#and i agree that it isn’t thorough to just ignore these things

[willbyersabyss]

Here’s why I PERSONALLY don’t think this is a solid piece of evidence for Mike being bi:

I already talked about this in my gay Mike analysis, but I want to talk about it again (and basically repeat all my points)

Like I said before, the colors represent specific people rather than overall representations of gender. Why not choose pink and blue if this is about the gender of said people? This is about Will and El, not boys and girls. Mike split his attention on the two throughout the day.

If we ignore the color choice and continue to use this as a hint at Mike’s sexuality, it actually proves he’s gay rather than bi. We have to look at the full statement. “But now I’m realizing it’s too much yellow… I kinda did a 70/30 split kinda thing.”

So if we assume that yellow is boys and purple is girls, Mike says that he did a split and it didn’t work. The sentence is in past tense. There’s too much yellow for his split to work, so now he’s realizing something else. Splitting his attraction is not satisfactory for him.

Let’s think about s3 finale and the common interpretation that Mike realized he doesn’t have feelings for El anymore. Maybe between s3 and s4 is where Mike tried the split. He thought he could continue to be with El, but there was still too much Will on his mind. Mike is realizing that there’s too much yellow, so his attraction is not split, he goes one way (hello to the one way sign on Mike’s wall).

[mewtwo24]

Sasaki and Hirano, Compare/Contrast Brainrot

Okay like I saw a post about Sasaki and Hirano’s friendship and I just. Started thinking about it and now I can’t stop. Especially after reading Hirano to Kagiura. 

I feel like they’re messed up (repressed is probably what I actually mean) in the same way but in opposite directions and that’s why they like…get along, but in the strangest manifestation of that phrasing? They care about each other almost from a periphery, from the vantage point of someone who understands, but, since they’re also still figuring it out, they don’t know quite how to interact with or guide the other?

And it’s killing me because--idk if it was just me--I kept going feral over every single time I was reading the manga and Hirano would go “oh yeah I do [insert fuckign batshit intimacy] with my roommate, this is a normal senpai/kouhai thing to do” and Sasaki literally always reacts with:

“.” (Huh. I don’t think that’s normal but who am I to judge these things. Let’s ask the local social barometer.)

“Hey Hanzawa, this [reiterates what Hirano said word-for-word] isn’t normal is it?” (Translation: “this would be inappropriate to do with Mya-chan even though I’m clawing at the walls just thinking about it”)

And Hanzawa, bless his heart, who is only a fraction more normal about social interaction than everyone else is just like:

“.” [W H A T]

“Sasaki, what. Of course you shouldn’t be doing that. W H Y ARE YOU ASKING ME THIS”

AND THIS HAPPENS MANY TIMES IN THE SPAN OF TWENTY CHAPTERS. I CANNOT EXPRESS ENOUGH THE HILARITY BUT ALSO CONCERN IT INSPIRES TO WATCH.

More detailed analysis under the cut, I just can’t stop laughing at the way the manga compares them:

Sasaki fascinates me because, as I take stock again, it feels like he’s got this dread when it comes to change (e.g. Ogasawara and his gf dating--thus changing his relationship with both of them, asking Miyano out--risking losing him, confessing that he’s dating a boy to his sister--risking her enduring and fervent disapproval). So much of his younger teenage angst was related to being reluctant to start or do things, and while it’s easy to assume laziness, I don’t think that’s the case? He says in the manga: “There’s nothing I can do, so how am I supposed to know what I want to do then…?” I get a sense that this trapped feeling contributes to his dissatisfaction and stasis more than a refusal to do anything at all. I don’t think he lacks capacity; he’s proven to be exceptionally clever and even studious when he feels motivated. 

Considering the lack of interest his parents had in his life (let alone his hobbies/skills) and his sister’s overbearing scrutiny, I feel like it makes sense he’s struggled so much with his self-actualization. I feel like he perceives it as being caught between hot and cold extremes constantly; like no matter what he does, he’ll either receive indifference or loud chastising. So why bother at all? It would explain why he likes Miyano’s temperament so much, considering the latter quite literally is defined by his normalcy and even keel. When Sasaki wants to move forward in their relationship, Miyano seriously considers both their feelings, and thoroughly weighs the realities of what it would mean to be together before replying. While Sasaki wants to be closer to him, I think so much of his willingness to wait was the fact that Miyano wasn’t evading him. Miyano was being honest and thorough about meeting him halfway, without insulting his feelings or flat out ignoring him.

(Side note: I fully agree that Sasaki’s sister is a positive influence in his life, in that she actually gave a damn when he was downspiraling and miserable, and pointed out that all kids need limits and guidance. But she is loud and forceful about her acknowledgement, and I feel like this is very grating to Sasaki. For better or worse, it’s clear he has a hard time with such a direct and intense approach about what he should think and feel, and about what he needs. Sasaki shows indications of a kind of mindset where he thinks he needs to shoulder all the tough and heavy things alone, so it makes sense to me that he would be uncomfortable with his sister proclaiming how he is lost or bereft of attention/discipline.)

I think there’s also the fact that Miyano witnessed Sasaki at his most vulnerable--and instead of lashing out--offered him help and sympathy, real warmth and patience. Sasaki has always meant a lot to me as a character, maybe because he resonates in such a poignant way. He’s somebody who has lived under such emotional extremes, and as a result deeply values a sense of normalcy. Where one could argue Miyano is unassuming and ordinary, I think that’s part of why Sasaki likes being with him.  With Miyano, he doesn't have to guess at the distance between them; Miyano is earnest and careful about those differences, and is very direct about addressing them with reciprocity.

Now then, Hirano. I know very little about Hirano’s home life other than his being an only child. But to be honest, that does tell us a bit--paired with his subtle social anxieties. I will never forget Sasaki saying to Miyano ‘that’s because Hirano plays favorites with his kouhais’ about the gap between his behavior towards his younger classmates versus everyone else. While Sasaki’s petulance is uproarious, there is something to that. (I also love how this exposes Sasaki, lowkey, because he’s basically saying that he’d only do that with his favorite people, aka Miyano. But otherwise he could never be bothered to care about a rando, and that’s hilarious.)

I think Hirano--because he doesn’t really have a sense of how he’s supposed to relate to other people--tends to follow the same strict guidelines you might see in a rule book (DISCIPLINE COMMITTEE COUGH COUGH). Supposing he was taught--or simply feels responsibility towards younger kids as a result of reflective parental neglect--it would explain why he feels this rigid need to treat kouhais like little siblings. At first glance, and honestly when you consider his general aloofness, it doesn’t make much sense that he has a mothering sensibility otherwise. 

Now then, because I realized this while writing and I have to inflict this on everyone else in rapid succession, this would explain his initial staunch discomfort with Kagiura’s affection. In the context of Hirano’s lifestyle/mindset:

Hirano → relationships with people? Don’t understand that, refer to following flowchart:

→ younger = responsibility, must protecc

→ same age = keep them in line

→ older = respect (but only if I feel like it HAIR DYE NOISES INTENSIFY)

Mind you, I don’t think this is limited to his platonic/friendship relations. I think this permeates into so many other aspects of his life, since sociality is inevitably a focal point for all human life. If he feels an uncharacteristic leniency and profound affection for Kagiura, then it must be because he's a kouhai he wants to protect, nothing more. He has no other reason or definition by which to ascribe to those feelings. Hirano doubly insisting he can’t be attracted to men is because he’s been so inundated in the widespread social signals, the social rule that has been long standing--and remains a pretty powerful message even now--that it’s unlikely (and that’s a gentle term) he’s attracted to another man. 

After all, He is So Good At Being A Normal Young Man. He’s in the discipline committee. He gets excellent grades. He’s a kind and helpful senpai. He keeps his classmates in line. Of Course He Likes Women, What Do You Mean Gay.

He’s basically that meme like: “'Men can be attracted to other men' actually statistical error. Average men only feel attraction for women. Sasamiya is an outlier and should not be counted."

Both Hirano and Sasaki hate change/unpredictability, but I really love how complex their differences are in regards to how they experience that and feel that. Sasaki hates change, but he’s not necessarily emotionally repressed? He’s able to express what he feels for Miyano because he feels it so strongly, and it comes naturally when he does. In fact, it’s so natural that he becomes impulsive--and that’s why he gets so anxious about moving too far or too fast by accident. He has the overthink override, where if the attraction is too strong he simply Can’t Shut Up About How Much He Loves Miyano or stop hugging/kissing him.

Hirano hates change in the sense that he’s so ensconced in this idea that This Is Normal Human Behavior, that he completely loses sight of how he actually feels about anything--because he rejects/suppresses anything he can’t coherently define in a scripted, linear way. And being asked to tread that unstable, unsteady ground is tantamount to throwing a cat in water with no warning. This is why it’s so sad but also HYSTERICALLY FUNNY to see him like “wym I have feelings for Kagiura. It's perfectly normal to start yelling with all the wounded rage of a scorned housewife over my kouhai not letting me wake him up for morning practice. That is what it means to be a senpai.” Because he has no blueprint for how he’s supposed to express a love that goes deeper than friendship (with a man no less), he defaults to these overly simplistic structures that can’t support the complexity/maturity of such adult human feeling and exchanges. They worked for him just fine before, so why won’t they work for him now?

Relegating Kagiura to the role of kouhai makes it easier for Hirano to conceptualize why he cares so much for him, but it also limits the scope of his view. He’s using it as an umbrella term in a sense: of course he doesn’t find every little thing about Kagiura infuriating/boring/troublesome. Being the older person means being responsible and chill about everything. But that’s the thing. He’s not indulging Kagiura the same way he indulges Miyano, despite him qualifying them the same way. With Miyano it’s super clear Hirano really does just see him as a baby duckling, someone to treat gently and usher around. His behavior around Kagiura is so astronomically different in comparison, it’s nearly comical to try to compare them:

It’s Kagiura’s birthday. Hirano, who probably hardly remembers people’s birthdays, deadass went around asking every person he was close to (like, 5 ppl) for advice. He agonized over it for days on end. He gets Kagiura tickets to a basketball game and an alarm clock, and spends the entire day with him. He asks Hanzawa if he can use party poppers to celebrate Kagiura on the day of, and to get around the rules when he’s told no he has everyone go hog wild with them at the Christmas party in a loophole maneuver to celebrate. Reminder to myself and everyone reading, this is BEFORE he even hears a word about Kagiura’s feelings.

THIS IS BEFORE EITHER OF THEM ARE IN ANY KIND OF INTIMATE RELATIONSHIP. HIRANO, WHO IS MR. “i only study or drag people to baby jail, what do you want,” SPENT ENTIRE DAYS PAINSTAKINGLY PLANNING ALL OF THIS. FOR KAGIURA’S BDAY. AFTER ONE OFFHAND COMMENT FROM KAGIURA OF LIKE mannnn having an xmas bday sucks ass, they just try to lump it tg with holiday presents booooo :///

That Hirano conceptualizes Kagiura as a kouhai has been established. But another angle that’s equally crucial is this equation:

Hirano → adore person? Devote Every Minute To Being Nice^TM

→ hate person? angry cat hissing sounds/smack with paper roll

→ mild dislike? Lowkey grousing/sarcasm/dismissal

→ neutral? (this is most people btw) refer to earlier chart for appropriate social etiquette

This is pretty much where Hirano gives himself away. Because even in his most inflexible rules for himself, we’ve never seen him convey so much feeling for anyone around him so helplessly. It can be argued that he might have in the past, but honestly, I doubt it. The feeling is so confusing and new to him that it leads me to believe so much of his difficulty accepting what he feels is related to its unfamiliarity. He can’t trust it as real precisely because he can’t control or neatly define it. (This made doubly disconcerting by the fact that he doesn’t have a typical social structure to work from either. If his parents, for instance, are anything like Hanzawa’s, it’s possible his conception of love between a couple is about devotion to remain together to fulfill a sense of status/purpose to create a new life. He would have zero concept of love that comes from the very depths of a person’s emotional being, a call and response that is as instinctive as it is fulfilling.)

Sasaki feels an intense desire to be close to Miyano, and thus acts accordingly because he trusts his feelings. On the other hand, he has trouble measuring the distance between himself and others. (e.g. he thinks he will lose his friends if they date, his sister acts like a parent but is also a kid and that makes it hard for him to know how to interact, he struggles to convey himself properly to Miyano when he brings up escalating to dating). Hirano, on the other hand, doesn’t realize the intensity of his affection and heartfelt proximity to Kagiura because he’s so busy tying himself up in knots over what he’s supposed to feel and think that he doesn’t trust his feelings. Rather, he is only given away by how obscenely his actions expose him. Comparatively, he has less trouble measuring the distance between himself and others when it comes to anyone but Kagiura.

(Perhaps obviously, Kagiura has Sasaki’s whole ‘if I don’t hug/kiss/bark at him I’ll die’ emotional expression and Miyano has the cautious measuring of distance between people and difficulty accepting gay like Hirano.)

God they’re both so quintessentially queer it hurts me. One can’t shut up about his love, and the other literally cannot open his mouth and express his feelings or he’ll die. 

NARRATIVE FOILS EVERYONE

(Also unsure if it’s me but wow. They are so. Autism. And that also kills me akhfjldghjgdsfhkdfjhg)

[writefightandflightclub]

The light is blinding (Joel Miller x fem!reader)

Summary: When he's hurt, you offer to wash Joel's hair for him. Turns out there may be other forms of comfort you can offer him too.

Genres: character study; angst (sorta); hurt/comfort; SMUT. Joel's POV.

Author's note: I watched TLOU ep 1 last night, then made bad choices today in favour of hyperfocussing on this 8k Joel fic. I mean, this was sort of inevitable tbf. We've been handed a sad, scruffy, brown-eyed, dusty apocalypse DILF, and there was no chance of me not adopting him as a blorbo. Anyway, this is my first attempt at Joel, I wrote this in a trance so god knows what it says and I haven't spent any time on editing/correcting. Can't promise it's any good, but if you want to wash his hair as much as I do (lol) maybe you'll enjoy it, who knows. P.s. I promise it does get super smutty. You just have to survive the extensive internal monologue and many rounds of haircare first. (I'm just like that :P)

Warnings: 18+ ONLY. Minors interacting will be blocked. EXPLICIT SMUT (unprotected p in v sex, totally ignoring practicalities like birth control in the apocalypse bc we can); canon-typical themes such as grief, apocalypse, infection/disease, trauma, injury. SPOILERS - if you know the core plot points or have seen episode one you'll be okay. Joel's POV.

Word count: 8.2k

GIF by @joelmjller (Pls lemme know if you'd like me to remove this!)

How did he get here, exactly? All stretched out on his back, your careful fingers twining through his wetted, grizzled hair?

Well, he supposes he got here because a smuggling deal had gone sideways - like usual.

He got here, because he’s getting too old for this shit, and because someone precisely young enough for this shit had garnered the advantage just long enough to land a gun barrel blow to his head. A blow which then made room for all manner of nonsense, of course; like Joel being teep kicked into a desk. The desk - owing to its sturdy construction and deliciously planed hardwood - had withstood the blow. Joel’s body, however -far less sturdily constructed - had reacted far less favourably to that particular transaction.

Most of all though, cracked ribs and busted shoulder aside, Joel is here, because of you. He is here, because you offered to wash his hair.

Joel isn’t a clean man, by any stretch. Who could be anymore, with the way things are? In truth, he’s forgotten what it’s like not to be coated with a layer of dirt and smoke and ash. But apparently, even in the midst of an apocalypse, the dried-in, caked-up, days old blood matting his hair had left something to be desired.

He’d agreed to your offer only because - honestly - it was starting to itch. Because this time he truly couldn’t do it himself, the searing pain in his ribs seeing to that. Making sure he couldn’t quite raise his arm high enough or dip his head low enough to get the job done.

He’d agreed to your offer, in part, because he thought you would be quick. And - he now realises - you are being anything but.

You have him stretched out on his back, on a repurposed dentist chair. The worn, dark green leather creaks beneath him as he adjusts, positioning himself just so. You’ve installed a makeshift neck rest and basin to the rear of the chair, and Joel’s head is currently dipped backwards into the warm water, your fingers diligently combing through the strands to release the debris and muck.

You use a cup to cascade the water from the basin over his head, cupping it with the other hand to guard his face and neck from any rogue rivulets. Then, you ease your fingertips over his scalp, massaging in circles, being extra careful -he notes- around his recently closed wound.

Yes, to Joel’s dismay, you are taking your time. You are being so thorough and so attentive, in fact, that Joel even wonders if you will end up washing the gray right out of his hair - Joel’d never been wholly convinced that his newly-developed colouring was ever anything more than a thick, impenetrable layer of dirt and ash.

You hum thoughtfully, a sweet, innocuous note as you assess your next step. “I’m switching out the water, okay?”

That doesn’t sound okay at all. That doesn’t sound done. And Joel had thought that this would be quick. Had needed this to be quick.

Before he can grunt an answer though, you are winding a towel around his hair, presumably attempting to save the drips from reaching the floor as you swap out one basin for another, setting down the one now filled with muddy brown water, and bending carefully to lift a second steaming basin of fresh water on to your makeshift plinth.

He needs to stop this here. “That’ll do,” he says gruffly, motioning to sit up -carefully- despite the pain in his ribs.

“Lie back,” you insist, the sound of your voice muffled through the towel wound over his ears but soothing nevertheless. “I’ve only managed to rinse out the blood and bird’s nests so far. We still need to wash and condition.”

Joel would protest more vigorously -means to, in fact- but the soft smile on your face dissolves him like sugar before he can do so.

He frowns though, for good measure. “Fine. Just make it quick.”

“The quicker you relax Joel,” you sing song, “the faster I’ll let you out of my seat. Deal?”

He grunts. He doesn’t relax. He can’t relax.

“And,” you add playfully, as if reading his mind. “If you can’t relax, you’d better learn fast to fake it.”

Joel sighs deeply in frustration as he lies back, and you usher him gently into position. However, the slow, deep breath he expels does genuinely serve to sink him more deeply into the chair. Does force him to release just a jot of the tension snaking through his taut muscles.

You hum again, softly, in satisfaction, and he thinks he can even hear a smile on your mouth as you foam his hair with some sweet-smelling product, your fingers resuming their careful ministrations across his scalp.

It’s nice, he notes, unwilling as he is to admit it. Your touch could knock him out better than a barrel full of oxy and a bottle of the good stuff. He almost lets himself enjoy it - an attractive woman like you working your hands into his hair, massaging with your thumbs, your fingers, your palms. Applying pressure and sensation, even into the tight muscles in his neck. Loosening some of the tension at his temples. He even consciously relaxes his forehead, feeling his frown soften. Closing his eyes instead of fixing his stare on the broken picture rail he’s sure he could fix with a few tools and a little bit of effort.

He breathes more deeply as he closes his eyes, focussing in on the sensation of your touch. On the scents flooding his nose. Floral and sweet and fruity. It smells of you, and he breathes it deeply. He tries not to think about how his pillow will smell of you later.

It shouldn’t be possible for you to smell as good as you do, Joel ponders. You even have him wondering whether perhaps he’s not the only game in town. Whether there’s another smuggler dealing in contraband which hasn’t even occurred to him to barter with. Perfumes and oils and essences. He doubts that you would be mixed up in smuggling, but he doesn’t doubt that you are capable of far more than surface-level assessments might suggest.

After all, people only survive this long with one of two things: brutality, or blind luck - and no-one is that lucky that they’ve never had to dabble in the former. Everyone who has made it this far is only out for themselves.

Therefore, who knows what secrets you hide behind your sweet facade, Joel contemplates. Though, if he did have to believe there was anyone selfless left on god’s blighted earth? If he had to believe in someone, Joel would bet cards on it being you.

He sucks in another long, slow breath, and the scent of you envelops him all over again. For a moment, he finds himself wanting to believe in you. But it’s never too long before he recalls he gave up a long time ago on believing in anything. Anything except his wits and his fists and his gun, at least.

“That’s it Joel,” you praise as he relaxes - uncoils - just a shade, and the smooth tone of your voice slides right under his skin. The thought that you want to make him feel good makes him tingle. Makes him forget - almost - that he doesn’t deserve that.

Meanwhile, your deft fingers and thumbs continue to work nimbly into him, sliding over the contours and bones and ridges of his skull. Applying a warm, steady pressure against the muscles at the nape of his neck. Circling your thumb against a spot that sends a buzzing, suffusing warmth skittering down the length of his spine. Blooming through him - and, it has been so long. So long since Joel felt anything resembling pleasure that when he feels this warm honey trail down his back, an involuntary moan overspills his parted lips.

Shit. There's no chance that you didn't hear that.

The moan reverberates in the tight, quiet room. Lingers far longer than it sounds out for. Lingers, despite how quickly Joel cuts it short - clamping his mouth shut and hoping he can pass it off as a grunt or some expulsion of pain from shifting in his chair.

Your fingers halt, still tangled in his hair. “D-Do you want me to stop?” There is a heat in your tone, Joel thinks, the vowels and consonants warm and full like the pop and crackle of a hearth.

It's new. And it occurs to him, ever so suddenly, that maybe you are enjoying this too? Touching him?

After all, he’s not insisting upon it. Didn’t suggest it. Has not attempted to prolong it. And yet, you continue, working diligently. Soothing him. Freely offering your praise and those little, contented hums - those small, burgeoning sounds which make his fingertips ache to have your skin beneath them, so that he can keep on making your lips overspill with those sweet sounds of satisfaction.

Indeed, Joel’s hair has got to be cleaner now than it’s ever been. He’s been in your chair longer than he ever intended - and you don’t seem to be working any other angle. Don’t seem to be after any contraband that he can get his hands on. Haven’t submitted any requests. Fished for any information.

Perhaps then, you are enjoying him. Enjoying performing this act of service for him - though god knows why. Perhaps you are even looking down at his body right now while he’s all laid out for you in this worn-out chair. His long limbs stretched out, clothes tugging taut over his tight, muscular frame. Perhaps you like looking at him like this, his hair slicked back and away from his sharp face and his hawkish nose, watching the twist and pull of the muscles as he sets his jaw - needing to consolidate all of his resolve simply to resist your sweet, sugary touches. Perhaps you liked when you watched his eyes flutter closed under your touch. When you watched his lips part with that sound. That throaty, undone moan, all for you.

Joel’s not stupid.

He’s clocked the way you look at him sometimes. With this gentle, inviting hunger. The way you always make the effort to come over and speak with him whenever opportunity presents itself. The way your appealing body bends to him like a flower to its sun, as though he has anything nourishing about him. As though he has anything but darkness to offer.

He’s clocked you too. Has seen the way kindness and warmth dance across your features like a living, licking flame. Has seen you glow brightly too with a steady, constant fire, which he is sure must run hotter and more fierce beneath the surface than any would estimate. He had noticed too, of course, the swell and contours of your body, hiding beneath your clothes in all the places he most enjoys.

He’s thought before how he’d like to find out where the hunger in your eyes could take him if he chased it; but in the end he knows there is never any further to go than here. That every road is a dead end since the world ended. That the quarantine zone is the only place with walls more impenetrable than his own.

Still; he’s thought about you more than he’d care to admit. To Tommy. To Tess. To you. To himself. Has thought about the way your lips might feel on his. How soft and warm your body might be if he held it up against him. The way his calloused hands might look with his fingers sunk into your flesh, grabbing up handfuls of you like you are his daily bread - the very thing he needs to survive.

Of burying his head between your thighs for hours and trying to suck the impossible sweetness out of you, as though, somehow, he could then begin to understand how someone as good as you is capable of existing in a world as shitty and cruel as this.

He’s had darker thoughts too though. Thoughts of filling you rough and sudden - if you’d let him. Of burying his anger in you with every thrust, deep enough that he could attempt to forget it. Of letting you take his rage from him for just a few moments - as if it could ever truly leave him for a moment longer than that.

But of course, in actuality, he’s done none of that. Joel hasn’t pulled on a single one of those threads. He hasn’t unravelled.

Instead, for the most part, Joel has simply ignored you. Ignored you, because that’s the precisely the last thing he wants to do. Ignored you, because the safest option - Joel has established - is usually to give himself the opposite of whatever he thinks he wants.

That is… he’s ignored you until today. Until you offered to wash his hair. A simple yet towering offer of kindness in a world blighted by dark and rot. An offer that feels like more than he deserves when all he’s ever done for you is to give you the brush off. To answer you tersely, his aim with every interaction to have it over quick.

Still… he’d said yes. Or, at least, he’d declined to protest. Had nodded. Had followed you.

If he’s being honest with himself, he could have asked Tommy to help him, even if he was trying to obscure the severity of his latest injuries from his dear ol’ brother. Even Tess - she’d have done it. With plenty of griping, but she would have done it.

The truth is though, that he wanted it to be you. Needed it to be you. He’d gravitated towards you, even before he knew what you might be prepared to give him. Even without any trade to offer. For you, he’d unravelled. Just a little; in a moment of weakness. He hasn’t slept and he hasn’t succeeded and he hasn’t succumbed for so long, that he finally slipped. Finally gave into one of his wants. Finally gave in to what he wanted most. To seat himself in front of the warm hearth of you and to feel a little god dang comfort.

Joel opens his eyes, expression washing clean with a new resolve, and your fingers still frozen in his hair. He fixes his gaze on the broken picture rail. Precisely at the point where it fractures. Where it needs fixing. He needs a little fixing too, he thinks. He’s sure now, that he’s chosen the right tool for the job, when not another damn thing could do it.

“No,” he finally responds, his voice unwavering, blinking his bitter coffee eyes, sweetened already by your sugar. A gentle gulp sinking down the corded column of his neck. “I don’t want you to stop.”

From behind and above him, he hears you release a breath as though you may have been holding one, tight in your chest, and you slide your fingers from his hair. “Good.” Good. The word rattles pleasantly in his chest when you say it. “We’ll do your conditioner next.”

And, for the first time, Joel unclenches his fingers from where they have been curled around the arm rests of the chair, clinging on to the lip until his knuckles had turned white.

This time - for all he can tell via his scalp - your touch feels a little bolder. A little looser. You even drag your nails over his head now, applying long, sizzling scratches which send that same buzzy warmth snaking down his back. You massage him more eagerly, blood flooding to his crotch as he thinks about having your strong, supple, precise hands work him in other places. He imagines, as your nails graze over him, how you might claw harsh stripes down his back in a moment of ecstasy. As your thumb massages a circle into the spot behind his ear, imagines how you might circle the soft pad of it around the swollen head of his cock, collecting up the glistening bead of precum as he leaks for you. Imagines, as you carefully pour a cup of warm, cascading water over his head, how he could bathe himself with the warmth of your skin on his. Imagines, as he hears the subtle wet sounds created as you scrunch sweet-smelling elixirs into his hair, how it might sound if your own juices were being coaxed out of you by his fingers until they began to drip, working down his veined, muscled forearm.

He allows himself to imagine everything he plans to deny himself. He at least allows himself to have that.

“That temperature still okay for you?” you ask as you lift the cup of water once again, fracturing his sordid daydreams.

Joel gives a terse grunt. It’s all he can manage.

“So,” you ask breezily. “Are you going anywhere nice for your holidays?”

It takes Joel a few moments to realise just what you’re doing. To twig. It’s a decade - shit, more - since he had a haircut like that, so it takes him a while to pick up that you’re echoing the banal small talk which used to occur as you sat down in the barber chair. Those memory cogs are stiff. He hasn’t turned them in a long time. He doesn’t want to remember that there was anything before. At least, not a lot of it.

Still, your bit takes him by surprise. It’s such a ludicrous contrast that it makes him laugh to think about how things have changed. Who can even go on holiday now? You can’t even leave the quarantine zone. Shit. Even if you could, you wouldn’t want to. And so, Joel laughs. He laughs and he barely recognises the sound from his own mouth. He laughs… and he instantly regrets it, because he knows better than to pull on any of those threads.

But; it’s too late now.

He laughs and you mirror him, the sound melodious and hopeful, and all of a sudden Joel can imagine everything he’s been avoiding you for.

He hasn’t been avoiding you because he wants to fuck you - not really. He’s fucked plenty of folk, and he’s moved on.

He’s avoiding you, because of how easily he can imagine you in a summer dress, twirling in the yard to show it off to him. How easily he can imagine you sitting on a front porch gripping your morning cup of coffee and the sun shining on your face as you smile up at him. How easily he can imagine you lifting a tray of freshly baked cookies out of the oven, batting his hand away as he steals one before it cools.

Truthfully, he has no idea whether you ever did a single one of those things before - before all this. He doesn’t even really care whether you did. He knows it’s a flat, idealised, empty picture postcard version of you.

But, even so, it still hurts.

It still hurts, because of just how easily he could imagine waking up beside you in his house.

The house that no longer exists.

The house with Sarah in it.

And that’s why he never pulls on that thread.

That’s why he avoids you.

That’s why this can never work.

Because you?

You make him remember all the sweet things. All the sweet things the world used to contain before the rot and the death and despair painted over everything. Infected it.

You make him remember the taste of fresh mangoes. The feeling of sand beneath his feet and waves washing over his toes. Saturdays at the mall. Picking away at his guitar in the living room. The easy jubilation of ball games on the TV on Sundays, with Tommy in the kitchen plating up chicken wings. Of bad movie nights. Of mornings spent around the kitchen table, and his daughter cooking up birthday pancakes.

That’s why he can’t ever start to be happy with you. Why he can’t pull on that thread; because all the good things in life are attached to it. All tied and knotted and tangled up with “before”.

When he dreams of you - when he lets himself - he dreams of then too.

He has to, doesn’t he? Because the past is the only place to build a future when the present is apocalyptic, isn’t it? When you are the only thing he hasn’t lost yet, and everything else -pretty much- is already dead and gone.

It kills him that he found you now.

Found you too late.

It kills him because Sarah would have loved you, and because he thinks he could have too.

You don’t know all of this, of course. You can’t ever know this. And so, your oblivious fingers continue touching him, until he feels another moan begin to spool itself tight in his chest, getting ready to unravel. This time though, he is less sure whether it is a moan of pleasure or of anguish. More and more these days, those two feelings have been starting to feel precisely the same.

“Can we move this along?” he asks gruffly, some of the weight settling back into his brow. He asks, predictably, for the opposite of what he wants. It has to be like that. There’s no other road anymore.

“We can stop whenever you like but… that’s a shame.”

His frown deepens. “Why?”

“Because your hands had only just started to unclench.”

Joel’s heart clenches at the thought you were watching him that intently. That you were weighing the state and tension of his body. Valiantly trying to release some of that weight from him, even when you must be so heavy too.

And of course, knowing this, he only tries to push you further away. Before his dreams of you are seared even more brightly under his skin.

“You know what. I should go.” His chest constricts - throat grows tighter, a lump forming.

Joel idly wonders if his grief will ever stop feeling so raw. That’s the second disease, he thinks. The other monster infecting everything around it. The shadow of the original cloud. He wonders if it will always be this debilitating, even after he’s pushed it down as far as it can go. It’s not only a grief for what was lost, he ponders. It’s also a grief for what he can never have again. It's a grief for you and all the ways he could have loved you.

He sits up -carefully but abruptly, hand clamped over his aching ribs- and his wetted hair sends rivulets snaking down his face, his neck, his chest. Inching beneath the collar of his green button down shirt. Collecting on his shoulders like a pattern of indoor raindrops.

“Joel,” you scold, tutting lightly. Following quickly after him with the towel, trying to mop up after him. Hastily, you towel off his hair. Sneak your hand beneath his collar, gathering the drops up from his chest and neck.

With effort, and a grimace, Joel swings his legs around, until he is sitting upright, feet planted on the floor. But, whether for the pain or for the promise of pleasure - he’s not sure - he can’t bring himself to move any further than that. Especially not as you finally round from the basin, the damp towel slung over your shoulder, your hands and wrists still shined and wet from caressing his hair in a way he can only describe as reverent.

You kneel before him, drying your hands off and setting the towel down before boldly sliding your palms up his denim-clad thighs. “Joel. Would you just let me take care of you?"

He meets your eyes and finds them soft but determined. Empty of darkness, even with the black expanding abyss of your pupil eating away at the colour of your iris.

Joel looks down at your hands as you begin to smooth them up and down, inching slowly up towards his crotch before retreating - repeating the pattern. He looks at you in displeasure, but there’s nothing about your touch which is unwelcome - and that’s exactly the problem. He swallows. Gathers his question up in his throat before he offers it to you gently, as though in cupped, outstretched palms. “How?”

Your beautiful eyes flash with pity then, he thinks, or something like it. It seems like a silly question, but after all this time he doesn’t recall what it’s like to be cared for. He doesn’t know how to let you.

Your palm reaches up to the scruff on his cheek. You smooth it fondly. “Lie back,” you encourage, with a soft smile which seems to glow from the inside, like a porch backlit with the glow of home. “And just let me take care of the rest.”

Joel has always found something to fight for, but today, he has no fight left in him. In truth, he doesn’t want to fight this. To fight you. It is easy to give in to you. In fact, it's too easy. That has always been the problem.

Your hands continue to travel up and down his thighs, and he feels the warmth of you bleed through the fabric.

God. He’s already hard for you. Already full and throbbing in his jeans. Already, he is imagining your hands wrapping around the thick, straining mass of him. Imagining the way that -in moments - you may be unloosing his belt, threading leather through denim loop. The way you might pop the button keenly with your thumb, and he might groan as you relieve the pressure. The way you might unzip the straining fly to have his substantial length spring free, so rarely touched and so so ready to be taken care of.

At the thought of that alone, he’s straining against the seams of his pants, a pressure which sits smack bang between pleasure and pain.

“Joel,” you whisper softly, and he realises he hasn’t yet moved from his position.

“Right.” He swallows. He lies back. Stretches himself out, feeling far more exposed this time, even if he is still fully clothed.

You stand, quickly disappearing the basin away and soon you’re back, standing over Joel and watching him laid out all needy like this. His eyes travel over you, entranced by your form, and he suddenly needs friction. Needs the relief he didn't even know he was waiting for until you offered it - or, implied it. He bucks his hips up, not even caring if he’s being subtle, and the denim and leather creak as he shifts. He punches out a breath as he strains in his pants, chasing any morsel of friction he can. The feeling of his shaft pushing harder against the seam as his whole cock twitches for you. For those hands. For that plush mouth. Maybe for that cunt of yours.

As usual though, when Joel feels anything good, there is a familiar swell of guilt too; this time, riding in on the flood of arousal to his cock. This time, there’s something new to be feeling guilty for too. Something to add to that already long list. He feels guilty for having all of these thoughts about you, despite never having asked you where you were from. Before. What you used to do. Who you lost.

“I’m sorry,” Joel offers, before he even knows that his mouth is moving. Before he’s even figured out what it is he’s sorry for.

Truth is, he’s sorry for so many reasons. For what he’s done. What he’s lost. Whatever you’ve lost. For not asking you about it. Mainly, he realises, because he can’t make you any promises. None that he could keep. Not to keep you safe. He can’t promise you that.

He thinks you’ll ask him what for - why he’s sorry. But instead, you say something else.

“Don’t be.”

If only it was that easy.

Even so, he looks into your eyes as your hungry gaze skims the length of his body, settling at the bulge at his crotch as you drag your tongue along the pillow of your lower lip. You’re beautiful. Vibrant. Full of life and lust and hunger. Alive in a dead world; and suddenly, it doesn’t matter one bit to Joel where you came from. It doesn’t matter what happened before. It only matters where you’re going. What you want. How he can give it to you.

But it is you who gives him something.

You hinge at the hips, slanting your mouth against Joel’s, and he feels your lips brush up against the scruff on his top lip. Feels the pillow of your plush mouth meet his before your tongue fleets out, licking into him like a searing, dancing flame. You hum hungrily into his mouth and his lips chase you as you pull away, another backlit smile dancing on your face, your features already beginning to resemble home to him in a world where there's no such thing.

Joel watches you move now, with quiet fascination, as you kick off your boots. As you wiggle your pleasing hips, untying then easing your cargo pants and panties down your thighs. His tongue curls around his lip as he is gifted glimpses of your skin - although you are still covered to your upper thigh by the yellow tunic top you’re wearing - and now he can’t help but palm himself through his jeans for a morsel of relief.

Still. What you're about to offer him? It feels like far too much. “What are you doing? You don’t have to-“

“-Tell me you don’t want this and I’ll stop,” you promise, meeting his eyes, open and honest and ready to back off if he doesn’t want this. But shit, how could he not want you? Look at you - and so he can’t. He can’t possibly tell you that, even though he thinks that he should.

“No. God, I want you,” Joel pleads, voice hollowed-out with need. All spent, like ash.

“And you’re going to have me.”

You kick your pants and panties off, leaving them to pool discarded on the floor, and Joel palms himself a little harder, grabbing the fat roll of himself through the denim as he catches a glimpse. They’re nothing sexy, of course; but from the way they’ve fallen he is able to note the telltale wet spot on the crotch. It looks like you’ve soaked them through, and God he wants to feel your wetness for himself.

You ease over him, settling your knees on to either side of the leather chair, where Joel’s legs are stretched out before him, sturdy thighs slightly parted to accommodate the arousal between his legs.

You’re still wearing your tunic top, bright yellow like sunshine, and the length of it dances and clings at intervals to your hips and thighs as you move. It’s driving him wild that you are bare beneath. All he can think about is that warm, delicious wetness of yours spilling over him. God, he wants to hear it. Wants to squeeze it out of you. Wants it to drip down the veined shaft of him.

You straddle his thighs, knees folded, the soles of your feet pointed up towards your ass cheeks, and your heat settles just below his own - not quite grinding over him, but tantalisingly close.

You take a moment like this to simply look at him. To gaze into his coffee brown eyes as though there’s something more to him than being sorry and bitter. Like you could see anything sweet there. Anything worth wanting. Then, you comb his damp hair back with your fingers, drawing the strands back from his forehead. Tucking and curling them around his ears.

Your touch - your tenderness - makes him ache. Makes him throb. Makes him want to bury himself in you. His tongue, his fingers, his cock, his feelings - anything of him you’ll take. And, as he wraps his arms around you a wracked moan unspools from his chest as his rough fingertips find the soft skin beneath your yellow tunic. As his touch traverses the contours of you he’s always admired from a distance.

As his jaw falls open, slack with desire, you drink down his moan, catching the resonant sound in the cave of your mouth. Kissing him with a gentle yet constant hunger. With a red hot spark of deviance in your sweet eyes which almost makes Joel spill creamy ropes into his pants there and then. Your tongue travels along your lower lip. Your gaze drops, lust dark and heavy to the bulge at his crotch, and you unloop his belt with those hands of yours. They'll look small next to the size of him, he thinks. He likes that thought a lot.

“Let’s see what contraband you’re smugglin’ in these pants of yours, cowboy," you smile, and Joel's eyes crinkle with rare amusement. His face tips up with a lopsided smile which is quick to drop - all of him focussed on where you're about to touch him.

He twitches eagerly in his jeans thinking about how tight you will grip him, but you don’t touch him just yet. Instead, you shuffle yourself back, down his legs, giving yourself enough space to tug on his clothing and to ease it down his thighs. Once his pants and his boxers have reached his knees you stop there, abandoning them almost as soon as his thick, veined length is sprung free, nestling all tender against the hatch of greying hair trailing down his abdomen - where his shirt is lifted.

He’s flushed a deep colour already. Veined and needy and weeping for you. His need becomes even more urgent yet as he thinks of your hands and the way they move - the way they might touch him. Take care of him. As he thinks about you sliding your thumb over the pearl of precum at his head.

Still, he is not quite ready for the feeling when you dip forward to slide your tongue around the head of him instead, gathering that salty bead with your tongue, lapping it up with relish. He feels you hum around the head of him, the vibration sending a zip of pleasure flooding along his length. Making his balls tighten and ache already.

He wants you. He needs you. He wants you with an urgency, and yet here you are, still taking your time. Taking your time to suck at him and feel him weigh heavy over your tongue until your jaw aches from it. To grip him in your hand and marvel at the girth of him. At the way he is so sensitive that every motion and shift of your pattern makes him melt into the chair, increasingly boneless, his brow burdened with need.

You are tender with him. Careful, of his injuries. But it’s more than that, isn’t it? You touch him like he’s wounded; everywhere. His whole body. His whole soul too. And he is, isn’t he? All of him is hurting? Has been for so long?

Joel groans, his lip almost splitting from biting down and stifling his moans. He never was a vocal lover but God, it’s different for you. And this time, the sound punches out of him as you shift. As you settle your cunt over him and he feels your sopping heat glide along his length for the first time. It is a non-descript sound, halfway between pain and pleasure; and instantly, concern flashes in your eyes. You pause; lift off of him with a rise of your thighs and check-in with him.

“Joel. Are you okay? Am I hurting you?”

Are you? His breath is searing in and out of his lungs. Ragged breaths, jolting his pained ribs. You have him on the edge and so alight with desire for you that his need feels unbearable. He’s aching to fill you up. His face is contorted and crumpled by his need, brows drawn down, eyes half-lidded. But is this pain? Or is this something else? Something he has forgotten.

For a moment, then, he almost answers “yes”. Yes, because he doesn’t remember anything else but pain and so, the sensation he’s feeling now? Isn’t that pain too? Is there anything else?

He’s almost grateful when he shifts slightly, writhes against the chair to buck his hips keenly up in search of you as you withdraw so cruelly from him, his muscles coiling up. He’s grateful that the shift does indeed send pain blooming through his side; because he knows then, with certainty, that you are bringing him nothing but pleasure.

He’s grateful too though, for the pain, because a pleasure like this? A pure hit of it, not cut through with anything he's more used to? Joel thinks it would be too much for him to take. Joel thinks you are too much for him. Far more than he deserves.

“Joel?” you prompt, sliding your palm against his scruff. He hears it rasp like a scraped match. “I want you.”

You don’t want me, the voice in his head sounds out. I have nothing I can give you. But those are not the words that make it to his lips. Those are not the words at all. “Then have me, sweetheart.”

Joel may have nothing he feels he can give you, but holy shit he wants everything you are offering. He wants your plush, velvet mouth. Your smooth thighs. He wants the pooling slick between your legs - and for once, just this once, he intends to allow himself to satisfy his needs.

He figures he will simply owe you a debt. Find something that you want or need and acquire it for you. He simply has to think of this like a transaction, doesn’t he? Something familiar. Something he knows. That way, he’s not taking anything he doesn’t deserve - and he sure as hell doesn’t deserve you.

Once invited back to his body, sure of what he wants, you kiss him. Deeply, hungrily, your tongue rolling and writhing against his. Your breaths just as ragged as his. Your thighs quaking next to his, your want more than evident.

You break for air and you rise up on your knees again so that you can settle over him, notching the fat, swollen head of him against your folds.

You look like a dream on top of him, and with this yellow fabric dancing about your thighs, you look to Joel like you’re wearing a sun dress. Indeed, when he looks up at you - when he blocks everything else out - you make it feel like nothing ever happened. Like nothing was ever lost.

You look just like you’re about to fuck him on his bed on white crisp sheets. Like you’ll fall asleep beside him and in the morning he’ll make you breakfast.

You look like everything he wanted and found far too late.

You are beautiful. You are good. You are gentle. Gentle still. Gentle despite everything. And where on earth did you learn that from - how on earth did you hang on to it - in a world like this? A world which has not been gentle with him. Which has been out to get him at every turn.

You are gentle with him, even when he is undeserving. Even when he has been anything but.

Gingerly then, you settle yourself over him, and once his head is notched there and your slick hand is guiding him home, he slips easily past your folds. His eyes flutter closed as he feels your warmth wrap around him, the tightness of you hugging his girth. You’re so tight that he feels like he must be splitting you apart, but the way you’re shaking for him, the way these delicious moans unravel from your mouth tells him it feels just as good for you too.

You’re gentle with him. Sinking down on him slowly. Being ever so cautious of his ribs and his bruises and scrapes. You’re making him feel so good. So close to coming undone.

But god, he’s not planning on being gentle with you.

There’s a part of Joel that wants to make love to you, sure; but he’s not even sure he’d know how to do that anymore. How to be tender. How to be gentle. And so, he reaches for you in the only way he knows how. Reaches for you with his arms, his hands. With a body that doesn’t remember pleasure - not really. With a soul that doesn’t remember anything good - not really. He reaches for you, with hands that only know how to kill things.

In the end, it’s clunky, when he extends his touch towards you. Rough - and far too desperate. He reaches for you like it’s survival - the one thing he knows how to do - and he claws at your hips, the rough pads of his flesh sinking into your skin like dough. He has the sense, at least, to check with you, to ask with words rasped through gravel in his throat if he can fill you up. And as soon as you say yes, as soon as your breathy affirmatives and pleas lilt to his ears, Joel is dragging you down on him. Spearing you -abrupt and sudden- with the fat length of his dick, surging into you all at once.

The motion, along with the sudden swell of him punches a breath from your lungs, your rib cage flaring with quick short pants. Your eyes, rolling back into your skull as you mewl his name, and god, if he wasn’t hurt he’d be drilling into you already, fucking himself up into you at a brutal pace, so long as you’d let him.

“S-sorry,” he stutters, with effort. “Too much?”

“Almost. Joel - fuck. I’m so full of you.”

He stills as you breathe around him, adjusting to his size, and as soon as you’re ready you rise up on your knees, dragging electric pleasure all along his shaft as your cunt strokes and grips him tightly.

Then, when you sink yourself down once more, impaling yourself on his length, Joel screws his eyes shut as he eases -glides- into the wet, warm cushion of you all over again. You’re so soft and tight and forgiving, your walls relenting to the girth of him, yet providing such glorious friction that it makes his head spin. Makes him see spots, the edges of his vision whiting out.

Next, Joel moves too, adjusting his hips slightly. Helping you impale yourself on him over and over like this. He keeps it going, despite the burn of pain in his ribs and his shoulder. He tries to guide you with the claws of his hands at your hips, until it begins to hurt him too much. Until all he can do is lie back and take it from you. All he can do is feel it, emitting gusty, billowing breaths from the shocked “o” of his plush lips as he attempts to stave of his end. To do all he can to take care of your end too before he spills himself.

He needs to. Needs to take care of you like this, because he can’t offer you any other damn thing.

He can’t promise to take care of you.

He can’t promise that to anyone ever again.

He will only break it.

So, no promises. But surely, he can feel pleasure, for these fleeting moments? Surely, he can give you that too, because even if he doesn’t he’s damn sure you deserve at least that much.

He reaches for you. In desperation again. Like it’s survival. Like he can’t live without this. Without you. Even though he has already. Even though he'll have to again.

For now though, for right now, he's filling you all the way up. Squeezing your juices out of you. Pushing them out with every thrust until he’s fucking you with wet, obscene sounds. Until your slick is coursing down his shaft, coating his balls, inching over him.

With a grunt, Joel gathers some slick with the two forefingers of his left hand, and he rubs the calloused pads of his fingers into your clit. You yowl at the pressure -the pleasure- and then you guide him with your hand over his, Joel quickly learning your pace and your patterns, replicating it perfectly when you release your guiding touch.

It feels so good. It feels so good and your eager, pleasured moans are billowing down to him, your cunt clenching down on him and his dick is feeling fucking blissful as you repeatedly sink yourself. It feels good - so good - and it’s more than he deserves but god, he’s going to take it. He's going to take it even if he has to be punished for it later.

He’s pretty sure the world has been punishing him for years anyway. Pretty sure it’s keeping score and will be sure to let him know about it if he dares to take too much.

For now though.

Holy shit.

It feels so good and you’re so beautiful. So perfect. Better than he could have imagined, his flattened daydreams of you nothing compared to the real thing. You’re a vision, and you’re too good for this blighted earth and you’re every bit deserving of the life Joel knows he can never give you.

It’s bittersweet and you’re beautiful; but you’re too beautiful to look at - bright like the sun in your yellow tunic, fabric moving around your thighs like a sun dress, like something you might have worn in the before times. Like you might have worn in his yard if he’d still had a home to offer you. Maybe. Maybe you would've. It kills him that he'll never know. Never know what you could have had. What he could have given you.

You’re beautiful, and god you’re too beautiful to look at and so he drags you down to his lips as you clamp down around him, squeezing him like a vice, causing pleasure to sear white hot from his middle, creamy ropes of cum filling you up as you convulse. Your spasming cunt sends jolting aftershocks zipping through his length, ekeing every last drop from him, draining him dry.

You’re too beautiful. Too good of a thing for him to hold on to - and so Joel keeps kissing you, his hands coming to cup your face as tenderly as his killing hands know how. Kissing you, for long enough that he can quash the tears which threaten to squeeze out from the corners of his eyes. He kisses you softly, his sentiments dissolving like sugar against your mouth - as sweet as he can muster.

He kisses you, until he feels the shape of your mouth morph into a smile, and that’s it. That's when he stops.

That’s when he stops, because he can’t let himself feel this. He can’t let himself feel this because he can’t pull on that thread. Not when everything he has worked so hard to push down is all knotted and tangled together. Everything he’s loved and everything he’s lost, all bundled up in his chest.

He can’t let himself feel this because it was far more than he expected to feel.

He’d thought that you would be quick. Thought -hoped- you were just using him. Like this was a transaction. That maybe this was how you collect advantages. How you’ve managed to survive. Instead though, you gave, and you took, but it was not transactional in the slightest. And Joel has nothing left in his heart or his pockets except ration cards. Nothing he can give you in return.

Most importantly though, he can’t let himself feel this, because happiness died when the world did.

Died when she did.

And, happiness?

Well - Joel doesn’t believe he deserves to feel it again.

That’s why he encourages you off of him a little too quickly, even when you pepper kisses along the column of his neck. Why he moves away a little too abruptly, even when you tongue hungrily at the salt-slick sweat which has pooled in the hollow of his throat. Why he sets his face, all stern again even as he’s still leaking out of you.

Anyway, he stands, grunting out in pain. Maybe in anguish. Pulling his pants up with his good arm, and preparing to go.

He sets his face, and he looks back at you, where you have huddled yourself in his spot on the chair, your makeshift yellow sun dress hitched up around your hips, exposing where you glisten, all slick with the evidence of what he just did with you.

You're beautiful. Too beautiful. You look like summer when he meets your eyes. A sun that is bright and constant, like it used to be before the rot clouded over the skies.

A light that is far too bright for him.

Part of him expects you to look sad. To look surprised that he has leapt up like this, motioning to leave so violently. Expects you to plead with him to give you more; but instead, you look at him levelly. Knowing, not naive. Maybe you too are clear on the limits of what’s possible. Clear that there are some things that can never be.

Still, as that soft smile plays over your face, as Joel holds the memory of your touch over his body, the bitter coffee look in his eyes sweetens just a little.

“Listen. Thanks," he states brusqely. It’s not enough. Not by any stretch. But unless you want some contraband or some shit, it’s all he’s got.

“No problem, Joel-y. I... I just wanted to take care of you. I thought you deserved that - at least once.”

Tears prick at the corners of Joel’s eyes. Stinging; but pushed down and flattened before you can even notice it. He’s not quite sure. Not quite sure whether hearing you say he deserves something he’s sure that he doesn’t counts as pleasure or pain, but he supposes that it doesn’t matter anymore anyway. He’s back to not knowing the difference. Not recognising pleasure or happiness when they stare him in the face, because now they have become strangers.

Joel nods efficiently at you. Picks up his rucksack and moves towards the doorway, trying not to think about the fact you’re still full of him. About the fact that you’re still smiling, that backlit glow of home imviting him in.

Truth be told, he can’t imagine ever being happy again.

If he could imagine it though? If he could imagine being happy, he’s sure as all hell that it would be with you.

You’re like summer, he thinks. Bright. Luminous. It's just that Joel’s not looking for the light.

For someone who’s so used to the dark? Like him? The light is blinding.

Still, he pauses in the doorway, turning back towards you for one moment more. From the surprise on your face now, he can tell you didn’t even expect that much from him - and by God, you deserve so much better.

His eyes sweeten, just a little further, and his face sets - now with a different kind of resolve. He offers his words, like they’re cupped in outstretched palms. Like he could be gentle. “I’ll make it up to you.”

“You don’t owe me a debt, Joel.”

He nods, but that doesn’t mean at all that he accepts your assertion.

His eyes tick over to the broken picture rail, right where it fractures. His gaze lingers on it for a moment, cataloguing what tools he might need to fix it. Clocking the picture frames of salvaged art you have leaning up against the wall, not yet hung.

“I said, I'll make it up to you.” You nod efficiently back at him, and Joel drinks one more long measure of you in before he leaves. Maybe it's not quite a promise, but right now, it's all he's got.

He’d burn the world down for you, he thinks, if it could change a damn thing.

Thing is though, the world has already burned.

He can’t make you many promises. Can’t keep you safe. Make you happy. Offer you a home.

He’ll only let you down.

Maybe all of that is true. Maybe it is - but Joel knows one thing for sure. You’re brighter than the sun, and, in a world full of darkness? He just can’t look away, even though you’re blinding.

[callsignthirsty]

Stuck in the Middle — Chapter 3 — Both

Co-written with a friend who isn't on tumblr. Pairing: Ron “Slider” Kerner x Reader x Tom “Iceman” Kazansky Summary: The one where Maverick’s sister is on a mission to give her brother a heart attack by sleeping with not one, but two of his colleagues. Word Count: 6400 Warnings: Smut, dirty talk, threesome, creampie(s) Chapter: 3/3 Read Previous Minors DNI

Pete returned home some hours later to find you in a very… festive scarf. Unfortunately for Goose, who had opted to stay with you until Pete arrived, it had done little to hide the hickeys littering your neck. That had been an interesting night.

Little did any of you know that hickeys, unseasonal scarves, and the Iceman would be the least of your worries in the coming days.

A hop gone wrong had you and Carole scrambling to get to the hospital.

They were alive, but it had been a close thing.

Pete was released that same day after a thorough evaluation. Goose was still unconscious. As tears leaked from his eyes, you knew that your brother was blaming himself, but there was little he could’ve done to avoid flying through Ice’s jetwash — Viper had stopped by the hospital to say as much.

You spent one, then two days in the hospital. Classes continued — fly long enough and it happens, they said, but Pete wasn’t ready to go up again. Not without Goose. And on the third day, like a miracle, Goose’s eyes blinked open. “Holy shit.” His voice was scratchy from disuse.

Carole sat upright at his side. “Nick?”

“Mav, where’s my camera?” Goose croaked, ignoring his wife. “There’s an angel by my bed. The guys ‘ll never believe it if I don’t take a picture.” When a nurse entered the room, relieved tears were tracking down a laughing Carole’s face, Bradley smiling in his Uncle Mav’s arms.

On the fourth day, Goose encouraged Pete to return to class because “You can’t let Ice and that big oaf run away with our trophy. They’ll never let us live it down.” Pete had reluctantly agreed when Goose gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Don’t worry, honey. You’ll do great.”

Pete smiled. “Thanks, dear.”

So the summer continued: hot days spent on the tarmac and by Goose’s side. And then, graduation was just a day away. Goose, unfortunately, wouldn’t be able to attend, but he had enough points to graduate, and Pete planned on going for both of them. You, Pete knew, would be in the audience, and there lay his current predicament:

Iceman.

Well, more accurately: Slider. After he’d returned home from his date with Charlie, Pete got an eyeful of hickeys and Goose’s side of the story. Namely, everything had been fine until Kerner opened his big mouth and burrowed beneath Goose’s skin so that Ice could steal you away.

If Pete had any hopes of keeping you and Ice separated after the commencement ceremony, he needed Slider.

* * *

Classes wrap and Slider is cleaning out his locker when he becomes acutely aware that he's one of two people left in the room. And even though Mitchell's back is to him, years of training and locker room antics mean that Slider knows when he's being watched. But the silence grows long and goes stale to the point that he's almost convinced that Maverick isn't going to say anything — which is a surprise because Maverick always has something to say.

"Kerner."

There it is.

"Mitchell."

"Congrats on the trophy." It must be killing Maverick to say it, and Slider smiles because, yeah, the trophy is his. It feels fucking good. But that's not what Maverick stuck around to say. It isn’t what he’s after.

Slider doesn’t want to drag this out longer than it has to be, so he gets to the point. "What do you want?"

The question hangs while Maverick takes a second to think before speaking — and isn’t that a scary thought? — when he finally spits out: “I have a proposition for you.”

"I don't swing that way."

"What? No." And Maverick spins to shoot Slider a dirty look. "I want your help keeping Ice away from my sister. At graduation."

"Why me?" The million-dollar question, though Maverick doesn't realize it.

"If you're helping me, you aren't helping him," Maverick says like it should be obvious. And, okay, yeah, that’s fair.

"What makes you so sure I'll help you?" Slider can’t tamp down the Cheshire grin at the way Maverick squirms. But besides being his pilot, Ice is his friend, and… well, they aren’t putting labels on whatever this thing is with Mitchell’s sister. "Besides, I think he's earned a little celebration." Hadn't they both? From the look on Maverick’s face, Slider would say his answer is ‘no.’

"I can pay you."

“No, you can’t.” Because even if Mav did have money, which Slider’s sure he doesn’t, his price would be too high. The trophy and a fuck? Pete Mitchell would have to be the richest man alive.

“I heard the guys say you got yourself a girl.” It’s a reach at best, but it shocks Slider into silence. Briefly, he wonders if someone had, in fact, seen the two of you in or on his car. But if that were the case, he doubts Maverick would be talking with him now. “She coming to the ceremony?” Maverick tries as Slider collects himself, trying to come off cool and collected like Ice always manages to.

“She hasn’t decided yet.” A lie. You’ll be there. You wouldn’t miss it for the world. Hadn’t let Maverick and Goose come to Fightertown without you in the first place.

Maverick smiles as if he’s got an idea. An in. “If you help me out,” he says, “you can borrow my bike.”

“Why would I—”

“Ladies love it,” Maverick insists, and Slider ignores him in favor of clearing out his locker. “Even you’d look good on a bike, Kerner,” Maverick tries again. “Everyone does.”

“Hey.”

“Think about it,” Maverick’s voice drops as he sets the scene. “She’s clinging to you as you speed down the road. Wind in your hair. Her arms wrapped around your waist. Tight body pressed all up against your back. And the adrenaline rush—” Mav’s eyebrows raise as if he’s remembering something fondly or really trying to sell the idea “—makes for amazing sex.”

Slider can’t help the smug grin that overtakes him — ice-cold, no mistakes was never his schtick. “Is that right?”

Mav’s smiling too, his head nodding lightly like they’re on the same wavelength. And maybe they are because Slider’s thinking about it. “Mind-blowing.”

Well, if Mav insists. “Alright.”

“So you’ll do it?” Maverick seems almost surprised that it’s worked. Like he hadn’t imagined Slider was, in fact, a man who could be reasoned with.

“Yeah,” Slider confirms, zipping up his bag and knocking his locker shut one last time. “Don’t make me regret this.” He wouldn’t.

* * *

“Gentlemen,” Viper says from the podium with a proud smile. “You came here the best of the best. We made you better.” You sit near the front of the audience, smiling and clapping with everyone else as the speeches finish, and the Top Gun trophy is presented to Lt. Tom “Iceman” Kazansky and Lt. Ron “Slider” Kerner. The new nameplate shines brighter than the others, but maybe you’re biased.

As soon as you can, you’re up from your seat. You go to Pete first; give him a hug and a heartfelt congratulations. Then, when he’s distracted by another graduate asking after Goose, you slip away. You’ve successfully snuck up on Ice’s six and are seconds from giving him a congratulatory kiss when Slider moves to intercept. Time freezes for a moment, and you’re worried that Slider intends to kiss you in front of this crowd — Top Gun trophy still in the hands of the man most of his class knows you to be with. When the moment passes, however, that worry twists into deep-seated confusion.

Ice frowns. “What gives?” Because he’s never known Slider to be a cock-block.

“I’ve got orders.”

“From?” And you can see Pete smirking into his drink as Ice all but demands an answer.

“Mitchell.” You and Ice look at Slider as if he’s grown a second head. “With Mother Goose still in the hospital, he needed some help keeping the Iceman away from his baby sister.”

“And you accepted?” Ice’s jaw clenches.

“Deal’s a deal.” Ice scowls, the look wholly out of place considering the trophy still in his grasp.

“What did he offer you?” you can’t help but ask.

“Not important.” Somehow you doubt that.

The rest of the graduation party is… well, not what you’d expected or hoped for. For one, you’re still there. Every time you try to get close to Ice, either Slider or Pete gets in your way. And this is worse than Pete and Goose because Slider is intimately aware of all your evasion maneuvers — he’d helped you come up with a good number of them.

You’re positive you’re going to scream when Viper swoops in with actual orders. Jester hands envelopes to Ice, Slider, Hollywood, and Wolfman. And Pete.

Before anyone can stop you, you wrap Ice in a hug. You throw your arms around Slider next, then Pete, who can’t be mad when you’re squeezing him like this might be the last time you get to. The “be safe” you whisper into his ear means more after Goose’s accident, but you don’t have time to talk about it before they’re all whisked away.

* * *

Maverick doesn’t want to give Slider his bike when they return to Fightertown. Says he’d barely had to work for it since they’d left the graduation party early.

“A deal’s a deal, Mav,” Slider says, but it’s gentler than it would’ve been a week ago. Mav and Ice are wingmen now, so Slider’s trying to be nice. Not too nice. Not I’ll-stop-fucking-your-sister nice — and Slider supposes that’s the one that counts the most — but nice-nice.

It’s a start.

You’d received no fewer than three phone calls, so you’re not surprised to hear the motorcycle roll up to the curb. What does surprise you is Slider at your door with Pete’s keys in his hand.

“Come on,” he says as he gathers you in his arms until you can feel the solid ba-dum of his heart on your cheek. “We’re going for a ride.”

It feels strange climbing onto Pete’s Kawasaki behind Slider, but as the engine roars to life and you wrap your arms around his middle, you’re confident you’ll enjoy it while it lasts.

Slider pulls over at a roadside diner. Ice is already inside, fingers drumming against a table in the corner and Academy ring glinting in the sun when Slider holds the door open for you. He beams when he sees you and makes room beside him at the booth. It seems only fitting to sit beside him since you’d been clinging to Slider moments ago.

The three of you catch up over food and a shared milkshake. Ice and Slider tell you what they can about the mission: the tight bunks, the awful food, the budding friendship with your brother. In exchange, you give them the latest on Goose’s progress in physical therapy. It’ll be a long road to recovery, but if anyone can do it, you know it’s Goose.

When you’re ready to leave, Slider wants to take you out for a spin — after all, he’s been assured that the ladies dig a man on a bike, and he wants to test that theory.

Slider would rather swallow glass or wait in line at the DMV than admit it out loud, but Mav’s right. The warm press of you along his back, small hands clutching at his waist as the engine hums between your thighs, is something else. Ice isn’t thrilled to see him climb onto the bike with you, both sans helmet, and insists on trailing behind the bike in case something goes wrong. It won’t, but whatever makes Ice feel better, Slider supposes.

And although his tailing had started as a protective compulsion, Ice quite likes the way you look wrapped around Slider — your hair a wind-tousled mess and jacket snapping in the wind.

It’s purely coincidence when you spot Charlie’s Porsche at a stoplight; its top down and a familiar head of cropped black-brown hair behind the wheel. At first, Pete offers Slider a cheeky grin, a friendly wave, and then — out of curiosity, you’re sure — his eyes slide to the back of his bike. You can’t bring yourself to hide your face, frozen when Pete’s eyes lock on you and almost bug out of his head, his smile dropping and face ashen with sudden realization. Slider’s laughter reverberates through your chest. The light chooses that moment to turn green, and Slider takes off.

Over your shoulder, Ice honks when Pete refuses to move, a smug smile on his lips as he zips after you.

When you return to Ice and Slider’s place, you rest your cheek in the space between Slider’s shoulder blades, your own shoulders shaking as your mirth bubbles over, and soon you’re shaking from the rush of it all.

Cat’s definitely out of the bag now.

Once the door is open, Slider gets to work. By the time Ice walks in, Slider already has your back against the wall, lips taking yours in a bruising kiss as adrenaline courses through your veins. His big hands slide beneath your shirt to cup you over your bra. Damn Mav, but he’s right. And, as your fingers catch in his shirt-back and pull him closer, Slider has zero intentions of letting you go anytime soon. Not when he’s got you exactly where he wants you. Definitely not when each slide of his tongue over yours teases cute noises from the back of your throat.

Ice must be thinking something similar because he’s quick to join you. His fingers find yours tangled in Slider’s shirt to help you lift it until the RIO has to break your kiss to take the offending garment off. It’s a mistake that Ice takes full advantage of, stealing your lips in a kiss of his own.

Hands resting on your hips, Ice guides you around until he’s the one leaning against the wall. He’d wrap an arm around your waist to tug you closer, but Slider is already plastering himself to your back, so Ice settles for a deep kiss and revels in the wanton noise it earns him.

Without the sweet distraction of a kiss, Slider works your jacket down your arms and into a heap on the floor. He takes your hands in his and leads one into his hair; the other he guides down until it’s slipping under the loose hem of Ice’s shirt. Ice jolts at the skin-to-skin contact and your answering moan gets lost between the slick slide of lips and tongues. Your teeth clack against Ice’s when Slider presses his hips into yours with a sinful grind that drags his cock against the swell of your ass as he finally sucks a mark into your neck — consequences be damned. But instead of pulling him away, the hand in Slider’s hair encourages him. You tilt your head to the side and re-slot your lips against Ice’s while giving Slider more room to work a deep bruise into smooth skin.

One of Ice’s hands cradles the back of your head, his lips working insistently against yours as your hand trails fire over his abs and up to his chest. Perfect teeth catch on your bottom lip and you break apart panting, but then Ice pulls you back for more greedy kisses. His other hand grabs one of your belt loops and uses it to pull your hips away from Slider’s so they’re flush with his own.

While Ice keeps your mouth occupied, Slider’s hands return to the thin material of your bra. He’s growing more impatient with each of your whimpers, the steady roll of Ice’s hips pushing your ass back against his erection which, to Slider’s exasperation, is still trapped uncomfortably beneath the rough denim of his pants. With a barely-there nip that erupts goosebumps across your shoulders, Slider rucks your shirt up until it’s bunched beneath your arm, but Ice refuses to stop kissing you — whether because he’s a greedy bastard or because he’s skeptical that Slider will steal your lips away the way Ice had was anyone’s guess.

The sharp rip of tearing fabric wrenches your lips from Ice faster than anything else Slider could’ve thought up, your nipples pebbling as cold air assaults your heated skin. “Hey!” you scold as the fabric falls limp to the floor.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” Slider promises as he unhooks your bra with deft fingers and grabs your chin to pull you in, licking at your lips before taking them in another harsh kiss. You let yourself be turned from Ice to chase the feeling of Slider’s lips claiming yours. Behind you, Ice flings your bra to the side and hastily removes his own shirt.

Slider may be driving, what with the way he has both you and Ice trapped against the wall, but Ice is far from passive. The two join forces in an all-out assault on you from both sides. Hands bumping as they knead and tease and take you apart piece by delicious piece. Teeth scraping against your collarbone. Your nipples pebbling between calloused fingers. Chests heaving. Lips smacking. The sweet friction of denim dragging over denim as you all move together. Sighs, growls, and groans lost between teeth and tongues. The mixing taste of them on your tongue as they push and pull, give and take.

You shiver, moaning into Ice’s mouth as he plays with your tits. Not to be ignored, Slider shoves a hand down the front of your jeans, two fingers working deep into your dripping cunt. Then Slider’s fingers are gone, and before you can say something in protest, you squeal as he throws you over his shoulder. “Ron!” you giggle, another excited shout leaving you as one of Slider’s hands lands playfully on your ass and he turns to bite at your hip just above the line of your jeans as he moves the party to the bedroom.

Slider throws you onto the bed, and you bounce before settling tousled among the pillows. Your thighs fall open in a wanton display, and you crook a finger to reel Slider in until he’s licking a path from your open zipper and up to nibble at your jaw until he’s stretched over you. You moan at how he fits so snugly between your legs and his chest rubs against your own.

“How do you want to do this?” Ice asks, leaning against the doorframe, his arms flexing none-too-subtly when your eyes find him over Slider’s shoulder. He’s a sight to behold — cheeks a slight, breathless pink, arms crossed beneath his chest, belt buckle weighing down the open flap of his pants to reveal more smooth skin and the tented white of his briefs. You lose sight of him when Slider turns his head.

“You can take her mouth since you’ve been hogging it all night.” Slider kisses your cheek, his dark eyes on your as he crawls back down your body. “I’ve been thinking about this pussy for days.”

Ice crosses the room with unhurried steps, long fingers caressing your jaw. “Is that what you want?” he asks, thumb tracing your full bottom lip while Slider mouths at your hip bones. The RIO’s hands slowly pull your jeans and panties down to savor the moment. You bite your lip, briefly catching Ice’s thumb before he pulls it back. A flush of heat travels through you as Slider’s eyes meet your own and he presses a final kiss to your hip bones before he ventures lower.

When you nod, Ice pulls his cock free, eyes never leaving yours as he pumps himself lazily and kicks the rest of his clothes all the way off. Opposite him, Slider grips your leg behind the knee and raises it, revealing the diamond of your cunt. You keen, fingers threading through Slider’s hair and hips jerking as his tongue drags over your core. Lightly stubbled cheeks rub against your sensitive thighs and set them aflame as Slider’s eyes blow wide, his breath fanning over your clit before he gets to work.

Not to be forgotten, Ice’s fingers return to your jaw, light but with enough pressure to turn you back to him. His cock hangs heavy between his thighs as the bed dips to accommodate him. As he rubs the head across the seam of your lips, Slider pushes his tongue against your slick folds with a groan. You’re buzzing, jaw falling open with a sweet noise, and Ice gives into the temptation to tap his cock to your tongue before pulling back and smearing saliva and precum across your cheek.

Unprompted, you take the tip between your lips, tonguing at the slit to savor Ice’s taste before trying to work more of him into your mouth. Slider watches from between your thighs as Ice lets out a low groan, his hand falling into your hair as you work his cock in and out of your mouth. All the while, Slider’s tongue continues to fuck into you, a finger coming to rub spit and arousal into your clit until you’re trembling, hips seeking out the slick press. Slider slips a finger into you alongside his tongue, reveling in the way that Ice’s cock slips from between your lips as you unabashedly moan, thoroughly distracted from your current task.

Distantly, Slider thinks that the real surprise isn’t that Hollywood and Wolf had heard you; it’s that it took them so long.

Ice brings one of your hands up to fist around his cock, his eyes glued to Slider as he continues to wring more wanton cries from you.

Slider smacks his lips. “She tastes good.”

“Yeah?” Ice’s Adam’s apple bobs.

Slider takes another lick that’s purely for show, his chin covered in your juices. “Sweetest pussy there ever was.” Ice groans as he imagines it, cock twitching as he thrusts into your fist, and Slider ducks down to suck on your clit before he asks: “Want a taste?”

“Fuck yes.”

Slider stands back and practically rips his pants off while Ice takes his place between your thighs. Ice throws your legs over his shoulders before diving in and drinking his fill. He groans as the tang of your sex explodes across his tongue, your heels digging into his back. Slurps at your dripping cunt with a fervor that makes your back arch off the bed.

“Please,” you cry.

“What do you want, sweetheart,” Slider asks, suddenly at your side and taking one of your nipples into his hot mouth.

You whine, arching up into Slider and down against Ice’s face. “Fuck me. Please.”

“Well, when you ask so pretty.”

“Don’t worry, baby,” Ice soothes. He scrambles up, already running the leaking tip of his cock through your spit-slick folds. “I’ll fuck you real good.”

Slider raises a brow. “Why do you get to fuck her first?”

“Because I’m here.”

For a moment, you’re worried they’re going to break into rock, paper, scissors. Slider looks ready to get up and do something about Ice taking advantage of his generosity — he’d said Ice could have your mouth, dammit. But before he does, or you can whine for someone to hurry up and fuck you already, Ice’s hand settles on the curve of your waist, and he pushes in. You groan. Slider drops back against the bed and rolls his eyes. He shouldn’t be surprised; Ice always gets what he wants.

As the jut of Ice’s hips settle against you, Slider takes your lips in another kiss, his hands kneading at your tits. It isn’t his first choice, but Slider can be content with this — swallowing your needy moans, tracing the outline of your lips with his tongue. Making up for the time he’s lost with your mouth to Ice’s greed.

Each rock of Ice’s hips causes your tits to jump the slightest bit within Slider’s large palms and against his tongue as he sucks on a perky bud and applies gentle pressure with his teeth. Before his lips find yours again, his hand trails up your chest and applies gentle pressure to your neck. You shiver, arching into the touch. Slider loves the dazed expression, the slack ‘o’ of your spit-glazed lips when you wear his hand like a necklace, and your eyes brim with rampant desire. He dives in to leave a mark just below your jaw, reveling in the way that you dig your nails into his hair and the way your head is thrown back, and the way you must be clenching around Ice from the strained “fuck” he hears coming from the foot of the bed.

Slider lets out his own punched-out “fuck” when your hand wraps around his cock and strokes. It’s uncoordinated with the way Ice is trying to take you apart and awkward due to the angle, but that’s more than fine. Slider needs something to take the edge off, and your touch is just that. He doesn’t want to finish in your hand. Not tonight.

You bring your lips to Slider’s and let him take the lead while Ice turns his attention to your legs. He lifts one up to his shoulder, and you hum into your kiss at the stretch. Progressively sloppier kisses are pressed from your ankle up your calf. Ice’s new angle has him sinking deeper into you, but he keeps his thrusts slow, the cadence so different from the one you’d had on the beach, but one that — if kept up — he knows will have your legs shaking, back arching, nails scratching. Especially if he keeps hitting that spot.

As it is, your cunt is clenching around him with each forward shove of his hips into yours. Squeezing around him as if to keep him inside of you. Milking him.

With a curse, Ice pulls out, and you break from Slider to whine at the sudden empty feeling. Ice gropes at your hip and offers it a pat before he’s encouraging you to roll over. As you move to accommodate the change in position, Slider grabs you, and you yelp as he manhandles you onto your knees.

“Hey,” Ice says.

Slider just turns you so you’re facing Ice and enters you with a harsh snap of his hips. “My turn.” You want to chastise them, tell them to play nice, but all that comes out is a pathetic mewl. Slider’s smile is haughty. “Still so tight even after Ice fucked you,” he groans as your walls suck him in. Your jaw falls slack, and a pleasured noise tumbles free into the night. When Slider has you screaming, one of his hands fists in your hair. “Come on,” he growls. “Open that pretty little mouth for Ice.” And you do, tongue lolling out over your bottom lip as you look up from beneath thick lashes.

Every time Slider’s hips crash into yours, you’re pushed further down Ice’s cock. Your taste is heavy on his skin, an intoxicating mixture of tang and his musk. Sweet. Salty. You suck more vigorously, hollowing your cheeks as your head swims. When Ice’s hips jerk forward and his cock tickles the back of your throat, you moan long and low. The vibration pulls a shiver from Ice, his fingers whispering across your flushed cheeks and attempting to card through your hair where Slider has it pulled tight.

When Slider nails your sweet spot, you pull off of Ice. “Ah, fuck!”

“That’s right, sweetheart,” Slider preens, releasing your hair to smack your ass. “Want you to let everyone know who’s making you feel this good.” He holds your hips still and grinds torturously into you when you don’t comply.

“God, Ron,” you gasp. “Don’t stop!”

“That’s it, baby,” Slider says. You bite your lip self-consciously, wanting to keep your pleasure from the ears of any passersby.

Ice thumbs your lip free of your teeth. Rubs over the indents left behind until you let out another pathetic whine. “Don’t hold back,” he murmurs. “It’s okay. We want to hear you. Everyone already knows.”

Slider’s hips slam forward. “Now let them all know how good you feel.”

Ice catches you as your arms give out and lifts you up until you’re clutching his shoulders. You kiss him desperately as Slider picks up the pace, the clap of skin on skin filling the bedroom. Slider buries himself in your neck to leave another bruise as you cling to Ice. Your kisses are less lips and more teeth and tongues now, but you couldn’t care less. Ice’s palms caress your sides while Slider’s hands anchor themselves on your hips to pull you back against him with each increasingly desperate thrust. The kisses Ice gives you do little to shut you up at this point, to neither man’s disappointment. You’re stuck between them. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to hide. Nowhere you’d rather be when Ice’s hand leaves your side to play with your clit, delicately circles it as Slider continues to hammer into you.

In the end, that’s what does you in, your head thrown back against Slider’s shoulder as both men work together to take you apart.

Distantly, you’re aware of Slider’s grip tightening enough to bruise, the stutter of his hips, and the garbled curses as he presses tight between your quivering thighs and cums.

Gentle fingers turn your head to the side, and Slider captures your lips in a kiss. Simple. Passionate. His tongue rolls over yours as his hands smooth over your hip bones and down your thighs. He shakes as he soaks in the closeness, your highs still crashing through you.

He pulls you with him as he half lays back against the headboard, cum dribbling from your cunt as his spent cock slips free. You melt back against his broad chest and hum as you settle against him. Slider feels warm, and you still tingle everywhere he touches you.

The bed dips as Ice crawls forward until he’s knelt between your knees, his hands planted against the duvet on either side of Slider’s thighs. “You still up for round two?” Your pussy pulses at the thought, more of Slider’s cum trailing down the crack of your ass. Ice gathers the cum on his middle and ring finger and pushes it back into you with a wet squelch. You can’t help but clench around his long fingers, back arching when one of Slider’s hands presses flat against your lower abdomen and encourages more of his pearly essence to leak out around Ice’s fingers, both of them entranced by the sight.

“Words, baby,” Slider whispers breathless and sated against your ear. “You need him to fuck you?” Ice closes his eyes and groans, his cock twitching red and heavy where it leaks against your thigh. “Need Ice to fill up that pretty pussy?”

“She’s already so full.”

“I can take it.” Your legs circle Ice’s trim waist and drag him closer still. You feel hot as you imagine him spilling within you. Being so full of Ice and Slider both that you can’t possibly keep it all inside. “I want it.”

That’s all that Ice needs to hear. He wastes no time sinking into you right up to the hilt with a sinful groan. Trembles when you cry out, soft and exquisite, your eyes already blissed out but your cunt still so wet and needy, gripping him tight as if you were the one who hadn’t cum mere minutes ago.

Each rock drives you into Slider’s chest. Not to be left out, the RIO’s arms lazily snake around to cup your breasts and tweak your nipples, his lips subdued but no less sizzling as they skim over the marks he left on you earlier.

Ice leans close, his glacial eyes dark and blown wide, lids at half-mast. He catches your bottom lip between his teeth and worries at it until you gasp, releasing it with a slick pop. “Tom.” It’s not a scream like earlier, more a frantic, heady pant, your voice rough as it washes over Ice in all the right ways. It tingles low in his spine and raises goosebumps along his arms until his shoulders bunch with the feeling.

You arch up, away from Slider’s chest but into fingers clamped over your nipples as Ice’s rhythm falters. The wet clapping of your sex is loud between your ears compared to the heavy sighs and the continuous squeak of old bed springs.

Ice gulps. “You’re so sensitive.” It’s true. Every touch feels like fire. Like straight electricity. Like pleasedon’tletgodon’tstop! and Ice’s dentist won’t be pleased with how he’s clenching his jaw. Drawing in ragged breaths and grinding his teeth to make this last even the slightest bit longer. But you’re right there with him.

Slider’s calloused fingers tap against your clit, and you’re gone. A silent scream passes your lips as you pull tight like a bow and release, and Ice snaps with you.

The three of you lie together in a pile of sweaty limbs. Cum and arousal leak thickly down your thigh and onto the bed. Despite the mess, none of you are willing to move. This is the most comfortable you’ve been in weeks. Floating somewhere high above the bed. Ice is your blanket, and Slider your pillow. At least for a couple blissful minutes.

“Alright,” Slider says, nudging none too gently at Ice’s shoulder, “get off. You’re heavy.”

Instead of telling Slider to go fuck himself, Ice rolls his shoulders and peels himself off of you. He marvels at the mess they’ve made between your legs, then moves to get off the bed and start the shower.

The shower, it turns out, is a waste.

You don’t get much sleep that night.

* * *

After breakfast, Ice helps you into his car and drives you to the hospital while Slider wheels Pete’s bike to his housing assignment just a couple doors down. Ice pulls the car to a smooth stop right in front of the visitor’s entrance. He gives you a sweet kiss on the lips, then leans up to place one on your forehead. You breathe him in — spearmint, sunscreen, aftershave.

“Will we see you tonight?” You shrug, resting your forehead against Ice’s shoulder as his hand gently massages the back of your neck. “I’m just a call away if you need me to pick you up.”

“I know,” you say, giving Ice a quick peck before opening the car door and stepping out.

As you get closer to your destination, you become increasingly aware that you’re wearing yesterday’s clothes and one of Slider’s definitely-too-big-for-you shirts. But that doesn’t stop you from slipping into Goose’s room with a knock.

“Look who decided to show up.” Pete’s arms are crossed over his chest, brows furrowed in his patent big brother scowl, but Carole is smiling where she sits at her husband’s bedside, Bradley sitting on his lap. When you don’t say anything, Pete continues: “You didn’t come home last night.”

Goose turns to you, wide-eyed and head bobbing, before falling back against his stacked pillows. They must have already given him his post-PT drugs. “Wait, where were you, then?” Pete glares at his best friend; it takes a minute for Goose's drug-addled mind to catch up. “Oh.” Goose covers Bradley’s ears, then loudly whispers to his wife, “She was having sex with The Iceman.”

“Thank you, Goose,” Pete bites in frustrated exasperation while Carole giggles.

“He wouldn’t have found out if she wore the scarf I bought her,” Goose insists before turning back to you. “Did you show Carole the scarf?” Back to his wife. “It’s a great scarf, hun.” Great was a relative term. He’d bought it from a 7-Eleven.

Carole nods, Goose dopily nodding along with her. “I bet it is.”

“Can we talk about literally anything else?” Pete asks, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“Eventually, you’ll have to accept that this is a thing, Pete,” you say. It comes out strong, but internally you’re a quivering mess. You love your brother, but you can’t live your life for him; you have to live it for yourself.

Pete sighs. “I know, it’s just… a lot.” And... yeah.

“I know,” you say. Because it is a lot, and that’s okay. It can be a lot. You just need him to be okay with it. Okay with you.

“It’s just…” Pete shakes his head. “Kerner? Really? Ice, I get, but Slider?” Your cheeks heat, but you refuse to look away even if you’re sure the floor looks incredibly interesting right about now.

“Oh my god,” Goose gasps. “Carole?”

“Yes, honey?”

“Did you know she was sleeping with Slider, too?”

Carole grins, shaking her head. “No.”

“Mav.”

Pete sighs. “What, Goose?”

“Did you know—”

“I’m the one who just told you.” You can’t help but smile at your brother’s displeasure.

“So when we were keeping her away from Ice… was she just off with Slider?”

Pete’s head whips from Goose to you, and this time you give into temptation and study the floor. “Well, we Mitchells aren’t exactly known for our good decisions, are we?” you mumble. Pete can’t help but laugh at that.

“No, we’re not.” And with that, some of the tension bleeds out of the room.

Until Goose bolts upright, almost knocking Bradley from his lap. “We’re at a hospital.” Everyone gives Goose a confused look. He’s known he’s been at the hospital since he woke up — had the doctors switched up his meds? But Goose is staring intently at you now. “Do you need to take a pregnancy test? The nurses gave me this button that I can push to bring them in and– Mav, you okay?”

Pete does not look okay. His face is ashen, eyes wide but unseeing as he slowly slides down the hospital wall.

“Goose, dear,” Carole says with a hand on her husband’s arm as she watches Pete with a careful eye, “you can press the button now.”

“Ahh yisss,” Goose slurs, hugging Bradley close and spamming the nurse-call button.

[miralines]

Before I say anything, I just want to inform you that I just randomly came across your post browsing the discourse tag for something else. I don't know who you are nor what's happening with ao3 users here. I don't know if you wanted a deep(ish)dive into someone's thoughts and reasons for choosing fics based on kudos and hits ratio, but 100% ignore if you didn't! Sorry if I am intruding by doing this!

I come from multiple giant fandoms and when there are multiple fic choices with tags and summaries that I like, I do choose to go by kudos and hits ratio. Just to pick which one to check out first. I did notice however, that in smaller fandoms or tags this couldn't be applied because there's not enough fics, so I just read what I'm interested in most.

Why? Kudos signify how enjoyed the fic is to me, because usually the more kudos it has the more talked about it is on other platforms. Why would that be important? It's just that I enjoy exploring content made by others after I'm up to date with a fic. It's really fun to see people talk, theorize, make art and speculate or scream over things that will or did happen. It's giving me an opportunity to find people with similar interests and see what they make overall!

Sometimes though, if fic in a fandom or a tag that's incredibly popular gets hundreds of hits and very few kudos, I choose not to read it. This is based on a few bad experiences I had giving those fics a chance, where something in them made me uncomfortable or hard to read. I don't have any very specific needs when I'm reading fics, I just enjoy reading as a part of enjoying the fandom, so when I see the general readers avoid giving kudos in fandoms where it's very usual to have a lot on fics, I don't want to read that fic for my enjoyment.

I really don't know much about this, I'm sorry! But yeah, I basically use kudos to hits ratio to oriantate myself and avoid something I wouldn't like based on previous correlations I made. I don't know if that's wrong or upsetting for others, but if you find it that way, I would like to know why too and improve! Sorry for any grammatical mistakes I made!

Oh hi anon! I wasn’t expecting anyone to reach out like this, but thank you for taking the time to write out your thoughts! (Also. Please do not feel the need to apologize for grammatical mistakes. I do not believe in ‘correct’ grammar; as long as I understood you, which I did, I think you’re absolutely fine and using language as it’s intended!) (I am. A particular kind of nerd and not policing grammar is something I have Opinions about hence this tangent lmao)

This got terribly long, so I’ve put a tldr above the cut and divided the rest under headers for ease of reading.

Tldr: I see your points with regard to differences between large and small fandoms, and with the specific goal of finding “sub-fandoms” for particular fics. I still disagree that kudos-to-hits ratio is the best way to decide what fics to read, both because it isn’t an accurate metric of engagement and because I dislike the idea of using engagement as the primary metric in the first place. When I use A03, I prefer to sort by what’s recent and use the tags and summary to decide what to read, or to use the (excellent) search function to find what I’m looking for specifically.

I’d also like to note to anyone else reading: I doubt this will be an issue, but if anyone is rude to anon I’m going to turn off reblogs on this post. I know this is something some people feel strongly about, and discussion is fine, but this is absolutely not worth being mean to another human about.

Size of fandom

To begin my more thorough response: This is an interesting perspective– not one I entirely agree with, but I can certainly see how in larger fandoms with a lot more content it would be valuable to be more selective. For context, my main fandom is an obscure storytelling band with under 3k total works on A03, and these days I mostly occupy a niche of that fandom (one specific album) with only 128 works. The largest fandom I’ve been active in currently has 37k works on A03.

I don’t know what your fandoms are, but as some examples of bigger fandoms, Star Trek currently has over 100k works, Supernatural has almost 300k, and Harry Potter has nearly 500k. That is a big difference! I’m currently working on a goal to read every fic in my 128-fic niche (with some exclusion criteria), but in larger fandoms it’s impossible not to be selective. This is all to say– I definitely agree with you that the size of a fandom impacts how a person can and does interact with it.

Fans of fics

Your point about wanting to interact with other fans of a particular fic also makes sense! There was a particular fic series in my largest fandom that had a pretty decent following, and I still have friends from that sub-fandom several years later. If this metric helps you find fics that match your goal of having that experience, I can see how the kudos-to-hits ratio could function as a potentially useful metric, though I still think its usefulness is a bit limited for reasons I’m about to go into.

Kudos-to-hits isn’t accurate

I have two reasons for thinking that kudos-to-hits ratio isn’t the best way to determine what to read. The first is purely numerical. If you’ve been watching this discourse, you’ve probably already seen people discussing how users can only leave a single kudos, but may be responsible for 20-plus hits on a work. This is especially applicable to multichapter works, which in my experience are the fics that are able to develop their own following. If you want to sort fics by engagement, it seems like at the very least, using comments for the ratio is a more accurate measurement.

Using engagement as a metric at all

Secondly, though, I (and I believe, a lot of people) dislike the notion of using engagement as a metric to measure fics in the first place. I think the current discourse is partially due to some regrettable phrasing on the part of the OP of the post I was vaguing– if I recall correctly, they said that they use this metric to determine if a fic is “worth reading”. I think this phrasing was hurtful to a lot of fic writers who may not have large followings or a lot of engagement, but who work very hard on their fics and feel frustrated that this person implied that they aren’t worth reading. I have fics that are personal favorites of mine, but that I haven’t gotten a lot of feedback on.

Of course, this is just part of writing, and it’s an important skill for any writer (of fic or anything else) to learn to handle rejection or just lack of feedback. But I also think that particular post was phrased in a thoughtless way that interacted poorly with pre-existing insecurities (this is part of why I suggested that post was bait– the phrasing seems to me like a perfect storm to make writers upset and defensive, but of course this could also be due to the OP just being a bit careless with their words, and not expecting to have hit quite nerve they did).

There’s an excellent post here on engagement on fics and what a realistic assessment of “successful” engagement metrics are based on professional standards (which includes a stat about how Harry Styles, one of the most popular and successful current celebrities, only gets a 1:30 ratio of likes to views on his social media. I don’t know what ratio you’re using, but iirc the post I was discussing suggested 1:10). Personally, though, I worry about both authors and readers depending too much on statistics, especially in a broader cultural context when it feels like everything is performed, measured, and monetized. Most social media platforms have gone from a place to share with friends to a place to compete for attention and make money and fame off it. There’s a lot of cultural anxiety around that at the moment, which is another reason I think this discussion has gotten so big.

Why I disagree with using engagement

I think this discussion, at its heart, is a debate about what fandom should be, and I feel focusing overmuch on engagement statistics contributes to a fandom culture uncomfortably close to the commercialization of everything else on the internet. I feel that fic should be enjoyed as art (whatever art means) and not as a product. I’m not saying you’re personally approaching fic that way, but unfortunately there does seem to be something of a broader trend towards that, which troubles me.

As a writer, I would hope that when people come across my fic, they give it a chance based on the metatext information I give them in the tags and summary, the quality of my writing, and whether my work matches what the reader is looking for. Judging it based on the numbers feels reductive to me, and makes me feel like nothing about the work or passion I put in matters; just the popularity. My fics aren’t going to be for everyone, and I understand that. If someone comes across my fic and decides they’re not interested, that’s their prerogative. But I hope that potential readers don’t discount my work just because it doesn’t meet a numerical standard that, in my opinion, is extremely arbitrary.

My suggestions for what to do instead

As a reader, I default to sorting by what’s been posted recently, and then using the tags and summary to decide what to read. That’s what those things are designed to be used for, and I think they’re much more informative than the stats. Worst-case scenario, I start reading and then go back to the search. All I’ve lost is a couple minutes.

In large fandoms, this might be an inefficient way to search for fic, and I recognize that. I’d encourage you to try using A03’s (fantastic) search function to find what you’re looking for– you can both include and exclude fandoms, characters, pairings, and tags. I have come across people who don’t realize that A03 has no algorithm, and haven’t realized they need to learn to use the search function. This is understandable, given the state of most of the internet and what these (often young) fans have learned to use before, but I think learning to search and filter is a vital skill to develop. I have no idea if you’re in this boat, anon, but if you are, please check out the search. It is, in my experience, the best way to find what you’re looking for on A03, and can at the very least supplement numbers-based selection.

Conclusion

I don’t think you have a moral responsibility to stop using engagement as a way to determine what you want to read. Frankly, this isn’t that important. I don’t think you even strictly need to stop using kudos as the measure instead of comments, though I think that would be more accurate if you do prefer to sort by engagement. But I do think you could be surprised at the hidden gems you could find if you didn’t limit yourself to only reading fics with high ratios. I don’t know the nature of your bad experiences in the past, and obviously how you use A03 is up to you. But I think there are better ways to decide what to read.

Thank you again for reaching out– you’ve helped me understand the other perspective as well! I really do appreciate your explanation. I hope I’ve been as respectful as you have, and that I’ve helped you understand where writers who share my opinion are coming from. If you’d like to continue talking about this or respond to any of my points, please feel free to shoot me another ask or a message. I hope you’re doing well and that you have a nice day!

[suchine-toki]

I read your post on why you think utsuro is a poorly written antagonist and while you’ve made some criticism some good others ehh I understand that not every villain can be johan libert or Griffith and I think utsuro is a solid antagonist

That being said….

While I do utsuro is a solid antagonist I would be lying if I said I didn’t think he was the best one in fact I can think of four antagonists in this series who I feel are better than him(takasugi kamui oboro sasaki) I’m writing or appeal and while I did find the finale satisfying I would be lying if I said I did think there was more to be done but that’s me how do you feel about this(comment not ending you’ve made your stance clear)

Hello! First of all thank you for taking your time to read that post and write me this message 🤗 I know some points weren’t clear enough because I usually prioritize getting to the point over thoroughness.

I feel like comparing Utsuro to villains from other series could set the bar too high or too low depending on how you look at it, especially since what a villain should be depends on the story being told. Although I admit it can be useful sometimes, so I'll do it to point out a couple of things. But first I want to talk about Utsuro as a villain in Gintama's narrative. Please bear with me, it won’t be short lol

Gintama has had many antagonists throughout the series, with a characterization depending on the role each one of them had. I make this point because I think it’s important to note that an antagonist that excels in one situation may be bad in another and vice versa from a narrative standpoint. From the audience’s point of view, it’s natural to expect something more from someone who’s supposed to be a relevant villain, especially if they’re the last one. 

I could say that Utsuro was a better antagonist than Catherine, for example. But she was never meant to be an important one (or even a recurring character for that matter). So, in this case it's best to compare his character with other Gintama villains. You mention Takasugi, Kamui, Oboro and Sasaki doing a better job at it, and I agree. I would also add other great ones like Itou, Hosen, Jiraia, Jirochou and Sada Sada.

To tell you the truth, I wouldn’t have minded if Utsuro was a comedic villain. Heck, he’s the type of villain Gintama would mock at the beginning. I didn’t address this before, but I find him so cliché… Sorachi tried so hard to make Utsuro look intimidating, but he ended up looking silly, and not in a funny way. Even the anime gave him a soundtrack with an organ that reminded me of vampire movies from the 60's 🤣

I made some points in the original post about how he doesn’t make sense because he ignores the easy solutions in plain sight, but there’s also the issue of how illogical his lack of action is for most of the series. To be precise, there’s a 10-year gap between the “death” of the Shouyo persona and the return of the Utsuro persona, but there isn’t a good reason why we don’t see him act until Farewell Shinsengumi arc.

If we compare him with Takasugi, it’s understandable why the latter takes time: he needs financing, manpower and specific alliances, among other stuff. In the grand scheme of things, Takasugi is just a small fry. But Utsuro already has all those resources, so we have to assume he doesn’t make any moves “just because”.

That’s a problem that comes with being the big bad of the story. Take for example Ozai from ATLA and Voldemort from Harry Potter. Both of those villains are often criticized for their lack of characterization; however, they succeed in a very important aspect in which Utsuro falls short: making their presence felt throughout the story. Ozai does despicable things that impact the entire world and the people close to Aang. Voldemort actively hunts Harry as he carries out his plans. In Utsuro’s case, he simply appeared out of nowhere.

One could argue that since he’s a twist villain he can’t be held to the same standards. This might work in some scenarios, however, with Utsuro this doesn’t happen because there’s no proper build up.

Let’s go back to square one. The surprising element of Utsuro’s reveal was that we knew this character before as Shouyo and thought he was good. However, when said villain isn’t the same character but another personality, the whole concept fails. You need to be able to look back on things and realize all the signs where there from the start for a twist villain to work. It all has to do with expectations. It’s different to have a plot twist you didn’t think would happen, than have one with no basis to even think it could happen, if you know what I mean.

I understand why Sorachi may’ve wanted a different villain than Takasugi to carry this theme of emptiness he wanted to portray, but Utsuro’s character was flawed from the beginning. In that sense, I think Oboro would’ve been an interesting choice as the final villain of the series. For starters, he wasn’t introduced at the last minute, and he checks the boxes of being affiliated to the big evil organizations that are the Tendoshuu and the government, as well as being connected to Gintoki and being the cause of his biggest tragedy. I haven’t given it much thought but wanted to include the idea for the lulz haha

With the comedy parts of Gintama (or any media really) I can turn off my brain and just enjoy it, but if the series wants people to take some parts of the plot seriously, I think it’s normal for there to be more serious criticism. Now, on the more subjective side, Utsuro is my “you killed my friends!” anime moment because he drove away a lot of fans at that time 😂😭

This was broad. If there’s something specific you’d like me to address I’m open to talking about it further!

[remastered-feedback]

There’s something I’ve been wanting to get off of my chest and I haven’t been able to think of a proper place to do so, and this seems as good as any:

It is indescribably exhausting living as a Jew in a society that doesn’t really know how to handle any religion that isn’t a denomination of Christianity.

Sometimes it’s the fact that I’m required to take Christmas, Easter, et al. off from work even though I don’t celebrate them, while if I want to take the holidays off that I actually celebrate, I have to burn vacation days. Let me work on the holidays I don’t celebrate and take off the ones I do!

Sometimes it’s the way that Jews and Judaism are taken and used as a shield to deflect criticism in the name of “Judeo Christian values” that often have very little to do with any mainstream interpretations of Judaism and the overwhelming majority of Jews disagree with, yet are accepted in popular consciousness as “A thing Jews agree with” because Judaism is treated in a lot of mainstream culture as “A funny version of Christianity that stops at the old testament.”

On that note, sometimes it’s the way that people act as if they have a thorough understanding of Jews, Judaism, and Jewish culture just by reading the old testament, which, putting aside alterations and differences between the Tanakh and the old testament, ignores literal millennia of scholarship and growth and traditions and evolution.

Sometimes it’s the way that conversations about what is and isn’t antisemitic often seem to end with Jewish voices spoken over and ignored by people who are more concerned with making sure it doesn’t apply to them than they are with the well-being of the Jewish community, a behavior that should be as gauche as a white person talking over people of color about racism or a cishet person talking over queer people about homophobia and transphobia, but is accepted an infuriating amount of the time. External voices do not get to define a minority community’s experiences of marginalization for them.

Sometimes it’s the way that popular conception of religion as a whole basically boils down to “Different flavors of Christianity” and all of its tendencies and baggages and stances are foisted onto religions that a lot of those things straight-up do not apply to. I’m looking at you ex-Christian Atheists, the number of people who have renounced their faith but are still very clearly looking at the world through a Christian lens is amazing.

Sometimes it’s the way that Jewish traditions and history are appropriated and used in ways that show no respect for Jews or Judaism. Please stop with the Easter Seders. They’re far from the only instance of Christianity appropriating elements of Judaism, but they’re easily the most obvious. They’re not cute, they’re not appreciated, they’re rarely done with any actual understanding of how a real Seder works, and frankly they show a real lack of historical understanding given the Passover meal that was observed by Jews of Jesus’ era bore little resemblance to the modern Seder.

Sometimes it’s the way that a disturbing number of Christians treat us like living relics, talking to our face as if we’re some proto-Christian time capsule from a long-lost era. Interest is cool and appreciated! Talking about me like I’m a museum piece is not appreciated! Assuming that I’m just a 1.0 Christian who’s a quick conversation about Jesus away from converting and getting that 2.0 update is very not appreciated!

And I can go on and on and on and fucking on about this for ages, because it is a literally daily thing. It’s fucking exhausting. And I’m sure other non-Christian groups have some very similar experiences.

[starman-john-tracy]

Just A Little EVA [RP with @asteria-star]

starman-john-tracy:

“It’s just a little EVA.” John’s reassuring smile is interrupted as he tugs his helmet on over his head, fastidiously checking the seal around his throat as he does. “It’s gonna be a quick out and in, I just need an extra pair of hands while I make the hatch repair.” He knows full well that she hates going outside the ship but he could really use someone to watch his back… and hand him the right tools. “Come on.” He slaps her helmet against her palms, “It’s time to put some of that training we’ve given you to use," a grin creeps onto his face, "Freeloader.”

asteria-star​:

“What training,” Star grumbles under her breath, peering sulkily up at the taller man while jamming her own helmet over her head. “I don’t know if it counts as training if I just show up and figure it out as I go.” Training or not, she’s been outside of Thunderbird Five - in SPACE, which still makes her want to run away - more than a few times by now, and no matter how much she hates it, she is getting used to it. Rather than a heart-stopping plunge of terror it's mellowed out into a begrudging requirement, like going to the doctor or the dentist. Even the uniform is growing on her, though no one will ever hear those words pass her lips. “I’m glad you have confidence in my ability to identify tools, because I do not.” She said, and pats John firmly between the shoulder blades to let him know she’s joking. Kind of.

starman-john-tracy:

“I’ll have to start colour coding them.” John seems to pointedly ignore her comment about the training she’s received. He’s well aware she’s not a fan and if she’s taking all his little corrections and notes as something else, then that’s probably a good thing. Basic sims had been a compulsory minimum requirement of her placement on his Thunderbird, but John had got the impression from the one time she’d ever, scathingly, mentioned it, that he should have run them with her himself. The few weeks prior to their first meeting Star had been stuck in a GDF hyperbaric spacelab attempting to complete trials that, John gets the impression, essentially equated to trying out all the ways you could die. Auntie Casey had been thorough, and John’s not sure that getting yeeted out of a virtual airlock without a helmet is even his idea of a good time. No wonder Star had made a… surly first impression. Still, she’d come out of it with septicemia and a rudimentary space license, and John’s done his best to give her more practical, day to day training ever since. He had been surprised how necessary ‘please don’t open the airlock without cycling the other side’ had been though. Things change around quickly on his 'bird, between his and Brains’ tinkering, and keeping her knowledge fresh and up to date is important to him, however much she might grumble about it. Besides, there’s no way he’d have agreed to having her up here without making sure she’s got enough knowledge to keep herself safe. He’s been on the rescue end of too many uneducated astronauts to find such a thing acceptable here. The name Langstrom Fischler still brings him out in stress hives. “Torque wrench, pliers, spare wires, transistor, crocodile clips-” He’s made her up a little kit bag, with velcro tethers for all the tools, and it’s abundantly clear as he holds it out for her to take that he was never intending to go out alone. Space is always safer with a buddy to spot your six, after all. “It won’t be long, and then you can go back to that book you were reading. What’s it about anyway?” He hopes he isn’t going to regret his curiosity. He also hopes that his discomfort when thinking about her training doesn't show on his face. John’s well aware of her natural reluctance when it comes to life up here, and it’s always made him uncomfortable that the GDF’s idea of the perfect imprisonment for her had been his home. It worries him, sometimes, that his own attempt at her training might come across as torture too.

[faroreswinds]

Tumblr had originally deleted my answer to this ask here. At the time, I was really pissed and just throw out an answer because I had spent a good hour writing it up thoughtfully.

But now let’s try this again, with proper answers this time. However, these will still be short because I have lost the energy to give a more thorough answer. This isn’t nearly as nicely written as my original answer was. 

It's not supposed to be propaganda.

Edelgard’s speech and general rhetoric is propaganda. 

Propaganda- information, especially of a biased or misleading nature, used to promote or publicize a particular political cause or point of view.

This isn’t even really controversial. 

Not sure what she means. Deny the people power? 

Nobility came from Nemesis, not the Church. Also, the Church was not involved with making the Alliance at all. No idea why she mentioned war here. 

This is the only point that may have some truth, but any organization needs money. Governments tax, businesses put costs on goods and services, and non-profit organizations get donations.

And if this is an issue, the leader of the church Edelgard does endorse does actually care about living in wealth, so she’s being pretty hypocritical here. 

Now we can’t be sure what she actually tells Claude since the game only tells us she sent a letter and doesn’t tell us the contents of said letter:

But Claude in this route barely ever says anything about the Church or Dimitri up until this point. In fact, he only says these two things:

Even Judith calls him out on suddenly buying into the Empire’s words without so much as questioning it. 

And the Empire clearly didn’t elaborate on what their words because Claude is surprised Rhea is a dragon. So he apparently never asked any more questions. 

Claude is planning to bring down the Church even before he talks to Edelgard. See: Azure Gleam.

This is never stated. This is only assumed if you believe he always wanted to kill Rhea himself or something. He only ever asks if Dimitri will continue to buddy up with the Church. 

Claude cares more about gaining the upper hand against the Empire so that his nation gains influence and power. 

And he is also super willing to betray Edelgard too:

In Houses, Claude wanted to depose Rhea as well but only didn't because Houses!Edelgard was a worse threat (Hopes!Edelgard is tolerable to Claude), because (of avatar-worship) Byleth is going to succeed Rhea and because Rhea goes through a bit of development due to her time as Edelgard's prisoner which made her more reasonable.

This is never stated. What happens is you gain support points if you suggest if he hopes Rhea is dead. 

This only implies he disliked Rhea, not that he wanted to kill her himself. He even wonders what a world would look like without Rhea. 

And Claude's criticisms of the Church never change. There is no moment Verdant says that Claude was wrong about the xenophobia stemming from the Church. He just learns Rhea's backstory, that's it, and in a support with Cyril, he learns that maybe it's possible to talk to Rhea.

He says this before they even talk to Rhea or rescue her. He starts to realize that the school, ran by the Central Church, actually had all sort of people there. 

Here he starts to realize that maybe it’s not the teachings. Again, we haven’t even rescued Rhea yet at this point. 

And then after rescuing Rhea, he realized his dream was going to take more work than just winning the war. 

Not to mention that we get Church NPCs being racist in Three Houses 

Everyone side has a racist, not necessarily all the religious ones.

or other NPCs pointing out how the Church lets the nobility do what they want

You mean how the Church is strong-armed by the nobles? Either the Church is too strong, or not strong enough. Which is it?

Do you choose to ignore the criticisms made against the Church? Do you find them all invalid? There are plenty of characters that agree with what Claude says about the Church including Dimitri, Lorenz, Marianne, Hapi. Holst etc.

No. There are some legit criticisms. What I want is proof. Characters can say all they want, but if the game contradicts them or doesn’t support their claims, it means nothing to me. 

Like, the Church sent assassins. And we have proof they did. Boom, that’s a legit criticism. 

The Church keeping the borders closed? Uuuhhh, I need evidence of that first. Which there isn’t any. At all. In fact, it’s the opposite. The Church is AG was rebuilding a Duscur town without even making the residents convert. 

I don’t take characters at their word. Especially if the game contradicts them.

[sluttywonwoo]

sunkissed || l.sk x reader

Summary: more like sunburned. on vacation with seokmin you lay out on the beach for a little too long, making for a very interesting night.

Warnings: swearing, smut

Word Count: 1.8k

A/N: originally posted on my tom holland fic account ( @wazzupmrstark )

Masterlist

The sun was absolutely blinding and even though you were wearing sunglasses you couldn’t see anything. You knew your boyfriend was still stretched out in a lounge chair under the umbrella behind you, though, because you could hear him humming along to the music streaming from his phone, and that was all that mattered. 

Last time you’d been able to see him he had been hiding a copy of his new Excalibur script behind a book and feigning reading. The two of you had agreed to a no work on vacation rule, and he’d been the first to break it, but you could tell he was just so excited about his new project that you let it slide.

It was your first vacation with Seokmin, and so far it had been wonderful. You’d checked in yesterday and done a little bit of the touristy thing, but today you were content to lie on the beach for hours with no intention of moving. 

The sound of the crashing waves had lulled you to sleep a couple of times already, and you knew Seokmin would make fun of you for it later, but with the salty breeze and warm sand beneath you, you couldn’t help it. 

The water was spotted with some swimmers and surfers, but the beach itself wasn’t very crowded. You and Seokmin had planned your trip so that you’d just miss the summer break rush so everything could be a little more peaceful. 

You were pulled out of your half sleep when Seokmin’s humming stopped. You opened your eyes and tried to blink away the spots dancing at the edges of your vision when a weight dropped on top of you. You smirked as familiar lips planted a kiss to your cheek and tried to squirm away, but he had you pinned.

“Almost ready to go back up to the room, baby?” he murmured in your ear.

You nodded, and managed to twist your body underneath Seokmin to look up at him. Your eyes finally adjusted and you grinned lazily at the sight before you. His fair hair framed by the golden sunset behind him, brown eyes more dazzling than anything you’d ever seen, faint freckles starting to show on his cheeks from the sun. You consider yourself lucky that you didn’t need to leave home to see such a beautiful view.

You hadn’t been keeping track of the time, but now that you saw the sun setting over the water you realized how long you and Seokmin had been sitting out there.

“Are you hungry? Let’s get something to eat, babe.” 

“I could eat.”

“So could I,” he whispered breathily, sending a shiver down your spine despite the heat. 

You’d been teasing each other with the clichés all day: being a little more thorough than necessary with rubbing sunscreen on each other, you untying the back of your bikini to sunbathe, Seokmin running into the water for point two seconds just so you could see him soaking wet and admire the way the water glistened on his body. You were on vacation, and the hotel room was beautiful. It had tub on the balcony and a breathtaking view of the blue-roofed villas cascading down the cliffs as well as the water.

However, the bed had yet to be broken in, both of you had been exhausted after exploring Akrotiri and Pyrgos, but it was something you planned to remedy tonight. 

You followed Seokmin up to the room where you both got ready for dinner at a restaurant a friend had recommended to you. You wore a short, white, linen dress and Seokmin wore a similar white button-up that he left the top buttons undone on, so that he could show off his tan.

Dinner was much like the afternoon. The details were blurry, but there was a lot of alcohol and a lot of back and forth. By sheer luck the host had seated you at a tiny booth in the back of the restaurant where you could still see the cliffs, but also sit smushed next to each other. Seokmin kept one hand on your knee throughout the meal, and if asked later, he would deny moving it any further, but you recounted the events very differently. At one point, your lips were moving in a whisper against his ear and the base of his neck and you swore Seokmin’s grip on your leg got so tight you thought you might lose circulation. 

“You want dessert, baby?” he asked when the waiter approached your table with the shiny silver menus.

“I’m good,” you managed to say, slowly, but steadily. “You?”

“What I want isn’t on the menu,” he replied in the same tone, looking directly into your eyes, ignoring how the waiter in front of your table pursed his lips.

He’d probably heard that line a thousand times, especially working in a vacation spot like this. His eyes screamed ‘just fucking say you want to eat her out and go’ but for what it was worth, the line worked on you.

“So I’ll bring the check then?” he asked when neither of you addressed him. 

“Oh, yes please. Thanks.”

After fumbling with the key and stumbling into the room, you were beyond ready to be fucked senseless when Seokmin slapped your ass cheekily, making you cry out in pain.

“Ow, Seok,” you bit out, putting your hand where his had just been. 

His face contorted with concern. “I’m so sorry, y/n! I didn’t mean-”

“It’s okay,” you said, smoothing your dress out over your body.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

He leaned back against the dresser, arms crossed, watching you with pain in his eyes. You knew how bad he felt about hurting you, but it wasn’t that big of a deal. Usually, there was pain mixed with pleasure, but this time was different. You could still feel the sting on your skin. Hesitantly, you lifted the edge of your dress and saw the unmistakable tint of a sunburn all down the back of your legs, complete with a still fading mark of a handprint on your ass.

Seokmin gasped. “Y/n.”

“What the fuck?”

“Baby, I’m so sorry, I had no idea,” he apologized again.

“Neither did I,” you groaned, squinting your eyes down at your body.

“You put on sunscreen didn’t you?” he asked and you had to bite your tongue before you snapped at him. 

“Of course I did!”

“Did you reapply?”

“Yeah, once I think.”

He didn’t say anything, but you knew he was judging you. “Here, I think we have some aloe,” Seokmin said and disappeared into the bathroom. He emerged moments later with the signature bottle of green gel in hand. 

“Take your dress off, baby,” he instructed and carefully helped you lift your dress over your head, careful not to let the fabric touch your body.

With a sigh, you threw yourself on the bed on your stomach, only smiling when you heard Seokmin’s little chuckle from behind you. You felt the weight shift on the bed as he climbed up next to you, and sat cross legged beside you. He pushed some of the hair out of your face with a soft grin and popped the cap on the bottle of aloe. 

You could tell he was trying his best not to come off as deflated, but you understood. You were disappointed too. You had been looking forward to getting good dick all day, and now every time you moved pain rippled through your body.

“This might be a bit cold,” Seokmin said as a disclaimer before rubbing the first bit of aloe onto your skin.

You sighed with relief as the gel instantly cooled your skin on impact. Seokmin was careful to rub it in gently, applying just enough so you wouldn’t be sticky later. He started with your calves and worked his way up, and you began to feel progressively better. 

Once he reached your thighs you fought the urge to clench them together. You knew it wasn’t the time, but your body didn’t, and your boyfriend’s fingers on your inner thighs was basically code for it. All of the feelings from the beginning of the night came rushing back and his fingers were just so close to where you wanted them. You had to actively fight the urge to moan. 

“Fuck, y/n,” he cleared his throat awkwardly as he continued to massage aloe onto your ass. “Are you, uh, wet?”

You only nodded in response, still not trusting yourself to open your mouth. 

“Do you want me to...” he trailed off, but you got the idea.

“God yes,” you sighed out and let the tension evaporate from your body as you felt Seokmin’s fingers work their way back down to your thighs, right where they had been. He was just about to give you what you wanted when you stopped him. “Wait,” you said, grabbing his wrist and he froze, afraid he had done something wrong. “Use your other hand,” you held up his right hand, covered with green goo for him to see. “I have a feeling aloe in my vagina won’t end well.”

He laughed and leaned down to kiss you. “Of course, whatever you want, baby.”

He started his ministrations again, continuing to rub aloe on your body with his right hand while he began to work two fingers inside of you. You moaned out, louder than expected at the combined relief from the gel and the pleasure from his fingers inside you. 

“Feel good?”

“So good, Seok, baby,” you breathed.

“Let me hear you,” he encouraged, inserting another finger. You gasped in response and felt your eyes roll to the back of your head. “Fuck, y/n, you’re so good for me,” Seokmin praised eliciting another moan from you.

You felt yourself getting closer and closer, teetering on the edge, but it wasn’t quite enough. “Seokmin,” you pleaded and looked back at him, catching him licking his lips, eyes filled with lust in the dim lighting, making you swear. “Fuck, Seok, please.”

“Hm?” he asked, ripping his attention from between your legs and meeting your eyes.

“Fuck, I need more,” you gasped. “I need you.”

“Don’t worry, angel,” he said in a raspy voice with a glint in his eye and a smirk pulling at his lips, “I’m nowhere near done with you yet.”

i didn’t go too in depth about what he sunburn looks like on the reader because…well, it’s different for everyone. like it’s a fucking tossup whether I’ll get sunburned or not because i’m hapa lol anyway lmk what you think I always appreciate feedback!!

send me an ask to be added to my taglist

[mimicofmodes]

“The Ladies Waldegrave” by Joshua Reynolds, 1780 (NGS NG2171)

I’ve complained before about two very big pet peeves of mine - corset stuff and Regency women being dressed in 1770s-1780s clothes - but one that may dwarf them because of how frequently it comes up in historical and fantasy fiction is the oppression of embroidery.

That’s probably putting it a bit too strongly. It’s more like ... the annoyance of embroidery. Every character worth reading about knows instinctively that sewing is a) boring, b) difficult, c) mindless, and d) pointless. The author doesn’t have to say anything more than “Belinda threw down her needlework and looked out the window, sighing,” to signal that this is an independent woman whose values align with the modern reader, who’s probably not really understood by her mother or mother figure, and who probably will find an extraordinary man to “match” her rather than settling for someone ordinary. To look at an example from fantasy, GRRM uses embroidery in the very beginning of A Game of Thrones to show that the Stark sister who dislikes it is sympathetic and interesting, while the Stark sister who is competent at it is boring and conventional and obviously not deserving of a PoV (until later books, when her attention gets turned to higher matters); further into the book, of course, the pro-needlework sister proves to be weak-willed and naïve.

Rozsika Parker, in the groundbreaking 1996 work The Subversive Stitch, noted that “embroidery has become indelibly associated with stereotypes of femininity,” which is the core of the issue. "Instead embroidery and a stereotype of femininity have become collapsed into one another, characterised as mindless, decorative and delicate; like the icing on the cake, good to look at, adding taste and status, but devoid of significant content.” 

Parker also points out that the stereotype isn’t just one that was invented in the present day by feminists who hated the idea of being forced to do a certain craft. “The association between women and embroidery, craft and femininity, has meant that writers concerned with the status of women have often turned their attention towards this tangled, puzzling relationship. Feminists who have scorned embroidery tend to blame it for whatever constraint on women's lives they are committed to combat. Thus, for example, eighteenth-century critical commentators held embroidery responsible for the ill health which was claimed as evidence of women's natural weakness and inferiority.”

There are two basic problems I have with the trope, beyond the issue of it being incredibly cliché:

First: needlework was not just busywork

A big part of what drives the stereotype is the impression that what women were embroidering was either a sampler:

sampler embroidered by Jane Wilson, 14, in 1791 (MMA 2010.47)

or a picture:

unfinished embroidery of David and Abigail, British, 1640s-50s (MMA 64.101.1325)

That is, something meant to hang on the wall for no real purpose.

These are forms of schoolwork, basically. Samplers were made by young girls up to their early teens, and needlework pictures were usually something done while at school or under a governess as a showpiece of what was being learned - not just the stitching itself, but also often watercolors (which could be worked into the design), artistic sensibility, and the literature, history, or art that might be alluded to. And many needlework pictures made in schools were also done as mourning pieces, sometimes blank, for future use, and sometimes to commemorate a recent death in the family. A lot of them are awkward, clearly just done to pass the class, but others are really artwork.

Many schools for middle- and upper-class girls taught the making of these objects (and other “ornamental” subjects) alongside a more rigorous curriculum - geography, Latin, chemistry, etc. At some, sewing was also always accompanied by serious reading and discussion. (And it would often be done while someone read aloud or made conversation later in life, too.)

Once done with their education, women generally didn’t bother with purely decorative work. Some things that fabric could be embroidered for included:

Jackets 

Bed coverings and bedcurtains

Collars and undersleeves 

Pelerines 

Neck handkerchiefs and sleeve ruffles 

Screens

Upholstery

Handkerchiefs

Purses, wallets, and reticules

Boxes

Book covers

Plus other articles of clothing like waistcoats, caps, slippers, gown hems, chemises, etc. Women’s magazines of the nineteenth century often gave patterns and alphabets for personal use.

(Not to mention late nineteenth century female artists who worked in embroidery, but that’s something else.)

You could purchase all of these pre-embroidered, but many, many women chose to do it themselves. There are a number of reasons why: maybe they wanted something to do, maybe they felt like they should be doing needlework for moral/gender reasons, maybe they couldn’t afford to buy anything - and maybe they enjoyed it or wanted to give something they made to a person they loved. That firescreen above was embroidered by Marie Antoinette, someone who had any number of other activities to choose from. It’s no different than people today who like to knit their own hats and gloves or bake their own bread, except that it was way more mainstream.

embroidery patterns from Ackermann’s Repository in 1827 - they could be used on dresses, collars, handkerchiefs, etc.

Second: needlework wasn’t the only “useless” thing women were expected to do

Ignoring the bulk of point one for now and the value of embroidery - I mentioned “ornamental subjects” above. As many people know, young women of the upper and middle classes were expected to be “accomplished” in order to be seen as marriageable. This could include skills like embroidery, drawing, painting, singing, playing the piano (as well as other instruments, like the harp or the mandolin), speaking French (if not also Italian and/or German), as well as broader knowledge and abilities like being well-versed in music, literature, and poetry, dancing and walking gracefully, writing good letters in an elegant hand, and being able to read out loud expressively and smoothly.

This wasn’t a checklist. As the famous discussion in Pride and Prejudice shows, individuals could have different views on what actually made a woman accomplished:

“How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! And so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite.”

“It is amazing to me,” said Bingley, “how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished as they all are.”

“All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?”

“Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens, and net purses. I scarcely know anyone who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished.”

“Your list of the common extent of accomplishments,” said Darcy, “has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half-a-dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished.”

“Nor I, I am sure,” said Miss Bingley.

“Then,” observed Elizabeth, “you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman.”

“Yes, I do comprehend a great deal in it.”

“Oh! certainly,” cried his faithful assistant, “no one can be really esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half-deserved.”

“All this she must possess,” added Darcy, “and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading.”

Mr. Bingley feels that a woman is accomplished if she has the ability to do a number of different arts and crafts. Miss Bingley feels (or says she feels) that it goes beyond specific skills and into branches of artistic attainment, plus broader personal qualities that could be imparted by well-bred governesses or mothers. And Mr. Darcy, of course, agrees with that but adds an academic angle as well.

But what ties all of these accomplishments together is their lack of value on the labor market. A woman could earn a living with any one accomplishment, if she worked hard enough at it to become a professional, but young ladies weren’t supposed to be professional-level good because they by definition weren’t going to earn a living. All together, they trained a woman for the social and domestic role of a married woman of the upper middle or upper class, or, if she couldn’t get married, a governess or teacher who would share her accomplishments with the next generation.

(To be fair, almost none of the trappings of an upper-middle/upper class male education had anything to do with the kind of career training that college frequently is today, either. Men were educated to know the cultural touchpoints of their class and fit in with their peers.)

There are reasons that an individual person/character might specifically object to embroidery, but it was far from the only “useless” thing that an unconventional heroine would be required to do against her inclination by her conventional mother/grandmother/aunt/chaperone. Embroidery stands out to modern audiences because most of the other accomplishments are now valued as gender-neutral arts and skills.

“The Embroidery Frame”, by Mathilde Weil, ca. 1900 (LOC 98501309)

So, some thoughts for writers of historical fiction (or fantasy that’s supposed to be just like the 19th/18th/17th/etc century):

- If your heroine doesn’t like embroidery, she probably doesn’t like a number of other things she’s expected to do. Don’t pull out embroidery as either more expected or more onerous than them. Does she hate to sit still? I’d imagine she also dislikes drawing and practicing the piano. Would she prefer to do academic subjects? She probably also resents learning French instead of Latin, and music and dancing. Does she hate enforced femininity? Then she’d most likely have a problem with all of the accomplishments.

- If your heroine just and specifically doesn’t like embroidery, try to show in the narrative that that’s not because it’s objectively bad, and only able to be liked by the boring. Have another sympathetic character do it while talking to the heroine. Note that the hero carries a flame-stitched wallet that’s his sister’s work. Emphasize the heroine’s emotional connection to her deceased or absent mother through her affection for clothing or upholstery that her mother embroidered - or through a mourning picture commemorating her. There are all kinds of things you can do to show that it’s a personal preference rather than a stupid craft that doesn’t take talent and skill!

mourning picture for Daniel Goodman, probably embroidered by a Miss Goodman, 1803 (MMA 56.66)

[bluejayblueskies]

Could you do either 3 or 74 with JMart for the kiss prompt?

kiss prompt list!

3 - drunk/sloppy kiss | 74 - Kisses Where One Person Is Sitting In The Other’s Lap

I did both! cw for alcohol consumption and food

.

“Jon,” Martin says, amused. “What are you doing?”

 Jon mumbles something that Martin can’t quite catch, his face buried in the crook of Martin’s neck and his hands fisted in the front of Martin’s jumper.

 “Mm, I didn’t quite catch that, love.”

 Jon groans, low in his throat, and pulls back just enough to say, “I’m cold. Whoever built this house clearly did not have Scottish winters in mind.” Under his breath, he mutters, “Shoddy workmanship, that’s what this is.”

 Martin hums and wraps his arms around Jon, pulling him tightly to his chest. “Maybe Daisy just never got around to insulating the place.”

 Jon makes an unintelligible grumbling noise and buries his nose in Martin’s hair. Martin can picture the look on Jon’s face—that little furrow he gets between his eyes when he’s irritated, the way his nose wrinkles as he says words like shoddy—and he can’t help the fond smile that comes to his lips. He shifts and presses a soft kiss to the crown of Jon’s head before saying, gently, “Do you want hot chocolate? I think I still have some of that dark chocolate you like in the cupboard.”

 “Yes,” Jon says slowly, “but that would require you going to the kitchen, and then I’d get cold again, which would quite defeat the purpose.”

 Martin pauses for a moment, considering. Then, with a conspiratorial grin on his face, he shifts his hands to Jon’s legs, ignoring Jon’s questioning noise, and stands, bringing Jon with him.

“Martin!” Jon yelps, a surprised laugh slipping free as he wraps his arms and legs around Martin like a limpet and grips tight enough to bruise. “What are you—Martin!”

 Martin pauses, halfway to the kitchen, and says, “Yes, love?”

 Jon makes an indignant, sputtering noise, but Martin catches a glimpse of a smile before Jon buries his face back into the crook of Martin’s neck and says, “Don’t- don’t drop me.”

 “Never,” Martin says easily before traversing the remainder of the distance to the kitchen and setting Jon down safely on the counter. He pulls back, despite Jon’s protest, presses a soft kiss to Jon’s forehead, and says, “Let me go get the cocoa ready.”

 As Martin pulls out the chocolate and the milk and switches on the old electric hob, Jon pulls the sleeves of his jumper—Martin’s jumper, actually, though they’re pretty much communal property by this point—over his hands and rests them on his knees. His feet swing gently, kicking up against the cabinets every so often, and the soft thud of a socked foot hitting wood endears Martin more than it has any right to.

 Martin can feel Jon’s eyes on him as he prepares perhaps the fastest batch of hot chocolate he’s ever made, partly because of his own desire to chase away the bite of December air filtering in through the lackluster wood slats of the cottage and partly because if he doesn’t get Jon back in his arms right now, he might actually die.

 Finally, finally, the chocolate is melted, and Martin mixes in a dash of cinnamon and nutmeg before switching off the hob and dividing the liquid between two mugs—a bright, cheery yellow for Jon, a swirl of dark green and blue for Martin. When he turns back to Jon, a mug in each hand, his eyes focus on something in Jon’s hand and a surprised laugh slips free.

 “Where did you get that?”

 “From the supermarket,” Jon quips, holding up the bottle of Baileys demonstratively. “You were there, if I recall.”

 “Mm, yes, but you can be very good at smuggling things through the checkout,” Martin says. “A whole bottle of alcohol, though—very sneaky.”

 “I’m really not trying to be,” Jon says, amused, before twisting off the top of the bottle with a flourish. He gestures toward the mugs with the bottle and says, “Yes or no?”

 Martin bites his lip, considering, before giving Jon a small shrug. “Yeah, why not? A little shouldn’t hurt.”

 Jon obligingly pours a dash of Baileys into Martin’s mug before adding a not-insubstantial amount to his own mug. They settle back onto the couch, mugs cradled between both hands. The gentle, flickering light from the fire reflects in Jon’s eyes and casts shadows across his cheeks and nose, and Martin feels affection swell within him, as warm and sweet as the cocoa in his hands.

 “How much did you put in there?” Martin says some time later with a small laugh, when Jon’s mug is empty and his eyes are hazy with intoxication. Jon’s on his lap again, his legs bracketing Martin’s and his hands resting firmly on Martin’s shoulders. Which Martin is definitely not complaining about.

 Jon shrugs and wiggles a bit closer, which is not helping the flush Martin can already feel creeping up the back of his neck. “Just a bit.” He gives Martin a smile a touch more lopsided than normal and says, “I… I will admit, my alcohol tolerance is… essentially non-existent.”

 “Yeah, I got that,” Martin says, the words jumping up in pitch near the end when Jon leans forward and, without warning, places a feather-light kiss on the side of Martin’s jaw. “Jon.”

 Jon shrugs and releases one of Martin’s shoulders so he can place his hand on Martin’s cheek. Martin feels every point of contact between them like pinpricks of static electricity, and he leans his face into Jon’s hand with a small, contented sigh. “I’ve been told that I get… touchy when I drink. And I’m already quite fond of touching you, so perhaps you can understand why I very strongly feel the need to kiss you right now.”

 Martin flushes deeply, and his hands tighten on Jon’s sides. “Oh,” he says, embarrassed at the way his voice squeaks around the word. “Well, I- I’m quite fond of touching you too, and ki—”

 The rest of Martin’s words are swallowed whole as Jon leans forward and kisses him, hot and fierce and a bit sloppy. Points for enthusiasm, Martin supposes, and he certainly isn’t going to complain about being kissed rather passionately by his very attractive boyfriend who he loves very much.

 For a few minutes, there’s just this: Jon’s mouth hot on Martin’s, his hands tangling in Martin’s hair and pulling in a way that has Martin making little bitten-off noises against Jon’s lips, Martin’s hands gripping Jon’s hips tightly and his thumbs rubbing little circles across Jon’s sides. At some point, Jon shifts and knocks his empty mug off the couch and onto the rug. He breaks the kiss with a frown and twists to stare at the mug. After a moment, he shrugs and says, “It’s not broken,” before turning back and capturing Martin’s lips with his again, pushing Martin back against the couch as he does so.

 Finally, out of necessity more than anything, Jon pulls back with a contented noise, just far enough to rest his forehead against Martin’s. His breaths ghost across Martin’s lips, quick and labored like he’s just run a marathon, and after a moment, he says, hoarsely, “I’ve decided, after considering all of the variables and conducting quite thorough research, that kissing you is unequivocally my favorite pastime.”

 Something in Martin’s chest flutters at that, and he says with a wide smile, “Oh? Even more than reading? I’m honored.”

 “Mm,” Jon says in affirmation. He pulls back further as a yawn splits his face in two before curling into Martin’s chest and resting his head against Martin’s shoulder. “I could tell you to ask again tomorrow, when I’m once again fully in possession of my faculties, but my answer isn’t going to change.” He turns his head, presses a kiss to Martin’s collarbone, and says teasingly, “It’s official: I love you more than books.”

 “Is that so?” Martin says, amused. He runs his hands down Jon’s back, lingering on his shoulder blades and the knobs of his spine before settling on Jon’s lower back and kneading that spot where Jon always caries tension. Jon makes a low, contented noise and somehow burrows further into the fabric of Martin’s jumper. “Well, then, I suppose I should inform you that I love you more than poetry.” After a moment of consideration: “I love you more than the cows.”

 Jon lets out an exaggerated gasp and pulls back to give Martin an affronted look. “No, not the cows! They’re good cows, Martin. You said so yourself; I distinctly recall it.”

 Martin laughs and leans forward to press a quick kiss to Jon’s nose. “You’re right, how rude of me. I retract my statement entirely; if we’re going in order, I love Martha the cow, then Francis the cow, then you.”

 “Much better,” Jon says with faux severity. After a moment, though, his lips curl into a soft, affectionate smile and he moves his hands from Martin’s shoulders to the sides of his face, rubbing his thumbs gently over the top of Martin’s cheeks. “I do, though. Love you. Very much so, in fact.”

 Around the sudden tightness in his throat—no, he will not cry, no matter how much the words make his heart swell with unbelievable fondness—Martin whispers, “I love you too. With all I have.”

 The smile Jon gives him, unabashedly tender yet still shy around the edges, melts Martin utterly. Jon leans forward and presses another lingering kiss against Martin’s mouth before wrapping his arms around Martin’s neck and resting his forehead against Martin’s. “Bed?” he says softly, voice rough and weary around the edges.

 “Bed,” Martin agrees.

 And the surprised noise Jon makes when Martin sweeps him up in his arms again and carries him to the bedroom is like birdsong and windchimes and the rustle of leaves, stunningly beautiful and tucked safely next to Martin’s heart.

[ironwoodprotectionsquad]

So the discussion over how literally no one even tried to talk James down in V8 or even try to find a way to work together. That got me thinking, and I know you of all people would want to do him justice and treat him better. If you got the ultimate writer privileges for V8 and could handle the storylines there as you pleased, how would you have liked them to happen?

Hey don't give me this kind of power I might go power hungry and abuse it.

Eh-hem sorry I sometimes think I'm funny lolz. Anyways sorry this took so long I wanted to be as thorough as I could take and even tried rewatching some parts of V8 but uh took psychic damage when I did lol. 

But back to the ask, Some of my biggest issues with Volume 8 are: the lack of anyone reaching out to James as you discussed, the lack of an actual plan on the part of the girls, and in general the volume mostly ignoring Salem and what she's doing. I also decided to try and keep close to the major events that happened within the volume that I believe that are important. 

I know this isn’t perfect or flawless and there are some things I am not crazy about but I was trying to follow only changing volume 8. Personally I would rather start changes back at the end of volume 7 if I could. There is just….a lot of stuff in volume 7 that kind of screwed me over big time when trying to do this rewrite. As I will say later on, I had to rewrite large sections multiple times because I found myself stuck in a corner over and over again. It was a reminder of how important having a larger game plan ahead of time before writing stuff because you can find yourself in this situation where you’re running into roadblock after roadblock and it’s….frustrating. It made this ask as I said very difficult to work in. But having to work within the confines of what Volume 7 gave us, here is what I would do.

So to start off Qrow and Robyn would be taken into custody still because they don't know what the fuck happened. But James also doesn't talk to them because he just does not have time to deal with that with Salem on his doorstep. He's trying to figure out a way to get the staff to move Atlas and once it's safe he will talk to them and figure that out but for now they're way in the back of his mind because he has way more important shit to deal with.

One important aspect I would make clear very early on is James’s semblance and how it works. One idea I’ve played with is Ozpin letting Oscar know that James’s semblance is Mettle and that what it does is when it kicks in is it very strongly affects James and causes him to focus in on certain goals and it can be difficult to talk him out of things when Mettle is active. He mentions how normally James can control it and normally has Winter being someone in a position allowed to break his aura if she thinks his semblance is going too far and he’s gone out of control with it. In this case the chess piece caused a PTSD reaction and was extremely triggering which caused Mettle to take over completely. Oscar would ask what could be done to help James and Ozpin mentions that as a passive semblance the only way at this point to stop it is to somehow break James’s aura.

When RWBYJNR is in the happy Huntress's hideout, they are trying to come up with a plan to evacuate everyone. Salem immediately started attacking the shields protecting Atlas but they do not last long under the force of Salem’s magic. The mains quickly realize that with Salem attacking they can’t be trying to evacuate people because their priority needs to be protecting people. They agree that they need to do what they can to help Mantle since the military is focusing on Atlas in anticipation of a much stronger attack aimed towards them over Mantle which the mains believe won’t be true. They ask Dr. Polendina about Amity Tower and if it can be launched and he informs them he isn’t sure and needs some time to think about it. They pause when they realize how big Salem’s forces are and realize they do seem to be mainly focused on Atlas but there are also Grimm coming into Mantle through the hole in the wall so they split off into groups to deal with the grimm. 

In Atlas the group is caught on security footage in Mantle and the soldiers ask James if they should arrest them. James is watching the footage with a frown on his face and says no, they have more important things to worry about. He still calls Penny because he is worried about her because he does care, and Ruby still isn't sure what to think or do and still takes the scroll and asks about Mantle. The conversation can still go mostly the same with James pointing out that if Atlas falls the two relics will be taken by Salem and Remnant will be doomed (I do not understand why the show makes this statement seem cold and heartless like he's kind of sort of got a point there?)

James and Winter talk as in the show but the conversation with the council goes very differently. James, barely able to control his anger, demands to know if the council somehow missed the giant Grimm army invading the city. The council kind of stammer and don't have a good response and James tells them to get out of his way and let him do his job and try and save everyone from dying. The council has no clue what to say and is just hauled out by security while James goes back to work.

In Mantle Oscar (who they did not run into earlier) is wandering the streets trying to find his friends when he is ambushed and taken by the hound. Yang Jaune and Ren sees this happening but can’t get to the hound fast enough before it transforms and flies off with an unconscious Oscar. 

When this happened they make the decision to try and go after and save Oscar despite knowing the dangers because he is their friend and they refuse to abandon him. They contact the others to let them know what is happening. Everyone wants to go after Oscar but they realize that Mantle also still needs protection so they reluctantly split up. RNJ and Penny stay behind while the others head towards the whale. On their way to the Whale they run into FNKI and assist them in taking down a massive Grimm. They ask what happened and why they’re wanted for arrest and Yang begs them to not arrest them because a friend is in trouble. FNKI lets them go and they make their way to the Whale. 

As they are all heading to the Whale, Salem sends Cinder to break out Watts and find and kill Penny. Cinder promises she will kill the maiden and leaves, Emerald chasing after her, begging Cinder to take her with her to kill Penny, but Cinder blows her off, insisting Emerald will merely get in her way. Emerald is stunned, after all she had done for Cinder, Cinder was still brushing her off? Neo follows after Cinder, silently demanding to know when they would go after Ruby and Cinder similarly blows her off, insisting they will get to her eventually, and Neo is not pleased. 

I do not like how Hazels “redemption” was handled. It was sloppy and rushed and especially looks bad next to James and the shows refusal to offer him any sympathy. So in this version of events he does start off torturing Oscar but Mercury see’s and is severely triggered by seeing a child being tortured because it reminds him of what his father did to him. When Oscar mentions Salem’s plan and how she only wants to destroy the world. Initially Mercury wants to doubt this but he can’t help but question everything after what he saw being done to a kid. 

He then goes to Emerald to talk to her and tell her what Oscar said and Emerald starts to have doubts herself but neither are sure if he is telling the truth. Even if he isn’t being honest about Salem, Mercury cannot stand seeing a kid being tortured, it reminding him too much of what happened to him and he still wants to help him escape. Emerald points out if they’re caught Salem will kill them so Mercury says they won’t get caught then.  

Hazel is sent to go with Tyrian to go to Vacuo, leaving Oscar alone long enough for Mercury and Emerald to go and find him. Oscar is confused as to what they’re doing there, and Mercury starts asking if what he said to Hazel was true. Oscar says that he can show them. Ozpin asks what he’s doing and Oscar says he can see that they’re conflicted and he thinks he can sway them. Ozpin reluctantly agrees to trust him and they take Oscar to the lamp. When they find it, Oscar calls Jinn and asks her to tell them what Salem’s plan is. Jinn then reveals how Salem wants to destroy the world and kill everyone and everything. Emerald and Mercury are horrified so they take the lamp and Emerald disguises them so they can escape. 

In Atlas, Qrow and Robyn are still sitting in their cells, Qrow battling with his conflicting feelings about Clover’s death, deep down he knows really he and Robyn are to blame for what happened, but he also is looking for someone to blame because he isn’t ready to accept his part in it. Qrow’s semblance causes his cell to open for him and, emotions raging, Qrow leaves, ignoring the others calls to let them out. He sneaks through the academy and finds Harbinger before going to James’s office, hoping to find him there and confront him with the arrest and everything that has happened. 

Just as expected, James is in his office, coordinating everyone to deal with the overwhelming numbers of Grimm, Mettle pushing down any emotions about the sheer number of his people dying that would have long since incapacitated him with grief. Mettle kept pushing him, it was the only thing at this point keeping him moving. Qrow, upon entering James’s office, quickly realizes how deeply Mettle has taken ahold of him, but he is so lost in his anger and grief he doesn’t think much of it, immediately attacking James who fights back. (In this au James’s eyes turn lighter and lighter as Mettle has a stronger grip on him). Qrow is screaming at him, demanding to know why? Why? Why? James responds that he is doing what must be done for his people. 

They’re both evenly matched, and it is a brutal fight, both of them witling down each others aura’s until both breaking nearly simultaneously. The second his aura breaks, James collapses to his knee’s, the weight of everything Mettle had been holding at bay flooding him, overwhelming him, leaving him crumpled on the floor, drowning in agony over everything that had happened, the girls arrests, Oscar, his students and Clover’s death. Qrow let’s Harbinger fall to the floor and collapses in front of James asking what happened. 

James explains about the chess piece, and how he lost control of everything once he saw it. Qrow asks why Winter didn’t break his aura and James admits he doesn’t know. Probably she was just as scared about Salem’s impending arrival as he was. James admits what he did to Oscar and say’s he deserves whatever Qrow thinks should happen to him. Qrow however, says he’s hardly one to talk, look at what he did to Clover? James asks if Qrow really killed Clover and Qrow says he might as well have. He attacked Clover, he broke his aura and left him vulnerable to Tyrian. 

James says neither of them can change the past and what happened, all they can do is keep going and push through. They had millions of lives in danger and they had to figure out something. Qrow asks if James has a plan to get everyone out and James doesn’t think it’s possible. He lost a massive chunk of the fleet in the chaos of the fight and is barely able to protect the sky’s from Grimm, he has nothing left to continue evacuations. Qrow says they’ll figure out something but first they need to get in contact with the kids. 

As Emerald and Mercury lead Oscar out of the whale, they run into RWBY, Oscar quickly assuring them that Emerald and Mercury are trying to help them. Everyone is on edge, but Oscar convinces everyone they’re all on the same side and that they need to focus on getting out before Salem finds them and that she will likely notice the lamp is gone so they need to move. Reluctantly everyone agrees and they move quickly to leave. However before they can get out Salem finds them, searching for the lamp. In her fear Emerald hides herself and Mercury so she does not see them and the pair flee, leaving the girls and Oscar behind. Salem see’s that Oscar has the lamp and immediately zeroes in on him to get it back. 

A fight breaks out as everyone desperately tries to beat back Salem to at least somewhat keep her at bay. It fails and Salem absolutely wrecks them until Ruby in a moment of terror unleashed her silver eyes, partially immobilizing Salem. Salem however is quickly breaking free and Oscar orders them all to run, Ruby doesn’t want to leave Oscar but he tells them he’ll be okay and to run as he charges up his staff. Ruby doesn’t like it but does as he says, running out of the whale with everyone else as Salem breaks free, Oscar attacking her with his staff, destroying her temporarily. Oscar grabs the lamp and then returns to Atlas.

In Atlas, James and Qrow see the explosion and James comments that it looks like Winter was successful. Qrow asks what he meant and James says he sent Winter and the Ace Ops in with a bomb to try and take out the Whale, see if they can do something to slow down what felt like an endless army of Grimm. James hopes that maybe they’ll get a moment's relief so they can try and plan to get as far away as possible. James wants to reach out to the kids, to see if they would be willing to try and work with him again but he fears that bridge has been forever burned and they would never even give him the time of day. Qrow however believes that with him supporting James they’ll listen. James is shocked by the fact that Qrow would stand by him after everything, Qrow says he knows James wasn’t exactly in a great position and there weren't exactly any great options available with Salem coming. 

Ruby and everyone else make their way back to Atlas, but pause momentarily as they reach the battle lines and see just how many soldiers died in the fight against the grimm. They see so many bodies and as they travel through Atlas, they see so many civilians who could not make it to the subways and Ruby is hit with an overwhelming grief at the realization that she and her refusal to budge caused this. So many people died who could have been safe because of her decision. Everyone tries to assure her this isn’t her fault, but Ruby is overwhelmed with self hatred. 

Back in Atlas, Winter and the Ace Ops return with the bomb, saying that they didn’t get a chance to set it off but something else destroyed the whale and temporarily even Salem and every grimm on Atlas. Qrow and James are certain Ozpin had something to do with this and Qrow firmly believes this means Oscar was not killed like James thinks. 

Everyone’s Scrolls get an alert from the Emergency broadcast system and see James and Qrow standing side by side. James says that with the army temporarily destroyed they have just a little bit of time, and that he hopes to speak to them to try and figure out a plan and begs them to come back to the academy, publicly voiding their arrests and assuring no harm will come. Qrow assures them James is telling the truth and says they don’t have much time and they need to move quickly. The message ends and everyone is arguing about what to do. Nora, Jaune and Blake think that James is holding Qrow hostage and forcing him to say these things to lure them into a trap to try and force Penny to open the vault. Yang, Weiss, and Ren believe that Qrow and James are telling the truth and want to give him a chance. 

Oscar looks to Ruby and asks what she thinks. Ruby however is paralyzed with doubt, questioning everything she had ever done. Drowning in guilt about all of the death she saw as they returned to Atlas. Certain she is responsible and doesn’t feel worthy of making such a difficult decision anymore. A part of her thinking James had maybe even been right to order her arrest. Ruby runs off, overwhelmed with guilt and Yang chases after her to talk. Ruby admits she doesn’t know what she’s doing and thinks that forcing themselves into this war was a mistake. Yang assures her it wasn’t wrong and that they were just trying to do what they thought was best. Ruby argues that maybe that’s all General Ironwood was trying to do as well and Yang says that leaving people behind isn’t what was best, Ruby points out though that he was right, staying behind already has caused so much death and destruction to which Yang doesn’t have an answer. Oscar reluctantly joins them and also tells Ruby that even if she made a mistake, she was following her heart and trying to do good and sometimes, that’s all you can do. 

Ruby realizes that though both she and General Ironwood have very different ideas of what is best and what should be done, they both are after the same thing. Stopping Salem. Even if it is a trap, she decides that they have to try and work together because Salem wants them divided and fighting. That if they work together they stand a chance. She tells everyone they have to talk to Ironwood but she agrees they have to be cautious and start planning. 

At the Academy James and Qrow are nervously waiting, James starting to fear that the girls won’t come and he’ll have to plan alone when RWBY and Oscar arrive in the airship and land in front of them. James is both worried and relieved. He’s so happy Oscar is alive, but he wonder’s what Oscar told them. James starts to speak to Oscar, but Oscar says they’ll talk later. 

RWBY is worried and tense, wondering what James wants. Qrow runs over and hugs them, so relieved they’re okay with what he heard about how many people died in the fighting. Yang and Ruby hug him back and realize Qrow isn’t in any danger and that maybe James really did want to talk. James starts to tell them he has no idea how the Whale was destroyed and Oscar admits he used all of the magic stored in the cane to destroy it and temporarily Salem. James asks if he has any idea how long it will take Salem to reform but Oscar says Ozpin isn’t sure. That’s when it comes out that Ozpin is back and he finally comes out and talks. 

He tells them that the reason he didn’t use the cane at Beacon was because he thought they could get things back under control, but when he realized it was too late and he was killed. He wishes he could go back and change it but he can’t. James, guilt stricken by everything, says that of all of them Ozpin is the least guilty, but Ozpin tells James he was right to question him, that maybe if he had taken action sooner Beacon might not have fallen. He also apologizes to James for not coming out and talking to him sooner. He was floundering trying to put Remnant back together and he didn’t help. 

James asks what they can do now but Ruby herself breaks and apologizes, blaming herself for all of the death that happened. James places a reassuring hand on her shoulder and tells her that as a leader, sometimes we have to make difficult decisions when we don’t have all of the information. A choice has to be made even without knowing what will happen when you do. James then assures her they all made mistakes, but they cannot let themselves drown in what ifs and self doubt. They have to keep moving forward. James also apologizes and admits he lost control, he was scared and the thought of another Beacon happening…he couldn’t think of doing anything but run. He knew they couldn’t fight Salem with what forces they had and thought it was best to leave before they lost anyone else. 

Ruby admits she didn’t even try and come up with something better and she got angry and reacted without really thinking either. She didn’t want to be responsible for anyone else’s death but she still was despite her best efforts. Qrow assures her that the death that happened isn’t either of their faults, it's Salems. Oscar and Ozpin both agree that regardless of what path they took, anyone who died was killed by Salem and she’s the one who has blood on her hands, not them. 

James asks Ruby if Penny is okay, he has been truly worried about her because he knows Salem wants the maiden powers and knows Penny is in danger. That is when Penny flies into the dismay of the others who had been hiding. James is relieved to see she is okay and James apologizes to her for everything that happened and Penny hugs him. She admits she’s scared and that she didn’t know why she took the powers she just acted. James assures her she did the right thing, Cinder might have gotten the powers instead and Penny bought Atlas time. Penny also reveals that they have the lamp again and James is relieved they’ve stripped Salem of the relic she had. 

Penny asks what they plan on doing now and James admits that he doesn’t know what to do, most of the ships were destroyed in the attack and they couldn’t finish evacuations before Salem reformed. Qrow mentions that they have the bomb still and that maybe that could reset the clock and buy them more time. Ozpin agrees this could work but that still might not be enough time with the limited air support left on Atlas. 

Now….this is the point I struggled for days to figure out what to do. I typed and retyped and edited and changed and deleted so. Many. Times. It hurts. Through this I learned and remembered why I changed volume 7 as well in my planned rewrites. I know some people will use this to argue “See writing is hard CRWBY was in a corner they had to do this be nicer” but this just proves how bad it is that they don’t have a plan and are making this up on the fly. If they made a plan before volume 7 for how both 7 and 8 would have gone they wouldn’t have written themselves into this massive corner and it wouldn’t be so damn hard to fix JUST volume 8. 

Eh hem anyways uh back to the rewrite. So James realizes that first thing first, they need is to get Amity launched and a message to the world sent out to warn everyone about what is happening on Atlas. Penny asks if it is a good idea to tell everyone about Salem if they don’t have any way to help protect the people from Grimm attacks. James admits he’s not sure, but he also knows they can’t keep Salem a secret when she is escalating and the people need to know what happened to Atlas so they can prepare. Ruby asks if he thinks Atlas won’t survive and he says the people will but the kingdom itself likely will fall. Weiss is saddened by this but James assures her that the kingdom is not the land but the people who make up a kingdom. 

James calls Pietro and asks about Amity but initially he ignores James’s calls so Penny calls him and assures him they are working with James again and he and they all want to fix things and make it better. She then asks him about Amity and he admits he’d been working on getting Amity into a launchable state since Salem arrived. James asks if it can be launched and Pietro says it’s almost ready. 

While Pietro works to get Amity launched, James prepares the message to send out to everyone, he questions for a moment if doing this makes sense but ultimately decides it is important. On Amity, Pietro and Maria are working on getting Amity launched and with the work Pietro did, they get it in the air without a hitch and start up James’s message to all of Remnant. First he informs everyone that Atlas is under attack and will likely fall and tells them that Salem is behind it and tells everyone about her. He admits he wishes this was happening under better circumstances, but he wanted to ensure the news got out in case they also lost Amity. 

Ruby says they could use the staff somehow to evacuate everyone but Ozpin points out that the staff is holding Atlas up and nothing else. That is when James corrects Ozpin and says he started building a backup system to take over should the staff stop holding Atlas up and that it can hold Atlas up for a time but will slowly sink down as the gravity dust runs out. James says they could move Atlas to the tundra so when it eventually hits the ground it doesn’t crush Mantle in the process. The way the system is set up, Atlas will slowly sink as it runs out of Gravity dust so when its out it will be on the ground and not crash down because if it crashes down it could set off a dust explosion that could have untold effects on the world and they don’t want to risk that. 

Meanwhile Cinder has broken Watts out and have run into Neo again, Watts says if they can help him get to a terminal, he can get them whatever information they need. With that Cinder, Neo, and Watts return to the academy and as in the show kill everyone in one of the control rooms and Watts gets to work. 

In breaking out Watts, both Robyn’s and Jacques cells break and they are able to escape. Robyn goes to try and find the Happy Huntresses and Jacques tries to get back to the mansion so he can protect himself. He can be eaten by a Grimm or something whatever that’s not all that important what happens to him lolz. 

RWBY James, Qrow, Oscar and Penny struggle to try and figure out how to best do the evacuations, throwing around all kinds of different ideas and getting more and more frustrated as they realize they don’t have plans to make anything that would quickly get everyone out and they’re wasting precious time until Salem reforms. Yang tosses out the idea of using a bunch of doorways leading out to Vacuo and James says that it wouldn't be fair to dump everyone into Vacuo as they already have most of Vale there already. The girls argue that they need to get to Vacuo and James points out that Salem would be heading there next so sending the innocent civilians back into her warpath would be wrong and mentions ideally he would send them to Argus. It is a large town with a relatively intact military. James also starts to explain that with Ambrosius you have to be very specific on what you want and that he takes things very literally, as he’s speaking James trailed off noticing a security camera has been watching them and not moving like it should, catching James’s attention. Everyone starts to ask what’s wrong as James pulls out Due Process and shoots it down. Watts in retaliation decides to use the counter measures James built in against them to start splitting them up. 

He starts by sending false reports of attacks all over the school, James splits everyone up to try and deal with all of the attacks. Ruby, Weiss and Penny make their way to one of the alerts, Qrow and James start towards another, Blake, Yang, and Oscar head to another. The Ace Ops and JNR both head off to check on other alerts. However before they get far, Robotic soldiers ambush them and shields start going up to trap everyone. 

James momentarily freezes, painfully flashing back to Beacon and everything that happened. Qrow is frantically having to defend James who is paralyzed with fear, Qrow frantically crying out to him, worried about being able to keep him safe while frozen in the middle of the fight. 

James snaps back to reality and starts fighting, sending a message to the Ace Ops while Ruby calls JNR to ask where they are. JNR are similarly blocked in and fighting off hacked soldiers and the Ace Ops are all separated and similarly keeping back hacked soldiers. Everyone is asking what’s happening and how, everyones shouting and demanding to know what they should do. In all the chaos, James gets a message that Watts had broken out. 

Realizing Watts is trying to kill time until Salem reforms, James orders Ruby, Penny, and Weiss to get to the vault and use the staff. Ruby hesitates, worried she’ll mess things up even more and is frozen in fear, that's when James assures her that he trusts her, he knows she can do this and orders her to go. Ruby tries to argue she can use her semblance to get to James and Qrow but James says to not waste her time and to go now. Reluctantly, Ruby uses her semblance and flies them into the vents to get to the entrance to the vault room that Penny opens for them, the doors shutting behind them quickly as they descend into the vault chamber. 

Weiss looks over to Ruby and asks what they’re going to do and Ruby admits she’s not sure. Penny brings up the idea of portals again and Ruby wonders if there was a way to make it work. Weiss thinks it’s the only plan they had that remotely came close to being workable. Ruby realizes that they are running out of time and that they have to do something. If Salem reformed with everyone still on Atlas, everyone would be doomed. The three of them make their way to the vault door, the girls looking around in wonder at the chamber. However they realize they can’t keep wasting time and rush to the vault door, Penny opening it for them and Ruby using her semblance to rush them all inside and grabbing the staff, instantly halting time as Ambrosius appeared before them. 

Ambrosius appears and acts exactly as he does in the show because he is pretty hilarious and I love that. Ambrosius mentions his last project was so boring and Ruby says that they need to use the staff but before they can ask him anything Ambrosius firmly lays down that he cannot do anything because doing something would cause Atlas to fall and crush Mantle and kill thousands. They then tell him that they know this and ask him to instead move Atlas over the tundra so no one would get hurt. Ambrosius groans and asks why everything he’s been asked to do is so boring but does as they asked. 

Instantly everyone feels Atlas moving, the people in Mantle see Atlas suddenly moving away and start panicking in mass. Cinder demands to know from Watts what was happening and Watts muses that they must have gotten the staff and are using it, but he isn’t sure what they’re doing. James and Qrow meanwhile also realize they must have reached the staff, and Qrow wonders what Ruby will do with it. James says he knows whatever she comes up with will be the best they’ll be able to do given the circumstances. 

Back in the vault, Ruby resummons Abrosius who is disappointed to see the girls again and asks what they want now. Weiss asks if he can make a bunch of portals scattered across Atlas and Mantle and have it open into Argus. Ambrosius replies that he needs information on how to make that happen given that there would be people coming in from multiple portals landing in the exact same spot and Weiss groans that’s what they expected. Penny then chimes in that what if they had a central location to funnel everyone through before they reach the portal leading to Argus. Ambrosius asks where this central location would be and Ruby says in the same place as the vaults are as they seem to exist somewhere outside of Remnant and would be safe for refugees to use as a way to escape. 

Ambrosius asks for plans on how this central location would work and Penny happily chims in saying it could work like the subway system, carrying lots of people from one place to another and shows Ambrosius the plans and Weiss adds the exit portal would be like a one way ticket to Argus. Ambrosius asks for references to where the portals will appear in Atlas and Penny pulls up a map of Atlas and Mantle and indicates locations all over where she knows James would have evacuated citizens along with the crater where the Happy Huntress’s evacuated citizens still in Mantle along with some key locations within Atlas Academy. She also pulls up the map of Argus and indicates a spot just outside of the city to have the citizens be evacuated to. Penny thinks this would work as Argus can take citizens as well as potentially move any overflow to Haven if absolutely necessary. Satisfied he has all he needs, Ambrosius creates the portals with the openings in the various places Penny indicated. As the girls head to the portal Ambrosius created for them, he warns them not to fall before disappearing. 

Before the girls enter the portal in the vault, they pause, wondering if they should take the staff with them or leave it behind. Instinctively Ruby wants to lock it up again as it would ensure Salem cannot get to it. However Ruby also realizes that leaving the portals open even after everyone is evacuated could be extremely dangerous so reluctantly the girls decide that they need to take it with them. 

As Qrow and James finish off the last rogue robotic soldiers, a portal opens up behind them, Qrow wonders if this is Ruby’s evacuation plan and James says there's only one way to find out and carefully steps through, finding himself looking at dozens of portals similar to the one he just stepped through. Qrow follows shortly after and they all find themselves on the same platform as Ruby, Weiss, and Penny and explain what they did. James comments that it's not perfect but it will have to do. He questions why they took the staff with them instead of locking it back up again and Ruby explains that they feared keeping the portals open would be too dangerous and though James doesn’t like it, he agrees with their concerns and asks to take the staff himself. When they ask why James says Salems people will likely come after the staff and he hopes that if he has it they will focus on going after him instead of the people trying to evacuate. 

Qrow argues that it is extremely dangerous for just him to have the staff but James brushes his worries off saying Winter will be with him. The girls also argue that even the two of them likely won’t be enough to hold off Cinder and Penny offers to go with him. James argues that’s extremely dangerous as she’s the maiden and Penny argues that's why she should go as it would further keep Cinder away from the portals. Reluctantly James agrees.

Ruby says the rest of them will remain in the portals to protect everyone coming through and Oscar suggests Ruby holds onto the lamp and hands it over to her so that they don’t have both relics in the same place in case what remains of Salem’s people attack one place. Qrow says he’ll go find the Ace Ops and take the bomb to where the Whale previously was to have it ready to drop on her before she reforms so they can buy more time to have everyone escape. 

James and the others were worried about Qrow’s plan, but they agreed it was important so everyone splits off going through various portals. James called Winter to let her know what was happening and to ask her to use the Emergency broadcasting system to let everyone know what was happening and to go through the portals. Winter agrees and uses the emergency broadcasting system to tell everyone in Atlas and Mantle what is happening and to immediately begin evacuations. James also tells Winter to leave immediately once the message is out and assists Argus. Winter argues and says she needs to be in Atlas, but James says he will be staying until all civilians have left. Winter argues and says he can’t stay alone, but James says Penny will be with him. Winter wants to argue but James tells her to go and get her family when Winter says that James is her family. James is touched by the sentiment but pushes, saying that Whitley needs someone and reluctantly Winter agrees. Immediately after sending the message out Winter gets Whitley and her mother, kneeling down in front of Whitley, she apologizes for everything and says she wishes she was a better sister to him and that if she could go back, she would have fought harder to keep him away from their father. Whitley hugs Winter as their mother watches them with a sad smile, saying that it wasn’t her responsibility to keep Whitley safe but her own. Winter shouldn’t have had to help Weiss like she did and that she failed as a mother to all three of them. Winter says they can continue this conversation with Weiss later and that for now they need to leave quickly. On their way out they run into Klein and the four of them go through the portals to Argus. 

Before James leaves the portals he kneels down in front of Oscar, unable to look him in the eyes as he apologizes for what he did to him. There is no excuse, and no forgiveness for what he did and he understands that. Oscar, though, stuns him by hugging him, Ozpin’s voice saying that he is so sorry he wasn’t there when James needed him most. That he failed James not only in Beacon but now in Atlas. James is barely able to keep tears at bay as he hugs Oscar back, asking how either of them could forgive him. Oscar says that he knows about James’s semblance and what it does to him. He knows that though James still shot him, he knew James never would have done so without his semblance active and that he never should have gotten to that point, that they all should have been there supporting him more. Oscar says James is better than his worst mistake and that’s not who he is. He’s someone who fights for his people to the death. That he cares and is a good man. That despite everything that happened, James only was trying to save everyone despite how scared he was and how much his trauma from Beacon affected him. Despite it all he pushed forward and that is who James really was. Oscar also tells James to forgive himself for what happened to Atlas, that he and Ruby are not to blame, Salem is. She’s the one who killed and killed. They only tried to stop her. James promises he will not let either of them down and goes through the portal with Penny. The pair make their way to a control room and James sends out a message to Cordovin to warn her of the incoming evacuations. 

Watts realizes through his hack what Amity tower was for, and finds the message James is sending to Argus and immediately gets to work sending out a virus to force Amity tower to crash, knowing how important global communications are and knows it needs to be destroyed. Cinder asks what destroying Amity will do, they need to focus on drawing out Penny. Watts firmly believes James would never allow his precious Amity project to be destroyed and that certainly he would send Penny to save it. Cinder though thinks James would simply hide her away like the previous maiden and it would take something more drastic to bring her out. Watts insists she should go to the tower but Cinder brushes him off and Neo follows along with a shrug. 

As evacuations start, Penny and James are remaining in the control room, carefully monitoring security feeds to make sure evacuations are going smoothly when alerts start going off, something is wrong with Amity and a virus is causing everything to shut down and the tower to start falling from the sky. Penny frantically tries to call Pietro to tell him to get out of the tower as James tries to call for someone to help get the tower back online but everyone is locked out and can’t get in. Penny, terrified for her father’s safety, flies off, James frantically calling her to come back, fearing that it is a trap for her.Penny however doesn’t listen, too worried about her father, flying as fast as she can towards the rapidly crashing tower, Penny praying she can get their in time before it crashes. 

Meanwhile, Cinder and Neo have disguised themselves and have hidden themselves in a crowd of civilians desperately trying to evacuate. Everyone is too distracted by Amity crashing to notice her in the crowd. The girls are all on high alert, searching for any sign of danger. They sent Ren and Jaune ahead to try and use Ren’s aura to mask everyone's fear and keep a Grimm attack from happening in Argus. Cordovin, who heard James’s message, had already sent out soldiers to help get everyone into the city safely. 

Cinder when she sees Ruby carefully makes her way to her, reining in every urge to charge at her and viciously kill her. She knows Ruby could use her silver eyes to bear Cinder instantly and she cannot risk alerting her to Cinders presence. Cinder then grabs the lamp from her and then uses her maiden powers against Ruby to throw her into the abyss, breaking her aura in the process. Civilians start screaming and running away, Yang screaming out in horror and rage at seeing her little sister seemingly fall to her death and charges at Cinder to kill her but Neo intercepts her. Nora calls James to let him know what’s happening, hoping Penny can come and help them. James however tells her Penny went to Amity after it crashed. James then starts to frantically call Penny who is arriving at Amity as he crashes to the ground, the dust mines below exploding as the dust beneath is hit. Penny screams out in agony, certain Pietro is dead but starting to fly towards the wreckage to try and find him when her scroll starts beeping, James calling out for Penny to answer, the fear in his voice making her pause and grab her scroll, James telling her that Cinder has ambushed everyone in the tunnels and they can’t hold off a maiden alone. Penny looks at the wreckage of Amity and then back towards Atlas, torn on what to do. Penny starts to scan the tower, trying to find any signs of life but finding none. She wants to try and find her father, unable to believe that he’s dead, but James calls out to her asking if she’s still there, telling her that everyone evacuating is being killed by Cinder. 

As the Ace Ops and Qrow circle the decaying remains of the whale, watching for Salem’s return, they all hear the screech of a loud Grimm and look over to see a Wyvern flying towards Atlas. With the soldiers assisting with evacuations, the group has no idea how to stop the massive Grimm heading towards Atlas. Reluctantly, Qrow says they need to focus their efforts on the Wyvern and to try and take it down. Harriet argues their job is to watch for Salem and drop the bomb on her when she starts to reform. Qrow argues that will be pointless if that Wyvern stops people from evacuating. He points out that that thing will scare people, and the more afraid people are, the more Grimm will appear. The more grimm there are, the less people will likely be able to get out. Reluctantly the other Ace Ops agree and they go after the Wyvern. However as they fight, they quickly realize that they don’t have the manpower to take it down. That’s when Vine suggests dropping the bomb on it and Harriet says they can’t waste the bomb on a Grimm. Qrow however agrees with Vine saying that dropping the bomb on Salem won’t help anyone if the Grimm kill them all. Reluctantly Harriet asks how they plan to drop the bomb on it. Qrow asks Marrow if he thinks his semblance can hold the Wyvern still and Marrow says it can but not for long so they get to work, flying as close as they dare to the Grimm, Marrow using his semblance to stop the Grimm and then dropping the bomb on it, Marrows aura breaking just as the bomb hits it and explodes, killing the Grimm. The celebration is short lived however as they hear an enraged scream that shakes Atlas, the Ace Ops and Qrow realizing that Salem is back. 

WBY and Nora are fighting carelessly and recklessly, torn up and guilt ridden by Ruby’s death, they’re fighting is sloppier than usual, Cinder egging them on, mocking them for failing to save their leader. Cinder is about to land a killing blow against Weiss, when Penny arrives, screaming at Cinder to leave her friends alone. Cinder sees red when she sees Penny and gets tunnel vision, thinking only that she wants the maiden powers and the staff, screaming at Penny, demanding to know where the staff is. Penny however uses this to her advantage, letting her know that Cinder will never find it. Cinder is enraged and starts wildly attacking Penny who fights back, determined to avenge Ruby. Cinder then starts mocking Penny for Ruby’s death, saying if she wasn’t a coward then maybe her friend would be alive. Penny tries to keep her anger and guilt in check, but Cinder’s goading words and she blasts Cinder with a powerful blow that sends her crashing down onto the platforms. Realizing she can use this to really throw Penny off balance, Cinder sends Yang flying into the abyss while she’s distracted with Neo. Horrified, Penny frantically flies after Yang, Cinder turning her attention to Blake who is crying out, throwing her weapon to try and catch Yang, Neo keeping Weiss too busy for her to be able to try and do anything to help. Penny is unable to reach Yang before she vanishes and while she is trying to figure out what to do, Blake is thrown into the abyss as well. Nora charges as Cinder but she is easily knocked in along with Weiss when she tries to save her. 

Back in the control room, James is torn on what to do. Should he go and risk the staff but try to save everyone? James stares at the staff in his hands, thinking of Nora’s terrified words and Penny's lack of response. People would die if he didn’t help, but if he goes there, Salem could get the staff. James thinks about Ruby’s words and her determination to save everyone. His people were in danger. No matter what he did the staff would be in danger as long as it remained outside of the vault. Mind made up, James starts to head towards one of the portals, freezing as black smoke fills the room, surrounding him and blocking out all of the light as Salem appears before him. James fires Due Process at her, but the bullet holes close up easily as Grimm hands emerge from the ground and pin James to the ground, Salem tisking as she walks over and picks up the staff. She then mocks him saying all of this death would not have happened if James had just complied and done what she had asked. James is paralyzed with fear, thinking back to Beacon and Ozpin and all of his failures, and a part of him wonders if maybe she’s telling the truth. That this is his fault. But then he remembers Oscar's words, he looks up at Salem and tells her that no one is to blame but her. He could not, would not stand by and let her destroy Remnant. Salem is merely amused by his determination and tells him that it all was in vain. 

Before Penny and Cinder can attack again, they both notice that the pathways are disappearing and glaring at each other, they both leave, Penny making it through the door to Argus and Cinder flying through the closest portal. Neo runs after Cinder who can’t be bothered to try and help Neo and the paths disappear before Neo can get through a portal. As soon as Penny reaches Argues, Jaune and Ren frantically ask what happened to everyone, and Penny whispers I’m sorry, guilt overwhelming her. 

Cinder finds Salem easily with the staff and James pinned to the ground still, glaring up at Salem. Cinder drops down to her knees and apologizes, saying that she could not get the maiden powers and that Neo was killed by RWBY but she did manage to kill them before escaping. She then presents Salem with the lamp and tells her RWBY stole it but she doesn't know if they used the final question or not. Salem brushes it off, turning to James with a smirk saying they’ll find out, one way or another, James looking up at her in fear. 

I can imagine an after credits cutscene being something like the Ace Ops and Qrow trying to find James only to find Due Process and no signs of James and wondering what happened to James or we could keep it as seeing Crescent Rose on the Island. 

I had originally typed out some ideas for how to kill off James and Penny if someone insisted they had to die like canon but….the ideas just really were not working too well and I wasn’t really interested in them anyways so I decided to dump them. If someone wanted to kill James and Penny off….well all I can say is please don’t tie James’s disabilities to his death if that makes sense? He deserves to go down fighting and protecting Atlas and Mantle, same as Penny. She should not have been turned into a human, we know Pietro couldn’t rebuild her again so the stakes were already set for her. 

Anyways I hope you guys enjoyed my ideas, if anyone has their own ideas for what they would have done for Volume 8 I would love to hear them! I know there are probably plot holes still and some issues, but I was struggling to find a good balance between keeping the story moving and not making it feel like the hand of the author is the only thing keeping it going. It was extremely frustrating realizing all of my problems were because of the setup volume 7 of RWBY set up that I was stuck with having to contend with. In all of my rewrite ideas, they all involve even changes in volume 7 because so much leaks and influences volume 8 and makes volume 8 a problem.

[whythinktoomuch]

Tentatively stepping through the doorway, Lena was greeted by the natural wintry gleam of the Fortress of Solitude. She had only been there that one time all those months ago, but the surroundings appeared familiar enough, seemingly burned into her memories as a particularly difficult flashbulb of an experience.

Cold. Dimmed lighting. Wide open spaces that gave off the illusion of emptiness despite holding some of the most important secrets to be kept in the world.

And in the middle of it all, stood Kara Danvers, still dressed in her Super regalia, staring off into the distance like little else mattered.

“Kara.” Lena rushed forward, the clack of her heels bouncing off the polished walls in an anxious rhythm that rivaled that of her heart.

Kara looked over, blank expression slipping slightly. “Lena?” she murmured, sounding surprised, though not at all startled. “How’d you get out?”

“… Out?” Lena echoed, but Kara didn’t elaborate. Maybe the disconnect was to be expected though, and there were more important things at stake for the moment, so, “Kara, you need to come back.”

“Back.” Kara chewed on the word, tasting the implications like they weren’t quite to her liking. Then she gave a single nod. “Oh. I see.” And with that, Kara turned her back on Lena and walked right off, right into the distance that gradually converged into a yawning doorway.

--

Lena had no choice but to chase after her. “I know why you’re doing this, Kara. And you have to know that it wasn’t your fault. None of it was.”

Kara didn’t answer. She didn’t have to. Her silence was already speaking volumes just by stretching on and on, running parallel to the seemingly never-ending hallway.

“Will you at least explain what you’re doing here?” Lena demanded, her patience eaten up by a sense of urgency that was somehow eluding Kara. Time was of the utmost importance—that much had been impressed upon her repeatedly and emphatically before she made this journey. “Look, I’m not going to leave until you talk to me.”

Mild amusement flitted over Kara’s features as she looked back at Lena. “How’d you even get here?”

“Does it matter?”

“No.”

Then when Kara made no move to continue their conversation, Lena sighed in exasperation, “I have my ways, okay?”

“Of course you do,” Kara said easily. “I’m just… surprised that they’d send you, of all people.”

“I volunteered to come. Well, I insisted anyway.”

Kara glanced back at her again, expression now unreadable. “We’re not even friends anymore,” she said, matter-of-fact, no malice intended or needed. “We haven’t talked for—what—six months? I guess what I’m trying to say is that, you wouldn’t have been my first pick.”

“And I’m sure the many people who were opposed to my coming here would agree,” Lena said, but Kara didn’t take the bait, falling silent once more. “Where are we going anyway? What’s down here that’s so important that you have to see it right now?”

Kara took an abrupt left turn, and the hallway opened up just as abruptly into an endless series of shut doors, all evenly spaced out along either wall. Each door was fashioned with its own nameplate, which was of little interest to Lena until she started recognizing the names. By then—trailing behind Kara, passing by doors that read James, Winn, Kal-El, and a few with lettering that could only be Kryptonian—it became all too clear why they were there.

Lena’s sense of purpose was renewed, however, when Kara walked right past a door labeled Alex without slowing. “Wait, that’s where we have to go,” she called out in realization. “We need to get to Alex, right? Right, Ka—Kara! Hey, where are you going?”

But Kara evidently wasn’t listening, her stride only cut short upon arriving at another door altogether. The door was plain and simple enough, except in that it was one of the very few without its own handle. The name Mon-El was etched into the dull gold, just barely catching in the light at eye level.

“They disappear sometimes,” Kara said. “The doorknobs, I mean. Well, the doors too, but there’s always another to replace them so… it’s hard to keep track.”

Lena tried her best to not acknowledge the predictable twinge of nausea that twisted in her stomach. “What’s in there?”

“When I could still open it, I’d just see his spaceship disappearing into the horizon.” Kara shrugged. “I’m sure there were other things too, but it’s been years.”

“… Kara, let’s get back to Alex’s door,” Lena said, clearing her throat, ridding herself of any lingering pangs of unjustified jealousy. “It still has a doorknob, so we can still get in there, right? That’s what that means?” But Kara was ignoring her. Again. “Are you even listening to me right now?”

“You say that to me a lot in here.”

And just as Lena was about to ask what the hell Kara possibly could mean by that, she noticed yet another door, just a bit farther down the hall, literally with her name on it.

“You can go in there, I think,” Kara continued, shrugging again. “There aren’t really any hard and fast rules here, but that might be the only door you can open without me.”

Lena, inevitably, took a pause.

Her door appeared more intricate the longer she studied it. The rich, glossy oak with accents of rose gold. The plumerias carved into the wood at every corner. A touch of cursive to her name, lovingly engraved across the polished nameplate. It had a delicate padlock that looked more decorative than practical, but Lena already knew that it would fall away for her, if she wanted.

Admittedly, it took a rather lengthy moment for Lena to successfully tear her eyes away from the door. “That’s not why I’m here.”

“Well, there isn’t much else I can give you besides that,” Kara said, promptly moving on, venturing deeper into the hallway that only opened up to more and more hallway with a seemingly inexhaustible supply of doors.

“Kara, stop…” Lena abandoned her door to chase after Kara again. “I’m serious,” she pleaded, seizing Kara by the elbow, tugging insistently. “Let’s go through the Alex door. We can go together.”

Kara shook her head, shaking her arm when Lena refused to loosen her grip. “Let go,” she snapped, eyes briefly flashing red, and Lena unfortunately flinched away from her. Huffing hard, Kara then pivoted away, slipping through the closest door and Lena slipped in right after her before it could swing shut.

The whole world was on fire.

Proud buildings coming down in flames. Air condensed into a thick black smoke. Everyone dying around her…

Coughing, Lena was immediately forced to press her sleeve to her mouth and nose. The door was nowhere to be seen. After a more thorough survey of her surroundings, she finally noticed a slumped figure in the relative distance. It was hard to make out anything in the light of the fading red that made up the sky, but who else could it be? Lena made her way over.

Thankfully, Kara wasn’t too far. She was just sitting atop a darkened precipice, arms around her knees as she watched the world die before her.

“This…. is Krypton,” Lena said as she realized. “Kara. You can’t stay here. This can’t be healthy…”

“And you, of course, would be the resident expert on keeping healthy habits,” Kara said, and her sarcasm didn’t even need a bitter tone to land.

And that about settled it.

Lena grabbed a piece of smoldering debris—still warm, somewhat spongey, surely not fatal—and lobbed it as hard as she could at the back of Kara’s head.

The projectile bounced off harmlessly enough, but Kara slowly turned around, eyes widened. “Ow…?” She pressed a hand gingerly to the back of her head, no doubt still tender from the blow. “What are you doing? The sun isn’t yellow here!”

“None of this is even real!” Lena snapped, and to prove it, she lifted a much larger piece of debris that normally would have buckled her with its mass. When she sent that hunk of rock sailing through the air, Kara finally demonstrated some life and dove out of the way.

“What the hell, Lena?” Kara said, some frustration and thus vigor breaking through the monotony. “What are you doing here? Why did you even come?”

“I want to see what’s behind Alex’s door!” Lena threw back, just as frustrated and then some. “What is this, Kara? Behind one door, you see your home planet imploding. Behind another, you see the man you loved leaving you forever. So, what the hell could possibly be happening in the one for your sister? Whose life, by the way, is still hanging in the balance, in case you forgot.”

Kara huffed, whirling away. “That’s none of your business.”

“You made it my business by fucking off to wherever this is,” Lena said, fighting to maintain eye contact as Kara tried repeatedly to turn her back on her. “You made it my business by making me come after you! So, just do me one fucking favor, and just tell me—”

“I kill her.”

Lena fell silent, blinking, the soundtrack to her sudden hesitation coming alive in the sounds of the world burning up around her.

“I kill her in there. Over and over and over again.” Kara’s words were falling out like she couldn’t stop them, an outpouring of shame and relief rolled into one. “She dies by my hand, only to die all over again, and again, and—”

“Okay, I get it,” Lena hastily cut in. “Well, no. I don’t get it, get it, but… what do you mean you kill her? How…?”

Kara covered her face with a sharp exhale. “Lots of ways! Heat vision. Super strength. Sometimes I’m just throwing her off a building. Other times, I’m choking the life out of her with my bare….” She broke off, voice drying up. “I don’t want to go in there, okay? Stop asking me.”

“Kara, this… this is ridiculous,” Lena eventually sputtered. “Alex isn’t dead. She’s hurt bad, yeah, but how could you possibly give up on her when—”

“Because it doesn’t matter,” Kara said flatly. “Because if not now, it’ll be some other time. She’ll die, and it’s going to be all my fault.”

“But what happened to her isn’t your fault.”

Kara sighed, heavily and exhausted, and suddenly she looked every bit the lonely woman who’d lost everything in a way only few people have. “Lena… Everything down here’s my fault.”

Her entire body sagged then, and she was back on the ground, curled up and watching the horizon again. So, Lena just walked over and sat next to her.

Everything was steadily plunging into darkness. There were more cracks ripping apart the earth than there were buildings, people, or even life in general. The fire climbed higher and everything was smothered in smoke, but all Lena had to do was consider taking a clean breath of air, and she could.

“What happens when it’s over?” Lena asked.

“Just starts up all over again.”

“Okay then.”

After a while, when the sky was too obscured to distinguish from the ground, Kara directed her gaze to her own feet. “… You ever think about what yours would look like?”

“My mind palace, you mean?” Lena asked, and Kara nodded. “Oh, I already know. Boxes.”

Kara exhaled a dry chuckle or two. “Boxes? That’s it?”

“Maybe some filing cabinets too. Just to keep everything organized,” Lena said, and she was mostly joking, but also not. “Boxes just always worked for me.”

“… Is there a box in there with my name on it?”

Lena blew out a breath, shakily laughing at the self-evidence of it all. “Of course there is, Kara.” Maybe even more than one, though they didn’t have to get into that now, or ever.  

“Do you want to know what happens behind your door?” Kara asked haltingly, gaze still dropped.

“Not at all. I’m sure whatever it is, I’ve imagined much worse on my own terms,” Lena said, and Kara kinda laughed again, but wouldn't disagree. “… You know what happened to Alex wasn’t your fault, right?”

“Might as well have been. Should’ve been there.”

“You can’t be everywhere at once, Kara. That can’t be expected of anyone, even Supergirl.” And when Kara gave no indication that she was listening, Lena continued with a sigh, “If Alex could be here, she’d say the same exact thing. Though I’m sure she’d include some Midvale lingo and much more swearing.”

“What’s Midvale lingo?”

“If I knew, I wouldn’t be above using it right now.”

Kara didn’t laugh this time, just nodded solemnly before asking, “How long have I been in here?”

“You’d been out for almost six hours when I made my way over.”

“Did Alex improve at all while I’ve been gone?”

“That’s not really a thing you can tell just by looking,” Lena said vaguely. She didn’t want to lie, but she also didn’t want to give Kara any reason to stay behind.

But Kara looked at her like she knew exactly what Lena was trying not to say. She’d always been so good at reading Lena, or maybe Lena had always been so bad at hiding things from Kara. Either way, if only it had been vice versa, maybe they’d be on better terms now.

“I don’t want to come back just to watch her die. I’ve already done that too many times in here.”

“If she does die, you’re going to regret not being there.”

The ground underneath them started to crumble and come apart, falling in on itself, and Kara watched it happen with disinterest while Lena just watched Kara. But eventually, finally, Kara seemed to come to a real decision because she carefully took Lena’s hand in hers, and Lena let her.

“… Thank you for coming,” Kara said quietly, barely audible over the world falling apart.

“Thank you for coming back.”

They watched the last of the world collapse around them, swallowing them up in a pitch darkness.

//

Lena jerked awake with a gasp in her corner of the room, but everyone was by Kara, clamoring around her, greeting her with words of worry and such. And Lena just nodded to herself because everything was back to being how it should.

She disengaged the electrodes and pulled the wires off her head, and Brainy appeared by her bedside to help her remove the last of it.

“You were successful,” he said. “I knew you would be. You had the best chances of getting her out of that state, though 67% of the people in this room did think differently. But thank you for bringing her back.”

“I didn’t do a thing,” Lena said honestly. She glanced down at her watch out of habit, and the numbers blurred and made little sense to her weary brain, but it was time to leave. That much was obvious. “It’s late. I should get going.”

“You don’t want to talk to Kara?”

Lena looked over, and just past Nia’s shoulder, she saw Kara staring right at her. “I think she has better things to do tonight,” she said, stepping into her heels, neatly pulling her hair into a tidy bun. “Please give our hero my best, and… keep me apprised of Alex’s condition as well.”

Pausing on her way out, Lena threw back one last glance. Kara was still staring at her. Her mouth was moving and answering questions as they were offered up by the people around her, but her eyes would only meet Lena’s from across the room. Kara half-raised her hand in a subtle gesture, and Lena took the wave for what it was and turned on her heel to leave, refusing to entertain the persistent itch to look back the entire time.

[maraudersftw]

Re: the prompts

Sweet, pink & satisfaction for jily please ♥️😊

Hi, anon! Thanks for this adorable prompt. Hope you enjoy this!

Treacle Tart

She’s a goddamned idiot.

A pathetic, dessert-hogging, goddamned idiot.

Lily sighs, staring down at the single slice of treacle tart that remains on the paper napkin in her hand, surrounded by evidence of crumbs that betray the fact that she’s devoured the rest. Licking her lips, she redirects her gaze onto the lone figure zipping across the sky, around the Quidditch posts.

Even from the dark distance, the diligence of his movements, the fluidity of his flying, sends something pleasant humming inside her veins, in her stomach.

If only he weren’t hell-bent on torturing her.

She’d gone down to the Great Hall for dinner with Mary earlier in the evening, only to find out that James had decided to forgo a meal in exchange for a fly around the pitch. This didn’t phase her at first, given that it was a ritual he practised every week before a match, and the upcoming one—between Gryffindor and Slytherin—was certainly a big one.

But she’d just finished her plate and reached for the dessert when the idiocy kicked in. “We have treacle tart today?”

“Brilliant, isn’t it?” Sirius had grinned, dripping golden syrup as he bit into his slice.

Lily had looked around at the Marauders with a frown. “Well, yeah, but—it’s James’s favourite.”

“Oh.” Remus had set down his glass of pumpkin juice, face blank but eyes dancing with amusement. “Didn’t know you still hated him so much, Lily. You can still eat food that’s James’s favourite, y’know. We won’t tell him.”

“Shut up,” she’d groaned, ignoring the laughter that had tittered around. “I only mean that he’s been craving it for ages. And now that the house-elves have finally made them, it’d be a pity for him to miss out.”

“Aw, it’s sickening how much you care about Potter,” Mary had cooed from her left, earning a glare.

“I’m only saying.”

“Well, I’m sure Prongs would appreciate it very much if you took some out for him to the pitch, Evans,” Sirius had suggested, grin rampant on his face. “He might even give you a snog in exchange.”

Before she could’ve brought her flaming face under control, Peter had piped in. “But can’t we just get some from the kitchen later?”

“No, Pete, we can’t,” Sirius had barked. “Because I’m gonna eat everything that’s here, and then there’ll be nothing left for Prongs.”

And then, as if to prove the truth behind the threat, he’d reached out and starting piling everything onto his plate. Immediate chaos had erupted around the table as multiple hands struggled to stop him, rushing to grab the dessert at a pace faster than the food was able to replenish.

Lily, amongst the shouts of madness, had managed to wrangle a few pieces for James, and hightailed it out of the hall. And even though it’d been evident that Sirius had staged the entire thing to get her to do just that, somehow, none of it’d mattered as she headed out to the Quidditch pitch, thrill lodged in her throat.

That had been over an hour ago.

Now, as she sits, waiting for James to finish his practice, or at least notice her—which he hasn’t done due to that laser-focus attention of his—she wonders if she’s not making a complete fool of herself. Over the last few weeks, she’s been entirely unsubtle in her flirting with him, and James, never one to take anything sitting down, has given back as well as he’s gotten.

And yet, they’ve remained at that stalemate; never really moving forward; never really doing anything.

As the days wear on, Lily’s quickly starting to think that James presents her with his charming banter because he’s just that—charming, no matter who the recipient of said charm may be.

But when she shows up with bloody treacle tart for him, when he’s not even made a move in literal years, that makes her look…well, pathetic.

A sigh drops, and she moves to pinch off another bite—

“Oi, stop right there!”

Lily jolts, both at the voice and at the shadow that falls over her, leaving crumbs to rain over her lap.

James is suddenly hovering in the air in front of the stands, hazel eyes narrowed on the food in her hands. He looks up. “Is that treacle tart?”

“No.”

“I don’t believe you,” he says, and then swiftly hops off from the broom, right next to her. “Give it here, then.”

Lily watches him, an eyebrow cocked. He’s sweating something atrocious, face pink from the wind, hair the wildest it can get. And yet, the bright hazel of his eyes, the barely suppressed smirk on his lips, and the satisfaction that plays openly on his face send her heart pounding.

“Fine,” she says, passes over the napkin with much drama. “But only because I’m very nice.”

“Oh, the nicest,” he agrees easily, eyelids fluttering shut on a moan with his first bite. Lily feels the sound in places sounds shouldn’t be felt in, especially not so pleasantly. “Seriously, Evans, you’re fucking perfect. Getting me treacle tart all the way out here? You must really love me.”

“Firstly, I didn’t get that for you,” she lies, cheeks instantly warm, pulse mad. “And secondly—did you just inhale the whole thing? There was only one left. You should’ve savoured it.”

“If only someone hadn’t eaten the rest.”

“What?” she scoffs. “What’re you talking about?”

But James doesn’t reply, simply stares at her with a look that positively strips off her skin with its intensity. And then he’s stepping closer, a grin crawling over his face. “You really wanna know?”

“Um.”

He nods, as if she’s given an actual answer, and leans down, his mouth a slow drag at the corner of her lips. Lily freezes, eyes wide, completely unmoving, even when she feels him flick his tongue there, even when an unrestrained whimper escapes her at the warm wetness.

“Sweet,” he whispers, pulling back, voice strangely husky. Her lips have parted now, heart in her throat. And then she spots it: a strange nervousness in James’s glance despite the outward confidence of his words. “You had some leftover there. Thought I’d help out. Couldn’t let any go to waste, could I?”

Lily blinks, steps forward, and promptly grabs the front of his robes, dragging him back to her. “Better be thorough,” she gets out, before fitting her mouth against his.

Treacle tart has never tasted better.

[glowingbadger]

Okay I’m the person that sent the yuri with male s/o request, can I change it to sfw and nsfw headcanons for yuri with male s/o? Maybe the nsfw hcs could have toys involved? (Sorry for sending in two things just ignore the first one-)

No need to apologize at all! I'm more than happy to give Yuri the lovely male Reader he deserves, because as the youth say, we stan a Bi King.

((I assumed cis male here, but certainly let me know if that's not what you intended!))

Yuri (FE3H) x Male Reader Headcanons

SFW (Not sfw below the cut)

- Yuri may be a bit of a relief for my mlm fellows out there, because with him, there's very little doubt when he's interested in you. You won't have any of those "is he flirting or just joking/being friendly" issues when he brushes fingers along your cheek and details how "the torchlight of the Abyss suits you" and that the glint of it in your eyes is simply tantalizing. He'll of course have a chuckle at your adorably flustered expression at this.

- in fact, while Yuri is a tease with all of his partners, it could be argued that he enjoys it even more with a man. He gets a thrill out of crumbling any veneer of machismo someone may try to cling to when he knows they would gladly melt into his arms. He takes this same humorous, almost mocking attitude towards gender roles and gender expectations as a whole, often calling you his "knight in shining armor" or his "blushing maiden" in jest. Yuri finds the romantic tropes and standards of the nobility positively quaint.

- if you're not already a makeup wearing guy, Yuri insists he has the perfect way to accent your eyes- and if you agree to try it, having him do your makeup is actually a very intimate and tender experience. He sits facing you on his bed and leans close, using his hands to direct your face this way and that into the right angles for him, completely free and comfortable with how he touches you. Speaking softly, he'll explain his process and guide you gently all the while, until finally, with a genuine smile, he says, "there you are- lovely." His hand cups your face as he takes a moment to observe you, then presses a lingering kiss to your lips.

- Overall, Yuri has a strong sense of self and very little outward shame about the way he chooses to live his life, so his relationship style with a man is really no different than that with a woman, regardless of what the socialites of Fodlan society may have to say about it (admittedly, we have no canon idea of what Fodlan thinks about homosexuality, other than what we can infer). He's a coy and playful, yet in truth, endlessly affectionate partner, who would do anything necessary to make you happy and keep you safe.

NSFW 18+ v

- Yuri is a comfortable and experienced switch- more than happy to fuck you senseless, or offer himself to you in turn (hell, both in a night if you can keep up). Naturally, he's wonderful at prepping you. He's likely to have several different types of lubricant on hand, more than happy to experiment with what you might like best. He'll be so steady and thorough about plunging his fingers into you to open you up for him that it's hard to resist cumming just from the way his touch curls within you, stimulating you until you're rock hard and leaking for him.

- The prep stage is also where Yuri is most likely to want to try out some toys on you. He has no shame about collecting a wide range of dildos and plugs for use on either or both of you- but his favorite part of fucking you with these is to coyly whisper to you, "What feels better, dearest Y/N- a toy, or my cock? Come on, louder, be honest for me. Mmm, that's right- what your body really needs is for me to fill you up, isn't it. Well, if you're very good for me, perhaps I can satisfy you."

- I have to imagine that true sex toys as we imagine them are limited, given the setting of FE3H, but Yuri is an adventurous sort by nature. He loves to tease you with a ribbon tied snug (though not painfully so) at the base of your cock, acting as a sort of improvised cock ring. The contrast of your manhood decorated with such a soft and delicate accent makes him hungry for you, eager to tease you to the edge of your climax so he can untie you at just the right moment, and watch the relief of being allowed to cum freely wash through you.

- This is something Yuri enjoys with any type of partner, but he loves to cum inside of your little hole, then fill you with a plug to keep his load inside of you for as long as you can stand it. I've mentioned before that he gets a thrill out of the contrast between his partner's daily life, and the lewd and depraved side they show him in bed. As such, he adores watching you go about your business for the day knowing that you're holding his cum in your body all the while.

- As a bottom, he's definitely a mouthy brat, possibly even more of a tease than usual. He'll goad you into fucking him deeper, harder, stroking his own cock and grinding onto your length all the while. His favorite aspect of bottoming for another man is the moment when his partner finally lets go of all restraint and mindlessly fucks him, harnessing any aggression or passion to simply pound him into the mattress. Still, he'll just about never loose composure- even as your slam your cock into him, he'll bite his lip and groan your name and murmur, "That's right, Y/N, have me as hard as you like- you feel so good, you can use my body until you're satisfied..."