#and 2) it implies i think the design is bad. which its not.. its just lacking (TO ME) i guess?

[cows1012]

felix design i conceived because (and to be clear!) his design is fine, but i feel it could be more, funky fresh yfeel me 🤔

[shuastar]

KISS 'ER UP (HVC) pt. 2

pairing: baseball player!vernon x fashion designer/fan!reader wc: 12.8k warnings: SMUT (minors DNI), oral (f receiving), p in v (wrap it b4 u tap it even if vernon doesnt), boob worship?, heavy-ish make-out; unrealistic meet-cute, vernon being cute a/n: guys holy shit this took so long but its FINALLY done. i feel like i always end by long fics with smut but at least it ends well.......... anyways, send me requests now that i'm done w kiss 'er up!!! as always, ty guys sm for reading this <3

previous ; masterlist

In 3 weeks, you go to 6 home games. 

Which, in retrospect, is absolutely crazy because that’s averaging two (2!) games per week in the brunt of design finalizing and fashion week scrapbooking and planning with your team. 

And now, the one you’re sitting at seems to up your count from six to seven games in 3 weeks. Which means that your assistant will be calling you sometime next week asking if you ever finished finalizing the fashion week scrapbooks and tulle selections (only one of which you’ve actually finished. The other…. Well, let’s just say that it won’t be seeing the light of day for a while). Which also is part of your explanation to why you are busy multitasking between texting Yena, your assistant, on the last flap stitches for your fold-over bag for the F/W collection, gluing pieces of fabric and drawing cut-outs and print outs and colors down onto your scrapbook, and watching the actual baseball game and participating in half-assed and quarter-minded fanchants that seem to have no soul in it. 

All in that exact order. 

And it’s even harder to balance (especially your phone that teeters precariously off your knee because your actual table is too full of food, beer, and your scrapbooking trash pile) when your phone chimes with a familiar notification. 

new message from vernon⚾️🐈

You almost choke on your beer that was travelling half-way down your esophagus, coughing violently and trying not to get drops of Cass onto your scrapbook. 

For the first time in almost fifteen minutes, you raise your head, swiveling to try and see where the hell Vernon is texting you from because not only is it the middle of the seventh inning but it’s also the middle of his game. 

And he never goes on his phone during games. 

vernon⚾️🐈 yo u see that last play?

You roll your eyes at his text. Yo? Really? But also, typical Vernon. Almost three months – texting, calling, showing up to games, post-game chicken runs, and the occasional late-night movie theater run at Coex – made you accustomed to his rather nonchalant way of saying hi. Those including (but definitely not limited to) yo, hey, bro, dude, whats up, lol, and show cat now as in your actual feline pet, not your pussy (which you thought at first was what he was implying and almost blocked him before he clarified with a photo of his own cat that you were too scared to open for the first three minutes, thinking it was an unsolicited dick pic). 

You pause before you reply, placing the glue stick down. 

you yea obv

It’s a lie. A blatant one at that. But you feel bad telling Vernon hahaha no lol was too busy working on my pfw scrapbooking and model calls to be focused on ur game im at. 

So yeah. You lie.

But Vernon texts back in record time. 

vernon⚾️🐈 no u werent

You roll your eyes. 

you i was watching

vernon⚾️🐈 liar!! too busy lookin down @ ur sketches to watch me hit that ball outta da stadiummmm

you ur literally lying

vernon⚾️🐈 no im not but u wouldnt know bc ur too busy

you i have pfw stuff to sort out sue me

vernon⚾️🐈 ah so u admit that u werent paying attention

You don’t get a chance to reply before the speakers above your head crackle to life, stadium static breaking over the announcer’s booming voice:

“Now up to bat, our very own number twelve, VERNON CHWE!” 

All of the vowels in his name are stretched way too long but most of the call of his name is drowned in the thundering cheers and applause of the Diamonds fans crowding up the stadium. 

You jolt at the sudden screams, blinking up from your stupid silly grin at your phone. 

And just like that, the messages stop. 

Your phone is still perched on your thigh and the glue stick is loosely rolling under the pressure of your palm, face-down. Vernon’s already walking to the plate, bat slung over his shoulder like it’s just another Tuesday. You should focus back now. On the deadlined layouts and layering. But you can’t. Not when it’s Vernon batting.

He’s got that practiced swagger – not cocky, just calm – like he knows exactly what he’s doing, like he knows he’ll hit that ball well enough for second base. If not second, then definitely first. Under the stadium lights, the noise, the pressure, the blaring commentators, none of it touches him. His helmet shifts slightly when he adjusts his grip. From where you’re sitting tonight, just behind the catcher – the peripheral of all batters – you can see his neck tilt  as he grounds his feet. And you think, for one half-second, his eyes flit towards your section. 

You swear he sees you. 

You swear he knows. 

It’s annoying. 

It’s gut-wrenchingly annoying how good he looks standing there, chewing his gum like he’s in no rush at all. How he looks straight out of a baseball webtoon with his chestnut brown hair, tapping his bat once, twice, against the plate before he takes his stance. 

You pause your unconscious gluing. Your thumb sticks to a piece of lace organza. You don’t notice. 

The pitcher winds up. 

Vernon never flinches. 

And then

CRACK!

The sound is loud. Clean. Like the air itself snapped in half. 

You can see Vernon grin. 

You don’t even register the crowd erupting until half a second later, after the ball flies – high, hard, fast, promising – slicing through the humid air like it’s trying to give Vernon more time to run.

And him? Vernon? 

He doesn’t jog. He sprints. 

But you can see it – the calm – in the way he lets his helmet tilt back just a bit as he works his legs, pumps his arms. You can see it in the way he lays down his bat before he’s off. Calm again, like he knew – oh, he knew – that he’d make it. Like he saw the ball arcing across the midfielders’ heads before he even swung the bat. 

He rounds first so quick even his teammates cheer. 

He glances to the dugout. 

And you swear you see him glance at your section. 

A calm grin. Wide, so Vernon. 

Yeah. Definitely glances towards your section. 

Second base. 

He slides a little as the caught ball soars through the air from the outfielders towards second base. As his cleats touch down, it kicks up dirt, staining his white uniform. 

The ump signals safe. 

The crowd roars in approval, losing it. A couple of girls in front of you are screaming his name, hands shaking as they zoom into his victorious face, still on the ground, dusting himself off. 

You blink again. It hits you how much you’ve been staring. 

You shake your head, as if that will force your brain to refocus. 

You glance down at the mess of notebooks, pens, glue sticks, scissors, food, and beer on your table. 

The sigh is almost reactive. 

So is the blush that creeps onto your cheeks when you look up at Vernon, inching towards 3rd base, ready to steal, and his face is suddenly projected on the jumbotron, lips tilted up, helmet pulled down over his eyes as he looks determined. 

____________

Your home studio is a mess. 

Your apartment is a mess, actually. 

Not, like, a mess-mess, but the kind that only happens when you realize that you’re three days past a deadline, too stubborn to ask for help, and still choosing the color layering for a dress you told Yena you would have finished last week but technically still working out. 

Fabric swatches from the one Myeongdong fabric shop are draped across your studio couches, your coffee table in the living room is covered in opened sketchbooks, torn-out magazine pages, a slightly crusting bowl of tteokbokki you swore you would clean up after you scarfed it down last night. You haven’t. And until this color layering problem and the PFW designs start coming together, the most it’ll move and clean is probably just sit idly in the kitchen sink. 

There is the familiar bi-bi-bing!! of the giant JBL speaker in the corner of the living room as you cross your house to get to the studio-slash-sewing-slash-design-slash-procrastination room. Your playlist automatically hums to life in the background, WOODZ’s voice humming through the surround sound. It’s familiar – the same song you always put on when you’re trying to feel like a calm, collected, creative designer instead of a sleep-deprived maniac fighting for your life against the Fall/Winter collection because you’re indecisive and fashion, right about now, feels like the worst possible career choice you could have ever made. So many decisions! So little time! Yet so many deadlines!

You’ve lost your jean shorts for thin wide-leg sweatpants the moment you entered. The house is cold, like it always is, because you tend to forget to turn the AC off before you rush off to another meeting. And your off-shoulder crop top has already been decisively exchanged for a baggy shirt that you think is from your college ex-boyfriend but you’re not too sure, which is why you still have it. Your hair is barely holding in a claw clip, but you can’t bring yourself to waste ten precious seconds of your fingers not gluing, sewing, cutting, or slamming down against the table. 

It’s methodical, the way you work now, far away from the game and thus, as an extension, from Vernon: cut, glue, sew (if needed), stare at your work for ten seconds, drink your whiskey, realize it’s empty (again), pour yourself another sip because if you pour yourself more than a sip, you’re going to end of drinking yourself to miss another deadline. 

The drink burns, just enough to make your brain hum, and you pretend that the slight buzz will help you make your choices. 

You lean over the sketchbook laid out on top of your work desk, tapping a pencil against the edge of the page. The problem really has never been about the silhouette – you’ve had that nailed for weeks. It’s the layering. It’s always the layering. The trench you thought would be the centerpiece looks too heavy for the fall piece of the collection and too thin for the winter piece. So you switched it out with the asymmetrical drape coat. Except then, the metallic piping doesn’t translate to print. And you still haven’t decided on whether the main F/W bag should be a fold-over or a cross-body tote like the MiuMiu one three seasons ago. And don’t even get started with the color dilemma. 

Yena begged you to pick either beige or cream. You decided, in a fit of uncontrollable indecisiveness, to pick beige and cream. Now you’re stuck and beige is starting to look like cream and cream, beige. 

You flip the page, irritated. Try sketching something else. A structured jacket? Maybe another wool cape? Fur? But everything feels too soft. Too already-done. Nothing that makes you feel anything. Nothing that would stop someone mid-video at a show and look. 

You glance at the folded-up ticket stub from the game earlier, thrown carelessly on your desk with your phone and singular credit card when emptying your pockets. 

You haven’t heard from Vernon since he texted you a 👍after the Diamonds won 13-2. 

Not that it matters. 

But it does. 

And you do think about him as you sketch – completely unintentionally, which makes it like three times worse. As your pencil glides across the bumpy sketch book, your brain wanders to how calm he looks when the stadium is the loudest and even your heart is pounding. How, last week during the media conference after a game, the sleeves of your S/S line jacket looked, pushed up his forearms as he waved the reporters good-bye from the locker room. How he paired the platform knee-high boots and the slightly cropped leather jacket, all from your F/W line last year, almost perfectly with some ragged jean shorts and the most enticing little striped shirt that did nothing to hide his god-given collarbones that you couldn’t help but imagine on the runway. 

He’s got this way of showing up in your head when you’re just starting to forget he exists. Like now. In the quiet. With the whiskey sitting in the warmth of your stomach and your body wrapped up in your own tired, tangled, teasing thoughts. 

You sigh. 

Your pencil pauses over the page. Your eyes flicker down and you want to almost scream at the sketch that grins up at you. It’s him. Except, not the eyes, nose, mouth, or any of his facial features, actually, but still, him. The way his hair messes up in the front, his silhouette etched so gracefully onto your sketchbook page – the wide shoulders, sloping waistline. 

You curse under your breath. 

Another sip of whiskey that burns down your throat. 

Your phone buzzes against the hardwood desk. 

You ignore it – probably Yena.

Then, it buzzes again. 

You reach over slowly, ready to roll your eyes at Yena’s incessant texts. 

Until you don’t. 

Until you see his name, blinking up at you like the broken streetlight from your not-date-date three weeks ago. 

vernon⚾️🐈 u awake?

You stare at the message. Then at the clock. 

It’s 12:04 AM. 

vernon⚾️🐈 wyd?

you designs 

And then against all notion of rational thought, you snap a photo of your sketchbook. 

[attached]

Vernon responds in seconds. 

vernon⚾️🐈 wait  thats lwk really cool

you nice to know my work is appreciated

vernon⚾️🐈 would u ever design smth for me?

Your fingers hover over the keyboard. The whiskey sits too warm in your stomach now. 

you why? u tryna be a fashion icon now/?

vernon⚾️🐈 smth like that j think ur designs look cool

There’s a lull there. You’re not too sure what you’re supposed to respond with. A smiley face? A thank you? A heart? 

Another buzz. 

vernon⚾️🐈 r u still up?

you its been like 5 min yes ofc

vernon⚾️🐈 im at the batting cages

you okay….. and?

vernon⚾️🐈 do u wanna maybe come

You stare at the last message longer than you mean to. The cursor blinks in the text box as your thumb hesitates above the keyboard. 

It’s stupid. 

It’s so stupid. 

So so so stupid. 

It’s past midnight, you’re barely sobering up from the whiskey, you’ve been sitting cross-legged on your studio floor for hours surrounded by scattered swatches, rejected sketches, the remainders of your brain. You should say no. 

You should absolutely completely say no. 

But. 

But the memory of him late at night during the not-date-date still lingers in your mind, cruising around your nerves to send the scent of his cologne down your spine. You can’t mistake the way you wait for his text like a dog for food. It’s pathetic, really. 

And you can’t help it. 

you address??

vernon⚾️🐈 [location shared!]

You’re scrambling now. First for a better shirt – a Ganni one that’s a size too big on you but you refuse to return because it was the last one left in stock in-store. Next for shoes – vintage Nikes that you bargained for in Japan. And then for the smallest purse that fits your wallet, lipstick, and your phone. And your car keys! 

The door slams behind you and you’re in the elevator even before you can fully hear your door lock beep. 

It’s a little past 12:30 AM when you arrive at the batting cages. It was more of a battle trying to find a parking spot than squeezing your Range Rover through the narrow alleyway. The city streets are quiet, though, and the night air is cool against your skin as you step out of the car, the low hum of the city lights and Gangnam in the distance. The flickering lights from the batting cages cast long shadows, their glow almost surreal in the emptiness of the night. 

You take a deep breath, listening to the steady thwack! of baseballs connecting with a bat. 

Vernon’s the only one there. 

He’s caged inside one of the batting cages, bat in hand, duffle bag thrown against the bench. He looks focused as he takes another swing. The Adidas zip-up is loose on him, riding up when he swings, waistband of his boxers showing bolded words: wasted youth. 

His body moves with fluid grace under the bright lights, the way he lines up each shot is almost hypnotic. You pause for a moment, watching him, fingers curled around the openings of the metal cage. Watching him – the way his body shifts, the subtle flex of his arms as the bat connects with the ball, the way he frowns when it doesn’t hit just right. The sound of it is satisfying, the crack echoing in the quiet night air. The zip-up hands from his shoulders, the fabric moving with the flow of his motions and you can barely make out a black undershirt – a tank, probably. 

For a few seconds, you forget why you’re here. Why you’re watching him hit ball after ball, too focused on the bat to realize you’ve arrived. It’s just him, bat in hand, hitting ball after effortless ball – and you admire it: how smooth he looks, how natural it seems, how he seems made for this. 

But then, he falters. 

Notices you standing behind him, eyes training on his body. 

He pauses mid-swing, letting the ball die in the machine. His eyes flick over you quickly – your oversized shirt, your bag that swings from your shoulder, your hair. He doesn’t say anything but his mouth curved up into the smallest of smiles – of smirks?

“You actually came,” he says, voice carrying a playful tone, like he wasn’t entirely sure you would. 

He sets his bat down in the bat rack, the soft clink of the metal against the wood the only sound between you two. 

He wipes his hands against his black sweatpants. 

You roll your eyes, tossing your bag on the bench when he opens the cage door for you. “You texted me in the middle of the night. Worried you were going through a mid-season crisis or something.” You bite the inside of your cheek as you grab a smaller bat that sits next to his now. “You’re lucky I make all my bad decisions after midnight.” 

Vernon chuckles, low and easy. “Nah, not a crisis. Or a bad decision. Just wanted to see if you could make contact after all that high talk.” 

You give him a look, rolling the bat in between your hands. 

He’s tall. Close. Built. His shoulders hide the other cage’s light from hitting your face and he grins down at you like he’s known you for your whole life. 

You shoot him a flat look. “Has anyone ever told you that you talk way too much for someone who’s supposedly nonchalant?”

He just grins, hands in his pockets, shrugging. 

You sigh, moving your hands to the grip of the bat, walking up to where the fake grass turf was the barest. You’re familiar with the weight of a bat. You’ve been a baseball fan, even though Vernon acts like he’s teaching you everything from scratch. 

The machine whirs when Vernon flips a switch, and from the dark hole of the pitching machine, the first pitch comes launching your way. 

You wait. 

Swing. 

Hit. 

Crack!

The ball soars into the net, the thwack! echoing in the empty batting cage. 

It’s quiet for a moment. You think Vernon’s switched the machine off again. Or maybe it’s a lull the universe has granted. 

Vernon lets out a low whistle. “Not bad.” 

You glance over at him, brow raised. “Not bad?” 

He lifts a shoulder, teasing grin. “You could do better.” 

You scoff, turning your attention back to the machine, now whirring back to life, for the next pitch. The rhythm of it is steady. You can understand why Vernon does this. Ball after ball, the occasional miss, the occasional perfect hit. Every crack! thwack! makes you feel like every ounce of stress in your body leaves your pores in spindles of smoke – evaporated. 

Vernon stands in the back, letting you hit and hit and hit. 

Then, after a particularly good hit, he finally speaks again. 

“Here.” 

You barely register him stepping forward, machine turned off now, befor ehe’s suddenly behind you. His presence is like a magnet, pulling you closer as his hands move to adjust your stance. 

And you try to focus – you really, really do – but it’s hard when he’s standing so close to you – chest brushing against your back, warm, solid. 

“Try shifting your stance a little,” he says, voice low. And his hands are moving from his sides to your sides, inching up your waist before you can react. His touch is gentle, fleeting, adjusting your posture with the slightest pressure. His touch is steady, unhurried, but it sends a shock and tingle up your spine anyway. 

You swallow, trying to focus on gripping your bat so that it doesn’t clatter to the floor. “I’m already hitting fine,” you mumble. You’re scared to look up. 

“Could be better,” he retorts, and you don’t have to turn around to know that he’s ear-to-ear grinning. 

His hands move up from your waist to your shoulders. Down your bare arms to rest on top of yours on the grip of the bat. His hands are warm against your skin and you hope to God that he can’t feel the goosebumps that rise with his touch. The pressure of his hand around yours is mind-reeling and his breath is warm near your ear as he murmurs

“Relax this a little. You’re too stiff.” 

You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to ignore the flutter of your heartbeat at the proximity, at the feel of his broad chest pressed against your back as he reaches around. He’s so focused on your swing, helping you improve, but all you can think about is how he feels against you. 

His hands leave yours to your shoulders, gently pressing down. “Relax.” 

“Maybe I like being stiff.” 

Vernon huffs out a quiet laugh. “You sure about that?” 

When he sees your hands tightening against the bat, he puffs out a sigh of air, leaning in again. His cologne is subtle but warm – something clean, fresh, with a hint of pine? Musk? Vanilla? Something that lingers. It mixes in with the scent of your detergent and it’s all you can think of. 

His fingers slide down, adjusting your grip over the bat. His hands are infinitely warmer, covering yours completely, and the way he’s guiding your movement is too natural for your brain to wrap around. You feel your breath get lodged in your throat. You don’t know what’s happening.

His chest is flush agaisnt your back, body pressed against yours, mumbling something into your ear but you can’t bring yourself to comprehend it properly. His hands on your waist, wrist, his height, build, it completely envelops you. The proximity of him makes your pulse race and your lungs tighten and you pray that he can’t feel your beating thumping heart through your wrist pulse point. 

“Better?” he murmurs. 

You try to say yeah, but your voice barely comes out. So you just nod instead. 

You can feel his breath against the back of your neck, and something inside of you screams – in want, desire, guilt, something in between? His hands hesitate for just a fraction of a second – one on your hip, the other on your wrist. 

And you’re not too sure how the next part happens. But somehow, between his fingers brushing against yours and the way he’s angled just slightly towards you, breath hot on your neck, cologne invading your senses with no mercy, you turn your head at the same time he glances down. 

Or maybe he was already looking down. 

His eyes are dark, soft in a way that makes your throat tighten. His lips part, a breath leaving him that you can’t quite make out. It’s not a sigh, not quite a word. It’s something in between, laced with an emotion heavier than the tension that stretches taut between you. You don’t know if he’s waiting for you to pull away, stumble out of his grasp like he’s burned you, or if he’s looking for a sign to make the next move – stoop lower to move forward, not hold back. 

Your heart stutters. 

The moment stretches thin. 

His eyes flicker down to your lips and then flicker back up to your eyes. They’re hesitant, as if he’s wondering if this is the right thing. 

You swallow. “Vern–”

Your eyes widen in surprise, name cut off before the breath in your lungs even leaves you completely. 

Because he’s leaning down, lips crashing down on yours, slow, deliberate, soft. It’s slow at first, tentative, like he’s giving you the chance to pull away. 

You would be crazy to pull away. 

Instead, you melt into it. The bat clatters to the floor with a muted th-th-thack! and on hand goes to tangle in his hair, pulling him down further. The angle is awkward – you’re half-turned around, one arm stretched up to pull him down, one hand resting against his that sits on your waist, lingering. He’s pressed up behind you, chest against your back, slouching down to fully reach your lips. 

And then something clicks. 

You twist to face him fully, hands finding their way to the collar of his jacket, fisting the fabric as you rise on your tip-toes. 

Vernon doesn’t hesitate anymore. His hand slides from your waist to the small of your back, so slowly that it raises the hair on your skin and sends shivers up your spine as he pulls you in closer, flush against his chest. His other hand cups your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek. Once. Twice. Three times. 

He kisses you like he means it. Like he’s been waiting to do this. 

And you don’t have any more thinking capacity left in you to be embarrassed when you let out a breathy little sound from the back of your throat that sounds a little too much like a whimper, hands finding their way to the back of his neck, pulling him down more. Now both of his hands are on your lower back, your waist, grip so firm, so warm, as he pulls you in, lips moving in sync with yours. 

Everything else fades. The far-away sound of the bat hitting the ball, the dying hum of the machine, the soft murmur and chirp of the night – everything becomes – feels – secondary to the feel of his lips on yours. You can taste the faint tang of the lemon electrolyte drink he was drinking on his lips, feel the strength in his arms as they basically hold you up on your tip-toes like he’s not letting you go. 

You break apart. 

You don’t want to. 

But it’s getting harder to hold your breath. 

So you pull back, back down on your feet, breaths coming out heavy, now eye-to-eyes with Vernon’s collarbones. You look up. 

Vernon looks down at you with this expression that you can’t quite place. His pupils are blown wide– dark against his hazel rings – lips parted slightly as he catches his breath. You’re still pressed so close to him that you can feel the heat radiating off him, his chest rising and falling with steady breaths. You swallow. 

And then Vernon lets out a small little laugh, lips stretching to paint the silliest smile on his face, forehead meeting yours. His big hands are warm and calloused against your flushed cheeks, thumb tracing over your skin. 

His forehead stays pressed to your for just a beat longer. You feel like passing out when he whispers fuck, y/n, under his breath like a secret – barely a whisper, barely above a breath, like saying it any louder might break the moment. 

You’re still catching your breath, dizzy from how fast everything shifted, how the entire world seems to narrow down to just the space between his lips and yours.But when your eyes flutter up to meet his – dark, hooded, unwavering – your breath gets harder to inhale. 

When your gaze drops to his lips again, Vernon moves – pounces, almost. 

He surges forward, lips on yours again. Except, this time, harder – needier. There’s no hesitation now – no caution, no prudence in the way he grips your hips, body moving you – walking you – backwards until you feel your back hit the cold metal of the batting cage. It startles you, eyes fluttering open because when had you gotten this far, and you gasp, the noise stuck in your throat. 

Vernon doesn’t stop. 

His tongue swipes against your bottom lip so carefully, so softly, teasing. Nd when your mouth parts slightly, it’s like something inside of him snaps. 

Suddenly, his head is tilting, hands cupping your jaw as yours scrunch his collar, deepening the kiss – messy and hot – his body caging yours against the cool chain-link fence. 

You can’t think. Can’t breathe. Can’t do anything but let him devour you. His tongue dances with yours – slides, twists – deliberate and sure. And when your hands move to tangle your fingers through his slightly wavy hair, slowly trailing down to the nape of his neck, clutching like you need him to keep you upright, he groans. Deep and low and rumbling in his chest, eaten up and swallowed by your greedy mouth. 

It’s visceral, the way you grab at each other. The way his body presses into yours and yours against the fence, like he can’t get close enough – like the two of you might combust if even an inch of air dares to exist between you. A ball of heat knots deep in your stomach as his hands roam – one firm against your waist, the other sliding up the curve of your back, underneath your loose shirt, fingers kneading against the flesh. He kisses you like he’s starved. Like every pent-up look and almost-touch finally snapped him clean and the wire-tight tension – now he’s unraveling. 

When his teeth bite down gently against your bottom lip, you whimper. It’s soft, barely even heard because his kisses mute it. But Vernon hears. He curses softly – muffled against your moving lips – as he tilts his head, insistent on coaxing just another sound from your throat. It’s instinct now – how you arch into him, how his hands are strong to support you as you start to get tired of standing on your tip-toes, how your hand slides up into his hair and tugs. 

Vernon groans. It’s louder this time, coupled with a breathy little whine. 

And suddenly, his hands are just lower than your hips, his lips separating from yours for a second to whisper 

“Jump,” against yours

before he’s kissing you again. 

And you do. Jump, that is. 

And when you jump, legs wrapping around his slutty waist, his hands are under your thighs, pressing you firm against the fence. You can’t stop yourself. You’ve already crossed some invisible line, and all that matters to you is him. Vernon Chwe. The way he feels, the way he presses up closer against you, the way he’s just as desperate – maybe even more desperate – for this than you are. 

It helps that you haven’t had any sort of sexual relationship for a year and a half now. 

Now pressed up against the fence, your arms steady around his neck, Vernon’s hands tangle in your hair, pulling you deeper into the kiss. His hold is firm, possessive, with a hint of softness and tenderness that sends a wave of heat through you. With a gentle tug, he has you looking up at the open night sky. His mouth moves from yours to your neck, lips trailing messy kisses along your skin. It has you letting out soft gasps as his teeth graze your skin, lightly nipping, pressing open-mouthed kisses afterwards to soothe. The sound of your heart is a rhythmic thud in your ear – everything is building, growing, more desperate. Especially as Vernon lightly bites against your ear. 

You can feel the firmness of his chest as it presses against you, breath hot against your skin, and every move he makes – shifting you further up, pressing another kiss, whispering something you definitely do not have the brain capacity for – sends another thrill down your spine.

“Vernon,” you murmur, voice echoing in the empty cages. 

At the call of his name, he pulls away from decorating your neck with the hues of the darker side of the rainbow, looking up at you with dark and hooded eyes. You can almost see the desire swirling through them. But his lips curve into a faint smile. 

“Hm?” 

He gives you a peck on your lips before kissing down your jaw. You swallow, head thrown back still against the fence, body supported by Vernon and Vernon alone. But when you don’t respond right away, he pulls back again, hands moving to hitch you up more securely, fingers brushing your bare waist where your shirt had ridden up during the mess of kisses. When you look down, he’s staring up at you with furrowed, worried brows. 

“‘S this okay?” he asks quietly, voice rough and strained. 

You bite the inside of your cheek, hands moving from his shoulders to brush through his hair shakily. You let out a breath that feels more punched out of you than anything. “Yeah,” you mumble, leaning forward so that your arms drape over his shoulders, bottom lip trapped between your teeth as you rest your cheek against your arm. You feel Vernon’s hands tighten around your thighs. 

“You sure?” he asks. You can hear his heartbeat. Almost. 

You nod. “‘M fine. This,” you let out a small laugh, “This is more than fine.” 

Vernon is quiet before he speaks again. And you can’t quite see his face, you can imagine his small smile. 

“Okay, okay, okay. Cool, Cool. That’s – um – that’s fire,” he mumbles. Rambles, actually. 

He’s cute. 

You let out a laugh – a loud one – at that, tapping his arm to signal to let you down.

“Fire? That’s all you have to say to that?” You tease, landing back on the floor with shaky legs, still clinging to Vernon, arms winding around his neck. You stare up at him and he looks down at you like you just dotted stars in the night sky. You’ve never had someone look at you like this. 

His voice is lower when he finally speaks again. “More than fire.” He grins, forehead coming to rest on yours as his arms wind around your waist. “Definitely more than fire.” 

You giggle. It’s weird how quickly he makes you feel like a schoolgirl and not a fully-grown adult with a life outside of swooning over him. But your teeth take your bottom lip prisoner again. “Yeah?” 

Vernon exhales a short breath. “Yeah.” 

When you giggle again, Vernon groans – half in embarrassment, half in he doesn’t know what. “You drive me crazy,” he mumbles under his breath, detaching himself from you with great reluctance. 

When he steps away, letting your arms fall to your sides, you watch as he sets the bats back on the rack, shouldering his duffle, shoving his phone into his pocket. He glances at you, a small smile playing on his lips when you cross your arms, waiting. For what? You’re not too sure yourself. Maybe for him to kiss you again? Maybe for him to lead you out and drop you off at home? You stand there awkwardly now, not quite ready to leave, not quite sure how to stay. You stand there, pretending you don’t wish his lips are back on yours. 

Vernon walks up to you, the swing of his duffle bag lazy, eyes soft but unreadable under the dim lights of the cage. He stops right in front of you, not touching (and good thing because if he did touch you, you wouldn’t be able to let go), but close enough that you can still feel the warmth of his body. 

“You drove here, right?” he asks quietly, glancing back at the nearly empty parking lot behind the fence. 

You nod slowly, your voice soft. “Yeah.” You glance down at your feet, embarrassed now for some weird reason. 

He hesitates, lips parted like there’s something more he wants to say. Then he shifts his weight, eyes flickering from yours to the path out of the cages. “You okay to drive?”

You shrug. “I mean… probably.”

That earns a soft, knowing chuckle from him. “That’s not reassuring.”

You’re still floating a bit. Still warm from his hands on your skin, his mouth on yours, his voice in your ear. Still trying to remember how to stand on your own feet. And Vernon looks unfairly composed in comparison. Like he’s turned the volume down on whatever chaos just happened between you – but it’s still written in his flushed cheeks, his tousled hair, the way he keeps looking at you like you’re a goddamn fever dream.

He steps forward and reaches for your hand, threading his fingers through yours like you’re dating or something. “C’mon,” he says, tugging gently, “I’ll walk you to your car.”

The night air is cooler outside of the cages. The heat of the moment is behind you as you walk towards your car, parked rather haphazardly by a streetlight, hand-in-hand, Vernon glancing down at you every once-in-a-while. He has this silly little smile plastered on his face that makes you smile too. Makes you smile more. 

When you finally reach your car, Vernon lets go of your hand, stepping around to the passenger side. When he opens the door and peeks in, for a split second, you think he’s about to jump in, drive with you back home. 

But then he pulls back, grinning, shouldering his duffle, hands in his pockets. 

“Messy,” he comments. 

You click your tongue, pulling open the driver’s side, sliding in. Your hands hover near the handle before you grip it. 

You don’t want to say anything else, lest you break the moment – heavy, thick with everything that just happened. 

So, naturally, Vernon does. “You’re okay to drive though?” 

You smile, nodding. “Yeah, I mean, unless you wanna file a police report about a girl you were making out with in the cages.” 

His lips twitch and you know he picked up on your tone. He leans against the driver’s side. “Think it’d hold up in court?” 

You laugh. “Depends. I might argue that you instigated it.” 

Vernon scoffs, one arm on the top of your car. He’s so close again. “Can’t. Won’t hold. I clearly said jump. That’s consent and delegation.” 

You snort. “Okay, lawyer.”

“Okay, criminal.” 

You both laugh, tension broken, and it feels good. Cathartic, in a way. But overall, good. His smile lingers longer this time, teeth catching on his bottom lip like he’s trying not to say something. Or like he’s trying not to leave. 

“You sure you don’t want me to drive you back?” he asks. His voice is gentler now. He hesitates before his hand darts out, fingers gently brushing the fallen strands of hair from your face. “I can follow you, even. Just to make sure you get home okay, y’know?” 

Your heart tugs a little. It’s so stupid how sweet he is. Stupid, stupid, and so so so endearing. Even if it sounds just a little bit creepy.

But you smile, grabbing his hand before it gets shoved in the depths of his pockets again. “You tryna be my stalker now?” 

Vernon shrugs, fingers folding over yours sweetly. “Eh. Takes one to know one, right?” And then he smiles – all teeth and boyish with ruffled hair – and it makes you laugh. 

“Are you calling me a stalker?” 

“Nah. You’re my Kiss Cam partner. ‘S a little diff’rent.” A pause. “I’ll still follow you though,” he says, a little quieter now. “Not all the way – just out the lot. Make sure no one’s creeping out here this late.” 

You squint at him dramatically. “Is this your creepy way of saying you want to make sure I don’t crash my car?”

“It’s my gentlemanly way of saying I don’t trust you behind the wheel when your brain’s still halfway up that fence.”

The laugh that is forced out of you is as dramatic as incredulous. “Vernon Chwe!” You blush red under his laughter. 

He watches, one hand still on the frame like he doesn’t want to walk away just yet.

Before he closes the door for you, you glance up and grin. “Hey, if I do crash, just know my ghost is gonna haunt you in a very flirty and inconvenient way.”

Vernon laughs, full and warm this time. “Can’t wait.”

He shuts the door gently, taking a step back. You turn on the engine, stealing one last glance at him through the window, now rolled down. 

He watches you for a second. “Text me when you get home?” His request is quiet, small, almost like he expects you to say no. 

Your foot leaves the gas pedal. 

You look at him. Really look at him. And you know if you don’t kiss him again right now, you’re going to regret it.

You reach out, fingers curling into the collar of his jacket, and you tug him down to you. He doesn’t resist. His lips meet yours again – this time slower, but also faster. A peck. Small, short, and sweet. Just in case you get too addicted too quick. 

When you break apart, he looks dazed. Like you just punched the breath out of him. 

“I’ll text you,” you whisper. 

You steal one last glance at him before rolling up your window.

He waves you off with a crooked grin, walking slowly back to his own car as you back out of the lot. And even in your rearview mirror, you can see him watching, waiting until you’re safely out onto the road.

You pull away, your cheeks still aching from smiling.

Five minutes later, at the first stoplight, your phone buzzes in the holder attached to the AC. 

vernon⚾️🐈 text me back when ur home j so i know ur ghost isnt gonna flirt me into crashing too 

You bite your lip, smile stretching wide and helpless across your face. And you can’t control the incoherent squeal that leaves your lips. 

God, you’re so screwed. 

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

It’s almost 9PM when you get his text. 

vernon⚾️🐈 u @ the studio?

you sadly yes how did u know r u stalking me or smth

vernon⚾️🐈 maybe  i j finished training j checking in

His little typing… bubble doesn’t go away for another couple of seconds and you just know that he probably deleted what he was going to send to you. 

you im j working how was training?

vernon⚾️🐈 the same did u eat?

you …no BUT im fine deadline mode

vernon⚾️🐈 what kind of monster forgets to eat

you a very talented one that also missed her deadline last week? making a masterpiece rn

vernon⚾️🐈 so dramatic

The conversation lulls when he doesn’t send anything for a minute or two. You curl yourself against the armrest of your work chair, sewing and fabric forgotten on your work table. 

vernon⚾️🐈 do u want me to bring u food?

you only if it comes with radish!! this time!!!

You hope the exclamation points hide how red your cheeks are and how your body almost vibrates with nerves – or maybe excitement? – as you reread his text. 

vernon⚾️🐈 u think id mess that up twice?

you call it intuition

vernon⚾️🐈 wow no faith in me

you i have complete faith in ur batting avg j not ur side dish memory

vernon⚾️🐈 cold i hit a homer AND remembered ur drink last time

you ok fine ur batting .500 in food service tbh thats hall of fame numbers

vernon⚾️🐈 lmao im omw w surprise food dont sew ur hand off!!!

you ur coming NOW??!

vernon⚾️🐈 lol yeah unless u dont want me to.. i can hang the food on ur door and go

you u can stay IF ur not annoying

vernon⚾️🐈 roundabout way to tell me to leave..

you no u can stay depending how good the food is

vernon⚾️🐈 depending on how good u look in wtv ur making rn

you bro vernon

vernon⚾️🐈 👀 do u call every guy u make out w “bro”

you omg shut up and hurry up

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

You’re bent over your work table, one knee pressed close to your chest, the other crossed flat against the seat, when you hear the quiet doorbell to your studio echo through the empty rooms. 

In the quiet of the studio, above the city hustle and bustle, the doorbell rings loudly, decrescendoing into a whisper of an intrusion. 

You don’t turn immediately – hands busy pinning fabric on the mannequin in front of you. But you know it’s him. He texted ten minutes ago that he was almost there and knowing Vernon, he probably stood stock-still in front of the door, maybe pacing, trying to psych himself up to press the doorbell and double checking if he was at the right address for five whole minutes. 

“It’s unlocked!” you call, voice only slightly muffled by the pins in your mouth as you (attempt) to thread a thin leather string through the bodice only to have it bunch on one side. You hear the door click open, hinges creaking quietly from down the hall. Soft footsteps that stop right in front of the raised entry-way are followed by a couple of shuffles as he takes off his shoes, sliding into the slippers that you set out an hour before. 

When you finally glance over your shoulder, he’s standing in the middle of the entry hallway with a plastic bag in his hand, a black hoodie half-off, slinging off his shoulder, over an ab-showing workout shirt, and cap flipped backwards. 

A ridiculously loud laugh is torn from the back of your throat and you almost fall off your chair at the way Vernon’s face twists in confusion. 

He lifts a hand. 

“Hey,” he greets, low voice soft in the quiet of the studio, mingling with your playlist playing through the speakers. 

“Hey,” you say. 

His eyes sweep over you, then the chaos you’re sitting in – bolts of fabric stacked and pushed away to the dark corner next to your desk, three sewing machines pushed up against the right wall, your own sewing machine humming with a lazily blinking lights, and unfinished sketches taped to the window in front of your desk, a flood-over from the wall-taped sketches. 

He lifts the bag in his hand with the cutest grin you’ve seen. If you were a weaker woman, you would have blushed. “Saved your life. Again.” 

You roll your eyes, motioning him inside your main studio. “Maybe save the gloat for after I eat.” 

He steps inside, brushing past the hanging yards of tulle that you thought you would use but never ended up actually using so you hung hurriedly on the fabric rack bolted high against the wall. He pads over to you and when he sets the bag down on the nearest slightly-clean table, you can smell the scent of his cologne – clean, vanilla, a little spicy and musky. It’s faint, like he put it on hours ago, but the way it still lingers makes your head hurt because he smells exactly the same from that night. He glances around your studio like he always does when he comes here, like he’s trying to memorize all the new wall-taped sketches and discarded fabric pieces. 

He points to a sketch taped on the window, right above your table. “I like that one. Is it new?” 

You pull your hair back, twisting it up into a bun before clipping it off with a claw clip. “Maybe. It will be if I actually finish it.” 

He looks down at you with his brown eyes that look a little bit darker in the dim lights of the studio. It’s a beat too long. You feel it. Like there’s something unspoken sitting right behind his teeth and he’s not too sure whether he’s allowed to say it or if you would both benefit from him swallowing it down whole. 

You can’t stand his gaze – not if it feels like he can read your mind (even the thoughts that are definitely not suitable). So you open the bag to distract yourself. 

The first thing that greets your hungry eyes is two packets of cellophane-wrapped containers of white radish. 

“Okay,” you hum, unwrapping the cellophane carefully, “you did remember the radish.” You lick a droplet of radish juice off your thumb, glancing at Vernon with a grin. “Color me impressed.” 

He shrugs, sitting on your work bench like he’s done it a hundred times. “What can I say? I’m learning,” he mutters, leaning back on his hands. He watches as you open containers, throwing plastic lids into the large garbage can by your desk. The soft pop! of plastic lids fill the space and you can’t help but push some containers of o-deng and pajeon towards Vernon to let him open those as you crack apart two sets of chopsticks, (un)gracefully moving to the floor. Your chopstick shovels a good chunk of crab meat and egg fried rice even before your crossed legs can touch the hardwood floor. 

It’s quiet, aside from the music in the background and your murmurs of holy shit this is so good in between rapid bites. 

Vernon watches you for a while in silence, legs spread out in front of him, leaning back on his hands. His chopstick is untouched – like he takes more pleasure out of watching you eat than eating it himself. 

“You okay?” he asks eventually, noticing a stall in your hurried shovelling of food. 

You glance up at him from your half-empty fried rice bowl. You blink. “Yeah? Just tired.” 

He nods, eyes dropping to your bare legs tucked under you, the way your quarter-zip dips too low on your chest. He clears his throat and looks away fast – too fast. 

You bite the inside of your cheek, setting the bowl and chopsticks down, studying him in all of his post-training, showered, deliciously-smelling glory. You can’t help but stare – at his face, his arms, his chest, everything. And then at his slightly-drooping eyes and slight dark circles that seem to shadow over more in the dim studio lights. 

“You don’t have to stay,” you say softly, poking his leg. “You probably have practice tomorrow.” 

His response is as immediate as it is confident. “I wanna stay.” It makes you blush – the way he says it like he can’t lie to you even if he tries. 

You hum, legs pulled up to your chest and try not to stare the way his forearm flexes when he runs a hand through his hair. It’s shorter, now that you focus on it. Maybe he cut it. Or maybe he’s training you for his inevitable decision of buzzing it all (he mentioned it to you in passing once and you had laughed at him). The silence stretches again, comfortable, but pulsing, like something’s about to break through the thick wall. 

Vernon looks away to the side, mouth opening. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he says suddenly, like it somehow fell out. 

Your breath catches. 

He’s looking down at the floor now, jaw tight. His legs move to sit criss-cross, like this is a serious conversation. “Since the cages,” he starts out quiet – more quiet than you’ve ever heard him – “It’s been…” he pauses, “kinda driving me crazy.” 

You swallow down the breath caught in the back of your throat. “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” he says, finally glancing up. If this were any other conversation, you could have giggled over how blushed his cheeks are. “And I didn’t wanna – fuck – I didn’t wanna make it weird, y’ know?” He searches your eyes like it’ll have the words he needs to finish his sentence. “But then you didn’t really text me after – no, like you did but not really – and I thought, I dunno, maybe – maybe – I–”

Before you can even understand what’s going on, you’re on your knees, leaning forward so that you’re staring him in his eyes with some sort of unfamiliar ferocity. 

“You didn’t mess anything up,” you say, hand lingering on his knee. Your quarter-zip falls off your shoulder from the sudden movement. “Vernon, I just didn’t know what to say. Hey, I missed an entire traffic signal because of how good you kissed me seemed a little cliche and stupid.” You crack a grin. 

Vernon lets out a soft laugh, ears tinting pink. When he looks up at you, brows pulled, lips parted like he’s trying to figure out if this is real, it gets harder for you to breathe. A shaky hand goes up to touch his face – fingers brushing his cheek, thumb grazing under his eye, lingers on the sharp cut of his jaw. His fingers curl around the hem of your quarter-zip, pulling you forward, steadying you with firm hands on your thighs when you jerk forward, falling into his lap. 

“Oops,” Vernon murmurs, but the shadow of a smile ghosting his lips gives him away. And it makes your heart beat out through your ribs. 

“You…” you never get to finish that sentence because you find yourself leaning down to kiss him. 

And when your lips meet his, he melts into it. 

It starts slow. Softer than it was the first time. His mouth opens under yours, and he tastes like the strawberry drink he brought for you, like the past week of restraint cracking open. You sink into him, arms circling his shoulders, and he shifts to pull you onto his lap.

Your legs wrap around his waist, and you feel his hands hesitate at your hips. He pulls back just enough to look at you.

“You sure?” he asks, voice low, slightly hoarse.

You nod. “More than sure.”

And then it unravels.

He kisses you like he’s waited years, not days. Like he memorized the shape of your mouth from that night and has been replaying it on loop. Your hoodie is tugged over your head, and his lips trail over every inch of skin he can find. He leaves kisses down your chest, over your ribs, as you unbutton his shirt with fumbling fingers and way too much anticipation.

You're still perched on his lap, his hoodie long gone, your fingers tangled in his hair when he starts kissing down your neck again – open-mouthed, biting. The low hum of the studio surrounds you — the soft buzz of the desk lamp, the rustle of fabric under your knees, the faint warmth from the space heater in the corner.

"Vernon," you whisper.

He groans softly against your collarbone, your name dragging from his lips like a prayer. His hands skim up under your quarter-zip, fingers grazing your sides with a reverence that has your spine curling. His hands inch up, up, up until he meets the softness of your–

“Fuck, no bra?” Vernon groans, hands stilling on your chest. His lips part from your neck for a second. 

You giggle, leaning into his touch. “Maybe I took it off when you said you’ll come,” you whisper into his ear, watching in sinful delight as he blushes at your words, pushing your quarter-zip up until it’s up over your head. When he throws the quarter-zip to some random corner of the studio, he freezes, eyes frozen on the way your nipples harden in the open air, your hair as it runs down your shoulders, hands kneading your tits like they are made for him. 

“Fuck, you’re gorgeous,” he whispers. His mouth goes down before you can even respond with anything, lips circling a nipple as two fingers go to tweak the other one. His tongue is warm against your skin, rolling, lightly biting, sucking. It’s crazy – the way he knows what you want before you even say anything. It drives you absolutely crazy. 

"Wanna taste you," he murmurs, voice low, thick.

Your breath catches. Your eyes meet his. There’s something unshakably tender about the way he’s looking at you — like this has been haunting him. Like he’s starving and you’re the only thing that’ll fill him.

You nod.

That’s all it takes.

His hands are slow, tender, trailing down your sides as he eases you onto your back, bare skin meeting the plush fur of your carpet. A scarf — forgotten on the floor — is swept aside, discarded like all other distractions.

The round carpet you brought home from Taiwan softens the ground beneath his knees. You’d chosen it because it reminded you of moonlight, round and pale and slightly worn. Now it presses into the bones of his legs as he settles between yours like he's found the only place he's ever needed to be.

He leans in close, breath ghosting warm over the sensitive skin of your thighs. And then he begins.

One kiss. 

Then another. 

And another.

Soft at first — reverent, almost — each one carefully placed along the inside of your thigh. His mouth is warm, and his lips linger like he's trying to imprint the shape of you onto himself. He pauses to breathe you in, lashes fluttering against his cheeks as his hands smooth up and down your legs. One hand wraps beneath your thigh, thumb rubbing small, grounding circles while the other curls possessively around your hip.

Every kiss climbs higher, closer, and your hands instinctively grip at his hoodie, still bunched around his arms — the fabric wrinkles between your fingers, grounding you while everything else begins to blur. He looks up once, eyes dark and earnest, gaze locking with yours like he’s checking if you're still with him, still his. You nod, a breathless motion, and he smiles — just barely — before ducking his head again.

When his tongue finally finds you, it’s slow — intentionally slow. One long, deliberate lick that makes your breath stutter and your back arch from the couch. His mouth settles against you like a man starved — greedy, hungry, but still worshipful. The way he moves feels like he's memorizing you with every stroke — cataloging the way your thighs tense, how your breath catches, the exact sound you make when he sucks just right.

You whimper his name, and his body reacts — shoulders twitching, hips shifting, a soft gasp breaking against you like he feels it too. His fingers dig into your hips as if anchoring himself, but you can feel the restraint — like he’s holding back from tearing the rest of your clothes off and burying himself inside you.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, desperate, the words barely coherent.

He doesn’t. 

He can’t.

When your thighs start to tremble, he groans — the sound guttural, animal — but he doesn’t slow. His arms tighten around your legs, pulling you in closer, locking you into place like you’re the answer to every prayer he’s never dared to say aloud. Your hands slide into his hair, nails scraping gently against his scalp, and his response is immediate: a full-body shiver, a muffled moan into your skin that makes your toes curl.

And when your warning comes — a breathy, broken gasp of please or I’m close, you’re not even sure which — he holds you tighter. He pushes his tongue deeper, faster, more insistent, drinking down every sound you make like he's parched.

You fall apart on his tongue, crying out his name as your whole body tightens, then trembles, then shudders in release. He doesn’t stop. Not right away. He keeps his mouth on you, gentler now, lapping at the aftershocks like he wants to make sure every last wave of pleasure is felt. You twitch beneath him, hypersensitive and dazed, and finally — finally — he pulls back.

His chin is wet, glistening. His lips are pink and swollen, slightly parted like he’s still catching his breath. There’s a dazed, wrecked look in his eyes — the kind of haze that only comes from witnessing something divine.

He blinks up at you like he’s trying to remember where he is, and then, with a hoarse little laugh that barely makes it past his throat, he wipes the back of his hand over his chin and whispers, “You taste like fucking heaven.”

But it’s more than just lust in his eyes.

He looks at you like he’s just been undone. Like your pleasure unstitched something in him he can’t sew back together. And for a long moment, neither of you speak. The only sound is your breathing — still uneven — and the soft rustle of fabric as he leans in, kissing the inside of your thigh again. Slower this time. Calmer. 

Like a benediction.

Like thanks.

You lean up, breathless, cheeks a deep red, tugging him by the collar of his shirt. "Bed," you whisper. "Come here."

His pupils blow wide, as do the rest of his eyes.

You giggle as you grab his hand, scrambling up to your shaky feet, and pull him toward the bedroom — the small tucked-away space past your sewing machine and half-stuffed closet. The lights are soft inside, fairy lights strung in lazy arcs across the ceiling. The bed is already messy, the comforter folded halfway down, pillows too soft to hold structure, the rest of the room packed with machines you don’t need this season and bolts of fabric that didn’t really pass your test. 

He pauses just inside the doorway, hand still in yours, taking it in.

“Holy– the hell?” he mutters.

You blush. “Take your hoodie off.”

He does — slowly, deliberately — and lets it fall to the floor as you sit on the bed, pulling him between your legs. He cups your cheek and kisses you again, deeper now, heavier. And when you lie back on the comforter and he climbs over you, settling into the space between your thighs like he was made for it—it feels like every part of you says finally.

The bed dips under his weight, comforter cool against your back, but the heat radiating from Vernon is all-consuming.

He’s still above you, kissing you like he’s trying to memorize your mouth — hand braced next to your head, the other dragging up your shirt so slowly it’s unbearable. Your skin prickles under his touch, goosebumps chasing every inch he reveals.

"Can I?" he murmurs, thumb brushing just against the waistband of your now-ruined panties. His voice is low, a little wrecked already.

You nod, but your voice is thin. “Fuck, please.”

His eyes hold yours for a moment longer before he pulls your panties down slowly, your legs going up to let him trail his fingers down your bare thighs to throw the panities to a random corner of the room. You reach up, tug at his waistband — a silent demand — and he complies, standing just long enough to strip down to his boxers. When he returns to the bed, all warm skin and toned muscle, you think, this is going to ruin me.

He kisses down your chest, slow, reverent. Your brain is gone in seconds, and then his mouth is on you — warm, wet, tongue swirling in lazy circles that have you arching off the bed. One of his hands grips your waist while the other moves between your legs, pressing over your soaked panties with a hum.

"You're shaking," he whispers.

"You’re taking your time," you shoot back breathlessly.

He chuckles — and then shifts lower. And then… he just looks at you. Drags his hands up your thighs and stares like he’s seen God and she’s spread out on her own damn bed.

"Fuck," he mutters. "You’re beautiful."

You reach for him again, desperate, and he finally gives in, grinding down against your bare core with a low groan. His hips rock once, twice — and you both hiss at the contact. Then he pauses.

“I don’t— I didn’t bring—”

“S’ okay,” you breathe. Your fingers reach for his, eyes never leaving his. “You’re clean, right?” 

He nods almost dumbly, staring at you with toussled hair and parted mouth. 

You gasp in a breath, smiling. “S’ fine, then. I have an IUD.” 

And then it’s like something clicks into place in his brain because his eyes bulge a little as he leans down, biceps shaking, brushing hair out of your face. His next words are almost reverent. “Raw?” 

You hum, kissing his jaw greedily. “Raw,” you whisper teasingly into his ear. 

And then he’s kissing you hard. His hands are a little shaky — not with fear, but with need. Like he’s been dreaming of this for months. Like if he doesn’t get inside you now, he’ll die wanting.

And when he finally does — when he pushes in, slow and careful, your legs wrapping around his waist again — you both go still.

Vernon buries his face in your neck.

“Holy fuck,” he whispers. “You feel— fuck, you feel so good.”

Vernon pauses once he's fully sheathed in you, a low, guttural breath escaping his lips.

"Shit—" he mutters, his voice trembling as his arms brace tightly around you. His forehead presses against yours. "You okay?"

Your legs are wrapped around his waist, your fingers locked at the nape of his neck, body trembling beneath him. It’s a lot. He’s thick and long, stretching you more than you remember, and the sudden fullness has you gasping for air, your walls fluttering around him.

"It’s… it’s been a while," you whisper, biting your bottom lip. "You're just—bigger than I thought."

He groans — actually groans, a sound pulled straight from his chest, jaw clenched like he’s trying not to lose control.

“Fuck—don’t say that. I’m already barely holding it together.”

You laugh breathlessly, cupping his cheek. “You don’t have to move yet. Just stay.”

And he does.

Vernon stays perfectly still, despite the way his hips twitch against yours every few seconds, like his body is begging for friction. One of his hands gently cradles your jaw, the other slips between your bodies to softly stroke your waist, grounding you.

“Just tell me when,” he murmurs, eyes locked on yours.

You focus on breathing, adjusting slowly. He kisses you — slow, deep — his lips pulling moans out of you with nothing but gentleness. And all the while, he whispers against your skin: "You’re doing so good." "I missed you." "You feel unreal."

Your body slowly opens for him, easing into the stretch. The sting dulls into something that makes your toes curl, the kind of pressure that has your thighs trembling with need again.

Finally, you nod, pulling him closer with your legs. “Okay… Move.”

He groans again, this time low and wrecked. He starts to rock his hips, just the smallest roll — and you moan, sharp and high-pitched. His hands tighten on your waist instantly.

“Still good?”

“Don’t stop,” you breathe.

He listens — slow thrusts at first, hips rolling in a deep, steady rhythm that makes your eyes flutter shut. His movements are fluid, controlled, like he’s making love to you with everything he’s held back for months. The stretch is still there, just enough to make every motion feel heady and overwhelming, but now it feels good — so good, it makes you tremble.

Every few strokes, he stops just to kiss you again — like he needs the anchor, or maybe just can’t believe this is real. His mouth trails over your neck, down to your chest, over the curve of your breast.

When he bites gently at your collarbone, you arch, your body clenching around him without warning.

He chokes out a moan.

“Fuck, you keep doing that and I’m not gonna last,” he warns, sweat dampening the strands of hair at his temple.

“You feel—” You gasp when he shifts just right. “—so deep, Nonie.”

Your hands claw at his back, and he picks up the pace just slightly. He’s still holding back — you can feel it, the way his body’s taut above you, trembling like he’s restraining every instinct.

But it doesn’t matter — every slow, deliberate thrust drives you wild.

“Touch yourself f’ me” he murmurs. “Wanna feel you fall ‘part f’ me.”

Your hand slips between your bodies, fingers circling your clit, and the added pressure unravels you. Your moans get louder, body jolting beneath him, and he watches, completely entranced — pupils blown wide, lips parted, sweat glistening across his chest.

Then, you tighten around him again, crying out his name — and he curses, loud, hips stuttering.

“You gonna come?” he pants.

“Close— I’m so close, just—don’t stop.”

And he doesn’t. He fucks you through it, deeper now, pace unrelenting but still somehow careful — so damn attentive even when he’s right at the edge.

You break first.

The orgasm hits you like a wave — your whole body curling, vision blurring, mouth open in a silent cry. Your thighs clamp around him, and you shake, pulling him down with you.

And that’s all it takes.

He lets go, hips slamming into you one final time, face buried in your neck as he moans your name against your skin. His arms wrap tight around you, holding you as he pulses inside you and white hot fills you, so thick and heavy that when he pulls back just slightly to brush a kiss against your sweaty neck, dribbles of white roll down your thighs and it has you whimpering into Vernon’s shoulder. He’s panting through it like he’s never come that hard in his life.

The room goes quiet — just heavy breathing, soft whimpers, and the distant hum of the fairy lights above.

Vernon doesn’t move for a long time. Just holds you. Kisses your cheek. Your shoulder. Your lips.

When he finally pulls out and lies beside you, you take pride in the way his eyes linger at the mix of cum that you can feel run down your thighs. 

He nuzzles you. “Sorry. Clean you up in a bit, yeah?” 

You just hum, wearily moving to wrap your arms around him, nodding. 

He curls around you instantly, one arm slung over your waist, the other brushing your hair off your face.

You’re both still trembling.

“Was it okay?” he whispers again, quieter now. Almost scared.

You turn your head to look at him. “It was perfect. Worth the wait.”

He exhales, relieved, and buries his face in your neck again — smiling against your skin.

“…You sure it didn’t hurt?”

You snort. “I’m a big girl. I can take some good dick.”

Your pulse speeds up when he laughs loudly.

Your breathing starts to settle before his does.

Vernon’s arm is still around your waist, skin sticky against yours, his chest rising and falling fast as he stares up at the ceiling like he’s trying to replay every second in his head. You can feel the tension still lingering in his muscles — not from arousal anymore, but from something softer. Almost nervous.

You turn your head slightly, your cheek against the curve of his shoulder, and whisper, “You okay?”

He lets out a breath. A beat too long of silence follows.

Then—

“I just… don’t want you to think I came here for that.”

You blink.

When you look up, his face is flushed again — not from sex this time, but embarrassment. His brows are pulled slightly, lips parted like he’s not sure if he should’ve said anything at all.

“I know it was kinda fast. And maybe it doesn’t make sense but—” He pauses. “I like you. I mean, I really like you. And this—tonight—wasn’t about just… getting in your pants.”

You can’t help the tiny smile tugging at your lips, even through the exhaustion threading through your bones. If Vernon was any closer, you swear he could hear the way your pulse pounds in your ears from sheer delight. You nudge him gently with your nose, closing your eyes blissfully. “If you were just trying to sleep with me, you wouldn’t have held me like that.”

Vernon goes quiet again. His arms tighten around you just a little.

“…Okay. Good.”

You laugh softly and press a kiss to his chest — right over his heart. It’s racing, still.

He exhales through his nose and shifts onto his side, finally facing you fully. You melt into it without hesitation, curling up instinctively in the circle of his arms as one hand moves to brush your hair back from your forehead.

But now that you’re still — fully come down, the adrenaline gone — the weight of everything else starts creeping in. Your eyelids feel heavy. Your limbs ache in that dull, familiar way that says too many hours, too many nights, too much caffeine, not enough sleep. That and your lower back protests every time you move even a millimetre, which you can probably blame on Vernon.

Vernon notices.

He tilts your chin gently and looks at you closely.

“Hey… when was the last time you properly slept?”

You hesitate. Then mumble, “Don’t ask me that right now.”

He frowns immediately.

“Baby.”

You decide to keep the way you internally scream and your heart races in your chest at the pet name a secret from him forever.

“I didn’t forget or anything,” you lie poorly, burying your face against his collarbone. “I just had deadlines. And fittings. And I didn’t know you were gonna show up and ruin me—”

“Ruin you?” he says with a breathless laugh, even as his hand cups the back of your head. “I wasn’t trying to ruin you.”

“You did,” you murmur, yawning mid-sentence. “But not complaining. Maybe all I needed was to get dicked down to stitch the rest of the sequins on that fucking skirt.”

“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters affectionately, pulling the comforter over your shoulders. “But you hafta sleep.”

You hum softly, letting him shift so he’s slightly propped up, your head resting on his bicep. He runs his fingers down your spine — absent, steady, soothing — and your eyes flutter closed despite yourself.

“I was gonna leave after I dropped off the food,” he suddenly says. “Swear to God. But then you opened the door looking like that and all my good intentions evaporated.”

“Your fault then,” you mumble sleepily. “You seduced me.”

He chokes on a laugh. “I seduced you?”

“Mhm.”

There’s a beat of silence. His hand stills against your back.

“…You really tired?”

You nod, the motion barely there. “So tired.”

He kisses the top of your head and pulls you even closer, like he’s trying to wrap himself around you completely. Your bare legs are tangled, bodies pressed together under the covers. The fairy lights above your head glow softly, the only thing illuminating the room aside from the moonlight slipping through the sheer curtains.

“Whaddaya want in the morning?” he whispers. “Something warm? I’ll order before I leave for training.”

“Training?”

“Yeah. We have morning training for the game tomorrow night.” He pauses. “You coming?”

The slight uncertainty in his voice makes you smile. “‘Course. Wouldn’t miss my boyfriend’s game for the world.”

He laughs again, but this one’s softer, his chin nudging the top of your head. 

“Boyfriend?” he asks, brow raising. 

You nod. “Mhm. Think you deserve a title after dick that good.” 

Vernon lets out a loud laugh that echoes through the room – all high-pitched and throaty. “God.” 

And then he turns quiet. 

“You know,” he murmurs after a few seconds, “this bed’s really small.”

You nod against him. “Told you.”

“And we barely fit.”

“Mhm.”

“…Kinda like it though.”

You peek up at him with one eye, a smirk playing at your lips. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He presses a gentle kiss to your nose. “Means I get to keep you close.”

You nuzzle in again, your heart suddenly too full for your chest. Safe. Sleepy. Wrapped up in the arms of someone who likes you exactly how you are, late nights and all.

“I’m glad you came,” you whisper.

He squeezes your hip. “I’m glad you let me in.”

And then, just before sleep takes you under:

“…You drooled on me a little.”

“Well, you came in me so I think that makes us even,” you retort, already falling asleep, especially with the rhythm of Vernon’s hand patting your back. Before you know it, everything – even Vernon’s soft breaths – goes mute, your body relaxing against Vernon’s firm hold. 

The next morning, you wake up to an empty bed, still vaguely warm, congee in the microwave, and a messily-scribbled note on one of your cat post-it notes you keep on your work desk. 

morning babe. i’m off to practice. i know you told me to wake you up but thought you’d appreciate more sleep than a kiss goodbye from me (gave u one tho). i’ll see you later, yeah? call me when you have time. 

- HVC

You press the note close to your chest, eyes welling up in tears that you’re not too sure are from hormones or something else. Your emotional parade is cut short when your phone buzzes on the nightstand. The screen lights up with a name that has you laughing out a watery laugh. 

vernon⚾️🐈 is calling…

: ̗̀➛ ​🇰​​🇮​​🇸​​🇸​ ❜​🇪​​🇷​ ​🇺​​🇵​ @astrobebba ; @ayupfrogg ; @steamyjaehyun @chwenott ; @toplinehyunjin ; @syluslittlecrows ; @itsclda ; @luminouskalopsia ; @kiachiako ; @81evermore ; @daaaph-lol

[trans-siffrin]

The @askoverkill Director isn't just a Siffrin, they're specifically Loop

(Before starting, I recommend reading starry-voidss's post here, as I will be bringing up much of aer list again. I do not claim ownership of this theory— this post here is basically a compilation of everything I could think, or have heard of.

Obviously, this has art and spoilers from askoverkill and In Stars and Time!)

(Also, this is presented in a bullet list for organisation— hope that's okay!)

1. The Design

If the head shape being the same (-> spiky, white) isn't good enough on its own, there is a couple of things to compare aside from that!

They both have upturned eyes, starry skin/theming, and a star/star shaped symbol in the center of their chest.

(And maybe the fact the ref sheet for the Director says xir mouth "makes no sense", which is understandable considering Loop had none.)

Add to this the resemblance between the Director and Siffrin (eye shape, right eye being [missing/bleeding], and boots with heels).

The Director has red eyes, something Loop also has during their fight during the twohats fight. Her eyes are also described as spirals, which:

Some of the Director's talksprites, namely in this post, have sparkles coming from him.

2. Persona

Same introduction joke. (The same one which made sense for Loop to say because you learn later that they are you/Siffrin.)

The theater themes are also obvious, it's everywhere with the Director; and as we know, it's a huge thing for Siffrin and Loop specifically. But the thing that's especially relevant here is this:

Here, in the first one, Loop refers to Siffrin as a director; but if you've played SASASAP, you'll know that much of these lines are VERY relevant to them also (everything minus the "restarting from the top" still tracks; and well, they are literally using a talksprite literally called "fake1" before getting interrupted).

In the second line, they are directly talking about themself.

Loop basically only refers to the party by their roles (Housemaiden, Fighter, Researcher and Kid) except in specific instances (post-Kingquest end, when they're blaming Siffrin for not protecting Bonnie from the King, and twohats fight, when they're talking about how the party did not recognize them), which is also something that the Director does, as seen for example when they are introducing the cast.

(Also, fun fact: the Director's usage of "the Fighter" vs Isabeau's actual title in ISAT being "the Defender". You know when exactly Isabeau stopped using "the Fighter"?)

(Pictured left: Start Again, pictured right: ISAT)

(You know who else still uses it?)

Also as seen in the cast introduction post, the Director seems very familiar with the party, acting as though she's seen them before (perhaps multiple times), while being surprised at these specific Overkill versions ("I've never seen him so gruff", "You look extra studious today", "you all fit your roles to the T!"). In this post, he appears familiar with the House, recognising the trap and naming the Death Corridor.

Xe absolutely hates Siffrin: skipping them as a party member when introducing the cast, calling him a Tragedy, and stating they aren't even a person. They have repeatedly killed multiple Siffrin, acts hostile towards even Lupus the moment she notices them, and saying they can't wait to kill Dawn as well (namely, by strangling him).

The Director knows about and is connected to Wish Craft, with it being able to modify physical aspects of him.

The Director specifically brings up Siffrin's single Silver Coin when talking about them, implying they at the very least know of its importance to them. (Specifically, when talking about eating him. Close enough, welcome back ISAT cannibalism themes.)

Director states that food tastes rotten or "like nothing" to them, which is as relevant to Siffrin as it is to Loop.

3. Misc.

This spoilered text from the Director's ref sheet very clearly says "a bad wish". You know who else made two (!!) wishes that ended up going badly for them— one that trapped them in a timeloop, and one that took their body away?

The Director uses "blinding" and "stars" as swears.

So have you seen that image of the Director holding Mirabelle's face and telling her she's their favorite actor? I have, and it reminded me of a very specific image—

(Pictured on the right, SASASAP Siffrin, also known as Loop)

The Director is ace. "Just like Siffrin!" Just like Loop too!

The Director is described as having "Flowey vibes". Flowey, a character who 1) lost their body (as Asriel) and soul, 2) was in a timeloop (albeit self caused) for a very long time before someone else with stronger Determination arrived, 3) despises the protagonist until they don't (-> Pacifist ending)… VS Loop, a character which 1) lost their body (as Siffrin) and family, 2) was in a timeloop (unknowingly caused by their own wish) for a very long time before they made their second wish, got turned into Loop and was replaced by another Siffrin, 3) has a kind of hot and cold relationship to Siffrin until they don't

The Director names Overkill as "The Encore of Vaugarde", which seems to imply there was already a play of Vaugarde before this. Now this could simply be that they know the name of the blog/story, but again, they do seem to have already seen (versions of) the party previously...

The Theater Curse is described as "Those who touch a piece of the sky will become a puppet of the Director, playing out an endless play". An endless play, you say?

4. Problems

Loop has been stated to appear. If we have three+ Siffrin (Dawn, Dusk and Lupus and every other one that died in the House), can we have two Loop? Or is the Loop mentioned in that post potentially only a guide in the way they were, while not being Loop themself? Shrug ig

Loop uses they/them and the Director uses every pronoun. (Which is a problem, until you consider that Loop has already changed pronouns in the past, going from he/they as Siffrin to they/them as Loop, so them changing again isn't all that far out the question I don't think...??)

Although Loop fights Siffrin, they are ultimately unable to kill him. What changed here to make the Director not only capable of doing so, but actively doing it multiple times in cruel ways?

Depending on how you interpret this line, the Director potentially knows about the King killing Bonnie; which is something that only happened in ISAT, not SASASAP.

There are also these two lines below, (first one from SASASAP, second is the unused ISAT (Ask...) question), comparing the King to a deity. If Overkill is essentially canon ISAT but stretched to the point of it being "overkill", would these lines imply the King has become a deity...?

(Even if you consider these lines non-canon due to their origins, it is pretty clear that the King at least considers himself a deity— with the whole possesses immense power -> being very tall -> "protecting" Vaugarde by freezing it in time despite everyone's wishes it -> breaking Change God statues, etc...)

(Also, if the Director is indeed Loop, where would the King be?)

—

Feel free to tell me if I've forgotten anything 👍

[wolfertinger]

[keep anon] the thing about salems designs and art is that is honestly doesnt matter what he likes or what he does with his characters- hundreds of artists out there draw flat sexualized characters mostly meant for pinups and porn and they aren't really evil for it (even if i do think them quiet boring) salem just does a narrow, penis-in-vagina t4t version of that. he has to scribble labels all over it because despite all his posting about unconventionally attractive furries he does- at the end of the day- draw pretty conventionally attractive trans furries with only the slightest hints of 'bad' features. His girl mustaches are forgettable little lines on the snout and happy trails that barely read as such on furries, or stretch marks that are such pitifully faded lines that most people won't even notice them. The most defined 'unconventional' trait is their weight, which salem constantly points out and completely shys away from depicting the less common traits like fat necks. Basically the only bar hes clearing on that department is he doesnt quiet draw snatched waist anime girls and call them fat. Its pinups and porn of honestly quiet normally attractive, sometimes fat trans people where almost every single piece includes a "im a (fat) trans person! we can be sexy too!" on it.

this doesn't matter. its not really important. His art is sloppy- it looks really good on first pass because hes good at filters and coloring but if youre looking for mistakes you'll find them easily. He constantly goes 'it takes me 6 hours or a day to do art and thats sooooo hard' even though thats completely normal, expected even- hes just brainpoisoned from being puppychan and posting 4 'finished pieces' within 10 minutes of each other. You can tell her doesn't put… that much effort (in terms of things like research, sketch planning, and cleanup) into a lot of the non-key parts of making a piece if you know art but like. thats not a sin.

the problem. the problem is the same one that puppychan had and he still has because he actually hasn't grown up and learned anything- is that he never stops fucking trying to advertise this all as incredibly niche and brave representation. everythings representation. Im drawing nonpassing transgirl cock representation. fat transboy nonbinding big breast representation. fibromyalgia representation. bottom surgery representation. Everythings representation- but if its not representation hes personally interested it just fucking /stops/. fibromyalgia representation begins and ends at some text about pain and drawing canes that don't really match the character. bottom surgery representation begins and ends with saying a character has it, but never drawing them in any way that would actually imply it (and stopping drawing them immediately) its all representation but its clear he doesn't actually want to think to much about past a quick google search. and frankly, i wouldnt even judge flat 'representation' if he didn't fucking brag about it every second of the day. about how brave and seen people must feel, now that he said this dog was intersex, or this one has bottom surgery, this is a girl with facial hair represented with 2 lines. im breaking new ground!

And even this- wouldnt get me so much if i didnt fucking remember puppychan. puppychan constantly fucking did this, and it was transparently obvious that when puppychan did it was mostly because representation sells. puppychan did care about it on some level, hell magna and tammy have been around ages- but puppychan also did this fucking 'im doing representation, its sooo important' (i will analyze each character and remove or keep the most popular ones) in a way it was kinda obvious saying it was all about getting people to go 'its representation!' or 'theyre like me :)" without caring even remotely about what those mean. so in the end, looking at all this representation that begins and ends with a tumblr reblog and immediately forgetting the details after the first google search… i know its mostly all shallow ass shit. its bait for the people who are either on the lookout or desperate. And yea some of its real- i do believe he actually wants fat people to enjoy his fat art and for it to be mostly grounded for example, i just dont think he does it as earnestly and 'real' or 'niche' as he claims. its all self interest and personal enjoyment marketed as brave and niche representation even if it arguably has less depth than a twitter thread of someone saying their favorite my little pony is transfem

exactly, all of this. especially, the last paragraph. i felt like i was going crazy, watching him repeat the same actions as salem, as when he was puppychan, and no one else seeming to notice. the way he posts, talks, and vies for attention, he is still puppychan, even if he is another alter, even if he is older now, even if he says, it has been years, since puppychan.

i want to remind. he LIED about taking a break from the internet. note the dates, of the post.

THE SAME YEAR HE DEACTIVATED EVERYTHING. HE IMMEDIATELY REMADE. and wolfertinger, was only the second KNOWN account, he tried to run away, to. kungfurevvy was the first. this was DESPITE claiming, the website caused him "massive ptsd". he literally could not stay away from posting online, for attention, for a few months.

he continually lies. and acts as if, he has ever taken a break, since puppychan. he has continued the same behaviors, because he never STOPPED. and he will not stop, as long as he is enabled.

[nerdsinc]

after 30 hours of work, i finally drew every single version of matoro, redesigned in my style! he's my favourite character of all time so i decided to put a ton of love into this drawing. theres lots of little cool details which ill go into more depth on under the cut!

(as always, PLEASE reblog so my art gets circulated!! it would be very, VERY appreciated! thank you, ily!!)

every version of him has a sad expression, though i tried to make it the most prominent in the last three. i think hes just tend to have a sad look in his eyes even when hes not actually that sad.

his 2nd matoran form has the gear part stylized to look like a tail, and i added a shorter version to the 1st matoran form to imply that it just 'grew' over time

his toa inika design has the same tail as the first two matoran forms, but its been broken, the gear no longer on it. it shares the same transparency as the other parts of his design, and is shaped like a lightning strike to call back to how he became a toa in the first place

the toa mahri design doesnt quite have a tail, instead having the tube broken, having the silhouette of a tail without actually being one.

the 2nd matoran design has a scarf, i like to imagine that he wore it almost constantly, but it was taken when he went to karzahni, and he never recovered it. kopaka later did, and ended up wearing it in memory of matoro

every design has the same hair-like mask (originally how i stylize the akaku), and has a asymetric design where one side is a bit longer. the mahri mask looks more like the akaku, however the iden looks less like it, with the ""hair"" being much longer and pulled back. this was to try and show how he didnt really feel like himself as a toa inika, and how that mask was very much so not him (as it was its own separate entity after all) but once he became a toa mahri he felt a bit more like himself again.

i tried to make it look like he was wearing winter gloves in most of the designs, though its most obvious in the 2nd matoran and mahri designs

i stylized the iden a bit so that it looked like he had horns, my thought process there was just kinda "karzahni = hell so i guess it makes sense"

each one has lines under their eyes, with the 2 matorans having ones similar to the markings on the akaku, toa inika having ones similar to the iden that also are meant to subtly look like tear streaks, and the mahri having ones that very subtly are meant to look like the lines on the ignika mask

more red accents on the mahri design, to call back to the red flag, and also to teridax/maxilos

while i didnt draw in most of their weapons, mahri kept the twin cutter and i just made it an attachment to his hand

the red axle piece in the mahri foot piece is actually a piece i thought was included in the set itself. i bought my mahri matoro second hand, and apparently along with him being in bad shape he also just had those parts added there for some reason? so i drew it in thinking that it was correct. just learnt today that that was false. but i like it so im keeping it

there mightve been more details i added, but thats all i remember right now!

[elendsessor]

WILDS SPOILERS BELOW!!!

aka discussing the post game story and the botched return of gore magala

being very nitpicky but there’s something very off about gore magala + the frenzy in wilds and after thinking about it more i feel like i narrowed it down

it’s a real shame too because i absolutely love the fairly revamped fight!!! tempered especially is way more unpredictable. the introduction cutscene was hype as hell and i adore how the horror of frenzy is depicted, since in 4/4u it was fairly tame in cutscenes outside of one instance. (maybe two but it’s kinda an indirect result? seeing ioprey cannibalize the iodrome was sick but they weren’t infected, the zinogre they were fighting was.) i always can’t wait to see gore, but there’s definitely a right and wrong way to bring back a monster.

so uh me being ranty time

-this was an issue in risebreak too but the new art direction the series took toned down how shagaru looks and that extended to gore when parts are broken. shagaru is meant to be angelic—pretty much an angel of death or akin to the grim reaper in some aspects—which, while some of the saturation was to accommodate the nintendo 3ds’s screen, every old school appearance including frontier kept the bright golden sheen its body has. in sunbreak it’s more skin colored??? its most noticeable with gore tho and sadly that extended to wilds. any glimpse beneath the black shell given just looks like skin or molt, not the golden scales it’s supposed to have. again, old school had this, and it makes more contextual sense in that regard, so idfk why they changed it. even without old school it doesn’t make sense.

-this one probably doesn’t bother most but okay world fucked up a lot of returning monster roars (ex. zin having very generic wolf howls) so did expect that for wilds but goddamn the gurgly growls added are bad. again seems to be tied to the realism push but part of what made gore so perfect was how unnatural it was in both looks and sound design. the iconic big roar is literally human screams in reverse plus slightly altered. the deep grunts it made when hurt are unexpected and unfitting, which further added to the alien feel. on a sensory scale for me at least the gurgles are especially bad :(

-being restricted to only the cliffs is also questionable. gore’s “nest” kinda resembles heaven’s mount and sanctuary, but 1. gore roamed outside of those areas, going as far as wooded and grassland biomes, and 2. due to the plot stating frenzy impacted the dragon torch, it should be found in wyveria, too, yet it isn’t. just more context nonsense.

-how the frenzy was implemented is baddddd (and it turns out the frenzied monsters don’t even work as intended anyways (they’re the weakest monsters in the game and don’t have the attack and speed buff they were meant to have) which is extra stupid). in general the existence of the magalas but no frenzied monsters is stupid because that makes their inclusion very unnecessary since it defeats both their purpose and their ecological lore. with sunbreak i feel like it could be justified since shagaru being out of sanctuary and risen shagaru imply magala actually feed off of other diseases/mass extinction events as well (though this can be argued against).

-big story issue in particular is how it feels incredibly tacked on. for me it was really fucking hype, especially with the return of investigations, but on a gameplay and contextual standpoint, being restricted to such a small pool of monsters—most of whom are only found in the cliffs, forest, and hollow—doesn’t make it feel like an actual threat, especially since those monsters tend to be on a lower threat level. the true terror of the frenzy was that no living being save for elder dragons were spared, with wyverns suffering the worst of it. wilds definitely built off the former using the story cutscenes and rove, as previously the infection impacting humans/lynians/wyverians was just implied (the hunter being the only example of a human being impacted), so the open clarification is a welcome inclusion. the restrictions really bog down that threat, though.

4/4u also made sure to show the ecological impacts, with monsters normally under the radar, posing minimal threat, or in other habitats suddenly coming out of the woodworks and fucking up the natural balance. this included elder dragons too, with dalamadur and gogmazios emerging as a result of changing times.

with wilds it really isn’t well displayed? while the game claims oh the inclemency has greatly damaged the environment, it’s not shown outside of just having that be the only weather option until you beat all the apexes. arkveld’s reintroduction showed several monster corpses, so at least they could do that, or make environmental hazards more dangerous and frequent, but it’s really just the same. essentially a lot of telling not showing.

speaking of arkveld, man you can’t tell the “frenzy infecting the water supply trickled to arkveld and made it berserk” was just a tact on reason behind why you can fight it and why frenzy got included when the actual justification was right there???? guardian arkveld could only properly eat via elemental absorption, so while next gen arkveld have proper organs, they’re still underdeveloped and they have the instinctual need to harvest elemental energy, hence why they continue to wreak havoc. frenzy doesn’t fit that.

it just feels like nostalgia bait or justification for bringing back gore without actually making any impact.

-also miss how normal monsters would suddenly fall ill and then get the frenzy, not always appearing as frenzied??? again more contextual sense that also enhances gameplay and worldbuilding.

-in general the entirety of the high rank story feels rushed at best, with no significant fights save for normal ark and gore, leaving the inclusion of frenzy and gore absolutely pointless. if they have no impact, why is the frenzy plotline there?

cool to see a few returning monsters but they were already shown off. i’m sure future updates will build on this, but that doesn’t excuse the lackluster writing and content. seriously a lot of it would’ve been fixed with a few more surprise monsters and shagaru (because having gore without shagaru makes no sense) along with more frenzied monsters and uses for frenzy crystals. then again this game is allergic to having elder dragons which makes all but three monsters capturable (two which are one time story fights) which definitely doesn’t cheapen the endgame at all so maybe we’ll never see shagaru. who knows.

also maybe it’s for the best we don’t get more frenzied monsters until a future update when they fix how frenzy works because again, frenzied monsters are the weakest monsters in the game, and are essentially glass canons minus the canon. literally just the monster with less health, the ability to inflict (a very weakened version of) the frenzy, and nothing more.

idk lemme know if i’m stupid or if anyone else is bothered by this.

[anonzentimes]

Hello!

What is your opinion on danganronpa 2.5?

hello anon! thank you SO MUCH letting me ramble!!! :)

I really do love Danganronpa 2.5, I think it's really cool that they explain more how everyone was waken up, I also adore that the plot is based off of statements in Danganronpa 2 only elaborating and exploring them more. Not only that, but they make it all about Nagito who's the same character that is complex enough to have three entire songs haha!! So it works out well.

2.5 reverses Nagito's luck cycle which makes it easier to understand and I really love it. It also adds the statement that truly Nagito would rather have his luck not harm others but rather help them and harm himself, there's also the detail that Nagito's luck is so prominent in his life that even in a world made by his subconscious it is always there. It also implies he deep down wishes talent didn't exist which is something he'd never admit or even know he felt with his unhealthy obsession and dedication with hope and the ultimates!!!

I really enjoy world destroyer too, I think his scenes are very interesting, like, ok man thanks for pulling up with your FINGER GUNS??? It's super cool!! His design is pretty interesting too even if it's just adding to Hajime's preexisting one.

I also like the detail that alongside Nagito's own death the memories that he remembers most vividly is Hajime's smile and his time with him which is just very sweet

The moments with Makoto and Sayaka being out of character because Nagito views them, especially Makoto, so highly is super funny too. Kazuichi and Fuyuhiko's friendship is also fun and something we don't get to see often! The background characters we get to see are also just very fun.

I find it really interesting that by swapping Nagito's belief with the opposite it's basically telling what the genuine issue is in their world because his beliefs stems from the flawed ideals of hope's peak. The issue in their world isn't the talentless, it's the talented. No one is happy, talentless people feel worthless, and being talented is exhausting in its own way. All of the social pressure of not being treated as humans being at its most extreme in this world is upsetting for most everyone.

also this Parallel makes me lose my MIND!!!!!!

Danganronpa 2.5 has a lot of REALLY good stuff going on for it, I think the only complaint I see about it is Nagito's "contradiction," which I'll talk a little bit about!

Basically, people like to point out that with Nagito's suicide plan he should have been more upset, "He never believed in Hajime though?"

I've seen a few pretty good interpretations of it, but the one I think makes most sense is that he was talking more to Izuru kamakura since he had gotten his memories back. Nagito's old and new memories merge together, he remembers pretty much everything. Which is why he sees Izuru first, then corrects himself seeing Hajime, and Hajime replies that they're both him.

Nagito then says he knew he'd make it to the lowest stratum, and that he believed in him. Basically saying that Izuru could do anything.

Maybe he believed the supposedly Bad luck from going into the Neo World Program would end up in Good luck? It's unclear a bit, but I definitely believe he's talking to Izuru a bit at the very least. Mostly because if he believed in Hajime in the killing game his luck cycle wouldn't have gone, good luck: the traitor was selected, bad luck: the plan didn't work and they lived.

Nagito has known Hajime and Izuru now and accepts him for who he is. It's honestly really sweet. Hajime himself has grown and accepts Nagito for who he is as well. They both forgive each other and it's just really sweet. They've been through a lot!

Overall little rambles aside, I think Danganronpa 2.5 is really lovely. It adds more to Nagito's character, tells more information about how the class woke up while using actual text from Danganronpa 2, and is just super fun! I love Danganronpa 2.5 a lot.

[dw-flagler]

In this post, I will attempt to calmly, reasonably, and in-a-good-faith-manner argue all the points raised by tumblr user @library-bat-girl in the following posts. I am starting a new thread so as not to further destroy the original poster, @skitterenjoyer's, tumblr notifications. Worm (+MHA) spoilers ahead. This will be a long post.

Firstly, I would like to apologize on the worm fandom's behalf. We will not engage in ableism of any kind. I sincerely hope that this was a singular incident and @skittersdrippygirlcock will be better about this in the future.

"MHA has better characters,"

My Hero Academia's primary achievement, I think, is managing to make many decently well rounded characters in a fairly short time-span. It certainly has very good visual character design, with easily memorable character designs, like Mina Ashido or Tsuyu Asui. Most of Class 1A is shown to be more than single-note gimmick characters. For a story with such a tight schedule, and only so much page real-estate, that's impressive! For instance, a character decidedly outside of the main cast, Fumikage Tokoyami, is shown to have more to his personality than "is an edgelord," showing a humility and friendliness that is highly against-type. This is very different than a lot of its peers, especially in Shonen manga, where side characters (and sometimes even main characters) are never more than their tropes (see Fairy Tale, One Punch Man*, The Seven Deadly Sins, or Black Clover). My Hero Academia does clear that bar, by making side characters little more than their tropes. This is to say nothing of the primary cast, who, again, is largely defined by tropes and easily slotted into standardized interchangeable Shonen roles. Rival, Love Interest, Rival but Nice About It. Additionally, MHA has an uncomfortably sexualized main cast, for one composed primarily of minors.

This is compared to Worm, in which many characters are fully realized and could have been the protagonist (and often were in older drafts of the story, due to Worm's 10-year development hell). Every character that gets an interlude, and most that don't, all have fully realized interiority, traumas, and wants. In fact, this is one of the major themes of Worm. Every character, from the protagonist Taylor, to characters so minor they're seen only once (see Damsel of Distress, Dauntless), to major antagonists and monsters (see Jack Slash, Bonesaw) all have their own story, even if this is never shown on-screen. There are no "side characters" in the same manner as in My Hero Academia, because every character is a protagonist of their own story, and not in a trite "life is so beautiful" way.

Taylor isn't the center of the universe, there's an entire world outside of her 3-block bubble. The mechanism by which all characters get their superpowers means that the mere fact of having powers implies this about them. Even the seeming exceptions, aren't (see Alexandria, Garotte). Taylor is a good character. I don't even know how to elaborate on that. She just is. Worm does not have the character Minoru Mineta.

"a better plot,"

What... what is the plot of My Hero Academia? For the life of me, I can't seem to recall. I can tell you the general formula of most of the arcs for the first ~2/3rds of the story. Class 1A goes to do a hero high school thing, like do rescue training, or on-the-job training, or on-the-job-training, or on-the-job-training (they do it like 4 times for some reason), the League Of Villains shows up (even when it's seemingly not the league of villains it actually is the league of villains) they fight about it, the class beats all the villains, and Deku beats up strongest bad guy and also breaks his bones. Repeat step 1. But like. What's... the plot? The League of Villains is evil and wants to kill people and do bad stuff. They explicitly do not have greater motivations. There's generally themes of passing-on-to-the-new-generation, so there's Tomura Shigaraki as the arch nemesis to Izuku Midoriya, just as All Might's Nemesis is All For One. Eventually they fight a big fight about it and I stop reading because I find out about Worm. From what I understand (I have not read the conclusion) the series ends without addressing any long-running questions, wrapping up any character arcs, or concluding anything in a narratively satisfying manner. As if severely rushed.

Worm, there are maybe 15 main stories going on simultaneously, which are all tied into the final confrontation with Scion. The most obvious is Taylor's and the Undersiders' story, about taking over Brockton Bay and defeating Coil, which is a smaller part of Coil's story about taking over the bay, until their confrontation with him in arc 17, when it supersedes Coil's story, and then intersects with Cauldron's story, the Traveler's story, the Case 53s' stories, the Wards' story, all of it, in arcs 18-19. This is one example. A great deal of attention is spent making sure the reader knows that Taylor, the Undersiders, Coil, all of them, are bit players in a very large game. Despite this, it's never hard to follow, because Wildbow, while lacking some of the more flowery prose, manages extremely well at making his stories easy to understand.

"I feel like even people who like Worm can agree that Worm is not the most consistent piece of fiction ever written. The disjointed way it was written meant that emphasis was primarily put on 'What Wildbow thought was cool in the moment', [sic] and the story RADICALLY shifts gears every time a new arc starts."

What? Huh? Worm is extremely consistent. Like. 1.1 to E.x. It's, like. Not disjointed? Oh my god, are you talking about interludes? Is that what you mean? The interludes shift gears? Because that makes sense. It's one of the hardest things about worm, yeah. It's gripping! The interludes are a great idea to expand the world of worm, but the problem is that taylor's story is so intriguing that stepping away from it to focus on something else is hard, no matter how individually interesting. I want to read about taylor's escalation spiral, not the travelers! (As opposed to My Hero Academia having random escalation and de-escalation between arcs with no real explanation. We're reading about lives-on-the-line battles with child-slavers and then move to playing on a playground with little kids? Best I can think of is that this whiplash is intentional, but this is never communicated to the reader. Worm does not do this. Any de-escalation is met with the explicit understanding that this is merely a period of calm before things get even worse). Taylor's story wraps up in an extremely narratively satisfying fashion, following her story to its logical conclusion. There were so many ways it could have been avoided, but there was really only one way that it could have ended.

"better worldbuilding,"

This actually offends me. MHA could have had great world-building. It doesn't. Every potentially interesting bit of world-building is backpedaled out of or stopped before it could get anywhere. Or it's just never elaborated or expanded upon. Everyone having a superpower could have been cool, but the implications of this are nonexistent. The reasons for this having no real implications, that being the banning of quirks, also has implications that are also immediately backpedaled out of. It's been hundreds of years since our time, yet life is exactly the same. Nothing ever happens. Endeavor is a cool concept. I like Endeavor. his existence implies such interesting things about the world, how important hero ranking is to these people's lives, that he would create this horrific system of domestic abuse to try and get to the #1 spot. What does this say about this system of heroes that operates like a popularity contest? It could have said a lot. It says nothing. What does the League of Villains, a league of people who call themselves out-and-out villains, who base their ideology in opposing this system of heroes, say about society? Nothing. On purpose. Worm does something with this. One Punch Man does something with this. My Hero Academia puts it in the story, and lets it sit, unused, for a decade.

Worm has... unique world-building. Because it's both good and bad at the same time. Worm's #1 feature is its world. It's brilliant, full stop. Triggers, The Birdcage, the PRT, Exclusion Zones! Why does the status quo exist? what does it say about that society? What does it say about our society? Why hasn't society radically changed from how it is in our world? This is explained. This plays into the themes. The story wants to say something about this world, and so it does. There are characters whose stories explicitly delve into these themes that are set up in the worldbuilding, like Armsmaster, or Battery, or Bonesaw, or Coil, or Piggot or Alexandria or Taylor herself or Brian or Lisa or ANY OF THEM THEY ALL DO THIS. Sorry.

Anyway, the bad part is that the actual world is not well built (and is kind of racist). What's going on in Europe? There's a 3 blasphemies! a 3 what? never explained. What's going on in Asia, aside from Japan? China is a monarchy for some reason. Why? It's never elaborated on. India gets a little bit of elaboration, we're told its different but not how it's different. Wildbow uses machine translation wrong and names some guy caliph of dogs. This is like worm's #2 problem honestly (#1 is Amy). Wildbow tries to make the implication of a well thought out globe without actually making a well thought out globe.

"stronger themes,"

It really doesn't. As I said in the worldbuilding section, MHA makes a point out of not saying or doing anything. I don't know if editors made Horikoshi walk back the more ambitious story beats or what, but there are multiple points in the story where the author pretty much looks you directly in the eye and goes "This Story Isn't Saying Anything At All Even Though It Looked Like It Would. Lmao."

Worm has lots of themes. I think Armsmaster/Defiant's story is my favorite. His entire character arc (which is fully realized despite him being a background character for nearly the entire story) has a point to it. It says something. It's misanthropic and uplifting simultaneously, and manages to feel like it earns both. It's a shared theme with Bonesaw/Riley's story, explored in two different ways.

"Meanwhile MHA establishes an actual overall theme/message right from the start that expands and develops throughout the story. The worldbuilding is informed by the message, which informs the characters arcs and the people they become by the end of the story."

I notice that you never actually say what that message is. What is it? Like, for real. I'm not being confrontational or anything, like what is the message? Cuz' I can't think of one. My Hero Academia, at its very core, is a defense of the status quo. Much like its world-building, but much less forgivable, because it does do something new and unique with its world-building. MHA could have done some extremely interesting stuff with its early implicit critique of heroic society as shown with characters like Bakugo, or Shigaraki, or Endeavor, or Overhaul, or Midoriya himself! It just doesn't! It doesn't do stuff that Worm does do!

Worm does have a message. It has a lot of messages, actually, some that the author disagrees with somehow. Prison abolition, for one. We know Wildbow loves prison. Anyway, the big one is in the subtitle: doing the wrong things for the right reasons. Taylor's constant spiral of escalation, her dwindling attachments to her friends and greater focus on treating herself like a soldier is prevalent, and it is to be avoided. Taylor isn't a sin-eater. They don't exist. From what I remember, this is sort of explored in Deku's character arc for a short period of time, but much like everything else in MHA, it is backpedaled out of.

The funniest is "don't text and drive" though.

"Just on a basic level the way that the audience is meant to feel about Taylor oscillates wildly between being directed to think of her as a misunderstood victim of circumstance, or history's greatest monster."

That's kind of the point. Like. the audience isn't meant to look at Taylor the same way throughout the entire story. It's meant to change as she changes. Taylor's opinion of Taylor changes. The mistake here is saying it "oscillates wildly." it doesn't. It's a slow and steady change for the worse, as Taylor gets more violent and starts throwing away greater and greater parts of herself to become more like a robot and less like a person.

"But a bigger issue in general is tone. It's very focused on being dark and gritty and edgy, and it makes the mistake a lot of consciously edgy media does. IE: it thinks that all it has to do to be smart is be bleak and/or graphic. It doesn't really try to say anything, in fact it contradicts itself throughout the book as I mentioned before, it just throws in extremely graphic scenes and content periodically to remind the audience how fucked everything is."

Did you read the boys and think it was worm? What? It's not being smart when it's bleak or graphic? I actually personally like the endbringers or the slaughterhouse 9, and not because I like watching people suffer. These things exist for a reason. It's not being dark for the sake of being dark. The heroes could stop the slaughterhouse 9. We see that, when they almost stop the slaughterhouse 9 (it's explicitly shown that they are stopped from destroying the slaughterhouse 9). The question then becomes why don't they? It's a grim, brutal calculus, and one that wasn't worth it. That's the point. The Endbringers are different. It's not until arc 27 that they're really explained. You could either read them as a criticism of Eidolon or of ableism, honestly. I mean, it wasn't intentional, he didn't create them on purpose, he needed something to fight, because without that he's nothing. His powers are all he has.

"Worm spends so much time trying to be edgy that as with a lot of edgy media the edginess loses all impact quite quickly and becomes sort of cringe."

I don't really think so, but like. Okay. I don't think this is a reconcilable viewpoint (none of this is really but this especially), so like we're probably gonna have to agree to disagree. The only thing I can really think of as edgy for the sake of edginess is Amy's arc. But even that's not really true. It's meant to be an utterly avoidable tragedy that could never have been stopped because of the people involved. Much like Taylor, actually. Amy could have stepped back from the brink, but she didn't, because Amy could never have done that, and nobody else was willing/able to help. It's supposed to be a thing where you sit back and think of all the tiny ways this could have easily been avoided, but wasn't.

"When body horror happens it still has impact because it's not happening constantly."

I mean, I guess. But like. I never got desensitized to the body horror in Worm. It hit pretty consistently for me throughout. As opposed to MHA, where it was usually walked back by the end of every arc. I never felt much tension or suspense because it felt as if there weren't actual consequences. In Worm, when Brian was strung up on his nerves, it felt disgusting because I was fully aware Worm would explore the ripple effects of this. It felt entirely possible he would die there, or never recover, because Worm didn't pull its punches. MHA did. This is a matter of opinion. We'll just have to agree to disagree about it.

"But most importantly - you root for the heroes because the world actually seems like it's worth saving."

that's just, um. sorry. I'm really trying here. That's just. Uh. Dumb. Do you root for Batman cause Gotham is a nice city? Everything's worth saving, that's, like, at its most basic what the concept of a superhero is about.

"Not only that but MHA simply does villain protagonists objectively better than Worm."

um. No? There straight up aren't villain protagonists in MHA. The villains are the POV characters for, like, one arc? You know what, here's a good spot for it. It's stated throughout the story that Shigaraki and the League of Villains have a goal, beyond just death and destruction. They're here to stop the corrupt society of heroes (that MHA hints at the existence of before backpedaling away from), and bring about a fairer society. But then, and this part pissed me off, one of the characters, I think Bakugo, says: "you're just using that as cover! you just want to kill people, you have no noble goal!" and shigaraki's like "dang you caught me." and then it happens again with Deku! Because My Hero Academia is allergic to saying something. Nope! They're villains! No moral depth here! They're Villains, We're Heroes, Go Put Them In Jail.

This is opposed to Worm, where- "The characters of the villains and their origins are used to highlight the flaws in the Superhuman society"

"Most of the villains are only villains because society failed them in some way, and the specific ways in which that happened become big plot points that then play into the future arc of our heroic characters."

I had to walk away from my computer for this one. It's hard to be civil. It's really hard. Polite and reasonable.

So Worm is about this. To even say this without a shred of irony makes me thing you've never once read a single word of Worm and are doing this purely as bait. Or you've read all of Worm and are doing this purely as bait.

"They're actually extremely complex in a way that ends up being fundamentally important to the overall story - where in Worm the villains are either based heroes fighting a corrupt system or they're histories [sic] greatest monsters... until they're presented as heroes again."

I think I get it now. I really think I do. You're not supposed to agree with all the characters. Like. Worm is inconsistent, in that it follows the perspectives of inconsistent people. Of course Triumph and Armsmaster don't agree on what is right! They're different people, they have different perspectives!

"See. Worm fans keep saying "This is Bait." It's not Bait, you all are simply ridiculous and obsessed with this series to such a degree that you feel compelled to say "This is Bait" instead of just... ignoring it, because you have no actual counterargument."

Perhaps worm fans are inclined to believe you posted rage bait because you brazenly walked into another fandom's post and wholeheartedly proclaimed that the thing they liked was Stupid Idiot Bullshit For Fucking Morons, and refused to elaborate until prompted, at which point you said several things that are demonstrably false about Worm.

"Your only response to anything I've said is pedantry, bigotry, and deflection. If it was obviously just bait why are you engaging?"

Well, I'm engaging because I've been in a foul mood since I woke up this morning. Also because you, again, said some very rude and patently false statements about a story that I really enjoy and find narratively rich, even in its faults.

"MHA's characters do fall into archetypal shounen character roles - but they are all given a solid amount of focus explaining why they are like that and developing them into something bigger."

Again, as I said, it's a genuinely impressive feat to have an ensemble cast like what My Hero Academia has, and give so many of the characters a degree of depth, with such little manga to work with. I think worm does it better, but worm doesn't have to be economical about it. MHA does. The problem I have with this statement is that it becomes a question of scale. How much bigger? They're no longer defined by their tropes, instead defined by their opposition to their tropes. It's still a one-note character, you've merely changed the note from C to C sharp.

"so almost every member of the cast has an arc that either develops them past the person they initially seemed to be or explains why they're like that."

This is probably my favorite part about MHA. They do have arcs! I love ensemble casts! it does a much better job in this than all of its contemporaries, even One Piece. However, they are comparatively simplistic arcs that all follow a similar formula.

"I've heard people say MHA is neocon or pro-establishment but the story literally concludes by showing that society HAS TO FUNDAMENTALLY CHANGE or the same problems that created the villains in the first place will keep happening. The entire time skip specifically focuses on the fact that for eight years the main characters have been forcing change in the world and addressing the issues the villains brought up."

Now, I'm going to be clear. I stopped reading My Hero Academia around chapter 275. I don't know the exact number, but it was the latest chapter in ~mid 2020. I would occasionally attempt to reread, in an attempt to catch up, but give up around chapter 200 out of boredom. I don't know exactly how the story ends, but I have read ~2/3rds of the story. I feel this gives me a pretty good understanding of the general tone of the story, unless it wildly changes tone at the 3/4ths mark, which you have explicitly said it does not, as it is extremely coherent and consistent. Therefore, I believe I can state with some degree of confidence that MHA does not do that.

I would certainly believe that it tries (and fails) to SFP it, but SFP does not promote a fundamental societal change. That's the problem. Strong Female Protagonist was willing to come up and say that Alison lived in a fundamentally unjust world, even if it was never willing or able to offer real change. And hey. You do what you can. I sincerely doubt My Hero Academia is even willing to call its world fundamentally unjust, from the 200+ chapters that I did read.

"In the case of the actual main characters, they have extremely comprehensive character arcs."

Adding this behind the last point just so that I don't have to reiterate I haven't finished the book. I am, however, very much not inclined to believe the actual main characters had extremely comprehensive character arcs.

Which plays back into the initial theory that ANYONE CAN BE A HERO.

man, spider-man did that better (not a real argument, but like, spider-man totally did that better). Not least because midoriya specifically could not become a hero were it not for all might giving him a power.

No, the Villains don't get happy endings,

Why not? Why do they go to jail, even the ones who changed and wanted to redeem themselves? Endeavor never goes to jail. He did some horrible stuff. He's redeemed himself in the eyes of the story, right? Anyone can be a hero, right? So why not them? Why haven't they redeemed themselves in the eyes of the story?

You may wish to turn this back on me and ask why doesn't Armsmaster go to prison? Because he's similar in some respects. But worm never calls prison justice. (for some reason, even though wildbow totally loves prison). Prison is punitive, a tool for those in charge to control those it manages to capture. Maybe some deserve life in the birdcage. Many don't. It doesn't matter. Because the birdcage isn't a tool of justice. It's not meant to be. it's a box to put the uncontrollable capes in, until they can be used as meat shields. So Armsmaster doesn't go to prison because the story says explicitly there is no point to it. But MHA? MHA says there is a point to it. Endeavor needs to go to prison if he wants to atone. He's escaping justice every second he's outside.

I have actually read Worm, and for the first half to two thirds I loved it.

Weird. That's exactly how long I really enjoyed MHA. Not, like relevant, to anything. Just odd. I mean, I don't actually dislike MHA. I think it's fine, actually. It feels like Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade to me. Funny (when Mineta isn't around), bombastic, and a good time, even if I don't think it's super thematically rich.

I'm not coming at this from the perspective of someone who has never seen any of the merits of Worm, I'm coming at it from the perspective of someone who really liked it, gave it a fair shot, and was eventually disappointed when it ended up not tying together right.

See, this makes me more inclined to think it's bait, actually. since you said "Oh yeah. MHA is published. MHA's been an ongoing publication with a large following for ten years, in a notoriously competitive industry. Now this might seem kind of unimpressive, it's a very low bar to clear I know. But it's one Worm hasn't, so. I dunno, I'd say that's fairly objective. Now you may think "Yeah, but Trash fiction gets published all the time." And that's true but again - Worm hasn't. The worst piece of fiction you can think of got published and Worm didn't. You wanna be an asshole about this? The thing you love is so mid that it was self published in 2013, couldn't get picked up for professional publishing until 2019 and as far as I can see has stayed in development hell since then." in your previous post. Sure, perhaps we can say you were pissed at the time, but "the thing you love is worse than trash fiction, an altogether nothing piece of literature that isn't even worth the paper it would hypothetically be printed on" does not strike me as the words of someone who "really liked it, gave it a fair shot, and was eventually disappointed when it ended up not tying together right." In fact, going back through your other statements on the story, you seem to have genuinely disliked it from the very beginning, on grounds of being too edgy (which I can fully understand the logic of): "IE: it thinks that all it has to do to be smart is be bleak and/or graphic," thematically incoherent: "It doesn't really try to say anything, in fact it contradicts itself throughout the book as I mentioned before, it just throws in extremely graphic scenes and content periodically to remind the audience how fucked everything is," and utterly devoid of purpose or meaning. "When it does introduce new lore that new lore is almost always overly convoluted and acts as a catalyst for things happening, but not really things happening that play into a wider theme or message. It's just "Oh and here's this team of god-level serial killers who are gonna string a dude up by his nervous system." Like yeah, cool visual, but what is any of this actually saying?" This does not sound like a ringing endorsement of the first half of Worm to me. In fact, this sounds like you hated every second of it.

"And frankly given the number of comments that are just people saying "Bait" - I don't think any of y'all have engaged with this in a fair or honest way"

I'm going to reiterate on my previous statement. I like my hero academia. Capeshit is my favorite genre, it probably always will be. They're my favorite genre of story. While I find the themes—or lack thereof—extremely frustrating, I still think of it as fun. I gave it a fair shake. I would probably really enjoy the ending if I didn't have a reading list that was 300 books long.

[moobloom-mention]

To Wait for You Would Mean to Wait an Eternity (And By Then It'd Be Too Late)

Part 1 || Part 2 || Part 3

Summary: Macaque escapes his own death by refusing to interfere with Wukong's JTTW. Besides, Flower Fruit Mountain needs a king that'll nurse it back to its golden age, a role he believes he'll fit quite well.

Too bad Wukong isn't one to enjoy returning to his kingdom to find it overthrown by his own moon.

Content Warning(s): Implied Death

Word Count: 5758

----------

If Macaque was asked what his favorite thing about Flower Fruit Mountain was, he’d be the first to admit his fondness for its consistency.

Having risen amidst the calm waters of Earth’s equator, the island had never known the harsh bark of seasons demanding a change of climate, forever encapsulated in a state of spring if only to nurture its vibrant garden of flowers and trees.

The sky, too, never strayed far from the familiar status of clear, the sun’s routinely appearance a gentle glow everso eager to warm the fur of whatever little one had chosen to lounge about in its rays. Rarely was the sun ever blocked by the startling appearance of clouds and rain, their designated gods not daring to tread foot upon the island less it’d been deemed absolutely necessary.

Macaque supposes their fear of going anywhere near Flower Fruit Mountain meant that at least something good to come out of Wukong’s past claim as king. The sage may have disappeared from the mortal plane at least a few centuries ago, but not many beings were willing to take the risk encountering the ire of Wukong just to step on the island’s beach.

But whilst the implied protection very-well scared off any celestial beings or demons seeking new territory, it’d never exempted Macaque from needing to console little ones and fix whatever problems that’d frightened them.

He’d long outgrown the capability of counting on his hands just how many times he’d awoken at the first mention of sunlight to small monkeys hopping frantically atop his bed with urgent cries- ones painfully dismissive of his six ears -howling, “Macaque! Macaque! We lost [insert random number] banana trees last night-!”

Of course, Macaque- even amidst battling the thrall of sleep and his newly formed migraine -would always be mindful in comforting whomever had woken him, reminding them that he’d assist with planting more trees to replace whatever they’d lost. Sure it’d take a good year for the saplings to sprout and bear fruit, but that’d give them plenty of time to ensure other food alternatives remained bountiful.

Besides, if finding a few dead trees ended up being the annual tragedy his kingdom would need to face, Macaque couldn’t find himself bothered by the occasional rude awakening.

But to be savagely dragged from the comforting embrace of sleep by something heavy thumping hollowly against his forehead?

Yeah, no. He’ll take small hands shaking him awake anyday.

“Wha-?”

“Oh good, you’re not dead,” a familiar voice heaves somewhere to Macaque’s left, and he winces as the same hollow sound- which he now recognizes is a scroll -clatters violently against the stone flooring of his bedroom. It’s a harsh noise that harmonizes awkwardly with the distant chitters of other little ones roaming about the upper tunnels of the cave system. “I was beginning to think I’d have to handle the end of the world by myself-”

Now that puts distance between Macaque and the thick tendrils of sleep he’s still partially ensnared by, the king’s ears flattening in brief sorrow as he forces himself from the comforting warmth of his bedsheets and onto his feet.

He’s almost certain the little one that’d struck him is Èzuòjù, a blonde gibbon that’d never been the type to fear Macaque growing angry over his wild antics. Of course, Macaque’s genuine temper was a difficult thing to evoke, but it was the youthful spirit’s bravery that’d gotten him in good graces with the antisocial king in the first place.

Alas, it isn’t the familiar grin of a gibbon that greets Macaque’s brief scan of his bedroom, his eyebrows pinching as he finds an oddly short wall of bamboo scrolls seemingly floating across the floor. It takes an embarrassingly amount of time before he realizes that his library hadn’t suddenly learned the art of levitation, but that it was Èzuòjù himself dragging the heavy things across the room.

It’s an odd sight, really, the little one never having been the type to take an interest in reading. Learning to verbally translate Mandarin? Sure. But stealing Macaque’s reading material?

Maybe the world really was ending.

Wait-

Macaque hisses as the damning thud of a migraine vibrates against his skull, pressing a hand to his eyes if only to quell the pain and attempt to chase aside the fog of sleep still triumphantly seeking refuge behind his gaze.

The noise of discontent that’d managed to surface feels far too muted as well, his tongue heavy and uncooperative despite the verbal communication and sheer mental load this situation is bound to demand from him. “Why- my scrolls? And the world- why is the world ending?”

“The sky’s black,” Èzuòjù announces, helpful as per usual in his report. The wall of scrolls hesitates once before it clatters to the ground, Macaque’s thudding ears echoing the unapologetic “-oops-” that’s carelessly tossed his way.

“And,” the little one drawls with newfound disinterest in the pile of scrolls as he lifts his gaze toward the other. Macaque blinks expectantly when Èzuòjù suddenly pauses, the gibbon’s previous expression of quiet triumph quickly dissolving into one akin to shock. “Holy shit, you are dark.”

Ok-ay.

The world is ending.

The world is ending and it’s all because…the sky is black.

And because Macaque is dark. Whatever that could mean.

A disorientated sound claws its way up the back of his throat and he almost entertains the thought that this could all just be apart of some prank. Macaque was never the quickest to gain coherent thought after being abruptly woken, and Èzuòjù wasn’t the type to pass the opportunity to terrorize Macaque’s occasional moments of peace.

The worlding ending wouldn’t even make sense in the first place; Earth was far too early in its cycle for the Heavens to let it die, and well, the sky being black wouldn’t be anything new.

It’d only mean that the moon was still in its first phases, too weak for its light to reach the Earth and declare that Macaque should definitely be fast asleep instead of doing whatever this is.

“…and?”

The gibbon stares a beat longer before visibly shaking himself from whatever spell had possessed him. “It’s noon.”

Heavens above, no wonder Èzuòjù thought he died. He’d overslept, badly, and now it was noon.

Actually, no. He’d overslept and now the world was apparently ending, all because the sky is still dark and it’s supposedly noon-

Oh.

Oh.

“There it is.”

There’s a shrill yelp as Macaque flings himself toward his wardrobe, unguilty as he disregards the indignant expression that crosses Èzuòjù’s face.

“The world is ending, and you’re getting dressed?” the gibbon asks, incredulously.

But Macaque pays no mind toward the question, clawing desperately through his drawers in search for the familiar rough fabric of his yellow and black hanfu. It was an article of clothing that the king had practically been raised in, and he’d made dozens of copies in the past few centuries if only to keep the original hanfu safely contained within his wardrobe.

On a normal day, Macaque would’ve hissed at the idea of wearing it outside, fearful the Heavens would take his boldness as a taunt to destroy it, but today was anything but normal.

His world was soon to end, and the king could care less for his hanfu’s safety as he dressed himself in red pants and a waistplate tied to his hips by a sash only a shade lighter than his pants. His iconic scarf is the next item to wrap around his neck, Macaque certain it’d match with the pale complexion of his fur.

(“Reds and yellows, bud, reds and yellows. Lemme tell ya, they’ll change your life!”)

He almost hesitates as his hand fastens around the decoration to coincide with his outfit: a gentle crown with leaves that’d been chain-linked together by little ones. It wasn’t a sturdy headpiece by any means, and it needed to be remade as least every three months, but Macaque had never minded such a fact.

The little ones were more than happy to remake him his crown and graciously bestow it upon his head with chants of, “Our king- our king-!”

“The world isn’t ending,” he manages to murmur whilst blindly adjusting his crown, his other free hand naturally clenched at the scarf around his neck. He knows that reds and yellows will never quite fit into his albino color scheme, but Macaque would be damned if he wasn’t draped in clothes that sang of nostalgia for his own king’s return.

He dares a glance at the mirror he’d previously leaned against his wardrobe and-

…and he pauses.

Because surely, that couldn’t be him?

It resembled him undoubtedly, the reflection standing with its own expression of shock and nostalgia as a hand lies frozen against its scarf. There’s even an awkward tilt in the leaf crown it wears, the gentle vegetation having given way to stray fur still tussled from sleep.

A glance toward his arm only confirms his fears, chest squeezing with an emotion he refuses to put a name to.

Gone is the familiar shade of white fur that Macaque had grown to adore amidst his centuries of life, replaced by a pelt bearing an almost navy shade of black.

It isn’t unlike the color of the sky just beyond his window, not quite able to be called black as though whatever deity had cursed him had taken into account the sun’s weak attempts to bring light to Earth.

He looks every bit the king he’d sworn himself to become- even adorned in colors that finally compliment the red masking around his eyes.

Macaque stares and what the fuck- what the fuck-? Why- this had to be His fault- He isn’t here by my side and it feels like a brand, get it off- get it off-

Èzuòjù’s tail flicks, hesitant in the corner of Macaque’s eyes and his mouth instinctively clicks open. It’s only habit as his mind combs desperately for something to say, anything to reassure the little one so blatantly unnerved by the scene.

But it proves to be pointless, his jaw clamping shut once more as a purple vortex pools beneath his feet. The shadows hiss with discontent, a second voice to Macaque’s blinding panic whilst they lash relentlessly at his ankles.

It isn’t until his ears flatten that Èzuòjù suddenly leaps from his state of uncertainty, hand outstretched as though to stop the other.

“Wait, Macaque-!”

But the king only falls blissfully into the familiar snare of his shadows, the temporary comfort that the portal brings short-lived as he’s spat violently somewhere amidst the cave system’s Eastern Tunnels. The spare shadows still lurking at his feet rumble with a silent fury, but for once the apathy his shadows seek appears only in the truth that their master could care less for the rebellious behavior.

He’d been long deserving of the ability to freak out, and today was the day he finally had a reason to do so.

After all, Macaque was nothing but a dead monkey desperate to breathe meaning and control into his final moments of life, certain he’s soon to become the very image of a dead king that Macaque had once proclaimed Wukong to of been.

The only difference will be a body to prove the other’s death.

“…que…!”

No, he doesn’t have the time to think about that. It was noon, and Wukong could very well burst through the waterfall at any moment, seeking any ounce of attention the island could afford.

The great sage might even demand a banquet at once and of course that’d leave no room for Macaque’s tongue to intervene, it never had before. Wukong would do anything to avoid confrontation that he’d inadvertently caused, including using the excuse of hunger like he used to amidst the Brotherhood.

“…caque…!”

His excitement may even gloss over the blatant evidence that a coup had taken place in Wukong’s absence; one orchestrated by his best friend nonetheless. The blissful peace that’d come with the sage’s oversight wouldn’t last though, especially with regard toward the fact that Macaque would refuse to let the little ones approach him.

Maybe he could…oh gods, do what?

Just turn the “Great Sage, Equal to Heaven” away the moment he attempts to step foot on the island?

The bastard would be furious.

“…slo…own…!”

…or maybe he wouldn’t. Wukong’s temper had always been something that’d needed to be fed and nurtured through mutual anger, surely that could be useful. Should Macaque at least attempt to remain calm and blunt, then the sage would have no room to be combative, right?

It wasn’t perfect, but gods was Macaque reaching desperately for straws- anything to preserve the prosperity he’d sworn to eternally gift Flower Fruit Mountain and the little ones.

Besides, Wukong wouldn’t dare do something drastic and violent against someone who’d protected his homeland for centuries, let alone his best friend. There’d be no need for him to summon his staff and-

“Macaque!”

The king freezes at an instant, terror striking behind his gaze as he searches frantically for whoever had called his name. There’s a flash of golden fur- one that looks a little too familiar -and Macaque almost shrieks amidst in his attempts to not stumble.

The suffocating blanket of panic quickly sheds to make way for guilt as he finds Èzuòjù staring, the gibbon’s eyes the size of rice bowls and his fur puffed out in clear concern.

His shadows must have teleported him not far from the confinements of his room, only forgiving enough to gift him a few seconds to breathe.

“Èzuòjù,” Macaque swallows, a hand to his chest if only to calm down its rapid beat. “You scared me.”

“I scared you?” the little one questions and Macaque can do nothing but weakly offer his arm for the gibbon to leap upon, a small olive branch that’s taken almost instantly. “What is going on? The sky’s black, you’re black, the world isn’t ending apparently, but you still disappeared on me, and are we going into lockdown or-?”

“Yes,” Macaque interrupts, lunging at the opportunity to escape the ontourage of questions bound to be sitting on the gibbon’s tongue. He could barely keep his own head straight, let alone try and answer Èzuòjù’s questions should they continue.

…but going into lockdown would be a good idea. It’d certainly keep the little ones far from whatever reaction Wukong could potentially have.

“Look,” he breathes, praying that he doesn’t sound as exasperated as he feels. “Long before you were born, the Jade Emperor foretold an event that’d occur amidst the next eclipse- today’s eclipse.”

“Eclipse-?”

“The sun and moon will merge together, and when they do, a…demon of sorts will appear on Flower Fruit Mountain.”

There’s a beat of silence and Macaque almost fears that the gibbon will claim the excuse to be as phony as his weak attempts to seem collected. Èzuòjù had always been good at that.

But the gibbon only stares a moment longer before his eyebrows knit. “What do you need from me?”

Heavens above, for all the grief he gives Èzuòjù, it’s moments like this that remind Macaque exactly why he doesn’t mind the little one’s mischievous antics.

“I need everyone in the Upper Tunnels of the Western Caves, and no matter what happens, they aren’t to leave. I’ll portal anyone I’m able to find in the Eastern Caves, but a mouth to explain the situation or at least warn others would be helpful.”

There’s only a firm nod before the gibbon scampers off, presumably to locate the desired caves and provide relief to whatever panicked brother needed it.

The crushing wave of relief at being alone once more collides oddly with the cautiously suppressed anger that’d been arising within Macaque’s stomach, a dangerous concoction of panic and frustration over the situation at hand.

Wukong was never meant to return, and it was such a fact that had gifted Macaque the boldness to ascend the throne in the first place.

Macaque might as well surrender his title of king anyway, now sharing more in common with a wife whose husband had come home early and was soon to catch her amidst her affair. For Heaven's sake, he was stumbling about the extensive cave system if only to portal away any little ones like a wife would her paramour.

It’s a measurement of safety, he tells himself if only to comfort his mind.

History was not one to take kindly to being rewritten, but two centuries had proven Macaque’s attempts to be a blinding success. He refuses to give Wukong yet another chance to ruin everything he’d done to protect both their subjects and the sage’s legacy of chaos.

It’d only take one stray slip of tongue for his life’s work to be uprooted. The little ones would learn that Wukong was in fact not deceased, and that Macaque had sworn the sage’s allegiance where it didn’t belong.

After all, Wukong had never proclaimed himself to be allied with the subjects of his mountain; it was only the pride that came with claiming ownership to a kingdom that he had entertained.

You are not ruining this, Macaque swears, and the mantra continues in his attempts to seek out any stray little ones.

It’s only once the panicked chatter of ape-speak settles toward the western side of the cave system that Macaque finds himself content pacing the Central Cave. It was a gracious clearing, full of vegetation and still bearing the same hut that Wukong had built nearly a millennium ago. If there was anywhere the sage would seek company first, it would be here, only a short journey from the cave’s initial entrance.

Macaque isn’t sure how long it takes for his theory to reign true, his ears flicking as the soft hiss of a cloud dissipates somewhere beyond the cave’s waterfall. Clumsiness writes itself in the heavy thrum of each step, the familiar sound not unlike if Macaque attempted to recognize someone’s handwriting.

The note of recklessness continues as the steps grow closer, and Macaque is certain that even if he lacked six ears, he’d still be able to hear the sheer weight behind the sage’s feet.

“Mihou!” that damned voice sings, not unlike a demon outstretching their hand in faux kindness. “Little ones! I’ve returned home!”

Home.

Macaque tries his hardest to chase the anxiety and bittersweet sorrow that laces his tongue, bidding his lips to remain firm in an expression of displeasure.

Perhaps in another life “Mihou” would’ve been all Wukong needed to say before Macaque would spring into chirps of glee, smiling fondly as little ones tackled their righteous king to the ground. Apologies would cascade from the sage’s mouth like a waterfall, and tearful laughter would consume his six ears as they attempted to make up for the time they’d regrettably lost in the other’s absence.

Faintly his mind traces another life, in which Wukong calls only out to the little ones, far too acquainted with the concept that Macaque would never again be able to step foot on Flower Fruit Mountain.

But such fantasies would never be the life Macaque could live within; they’d died the day that the ex-moon had been gifted a choice:

Mourn and daydream over the useless taunts of “what-if”, or focus on protecting the little ones and ensure the prosperity of their lives.

The decision was obvious, so both he and Flower Fruit Mountain had been forced to cut the strings of codependency that’d once kept them enthralled with their past king.

Wukong’s voice yells throughout the cave once more and Macaque hates how heavy the crown sitting atop his head has grown.

Wukong had never needed a crown to proclaim his status of king. His very essence exuded that of power, an ambitious conquest that Macaque had never found himself caring enough to venture toward. He wasn’t king through acts of bravery, nor because he’d inherited it righteously in the death of his best friend.

Macaque was only king because he’d been left to his own devices, and because the crown atop his head exclaimed that such a statement must be true.

A flash of gold finally peaks into the cave’s clearing, and Macaque swallows the desperate whine that’d made its home within his throat, forced into silence out of fear he’d call out for someone he’d sworn he’d buried nearly two centuries ago.

Wukong was meant to be dead and yet here he stood, uncharacteristically shy as he sought refuge behind a grand fern.

“Wukong.”

Said monkey’s head snaps to meet Macaque’s wide gaze, those familiar golden eyes crinkling into something akin to joy before they flee back toward the vibrant greenery in a nostalgic display of guilt and panic.

If not for the sombersome scene, Macaque is certain he would’ve smiled at how familiar the expression is, not unlike the reaction Wukong would have whenever Macaque smacked him upside the head for doing something stupid. It’d all been in good fun, amidst a fun when they’d all been so young and naive, too focused on lounging about and cracking jokes to worry themselves with immortality and power.

The clearing stills, and for a moment, he fears that they’ll both continue the awkward stalemate.

But the anxiety on Wukong’s face quickly falls apart, giving way to a quizzical expression as their eyes meet once more. The sage isn’t unlike a rabbit as he bounds forward, Macaque’s rule of personal space forgotten in Wukong’s eagerness to get a closer look at the newly-turned-black monkey.

“Something's…different about you,” the great sage begins, ever-so-observant as Macaque tries not to squirm beneath his gaze. He doesn’t care to denote the uncomfortable stance of the celestial monkey, springing up dramatically as he chitters with excitement. “Oh, I know! C’mon, bud, even I’d be able to tell you’ve dyed your fur. Kinda miss the grey, though.”

“White,” Macaque corrects, far from amused.

“Pfft, same thing.”

Well, Macaque supposes there is one thing he could always trust Wukong to do; disappoint him time and time again.

“Fun crown, too. The little ones manage to strangle you into it?”

And how could he forget Wukong’s habit of releasing tension through attempts to embarrass those around him?

“No, actually,” Macaque grits, trying his hardest to maintain poise. The crown had been a thoughtful gift bestowed upon him, and as much as the thought made his six ears turn red, Macaque felt much more at-ease wearing it in the face of his past king.

(“You deserve to be king,” the crown sang, sitting content atop his fur. “You wouldn’t of been given it otherwise.”)

“It was a gift. They missed having a king, so…”

So they’d wrapped Macaque in the finest jewelry and armor of Wukong’s treasury, completing his coronation with a carefully weaved crown and Macaque’s now infamous red scarf, whose unique red hue was the result of a dye from the flowers of Flower Fruit Mountain and a few feathers that’d been “borrowed” from a Phoenix.

“That’s adorable,” Wukong grins, an almost knowing expression on his face. “Ya’ think they’ll make me one if I ask them?”

“I didn’t have to ask for mine.”

“Is that a no, or?”

“It’s a no.”

“…it’s my turn, then.”

And Wukong bows, his chest low to the ground as though he were expecting for the crown to be transferred onto his head.

Oh, Macaque realizes, dumbly. Wukong does expect the crown.

His heart makes an ugly snarl, but the sound that comes from his throat is nothing but unkempt laughter. Quickly he swipes a claw at the tears forming at his eyes, if only to keep the salty water from dampening his fur. “You expect me to give you my crown?”

“I mean, every king does need a crown, doesn’t he? C’mon, Mac, just share this once-”

Wukong lunges and adrenaline collides violently with the blood cells running through Macaque’s veins. His brain feels as though it’d been dowsed by the ice-cold bucket of panic, falling into a state of defense even despite the fact the Wukong had clearly aimed only for the crown.

A furious shriek beats Macaque to the punch, fangs entering the scene before being followed closely by the harsh sound of Wukong screeching.

Macaque blinks once, vision clearing to reveal the “Great Sage” himself flailing his arm like a helpless infant and Èzuòjù’s fangs sunken deep into scarred flesh.

“Let go!” Wukong shrieks in Mandarin, and Macaque knows damn well that Èzuòjù understands the command.

After all, the gibbon had been the one to demand that Macaque teach him Mandarin in the first place, now well-educated in translating the language despite the fact that Èzuòjù’s vocal cords would never enable the gibbon to speak it.

Wukong is pleading on deaf ears, as the king of Flower Fruit Mountain has yet to demand the gibbon to release his prey.

It isn’t until Macaque extends his own arm that the gibbon returns to his righteous king’s side, snarling once toward Wukong before settling down at Macaque’s shoulders.

“Little one,” Wukong whines, exasperated as he cradles his wounded arm, and the noise feels…odd as it bounces against Macaque’s thrumming eardrums. It’s a form of ape-speak that the king hadn’t heard in over seven centuries, old but blatantly familiar dripping from the sage’s tongue.

Heavens above, Wukong hadn’t even attempted to keep up with the rapidly changing dialect of his mother tongue.

It’d been at least a handful of centuries since “little one” had turned into the gentle chirp of “little one”.

“I thought I told you to stay with the others,” Macaque begins, forcing himself to ignore Wukong’s noise of confusion. Perhaps if the “Great Sage” had put effort into his own mother tongue, then he’d have the right to tune into the conversation. “What if they come searching for you?”

“They won’t,” Èzuòjù huffs, teeth still bared but certainly not toward Macaque. “And who-? Is that the demon? He could’ve done something if I hadn’t appeared!”

“He woulda just stolen my crown for a moment,” Macaque murmurs in a desperate attempt to diffuse the situation. “He wouldn’t have hurt me.”

Still, Macaque finds himself doubtful of his own words. After all, Wukong had still yet to understand the reason behind Èzuòjù’s aggression.

“Mihou,” the sage complains. “You better be reprimanding him for biting me.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Macaque rolls his eyes before gently petting at the fur surrounding Èzuòjù’s face. “But I’m glad you bit him, I was seconds away from doing it myself.”

“That does not look like reprimanding.”

“You deserved it,” Macaque shrugs. “Don’t try and swipe what isn’t yours.”

“But I’m the king! I’m in need of a crown.”

“The King of Flower Fruit Mountain already wears one,” Macaque hums, bowing his head slightly if only to allow Èzuòjù to try and straighten the tussled crown. “I don’t think I see any other kings in need of one.”

Wukong freezes, and for a heartbeat Macaque almost expects to be punched, even with a little one crouched on his shoulders.

But the Great Sage only stares with wide, uncertain eyes. “You wouldn’t-”

“Èzuòjù,” Macaque interrupts, his voice uncharacteristically harsh as his ape-speak blends into Mandarin. “This is not a conversation for you to hear.”

Èzuòjù’s eyes almost match that of Wukong’s, though a deeper shade of concern versus betrayal runs rampid. “But, Macaque-”

The gibbon is given no further chance to speak, quickly whisked into a vortex that’d put the little one with his siblings in the Western Tunnels. This fight would not be Èzuòjù’s to hear nor attempt to interfere with.

“You’ve been gone for several centuries,” Macaque continues, quickly dismissing the bitterness that’d threatened to lace his words. “Y’know, when you told me to do anything to protect Flower Fruit Mountain, I took it to heart.”

“I didn’t think that meant ‘take the throne’!” Wukong gapes, throat raspy with what Macaque can only hope is disbelief and not strain from attempting ape-speak.

“Oh, of course,” he agrees and now he allows sarcasm to drip from his tongue. “‘Suppose I was just meant to, y’know, keep it warm and then lay down like a good dog, yeah? ‘Heel, Mihou, your king has returned’!”

The words taste as bitter as Macaque recalls them to be, still clear in his mind despite them having been uttered nine centuries ago when they were still on good terms with the brotherhood. He only has Wukong to blame, who’d never let his companion live down the embarrassment he’d caused during one of their many meetings.

Amidst his own exhaustion, Macaque had accidentally stolen Wukong’s seat at the end of the table, a mistake that the table had at first brushed aside. After all, the closeness of the two monkeys could easily explain this odd occurence to of been planned.

Macaque would sit in Wukong’s seat, and Wukong in Macaque’s.

Alas, there’d been a soft croon of “Aww, Mihou, keeping it warm just for little ol’ me? No worries, your king has returned-” before the table realized that the white monkey had indeed made a genuine mistake, bursting into laughter whilst shades of red painted Macaque’s face and ears.

His expression hardens.

“I refuse to kneel before you again.”

“But I am still your king,” Wukong deflects, bold. “And this is still our home.”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Macaque shrugs, nearly shocking himself with how nonchalant his taunts sound. It’s a stark contrast to the consistent stutter his heart bears and he’s almost grateful that Wukong doesn’t share his enhanced hearing. “It took centuries, but Flower Fruit Mountain doesn’t remember you anymore. At least, not as anything but their island’s first king, who’s long gone in history. You can’t remain here and call it home.”

Wukong’s smirk is nothing but teeth, lips curled into an ugly expression of gloat. “So, you’re, what? Banishing me from my own kingdom?”

“Yeah.”

Heavens above, Macaque almost swoons over the way the sage’s smug expression drops into something more masked and deadly.

“Don’t be cruel,” Wukong growls. “You’re being cruel.”

I’m terrified, he instinctively corrects. Not cruel.

Wukong merely could not stay on Flower Fruit Mountain. Macaque had built a life that the island’s prior king could not be apart of.

Macaque’s ears flatten. Perhaps he was being cruel.

But who would cruelty’s mother be if not terror?

“Your stupidity and absence killed this island- killed me before I ascended the throne,” Macaque reports, his tail rigid as he stares at the ape he’d sworn he’d buried. No, he thinks, he’d only buried the memory of Wukong amidst his begging to the Heavens that the bastard would never return.

But an eclipse rages on just beyond the curtained waterfall.

And Macaque’s fur will never be white again, forever branded by Wukong’s misdeeds.

“For centuries I called for you, begging the stars to let you return to Flower Fruit Mountain once again, but never once did you heed my call,” he tsks, “You stood tall, strong as ever in the face of freedom, even as I mourned the very thought of you.”

And Macaque hates how his own conscious yearns to protect Wukong’s mistakes, with screams that selflessness and vulnerability had never been the melted rivers of iron that Wukong’s strength was forged within. Neither was it true that kindness was the native tongue the “Great Sage” could conjugate the words of with ease.

Only the familiar sensation of anger could appease Wukong in the face of confrontation, like a heron poised but still ever-so irritated in its wait for prey to arrive.

But unlike the common tale between a heron and fish, Macaque does not quiver nor dart beneath the venomous stare of death itself, standing tall and arrogant as Wukong does before him.

He cared not for the sage’s opinion on that fact that Flower Fruit Mountain was now Macaque’s to protect, and whether such protection was against outside demands or the island’s own previous king would never matter; Macaque would rather face death itself than forfeit his centuries of work.

“I haven’t killed you,” Wukong breathes, voice an inch from being a hiss as his shoulders sit strained with what Macaque can assume is the thin lacing of desperation. “If I had, you’d already be haunting me. In death you would have followed me, taking any form- moon or shadow -just to argue and speak with me.”

And like a newborn fawn, Wukong lurches forward, a hand clenching tightly over his chest as though he were soon to burst into laughter. “It’s in life that you refuse to follow me. You’ve agreed to abandon me and try to banish me from our home.”

Ironic, for Wukong to claim he’d been the one thrown aside.

Macaque stands firm, gaze unwavering. “The ‘Great Sage’ doesn’t need me to find some other island to conquer. Your lust for power has already settled any domain of this realm yours to take.”

There’s a beat of silence, and a vicious snarl hovers atop Wukong’s lips.

Perhaps in another life, amidst the gentle mantras of tranquility and suffrage, Wukong would have paused to acknowledge his misdeeds and agreed it to be best that he found a new kingdom to proclaim as his own. Or perhaps in another life this situation would have never existed, as Wukong chose to live his days peacefully on Flower Fruit Mountain instead of daring to wreak havoc on the Heavens.

But Macaque can only mourn for what could have been, for in this life Wukong was still a creature birthed with the knowledge he’d need to fight his way through life, a mantra that’d grown him obsessed with sneaking past the title of “distrustful and cunning” and proclaiming the words to be sisters of “ambition”.

Macaque knows well that Wukong is an unstoppable force that now stands firmly before an immovable rock, one not unlike the one Wukong had destroyed the moment he was born.

Today will be the day legends will speak of, the Heavens concede, safe from the sage’s wrath amidst the clouds. They’ll pass stories of the rivalry that’d caused the obsessive relation between shadow and host.

For if the Great Sage, an Equal of the Heavens, could not have his moon by his side, then he would have him forever in his shadow, lying in wait for his righteous king to order him about.

Today, Macaque would learn the true sensation of dying, if only to return and haunt Wukong at every turn.

[aspoonofsugar]

Hello. Been a while since I last sent an ask to you. I wanted your take on why Vaggie's wing design is different from the other Exorcists. If you look closely, before and after she regained her wings, she is the ONLY exorcist with a single stripe while everyone else (including Adam, I know he's not an Exorcist but still something I've noticed) only have one.

Hi!

Thank you for the ask :) I love Vaggie's design and there is so much to say about it!

Since discussing the whole design would probably need its own meta, I will just focus on the detail you mentioned: Vaggie's wings.

I think their unique pattern comes down to our girl never truly fitting in with the exorcists:

Vaggie: When I saw your face You made me feel like a stranger in a brand new place And it felt so good to be understood

She states Charlie makes her feel understood, which implies she never felt accepted by her previous clique. This makes sense, as the exorcists are a cult, which forces its members to repress their selves. In this context, Vaggie's single black line shows she is different in two ways.

1- The exorcists' black lines mirror Adam's white lines:

Both Adam and his soldiers share two lines per wing. However, the leader's are white, whereas his followers' are black. This difference in color marks the hierarchy within the organization. Adam is white and gold, whereas the exorcists are black and white/silver. He frames himself as superior and forces the girls to be weaker imitations. Well, even in such an environment Vaggie can't completely repress who she is. So, she only gets one line on her wings, which marks her as unfitting, strange and flawed. She does not completely conform to Adam's wishes.

2- The exorcists' black and white color scheme is a metaphor of their black and white morality. Lute is a perfect embodiment of it:

Lute: Angels don't make mistakes.

Vaggie, Lute and all their sisters are taught killing sinners is holy. Angels are good and demons are bad. No questions asked. Still, Vaggie can't accept this mentality and she dares to show pity:

This kicks off her arc, which is all about overcoming the white and black vision that was forced on her. She needs to integrate her shadows:

She sees her shadow covering a terrified child and lets him go. A moment later Lute's shadow looms over her before she is attacked. Vaggie has to reconcile she is both the terrifying exorcist and the wounded child. She is both angel (white) and sinner (black).

Our Hotel Manager's new wings are a physical representation of this integration:

Vaggie gains them, as she channels her energy into love and protection instead than hate and revenge. In particular, she learns to value her own life and survival:

Carmilla: Well, look at that. You might just survive this.

She makes a step into forgiveness and acceptance. The brainwashed victim and the murderous warrior start coming together into someone new and stronger: the real Vaggie. As a result:

Her new wings are silver and gray, rather than white and black

Her new wings have a single line, which is much paler compared to her original black one

In short, Vaggie's wings symbolize her ongoing process of integration with her repressed self. They showcase her evolution and growth into someone new. From pigeon to moth :P

At the same time, something else can be said about Vaggie's stripes. Not her wings' though, but her hair's. Vaggie's hair is shaped after her angelic wings and it has two stripes on it. This is an interesting detail and might symbolize Vaggie's inner desire to belong, either with her old group (the two stripes exorcists) or her new one (the Hazbin Hotel demons). So, she has hair, which:

Hides her scars and identity, as they cover her missing eye and the spot where her wings used to be

Highlights these same things, as her hair is stylized after angelic wings and Vaggie puts an X over her missing eye. It's no surprise that Carmilla easily guesses her identity:

Vaggie: Wait… you know I'm an exorcist? How? Carmilla: You have a giant X over your eye and wield an angelic spear. It's not rocket science.

Just some food for thought! What's sure is that Vaggie's struggle with her exorcist identity is far from over and it strongly impacts her appearance.

Thank you for the ask!

[blackparadinq]

What Pokémon do u think the black parade members are? :3 (and the patient)

Rubs hands together evilly

The patient reminds me a lot of smeargle design wise. Look at this guy. That is smeargle

Theme wise I’d associate him much more with houndstone though. In pokemon scarlet/violet it’s implied that the houndstone evolution line is associated with mabostiff through its design. It revolves around the story of an old dying dog, or just a dog dying of some kind of illness, and id just associate him with it because of that.

Also just look at this guy he’s cool as fuck

With death, again, I have 2 Pokemon in mind that are both associated for differing reasons: Dusknoir and Absol.

Dusknoir for the most part is associated for aesthetics, but also it’s a pokemon that is associated with the afterlife. It just steals human souls. Absol on the other hand is known to be a bad omen of something horrible to come and I think that ties in with his story with the patient very nicely. Death is there as a warning of the patients impending demise. Absol doesn’t only predict death but it predicts really anything terrible that happens to people it comes up to according to Pokemon lore so

Also just. White hair. Absol has white fur. It’s perfect. If he had one he’d spoil the hell out of that little dog thing.

Oddly enough as much as I researched to answer this particular question I couldn’t really find anything that reminds me of the other paraders at the moment, but I do have a few ideas in mind for mother war since she’s just really interesting to me. Ok everyone other than Mikey’s character 😭

I associate Mikey with Corviknight. Mainly because it’s just an awesome looking knight bird thing and I tie that in with the clear indication that the character Mikey plays is, or at least was, apart of the Military. Also its evolution before, corvidsquire just kinda looks like him and I can’t really pinpoint exactly why..

Personally I associate her most with Spiritomb, which on its own has a lot of cultural significance that I won’t get into but solely from the way it’s described in game it’s very mother war. It’s made up of 108 souls, souls that belonged to people and pokemon that were mischievous or “sinners” in their lifetime, which could be attributed to the parade as a whole. As much as I like how Death is the leader of the black parade I just have this constant feeling that Mother War is the one who’s really in charge here, mainly because she’s been around the longest. She sort of keeps the spirits that follow the parade in check. I think that spiritomb is slightly similar in that way.

Also something about the shape of the spirits purple spiral and her hair is associated the same her. It’s actually the main reason why I draw her with smoke for hair. I just think it’s cool.

[zacki0gaming]

Season 2, Episode 3 Rant

Ladies and gentlemen, another episode, and unfortunately, it is yet another bad one…

The Video

MAJOR SPOILERS WARNING!!!!

In continuation of Parts 1-4, Ajacent is finally and completely cured of her corruption by Pyrare's hero, Gold. Unfortunately, this episode still undermines Ajacent's entire character arc, leaving it in tatters.

In addition, her purified form's design is fine, but it lacks inspiration, appearing goofy to laugh at. The headpiece resembles a fucking large, unsightly cheese cracker, like the ones I enjoy from a box of Cheez-Its on the weekends. Her overall appearance evokes the look of checkered cheddar cheese from Pine River Dairy, the kind I typically find at Stop & Shop.

Back to the Video

Ajacenus and Ajavex warmly embraced Ajacent in a heartfelt reunion, welcoming their youngest sibling with a big sisterly hug. Meanwhile, Pyrare, concerned for Gold, noticed that he had lost part of his face. Despite this, Gold reassured him, implying that he had faced far tougher corrupts in the past.

After this, watch how some of these lines in this conversation plays out.

Ajacent: What in the world happened to me? - What’s wrong? You can’t even damn remember how you got corrupted with also no explicit explanation!

Ajavex: You were corrupted! But that cheesy nacho over there cured you! - SHE DID NOT BRING UP THE NACHO JOKE FOR GOLD!!!

Ajavex: Hmm. Maybe I should’ve stayed in the mountains.

Pause the video hard.

SOMEBODY EXPLAIN ME THIS!?!?!

Ajacent: I didn’t think this virus was gonna be this bad - YEA NO SHIT THE VIRUS WAS THIS CHAOTIC, YOU CHEESY FU-!!!

Back to the Video

Pyrare then approaches the sisters and informs Ajacent that his friend Pentellow has successfully restored the Poly Forest in the Land of Pentagons. He suggests that she consider staying there instead of returning to the mountains. Pyrare also cautions her that the inhabitants of the Land of Pentagons are easily frightened, with some even breaking apart at the sight of monsters.

Ajacent, laughs a bit, was not suprised and says as long it’s not the mountains then says that she will be on her way. Ajavex, still excited, also says she’s going too as she flies off with Ajacent. Ajacenus tells the duo to wait and cautions them to be careful. Ajacenus then says to Pyrare that they will meet again soon as she leaves off-screen.

Also, watch what Pyrare fucking says next, chat…

Gold: How come you did not fight her? - YEA PYRARE, HOW COME YOU DID NOT FIGHT AT ALL AGAINST AJACEARE!?!?

Pyrare: How come? Well, it isn’t right for men to hit a female. Corrupted or not. - HUH!?

Pauses the video again.

So let me get this straight… Pyrare...

Puts mic close toward my mouth Regardless of the villain's gender, whether it's corrupted or not, in your universe, whether it's a female or male, you STILL need to DEFEND yourself from harm. Just like how Ajacenus, Ajavex, and even your fucking hero, Gold, were fighting off Ajaceare while you were standing in the background doing NOTHING!!!

You SHITTY TRIANGULAR-SHAPED PIE HEADASS!!!

This is exactly why I find pacifist characters like Pyrare to be frustrating and overrated. My frustration with Pyrare is only growing because of this. At least Ajacenus and Ajavex, while still pacifists as well still fight against Ajaceare UNLIKE YOU!!!

Back to the Video

Pyrare notices a storm approaching and tells Gold that they should return to the village. The scene shifts back to Dub at the tower. In a fit of rage, he yells and questions the corrupted female flower about Ajaceare's defeat, his feet stomping from the force of his anger.

The corrupted female flower answers that it was the caretaker of the yellow tree, Pyrare. The corrupted female flower explains to Dub that she and the others have a witness (this word was spelled wrong as withness here) who saw the entire fight. Dub then asks her which caretaker it was, also expressing hope it wasn’t the anxious one, Cube. The corrupted female flower responds that the witness was Pyrare, the caretaker of the yellow tree.

Pyrare, shocked upon hearing this, tells her to return to her post. After the corrupted female flower leaves, Dub says that he has decided to come out of retirement. He then looks at the large pink and white octagram, which likely holds his notes and other important information.

Pauses the video.

Let’s look at this btw while providing screenshots for it…

According to this, this first one showcases Dub tracking the Caretakers’ current status.

Pyrare - Pyrare's status was previously marked as 'Disappeared' for some reason. If I can theorize that at some point before the main events of the series began, Pyrare unknowingly went missing as Dub used to contemplate whether Pyrare was dead or not. Up until now, Dub likely never realized that Pyrare had been with the other Caretakers and Heroes the entire time without his knowledge.

Pentellow - Pentellow's current status is marked as 'Evolved,' which essentially means that she has reached her full strength (her Tree Form) since Season 1, Episode 10.

Iris - Iris’s status is interesting because it is labeled 'Altered.' I suspect that this alteration is connected to his link with the Reaper creature, which may have changed his state after his revival. I can further evident this with features like his now black-glowing triangle chest and the new abilities he gained from the Mark behind his head.

Cube - Cube’s status is currently labeled 'Infected', which means that he is still semi-infected with the virus because of his corrupted counterpart, Cubic as a clone re-infecting him once again since Season 1, Episode 9.

Now on to the second image. It shows off a check list of what Dub has did so far in the series.

Every flower is infected ✔

Caretaker of the cyan tree is infected ✔

Lythorus is infected ✔

Purpex is infected ✔

Ajacent is infected

Circumsphere is infected

Cube’s data has been collected ✔

Hexagram is infected

Cyanide has been created ✔

Green tree beast (or Tree Monster) has awoken

Reaper is infected ✔

Circusic is infected ✔

From what I can observe, Dub has been meticulously tracking shapes that were previously or are currently infected by the virus. He’s been checking off completed tasks, reviewing the Caretakers’ statuses, and receiving reports from the corrupts, all while working from his tower through this large pink/white octagram.

Also, Dub. You need better servants my guy…

Back to the Video

After scratching off Ajacent, who was now formerly infected, Dub stated he needed to find a replacement, adding that those pieces weren't going to search for themselves. He then called Lycanthropy, informing him that Ajaceare was gone and no longer in charge of searching for tree pieces. Lycanthropy, after briefly acknowledging Ajaceare's loss, readily accepted his boss's request, assuring him that he wouldn't disappoint him. Dub responded that he better not.

Let me fucking guess, Lycanthropy is gonna be the next to go somewhere in Season 2…

After hanging up, Dub then sighs and says that he should check up on Cyanide, knowing the feeling that she somehow failed her task.

Dub: I get the feeling that she somehow failed her task. - NO SHIT, TWICE!!! YOU CREATED A FUCKING NAIVE CORRUPTED HERO THAT CAN'T DO SHIT IN HER TASKS SO FAR!!!

Video ends here

Errors

Final Verdict

Overall, I would rate this episode a 4/10 (Below Average). Season 2, Episode 3 continues the disappointing trend of Season 2 thus far in my opinion. It lacks little to no good substance and completely ruins Ajaceare's character by getting pathetically overpowered. The only somewhat interesting part is at the end, where we learn more about the Caretakers' current status, such as Iris's status being 'Altered', which actually catches my attention. However, we could've been focusing on something else entirely then seeing Ajaceare getting clapped...

P.S. Ajaceare's boss level was quite cool to watch.

[wordsandrobots]

Huh. Actually -- since I'm stuff home sick and my brain refuses to shut up and let me sleep -- apropos of reblogging @superhelltubedotsys' post citing Barbatos Lupus Rex's status as a werewolf Gundam, I'm now thinking about the significance that has within Iron-Blooded Orphans (some spoilers follow).

Because Barbatos the demon has no association with wolves in the Ars Goetia. The nearest applicable part is "He giveth understanding of the singing of Birds, and of the Voices of other creatures, such as the barking of Dogs", which is fitting for Mikazuki and plays into the comparison between mobile armour Hashmal and a bird, but pointedly does not imply 'appears as a giant fuck-off wolf monster with a knife-tail'. That description would seem more appropriately applied to Amon, the immediately prior demon, number seven: "He appeareth like a Wolf with a Serpent’s tail, vomiting out of his mouth flames of fire . . ."

But of course, Gundam Barbatos' steady revision towards the Lupus Rex form is a drift away from its initial design. Exactly how much influence the Ars Goetia descriptions had on the Gundam project and how much they were just used as a naming convention is a little up in the air. Some do seem to be applicable (Zagan being a 'bull with gryphon wings', Flauros switching between the forms of a leopard and a man, etc.). Others . . . well, Bael is supposed to appear as either a toad, a cat, or a man, or all three at once, and while that has some applicability to McGillis' whole deal, it's not really a match for Gundam Bael's angelic form. Nor do the Gundam's abilities evoke demon!Bael's power to render someone invisible. However, I think we can safely conclude that, in-universe at least, the goetic demons are only pertinent to the Gundams' initial appearances and capabilities.

Barbatos' revisions throughout Season 1 are instead a gradual cannibalisation of various different sources of technology and weapons to get it back into fighting shape (Teiwaz technically restores it to its original appearance, but that doesn't last past the Dort arc; thereafter, we're back to bolting on any spare armour going). Barbatos Lupus then represents a significant step towards redefining it in line with the Chief's goal of creating an 'ultimate' version based on Mika's battle data, with Barbatos Lupus Rex being the end-point for that progression.

Put simply, Barbatos gradually becomes more and more tailored to Mikazuki, specifically. To digress for a moment, this forms a big part of my reasoning that Mika being able to use the katana properly at the climax of Season 1 represents the influence of Barbatos' original pilot; after this, he ditches that kind of weapon entirely. Even while fighting Hashmal, he reaches for the biggest club available (technically, a broad-sword, but so ridiculously huge nobody could call it a precision weapon). It's another interesting detail that Mika can't beat Ein in their final face-off by fighting like himself, which comes back around again as the back half of Season 2 kicks into gear.

Anyway, my point is this: being a werewolf is not inherently part of Barbatos' deal. Rather it represents Mikazuki's growing influence -- as you might thematically expect for a union with a character named after the moon (crescent moon, specifically, though I can't imagine the association wasn't intended given Tekkadan are wolf-coded in the text). And that's fascinating because as I've written about before, Barbatos and Mikazuki are the most blatant example of a devil's bargain in the show. The kid literally sells and arm and a leg (and an eye) for the power Barbatos can give him. And yet, the bestial aspects Barbatos takes on are rooted in Mika.

There's an echo of Gundam Wing's 'Gundams are a curse' refrain in IBO. These machines bring bad luck to everyone who pilots them, as a function of representing humanity subsumed by war. The inherent gamble of the Alaya-Vijnana, the overwhelming nature of the conflict they were built to end, the fact Gundams are never sufficient on their own to change the world -- it forms an unspoken counter-argument to McGillis' zealous faith in their status as symbols of transformation that is actually very in keeping with the demonological tradition from which they take their names. What they offer is costly and potentially damning, while also largely illusory when it comes to anything other than utter destruction. Indeed, Mikazuki is a living testament to how 'cursed' their pilots are.

It just happens that he was able to curse Barbatos back.

Because that's what Barbatos Lupus Rex is, isn't it? Put side by side with its original form, this is a clear degradation of a proud warrior into a savage beast. The same design elements persist, of course, yet by the end, it's near impossible to picture Barbatos as an elegant fighter making precision strikes with a honed sword. It has become a true berserker, tearing into its opponents with teeth and claws (well, claws and knife tail). As Tekkadan in general tend to, Mikazuki strips away the affectations of nobility and 'honourable' warfare in favour of brutal reality.

The detail of the Lupus Rex form merging parts of a mobile armour into a Gundam only heightens this. Weapons are weapons, whoever they serve and whatever guise they wear. Mikazuki is always honest about that. His awed response to Hashmal is of a piece with how easily he fits within Barbatos. He sees himself as equivalent to them -- has, in fact, constructed his entire identity around being so.

Thus, the lycanthropy he inflicts on Barbatos is of a kind that merely reveals the truth lurking under the skin. It was always an instrument of devastation. Now it looks the part.

[stinkycartman]

hey who's ready for another stupidly long post but this time its about the goth kids??? ii think lets start off with Michael i do not see a lot of fanart or acknowledgements of him being wasian then again im not sure i'm too deep into the goth kid side of the fandom for that so my apologies if im wrong here.. but on that note he is wasian, we do see his dad with curly hair but i think it's much funnier that 1. he either gets a perm or 2. he wakes up extra early to curl it every morning. to me he is 100% trad goth, the fits, the makeup all of it. I think maybe he leans more into 1980s trad goth, and his make-up wouldn't be as extravagant as some trad goth makeup if that makes sense?? not as heavy. i think he'd thrift a lot of pieces, it's the best place to find those old vintage outfits, good for cheap trench coats which is a STAPLE in his wardrobe. Definitely shoulder pads and going for that sort of triangular silhouette. i know he's listed as edwardian gothic in his wiki but i just feel like... 1980s trad trust me wink face. Going next to Pete his outfit is a little fancier just going based of the bolo tie because um... so i'm kind of swapping the fashion here and saying Pete kind of leans into a more victorian kind of goth, once again maybe less fanciful seeing as he's only 10 or however old a fourth grader is. More button-ups with frilly sleeves and like frilly necklines, like a vampire but dont you dare. ever EVERR imply his fashion is vampiric. I do, like all of the other kids, believe he does take a lot of fashion from trad goth though of course. I think he already wears platforms?? I'm not sure whats going on with his shoes but i think he wears them eitherway. Big teased hair, always looks like he's mildly balding when roots come in but it's not as bad as it would be if he was blonde. Henrietta im so avoiding firkle... ANYWAY!!! Henrietta, trad goth makeup BUT i think she'd lean more into romantic goth fashion, big sleeves and long dresses with lots of jewlery. She has that pretty extravagant trad goth makeup that Michael doesn't do, white base heavy eyeliner (this is despite her character being the only one to actually not wear eyeliner..) but you know!! the works!! we already see her with colored lipstick so i think she'd continue to use the funky colors on her lips. Henrietta for sure rocks a bats nest and soo so much of that got2b hairspray, like that is STAYING in place. not budging at all. firkle... i know he's considered to be the most goth out of them but he's also like 5 years old??? I don't know if he'd really delve too deep into any category BUT trad goth. A much more casual approach to it though becauese again he's 5!!!!!!! he probably uses his moms makeup and has like eyeshadow on his lips. Either that or he got one of henriettas old purple lipsticks. his PC design is definetely way more hardcore, like full of tattoos and piercings so i like to believe he constantly rocks fake tattoos and like those little glue-on balls.. that'd be cute. I'm not so sure it'd be easy to thrift trad goth clothes for little little kids so i'm guessing he has a lot of like normal looking clothes that are just black or got onesof his parents to do diy stuff. dont know but he's probably the coolest kindergartner in the world. absolutely gives himself stick and pokes and piercings in the school bathroom. im more scene myself but have really been getting into 1980s trad goth lately and have always been in the goth space .. maybe I AM firkle

[tiilore]

Hey there, 

I understand that there are people who are legitimately daft for harassing people and saying stuff like the anon had here: https://www.tumblr.com/tiilore/771055663129460736/gain-some-fucking-media-literacy-or-just-some-real?source=share

I also agree that media literacy can and does get ignored in fandoms (trust me, I can speak from experience).

However, I don’t think calling them an “inept loser” or threatening violence, even as a ‘joke’, makes you the better person.

On top of that, please correct me if I’m wrong, but aren’t you mutuals (not naming anyone here out of respect for privacy, but if you know, you know) with someone who:

Using the word “canon” (specifically the canon portrayal of Wheatley in Portal 2) to imply that nothing else regarding Wheatley matters, from interpretations of his character to all of the iconic designs/AUs. That’s the whole point of fandom culture, after all. To ignore this fact is to neglect part of the reason why the Portal fandom has such a strong history over the decades.

Used “Tumblr reading comprehension” as an insult to discredit people, among many other insults (yes, there are genuine “you-know-whos” but that doesn’t justify insulting people).

Claimed that the Portal fandom was in decline because a few people happened to disagree with their views, with some understandably put off by their aggression.

Hid the context behind someone’s anon ask, potentially painting them in a bad light, when for all we know they could’ve been asking to not be so aggressive towards other people in the Portal fandom. 

With those two things in mind, feel free to disagree with me, but part of me is concerned that you may be enabling the hostile behaviour (which I described above) being directed towards others with different views (even unintentionally).

CONTENT WARNING: Not to sound dramatic, but people taken their own lives from being on the receiving end of such aggressive behaviour (see the document here bc that is a textbook example of fandom toxicity affecting people like this): https://docs.google.com/document/u/1/d/e/2PACX-1vSfCoyn81fp83pycx5eyS4oxryRpFnVnHdEeyEyouigrKSWAZ5iEgTjt7Q63n68S_PcZK7_klB-9dH1/pub

You can take or leave my advice, but I only ask to please be more patient towards others who are simply enjoying media and exploring their own “fanon”, and to not be obligated to engage with people you don’t agree with, especially with hostility.

Thanks for reading.

??? Are you seriously in my asks policing me over my apparent behavior regarding WHEATLEY discourse??? The fact that you've not only been in my friend angst's mentions TIME AND TIME again over this and have repeatedly sent him these long asks, but are now doing the same to his mutuals with the same opinion is weird and OBSESSIVE!!! you can't police people on being "too aggressive" within a fandom space and then turn around and do shit like this.

this is called DISCOURSE, its something people have in fandom spaces. if it bothers you that much then for the love of god block me, and LEAVE ME ALONE BROTHER

[seeminglyseph]

Swear my brain is like. “Hey, you should try and figure out a way to make an essay out of the topic of how cool Wind Breaker’s expression of Masculinity is”

And like. Thanks brain I want to have the best case scenario of a YouTube career be “nobody watches you” but also like. I think I would have to talk about the manga a lot because a) the manga only character profiles lend a considerable amount to my analysis. Those grooming products are so vital to characterization. It’s like. I know you can’t fit whole character’s grooming habits into a story organically so fitting them into character profiles makes perfect sense, and it works its way into the design elements of the characters anyway so it’s often stuff you can imply about the characters based on appearance and design. But sometimes it defies what the design tells you about the character, like Sugishita looks like a scruffy hooligan. But instead he’s a guy who gets a hair treatment once a month and has a brand of day-to-day hair care that is recognizable enough that it was censored in the notes. I just don’t know it because I don’t know Japanese beauty products very well. (If I do an essay I’ll do the research I promise, I haven’t decided yet, right now I’m just sitting outside navel gazing about a series I’m fixated about)

But I figure if I let the anime have its finale, which is looking to be a hook for the Keel Arc which I kinda figured, it was the next major arc coming up. And it will take me more than a considerable amount of time to even start let alone complete, people will have time to decide to read the manga if they want more information and I can can give spoiler warnings and start with a discussion of Shishitoren some I do adore them extremely.

And if it takes time maybe some manga stuff will wrap up and I’ll have some manga stuff to say about Shishitoren that is like. Further exploration of the community building through healing and understanding. The “No Man Is An Island” theme of Wind Breaker is really interesting and I really enjoy it, and I also enjoy the concept of like… “you aren’t being a man wrong if you aren’t being a bastard about it”??? Like. Obviously it’s a fighting anime, so people fight and have flaws and hurt people, but that’s not like… proof of them being bad people. But like… also being gay or feminine or liking stuff other people don’t like or being a nerd or concerned about your appearance or being sick or being weak… like that doesn’t make you a “bad man” either. It’s like… there’s a million billion different ways to be a man. And they all count and matter and make the whole stronger for being included. And it’s just that this show is about teenage boys learning to become men, and most of these boys have been pretty fucked up and hurt but like, they just wanna be accepted and loved and respected do good. And like. I love ‘em.

Sakura didn’t think there was a world where he could do good, and is learning so fast that not only is there, but he’s in it and now he’s responsible. And he likes it??? And it’s that’s like. Intimidating and scary. Which might actually be more terrifying than being alone. Being afraid of losing people he likes. The worst. Uggghhhh the Keel Arc has one of the best moments.

God Clover Works do not fuck us with this season 2. Tell me you learned your lesson about season twos from the neverland show. Do not fuck me with the Keel Arc. I need my feral cat child to have his feral cat moment. I need Suo to have his fucking “you won’t like me when I’m angry” moment. I need this. I mean I also need to eventually get to Tsubaki and the like… man I keep calling them El Tango de Roxanne and The Communist Child Mafia. The first one not officially, the song just plays in my head, but like it’s hard to get that across in text and like. It’s not the Police version it’s the Moulin Rouge version, because like it’s clearly the superior version obvs. And due to this being text and any video being likely to require copyright, there’s no way any version of my subconscious association will translate. I know those gangs have their own names I’ll remember on a reread, that arc confused the shit put me in the Pepe Silvia Conspiracy Spiral that is “this is a dystopian hellscape” because like. The Communist Child Mafia was like… sure, within the realm of possibility, but like. Definitely kind of wild. And the Red Light Crew were like. “What the fuck do you mean you are teenagers you assholes?!? You’re fucking bald. That is not a teenager. What?!? Oh he works at the host clubs?!?? But of course he doesn’t drink! That was my first concern of course. That he was drinking.”

I feel like I need to do so much research but I don’t even know what to research. Like. That arc still like, it in no way defies the theme of “No Man is An Island” or “There Is No Innately Incorrect Form of Masculinity” but like. The worldbuilding questions it poses. I don’t know if I’m even supposed to ask them. I might be the wrong one. This might all be reasonable and o just like… misunderstood the setting because like. A couple things could reasonably clear up a few things. Like… a few natural disasters and poor infrastructure and the city being located in an area with poor government oversight and like. Most people in Japan are aware that area has that problem locally. But as someone not in Japan I’m not aware of that history so I’m not aware of that one simple contextual clue that makes like… everything click into place. Because there are things that make me suspect aspects of that but like. I don’t just wanna throw my own bias onto things, you know?

Well I guess I do because that’s the point of an essay. You create a thesis and then you argue for it based on your own biases and how you think the text backs it up, plus maybe some arguments from other texts or anecdotes from life or whatever.

Idk. I might be losing coherence. Ideas out of momentum for now. Need to collect more data.