#He does this with good intentions but in reality it makes things worse than better... oops!

[avirael]

Stuck on Repeat

He wanted to scream.

To scream and to cry and to be anywhere but here. But the best A’viloh could do was try not to tremble and instead follow Rael‘s example, who - despite the fact of being shackled and pushed around - still maintained a certain stubborn grace. He wished he knew how they did that.

What exactly was going on? A‘viloh wasn’t sure of that yet and it would take a while for him to process all of this. Everything had happened so fast. Suddenly the sultana had gasped for air, her goblet falling to the ground along with herself, soaking the expensive carpet with its dark red content. While A‘viloh had only stared in shock, Rael had immediately jumped up and was by Nanamo‘s side only split seconds after she collapsed. The next moment there had been guards everywhere and also that mean Lalafell accusing them of regicide. They had barely been able to say anything before the guards had grabbed them both, checked them for weapons and tied up their hands.

Now, as the door in front of them opened, the soldier behind A‘viloh gave him a rough push. The miqo‘te winced and stumbled forward into the room filled with people, all eyes on him. He lost his balance and with his hands tied behind his back, he landed rather ungracefully on the hard, cold stone tiles. His head started to spin, his vision began to blur, his heart was racing. It was all just too much and also too late to stop the memories that had buried their ugly dark claws deep in his mind. Miserably he gasped for air.

Rael hadn’t fallen but still knelt down and leaned towards him, wanting to make sure he was alright. „A‘vi! Please stay calm. I’m trying to find a way to get us out of this…“, the viera managed to whisper before someone pulled them away.

A’viloh still struggled to sit up and at the same time tried desperately to see where Rael had gone, when someone grabbed one of his arms and a handful of his hair and yanked him into a kneeling position. He pressed his eyes shut and tried to breathe, tried to not let the fear and the memories overwhelm him, but a small whimper still made it past his lips. He fought against his own mind, racing and about to shut itself off from all of this.

„Stop it!“, Rael hissed angrily. What else than complain could they do with their hands tied behind their back. The brass blade turned his attention to the viera instead of A’viloh. „Shut up!“, the man growled and struck Rael across the face with the back of his hand. They gasped and when they looked up again a moment later, with a mix of shock and indignation on their face, their lower lip was split and bloody.

Ashamed A’viloh stared to the ground and tried to pretend that this wasn’t his fault while the voices and turmoil around him faded to the background. Instead his mind was filled with questions and fears. Would they be executed? Thrown in jail? What had happened to Nanamo? Would their friends at least get out of this with their lifes, if Rael and him were made responsible?

Suddenly something touched his shoulder and pulled him out of his thoughts. A’viloh gave an alarmed shriek.

„Shhh!“, Rael shushed him, leaning their shoulder against his. Worried they glanced at him. „You were gone for a moment weren’t you?“ A’viloh didn’t answer but that wasn’t necessary. Rael sighed deeply. „Give me your hands. Maybe I can loosen the knots…“

Working behind their backs Rael tried their best but it was impossible. The angle was bad, they didn’t see what they were doing and the knots were simply too tight. On their own the two of them would never make it out of their ties. “Seven hells!”, Rael cursed. “I would sooner chew through these things than get that knot open!”

It was a funny imagination and under different circumstances A’viloh would maybe have laughed about it. Instead he turned to look at them and offered a sad smile. “It’s alright. At least you tried…I’m sorry about your lip.”

The viera looked surprised and then shook their head. “Don’t worry. I can fix that.”

Suddenly the turmoil around them got even worse. A’viloh only now noticed the screams and the fighting. “What’s happening?”

“Raubahn killed Adeledji. Tried to kill Lolorito too. Panic broke out and now he is fighting Ilberd. But I honestly don't think he has a chance...”

As if to confirm this, one of the giant stone pillars exploded under a heavy misaimed hit and through the cloud of dust and rubble Raubahn was hurled through the air and landed right beside them. With a swift movement of his blade he cut their ties and only then as he stood up, rubbing his wrists, A’viloh noticed that the Flame General was missing an arm.

But there was no time to question how that had happened and what else he might have missed while dissociating. Confidently as ever Raubahn spoke up saying that he never doubted them or the Scions and that they should flee. A’viloh was still to dazed to argue against that and so let Rael pull him along, to Minfilia and the others and then out of the palace.

As they hurried down the stairs of the Royal Promenade Thancred ran towards them and with a sudden peng of guilt A’viloh realised that he had been so shaken until now that he hadn’t even noticed yet that the Hyur hadn’t been with them. Thancred warned them that Lolorito’s soldiers had already taken control of all important points in the city and that it would be impossible to just walk out through the city gates. Luckily he offered another plan. Rumours about very old secret passages leading out of the city and luckily he knew how to get there.

But just as they wanted to leave the heavy steps and yells of the brass blades got closer.

“Go ahead! I’ll handle this!”, Yda exclaimed and turned towards the soldiers.

Papalymo made an incredulous face. “By yourself?! …I suppose I shall just have to join you.”

Rael offered to help them too. Papalymo and the viera could cause quite the destruction together that was certain but the thought of leaving any of them behind made A’viloh sick. There had to be a different way. One were all of them got out of here together.

“Don’t!”, he croaked and hated how his voice sounded a lot quieter and squeakier than he had intended. Had anybody heard him at all? But before he could say anything else or before Rael could join Yda and Papalymo, the Lalafell shot a fireball at the mechanism that held the palace gate open and with a roaring sound it crashed down and cut of the path between the two of them and the rest of the group. It would give them some time but neither Minfilia nor A’viloh seemed to be willing to leave without their friends. Helplessly and pleading the Miqo’te reached through the bars with one arm and stretched out a hand towards his friends. A’viloh and Yda had quickly befriended each other after meeting for the first time. They had spent a lot of time training together and Yda had soon become one of his dearest friends among the Scions. The thought that something could happen to her was unbearable for him. “Yda! Please!”

But the girl laughed at him and locked her fingers with his for a second. “Don’t worry, A’vi! We’ll see you later!” Confidently she smiled at him before she let go of his hand and turned back around to face the soldiers that had almost caught up to them.

The others called out for them and reluctantly Minfilia and A’viloh followed. There was nothing else they could do now apart from making Yda’ and Papalymo’s efforts worth it and get out of here before more soldiers appeared.

In a haste they ran through the decorated corridors of the palace district and luckily the entrance to the secret passage was exactly were Thancred had suspected it to be. The tunnels were bigger and more complex than A’viloh would have thought and for quite a while they ran through dusty old corridors trying to find the right way that would lead them out of the city.

After a while the echoes of yells and footsteps appeared again and unlike them their pusuers seemed to know the ways down here. They tried to hurry but in no time the voices were coming closer and closer.

“I will stop them.”, Y’shtola exclaimed and abruptly stood still, making everyone else pause for a moment as well. “You go on ahead!”

“No…”, A’viloh protested, he wasn’t willing to leave any more people behind. But Thancred nodded. “Then I will stay too! It would be rude to let you fight alone…”

“No! This is all wrong!”, A’vi repeated a little more loudly. “Let me and Rael fight them, we can defeat them surely.”

Y’shtola shook her head. “Not that many of them…” and Thancred agreed, “The two of you are far too important to get captured...” He didnt say or worse but it was clearly there.

“But…” A’viloh wanted to protest but what was there to say? So he just helplessly stared from one of them to the other. Instead Rael nodded. “Alright!”

“No! Nothing’s alright!”, A’viloh exclaimed pleadingly. „There has to be another way!“

“No, there isn’t.” Thancred said and put his hands on A’viloh’s shoulders. „Listen! There is no time. You have to get out of here, do you hear me? And you have to get Minfilia to safety. Look at me A’vi!“

He slightly shook him and despite the closeness between them A’vi did as he was told.

“Can you promise me that? To get yourself and Minfilia to safety?”, the Hyur asked with a serious voice.

Pleadingly A’vi stared at Thancred’s face wondering if it would be the last time he was going to see it. He hadn’t stopped shaking since Ilberd’s soldiers had put him in chains but now it got worse again. Nonetheless he nodded slightly.

“Good.“ Thancred said and nodded too, but hesitated to let go of him.

A strange expression appeared on his face, one A’viloh never had seen on him before. A mixture of doubt and maybe fear? Thancred sighed and muttered “Just in case…“ more to himself than anybody else but A’vi was close enough to hear it anyway.

A’viloh hadn’t expected at all what happened next. Before he even realised it, Thancred had leaned down, closed the gap between them and kissed him. He was too shocked to react, too confused as well, so he just let it happen. Weirdly this made him feel better but also hopelessly sad at the same time. What was he doing here? This was crazy! Maybe he would later curse himself for allowing this or he would wish he hadn’t wasted this moment like this but before he had figured out how to feel or to react the moment was over. Thancred pulled back a little and looked like he already regretted either what he did or simply having to let him go. Or maybe that was just how A'viloh felt himself. “Consider this my lucky charm…“, the hyur whispered, barely audible, and weakly smiled at him.

Then he pushed A’vi away, as gently as the urgency of the situation allowed, and spoke up louder to all of them.

„Now, get out of here!“

„No!“, the Miqo’te whimpered, his hands tried to hold on to Thancred’s arm but he ignored him and looked at Rael instead. „Get them out of here, please. I’m counting on you.“

The viera looked annoyed, more than usually, but nodded without a word and only when A’vi felt their hands at his arms pulling him away, he realised they were all still here watching him. At any other occasion he would have felt horribly embarrassed now but all he could think of right now was that he couldn’t leave all of his friends behind here to fight, and possibly die, while he fled to safety. He didn’t want to run any longer. But Rael seemed to share Thancred’s opinion.

“Come on, A’vi. We can’t waste time now. Every single soldier in this twelves-forsaken city is after us now, we can’t fight our way out of this. There’s no way to set this right if we don’t get out of here first.”, they explained as calmly as they could in this situation, then grabbed A’vi’s hand and dragged him along as they ran. A’viloh followed on stumbling feet but only because his body had long since stopped listening to anything his brain screamed at him. Stop! Go back! Fight!

Rael’s words made sense but still… weakly he tried to look back and see what was happening behind them but then Rael and Minfilia took a turn into another tunnel and he lost sight of Y’shtola and Thancred. For another while he just numbly let the viera pull him along until they abruptly stopped at an intersection.

“There is light! The exit must be right around that corner!”, Rael announced pointing to one of the tunnels.

Minfilia nodded. “I think so too. But I have somewhere else to go. Hydaelyn speaks to me, I have to stay behind but you two, you cannot stay with me.”

Rael shook their head: “We promised to protect you and I don’t plan to break that promise.”

Minfilia smiled kindly.

“I release you from this promise. Instead promise me to flee and clear our names for us! You are the only ones who can do this. I have a different task to fulfil. Please, you must go on! You are the Warriors of Light! You are hope - for the Scions, and for all the realm! As long as your flame continues to burn, the light of the dawn may ever be relit! You must escape, and save Eorzea from those who would plunge it into darkness! This is the only way...”

Rael grimaced but nodded. “Fine…”

A’viloh on the other hand just weakly shook his head. Words had long failed him and with every minute all of this felt more and more like it was happening to someone else and not him. Like all of this couldn’t be real. Like it was a horrible, weird dream that he would wake up from every second now! How had everything escalated so fast?

Minfilia saw his expression and put her arms around him in a tight hug. “Don’t blame yourself for this, A’vi. None of this is your fault. Everything will be alright, I promise.“

Then she ran in the opposite direction and all A’viloh could do was watch her vanish in the maze of tunnels.

After a few seconds Rael took his hand again and A’vi snapped back to attention watching the Viera’s free hand point towards the light. “Let’s go, the exit is right there.”

But A’viloh refused, even if his voice was nothing but a weak whisper. “No, please go alone. I’ll follow Minfilia. Someone has to protect her.”

Rael growled. “Were you listening at all? Do you want all of this to be in vain? I know this is difficult for you, but so it is for me!“

“But-“, A’viloh tried to protest but Rael looked like they almost wanted to hit him and angrily yelled at him. “I want you to be safe too, you know?! I would gladly stay behind and fight if it meant you and the other’s were safe but the best we can do now is run!”

Before A’vi could say anything else a deafening crash sounded through the tunnels. Alarmed they both stared back the way they came. The walls and the floor seemed to tremble and a roaring sound echoed down the tunnel and came closer and closer.

“Oh no!”, Rael gasped. “The ceiling is coming down! We have to get out of here! Now!”

“The ceiling?!”, A’vi shrieked. “But what of the others? We need to — Let go of me!!”, he protested as Rael tried to drag him out of the tunnel.

“It’s too late now, A’vi. Please!”, the viera pleaded but A’vi struggled and screamed. They almost wouldn’t have made it out in time. Just as the cloud of dust and rubble hit the protective barrier Rael had summoned up to shield them they were catapulted backwards by a burst of magic the last few meters out of the ruins and into the late afternoon sun.

Both of them coughed from the dust and it took a moment until they could see anything again. The entrance to the tunnels had collapsed entirely, lots of small and bigger pieces of stones lay in a huge pile in front of what was barely recognisable as the tunnel entrance anymore.

Shocked A’vi stared at the rubble for a few seconds before he began to scream again. Quickly he jumped up and tried to get the stones out of his way, to find a way back in, but of course it was hopeless. The old broken stones were too many and too heavy for him. They wouldn't give in to his pleading. "No! Please, no..."

As calm and soothing as they could Rael took his hands and spoke to him. “A’vi. Not now. There’s nothing we can do now…”

Slowly he let Rael turn him around. He looked at the viera, his eyes filled with tears, before he wordlessly threw his arms around Rael‘s neck. „I‘m so sorry…“, he whispered after a moment of just silently clinging to them.

Rael shook their head. „Not your fault…“

A’viloh didn’t answer to that. Instead he sullenly looked at Rael for a moment before he dared to ask, „Do you think they are dead?“

Rael sighed and then grimaced. „I’m not going to lie to you, A’vi. I honestly don’t know, but it really doesn’t look good…“

The Miqo’te just nodded weakly, the corner of his mouth twitching for a second. He appreciated the honesty but he had hoped for something a little more reassuring.

Rael carefully squeezed his shoulder. „But maybe they aren’t. We will figure that out, I promise. But first we have to proof that we did NOT kill Nanamo... We should really go now…“

„Thank you. I would be lost without you…“, A’viloh muttered and followed Rael along the railroads leading towards Blackbrush station, defeated and disheartened. Silently he wondered if there was a safe place now for them at all and how they possibly could manage to clear their names…

[packsvlog]

☕️⌇ ◜ OFFICE HOURS ◞ ⠀⠀⠀

╰⠀boss!nanami x secretary!reader where . . . nanami kento can’t let people know the reality that he, under no circumstances, belongs to them. in fact, is quite the contrarie. everyone in this job is a puppet willingly letting him pull the strings. you more than anyone. after committing the bizarre mistake of telling nanami your true intentions with him, your boss is more than eager to comply your desires and just maybe, forget he first input of no belongings.

cw. too much swearing, fingering with others present (not caught), fem!reader, reader keeps daydreaming w. nanami, slightly age gap but non-important all legal, public sex, overstimulation, they both keep failing to hide, possessiveness, love bites, he slap her thigh once, bit of blood because of self lip biting 4.9k words, english is not my first language.

an. hi, hello, i want everyone to know i’m this man wife. this is, in fact, our love story, i used to serve his coffee, now i’m serving my puss— anyways, enjoy it. FYI nanami smells like either tom ford tobacco vanille or byredo bibliothèque.

There are certain events in the workplace ── a sequence, if you may ── that serves as a warning to everyone that Mr. Nanami Kento has arrived.

Not many months ago, you were clueless to the symphony of presentation he had, even before stepping into the room. Now, though, it’s engraved in your mind. Much like he is. It is, also, a dirty secret to have that you eagerly wait for it, everyday.

Halting the tack-tack of your fingers on the keyboard, your ears pick the first signal ── rushed footsteps. All opening space so he can pass without the need to raise his eyes, hidden by sunglasses, from his cellphone. The second is the whispers and swooning. Some, more brave than others, compliment him out loud. Always about his peculiar ties, and always he smiles back. Lastly, when Nanami is in your sight of view, he is accompanied by his signature scent that greets you before he even does.

The most raw way to describe his smell is by saying that you wish you could crack him open, and lay inside of him forever. It’s comfortable and addicting and it makes you want to kiss him until it can permanently fixates on you.

In more proper synonyms, Nanami Kento smells like caramel, wood and a bit smokey. He is hot to the touch, one can admit. You don’t fall far from these thoughts, but sometimes, when you are not eye-fucking your boss, you think he smells like a cozy cabin in the woods.

Perfect place to fuck him, though.

Is easy to imagine such a thing. You can picture him with thick sweat covering his body, like a second layer, as he comes inside with a hatchet and wood for the fireplace. And you can, also easily, imagine yourself on your knees sucking him so good, as way to thank him for keeping you warm.

It’s a Kento effect. Everywhere he passes, people tend to have a heat stroke. You are no better than the others. Probably worse. He, however, does not need to know that. Nanami’s plate is already filled to the brims with people gazing him as a snack, he doesn’t need his personal assistant to do the same.

Not in front of him, anyways.

So, when he comes near your table, and stop to take whatever you have for him (work related, honey, even when you wish it was your pussy), you present the calls he need to answer with a compliment for his shoes and a black coffee with pretzels.

He adores you.

You want to fuck him senseless.

A perfect imperfect balance of clashing feelings. His are professional, yours are not even close. He only steps over the boundaries when it’s to call you “Darling” and you only do so in your head, when you think of laying on his table and letting him feast on your dripping cunt.

He is gentle and caring.

You wouldn’t mind chanting his name loud enough for everyone to understand what’s happening.

He departs ways and you share a trembling sigh with your inner turmoil of emotions. He makes you have a constant fever. In fact, with him, everything is constant. You want to fuck him everyday, you touch yourself with his voice in your mind guiding you. He gets pretty out of character in your alone mind, though.

Real Nanami is a sweetheart. Your Nanami would make you cry while on his cock.

“── and the meeting room needs to be ready by eleven, you can do all that, darling?” He asks. He asks! He is talking with you.

“I, uh, I’m sorry, Mr. Kento,” You stutter before shifting your attention from your computer screen to his charming understandable smile. “could you repeat, please?”

“Sure, darling.”

You need to put extra neurons to work when eyeing his pink lips moving gracefully. Is it the same shade as his cock? Oh, you hoped so. That would be your favorite color, would paint your nails, your hair, anything.

“Got it now?” Nanami curls his lips as he question you. You can’t lie to him, so you sign that No, you did not payed attention. He chuckles and comes closer, resting both hands in fist on your table, letting himself down so he can be face to face with you. “I need you to order mine, yours and the lunch for the usual gentleman I talk about the finances, ── you have that noted, right?” You nod, and he proceeds. “Then, I want you to decorate the meeting room, the way you always do.” You nod again, and he moves back. You want to whine. “Good girl.”

Pause.

That’s new. It’s like achieving a new item in a game. A new level. That’s a prize, the greatest form of enlightenment one could have. You feel warm in your chest and cheeks, but dare not to sway your eyes from his twinkling ones. You wonder if he knows what you are thinking, or if he knows the power he has over you ── over everyone.

That’s Nanami Kento. The man with a dazzling aura, it touches all in proximity, no one survives him. If he wants, you are his. Hooked like a worm, willingly ready to be devoured by a fish, and the thing is no one knows if Nanami is said fish or the fisherman.

The secret about his success is not only the sweet talk he does, but the way he can easily take it away. And no one wants to be away from his warmth. You’ve seen it before, how he controls people ── some more powerful than your mind can comprehend, they all are puppets for him to pull the strings. He touches and praises them when they do what he wants, but Nanami grows cold and absent when they don’t.

Everyone wants to be loved by him, so everything this enterprise does, it revolves around Nanami.

He can be a scary man when he wants, and you’ve heard the tales, from time to time. With you, fortunately, he is just your nice boss. And a part of you wish he would cradle you into his arms and play with you like a marionete. His doll. Yeah, you want to be his fucking doll.

Tempted to ruin this lunch and be ravished by his famine, you shake your deranged thoughts and focus on ordering the food. Also asking for red velvet cookies for you and Mr. Gojo, the owner of this whole enterprise.

A cocky young man, that likes to devour your physique whenever you come inside the room. He is rich and beautiful and his name is always on the newspaper with gossip mostly involved. You could fall for him, could fuck him, but he is not Nanami.

He doesn’t boss you around gently, nor he makes you crave his scent on lonely nights. He makes you shy, but not timid and horny. In fact, you don’t even think about Satoru Gojo unless you are balancing his persona with Nanami’s. That’s sad for him.

You keep doing that ── the thoughts, the sexual dreams ── while preparing the meeting room with a charming decoration. Black glasses, black plates, all with golden details. Satoru Gojo himself payed for it, not that he knows or care. You commented once, Nanami liked, and moved his toys in favor of buying the expensive kitchen utensils you wanted. He even made sure to get some for your own house.

The last part is closing the thick black curtains around the room, for privacy. Someone comes inside the second you step back from the last tapestry, and when you turn, Nanami is there.

“How’s everything?” His fingers press on the table, moving swiftly with him, closer to you. “You’ve got cookies?” There is amusement in his question.

“Mr. Gojo’s secretary, Suguru, told me he was craving something sweet.” You turn back to the table behind you, stacking the sweet in a small mountain. “He always gets fussy if he doesn’t get his daily large intake of sugar.”

You grabbed one, knowing that half of it was rightfully yours, and twisted on your heels. Nanami scared you in two sequential situations after that. The first being his looming presence right in front of you, piercing gaze on you, shifting between your eyes. He was searching for something in it, so, you tried the hardest you could to give him something back. Eyes that said “please, fuck me.”

Maybe it worked. The next thing he did, that scared you, was bending down and biting your cookie. Eyes never leaving yours. You gulped, he smirked.

“Please, fuck me.”

He chocked.

See, your eyes were supposed to be the one speaking for you, but Nanami also has this super power that no one can lie to him. He wants something, he gets it delivered in a silver plate. He knows everyone’s secret, and yours were never safe, just happened to be hidden in a line of things that weren’t priority for him. Not until now, at least. He wanted to know what you were hiding, and you gave it to him.

“I ──” The words are struck behind your teeth. Nanami eagerly waits for them. “I’m so sorry.”

And with that, you leave him.

In a perfect world, he would have grabbed you by the wrists and fucked you against Satoru’s side of the table. But it’s not, because he lets you go. He has to let you go, even if you know that’s not the end of it. He will get you later, and like a little kid in science class, he will dissect everything you said. Therefore, during the thirty minutes of freedom you are granted in the bathroom, before the meeting starts, you try and fail and try and fail to conceal your thoughts into a perfect lie.

It doesn’t work. Not even a bit. Because Nanami knows you like the back of his hand, as much as he knows everyone that works with him. He knows when you lie and when you are truthful, and thanks to that, your work relationship had always been good ── you’ve never lied to him to stroke his ego. You were too busy wanting to stroke something else. Nanami let you slide your nasty comments about others, and he would share them, granting you some of their secrets.

He was a gossiper. He knew everything. You knew right there that lying would never work with him, so you just avoided to let him reach that horny part of yours that burned for him. Give him something else to sink his attention into. Your neck, you wanted, but rather you would feed him with gossips from your college classes, or what you got from Suguru Geto, your friend and Satoru’s assistant.

Now, you had already run out of distractions. Maybe that was his plan all along. If the world is correct, and it all falls down to Nanami’s desires, then maybe he was just waiting for you to crumble and admit. You had never been subtle with your eyes, anyway. That’s why he had been so fascinated about it, staring from time to time, trying to catch a glimpse of your true self, like a wishing star in a starry night.

The stars have gone dark, burned and busted away, when you come back to the meeting room and sit down on your designed chair, by his side. Nanami is focusing at you, again, like he needs more of your secrets at this moment. You have never gave him something so largue before, he is addicted.

But you, stubborn, appalled, stoic and all, think your plate of pasta is the most interesting thing in this whole world. You don’t eat much, because your throat is filled with all the words and screams you want to let out. You fear if you so much breathe loud, it will all come flooding this room.

“Are you annotating all of this in your head?” Nanami whispers in your ear, referring to the meeting now in progress. You sign no, and he sighs. “Your mind is far away, today.”

“Sorry.”

“What should I do with you?”

Someone coughs. An old man, standing by the edge of the table. He wants Nanami’s eyes on him, the praise, the goodness. Kento grants him half a smile, and that is not enough. Never will be. Everyone always wants more.

The lights are turned off when the projector is brought by Suguru, he comes and goes quickly, not before stealing a cookie from Satoru. That’s the first smile you present since the incident, and Nanami is back at staring at you with an intensity your heart fears but your pussy drips for. Are you scared? Petrified. And still, you are fucking horny.

He knows your secret, he is devoting his eyes to you, no matter what anyone else wants. He, in this moment, wants you. It might be because he needs to know what you meant, it might be because you are stroking his ego, finally. Or, you dare wonder, he is debating throwing you on that table and fucking you. Old men and Satoru aside, you wouldn’t mind. At all.

You take courage to look at him, and instantly you stare at his lips first, before his eyes. Fuck me, fuck me, fuck me. You go back at eyeing the projector. He does the same a long beat later. An even longer one, he slowly puts his hand on your exposed thigh, skirt raised since you set down.

You try to not fail in your stoic face, but you do so anyway. Because, for fuck’s sake, Nanami Kento has his hands on your thigh, his thumb in circular movements. Your lips instinctively curl up, he snorts by your side before going back to his serious demeanor.

You thought he would just keep his hands there, as if testing the water but deciding to stay near the shore. That’s not his case, though. Nanami loves to go to the beach, to swim far away beyond the waves, he likes to get damped. His hand move closer, and you open your legs absentmindedly. He wants, you give. As much as you have wanted, and now he is giving you.

When his hands are pressing against your lacy underwear, you hear a little “Fuck” coming from his mouth. You’re soaking wet.

It’s hard to keep your breathing pattern steady when he is near you. Even more harder when he has one finger slowly penetrating you. For the outsider viewer, everything is normal, and the two of you are just concentrated on the projector screen. The truth is you have no idea what’s going on, and maybe neither does him. You want to moan, and tug his hair until he groans. And you want him to replace his finger with his cock. You stare at the annotation book, empty of your handwriting, and use the opportunity of your head down to hang your mouth open and close your eyes.

Nanami shifts his eyes to you, and he drowns himself into your fucked gaze, even more so when he puts another finger. He can’t linger much, or others will notice, so he decides to keep his movements fluid and calm, and to stare at you from time to time.

He can multitask. Of-fucking-course. He asks questions, answers, he acts as if he is one hundred percent into whatever is going on. The reality is different. The truth is all about his curling fingers pressing themselves in a place inside you that will forever mark his presence there. Like a secret plaything only for him, no one, not even you, will ever reach that. It’s like he is signing it with either his name only or a “Nanami was here.”

You want him to stay, forever. Stay inside you, slow pacing, curling, sensitive.

He can’t, because what feels like hours later, turns into minutes. Everyone is raising up to leave, and he moves out of you so fast, you clench around nothing ── had you been quicker, grabbed his fingers, they all would know. You don’t give a fuck, you want them too know.

“Go to my office.” He whispers before going the opposite direction of the exit, and staying back to talk with the others. You walk without a goodbye, creating an excuse when Satoru wants some of your time.

Inside his office, you feel like breathing for the first time. It’s confusing, like your lungs are new and not fully connected to your esophagus, so it comes up weird ── in a mixture of laugh and relief, salted with a “what the actual fuck”.

You want to stop and think of what’s happening or what’s to happen, but you never had the chance. It’s a second later, and you are being pressed against his, now, locked door. His arms holding your hips, his head resting on your neck, sulking your scent much like you do with his.

“You meant it, right?” He asks, bringing his face up to yours. “You want me to fuck you. Please, darling, say you do, because I need to fuck you now, or I’ll go crazy.”

“Yes, please, please.” Midway through your desperate nod, Nanami lunged at you, catching your lips in his and conducting the rhythm, the strength.

He was so, so good. In all ways. His slow fingers had your legs shaking and his eager kiss has your mind fogged. All that he does seems to be professional, but you know deep down, this effect is all because is made by him. Just his presence alone could have you hot and bothered, but to actually be touched by him, it’s like adding the fire to your gasoline self.

You had always been meant to be burned by Nanami.

He hoist you up against the door, for a quick second his hands kept clawing your thighs, until he walked you both to his desk. He let you down on it, and at the same time, his kisses moved to your neck and shoulder. You could feel the scrape of his teeth, tempted to mark you with a significant bite ── tell them I’m yours, you thought.

He groaned against your flustered skin, because he knew he couldn’t do that. Mark you, that’s it. Fuck you? Oh, that he can, that he will do.

“I need you to be really quiet for me.” His hands are quick on his belt, dropping it with a thud against the floor. He raises your skirt to your waist, Nanami grumbled under his breath with the sight of your underwear. He had touched the elaborate details earlier, but to see it was another story. White, see through, a pink ribbon on the top. “I’m going to rip it.”

“No, you’re not!” Raising your leg, you pushed him away. Eyes still hypnotized by your clothed cunt. You removed the piece with a satisfied smirk. It had been months since you started to wear those type of under-wears, hoping one day this situation would come.

No one wants to fuck their sexy boss with granny’s pants.

The cold table coming in contact with your intimacy made you moan a bit, and Nanami’s attention was back on you. There you were, beautifully waiting for him. Fuck-me eyes, pleading mouth, hands gripping the edge of the desk. You were at his mercy, had been for a while now. And he? Well, Nanami was yours now, that’s what matter.

One of his fingers, the same one he had penetrated you earlier, came back inside you. Smearing itself with your wetness. His other hand gripped your hips, bringing you closer, and making him go deeper. There, right fucking there. He curled, and thrusted, and another two more out of nowhere.

Cruelty was not on the way he was ravishing your cunt, but the biting of your teeth on your hand. You have to be quiet, follow his orders, but Nanami seemed to want to make you scream. Let everyone know that he is fucking you. Nearly fucking you.

Combining this movements with the ones of earlier, you feel your insides getting tighter. He senses as well, and raises his peace once more. But, again, your legs push him away. Nanami doesn’t like that, he comes back quick, wet fingers anxious to reclaim their place inside you, but you sign no, and he halts. That’s it. The man that controls everyone, and he is at your mercy.

“I want to cum on your cock.” Maybe is the sweet and diabolical way you say, or the tilting of your head with a charming smile. What matters is, he complies right away. His pants fall, he takes off his blazer, and not a second later you are presented with what you’ve been craving for months.

Like a pregnant lady, you almost cry and fall on your knees, finally having your desire attended. He doesn’t want that either, instead Nanami takes a condom from his wallet. Before he puts it, his waiting fingers touch your cunt again, grabbing a bit of your liquid and smearing it on himself. You nearly ask him to throw the condom away.

Is a sinful sight. All of this. You on the desk, legs wide open. He in front of you, adjusting himself on the condom. Both groaning when he, fucking finally, align with your entrance, and slowly gets in. He is largue, and thick, and preparation might have been necessary had you not been daydreaming of this moments months ago.

Had he not been himself, that man that makes you drip with just a “good morning”, this might have hurt. Instead, it’s exhilarating to be parted by his cock. The condom does not stop you from feeling his veins tickling your walls, or his tip finally setting near your cervix. That was fucking new. Pleasant and scary, and fucking welcome as well.

“Say it again,” He asks, hands on both your hips and eyes looking over yours. Waiting for the stars to fall over the two of you. “tell me to fuck you.”

“Fuck m──” He doesn’t wait for you to end before he removes himself, and going back with a gushing sound. You nearly scream out of pleasure, but in the last second, you bite your lips strong enough to draw some blood. “Mmh, you fucking a-asshole.” He snorts at that, before slapping your thigh.

Seems that Nanami can do all the noises he wants. He groans against your skin, head hanging low to stare at the way you pussy suck his dick in and out. You have always been a good girl ── his good girl. Taking all the he gave you. Mostly work related, and now his cock. You truly were made just for him.

“You feel so fucking good, baby.” A moan scapes your hands, and he doesn’t bother spanking your leg again. He called you baby, and you’re strangling his dick perfectly. You can shout at this point, he is pussy fucked.

Removing your hands from your mouth, you decide to do something much better than guarding your pleasure. Instead, you open his button-up blue shirt. A dream come through, is what this day will be remembered as. Specially now, where he lets you do as you pleases, and you have the sight of his pecks ── bronzed from a beach trip he took last week, and glistening with sweat for your recent activities. You moaned again, before going for it, and marking him.

Nanami allowed you to do so. He only cared about holding your hips and raise your lower body, so he could make you meet his thrusts halfway. He didn’t hold a care in the world about his groaning getting louder, or the burning on his neck and chest caused by your eager mouth and teeth. Fuck that. Fuck everyone. The only thing he truly wanted was to be inside of you forever. To be planted in this moment of his life, on loop, being marked by you, having his cock milked out by your dripping cunt. That’s what his life was made for.

Nanami Kento had this aura that made everyone scramble for him and his left-overs, as a way to keep close. To say they have something that once was his. Because everyone knew that Nanami was no one’s property. This moment, this fuck, this pussy proved that statement to be contraire ── he was yours. From the first day he saw you and specially one hour ago, when he had eaten your cookie and you told him to fuck you. He knew right then that he would shift the whole balance of the world to give you what you want.

And if that’s his aching cock, fucking be it. It’s yours. You’re taking it so good, and barely paying attention to it. He keeps bruising your cervix, and you respond with little whimpers and more bites. He quicken his peace, you close your legs around his waist, as if giving him more opening.

A perfect synchrony.

“Wan’ to cum.” You mumble just right after he senses your wall get tight.

“C’mon, baby, ugh, cum f’me.”

“Mmh, fuck, ngha.”

You do right after, going limp on his arms, he slow his thrusting with a snort and laying you down on the desk. He shuffles something by your dazed-self side, before he brings a black sharpie near your cleavage. He kisses and licks and sucks on it, before opening the pen with his mouth, and signing a straight line.

“How many more can you give me, pretty?” You don’t answer in words, but with more quiet whimpers, when his thrusts go back to pounding you in a maniac pace. He holds your neck down, leaning to kiss you through your beautiful moans.

You’re sensitive, he knows. Because you keep closing more and more around his length, trying to make him cum, unknown to you that it only makes you closer to coming again. You hit your head on the desk when trying to follow his departed lips, Nanami has your neck again on his mouth, tasting your sweat and lotion, and all you can give him. It’s only when he bites it slightly, you release yourself once more.

“Mmph, fuck, fuck, argh.”

Nanami keeps jerking his hips onto yours, not even having cum once. He takes pleasure in yours, you can see. With a proud smirk, he grabs the sharpie once more, but this time, he makes a diagonal line that touches the top of the first.

“Mhm──!”

“Yeah, yeah, I know, baby. Just a bit more.” He cooed at you, sweet tone diverging from his animalistic movements.

You’re not complaining, not even regretting. So you keep yourself down and let Nanami control both of yours fun. He is ruthless in his pace and fantastic with his kisses, he doesn’t mind your moaning anymore, or the fact that everyone on your floor already knows. What can they do? Stop you? Nanami will rip everyone apart and just return to your pussy. Threaten him? No one would dare. He is still their sweetheart, their most sacred prize, beautiful and shinning to look at. Never to have.

“I’m, ugh, I’m yours.” He grunts.

This time, you sense a shift in his thrusts. So methodical now sloppy, and his cock kept twitching inside of you, sending more waves of pleasure to your core. Yes, fucking finally, he was near.

“All fucking m──mine.” You agreed with his words, grabbing the back of his neck and slamming your lips together. “I’m yours, always had been.”

Nanami can’t even control himself anymore. He groans and pants as he releases himself inside you. With a mist of swearing and praises you could barely decipher. After all, his own release had triggered yours.

When you both had come back from the high, Nanami raised himself from your chest, and kissed you, tongues intertwining, teeth clashing and biting. When he parted, leaving you breathless, he had then pen in his hand again. It touched your skin, once more, connecting from the bottom of his last line, going up straight.

It’s a “N”.

“You think we can spell my name?” He asks, leaving your inside to throw his condom out. He opens a drawer, where a box with more is presented.

“That would be more 17 fucks.” You support your weight on your elbows while counting.

“It’s that a no?”

You can’t help the laugh that bubbles up your throat, before beckoning him closer. He does right away, kissing you hungrily once more. As if he is trying to record forever the taste of your mouth. He has your hair in his fists, pushing it back so he can go back to your, now, heavily marked neck.

“Let’s see how far can we go.” You indulge into his crazy erotic idea.

Nanami smiles triumphantly. He removes himself from your body, but doesn’t put condoms, instead, he falls on his knees, diving straight for your pussy.

Hours later, the sun beginning to set on the horizon, you leave his locked office with a smug smirk and timid eyes. Both accompanied by messy hair, flushed cheeks, marked neck and… “Nana” written on your chest.

“We’ll finish this later.” He comes behind you, closing his shirt, but letting the top buttons opened enough to catch a glimpse of your love marks on his chest. Specially the one with “Mine” marked in it.

[thetxtdevil]

Apple Orchard

Yeonjun x Reader

summary: An autumn day out in the orchard, the temptation was too strong to not exclusively pick apples

content: smut, bf yeonjun, gf f.reader, public sex, wall/tree sex, oral (f.rec), no protection

word count: 1.3k

the fruit collection

the blazing hot sun was trying its best to share its last bit of summer before autumn came into full fall. rows and rows of trees with a mixture red, green, and yellow round fruit hanging. you take a deep breathe of the refreshing scent of apples. hand in hand, while each other's free hands hold a basket, you and yeonjun stroll through the apple orchard picking the fruit. both of you, of course, dressed for the occasion, flannel, jeans, boots, you two were the cutest couple of the farm.

"we can't take that one, it has a dent" you say pointing at a brown bruise of the other side of the apple yeonjun was holding.

"whats wrong with imperfections?" he questions you

you smile at him, he has a heart as gold as a golden apple. yeonjun discards the apple into a basket for the farmers to look over as you two keep walking.

"how about this, we play game of who can find the most perfect apple" you suggest

"what do we win?"

"i don't know, a kiss on a cheek"

yeonjun chuckles "i think we can do more than a kiss on the cheek"

you look at him, trying to uncover his intentions. before adding to the conversation you get distracted by a looming shadow from an apple tree, there you stare. the tree was not different from the others but you had a gut feeling that these selections were the best. yeonjun admires your side profile as you look up at the dangling apples. he looks around for any farmers or other signs of life.

"look how red this one looks, i bet it would taste so good" you say as you stretch your arm past capacity "yeonjun can you help me.."

you look to the side where your boyfriend usually would be attached to you but he wasn't there. twirling around in your spot there was no sign of the man. a mixture of confusion and worry fills your mind. suddenly, you hear a snap of twig from a huge tree near by. feeling slightly stupid by going to the noise to investigate. it seemed like the worse thing to do if you were in a horror film. turning around the curve of the tree you gasp.

surprised by the figure, there yeonjun was with the most shiny, round, scarlet apple, better than the one you pointed out earlier. his hand reached out with the fruit was placed in his hand.

"they say the devil tempted a vulnerable women with this precious fruit" he claims

you look at him with a smirk. you reach to take the apple from him but he was quick to hide the fruit behind his back.

"are you saying that i tempting you, love?" he brushes his nose to yours

you smirk again wrapping your arms around his neck "i think we both know you've tempted me a long time ago"

"does this mean i win the perfect apple game?" yeonjun asks

you don't answer, instead, you press your lips to his and he accepts the kiss. before he deepens, he looks over to your basket long forgetten and throws the apple in it. he get a hold of your waist and pulls your body closer to him. darting his tongue into your mouth you slip a whimper which excites yeonjun to slamming your body to the body of the tree.

feverishly kissing you he lifts you up wrapping your legs around his waist stabilizing you against the tree. as the kiss gets heated, reality struck, you turn your head away from yeonjun's lips. without any complaint he makes his way down your neck.

"jun,,, what if we get caught"

the man's answers with a grunt and his hips bucking into your core

"junnn" you moan

yeonjun slows his movement and looks at you "there is no one around" he kisses your lips again

"besides who cares if anyone catches us, they'll be in for a treat"

you smile at his response as he starts his friction against your core again

"put your legs down love"

you listen, watching as the handsome man gets on his knees unbuttoning your jeans. lifting the end of your shirt yeonjun rubs his nose and kisses your lower belly as he lowers your pants and panties. you widen your legs but the action is ignored he teases biting at your thighs.

leaning your head back against the bark of the tree you sigh. taking a moment admiring the position you were in. above you were many branches of apples hanging and streams of sunlight seeping through. feeling a little sentimental you were happy to be with your boyfriend and happy about the fact you were being fucked on such a beautiful day.

all thoughts were lost when you suddenly felt a hot muscle lapping up your pussy lips making you moan loudly. you lean on the tree grabbing onto yeonjun's hair, trying your best not to melt in-front of jun.

he works his tongue nicely amongst your folds. feeling very sensitive you want more and more as the time goes on. his sharp long tongue fucking you good and his nose presses your clit, and and his hands leaving bruises on your thighs from his grip. you felt weak, your body was on fire, your heavy pants pairing with jun's hms on your cunt. you were repeating his name as the tightness in your belly was getting stronger. legs trembling yeonjun eats you out harder for you to finally cum on his tongue.

jun leans back catching his breath and to see your thighs shake. looking up at you, you were catching your breath. moving your arms to his shoulders you fall on him.

"so fucked out just by my tongue?" yeonjun smiles proudly

you still pant as you stare at him. he lifts himself off the ground to get his face back to your level. kissing you to make sure you can taste yourself and thumbs rubbing circles on your exposed hips. as you kiss his face saying sweet things you feel his hard on. you gasp and look down, even though his pants were still on you knew his dick was straining.

"do you have enough energy to cum on my dick?" he say so sweetly

you kiss his lips once again. reaching down to undo his jeans letting them fall to his ankles. glancing down at his pink tipped dick looking as delicious as the many apples around you. you look back him.

"god you're beautiful" you say while brushing his hair out of his face.

"you too precious, now wrap those pretty legs around me"

in a quick motions you were back to stabilizing yourself to the apple tree. gasping for air as yeonjun's cock was ramming into your center. your cunt eagerly accepting his girth instantly sucking him in "feel, so,,, good, ugh" you gaze at his hooded eyes which were eating up your fucked out expressions. he hides his face in the crook of your neck. he's hypnotized by the scent of you mixed with apples and wood.

thrusting into you faster as he feels his orgasm coming over him. you cradle his face so you can get him to moan in your mouth as you both reach your highs.

"c-cum inside, please" you whimper in his ear

with a slight nod of his head and rushed movements he empties his load into you. leaving pecks all around your skin, he whispers "love yous." your legs sore and out of shape you let them down to the ground. yeonjun was clinging to you loving the warmth of your body. you giggle at his actions, but you couldn't help to feel a little uncomfortable from the lack of necessities you would have to clean up. the both of you internally agree that it was time to go to the comfort of your own home.

"lets buy our basket of apple and leave a big tip for the farmers"

yeonjun smiles at you, brushing your cheek with his thumb. he leans in for a kiss, grabbing your hand to walk back to reality.

A nuisance,

TxT's Devil 🍎

[moondirti]

12. PUSH COMES TO SHOVE

CHAPTER TWELVE OF ANIMALIC | MIGUEL O'HARA X F!READER

↼ chapter eleven / chapter thirteen ⇀

summary: you cross a line you can't turn back to. miguel takes you up on a joke.

explicit (18+) | 5.6k words warnings: smut, female masturbation, sexual fantasies (including unprotected p-in-v, breeding, biting, paralysis, bondage, aftercare), everyone is bad at feelings, insecurity, fear of heights, mentions of death notes: nothing i wrote sounded right so i just had to publish before i decided to scrap it all and reqrite

It’s a shameful, awful thing to do. 

One with no excuse for it – not really.

You were just bored. Pent up on an endless routine; familiar people, recurring places. Your night and day mirror images of one another. Even in the post-apocalyptic landscape of your old home did you have something to do with your spare time – wandering wrecks and cleaning the devastation left in the wake of your mistake. 

But here, visiting an Earth where the expectations for your stay had never been clearly defined – where you can go, who you can talk to, what freedoms you’re permitted – you’re technically no more enriched than a prisoner, peering listlessly from their window at the bustling lives outside. And with a track record of dragging chaos along no matter your intentions, you’re much too afraid to push the hang fire state in which you live in. 

So, containment or self-sabotage, it doesn’t really matter. Not when both have the same, invariable conclusion. This. Dangerous boredom; the type that always, always feeds into thoughts of him. 

They’ve gotten worse too. Of late, your previously honed scorn and resentment for the futuristic spider-man has ebbed into something more… mellow. Understated. It’s a peculiar condition, hard to name. Fuzzy in the places it once stung and barrelling down an unmarked path. Confusion, maybe. Indecision. And while your chest twinges with the not knowing of it all, you’ve already decided that you hate this more than the antagonism you felt before. At least it had been logical, founded on a bank of valid evidence, with bruises and scars to show for it. This is bolstered by nothing; vague impressions of his smirk and strict approval. A pulse between your legs. Sweaty palms before seeing him, wondering what state you’ll be greeted with. 

(You always hope it’s washed, snugly dressed and wounds tended to. He’s in a significantly better mood when refreshed, you find. Enough of a difference from post-fights to make you wonder whether you’ve ever known him at all.)

And it’s pathetic because Miguel has a life where you don’t. You’ve disproved your theory on his marital status, but that doesn’t change the fact that this is his home. A world where every possibility is open to him – walks in the park, ice cream from a quaint corner shop, a group of highschool friends, maybe, who he sees on occasion. Kids – you’re certain of that, the reality imbued in everything he does. The man has to be the father of at least one darling angel, someone he can dedicate all his work to. He’s too committed not to be. 

So, every hour he spends outside of your meetings, he’s probably off doing something worthwhile. Daycare pickups. Stopping crime. Running a building full of spider-folk. And you–

Well, that’s the mortifying point. 

You’re here, leaning against your shower wall, soaked to the bone while two fingers work your cunt. And you’re thinking of him. 

Broad shoulders, packed with ineffable strength, curving down to tree-trunk arms. They man-handle you in the best of ways – clamped around your thighs, upturning you onto his plump, magical fucking lips. That mouth had been expert, quick or slow when need be, much like his touch. He’s good at working them in tandem to make a mess of you, searching for devastation somewhere in your core. He’s good at finding it, at rendering you pliant enough to spill it onto him. 

Are you crossing a line? 

It’s been pseudo-professional so far; sex in favour for another milestone crossed. Encouragement on the only degree you respond well to. But now you’re fingering yourself to mere notions of him, alone, for no reason other than what his imagined presence does to you. 

Fuck. You’re perverse. Worse than that. There’s no verbiage available to capture how depraved you are – you’ve just never gone through this before. Everyone you’ve ever wanted, you’ve taken and promptly abandoned the next morning. One night stands. Fleeting flings. No one has ever stuck around long enough to make things complicated. 

Of course he would, though. You have to laugh at the irony of it. Miguel’s always made life hard for you, whether intentionally or not. And now he’s taken root in your mind, forcing you to face all its flowering consequences. 

Like how he simultaneously sates you and leaves you wanting more. You’ve had his fingers and tongue – a great deal more than you can attribute to yourself in the past year. And they’re great, brilliant. But it isn’t enough. Not when you’ve seen his cock; thick-set, throbbing, splitting your jaw open with brutal efficiency. He was big and eager and much less restrained that day than he has been since you established your new dynamic. He’d come closer than he dared to before. 

Or again.

(Whatever’s changed, you’d give everything to reserve it. To feel him – not down your throat, but in you. Mushroomed head spearing you open, imprinting itself on your walls. Ramming your cervix, made easy as his large hands fold you into a mating press. The position would give him the added benefit of watching you come undone, every miniscule expression laid out to spur him on. Or maybe he wouldn’t like that – maybe he’s the type to grab your hair and pull your head back so his tongue can lather over your neck. 

You’d take whatever you can get, no hesitation.)

Your index and middle sandwich your clit, scissored open as you rub the swollen bud. Blood rushes downward, fattening under pressurised pleasure. The wet smeared on your thighs is slippery, much too slick to be a product of the hot water beating down on you. It points to what you already know; that, no matter what you do to scour it off, all you’ll ever be is a wanton idiot. 

Vapour latches onto oxygen, the bathroom air growing suffocating, humid, heady with the scent of sex. Nerve ends prickle at the drag of pruned skin, your orgasm on a never-ending approach. No matter what you do, you can’t seem to beckon it. You’ve been here for far too long, cycling through every trick in the book, testing sweet spots that’ve become accustomed to another’s manipulation. You’ve pinched yourself, used the shower head until its pipes hissed, stuffed your slit full and curled forward, looking for that patch of spongy tissue. 

None of it works. Nothing helps you see stars, unable to drag you to the heavens you’ve reached with your mentor. 

(Wanton idiot is a tolerant title, too lenient for you. At least one would be able to satisfy themselves.

But now, in the wake of your frustration, you’re reduced to a roll of drenched cotton, numb to everything but the fire at Miguel’s fingertips.)

Still, you try. You anchor a foot to the faucet, plastering yourself on the glass pane that separates the shower from the rest of your bathroom. It’s frigid, a stark contrast to the water heating your flesh, and the temperature drop strikes your senses awake, flooding you with new vigour. If it’s possible, the proof it offers to your fever – the gooseflesh that erupts at your waist or the blurry line between where sweat begins and soap-buds end – only eggs you further, hardening the truth to startling clarity: 

You’re crossing a line and drawing it out with a frustration that benefits no one. Cum, that’s all you need to do. To finally be done with it and put this whole blip behind you. 

Spread open, your hand returns to your cunt. You’re wet enough to do so without fuss, the fingers that had been at your clit plunging in until they’re sheathed to the knuckle. It’s a tight fit, walls greedily sucking you in, vacuum-sealed and clenching. The stretch burns and you find solace in it, the tender skin of your hole straining to accommodate another digit once the two find their rhythm. 

How much better would his dick be? Would it cleave you apart like his fingers do? You imagine it so well, the reverie blossoming like second nature. 

(Miguel, planking above you, hair flopping onto his forehead after being ruffled out of its usual push-back. It’d be a sight of your own doing, your nails combing through dark waves on their way to his shoulders. He’s marked you several times over now – claw wounds above your wrist and a deep scar on the back of your arm. Would he let you mark him, in turn? Scratch red lines down his muscled back, rolling as he fucks into you. Or suckle his neck, leave it purple and angry to pay back for the punctures at your collar? It’s been weeks and they’re still there.)

Your free hand finds them, smoothing over the pocks left by his fangs. The heel of your other presses on your clit, kneading the sore centre. It buckles with the abuse, pouring into your rising orgasm. The tide promises violence for when you eventually let it loose.

(In this crude fantasy, he isn’t much of a masochist. He gets irritated with your wandering hurt, turned off the pursuit in pumping you full of his seed. Maybe he pins your arms over your head, holds them down with ease to get you to stop. But he needs his palms free, your bouncing tits all-too tempting not to squeeze, so he uses his webs to bind you to the headboard. Or–)

Your core grows sloppier with every passing second. It weeps, slurping whatever you give it – the feral force of your fingers. Your knees tremble. Your pelvis aches. The amalgamation of your effort knots your organs together, weaving an impossible pattern out of desire and desperation.

(– he bites you again, injects you with venom so you stay nice and still for him regardless.)

God, it’s perfect. It’s the tart, slightly-salty pour of caramel over toffee pudding, topped with vanilla and the memory of his paralytic essence ballooning through your veins. It’d been cold and graceful, so bloody efficient you wonder how he didn’t think of it as a means of incapacitation sooner. Perhaps it’s tough to measure – how much is too much before you kill your victim, or something along the lines. But back then, despite hating no one more than he did you, he kept you alive. 

Would he risk it again, if you asked? 

Does he think about you? Like this, when the day drags and there’s no adequate excuse to see you through it. You quiver with the thought. Holed up in his own bath, spacier than yours, pumping his cock slick. He wouldn’t trail it out. Miguel has his own life, and if you somehow manage to worm your way into it, he’d spill himself quick. Not for disgust – it’s clear that he’s at least attracted to you. No. Just because he’s a better man than you can hope to be. 

Rough around the edges but decent. Moral.

(There it is again – the apollonian. If he’s the olympian deity for the Sun, of truth and prophecy and order, then you’re Dionysus while you bring yourself to ecstasy, caught on the tip of his sharpened arrowhead.)

You groan, letting your head fall back as your efforts gain traction. The bottom of your stomach lurches, making way for the combustion taking space in your chest. It sputters, gorging on a kindling flame, and travels downwards to the pocket between your gut and pubic bone. The fulfilment borders on painful, skinned raw by your relentless assault on it. Once-warm water adds to the overstimulation, turned bitter by its prolonged use. Hair clings to your brow, obscuring your eyesight. Your orgasm snowballs, knocking everything in its determined path.

(And afterward, wrapped up somewhere in your pipe dream, he would empty himself inside you, drunk off the pleading whine that clawed its way out from your throat. He’d made you cum several times – the only addition you can guarantee would be fact – but it wouldn’t end there. Not while you remain still, all wandering eyes and diving comedowns, looking at him in your peripheral. 

He’d linger, his cum dribbling out of you in thick globs, waiting by your side as the paralysis wears off. Gaining control of your body would be a slow process, as it was before, and he’d have a wetted towel to clean you off in the meantime. The room would remain quiet – founded on that same limbo state from after he ate you out – and neither of you speaking a word until you nod off, drowsy and properly fucked. If only to exchange hummed goodnights. An appreciative pat on the head, maybe. Detached praise, stunted communication.

Because even in your wildest fantasies, Miguel does not stoop to kiss you.)

You’re a wreck when it finally hits. Seized muscles release, disgorging the built-up tension of the last hour. You cum – not as powerfully as you might’ve done had he been here – though that’s trivial. He’s present in your mind, praising you through it, working you despite encroaching sensitivity. And you break down not at the thought, the sheer salacity of it all, but to the tenderness you can only imagine. Unrestrained. Given freely. Not because you earned it, but because you're worthy even when you haven’t.

A sob captures your lungs. Your skin prickles. 

Phasing right through the glass partition, you fall backward to smack your temple on the edge of your sink. A throbbing pain immediately engulfs the site. Black speckles your vision.

And if it isn’t the perfect illustration of your concurrent dopamine crash, then you’ll be damned. 

Curse him.

“You… You’re kidding, right?” 

You don’t necessarily need an answer, but you ask to give yourself a distraction from the anxiety torrenting through you. With the way he leans on the glass railing, self-satisfied against the backdrop of Nueva York at noon, you can glean every bit of genuineness from his expression alone.

Miguel gives a vague gesture to the rooftop you stand upon. “You said it yourself.”

“First of all, no. I said I would climb up buildings, not jump off one. Second of all, it was a joke. I hope you know what a joke is, O’hara – otherwise I have a list of situations that make much more sense with hindsight.”

“I’m not asking you to jump off.” He ignores your barb, pushing off the edge to usher you closer. Your heels dig into the ground, an obstacle proved to be done in vain when his hand skims the small of your back. The heat of it penetrates your shirt, weaving its way to your dimpled flesh like it knows how much you crave it. One would think he’s burnt you with how rapidly you move to brush it off, and by the end – whether you like it or not – you find yourself peering over the palisades to the four-foot drop below. Bile spikes the back of your gullet. 

“Are we here to sight-see, then? It’s an apartment complex, nothing special about that.” Breathing, you try to suppress the nausea that overrules your systems. The descent isn’t that high – about fifty feet, give or take your own height – but that does nothing to combat the fear gradually creeping up your nerves. 

“Very funny.” He says, rolling his eyes at something you refuse to see. You’ve no energy to decipher it, either, zeroed in on the task expected of you. “Leaving your room got me thinking–” 

“That’s dangerous.” You snap. 

The man must be used to your little tantrums by now, for he continues like you hadn’t interrupted him, delineating the perplexing logic that lured him into thinking this was a good idea.

“– about what you meant by your suggestion. You’d pitched it instinctively.”

(‘If you promised this earlier, I would’ve climbed up fucking buildings to earn it.’

You remember. Somehow, it infuriates you that he does too – that even raptured in the throes of pleasure, his tongue buried between your folds, he’d been stewing over ways to better you. It pokes a fresh sore spot – like the maturating bruise on your temple, consequence of your scene in the shower – that reminds you you’re not good enough.)

“Okay, smart ass. Since you think you know everything, allow me to explain to you the definition of hyperbole. I was–”

“Exaggerating, yes. But I figured, to make that specific example during such… unsober circumstances, it must’ve originated from a sincere place.” He joins your observation of the street below, flicking over the trimmed bushes, surveying for wandering pedestrians. He’d picked somewhere secluded – a neighbourhood two blocks down from HQ, whose residents are likely employees at the bustling base. If anything, it explains their absence at twelve o’clock on a weekday. “So, here we are.” 

You blink up at him, incredulous. He still hasn’t explicitly stated what he wants you to do. If this conversation had taken place on the ground, then perhaps you would’ve caught on quicker. Find your way to the top, just like he’s implying. As it stands though, you’re teetering on the crown of a stubby building that still seems too tall given your aversion to heights, with nothing but a stubborn spider-man and a locked stairwell for aid. It only dawns on you now why he made the conscious decision to close it after coming up here – to prevent your cheating.

Another strike towards his lack of faith. Charming. 

In the bout of bewildered silence, Miguel sighs and spells it out for you.

“I want you to scale down the side of it.” 

You could choke on your heart with how high it skyrockets. 

“With what?” You squeak. The protest is weak, ungrounded as your bones start to give out. You’re not sure whether it’s mental, your brain tricking you into distrusting your body, or if you’re truly about to collapse. In either case, your distress threatens to unman you. Sickening. You’re green to your stomach.

His eyebrows raise, humoured. It’s a call to land on the solution yourself – like it’s obvious, like you’re not losing yourself just picturing it. 

Quaking, you return to an age-old mantra. Miguel doesn’t know you, no matter how good he is at reading the bits he’s privy to. You’ve never highlighted to him the extent and end of your abilities – and yes, that’s partly for lack of understanding them yourself. But as it so happens, you do know a few, indispensable attributes; ones that should be considered before you’re made to defy gravity and saunter down the face of a wall. 

Like how you can’t control your powers, the reigns ever-elusive, slipping from your grip whenever you actively try to run them. Or that your super-strength and enhanced healing are fickle things, arising only in impractical episodes. How your spider-sense is unpractised, severely underutilised by the mundane life you lead, and, perhaps most relevantly: 

“I have no webs to harness me.” You emphasise. “And my hands can’t stick to surfaces to make that a negligible factor.”

He listens, contemplative, digesting the latter piece of information and what it means for his lesson plan. 

“If they did, then I wouldn’t have been in nearly as much trouble at that quarry as I was, hanging on with just my fingers. But…” You wave your palms at him as if to punctuate your point. “Unfortunately for me, I’m normal below the wrist.” 

“Below the wrist.” He repeats, picking up on the contrivance in your choice of phrase. Cringing, you scramble for an excuse, looking to get off the road he leads you on. It’s frenzied, unbecoming of this arrangement. You’ve learnt to lend your begrudging trust to his methods, their validity proved over weeks of training – but something about his current tone, the interrogative way with which he singles out faults in your diction. It sends you back to an era where all you worried about was his pursuit, about a capture made inevitable by your clumsy side steps. 

You won’t forget, either. At the pinnacle of it, he was ready to step on your hold to a crane and send you plummeting to supposed death. 

(If push comes to shove, would he force you to descend this hurdle – worried about a more forgiving yet just as terrifying end, given you should trip and lose pace on the right-angled wall?

But then you think of food shared over a makeshift dining table – navigating the new peace found between your legs. He’d allowed your skipping class. He took concern for your health in spite of it – and you’re reminded of another thing. One more constant, there since the beginning too. 

Miguel O’Hara does not want you dead. 

That, at the very most, is consolation that he won’t throw you off this ledge.)

“My feet can, from what I’ve tested. I can tread on steep slopes and hang upside down. Just… not very well.” You elaborate, then feel the urge to grant him less room for argument, just in case. “I don’t know what kind of scientists you are, O’Hara. A biologist, maybe, which would explain a whole ton, but take it from me. Physics won’t agree with this. You’re asking me to walk down a wall completely perpendicular to the ground, reliant on a weak abdomen and capabilities I haven’t taught myself to use properly.” 

And when your words run their course, feeding into the husk of an alarmed echo, you can’t stop warmth from pooling behind your cheeks, or when your pulse flutters, feeble as the flap of a baby bird’s wings. You’re dangled over a branch you’ve known your whole life, nest torn out from under you. A condition of your own doing, of course, seeing as he stays quiet, compliant to your rant. 

A moment later, he adds. “Geneticist.” 

“Huh.” 

“I was a geneticist.” The nugget of background he offers flares like a treaty, a temporary campaign for goodwill. And, as if intentionally building upon your theory of armistice, Miguel tips away, popping out your personal space. The afternoon breeze hits you then, chillier without his immediate presence. You don’t voice your wish for him to come back. “Why haven’t you?” He seeks, testing his luck now that you’re placated.

It works. 

“Pushed my potential?” 

He hums in the affirmative.

“I have. It helped nothing but my upchuck reflex.” You evoke. “Perhaps you’ve forgotten my doomed history with hard drops. We don’t work well, particularly not when you’re around.” Beyond the quarry, he’d witnessed your misfortunate swinging around Earth-15 too. You’d phased right through his arms, bound to solidify before splattering onto the pavement below. It’d been peaceful then only because you had so much less to lose. “Besides, I don’t see the point. I won’t be going back home to fight crime, in any case. And scaling apartment complexes won’t magically lend me enough virtue to want to return.” 

When he speaks next, it’s tacitly, an intrusion to jog your memory like you did his, however subtly. “You’re okay now, though.” He says, and implies a truth too heavy to audibly assert. I caught you. Every time. The understanding lingers, oscillating between you two, before he starts again. “But I get it.”

You scoff. In turn, he sounds his question – hm? – rumbled deep from within his chest. If you focus, you can sense the way it vibrates the particles separating you.

“I doubt it, is’all.” 

“That’s condemning.” 

“Please, as if you need the ego boost.” Ducking from his scrutiny, you rest your elbows on the glass lining the rooftop to look out on the cityscape before you. It glitters, contemporary blue architecture slated on fields of green. This world is utopia compared to the many you’ve visited; amongst them, you’re hit with the vivid memory of your own – peppered with red fires under a perpetual cover of smoke. Blown to unrecognisable bits by a product of your ignorance. 

You swallow to shake the tangent off. He’s still staring at you. You can feel his solemn study, dimmed from its previous challenge, severe enough to penetrate the marge of your skull. 

“Are you really going to make me say it?” 

He shrugs, not in the least bit teasing. It’s the straw that finally breaks your back – the integrity he regards you with. Sighing, you smother your pride before it can change your mind. 

“Fucking look at you. You’re like… the peak of spider prowess. All muscle and righteousness. And I don’t even know where to begin, scared to even cash in on the powers I've been handed. What kind of hero is nervous of heights, for God’s sake.” 

The admission escapes as hushed, warbled by string-plucked insecurity. You don’t attempt to assess his reaction to it, following the motions of a cirrus cloud instead, swaying like tufts of hair on a cerulean scalp. It makes his next course of action jarring – frightening for all you don’t expect it. 

Miguel’s hand appears before you, face down so the digital suit-patterns on his palm are exposed. You half-think he’s offering you hold it, or wants to pinion you to something before he pulls you off the roof. But his body turns to overlook your side, and with a sudden schwip, his talons protrude from the pads of his fingers. Before you can fully process it, you stumble back, phantom pain pounding where he once gripped you with them.

He notices it, though doesn’t comment on your misgivings, waiting patiently until you steel yourself and return to your post. He must be used to the hesitation. 

“Do you know what these are for?” 

To claw run-away anomalies – you’re compelled to say, but decide against the low blow. You shake your head no. 

“I didn’t either. Not when I first developed them. They seemed inconvenient and hard to handle. Got in the way of everyday life.” You struggle to picture it. Miguel, younger, troubled with defects he never asked for. Did it hurt, you wonder – the ingrowth of fangs and talons? 

Does it still? 

“Biology isn’t a lesser science though, despite what certain physicists may believe.” He continues, raising a brow at you. You can’t suppress the sheepish expression that threads the corners of your mouth. “I remembered the spiders I worked with, what features of theirs might come to be represented by this. The fangs I realised the purpose of much faster.” 

“To paralyse.” 

“Right.” His gaze flicks to the slip of neck exposed by your loose collared shirt, finding the bite marks bridged over your clavicle. You’d been good at ignoring your masturbatory fantasies thus far, yet at his cue, flashes of them occur to you. Your knees knock together, timid that he can perhaps smell the shame on you. “My claws weren’t so obvious. Not until I met another spider-man who could climb walls. It occurred to me then, the microscopic setules on the end of spiders’ legs. They create an electromagnetic charge with any molecule at their nanometric radius. And while he, like many others, gained a figurative interpretation of it, I got something more literal.” 

“So, they adhere to anything.” 

“No. But they help me hold on.” Miguel corrects. “I’m not guaranteed proper fixture, so climbing buildings – scaling any surface – is a labour entirely dependent on me.” 

You trail over his wide shoulders – the top heavy form you’ve spent so much time revering. You’ve never so much as considered why he’s built so differently from other spider-heroes, burly in contrast to their lithe figures. (For good reason, maybe – you would’ve assumed incorrectly as recently as three minutes ago.) It’s not to set himself apart, or being that he was blessed with it. But because it was necessary. Pure proof of the effort it took to hone his skills. 

Guilt is swift in sweeping you off your feet; you feel foolish for ever suggesting it was talent that got him to this point. And–

“That’s… tough.” Is the only response you can conjure. 

It’s so stupid you want to punch yourself over it. Miguel, on the other hand, just chuckles. A brief huff from upturned lips. 

“Sure.” He takes one last look down the verge of the rooftop before turning his back on it. You keep facing forward. “The crux is – we don’t always see the point of things, or why they are the way they are. Sometimes, we might even refuse to when all seems unfair. But the second mark of a hero, as I’ve come to know it, is having the courage to address them despite your ignorance. Firmness of mind when confronted with danger – or, in your case, a burden of great difficulty.” 

And piece by piece, it starts to come together. The small revelation of his backstory as nothing more than an allegory. His bringing you here, to start from the top and not the bottom, instilling in you the fear of falling. And what it all means – courage being the point of this little exercise, a step up from resilience now that you’ve proved your tenacity. Priming you for the eventuality of returning home – a burden of great difficulty.  

“Of course you’d turn this into a philosophical seminar.” You deride, rubbing the wariness from your expression. “And here I believed we were bonding.” 

“The two aren’t mutually exclusive.” He says. You don’t have it in you to disagree, searching for the pluck to get this over with. Yet what he adds next takes you completely off-guard. “You don’t have to do this.” 

A compromise – you thought you’d have to fight for one. 

“I’m a few plank-sessions short of having the core strength to walk down a wall.” You circumvent, not ready to admit your failure. 

Miguel nods, yielding now that he’s gotten his opinion on the matter across. Nothing about him betrays disappointment, but you somehow still squirm, distressed at the very notion that you let him down. 

As he breaks away, you catch sight of the platforms protruding from the windows below you, and a haphazard idea forms.

“But… if it’s courage you want, then maybe we can start smaller?” You raise, worrying the inside of your cheek. It’s rushed, not expertly planned through, but he cocks his head, and you’re forced to toss it out now that he’s all ears. “I can hang from the bottom of a balcony – upside down – until I’m better at trusting my powers over gravity. And, y’know, there are still the odds that I fall, just onto the deck below and not four stories. Less fatal that way.”

There’s hardly a spark of deliberation before his eyes narrow, cheekbones projecting with a smile. It has to be your insatiable itch for praise, consequence of anything over what he actually thinks – but a bright glint streaks upon those red pupils and, remarkably, it feels a lot like pride.

(You’ll take what you can get.)

“Yeah. That works.” He approaches, sinking closer once more. It’s warm again and you stand self-assured, regardless of the trepidation still bubbling within you. “I suppose not everyone has a death wish.” 

“Wishful thinking on your part, maybe.” You taunt. “Sorry to be the one to break it to you, but you’re stuck with me for the time being.”

What feels like hours later, your head throbs violently, and under the novelty of it all, you learn of three new things. 

One – an observation most idle yet, embarrassingly, the first to be made – is that Miguel looks just as handsome the other way around as he does proper side up. Elevated, too, given that you’re finally at his level like this. Staring him down, nose-to-nose, able to capture his face outside the forced perspective that comes with being shorter. He occupies the balcony below while you stand, hang, on the belly of the one above. There’s a tiny, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it mole by the corner of his mouth. He’s still smiling at you. 

Two – a facet you haven’t stopped imprecating since you started, one that technically isn't even new to you – is that, while your external body seems to defy gravity, fastened in place by your feet, your internal systems aren’t granted the same luxury. Gallons worth of blood pools to your brain, distending the soft tissue until it weighs like lead on your crown. You never thought your organs would be this heavy, especially the ones that stack on top of your lungs. Your stomach, liver, kidneys, intestines. They make it hard to breathe. You can barely feel your hands anymore. 

And three – perhaps your proudest realisation yet – is that this isn't so bad once you get the hang of it. Sure, your mentor is a few paces away, ready to grab you should you spontaneously collapse. And if he didn’t, then yes, the worst that could come of it is a broken arm. You certainly need more practice before you test it on taller heights, and you don’t think you trust your abilities yet to walk down building planes, but– 

It’s easy. Bodily effects aside, it’s easy. Supernaturally so. In a way that bends every one of Newton’s laws and you’re left reeling trying to string together mechanical equations that could make sense of it. The tension between you and the ceiling and how great it must be to combat your weight. The equal and opposite force perpetually acting against gravity. 

Because you’re upside down, despite having no cable or chain to keep you situated, no hooks on your heels. You’re stuck to a surface by just the soles of your shoes, and when you walk around, lift one to put in front of the other, you stay fixed. You don’t – can’t – fall.

(Secretly, you thank him for pushing you to this stage. The euphoria of it is just enough to supersede any nausea you worried about before.)

“How’s that?” Miguel asks, tone low and smooth like velvet. Something tugs your heart – your arteries, perhaps, shrivelling around it.

“Weird. Great. If I didn’t feel like throwing up, I’d stay here forever.” 

“Try to refrain from projecting it on me.”

“Copy that.” 

“But,” He says, tipping his head so he can assess you the right way around. “You’re doing it.”  “Yeah.” You giggle. The bloodrush must be making you loopy. You’d have never been so animated on the ground. “I’m doing it.”

chapter thirteen

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[utilitycaster]

Hi again! Thanks for taking the time to answer, it honestly was very helpful!

For the first point, the thing I had in mind was the last 4-sided dive from 43:23. To your point, it's honestly less explicitly mentioned that I remembered; but what I had in mind is Matt saying: "He's watched it [...] There's a lot of broken information [...] He's had time to sit with it, to find something that is very important to him and is now showing it to you for reasons he has."

And about the last point, it's not condescending at all! "Wait for it" is something I tell people a lot and I am told a lot when watching something with a lot of excitement, it happens! But my problem isn't really that I can't see them making horrible decisions in the next episode (I'll sure they will, they don't really have non-horrible options and I'm looking forward to it!); my problem is that the set up to whatever is going to happen has been so sympathetic and understanding that even if Luds manages to prove that are problems here with the gods, it will be kinda impossible to then follow it up with "therefore I think they should all die actually!"

However, to your second point, I do think I need to sit with this a bit longer and maybe go into the main tag to read some bad takes to make it more understandable lol, so feel free to not publish this at all if you don't want!

No worries and glad it didn't come off as condescending!

I really do think the situation is that Ludinus does think the gods should all die for this. For what it's worth I think this is what makes him a great villain and a very compelling and real one. I really do believe there are people who see an impossible life-threatening situation and judge those who act imperfectly out of self-preservation and terror more than those who lie down and let themselves be killed.

For of lack of a better way to put it, and deliberately avoiding any specific irl political positions, I think it is always a good exercise to consider why someone may hold political views that are entirely batshit fucking nuts to you. I think of Brennan's "personality pre-dates ideology" line a lot because a lot of political views I find hateful or lacking in empathy or lazy or stupid are based in either valid but not objective emotions; or in good intentions lacking a firm grounding in reality. One will never get anywhere invalidating their feelings, because they do really feel them; the only way forward is to say "just because you feel these real feelings does not mean you can take these harmful actions." So I do think, for example, that Ludinus is genuinely hurt and traumatized. It's just that I don't think he understands that other people's response to hurt and trauma isn't "so kill everyone who caused this" and indeed they might think that's just as bad if not worse. And again, very intelligent people can still fall into this trap.

[caecilian-king]

Ok. So, i read some more Wuthering Heights today and this one paragraph really struck me- like it got to me just as much as lines like ‘whatever our souls are made of his and mine are the same’. But I don’t think this part is probably talked about as much, because its about 2 of the supporting characters and its not a poetic romance quote.

I’m talking about this paragraph, where Nelly Dean is walking outside and is reminded of her childhood:

“all at once a gush of child's sensations flowed into my heart. Hindley and I held it a favourite spot twenty years before. I gazed long at the weather-worn block; and, stooping down, perceived a hole near the bottom still full of snail-shells and pebbles, which we were fond of storing there with more perishable things; and, as fresh as reality, it appeared that I beheld my early playmate seated on the withered turf: his dark, square head bent forward, and his little hand scooping out the earth with a piece of slate. 'Poor Hindley!' I exclaimed, involuntarily.”

The reason this got to me so much is that this is exactly the way I’d been thinking about Heathcliff. ‘Sure, heathcliff’s a jerk!’ I’d think to myself, ‘but in the earlier chapters when he was a kid he was so cute and loved cathy so much! He was so unfairly treated!! He had moments where he laughed and played!!’ Not that i excused Heathcliff’s wrongful actions, but i sympathized with him, just a bit. Deep down i want him and cathy to have a happy ending, even though they’ve hurt and will hurt so many people.

(somehow, having many of heathcliff’s future actions spoiled for me by reading through the WH tag so often has not made the book any less enjoyable to me. This book is that good.)

Hindley, however….Up until this point I had always seen him as nothing more than a monster. We see very little of his childhood. We see him cry about his toy being broken, and then later we see him being racist towards-and then physically abusing- Heathcliff. After that, he’s a young adult/adult and is just consistently even worse to Heathcliff (and everyone else at Wuthering Heights) than he was before.

Nelly, unlike the readers, saw hindley’s whole childhood. She saw the moments when he was good, when he smiled and laughed. She saw ways that he was treated unfairly (his own father liking this new adopted son better than him and not hiding that bias at all).

Does this make hindley suddenly a good person? Of course not! But it really put into perspective for me how similar heathcliff and hindley are, and how i was biased way more towards one because I had seen his good side. Heathcliff and hindley are both incredibly violent, grumpy, abusive people who crave money and power. I’m sure I’ll continue to find similarities as I read more.

My three main takeaways from this paragraph are:

1) i think that hindley not only serves as a catalyst for heathcliff becoming a bad person, but also as heathcliff’s narrative foil. (Wikipedia says: ‘A foil usually either differs dramatically or is an extreme comparison that is made to contrast a difference between two things.’ I think this is a perfect description of how heathcliff and hindley work in the narrative- hindley is perhaps how we would view heathcliff if we hadn’t seen his childhood.)

2) i think this paragraph serves to remind the reader that everyone is a human who has at one point been innocent, and that this fact doesn’t excuse bad behavior, and that you should be careful about sympathizing with heathcliff so much that you begin to excuse his actions. I also think the fact that this paragraph comes so soon before isabella’s letter to nelly is incredibly important and intentional. That letter she writes about arriving at wuthering heights really highlights how bad of a person heathcliff is.

3) i am now slightly sympathetic towards hindley, and view him as a bit more of a complicated character than i took him for previously. I am also now a bit more conscious and critical of my sympathetic reading of Heathcliff up until this point.

All this being said- heathcliff is still (for lack of a better term) one of my blorbos. I am obsessed with his stupid edgy personality and his sarcastic comments and his over the top evil plans. I am ESPECIALLY obsessed with his relationship with cathy. I know it wouldn’t actually be romantic in real life but, man. I could write a whole ‘nother post about how much i love their relationship. I want to put him in a microwave and watch him spin around. the former-AP-english-student in me is aware that he is a terrible person but the silly drama-loving side of me cant help but just find all of his terrible actions sort of equal parts funny and badass (i feel like this will stay true even as he does some of the more horrifying things i’ve heard about later). silly side of me wants him and cathy to do whatever evil things they want and ride off into the sunset laughing maniacally together.

(JEEZ i did not think i would spend an hour writing like a full essay when i started this post. this is what adhd does to you, folks.)

[princess-of-the-corner]

Ya know how I said Gabriel descends further into villain from Origins to Miracle Queen?

Ironically Marinette seems to go through a similar thing, or reveal more facets to her character that are less paragon but its very much by accident.

I like Marinette, but the fact this stuff never seems to get acknowledge or addressed both ends up hurting the story & in the fandom it makes it hard to discuss without being perceived as a salter or apologist, ETC.

Like, bear with me.

Season 1 Mari is basically fine, she's good, heroic, any flaws she has are fairly minor but some could be taken as 'hints' for later while still not being an issue.

Like her meticulous Adrien schedule could literally just be info she picked up associating with him that she wrote down. A little odd but not like, terrible, terrible.

Her sabotaging Bubbler's music is certain an irresponsible use of her powers but its far from the most irresponsible a hero is with a Miraculous & she is fourteen and people/protaganists can be flawed.

& her tear down of Lila, but she seemed to realize she went too far & tried to apologize. & after a point Lila staying out of school because of it starts to feel less like a Marinette issue & more a Lila (Or Gabriel) issue.

Season 2

We start to see some other potential issues emerging here, but they can still be rationalized away.

Chat being left to fend for himself is her having faith in her partner & she is going to get help.

Adrien being kept in the dark is more Fu's deal than Mari's & she is the one who presses him to bring Chat in.

Her decision to make Chloe QB again does paint a target on her back & could be tied to Adrien or rank pragmatism, but she does seem to make a genuine effort to sympathize, so at worse the target is an accident.

Less justifiable but still explain-able is encouraging Chloe's mean-ness so she can bond with her mother being a poorly thought out attempt to getting them to bond & assuming it will make them better.

The lack of follow through when the opposite happens does feel like its an issue but one can see why a kid mightn't make the connection.

Using Chloe on Heroes' Day is again, explain-able, IE it does paint a target on her back but shit was indeed dire.

The real red flag so to speak is her reaction to Kagami.

IE characterizing her as an evil witch& only stamping down on her interpretation to benefit Adrien, not because she realized that was wrong.

IE, Kagami's done 0 to warrant such a negative view of her & there isn't really a positive way to spin this one as just good intentions gone awry, someone else's fault or an accident.

Season 3

This is when it all comes home to roost so to speak.

With Kagami this comes in deliberate attempts to sabotage or even embrass and sabotage her. This continues even after Marinette realizes Kagami is actually a nice if lonely girl and befriends her.

But it gets worse because even if Kagami's ID wasn't known to the public (Though it makes sense that it is) the dialogue still acknowledges Hawk Moth knows!

She is painting a target on her friends back wile sabotaging her date!

There isn't really a good way to explain this one, which might be why I know some fics basically seem to outright pretend it didn't happen.

Meanwhile with Chloe the lack of follow through issue becomes text.

IE, she paints a target on Chloe's back by using her twice in short succession, then ghosts her even though its clear Chloe's trying to communicate with her.

Even if attacks weren't happening near her home this would be bad.

But when finally pushed into acting on this reality, the second its convenient to use Chloe in combat again she does so. Making it loud and clear to Hawk Moth that if the situation is dire, he knows where to get the Bee Miraculous & its wielder.

This is a big issue because unlike "Making Chloe a better person" which in universe is not Marinette's job. As the person who gives out Miraculous, as the leader she has in fact made herself responsible for what happens to Chloe in regards to Miraculous business.

She can't abdicate on that one except maybe to Fu who also damn well should have known better.

Which leaves the story with Marinette willingly putting two people into danger and using them opportunistically either out of rank pragmatism or for outright selfish reasons. Then just like, not acknowledging the risks or consequences, with one of these people even being her friend.

It makes her come off as ether a lot more cold, or a lot more out of touch with the consequences of her actions than almost anyone else.

Neither of which get acknowledged in the narrative so as before, it becomes hard to even talk about without being seen as smearing the character or being unfair. Or like you just need to ignore these traits even if the story no longer works because of it and Marinette ironically becomes a less interesting character.

Cos like, a Marinette who can become extremely, even ruthlessly pragmatic the moment she needs too. Or one who is genuinely that taken away with her crush that its effecting her morality to the point where she can become harmful. Those are interesting ideas to explore!

They don't make her like, more evil than Hawk Moth or whatever, & if handled well could prove really interesting. Especially as they could parallel Gabriel's behaviors in regards to Adrien and others. Thus letting him be a sort of "Oh shit, is this who I could grow into in twenty years if I had money/power & zero people to check me?" villain.

But instead even noting it seems discouraged in most of the popular sphere's, or worse and well, we know the show doesn't take issue with it.

See it's.

I do love this about her and find it fascinating! As a character in a piece of fiction, I mean. I don't /want/ her to make these decisions, but /on paper/ I'm eating popcorn as I watch it unfold.

A lot of this does stem from Marinette's black and white mentality and overall being naive. Everything is all or nothing with her.

Sometimes this comes across in her thinking of people as good or bad. While she tries, it's hard for her to think of Chloé as 'good' and it's hard for her to understand that even if Chloé wants to change, it takes a lot of time and isn't just flipping a switch.

And while there's past precedent with Chloé, this shows up again with Lila. She never entertains the idea that Lila may just be lying for attention because she's bad at making friends. Lila is lying and lying is bad so clearly she's a manipulative bitch that deserves to be publicly humiliated! Like with Chloé, she may back down for a moment when called out like what Adrien did, but it doesn't last long.

Kagami is the eventual progression into twisting things. She's not overly friendly and sweet and social, but she /is/ in competition with Marinette for Adrien's affections. So she twists the idea that Kagami must be an awful person, despite doing literally nothing, and deserves what Mari does to her. And while she does befriend Kagami and feels some guilt, I think a combination of 'this is for True Love™' and not wanting to admit that she was a jerk and wrong makes her keep sabotaging her.

And it's a similar thing with her actions as Ladybug.

At first it's things that make sense: trusting Chat to do what he can on his own with little information, just like they've been doing for all of Season 1.

Then she gets Fu telling her that things are too risky for anyone else to know. So she doesn't tell Chat things. Because Fu is an Adult™ and their guide in all this, so ofc he's right even if Marinette thinks otherwise at first. And this is hammered in with Chat Blanc and Ephemeral. If Chat knows more, things get fucked.

And then we get Marinette justifying keeping secrets for the Greater Good™. Whether it just be not telling Chat anything, or lying to all of Paris to make sure Adrien never finds out his father is a complete fucking asshole. Secrets are good. She's doing the right thing by keeping them so that it doesn't hurt anyone. If he knew things would go to hell.

In theory I find all this fascinating! But while there's been a hiccup here or there, usually caused by Adrichat going 'girl what the FUCK?!', on the whole the narrative chooses to see this as the good and right thing rather than a flaw that Marinette needs to overcome.

[ddejavvu]

AUATRSHUKDD I <3 YOUR WRITING!!!

could I pls req ice w hurt comfort? like 4 reader?

THANKU

join top gun night!

--

You're not sure anything hurts worse than a paper cut. You think you'd rather get a bullet to the chest than the slit that currently runs up your knuckle, blood oozing out in copious amounts.

"Shit," You breathe, dropping the envelope you'd just torn open. It lands on the table with an unceremonious smack, a bill yet to be paid laying inside.

At first, Tom thinks you're just upset about the price. You'd run up the A/C more than usual this month, but it's nothing you can't handle, which is why he's especially worried when you scurry off to the bathroom.

"Babe?" He calls after you, newspaper in hand. When you don't answer and he hears the rattling of metal inside the medicine cabinet, he tosses the paper aside, steps quick on the path to the bathroom.

He finds you hunched over the sink, water running red as it flows off of your hand. His eyes widen and he rushes for a band-aid, seeing an open one on the counter.

He peels off the wax strips over the stickers, "What happened?"

"Papercut," You rasp, voice thick with displeasure as the cut burns your nerves, "And I thought the triple digits were gonna be the worst thing about that bill."

He lets out a chuckle, if only to make you feel better about the searing pain in your hand. In reality the situation is far-from-funny, and his fingers shake as he holds the bandage ready for you.

"Dry it off," He instructs, handing you the towel. His face is pinched into a slight frown and he watches you intently as you press the towel to your finger, eyes locked on the line of red that immediately reappears when the towel is gone.

"Hurry," You urge as he wraps your cut, conscious of how tight he curls the bandage around your finger. He makes sure it doesn't turn colors, but the band-aid does as your blood seeps right through the pad and trickles down your finger again.

"Damn," You breathe, but Tom beats you to the towel. He holds pressure to your wound, finally glancing up at your face when he has a secure hold on your finger.

His eyes rove your features, locking onto your own and noticing unshed tears lining them. He clicks his tongue off of the roof of his mouth, reaching up with his free hand to brush his knuckle against your waterline.

"I'm sorry, honey." He murmurs, voice soft and sweet. It's heart-warming to hear such a sappy tone from Tom, though it's not like he's ever directed anything particularly brash at you. He pulls your hand up by the grip he's got on your finger, aiming your knuckles at his face and puckering his lips to press a kiss to the peaks.

It's comforting, and diverts your attention from the pain in your finger. His grip is firm but gentle, and the dull ache left behind by the papercut ebbs away as he replaces it with butterflies in your stomach. His lips are soft, because you've told him that if they ever get too chapped, you won't kiss him. He gets teased for applying chapstick in the locker rooms but you remind him Maverick doesn't even have a girlfriend to kiss, so he shouldn't rely too heavily on the man's opinions.

As fantastic as they feel on your hand, they feel even better on your own lips. He steps closer to you in the cramped bathroom, tile biting into his bare feet with a cold chill that runs through his veins. The soft press of your lips against his restores the warmth, though, and his hand on your waist provides you with the same comfort. It's a soft, sweet, sappy kiss, and your eyes drift shut with serenity.

It's moments like this that remind you you want to marry Tom. And you will, if the little box in his dresser you'd stumbled upon only days prior meant anything. Something giddy pushes at your chest, expanding your heart until it's bursting out of your chest. It prompts you to flutter your eyes open, and a soft puff of air from your nose makes Tom do the same.

He smiles at you, close-lipped and dreamy. You peck his grin once more for good measure, and only then realize that he's still holding your papercut.

You pry the towel off of your hand, peeling the old, soiled bandage off and tossing it into the garbage. You glance down at your now-clotted cut, no longer spouting fresh blood, only caked in dried rust-colored stains.

"You cured me," You laugh softly, an exhale from your dewy lips, "If this pilot thing doesn't work out, you should be a doctor on base."

"I can't go around kissing all of my patients," He reasons with a smile, unwrapping another bandage, "Besides, I think that means I'd have to see Goose about twelve more times a day than I do now."

"You like Goose," You remind him, fondness in your chest for the jovial man, "You wouldn't mind."

"I would if I had to kiss him," Tom sticks the new bandage on with a proud pat to the seam, "Too much mustache for my taste."

[deke-rivers-1957]

Roustabout Review

Marred by pre-production issues, Roustabout took about 3 years to put out. Announced in 1961, Elvis didn't start filming until March 1964 at 29 years old (well after he stopped playing bad boy characters). This film also had Colonel's influence as he wanted the film to be portray carnival life as a respectable profession.

Made after VLV and Kissin Cousins, this is the last film from Elvis' 2nd Hollywood phase (lighthearted musical comedy travelogues). Does Roustabout have enough of a gritty yet colorful edge to make it enjoyably different, or was it trying too hard to capture a movement and emotion that was no longer relevant? Let's find out.

The titular song "Roustabout" gets us off to a great start. The colored lights are tolerable for those who are photosensitive. The song itself is very enjoyable but I'm not sure if it fits the movie's characterization of Charlie. He's characterized as a ruffian with a chip on his shoulder. I personally recommend looking up "I'm A Roustabout", an alternate opening title song that I think better suited Charlie's character.

So we get introduced to some college kids that only show up for this one scene and I don't like their attitudes. They get all uppity with a waitress who insists on giving them non-alcoholic drinks despite one of them claiming they're all 18 (unless this takes place in Louisiana, states even back in 1964 had the purchase age at 21 to buy alcohol so that argument is moot). The establishment has the right to enforce underage drinking laws, so regardless of their actual age, the waitress has to at least check.

This is the first example of the movie telling us to think one way about Charlie despite showing evidence suggesting otherwise. The college students start heckling him and then get mad when he heckles back. "Poison Ivy League" is an entertaining song that calls out the rich college students and has a unique sound for an Elvis song.

When the song is over, we're made to believe that Charlie is some type of bad boy who picks fights because he's got a chip on his shoulder for being an orphan. That isn't the case at all because Charlie didn't start the fight. Him being an orphan has absolutely nothing to do with this interaction. The college boys started it by making remarks and if you look closely, the one in the blue actually started to swing first. Despite this, Charlie is the only one who gets arrested then gets slapped by the waitress who bailed him out. She's upset that he wouldn't take her with him, when in reality he's not obligated to do anything more than pay her back.

"Wheels On My Heels" is a good song that properly fills in what otherwise would've been dead air. You want to believe that Charlie is content with being on his own as he travels to his next job. However, given the circumstances that lead to this, you still don't get the idea that he's a bad boy. He's acting like a relatively reasonable person that doesn't like getting blamed for things he didn't do.

Which is what makes Joe running off the road so frustrating. Charlie flirts with his daughter, Cathy, and he just completely loses his mind. He verbally stated his intents on killing Charlie, yet still makes it like it was Charlie's fault. What's worse is that, Charlie is forced to work with Maggie and the family until his motorcycle is fixed. Instead of offering to buy him a new bike all together, this family makes like Charlie should be honored to work there as opposed to being held against his will.

We get a walk through of the carnival and I immediately get the idea that Colonel contributed to the script. Cathy uses all this carny talk and then compares it to doctors using Latin because it separates them from the common man. I'm all for wanting to break stereotypes, but Cathy saying this makes her come off as nothing but high in mighty. At least with Cody and the other carnival workers, they have a realistic perspective of trying to take pride in their work despite their low status. It's just a shame none of them show up again to do literally anything. Charlie so far is quite personable and even tries to be nice to Cathy by going on a Ferris Wheel ride singing "It's a Wonderful World." It's a beautiful song with unique tracking shots of the Ferris Wheel moving.

Joe is still unreasonably awful when he's not even the boss. He would literally rather pick on Charlie than accept his half dollar coin for using a ride. We later find out that Maggie is also an irresponsible carnival owner for keeping him employed there. Joe as we learn, was drunk on the job and rigged a ride that ended up killing someone. As a result of not having insurance, Maggie now owes the bank compensation. Instead of doing literally anything, she still insists on keeping Joe employed and only blames herself for letting the insurance lapse. In reality, she'd likely be forced to shut down her business and Joe would definitely be out of a job. There's no way she'd be in business if she kept Joe working there as she'd be complacent in his negligence.

It's the first night of the carnival and while there is business, Cathy simply isn't doing enough to get money at her booth. So what does the bad boy Charlie do? He sings "It's Carnival Time" to attract business on a toy ukelele. Wow that's such a bad boy move /s. Charlie was so bad that he actually manages to earn the carnival a lot of money for that game.

The song itself is still good but I don't think it was lip-synched well. In the shots like this one, Elvis sometimes isn't even moving his lips while he's singing. But ultimately I still buy the idea of using him to attract customers since his songs are entertaining. If only the movie also properly utilized the Wall of Death since we know Charlie is a motorcycle rider.

We get a double header of "Carny Town" and "Hard Knocks" which both do a good job of entertaining the crowd. In the meantime, we get an introduction to the so called "villain" of the movie. Harry Carver is meant to be this no good carnival owner that buys out dying businesses. However, given what we know so far about Maggie and co. I don't hate this man at all. Maggie has shown that she's unwilling to get rid of Joe despite him actively being cruel to other workers, while Harry Carver actually comes off as a reasonable man who just wants to provide the highest quality entertainment possible.

When Charlie's show ends up being a success, Joe still can't even have the guts and admit that he was wrong. He still thinks Charlie is the bad guy here. So of course when Charlie is still salty about the damages Joe caused, Cathy is mad at him for being ungrateful when Maggie gave him a new guitar. Do you see how messed up that is for Cathy to not only defend her father's awful actions, but then have the gall to get mad at Charlie like he's the heel? I'm sorry but the movie is actively trying to gaslight its audience into think Charlie's this bad boy when in reality Charlie's the victim. I just can't support this downright unreasonable and unlikeable family.

At Charlie's next show we get "One Track Heart" and it's one of the best songs in the movie for how entertaining it is. That being said, I have no idea why Charlie changes his mind out of nowhere when he signs Maggie's contract. Nothing we've seen indicates any major change in his status there. This is where not giving his relationship with the other male carnies any development, really hurts the movie. It just feels like the script is forcing Charlie into this instead of naturally establishing reasons to make him change his mind. That's bad storytelling where you're telling us this is what needs to happen as opposed to showing us how Charlie grows.

Cathy also comes off as being super unlikeable by getting mad at Charlie for so much as being with Estelle, the fortune teller. They are not dating and she didn't even tell Charlie how she felt. Charlie is not at all obligated to stay loyal to her. She just comes off as high and mighty like Charlie should never dare have affections for another woman and it's very annoying. I just don't get any chemistry from these two at all and it's another aspect of the story that just feels forced.

After signing the contract with Maggie, Cathy is seen running the dunk tank with Joe and my god do we get the most obnoxious couple I've ever seen in my life. This couple actually makes me feel bad for Joe when they accuse him of stealing their wallet when they have been nothing but a nuisance and started a fight with Charlie. Then again, this family gets mad at Charlie having dared feel concern over Cathy's wellbeing. I was so mad at Cathy when she slapped Charlie because I have no idea why I'm supposed to get at someone who just wants to help. How I'm supposed to like anyone in this family over Harry Carver when they've all treated Charlie as nothing but dirt?

Estelle the fortune teller and Cathy are just awful love interests. They wanna make like they're interested in Charlie, but just when Charlie shows interest back, they get all disgusted. That's not a bad boy. A bad boy wouldn't listen to Cathy when she says she's not a one night stand type of girl. Like Estelle gets mad at Charlie even though she was the one who wanted him to have sex with her. It comes off as these women being so flakey and unlikeable as opposed to Charlie actually being wrong for pushing.

So he finds the wallet and like a good friend decides that Joe needs time to get sober. The next morning, he gets his bike back and is about to leave when he sees the Wall of Death. In a scene that absolutely serves no purpose outside of wasting time before the big reveal, Charlie tries his hand at it. Once he had his fun, Charlie tells Maggie and the other carnies that he found the man's wallet last night. As rational, reasonable people, every single person gets mad at Charlie for betraying Joe. They think Charlie was a heel for having dared think it was a good idea to keep a drunk man in jail longer than he should've been.

I just can't stand any of these people. Charlie actively tries to keep an absolutely terrible person in jail just long enough to sober up and HE'S THE BAD GUY! I think everyone in this carnival is insane. The colonel wanting to make this a specially coded business with rules ended up making this a straight up cult. If you don't drink the kool aid and support your fellow carny no matter how much of a horrible person they are, you're the bad person. I want this carnival to fail and go out of business because of how awful they are. That's a complete failure on the writers part to just completely fumble the ball when making Charlie this "bad boy" who has to change his ways. I want Charlie to get as far away as possible from these people.

Charlie of course signs with Harry Carver and I refuse to believe he's supposed to be the bad guy like the movie wants to make him. He's an actually reasonable man who runs a far superior business. This is a whole theater with numerous performers providing a quality show. However, "Little Egypt" is by far the weakest song in the movie. I hate the sound effect used as it hurts my ears and is completely unnecessary. It ruined what would've otherwise been an absolute banger and a good reason to believe that Charlie is a good performer.

We see Maggie's carnival and of course it's failing. It's almost like they didn't realizing casting Charlie out would have consequences. Cathy and Estelle talk and despite literally watching her kiss Charlie multiple times, Estelle says "she didn't even get to first base". I have never seen a movie completely mess up on its own continuity this badly. It gives you this feeling of anxiety that you're being gaslight as the movie tells you one thing despite being shown something completely different. We never once see Charlie use anyone like Estelle says he did and it's completely ridiculous.

I love "Big Love, Big Heartache". It's the quintessential Elvis ballad but if Charlie had an actual character arc this is the perfect way to show that he actually does love Cathy. It's such a shame that he doesn't have any character arc at all. Cathy just shows up because she wants to manipulate Charlie into coming back and he does. I think Charlie is absolutely insane for leaving a legitimately superior job for an actually toxic work environment. Based on what we're shown, no one at Maggie's carnival is likable enough to make Charlie want to be there.

I honestly feel bad for Harry Carver because he's a reasonable man who actually cares about his business. He even cares about Charlie being in love with Cathy and tries to give him advice. Charlie just gives him the shaft because we're near the end and this has to have a "happy" ending where Maggie's carnival is saved.

This is the most forced ending I've ever seen in an Elvis movie. Absolutely nothing is earned here. Absolutely nothing in this movie was properly developed as we're introduced to things like Charlie being an orphan and the wall of death only to have neither of those things matter. It's not like Loving You where Deke being an orphan actually matters as he learns how to heal and accept that he's good enough to have friends. With the Morgans you can't help but think this is the most unlikeable family you've ever seen. It's so badly written that the only way you can make sense of it, is to come up with the conspiracy theory that Joe is abusive towards both of them. It would other wise make zero sense for Maggie or Cathy to defend Joe.

Charlie can't accept the Morgans as his family because despite "There's A Brand New Day On The Horizon" telling us things are going to get better, I just don't think it will. Joe didn't have his epiphany and realizes Charlie is a good guy. Joe only accepts Charlie coming back because it's the end of the movie and the script tells you that he does. It's all so forced and I have no reason to believe Joe will get better. A complete mess of a story that is absolutely frustrating to watch.

I said in my Clambake review that it was the hardest film to develop a solid opinion on whether I liked it or not. Roustabout to me is like a Clambake but in reverse. Clambake had bad production and some bad songs but had the best character writing I've seen in a mid 60s Elvis movie so far. Roustabout meanwhile had good production and an amazing soundtrack (outside of the sound effect used in Little Egypt.) but the worst character writing I've ever seen in an Elvis movie.

Since the writing is the worst part of the movie that singlehandedly ruined my ability to enjoy it, I have to give it 5/10. This movie's production and soundtrack just wasn't enough overcome the failures of basic story telling. I personally didn't vibe with it so I can't say I'd recommend it but if you're someone who only watches Elvis films for the songs or doesn't care as much about the writing, then I think you would have a great time.

------------------------------------------------------------------------------

AN: Thank you @xanatenshi for requesting this review as well as @thedaisymaisy for providing input about the film. If anyone wants to send a request, feel free to send it in.

Tagging: @lynettethemadscientist, @motht-eeth, @ash-omalley, @spooky-hazex, @teamnefarious, @blighted-star, @ab4eva, @oh-my-front-door, @father-of-2cats, @stormie-ryan23, @yksuwyksud, @tacozebra051, @alienelvisobsession, @vintageoldsoul, @ohmygiddd, @lovininapinkcadillac, @stephthestallion, @mistyspresley, @bisexualwvtson, @ahundredlifetime, @karel-in-wonderland, @elvispresleywife, @georgefairbrother, @moonchild-daniella, @musiclover712, @worldofyns, @sillybookmarks, @g00d2balive, @leighpc, @generoustreemystic, @peskybedtime, @thetaoofzoe, @renegadewarrior, @vintagepresley, @tupelomiss, @myradiaz, @pinkcaddyconfessions, @kiankiwi, @presley72elvis, @delulubutidontcare, @januarypresley1969, @livelaughelvis, @all-hookedup-on-elvis, @slayingjd, @ilivebecauseiamforced, @dusintv, @cattcb, @jaqueline19997, @richardslady121, @iloveelvis2, @lett-them-eatt-cake @if-i-can-dream-of-elvis and @lookingforrainbows.

[drabbles-mc]

All Good Here

Sydney Adamu x Richie Jerimovich

For @widespindriftgaze for the Candy Hearts Exchange!

Prompt: "You should be addicted to shutting the fuck up." / "You wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid."

Warnings: 18+, language, smoking, steamy things

Word Count: 3.5k

A/N: I truly, truly loved writing this so much. A pairing that hadn't ever really crossed my radar but once I thought about it I just couldn't stop thinking about it. I hope you enjoy it too! xo

The Bear Taglist: @garbinge @narcolini @withmyteeth (If you want to be added to any of my taglists, please let me know!)

It was a relief and a rarity for her to get to the restaurant and have no one else be there. That was the nature of not being the only workaholic—everyone got there early and everyone stayed late. Carmy was pretty much always there when she was, normally getting there a little before her if not immediately after. And, on top of that, lately it seemed like Marcus never left the place. The dedication was admirable, but Sydney would be lying if she tried to say that she wasn’t looking for some alone time to clear her head every now and again.

But the door was locked when she showed up. All the lights were off, even the lights in the kitchen. She called out a few names, and was met with the beautiful sound of silence. Letting out a sigh of relief, she put her things in her locker and swapped out her shoes. If nothing else, she was looking to take advantage of the time to work on a few things that had been running around in her brain, new ideas that hadn’t been leaving her alone. She’d get to prepping eventually, but while she had the privacy it felt like a crime not to take advantage of it.

She had everything else completely tuned out. It was easier to do in an empty, silent restaurant. But realistically a bomb could’ve gone off outside and it barely would’ve caught her attention. She was too focused on pulling the thoughts from her head and making them a reality.

There was no bomb going off outside, but the next best thing happened—Richie showed up early. Sydney didn’t hear him when he walked in, when he was out in the seating area. She almost didn’t notice the way that the kitchen door swung open as he entered.

“What are you doing here this early?” Richie asked when he saw her leaned over the stove, staring intently at the pot that was almost to a boil.

“What does it look like I’m doing here this early?”

He held his hands up in a mocking surrender. “Alright, sweetheart, calm down. Was just trying to, you know,” he gestured vaguely with his hands, “show some interest or whatever.”

“Only thing I need you to ‘show interest’ in,” she peppered in the air-quotes for good measure before continuing, “is leaving me alone and letting me do my job.” She shot him a brief, sideways glance as she asked, “Think that that’s something you can handle?”

He scoffed, shaking his head. “Can I handle it? Yea, I think I’ll be able to handle letting you burn the place down before we even open.”

Sydney fought the urge to bring up the fact that far more calamities at the restaurant could be traced back to Richie than to her, but she didn’t. She wanted to mention that if anyone was going to be burning things down it would be him, or Carmy, and their fucking cigarettes they were always leaving everywhere, but she didn’t say that either. She didn’t say anything.

Since she didn’t say anything, Richie continued talking, one of the things he was best at, for better or worse. “Think you’ll be able to handle not starting any fucking problems for one day? No toddler tantrums from you or Carmen?”

Sydney gave one long, slow blink as she tried to keep herself in check. The argument was exactly what Richie wanted, what he was looking for. She knew that, but even so, he made it so fucking difficult to just ignore him.

She killed the heat on the stove before turning so that she was facing him directly. “What?”

Richie let out a sarcastic laugh. “You heard me. You two are always trying to change shit up around here. And for what, huh?”

“And for what?” she repeated back in disbelief. “Look, I’m sorry that you hate change so much that you’re willing to let this place crumble to the ground, but some of us—”

“Don’t, don’t start with that,” he waved his hand dismissively.

“Then you don’t start either!” she snapped. “Leave me alone and let me do my job. Some of us are here to work.”

He laughed again. “Oh, really?”

“Yea, really.” The words Richie was saying weren’t really reaching her ears as she reached over to the counter opposite the stove, fingers wrapping around the handle of her knife. They were standing just far enough apart for her to point the blade in his direction without it touching him. “Imagine how bad it’ll hurt when I stab you on purpose.”

“Oh, I’m sorry, are you still pretending that the first time wasn’t on purpose?”

She rolled her eyes. “If it had been on purpose, you would’ve needed more than Ebra to patch you up.”

They stood there, stuck in their stalemate for another minute. Neither of them wanted to be the one to cave and let the argument dissolve. And, surprisingly, neither one of them were in the mood to escalate it as much as they could given the fact that they were alone and now there were weapons involved.

Then they both heard the sound of the front door when Carmy walked in. They both turned to look, but neither of them moved. Seconds later he was striding into the kitchen, and it took him no time at all to see the situation that was currently playing itself out in front of him.

He cleared his throat, looking back and forth between the two of them. “All good?”

Sydney managed to beat Richie to the punch, nodding as she pulled the knife away and set it back on the counter where it had been before. “All good.”

Richie scoffed, shaking his head as he watched her turn the flame back on and then walk past him towards the walk-in freezer. “Yea,” he muttered under his breath, “we’re fuckin’ great, cousin.”

When the door clicked shut behind Sydney, Carmy looked back at Richie, shoving him lightly on the shoulder. “Why do you always gotta go around causing fucking problems?” The restaurant wasn’t even open yet.

“What? Who said I was—”

“Don’t,” Carmy cut him off. “Just,” he nodded towards the front of the restaurant, “let us get through shit back here without blowing it all up. Please.”

Richie didn’t get the chance to say whatever comment was on the tip of his tongue as Carmy walked off towards the office. Richie stood there, shaking his head for a moment before finally turning around and heading back for the front. Just as he was going by the walk-in, Sydney was pushing the door open from inside. He promptly pushed it back shut so he could walk by, ignoring the string of angry words Sydney was shouting at him from the other side.

Dinner service had long since ended. And, despite the fact that the two of them were the first ones in, Sydney and Richie were also on track to be the last ones out. Almost everyone had left once they cleaned up their stations, even Carmy booked it out, determined to cut out as quickly as he could to go to a meeting. But Sydney wasn’t in a rush to go home, to go anywhere, really. And apparently neither was Richie.

He walked out into the back alleyway, and he couldn’t hide his surprise at seeing Sydney there. The expression on his face quickly shifted to one of annoyance, of borderline disappointment. Sydney looked up at him from where she was sitting, plastic container of water in her hands as she sat with her elbows propped against her thighs. She purposely didn’t say anything to him, not wanting to have a conversation, not wanting to have an argument.

Richie put the cigarette between his lips before sparking it. He took a drag, exhaling a stream of smoke as he looked over at Sydney. “You know—”

“Oh my god,” she said as she dropped her head back in exasperation. She didn’t know why he felt like they needed to talk. They didn’t. “Do you ever stop?”

“No,” he shot back immediately, “I don’t.” He took another drag. “Do you?”

“Is being an asshole just, compulsory for you? Or is it an active choice?”

“Compulsory?” he repeated back to her.

“Need me to spell it out for you?”

“No.”

Sydney waited for there to be something after that, but there wasn’t. He took another inhale off his cigarette and tapped the ashes onto the ground. He stood so that he was facing her, but he wasn’t actually looking at her. His eyes were seemingly glued to the toes of his shoes. Sydney went back and forth between looking at his face and looking at the small tub of water in her hands.

“Why are you even still here?” she asked.

“Why are you still here, huh? Cooking’s done. Go the fuck home.”

She leaned back so that she was resting against the wooden fence behind her. She spoke without looking at him, staring up at the sky as she tapped the back of her head against the fence. “I am about two more bad days away from using the pillow and blanket that Marcus has shoved under his work station.” She didn’t know why she was showing any shred of vulnerability, giving him any kind of ammunition like that. She was just so fucking exhausted.

Richie chuckled at that, not in the mocking sort of way that he usually did, but like he understood it, like maybe he even found it to be a little genuinely funny. “Better off bringing your own sleeping bag. Least then you won’t wake up smelling like shit since Marcus stays here for a week at a time without taking a goddamn shower.”

Sydney laughed.  “Can’t have that. Then I’d have to borrow some of your,” she chuckled as she finally looked at him, “overbearing fucking cologne.”

“Pfft,” he scoffed as he dropped the butt of his cigarette, snubbing it out under the ball of his foot. “I smell fucking delightful, first of all.”

Sydney waited for the next thing he was going to say. When he didn’t, she prodded. “And second of all?”

His face scrunched up. “What?”

She took a sip from her plastic container. “You said first of all. That, you know, implies that there’s at least a second of all.”

He threw his hands up in exasperation. “Alright. Second of all, you can’t just shut the fuck up and let things be, can you?”

Her eyes widened. “I can’t?”

She stood up, setting her makeshift cup down even though there was hardly a few sips left in it by that point. She held herself as close to chest-to-chest with him as she could considering their height difference.

“No, you can’t. You always gotta have some shit to say.”

She sputtered, struggling to string together a sentence. “Let me get this straight, you think that I am the one who has a problem shutting the fuck up? YOU?! The guy who can’t walk through a room without going off on a fucking monologue?”

“Yea, me. The guy that you are just, fucking, addicted to being mean to, for whatever fucking reason. Can’t help but to cause all these fucking problems.”

She laughed, shaking her head as she looked up at him. “Yea? Well, okay,” she pushed him, fingertips of both hands pressing hard against his chest sending him back half a step, “maybe you should be addicted to shutting the fuck up, yea? Then maybe I wouldn’t have so many reasons to be mean to you. Then maybe you wouldn’t look so fucking stupid all the time.”

“Yea? Well,” he scoffed, stepping back in even closer than he had been before, leaning in so that his nose was practically touching hers, “you wanna fuck me so bad it makes you look stupid.”

“Hah!” she barked out the laugh, so close to Richie that he could feel her breath across his face as she did. “You—you really? Wow. Apparently stupid was a fucking understatement.”

“Was it?” He stepped in closer, his chest bumping against hers as he pushed her back a step. “Because I don’t see you trying to walk away now, sweetheart—I don’t hear you denying it.”

“Don’t,” she said as she pointed up at him, shaking her head as she tried to string her sentence together, “do not call me that, Richie. I swear to—”

“Or what?” he challenged.

Sydney sucked in a deep breath, one that was shaky purely from the amount of restraint it took not to let all of her anger out at once and pummel him. She kept staring up at him, not able to make herself do anything else. Richie’s eyes were locked onto hers, and she noticed the split second they drifted down to her lips before coming back up to her eyes again. She noticed, but pretended that she didn’t. The same way she pretended that it didn’t cause any ridiculous and inappropriate thoughts to fly through her head at record speed. They were gone as quickly as they’d arrived, it almost didn’t seem worth it to waste another second on them. She lied to herself and said that she wouldn’t.

She exhaled through her nose, another long, slow blink as she got ready to respond, still deciding whether she wanted to verbally tell him to fuck off, or if she was just going to push through him to leave.

She went for a combination of the two. Stepping to the side, she stayed just close enough for her shoulder to abruptly bump into his as she walked by him. “Goodnight.”

Sydney was halfway back through the door into the restaurant by the time that Richie got his brain communicating with his feet. His long strides allowed him to catch up to her rather quickly, managing to just barely catch the door before it swung shut all the way.

“Yo! Syd!” He caught up to her as she pulled her things out of her locker. Like the two of them were still in high school, he reached and pushed the locker shut on her. “That’s it?”

She held her hands out, shaking her head slightly at him. “What do you mean that’s it?”

“What, suddenly you’re out of shit to say?”

Even though his palm was still planted against the door of her locker to keep it pushed closed, Syd reached forward and yanked on the door, forcing it open and causing Richie to stumble a step. “I’m fucking tired. I want to go home.” She forcefully shrugged her coat on and yanked the zipper up. “So,” she turned so that she was facing him head-on again as he tried to block her in, “let me go home.”

He saw it now, that she was more exhausted than she was annoyed or angry. A better man would’ve let it go at that, would’ve let her go home and get what precious few hours of sleep she could get before waking up and going right back through the gauntlet again tomorrow. But he wasn’t a better man.

With the way that he was blocking her, Sydney was waiting for him to say something else to her. He always had at least five shitty, sarcastic remarks in the bank, so she braced herself to be on the receiving end of at least two of those before she managed to push through him again.

When he didn’t say anything for another few seconds, she went to go by him again. He stood his ground, though. She tried to side-step him a couple times, but each time he blocked her. Finally snapping, she pushed him with both hands.

“Fucking move!”

He had been ready for it that time, bracing himself against the impact. “Or what, huh? You never answered me.”

“Because I don’t owe you a fucking answer, Richie. You’re not my boss you’re not in charge of me. So get out of my way.”

He crowded into her again. “Make me.”

“What—” she stopped herself before the question got too far, rolling her eyes at herself just as much as she was at him. “You know, for all the times you call Carmy and I toddlers, you’re the one who is acting like you’re five years old right now.”

He leaned down, bringing his face close to hers again. She leaned back slightly, keeping the barest amount of distance between her face and his. There was annoyance and anger and weeks of digging barbs into each other’s sides all bubbling just below the surface.

For all of the horrid things that Syd could say about Richie, for all of the harsh things that she had already said about him, even she couldn’t deny that there was something captivating about his eyes. They had no right to be that bright, that hard to look away from. She would never admit any of that to him. She wouldn’t ever run the risk of giving him an ago boost.

Then she made the mistake of letting her eyes drift away from his. It was for a fraction of a second. He was so close to her, leaning in so far that she was surprised that she couldn’t feel his forehead resting against hers. It was suffocating, almost as incapacitating as it was to have him still looking her in the eyes. So she looked away. Hardly a second. But he noticed. He noticed the brief moment that her eyes drifted just a couple inches down to his lips, snapping right back up again. He noticed that she did it to him the same way that she noticed him doing it to her.

Only Richie actually did something about it.

He collapsed what little distance was left between them, not that it took much. His lips crashed into hers. It was sloppy, awkward, and nearly sent both of them tumbling to the ground from the sheer force of it, but Sydney manage to tumble back against the lockers, saving both of them from falling.

Richie was waiting for her to slap him, push him away. He was ready for that, expected it, even. But she didn’t. She hesitated for a second, froze up, but that went away quickly as she reached and balled her fists into the fabric of one of his countless restaurant t-shirts, pulling him against her, pinning her tighter between him and the locker behind her.

One of his hands reached and flattened against the flimsy metal behind her, making it easier to leverage himself against her. He didn’t know where to put his other hand—cupping her face felt too soft, too intimate, pulling on her hair felt too rough, and her puffy jacket made trying to get a good hold on her hip almost more trouble than it was worth.

“Fuck,” he murmured against her lips as he fumbled with his other hand to find the zipper on her jacket, quickly tugging it down once he found it.

When her jacket fell open, he slipped his hand in between that and her shirt, gripping onto her side as he pinned her a little harder as he wedged one leg in between hers. The sound she let out at that was something just below a moan. It was quiet, barely controlled, but it still sank its claws into Richie’s brain in a way that he hadn’t been expecting. He cursed quietly under his breath in between their lips connecting for each kiss.

Syd managed to unfurl one hand from his shirt, her palm slowly starting to drag down his chest and stomach. Neither of them said anything about it, but she could feel the way that his whole body tensed. He didn’t pull away, though, didn’t tell her to stop.

Just before she reached the waistband of his track pants, they both heard the front door bang shut after someone had walked in. They froze up for a moment, Syd barely managing to push Richie away from her as the footsteps got closer and then entered the kitchen.

Each one of them looked as confused as the others as Carmy looked at them, and they looked back at him before looking at each other. The awkward tension in the air was thick enough to slice with a knife but no one said anything. By the look on Carmy’s face, the meeting had taken a toll on him. Syd and Richie could thank their lucky stars later for his emotionally compromised state not letting him read the room clearly.

“All good?” he asked, same as the morning only now his voice was heavier.

“Yea,” Syd managed to force out first as she zipped her coat back up, “I was just, I was just getting out of here.”

Carmy nodded, running his hand back through his hair. “Right, yea. Night.”

“Night,” she said with a small nod.

Both Carmy and Richie watched as she all but ran out of the restaurant. Richie stood there for a moment, dragging the pad of his thumb across his bottom lip for a moment. Clearing his throat, he pulled his thumb away from his face and jerked it towards the door. “I’m gonna fuckin’ beat it too.” He paused. “You, uh, you good, cousin?” he asked.

Carmy nodded. “Fine. You?”

Richie shrugged, nodding back. “Fine.”

They both accepted the other’s lie as Carmy made his way back towards the office, and Richie made his way towards the front of the restaurant.

[reallyprofoundkryptonite]

I always find it weird how people essentially handle Krogan and Eret as

“Oh Eret joined the dragon riders so he he’s good now!” And “Krogan never joined the dragon riders so he’s objectively evil and we should hate him.”

When in reality with the situation about Drago and whatnot, both Eret AND Krogan were in an abusive situation with Drago, and Krogan, was most likely in that situation far longer than Eret was anyways. Krogan was called “Drago’s Star Pupil” by VIGGO HIMSELF. (You know, everyone’s favorite villain.) and it leaves enough to state that Krogan was most likely a literal child when Drago got his hands on him.

The other things that I will point out is that if this is true, from what I remember, Drago is 55ish in httyd 2, and essentially that could hint at the fact that Krogan has been with Drago since Krogan was around five, which would make Drago 35.

My point is that, despite the fact that we’ve actively seen Krogan doing bad things, a lot of his actions can essentially and very easily be boiled down to just following orders, and the fear of being hurt by Drago. Eret clearly has PTSD (thanks @rodimus75leek for pointing that one out Btw) but if Eret has PTSD from Drago, then so does Krogan, especially since Krogan has suffered from twenty years worth of abuse from Drago.

The reason why Krogan NEVER thought to abandon Drago was because he most likely had Stockholm Syndrome, and/or he thought that he was desreving of the horrendous treatment that he was most likely subjected to at a young age because he thought it was normal for someone “Like Him” to be treated as nothing more than a tool.

Krogan’s behavior, underneath this thought process, is also completely understandable because that is how the human mind works. If faced with stress or threats, the human mind will force itself to DO AS TOLD, because like any animal, the survival of itself is far more important than the individual’s moral code. And this is a proven theory.

The fact that this is also a very complex thing, that can be scurried down to whatever is that whenever people are making jabs at Krogan, and then proceed to hold Viggo Grimborn up on a pedestal like he is better than Krogan in any way is also disgusting. Viggo isn’t better than Krogan. He’s worse, objectively.

No matter how you put it, pre redemption arc Viggo is not a sympathetic character. While he may have had trauma in his past, Viggo committed war crimes that broke the Geneva Convention on several occasions, such as going after civilians that were not involved in a war he was fighting, simply because they were allied with his current enemy.

Pre-Redemption arc Viggo Grimborn’s sole intention for dragon hunting, was for the money. He said it himself. He is not a monster, he is a businessman. He doesn’t see the things he’s doing out of pure greed as evil because at the end of the day, he was essentially the How to Train Your Dragon version of Elon Musk. A multibillionaire dragon hunting CEO who only cares about profits.

Going back to Krogan, the worst things he’s done on screen is the singetail breeding program (which you know, happens all the time with people breeding dogs irl), and the fact that Krogan killed someone on screen. Which guess what? VIGGO DID THAT TOO.

Calling Krogan evil, simply because he never reached out for help or sided with the dragon riders, is gross. It is victim blaming.

[abnomi]

i really appreciate bojack horseman for having characters that feel so human.

they feel real, people you could encounter just passing by on a sidewalk. theyre flawed but human with feelings and intentions and desires and opinions! i think its so interesting to see them clash together in their daily lives. they are all multidimensional and have more lingering under the surface than at first glance, and they keep peeling back as the show goes forward, whether the layers are ugly or beautiful. i love learning about them.

this show is So Real. you can point at any major scenario in the episodes and think "That could have happened to me or someone i know" while in the same breath, the most absurd shit imaginable happens in the background inside of this universe with such flawed logic (that is kind of just a caricature of real life). even the people are exaggerated, and the ways they react and speak is very blunt and straightforward. its interesting to see how they all adapt and live in this ridiculous world while still feeling like actual people, even with them speaking in exaggerated ways. i think that the writing in bojack horseman is genius, i dont know if ive seen anything like it anywhere else. the reality being maintained even through the exaggeration is amazing to me, and the fact that theres still enough space left to make serious scenes hit hard and make you KNOW something fucked up happened.

bojack himself being a mentally tormented individual is never used as an excuse for his actions and I really admire and respect that. you can empathize with him while still acknowledging that hes a fucked up person (Horse) . its such a wake up call, too. noticing how his behavior affects other people encourages the viewer to improve but still shows the underlying mental illness in a sensitive light. he isolates himself and punishes himself and it does nothing but make everything worse. the severity of the people in his life's reactions put him further in this pit of self-hatred and loathing when all he needs to do is change for the better. the world crumbles around him, and instead of changing or listening, he tries to make himself feel better and escape it. "fetishizing your own sadness" is a line that really struck me because i was severely depressed and i did that exact thing; i made myself feel horrible because i "deserved" it to compensate for the guilt i felt instead of doing anything productive to get out of the spiral. im not saying that any of this is easy, its so fucking hard. but bojack had resources on SO many occasions and NEVER accepted help. also, seeing Todd of all people reach a breaking point is a Lot. hes such a forgiving person who sees the good in everyone and he still has limits.

the philosophy and messages conveyed through the characters are so important to me. especially with Diane, shes such a complex character. i love her quote of there being no good or bad people, theres only people who do good things and people who do bad things. she is the realest.

so much thought was put into every crevice of this show, everything that was explored was understood by the writers and this was communicated incredibly well. i would say more but im kind of squeezing my mind juices and im low on them rn. I FUCKING LOVE BOJACK HORSEMAN !!!!!!!

[some-teeth-in-a-trench-coat]

Ok so I was gonna go more in-depth about the timeline and try to figure some things out, but I got a little sidetracked and time got away from me so I might continue this later but for now I need to go to bed. Please enjoy this infodump about the apocalypse in Moth Wizard (my post-apocalyptic fantasy setting) and the origin of magic.

(Content warning: war, religion, death, extinction)

When exactly canon diverges from our timeline is not determined yet since I've currently placed the apocalypse really taking off "sometime in the near future" and I don't know how much of the bad stuff may or may not happen in real life. We live in scary times. Ideally I'd keep it "in the near future" for a while though, like I don't know when (if ever) I'll actually Make The Show, but I'd like for it to still be in the future when I do. It would make the "this could happen to our world" part of the "this could happen to our world and while you individually cannot save us from it, it is entirely in the hands of humans to stop it and turn things around before then" message of the apocalypse, y'know, still apply.

As I mentioned recently in a very excited tag ramble, the apocalypse has several components. I think the main ones are war, climate change, and similar corporate greed consequences like pollution, unsustainable hunting, and destruction of habitats. All of it is human in origin. This is important to me, because if it weren't humans, then it would be Hashem (G-d), and He promised never to do that again after Noah and his family survived the flood. What Hashem did was give humanity the magic that allowed them to survive (and which now fills their world with wizards).

I like to think of this as kind of an inverse of the story of Noah. Hashem did not raise the tides, it was man, and man did not create the means by which life was able to live on, it was Hashem. Are we even now? Probably not, I wouldn't claim to know whether "being even" is even an applicable concept, but I do think that this event thousands of years later changed something forever. A circle has been closed. Life on Earth will never be the same.

I'll uh, definitely consult a rabbi about this at some point though, because I'm mostly making stuff up that sounds right and fits what I have in mind for their world. I'd like to make sure it's at least not actively contradicting anything.

Anyway, so we have the nearish future timeline deviation, I hope, where everything gets worse, billions of people die in world war III and countless species go extinct. Every single country on the planet is either at war or caught in the crossfire. If not for the gift of magic, it would have been the END end of life. How long after this does the story take place? I haven't decided. It's hard to put an accurate number to things.

Let's say hypothetically, magic is introduced in the year 5800, nice round number in the nearish future (a bit over 15 years).

As I've mentioned before, the first people to discover magic were kids probably aged 12-17, because of how the magic system works. To use magic, you need to try and truly believe in it, recklessly, and I don't think anyone is better at recklessly believing in undiscovered magic than teens, speaking as a former teen myself. Too young and the line between make-believe and reality won't be the right shape, too old and they'll have lost faith in undiscovered mysteries. Teens inhabit the sweet spot where the world seems just strange enough that maybe if you really really tried, you could fly.

And suddenly one day, the teens were right.

Sidenote but what I really love about this part of the magic system is that it comes with built-in explanations for why small children are not blowing up cars on accident (it has to be fully intentional and separate from playing pretend), and why not everyone uses it enough to call themselves a wizard (it's hard to believe recklessly and intentionally enough), AND gives good excuse for why anyone desperate enough could do it in a burst of emotion (recklessness is easy if you have nothing left to lose, the exact boundaries of possibility don't seem so important anymore). It's great.

It takes a while for people to believe the kids who discover magic. Obviously this footage going viral on TikTok is faked, and now there's a whole trend about pretending magic is real. And anyone who tries while under the impression that it's fake will of course fail, they don't believe at all. But the news don't have to spread via social media, it's much easier to show people in person. And do you believe it when you see a flying car on the news? You thought this was a reliable source, why would they buy into this obviously fake nonsense? And then you meet your 11-year-old cousin who claims she can make animals talk. You don't believe her, of course, until she points to a squirrel and the squirrel addresses you by name. The world is already in chaos, and now this?

Within a year, I think, it is generally understood that magic does exist. The exact mechanics are still unclear and everyone has their own interpretation, but the fact that some people are genuinely able to do things that until a year ago were definitely impossible is hard to deny now.

Somehow, magic seems to favor saving lives over taking them. This is not actually because magic itself has morals, but because it favors vulnerability and cannot be controlled the way guns can be controlled. Governments try and inevitably fail to create magical armies. You simply can't command someone to use magic. They would need to raise such soldiers from children surrounded by cultish propaganda in order to control their faith to such an extent, which of course they do to all their citizens, that's how they ever got anyone to kill another human on command, but they didn't have the foresight to include "you will be a wizard" in their programming starting 10 years ago. And now they won't get the chance. Their time is about to come to an end.

Oceans rise. Nations fall. The world we know dies screaming.

[arrancxr]

Would you be willing to write something dark about someone grooming and training the espada to be dependant on them? Maybe about how the espada feel, if they know it’s happening and allow it or if they’re desperate for the manipulative affection / how they feel when their in too deep to escape?

Absolutely! o3o This concept would be delightful to explore as more than just a request, tbh. Sounds like fic material~

. . .

Starrk

Even once he realizes what's happening, Starrk hardly cares. After what's felt like an eternity of solitude, he'd rather be used than have to go back to being alone. If you want something from him, whatever. He's been dependent, to some degree, ever since he finally started to believe that you might actually stay with him, so what does it matter if you want to take something in return? Nothing could be worse than how he felt before, is the way he sees it, so he won't do anything to stop you even when he knows.

Halibel

By the time she's truly come to trust you, Halibel doesn't want to believe it's true. She doesn't want to think of you as cruel, so she unconsciously seeks justifications— maybe it's fair. Maybe it's better this way. You clearly care enough about her to have invested this much effort. Even when she knows it's just a foolish, desperate attempt to save the situation, Halibel keeps finding herself wanting to believe there's something good in you still.

Ulquiorra

Stubborn as he is, Ulquiorra doesn't want to believe you'd be capable of manipulating him. You're a human; it's simply not possible. Because of his unwillingness to recognize it, though, he only winds up in too deep to go back. By the time he's forced to face how attached he is, there's nothing he can do about it but swallow his pride much too late. He still doesn't want to admit that he has the emotional capability to be attached, but no amount of denial can save him from what he's allowed to happen.

Nnoitra

At first, he's just angry about it. You're stupid for trying, and he's stupid for ever believing your intentions could have been good. But that anger can't last forever, and when Nnoitra finds himself unable to tear himself away from you even now that he knows better, it shifts to something worse. If you want to waste your time on someone like him, whatever. He'll be his full, awful self, and see if you still feel like putting up with that. While he wants to think of it as revenge, the reality is that he's given up on fighting it.

Grimmjow

In a way, he knows it's happening. But you're nice to him, and now that he's had a taste of something better than the perpetual live-or-die cycle of Hueco Mundo, Grimmjow almost doesn't want to fight it. What's the worst you could do to him, anyway? Even if he's pathetic for letting this happen, you can't hurt him. Whatever you're trying to get out of him, he can handle it— and a little bruised pride at knowing he's turning into your house pet isn't worth going back to how things were before he had you.

Szayel

He's a tricky one to manipulate— which only makes it hit harder when he realizes what's been done. Szayel prides himself on being able to out-think nearly anyone, so when it finally sinks in that he's attached to you in a way that goes beyond all reason, he's terrified. Knowing first-hand what it's like to be able to use someone, Szayel has good reason to be afraid of being on the other side of that equation. And yet, no matter how hard he tries to regain control of the situation, he's in too deep to escape now.

Aaroniero

Master of manipulation that he is, Aaroniero doesn't take the eventual realization well. It's hard to believe that he could have ended up like this— desperate, dependent, and weak—, but there's no mistaking how pathetic this is. However, as much as Aaroniero would like to turn the situation around on you and regain control, he almost dreads what would happen if he did. What would he do if you gave up on him? Now that he's attached, his own cowardice makes it impossible to fight back.

[classpectingcaxy]

Re-read your blog, I didn't read the part that said Knight of Breath somehow... (Shinji chair .png)

... So uh... could you analyze Knight of Breath, please?

It's perfectly fine! I'll edit my pinned post to make it more noticeable, and easier to read.

Now, to your question, answered under the cut~

We'll break this into three sections: Class, Aspect, Classpect.

Class: Knight

Knights are an active class. What this means is that the effects they have on their aspect are intentional. They don't simply happen, they aren't circumstances of reality or accidents, they're not a result of outside influence or cosmic happenstance.

The effects on their aspect are intentional and purposefully carried out by the Knight. They impact their aspect willfully, and are an offensive class, meaning they weaponize their aspect.

Weaponizing one's aspect does not always mean "using it in combat". It can also mean using it in various other ways.

An example from the comic: Dave, a Knight of Time, weaponizes Time in various ways. He weaponizes it in combat by summoning alt-Daves to fight alongside him, he weaponizes it outside of combat by using his time travel to abuse the stock market of his planet and grant himself a massive advantage in the financial game, ensuring he never lacks for resources, even in the early game.

Knights purposefully use and weaponize their aspect for the good of all: their own needs as well as the needs of those around them.

Another thing to note about Knights is that they, more often than not, lack their Aspect in some way or another. Dave lacked time, in MANY ways. He lacked free time (constant projects, training, fights with Bro, helping friends, etc), his entire session had less time than was right, most of the early comic is him struggling to keep up with the massive demands being pushed on him and his team. Karkat, a Knight of Blood, lacked his aspect heavily. Blood involving bonds and loyalty, Karkat had none. His "friends" only tolerated him, and barely that, save for Nepeta, and none had any amount of loyalty to him whatsoever.

But due to their lifelong lack of their Aspect, Knights are extremely skilled in making the most of what they DO have. Dave was able to pack days into hours, turning what would have been an impossible task into a salvageable circumstance. Karkat was able to use what few bonds he'd made to great effect, becoming a leader in ways he never imagined and turning uneasy acquaintances into crucial allies and lifelong friends.

What this all boils down to is this: Knights are an actively offensive class that have a deficit of the Aspect they're charged with, and are masters of taking the little they're given and making the absolute most of it.

They also often have a selfless streak, willing to sacrifice their own desires for the good of the many, as seen time and time again with Dave and Karkat, who both were willing to, on multiple occasions, give up their desires to benefit others.

Aspect

Breath is the Aspect of freedom, movement, and air. This manifests in MANY ways. Breath players are often more concerned with their own story, their own lives, than those of others. This doesn't mean they don't care, it simply means that their thoughts tend towards themselves more.

Freedom, Movement, and air can be taken very literally or very figuratively, and neither interpretation would be wrong.

Breath players often experience greater extremes with these things than others do, in some, or even all, forms.

Breath players make excellent accidental leaders, with those close to them looking to them as examples, be it for better or worse. This often leads to Breath players having a notable impact on the lives of those around them, though they are very unlikely to notice this impact until forced to see it.

They are also unlikely to consider themselves worth being seen as an example of anything, oftentimes simply going with the flow and doing what they feel is right for them in the moment, leading them to question why anyone would consider them a role model or good example of anything worthwhile.

Breath players struggle with long-term obligation or plan, and often have a difficult time settling in any form of the word. They can be indecisive, impulsive, and restless, though they can also in rare cases be extreme control freaks, planning out every minute detail.

Overall, Breath players are more likely to have self-confidence issues, worse sense of time, more difficulty seeing outside their own little world, and need more variety in their lives for proper enrichment.

Classpect: Knight of Breath

A Knight of Breath is one who actively weaponizes the Aspect of Breath, lacking freedom, movement, and/or air in their life while making the most of the freedom, movement, and/or air they DO have.

Air in this case can be anything from literal air (breathing) to figurative air (the wind beneath one's wings so to speak), meaning it can even present as motivation or desire.

This can present in any number of ways.

They may be disabled, they may have asthma, may be victims of controlling or hyper-strict family, friends, or places. They will universally lack Breath's concepts, be it the freedom of choice, freedom to leave, freedom to be themselves, the ability to move in some way, the motivation to grow/learn/improve, or even the desire to continue forward in their lives.

It may present as a combination of some or even all of these.

But what freedom, movement, and air they do have will be put to excellent use.

If they can only leave home for school hours (lack of literal freedom), they may put 210% effort in at school, or skip it entirely to do things they would enjoy more.

If they have asthma, they'll find ways to maximize their ability to exert with less effort, giving them less chance to suffer a major attack.

If they feel little to no motivation for anything, they will focus that motivation towards the things that enrich their lives the most.

A Knight of Breath is the very person you want to be locked away with, because even if they seem lazy and disinterested in getting out, I assure you they'll be the first one to find a way, and the most likely to succeed at it, even if all they have is a bobby pin and a prayer.

To pull from my own, personal experiences...

A Knight of Breath may also be one who lacks the freedom to improve their own life, the motivation to push forward, and the desire to change these things. Lack of opportunity to free themselves, lack of reasons to want to, and lack of desire due to any number of reasons.

Knights of Breath, when weaponizing their Aspect, will motivate others to an exceptional degree, pushing them above and beyond what they thought possible, and can provide them the direction and motivation to achieve the goals they set for themselves.

They may also weaponize Breath by restricting (or increasing) the freedom an individual has, either cutting them off from their avenues of escape or by allowing them such a large variety of options as to intimidate them, possibly paralyzing them from the inability to pick a path, forcing the Knight's own indecisiveness on their target.

Knights have an innate sense of how to use their Aspect and all of it's concepts to help or hinder another person, and a strong desire to use it for good. Despite this, they, as Breath players, will often be unaware of the impact they have and may need to be forced to confront the reality of it.

I myself was forced to face the reality of the impact I had on those around me, and it led to a monumental shift in who I was.

This is natural for Knights of Breath. They will often have a "defining moment", an event in their lives where they are forced to see, acknowledge, and understand the effect they have on the lives of others and must choose to either use that power for the benefit of others, or to the detriment of others.

While a Knight of Breath may be your go-to person for things like motivation, metaphorical or literal direction, and other such things, it's important to remember that Knights of Breath rely on outside forces to give them their own motivation and direction, and without others offering them aid in return, the Knight of Breath will never experience the feeling of "a breath of fresh air" so to speak.

When dealing with Knights of Breath, remember: You need to give as much as you take, otherwise you chip away at the very things inside of them that you are asking them to build up inside of you.

Last thing to note: Breath players tend towards Prospit. Their near-universal "go with the flow" attitude makes the Dersite concepts of things like "playing the long game" difficult for them, while predisposing them to be at home and comfortable with the lax and overall "loose" Prospitian ideals.

[lakesbian]

Alec would do faerie-related magic. I don't have any guys reasons, I just feel like it would fit his look. Plus he'd probably die in like a month if he got anywhere near Practice. He's just not made for it

i'll explain the matter of alec diabolism + how long alec would last as a practitioner later but as re the repeated glamour assignments for alec. it's important to note that glamour is, effectively, if bullshitting was magic. not just bullshitting about what your magic does to mislead the target and render its impact more effective, but believing in something that isn't true until it becomes true.

part of alec's Deal is that he's spent his entire life in terrible places--being hurt by terrible things, doing terrible things, feeling like he has no choice but to be a terrible person--and part of how he consoles himself is by telling himself that he might be an arrogant asshole, but at least he admits it. and even if it's not redeeming, even if that doesn't fix what he's been turned into, at least it makes him better than those other assholes who suck but can't admit it.

it's similarly notable that he's unbothered by what amy did to her sister, but seems insistent on refuting her ability to avoid admitting it--he makes a point out of repeating the far more direct phrase "mindrape" and nettling her on it. he's spent his entire life in the worst kind of shit, and with no perceived route out of it, one of the only bits of mental solace he has is the idea that At Least He's Realistic And Honest About It.

glamour is all about fixing up dirty little problems with a Hefty Layer Of Self-Delusion. you're not bleeding if you smear some glamour on it and then pretend you're healed. you're not some scrawny little kid that can't do anything about someone wanting to beat the shit out of you if you slap some glitter on that bitch and imagine muscles real good. alec holds a minor pride point out of acknowledging who he is and how reality works--glamour would be deeply unintuitive to him.

and not to mention how jaded and ironic he is! glamour requires deeply genuine and fullhearted belief in something entirely fabricated, and alec is the type of person to struggle with saying "thank you, i really appreciate it" about something he actually really appreciates without unconsciously slipping into sarcasm halfway through. alec's entire mental wellbeing is predicated on buying into his own lie that he's Totally Fine, but it's not a lie that he consciously invented and then put intentional stock in, it's a lie that was beaten into him & grown around because he had no choice but to believe it to survive. he can't consciously self-delude because it takes a level of willingness to make fullhearted leaps of emotional faith he simply doesn't have in him.

subsequently: faerie shit is alec-core as hell but magic based entirely on Faking It Until Circumstances Improve is deeply counter to how his head works. he would be terrible at it, really annoyed that he's terrible at it because he thinks it looks fun and cool, and then even more annoyed when she meets lisa and she's great at it. he would literally be seething that he's not good enough at glamour to use it to make himself look like the gayest specialest little prince ever to walk the earth and it would create a feedback loop where he gets more and more jaded abt his inability to use glamour and becomes progressively worse at it over time. he would constantly be drawing faeries because he thinks they look cool and furthermore is extremely gender envious. it would be his deepest agony. alec WISHES he could use faerie magic because it fits his look.