        Storm clouds, cold steel, gunmetal; he could get lost in the color of her eyes. A range of emotions raging through them. Words threatened to bubble over, so Mickey closed the distance between them, catching his mouth in a kiss, composure be damned. She sighed against his mouth, parting her lips for him. The doubts, the fears, all washed away like she washed the blood from her hands. The weight of his hands pressed against her hips, pulling her closer, and her legs hooked around his waist. 

        His lips moved from her mouth, teeth nipping at the corner of her jaw, traveling down her neck. Her nails trailed down his spine, a pin-pricking sensation down the curve of his back. A low whine echoing in the back of her throat as Nines kissed the pulse-point of her throat; a nip from his teeth, a flick of his tongue to soothe the bite. 

        “Nines,” a soft exhale of his name, a sound so sweet it could’ve been the last thing he heard and he would’ve died happy. Mickey wanted him, needed him, right here and now. Her hands slid inside the waistband of his jeans, skated around until she found the belt buckle. She made quick work of sliding the leather out of the metal loop, but before she could attempt to slide them off, Nines grabbed a hold of her wrists, catching her hands halfway through her task. 

        He circled her wrists in a single fist, pushing her bound fingers against her abdomen. A quiet growl of frustration was swallowed up by Nines’ smirk against her mouth. He reared her back on the desk, the wooden surface cool against her skin, and her body reacted responsively. Her knees fell wide as he nestled in between her legs, icy eyes on hers as he pressed her hands above her head. She arched her back, taunt as a bow string as Nines trailed his free fingers down the length of her torso, brushing past her hip bone, before settling against the edge of her panties. 

        “Thought I told you to take these off,” a smirk pressed into her neck, just below the shell of her ear. 

        “You did.”

        It was difficult for Mickey to sound defiant when she was on her back, her legs spread beneath the weight of him. Her hips bucked, begging for a little more friction. It was impossible for her to muster up her usual snarky retort, her bluster lost somewhere as he looked down at her, all dark intent, the edges of his gaze tinted with amusement. A sharp nip to the hollow of her throat, a scrape of his fangs against her skin that sent a white-hot current blooming across her chest. The power of the Blood surged in her veins; every touch, every kiss making her feel more alive. 

        “Left ‘em on, huh?” His head tilted to the side, a quiet tsk, as he dipped his fingers below the cotton hem. He cupped the heat of her in his palm, and fuck, her traitorous hips rolled again, “wanna leave them on now?” 

        The words rushed out of Mickey before she could attempt to bite them back, “no,” her voice a whimper, a desperation for him clinging to every word, every syllable, every fucking letter, “take ‘em off.” 

        Now it was Nines’ turn to tease. His gaze, hungry, pinned her in place. He could kill a man to see her the way she was now — swear he would. Desperate, muscles tensed, hands curled into tight fists under his grip. Her chest heaved with breath she didn’t need, her lower lip caught between her teeth. 

        “How?” He asked, a smile in his voice. He pressed his palm tighter, “with my hands? My teeth?” 

        A moan fell from Mickey’s lips that sounded more animal than human, “bite ‘em off if you want,” a shaky whine as he began to slowly scissor his fingers. He didn’t peg her to be so vocal, but he wasn’t about to complain, not when he relished in the sounds he could pull out of her with his touch alone. “I don’t care, just take them off.”

         A huff of laughter against her neck, but he wasn’t quite ready yet. His mouth left a trail down her throat, her chest, to the valley between her breasts. Lower still, as his thumb and fingers worked a sweet, wet tune. His mouth lowered to her breast and sucked, his tongue flicking against her nipple. A mewl echoed from the depths of Mickey’s throat, her hands itching, begging to touch him.  He turned his attention to her other breast, still working her with his fingers, but never touching her where she wanted it most. 

         “Fuck, Nines —” she cut herself off, dangerously close to saying the three words she’d been to cowardly to say before; swallowed them up with another breathless gasp of his name. They wouldn’t stay down, though. She felt them bubbling up again, persistent, desperate to be said. 

         “— I,” interrupted by another moan as his thumb ghosted over her clit, a deliberate motion that nearly threatened to set her alight. She couldn’t stop the words now, not when any attempt at maintaining self-control was gone, “I love you.” 

         When his fingers stilled their movements, she stifled another whine, suddenly worried that the moment between the two of them was now ruined.

         But any lingering doubts were sucked up in a kiss that left Mickey light-headed and reeling. He sagged between the contours of her body, the three-word declaration audibly confirming she wanted him just as much as he wanted her. He broke the kiss, his forehead pressed against hers. Reluctantly, he pulled his hand from between her legs, moving to grip her hips. 

         “I love you,” Nines said, voice barely above a whisper, and Mickey swore her unbeating heart soared. She kissed him again, his mouth, his cheeks, his jaw. He met her in kind and he felt the smile in each press of her lips against his skin, “and I’m not goin’ anywhere, you hear me?” 

         Mickey nodded, but he wanted to hear her say it. A squeeze of her hips, a nip against her lower lip as she caught him in another kiss. The storm clouds cleared from her eyes, burnt away by the fire that smoldered in Nines’ gaze. 

         “Yes, yes, I hear you,” she mumbled against his mouth. Her hips rolled again, her body pressing against his, that desperation back in full force, “please — want you, want you inside me.” 

         But Nines was feeling worshipful tonight; how could he not, when she sighed his name and it sounded like a prayer? He took his time, sucking, nipping, marking her skin until she was white-hot, electric, arching off the top of the desk. It was hypnotic the way he shadowed down her body until he was on his knees in front of her. Nines pulled her hips to the edge, his thumb hooking beneath the waistband of her panties, finally pulling the garment down her legs. In a swift movement, he hooked Mickey’s legs over his shoulders, his breath against her cunt.

        The first swipe of his tongue set Mickey’s nerves on fire. 

        Soft at first, barely-there caresses. Open mouth kisses that sent waves of pleasure down her spine to her toes. Just as the muscles in her thighs began to release their tension, he sucked her clit into his mouth, a startled cry of pleasure bubbling past her parted lips. Mickey’s neck ached to be thrown back so that her melody of ecstasy could be sung to the heavens, but she remained transfixed; mesmerized by the way Nines worked her with his tongue, rolling, flat and wide, twisting it around her clit, his mouth parting to suckle it gently. 

        “Christ...fuck, Nines.”

        Her fingers scraped against his scalp, the pad of her thumb digging into his temple. Nines hooked his palms around Mickey’s hips as she began to squirm, her thighs trembling around his head. Her cries increased in number and volume, like music to his fucking ears. Her toes curled against his back; her spine curved toward him as she chased the waves of heat that burned through her core. She tried to wait, tried to hold off until he was inside her, pushing deep, filling her up, but he was more stubborn.

        Another swipe of his tongue before he took her in his mouth again, one long, endless suck, and she was coming, coming — 

        But Nines remained kneeling, feasting on her, his hand pinning her hips to the desk. Mickey wasn’t sure where one climax ended and the other began, but she went over the edge again. She was trembling, squirming from the overstimulation. A half-sob, half-moan echoing from her throat, a string of filthy curses following. Nines rose from the floor, leaving sloppy kisses along her thighs, up her chest, before returning his mouth to her. Mickey could taste herself on his tongue as she frantically reached for his belt. Her hands skinned the jeans off his hips, nails scratching against his skin.

        Now, she wanted him now.

        She reached for him then, filled her palm with his cock, and bucked against him impatiently. 

        “Easy, easy there, sweetheart,” the pet-name was punctured by a kiss to her jaw, joining her hands in their efforts to rid him of his last bits of clothing. 

        “Want you,” she muttered, full of a wild, animalistic need. Her knees hooked around his waist, words muttered against his mouth, “against the fuckin’ wall.” 

        Who was he to deny her anything? 

        With a wicked grin, he hefted her in his arms, her legs locking around his middle. When her bare back hit the wall, his position shifted, his hands moving to grip her ass. Mickey snaked her arms around his shoulders, holding herself in place so she wouldn’t lose her balance. Her nails dug into his shoulders, scratching his skin; she wanted to claw at him until their souls were merged together. Nines’ mouth found hers again, the kiss open and deep, a clash of tongues and teeth. 

        He shifted slightly, nudging her entrance, and Mickey dug her nails into his skin harder and growled. 

        “Fucking tease.”

        His laugh reverberated against her throat, the sound skittering down her spine, and he slid in between her slick, hot folds, still tender from his tongue. 

        Mickey could hardly breathe, hardly think, hardly string enough letters together to form words beyond where their bodies were joined. He waited, letting her adjust, and she reveled in the fucking feel of him. A fluttering of lashes as her eyes opened and she found him staring at her, the usual ice of his eyes replaced with blue fire. 

        “Say it again,” he murmured against her mouth. Mickey knew what he meant. 

        “I love you,” she sighed. 

        Nines pulled out slightly, then thrust back in slow; agonizingly slow. 

        “I love you,” she said again, breathless. 

        He pulled out again, a slow thrust in. 

        “I love you.” 

        Faster, this time — harder. His hips like pistons and Mickey’s rolled in response. The sound of her back hitting the wall echoed each fast, hard thrust; her breathy cries accompanying the rhythmic tune. She grabbed the back of his neck, fingers dragging against his nape, returning her mouth to his.

         Forged together, their bodies connected; a bond shaped from fire and iron. A connection so deep, so rich — their fates intertwined from the beginning. Mickey’s life had been taken away from her; she’d been left with nothing but a fierce bitterness rotting her from the inside out. Nines had seen it; seen the brutality she was capable of, the cold detachment that threatened to keep her from everything and everyone. 

         He replaced that coldness with a warmth, a well-placed spark that threatened to set her ablaze. The walls she carefully constructed for herself were torn down; there was no mask to hide behind, no façade to cling to. 

         Just him, her, and this unbreakable bond that burned as hot as the sun. 

         Mickey felt her insides turn to white-hot mush, another climax building, threatening to consume her from the inside out. Fuck, yes, baby, harder —

         Nines kept up the hard, fast pace as he shifted his position slightly, one arm wrapping around the small of her back, mouth against her neck. His free hand moved between her legs again, his thumb circling her clit. A scrape of his fangs against her throat, an undisputed gesture of trust. A silent plea, asking for permission, and Mickey compiled.

         She moaned a yes as she tilted her head to the side, giving him more access. When Nines’ fangs pierced the skin of her throat, the pleasure of the Kiss was enough to send her over the edge again. She nearly crumbled as release tore through her body and he pounded into her, hard and fast, drawing out her pleasure as he tasted her Vitae on his tongue. She tasted like smoke and nectar, like passion and midnight — she tasted like hope. 

         Nines groaned into her neck as he found his own release, slamming in to the hilt, his hips stuttering. He steadied himself, careful not to lose his balance, his weight sagging against her. With a languid lick of his tongue against her throat, the puncture wounds of his fangs closed almost instantly. With a heartbreaking gentleness, he pulled himself from her, then carried her over to the bed. 

         He nestled against the pillows, the too-soft mattress against his back, and rested Mickey on top of him. She straddled his waist as she looked at him from under her lashes, a lazy, feline smile tugging at the corners of her lips. The night was still young, she noted, and she had him all to herself. 

         The ghost of his fingers trailed up her and down her spine as she leaned down, kissing him again slowly, gently, caressing her tongue against his lower lip. 

         “I love you,” he said against her mouth, his hand moving from her spine to brush her dark hair behind her ear. 

        “Me, too.”

        He tasted the truth on her tongue as she kissed him again. The words Nines said earlier echoing in her mind, strong and bright like the bond between them: Me. You. Us.

        And as she made love to him again, slow and sweet into the early hours of the morning, she knew she wasn’t going anywhere, either.