#he knows how to appeal to an audience after all

[incorrect-league-of-villains]

Dabi: Today I learned that only 20 people have been boiled alive in Yellowstone National Park.

Dabi: But with your help, we can change that. For just a small monthly donation, you can help us sacrifice a tourist to Old Faithful every single day.

[rubythecrimsonwriter]

Finding all of this Harry Potter memorabilia and like damn. I genuinely liked Harry Potter at one point. It had issues (MOST of the books that I grew up on had Issues™) and the fandom was borderline toxic even when you curated your experience with liberal use of the back button and block button but yeah, I liked it. I liked the way that it was so filled with holes that I could make a puppet out of it and make it mine. I like the ideas and head canons it's been sparking for the ten years I've read it. But I'm looking at this beautiful poster of the Marauders Map that i just unpacked and I just feel sad. And I hate JKR for that. A bad teacher can destroy your favorite subject and a bad author can destroy a good book.

[cherienymphe]

A Caged Bird (Coriolanus Snow x Reader)

WARNINGS: NON-CON, blackmail, stalking, abuse of power, hints of dacryphilia, slightly spoiler-esque

summary: Birds are best kept in a cage where one can see them...and where you know where they are at all times.

~

You thought that it was over when you won.

That’s what winning The Hunger Games meant, right? The psychological torture, the grueling conditions, and the fear that wouldn’t leave you until you finally left the arena was supposed to be over. You made it out through blood, sweat, and tears, and so your reward was to go home and reunite with your family and try your best to put the memories behind you.

Try your best to put him behind you.

So, why were you still being tormented?

When you first locked eyes with Coriolanus Snow, your first thought was how strikingly blue his were. Almost as if they weren’t real and had been specially manufactured in The Capitol for him, somehow. His hair, too, was just so much blonder than anything you’d seen in District 12, and again, you noted how so much about him seemed…artificial.

…but then he spoke…and the effect his voice had on you was very real.

“You don’t seem like you’re supposed to be here,” you’d said to him after stepping off of that train.

His response was expected, a charming chuckle leaving his pink lips, blond curls the perfect addition to his features.

“I’m not,” he slowly admitted.

The intensity behind his gaze whenever he so much as glanced at you was enough to make any girl’s heart race, and despite what you wished, you weren’t immune. He was beautiful—gorgeous as some of the other tributes and mentors liked to call him—and despite the initial intimidation, there was something about him that made you want to let your guard down.

…but he was your mentor…and a capitol citizen…and you were nothing more than his ticket to notoriety.

“Don’t you know who his dad was?” another tribute, one from one of the better districts, had said to you in a tone like you were stupid.

That was all the confirmation you needed, really.

…but he’d hopped onto the truck with you and gotten into that cage with you and brought you and your district mate food. He gave you poison to use against the other tributes. He wanted you to appeal to the audience so he’d have the funds to send you supplies. It was hard to decipher what was purely for show and what was just because he wanted you—and him by extension—to win. Perhaps, they were one in the same though, and it was impossible to have one without the other. Maybe it didn’t matter his reasons behind his desire to have his tribute win.

Maybe all that mattered was that you’d win.

…but that was when you thought winning meant you’d be free.

Coriolanus Snow was your best chance at winning, and so when the rebels rigged the arena, you didn’t hesitate to stay behind and save him. It wasn’t even a question in your mind because mentor or not, he was hurt, and you had to believe that that one fluke was not your only fighting chance. You couldn’t allow yourself to believe that in saving him, you’d allowed freedom to pass you by.

“You saved me,” he told you, a gentle brush of his handkerchief under your eye to catch your tears. “You saved me, and I am going to get you out of here.”

You had no idea then that he meant out of the games…and to him.

It was that flickering moment of doubt where you wondered if you could actually win, and you recalled what you’d said to him earlier about believing you could, how much you needed him to actually believe it. Now, you were the one doubting, and he could see it, blue gaze flicking over your face and soaking in the fear and uncertainty, because if you couldn’t win…

You’d die.

A lingering gaze and a tense atmosphere, and you felt yourself pulling back, realization hitting you as to just what you were about to let happen. It was hard to decipher who overstepped first, but you couldn’t allow yourself to get wrapped up in something that was only ever meant to be strictly professional. Coriolanus was your mentor, and you were his tribute.

That was all.

You didn’t know then the full lengths he went to just to ensure your victory. How could you? You were too busy trying to survive, trying to fight off rabid tributes and teenagers driven mad with the sole desire to just live. It was all so unfair and angering, and you were sure that with less focus, you might’ve gone insane too. You didn’t have the luxury to worry about your eerily handsome mentor and whatever ulterior motives he might’ve had to see you beat this thing.

So, when you did win, all you could feel was relief. All you could focus on was your family and their faces when you’d ultimately reunite with them. All you could even entertain were thoughts of pushing this very real nightmare to the back of your mind for as long as you possibly could. Initially, you didn’t even notice that you weren’t immediately reunited with your mentor when they crowned you as the winner and got you out of there.

At least, not until you came face to face with him in your own district.

“I thought they’d killed you. I didn’t know if my actions had come back on you too,” Coriolanus told you in a secluded corner, the loud music drowning out his words and the cover of darkness hiding your faces.

Those beautiful pale curls were gone, and any thought that so much of his beauty relied on his golden locks was gone too with one drink of him. He was still the same handsome boy that mentored you, the same one who’d garnered the nickname ‘gorgeous’ among the other tributes. Up on that stage, you’d been thrown to meet a familiar gaze, your harmonious tune pausing for half a second as he met your shocked stare with an expression of his own you couldn’t place, pink lips curved upwards ever so slightly.

Any question of how and why he was here had disappeared as you registered his words. Confusion filled you as you stared at him, a slight frown between your brows as you wracked your brain for how that could possibly make sense.

“Why would they kill me…?” you slowly asked him, and you and the shadows were all that was privy to his confession.

The water bottles, the handkerchief, and the snakes—even the poison. Coriolanus had cheated to secure your victory, broken rules that plucked him out of The Capitol and dropped him here in your very own district as a Peacekeeper. The shock you felt that your victory was far from a fair one warred with the confusion you felt as to why he’d risk everything just for you to win.

If you’d lost fair and square—as you probably should have—there was no doubt in your mind that he’d be safely tucked away in the lavishness of The Capitol instead of lingering about in some rundown excuse for a bar in lowly District 12. If he knew what awaited him should his treachery be discovered…then why chance it? Nothing about your brief tutelage with him could justify what he’d risked and ultimately lost.

You wanted to ask him why, but something in you was afraid of the answer.

That almost kiss—a kiss you hadn’t thought about in months—suddenly came to mind, and even though you didn’t ask him why, something in you knew why even if you wanted to deny it. It was there in the dim lighting and rowdy atmosphere of some rundown building that every minor interaction didn’t start to feel so minor.

Every brush of his hand against yours as he reached for you, the unsettling way he seemed to watch you in that short time that you’d simply written off as concern for his tribute, and the ruthless desire to see you out on the other side of the arena. The kiss that never was only seemed like a lapse in judgement to you then, but in this moment, you had suspicions that it was very much intentional.

You swallowed, realizing that in that brief internal introspection, Coriolanus hadn’t taken his eyes off of you once.

“Did they send you to District 12?” you finally asked him.

You didn’t know what gave you away. Perhaps your tone, maybe your face, or maybe your eyes weren’t as secretive as you’d like to believe. Either way, something about your visage and demeanor gave the blond man pause, head tilting just a tad as those baby blues glinted with something you didn’t recognize but you know you didn’t like. He studied your face before coming up with the answer he probably thought you wanted.

“Of course.”

You didn’t know if you believed him.

…and Coriolanus could tell.

You’d played enough cat and mouse games in the arena—you never thought you’d have to play them in your own home too.

Starving off the affections of some boy in your district wasn’t hard or uncharted territory. Even spurning the forbidden advances of a Peacekeeper or two wasn’t unheard of, but Coriolanus was different. He wasn’t some average Joe turned cop. He was born and raised in The Capitol with a powerful father, and even though the man had been taken before his time, your former mentor still had been brought up with the kind of influence and reach and mindset that surpassed the average Peacekeeper.

They were followers—controlled by The Capitol and tasked with maintaining order. Most were no more than dumb brutes, mindlessly following orders without question, simple enough to be bribed and swayed. If Coriolanus’ actions had shown you anything, it was that he was not a follower. He did what he wanted and played by his own rules, and it was how you found yourself hunted by a gaze you thought you’d left behind in the arena.

Since the discovery of your former mentor’s presence in your district, you never felt alone.

Every walk to trade for food felt shadowed, every footstep home was accompanied with an echo, and a sweep of your eye over the crowd as you played an instrument or sang a tune was rewarded with a familiar blue one that made your heart freeze. You were forced to ignore it no longer when a single rose was left for you on the doorstep, your ma’s gaze questioning as she held it out to you.

You didn’t know where or how he got it, but you only cared about giving it back.

“I can’t accept this,” you told him, gaze steady but fingers trembling as you held it out to him.

It was raining, and the cover over your heads sheltered you from the downpour, but it did little to drown out the sound of it. Coriolanus simply stared at the flower for what felt like too long, making no moves to take it from you, and you swallowed. His blue gaze zeroed in on the action before it lifted to your face.

“…and why not?”

“Because I think it means something different to you than it does to me.”

Your response was swift, and you watched him sigh, eventually reaching out to finger the flower like he did that day before he’d proceeded to put it behind your ear. He finally took it, and just like that day before the games, it found its way behind your ear once again. The only change this time was the shudder that traveled down your spine, and the apprehension you felt when his gaze met yours.

For the longest time, the only sound was that of the rain, a few stray drops making it’s way onto your face and clothes due to the wind. If the man before you still had the locks you’d met him with, they would’ve been rustling with the breeze, right now. Both of you were very still, or maybe it was just you—nervous and fearful of how he’d respond. He briefly looked past you, eyes glinting briefly before they hardened once again, his pink lips pressed together as he regarded you.

“…and if it does?”

He continued when you frowned.

“Mean something different to me than it does to you,” he elaborated, and you blinked.

Taking a deep breath, you tried to gather your thoughts.

“I know…that I’m only standing here, now, because of you,” you slowly started, watching him push his shoulders back. “I won because of you, I know that, but-.”

“Exactly,” he cut you off, making your lips part. “You won because of me…and everything I sacrificed was to make sure you won.”

“…but I didn’t ask you to do that!”

You felt…cornered, somehow, because on the one hand, yes. You did owe so much to the man before you, but at the same time, what did you owe specifically? Your attention? Your affection? Whatever he deemed an appropriate compensation? When you saved his life in the arena that day, and he vowed to save yours in return, you didn’t understand the full ramifications of the deal you were agreeing to.

“I saved your life, and you saved mine, and I’m sorry for the things you felt the need to risk, but that’s where it ends.”

The cold from the rain didn’t faze you nearly as much as the heat from his gaze boring into your back.

You wanted to believe that your lack of confrontation was what led you to the predicament you found yourself in. After all, things between you two had held too many ‘what ifs’ and lingering feelings and questions. You liked to hope that telling the man in no uncertain terms that your relationship should never and would never progress beyond anything professional would fix things.

You never would’ve guessed that your bout of confidence would only prove to make things worse.

“My ma doesn’t even know any rebels, and you know that.”

You’d whispered the words so quietly, throat too choked up to speak any louder as you tearfully stared Coriolanus down, your words only intended for the two of you. Your back was pressed to the doorway as he stood before you, a foot or two of space between you as other Peacekeepers did their duty to search your house as thoroughly as possible. The reason you’d been given was suspicion of treason—to the shock of your ma—but both you and the handsome man before you knew the truth.

“One can never be too sure. It’s always those you least expect.”

His cool response only made you look away, a few tears escaping.

It wasn’t supposed to be like this. You won, you were free, so why did it still feel like you were in the game…except a much more dangerous one this time? You could feel his eyes on you as you watched man after man rifle through you and your ma’s things, your younger sister not home to witness this. Out of the corner of your eye, you could see him take a step towards you—just one, but one was enough to make you flinch.

You still didn’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him though.

“Unbearable,” he quietly said. “…not able to be endured…or tolerated.”

You swallowed.

“Not to be confused with hard—requiring a great deal of endurance or effort.”

Another step towards you.

“To find something unbearable means that you quite literally cannot stomach it any longer. It forces a change to come, forces something to…give,” he whispered.

Your gaze was still focused ahead, but his words made you blink, made your heart sink, and you swore that he knew that.

“I can make things incredibly unbearable for you…and your family.”

You straightened at that, finally looking at him with a venomous gaze and a heaving chest. Coriolanus reached up to pick at your shirt, removing a piece of grass from it, and you watched him inspect it before turning his blue eyes back onto you. They lingered on your own eyes before lowering to your lips, his own twitching so subtly you might’ve missed it if you were anyone else.

“Or I can make sure you’ll be taken care of, looked after as if you were my own…” his gaze met yours again. “It’s entirely your choice.”

You two stared at one another for an infuriating amount of time before he let out a sharp whistle, telling the other men that nothing seemed to be here and to move on. His wording was not lost on you, and you crossed your arms over your chest. Coriolanus was the last to walk out, and despite the feel of his heavy gaze, you didn’t look his way the entire time.

Your ma commented on the strangeness of the whole ordeal, but nothing about it was strange to you. It was all very calculating and sinister actually, and while you grew up hearing countless talk of running away and living off the grid, you were never more tempted than in this moment…but you were not alone. Your ma was sickly, and your sister was too young.

…and if you left, you could only guess what you’d be leaving your family susceptible to.

Your future seemed inevitable no matter how much you tried to find a way out of the path set for you.

The first night you slept with Coriolanus Snow, it was storming just like that day you’d attempted to give him back his flower. You’d cried for a good three hours before, feeling helpless in the aftermath of another so-called inspection from Peacekeepers—this one much more destructive. The only light that night came from the brief flashes of lightning, and the sound of the rain drowned out the reluctant gasps to leave your lips.

Hands much softer than you ever expected trailed down your frame, curving over your hips and dipping underneath your thighs. The blond man’s lips rarely left your skin, kissing whatever part of you that came to mind, nose gently grazing you as he did and pulling shudders from your frame. It was a foreign feeling to be so heated and afraid at the same time.

Under the cover of darkness, his fingers intertwined with your own and his hips were flush with yours. The feel of him inside of you was much more jarring than you thought it would be, choked deep breaths leaving your parted lips as he pressed his face into the crook of your neck. His thrusts were slow, the complete opposite of what you expected, and you didn’t know if you liked that better or worse.

Every kiss felt wrong, like you were betraying yourself, but in the same manner, they also reminded you of that first day you met. You thought about when you stepped off of that train, and that smooth voice escaped those pink lips, and your stomach flipped no matter how much you pretended it didn’t. The person you were that day wanted to throw your head back and welcome the little nips he left along your skin.

The person you were, now, wanted to crawl inside of your skin.

This man had stalked you to the highest degree, following you all the way from The Capitol just to collect on the young woman whose survival he ensured. The things he’d risked and ultimately lost, he placed the weight of on your shoulders as if you were responsible to compensate for that somehow. As if it was your duty to make his sacrifices worth it.

When he pulled you into his lap, resting on him with arms circled around your waist, it was your turn to press your face into the area where his neck and shoulder met. His fingers dancing along your skin made you shudder, and that just made the tears collect more because you didn’t want to enjoy this, but your body and your brain didn’t seem to be in alignment.

When you were forced to come around him, you saw stars, and you were positive your nails left marks on his back.

You didn’t really think that no more trouble from Peacekeepers was worth the figurative collar around your neck. The abundance of food and supplies might have been, if only to just see the smiles on your ma and sister’s faces, but even then, when you found your back pressed to Coriolanus’ chest as he drove his cock up into you, you wondered if it was actually worth it.

Your ma would say no, that you knew for sure, but you supposed it wasn’t her call to make.

After all, the alternative was psychological torment and worst-case scenarios you didn’t even want to entertain.

“Would you have had her arrested?” you quietly wondered one night.

The sheet was clutched to your chest, and you were facing the wall, still unable to look him in the eye directly afterwards. You’d never been able to, feeling used and low and indefensible. You tried not to dwell on the feel of his fingertips tracing patterns into your shoulder, his cool breath hitting your skin as he exhaled.

“I mean…would you have…framed her somehow? Found some justification for it?”

You didn’t know why you were asking, certain you wouldn’t like the answer, and as you predicted, you felt your throat tighten the longer the silence stretched. Against your will—like many things you’d been doing as of late—a few tears escaped, and even before he answered, you knew what you were going to hear.

“Yes,” he confessed, just as quietly.

You squeezed your eyes shut, subtly wiping your face.

“I sacrificed so much for you to win, and not just because your win was my win…but because I wanted to see you win,” he murmured, placing a kiss to your back. “…because I wanted you.”

You knew that, but having it confirmed so plainly was disturbing.

“…and when I eventually make my way back to The Capitol, as we both know I will, I’ll still want you.”

Your stomach sank at that, and for the first time, you turned to look at him while still trembling in the aftermath of what had quickly become a nightly occurrence. His gaze was still focused on where your back had been, and when his eyes flitted up to connect with yours, you didn’t have the words to convey how you felt about what he was insinuating.

“In The Capitol, you’ll have access to things you could never even imagine…and you could send those same things back to your family,” he told you, reaching up to touch your face.

When you moved to sit up, he stopped you, a firm grip on your arm. Coryo—as he liked for you to call him—fixed you with a look that you knew all too well. It was the look he gave you when you tried to come up with any excuse as to why you couldn’t meet with him. It was the look you received when you briefly forgot the power dynamics here, turning away from him and attempting to push him away.

It was a look that told you not to fight the inevitable.

“I want you there with me.”

His tone left no room for argument, and there was so much conviction in his voice that the thought of arguing seemed legitimately draining. You simply stared at him, eyes glassy, and he stared back, waiting for verbal confirmation of what you both knew was going to happen, anyway. You had no choice in the matter, you never did, and for a brief horrifying moment, you almost wished you were a lone orphan who didn’t have to look out for anybody but yourself.

That thought did make tears spill over.

It was a horrible thing to think, but your loved ones were being used against you, and you knew that your ma—and your sister if she were old enough to comprehend these things—would never want this for you. Coryo sat up with you, a hand resting on your cheek as he gazed at you, a thumb brushing the tears away. It wasn’t meant to be comforting.

Nothing he did was ever meant to be comforting.

“I want you there with me,” he repeated.

You wondered what someone like you would possibly do in The Capitol.

“I don’t belong there,” you whispered, a poor attempt to get him to change his mind.

His response was swift and clipped.

“You belong with me.”

When he pressed his lips to yours, it was expected that you would kiss him back. His thumb brushed along your skin as you did, a low hum sounding in the back of his throat that quickly escalated into a groan. His free arm snaked around you, and your last attempt at resisting proved futile, so you let him lay you down.

Sex with Coriolanus was a maddening experience.

You didn’t want it, and your brain didn’t want it, but it was as if your body was its own separate entity running on hormones and animal instinct.

When he rested his full weight on top of you, you shuddered for a multitude of reasons—one of which you didn’t want to acknowledge. When he slid his hand between your breasts and down to your stomach, your back arched, chest pressing up and into his. When he pushed into you all torturously slow as he always did, you involuntarily held your breath, shaking at the feel of his hips connecting with yours, the length of him fully sheathed in your warmth.

You were terrified of him, so that was why you opened up for him like those budding roses he used to carry around, but in doing so, you made yourself vulnerable beneath him. You made yourself more susceptible to his kisses and his touch and that maddening voice that knew just how to get its way. He wasn’t a very talkative man when he was inside of you, much more content with letting his actions speak for themselves, but tonight was different.

“Look at me,” he whispered, curving his hips into yours. “Look right at me.”

You did, and while you didn’t know the specifics of the psychology behind this, you knew that looking into the eyes of your tormentor while in the act couldn’t be good.

“Keep your eyes on me,” he breathlessly told you, nose brushing against yours with every thrust.

You could hear that it was starting to rain again, and you pressed your hands into the small of his back, trying to ground yourself in some way—trying to have control over something, anything. Tears kissed your eyes, and you swore—you swore—that something in those blues of his twinkled. It sparked something in his gaze, and in his psyche, his thrusts becoming more powerful and making you gasp, nails pressing into his skin.

He only looked especially satisfied when the tears spilled over.

When he came inside of you, and you around him, you swore you saw stars.

You even thought you saw snow.

[moonfireshadow]

Rewatched Saltburn and I'm obsessed with Farleigh and Oliver's tutoring scene. The essay specifically. For those who don't remember: Oliver did his homework and all his assignments and genuinely gave a well thought out essay for their summer assignments. Farleigh shows up hungover and late and didn't even read the books. But the teacher immediately loves Farleigh and is chatting him up with an interest he barely tried to show Oliver. Even after Oliver gives his presentation and shows that he's clearly a much better student than Farleigh. Obviously this is the real start of their rivalry. But it's also such a beautiful look into their characters and how they mirror eachother. Farleigh understands Oliver's essay, I believe. But like the teacher he's bored by it. The knowledge and work is there, but the presentation of it is boring and strange. Academic and correct, but lacking the appeal to the audience. (Which, can we talk about the fact Farleigh was genuinely listening at all? The teacher zoned out and switched channels, but Farleigh was interested and paying enough attention to know the exact number of times Oliver used the word "thus" in his essay. They respect each other truly even if they despise eachother at this point, and refuse to acknowledge the grudging respect.) So Farleigh does what he does best, he gloats over Oliver. He picks apart the style of the essay and it's presentation rather than addressing the central argument or topic. This delights the teacher and frustrates Oliver who is like, "so you're going to critique the style of my essay rather than it's substance? Seems a bit lazy" and that's the core component of these two characters.

Farleigh is ALL about presentation. He knows how fragile his pedistal is placed up and in view for everyone to see. He's a charity project, just like every other rando of the month. Sure he has some familiar connection, and that's given him a leg up in this world. But it's still shakey at best. He always has to give the correct performance, say the right words, keep his audience on HIS side. Unless he wants to get knocked down with the rest of the common rabal that he knows he's belongs with, but can't stand the idea of. So yes, of course he picks apart the one thing he knows Oliver is failing at. He takes his one advantage over Oliver and uses it mercilessly to both entertain and secure his audience on his side. (I wonder if the positions had been different some how, if Farleigh would have had anything to say about the substance of the essay itself. He was paying attention to it, did he want to have a real academic conversation? Did he possibly want to try and connect to Oliver in that way? A real and non performative way with someone who's so similar to him?)

As for Oliver, obviously his character is intelligent. He does the readings. He does the research. He puts the time and effort in to *learn* in the way Farleigh never does. And it must infuriate him that his essay is so easily pushed to the side for a cheep critique that doesn't even address the central argument of his essay. Of course he would hate Farleigh from the start for that. It's such a quick negation of all that Oliver has to offer and give just because it's not wrapped up in a pretty bow. And that's just his character. The substance is there, the intelligence is there. But it's not enough. It will never be enough. Because Oliver doesn't know how to translate it to his audience in a way they'll care about. He learns and tries to mimic, but it always falls short because he just can't seem to figure out the way to blend in and present himself so seamlessly as Farleigh.

And that's why they're such perfect mirrors of each other. They're both intelligent and clever. But they've found different ways of getting what they want and proving themselves. Farleigh is the face and the presentation, Oliver is the substance and body. In another world imagine what these two could have done and been if they hadn't been pitted against each other for the same prize. And the fact Oliver definitely deliberately shoved Farleigh out at the perfect time so he wouldn't get hurt and killed? Oliver and Farleigh respect and admire the other. But their tragedy is they can never be on the same page or team because the world they're in says there is only room for one. And they'd both do anything to get that title.

[sunderwight]

Imagine how much Shen Yuan and Airplane would hate it if an actual PIDW fan transmigrated in too, though.

Like, one of the guys who genuinely loved the stallion novel harem-building aspects, the weird-yet-vanilla het sex, the willingness to throw the plot out of the door just to have yet another interchangeable woman throw herself at the hero. Someone who only ever had nice things to say in the comment section, who unironically referred to Airplane as a master storyteller, who bought some of the VIP chapters (if he liked the wife Bingge was destined to wed & bed), couldn't name any of the monsters or sex flowers or most of the male side characters, had a Xin Mo keychain and once commissioned fan art of Sha Hualing (favorite wife) looking sexy in a pin-up pose, and told Peerless Cucumber he was a weirdo who took things too seriously on more than one occasion.

I think he'd bother Airplane the most. Shen Yuan would be annoyed and tell him his taste was in his ass, but that's about it.

But Airplane? I think at first he'd be inclined to enjoy having an uncomplicated "fan" of his work turn up. This guy actually praises him! He has nothing but flattering things to say! It's like a dream come true! Except... well, Airplane himself is perfectly aware of the decisions he made in his writing and why (he sold out deliberately, not because he thought it would actually make for a better story -- say what you will about whether or not it's worth it, but the man knows what he's doing), and also I suspect kind of resents his own popular audience whenever he has to interact with them for more than minute.

After all, these were the patrons he had to appease and appeal to, the readers he had to worry about offending or alienating, the ones who were paying the bills but also would have vanished at the drop of a hat if he hadn't given them a steady supply of what they wanted. It's not the audience he actually desired, it's the one he decided not to offend in order to maximize profitability. Peerless Cucumber might be a pain in the ass, but he's a pain in the ass who picked up on the story that Airplane himself originally intended to tell, and wanted PIDW to actually be that. Which has gotta be kind of gratifying, in a roundabout way.

I think it would stress Airplane out to have someone approve of the things he himself didn't even approve of. Like on the one hand this guy seems to have only a good opinion of him, but on the other hand it's based entirely on a false impression and Airplane actually agrees way more with Cucumber's assessment of his writing, because he wrote it badly on purpose. Since the guy has a good opinion, that's something Airplane can potentially lose, and he'd be most likely to lose it by revealing the truth about his own creative intentions and his actual tastes and inclinations. A ticking time bomb of disapproval that could go off at any moment to who-knows-what effect.

He'd hate it. Eventually every time User No.3 came around he'd just be like:

[milolunde]

SO SONIC FORCES!!!

Always thought it was interesting. I don’t actually think I heard anything about the game before buying it, I just knew that it was a Sonic game. yippee!!!

Immediately after my initial whimsy wore off I started treating it like all my favorite media: a project to be rewritten to my liking. That was maybe five years ago, when I was gung-ho on the angst factor of the story above the Sonic factor.

After watching through the game’s Japanese dub and realizing the simple differences in word choice single-handedly enhanced the story, I started rewriting it AGAIN…. Here’s some of that <3

vvv

I’ve drawn Sonic after escaping Eggman “giving him hell,” and NOT after torture (I want to know the translator/script writer who thought that was a good idea, by the way), worse for wear, but excited to be free and stick it to the Freaks who thought they could kept him locked up and take over the world.

After Sonic narrowly escapes the Death Egg in the Slow-Down Shoes (you can clap) and finds Gadget (or “Buddy”) they head to the Arsenal Pyramid… after a change of shoes and a bite to eat, of course.

Sonic continues through the game in a set of spare shoes which make his in-game boost gauge deplete faster. His shoes, as well as his fatigue, keep him from winning out, leading to his partial-victory against Infinite, and landing him and Silver on the sidelines. Gadget takes on missions with other resistance members at his side while Sonic recuperates with Silver.

Tails hears the news Sonic is alive and quickly arrives to the HQ to reunite with his brother. He supplies Sonic with a pair of his iconic shoes, an extra set from the supplies he was able to grab before Eggman took over his labs. Officially recuperated enough, by his standards, Sonic and Tails are officially back in it and ready to get back to the fight.

^^^

You know… I don’t think I’ve ever shared my “rewrites” anywhere but with my friends. Sometimes it gets so complicated in my head it makes it really hard to get everything on paper. A lot of my “Forces rewrite” is handing the characters differently and how that changes the story.

In general, Forces is a… fine enough idea, but SEGA has a reputation for floundering good ideas and for forgetting you can appeal to a young audience while also allowing older kids to enjoy it without making a flat story.

Hearing the difference of “they’ve been torturing Sonic,” (ENG.) and “they’ve been giving him hell,” (JAP.) and “Tails has lost it,” (ENG.), “Tails is still missing,” (JAP.) I realized a lot of what I didn’t like- what I was rewriting- was the tone. It’s one of Force’s biggest issues: it doesn’t know what it wants to be. The Japanese dub seems to have an idea, but that can’t save it from the fact Infinite is A Big Loser and Sonic actually has no reason to be afraid of him, especially if Infinite wasn’t present during his time on the Death Egg… So I’m doing it myself

[merakiui]

long-distance love.

yandere!azul ashengrotto x (gender neutral) reader cw: yandere, unhealthy behaviors/relationship, nsfw, phone sex, obsession, power imbalance, kidnapping, implied (cyber)stalking, non-con touching, characters written as 18+ note - sea witch, the magicord mod you've had intimate online relations with, is closer than you thought.

Sea Witch is a busy man.

His weekly schedules are almost always packed to bursting, each event meticulously arranged into open slots as if aiming to form a perfect puzzle. Times never conflict; he’s particular about how he spends his hours, and very rarely does he allow himself a break. It has always been work, work, work. He’s one of the city’s most affluent, eligible bachelors and yet he’s married to his business. Those who lust after him think it’s a wasteful shame. Azul finds it to be a relief far greater than any he’s ever known. He will never compromise the enterprise he’s built from the ground up just because of some flimsy, fickle feelings.

Originally, he had no interest in Magicord, a messaging platform that grants people from all over the world the chance to congregate on specific servers for mutual interests like anime and gaming. He only downloaded it because Idia Shroud, a fellow friend and business partner, lived and breathed the app, his online presence so profound it was almost like a second home. He’d swipe away notifications from his actual messaging app, too busy in a voice call with his group of dungeon raiders to bother answering important calls.

So he resolved to get on Idia’s level in hopes of improving communication. Although Idia’s level, as Azul often noted, was not exactly a place he wanted to be. While Magicord could be used for business purposes, that wasn’t what drew people in. Azul of all people knew very well which target audiences were being reached with apps like Magicord, and he was not one of them.

“To think I’d stoop as low as this,” Azul had once groused over a phone call with Idia, who was giving him quite a lengthy, not-very-needed-but-also-very-much-needed rundown on Magicord’s inner workings. “I hardly have time to play games, let alone socialize on this…app.”

“Aren’t you always going on about how adaptable you are?” Idia sniped back, not in the mood for normie criticism. The sound of clacking keys could be heard on his end. “And you’re the one who asked. Kinda defeats the purpose of learning if you’re just gonna complain.”

Azul rolled his eyes. “I fail to see the logic in downloading another app just to ensure my messages reach you. Honestly, you ought to start checking your email. Or, at the very least, go through your missed call and text logs.”

Alas, Idia had been stubbornly adamant about his preferences and so, much to his displeasure, Azul was forced to undergo something of a Magicord Training Camp until he emerged a pro. And being a pro meant knowing how to navigate his own profile and toggle between that and Idia’s, which was really the only tip he needed because that was all he’d use the app for.

But Azul has always had an innate itch for wanting to know something from top to bottom, inside-out, and the idea of not knowing every little detail about Magicord drove him insane. If there was an opportunity he could capitalize on, why should he risk squandering it with his elementary-level knowledge? So he spent his rare slivers of free time playing around in there, creating a server and wondering who could ever become so attached to an app when the world beyond the screen was filled with just as many, if not more, social encounters.

His introverted side understood the appeal. In fact, he loved the idea of hiding behind a manufactured persona online. He didn’t have to be Azul Ashengrotto on Magicord. Rather, he could rid himself of his dislikable traits and become an entity—an idea or a concept—rather than a flawed man who others might scrutinize ruthlessly.

So he became Sea Witch, and within just a week he’d constructed quite the comfortable server. The invite link was spread throughout the various branches of Mostro. It would provide employees with an online sanctuary, where they could easily connect should doing so in person prove complicated (as had been the case regarding Idia, which was the sole reason he’d even poured so much time into this effort). Most of all, it gave Azul the chance to keep watch from afar, silently sitting in wait and curating a collection of mostly unimportant intel. Mere gossip, if anything.

But gossip is just as good as the next scandal. He likes to be prepared, a razored edge on all sides.

As far as the company was concerned, no one knew who this Sea Witch character was and no one knew who spread the link. And as far as individual employees knew, this was likely just some overworked intern’s labor of love—a well-crafted server intended to function as a digital gathering place for those exhausted after a long day. And that was mostly true, but all of the potential blackmail he could gather, the information he could glean, and even the people he could keep a closer eye on in an online setting—all of that paled in comparison to the real prize he’d attained. This was of great importance. It was something that altered the course of his life, opened his eyes to the brilliant beauty of a first love.

It was there in that undersea-themed haven where he met you, the one who would add flavorful spice to the once bland, boring meal that was his life. And just after a few weeks of simple, cordial conversation, he realized a single taste of your kind companionship wouldn’t be enough to sate him.

Greedy to a fault, Azul wanted you in your entirety.

Which brings him to the present, where he’s currently leaning back into the expensive leather of his driver’s seat. He’s parked on a silent strip of road, in a more residential part of the city. It’s not very busy here, and his windows are tinted to avoid immediate recognition. Rush hour won’t hit until later, and he’s not due for any conferences. He has time. Plenty of it to spare on this little excursion.

“I wanna meet you, Sea Witch,” you admit, nearly whining through the phone. “Where’re you from? Maybe we’re in the same area.”

Azul smiles at your impatience. You just can’t get enough of him, can you?

Every weekend, you hop into a VC with him and chat for hours on end. At first he simply provided a listening ear when you wished to rant through text or call. You’d voice all sorts of complaints. Azul filed them away in the event that they might be useful in the future, initially intending to use such information to ruin you should you prove to be someone worth ruining. But the more he spent listening and scrawling notes on blank paper, the more he realized you were just overworked and struggling financially.

Upon making these connections and learning all sorts of facts from you regarding your life beyond Magicord, he felt compelled to help. Out of the goodness of his heart, of course, ever the benevolent saint. And you weren’t complaining when he offered to pay you for your time. In exchange for two hours of conversation, he’d provide you with the funds you needed to afford your necessities.

Somehow, throughout many months of give and take—with his giving being on the jaw-droppingly exorbitant side, always one to top his own ludicrous generosity—your hours-long conversations would sink beneath the surface of mere companionship. It was one-sided intimacy. Azul was careful with what he shared, building a mostly secretive profile for himself. He didn’t want to risk tarnishing your fondness for Sea Witch by sharing details that felt more like Azul and less like the effortlessly funny, charming, and eloquent Magicord mod you’d originally made contact with.

You didn’t seem to worry about compromising your own privacy, easily divulging a variety of fun tidbits about your life. You’d share the tiniest of details and he’d eat it up every time, hungering for more than just crumbs. That time you sent him a photo of the octopus macarons you’d bought from a local bakery because you were thinking of him? He remembers it well, and he’s constantly reminded of it when you text him about things you did over the weekend or hobbies you basked in. Sending photos of your houseplants, asking him for his opinion on clothes you were hoping to buy (which he was always more than willing to sponsor; all you needed to do was send the link and he’d purchase it), and even trusting him enough to fall asleep in the VC with him (arguably one of his favorite things about your unique relationship).

And he called it unique not because it was a bad sort of strange. Rather, it was unique in the refreshing sense. He’d never had an online friend before, let alone someone who would so willingly and readily indulge him. Granted, this willingness stemmed from the deal he’d cut with you and so you were really only doing these things for your own gain. But then so was he. It was a relationship built upon necessity. You needed money to survive, and he needed you.

So it was okay to fall into sleazy fantasies. It was all an act anyway, and it wasn’t like you judged him or his preferences. At least, not outright. If you did, it was silent. You were considerate and sweet; and you really did consider him a friend. Or so he hoped. If your casual conversations were any proof, it was obvious there was some sort of enjoyment and trust there.

Friendship or something more, he would have you. Whether that meant in the safety of his pocket, enclosed within his mobile phone forever, or in his penthouse, tucked away in his bedroom—he’d have you.

“I’m from a city, yes,” he answers, purposely cryptic.

“Obviously. Come onnn, Witchy. Don’t you wanna meet me, too?”

“I do, and one day we’ll meet. I promise.”

He listens to your irritated groan and his cock twitches in his slacks. Good god, your voice is a blessing—more heavenly than a cherubic choir.

“One day isn’t today, though.”

“Perhaps not.” He speaks to distract you from the rustling fabric of his pressed suit as his hand strays further. He spies his reflection in the rearview mirror, notes the flash in his irises. If only you were here, sitting beside him in the passenger seat. If only he could slide his own seat as far back as it would go, lie still and serene, and let you climb into his lap to spear yourself on his erection. Genuine leather be damned. He wanted your scent, your essence, your everything engraved into the very interior. “Humor me—if we were to meet right now, what would you like to do?”

“Mm, I’d want to get a good look at the man I’ve been talking to for nine months now.”

“Oh, you’ve kept track?”

“You haven’t?” Your laughter is fluffy and light—authentic amusement. “And I’d want to memorize your face so that I’ll never forget it.”

“May I ask why?”

“Because I’m so curious! You know what I look like—”

“Not entirely,” he interjects, sly and silver-tongued. “You’re a portrait half-finished in my mind. Not yet sketched to completion.”

And it’s true. From your shoulders down, you are a faceless beauty. He’s seen you nearly naked and fully clothed, in frills and lace, in latex and ribbons, in satin and chiffon. And yet, for all of the skin you’ve shown, he can’t place a face (or a real name, for that matter) to your body.

“Okay, poet,” you tease, and he’s already palming himself through the fine fabric of his trousers. “But I’ve still never seen an inch of you. You’ve never even sent a dick pic.”

“You’ve never asked.”

“Can I have one now?”

“Nice try.”

“Asshole!” you gripe, clicking your tongue in disappointment. “You’re the worst, you know that?”

“I’m aware,” he hums, squeezing himself, his breath coming out faint and haggard.

Yeah, he’s the worst. But then you’re the best at eliciting these sorts of reactions from him. The effect you have on him is utterly enthralling. Your ability to reduce him to a pliable puddle in just a few words—a mere few lighthearted, hollow insults—is truly impressive. He’d feel ashamed of himself if it wasn’t so good.

“You’re probably not even that big.”

“Would you like an exact measurement?”

“Wouldn’t it be better to measure it in person? See how many inches I could fit inside. I’ve been practicing with that dildo you sent me—the one shaped like a tentacle,” you purr, frustratingly coy. He wants your sinful lips wrapped around his dick right now—wants to fuck your throat sore and raw. Wants nothing more than to spill heavy and hot on your tongue so you’ll taste him for days. “If we met up, we could make that happen. Sooo, where’s my Sea Witch from? What part of the world?”

“Patience, angelfish.”

Even though he says so, he’s practically vibrating with excitement as he worries his bottom lip between his teeth. Soon. So soon. Very, very soon.

And then…

He imagines you rolling your eyes with your next words. “Fine, fine. I’ll be patient. But that’s not gonna stop me from fantasizing.”

“Well, what do you think I look like?”

“Now isn’t that a fun question?” You mull it over. He can tell because you mutter a variety of ums and hmms in that soft, sweet voice of yours. “I think you’re tall and you have a handsome face that matches your equally handsome voice.”

“Yeah?” he encourages, undoing the belt, button, and zip on his pants one-handed. “What else?”

Your giggles filter into his ears, seeming closer than they actually are due to the wireless earbuds he’s wearing. “From what I’ve gathered, you seem to have expensive tastes.”

Sitting in his lavish, one-of-a-kind, custom-made sports car, Azul thinks you would be correct.

“I wonder what gave it away…” he drawls, his voice creeping an octave lower.

He places his phone in the cup holder, reaching to open the glove compartment and retrieving a tiny bottle of lube. Squirting a scant amount on his palm, he fishes himself, throbbing and pathetically hard, out of his boxers. His slick hand is a warm, welcome embrace around his silky-smooth shaft. He sucks in a breath through grit teeth, his eyes fluttering shut.

“Mhm, I wonder. It’s not the fact that you told me I should just buy a designer bag for work when I asked for recommendations. And it’s certainly not your ability to get me lots of nice gifts as if it’s nothing. So maybe it’s just your excessive generosity that makes you seem so rich?”

“Sure, we’ll go with that.”

“Speaking of that, what do you do for a living?”

“Guess.”

“Okay, Mr. Mysterious… Um… Hm. I think you’re a pilot.”

The whiplash that assumption brings is so seismically jarring he thinks he might go flaccid. Gripping himself with renewed vigor, he slides his fist along his length, slow and perfunctory, picturing you under his desk, your mouth open wide to receive him…

“A pilot… Mm, no, not quite.”

“Aw. My second guess was gonna be a contract killer. They make lots of money.”

“You have quite the wild imagination, angelfish. Even if I was one, do you think I’d admit that to you?”

“Maybe,” you tease. He pictures your smirk as it twists your perfect, pretty lips into something wicked. “For the right price, yeah?”

“Oh? Do elaborate.”

Please. Please keep going. Don’t stop talking. I need to hear you, closer, louder, clearer… More.

“What sort of price would I have to pay to get Sea Witch to spill his secrets?” you muse, your voice a tantalizing curl of syllables, but he suspects you already know the answer to your hypothetical. “I can’t offer you money, so you’d have to settle for something a little more…physical.”

He shivers, nodding his agreement even though you can’t see it. “Physical’s good,” he mumbles, foregoing eloquence in favor of filth. “Much better than—mm—than money…”

“Yeah? All right. Let’s see… You’re well-off and you might or might not be a contract killer. Do you wear suits?”

“I do.”

“Ooh, so you’re one of those contract killers.”

Azul can’t help it; he laughs, the sound tumbling out in a breathy gasp. “I prefer looking nice at all times.”

Languidly, his hand continues its idle pumping. He cracks his eyes open to peer at the pre-cum beading at the tip.

“Even if you’re just going to get messy?”

“Explicate the situation that’s leading me to soil my clothes. Details, angelfish.”

“Well, if you’re a killer who wears suits, you wouldn’t like even the smallest stain. It ruins your image, but if it was me…” You pause, probably for effect, and it works. His back arches with anticipation, fingers closing tighter. “You’d make an exception.”

“I would,” he admits far too quickly. “Always.”

“So you really would out yourself as a killer if I spread my legs for you?”

“No, but I’d let you dirty my suits.”

“Good. They’ll look better on the floor anyway.”

His breath hitches. Fuck, your every word is a siren’s song, leading him deeper into mist-clouded waters. He’d keep you pinned on his cock all day if he could. Why should you continue to work your mundane job when you could spend your precious hours with him instead? He’ll be your job. Seven days a week, during each of the breaks he’ll pencil into his schedules, you can visit him and he can empty all of his stress into you. And you’ll take it because you’re such an obedient sweetheart for him, always so ready to please your master.

He prays you can’t hear the salacious squelch of skin on skin as he works himself towards the edge, but a nastier part of him wants you to listen in so you’ll be reminded that this is your fault. No one else can possibly make him this messy. No one else is capable of rendering him a clumsy, lovestruck fool. You’re probably well aware of these facts, having brought him to this same edge numerous times in the past. Sometimes you would reach that tipping point alongside him, your gasps and groans joining his in an obscene duet.

Neither of you decided upon today’s development, but he thinks—knows—you’re intentionally stringing him along. You want this as much as he does.

“So was I right? You’re totally a contract killer?”

“I’m a businessman, angelfish,” he corrects, a silly, drunken smile softening his jaw. You make him feel so stupid, so warm and fond.

“So basically the same thing. Just as ruthless, no?”

“Please, you wound me. I’m always kind.”

“Ah, so there are others who get this treatment? And I thought I was the only one…”

“You are. No one could ever compare to you.”

He intends to tack my love onto the sentence’s end, but he stops himself. You’re not his love. Not really. You’re his angelfish, sure, but that’s different. That’s just a pet name befitting the aquatic theme he masquerades behind. And you’re not really Azul’s. You’re Sea Witch’s.

It’s Sea Witch you know and love. Beyond that, Azul is just Azul. And he’s nothing like the ideal he’s cultivated on Magicord.

He sighs and forces himself out of the turbulent trenches of his withering self-esteem. Now is not the time to contemplate which version of himself you’d be more preferential to.

You’ll have no choice but to love the real him. Soon.

“Really? I feel so special.” Impressed, you whistle and add, “I’ve gotta make you feel special, too.”

“You already have—”

“Not inside the VC. Come on, Sea Witch, don’t you wanna meet me?”

“I do. I really do,” he babbles dumbly, grinding his thumb into his slit and smearing pre-cum. He grits his teeth and tamps down a colorful word. How he yearns for this to be your hand wrapped around his length, tugging him to that far-off finish line. “I want nothing more than to—t-than to see you, all of you, in person…”

“So what’s stopping you? I could do a lot more in person than I can over the phone.” He has a smart reply for that, but it sticks in his throat. Pitifully, like the rightful debauched mess he is, he groans, low and guttural. “Let me turn the question on you, Sea Witch. If we were to meet today, what would you like to do to me?”

So many things, he thinks, a litany of smutty imagery flickering through his head.

But Sea Witch is classy (most days) and today is one of those instances. Or at least he’s going to make an attempt, however weak it may be.

“Take you to dinner,” he mumbles, executing jerky, quick motions in a daze, his cock weeping for release. He throws his head back, peers up at the interior roof of his car, and inhales sharply. “Take you all over the city if it pleases… I’d spoil you with so much finery—dress you up and then tear every article off…”

“And then?”

“And—god, fuck—wanna be inside you, angelfish… So badly—need you so badly. I wanna feel you and kiss you and hold you.”

He’s unraveling, strings pulled taut and fraying to extremity. Azul bucks into his hand and imagines it’s you, tight and warm, a sweet, snug embrace. He opens and closes his mouth, intending to beg you for more, but all that slips out are the tiniest huffs and grunts. He’s so wrapped up in his own ardor that he almost misses your quiet pants, every breath squeezed out of you as if you’re struggling to withhold your gratuitous moans. And it’s deplorable, really, the way his ears prick at these muffled sounds, the way his cock stands rigidly at attention, the way he’s falling through fragments of filthy fantasies, each one so close and yet impossibly far.

“I want you, too,” you mewl, tone wavering between shameless thrill and some sort of seventh heaven.

He wonders what you’re using to pleasure yourself. Are your fingers, slick and curled, rubbing up against those perfect, pretty spots that have you seeing stars? Or are you using the toys he purchased for your enjoyment? Maybe you’re lowering yourself onto the dildo right now, gummy walls clenching around girthy silicone. And maybe you’re tugging at your nipples, massaging them between the pads of your fingers, or maybe you’ve swapped skin-to-skin for a bullet vibrator instead.

Maybe—just maybe—it’s the mere thought of him that sets your flesh aflame with an intoxicating desire.

“And I want you—” you gasp, and his mind travels to all of the risqué photos you’ve sent, each one saved in a password-protected album on his phone— “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything before. I want you to show me that no one else can compare to you. I want you to—mmh, hah—to hold me down in bed and fuck me until my legs are sore and I can’t walk.”

I will, he thinks, lashes fluttering on his cheekbones. He strokes himself quickly, chest heaving, tongue near-lolling out of his mouth as he pants like a hound in heat. I’ll do all of that and so much more. I’ll fuck every coherent thought out of your pretty head, keep you just smart enough to rely on me, turn you into the prettiest sea flower who’ll only blossom for me.

“I promise, angelfish. I promise I’ll give you everything you’ve ever wanted,” he vows, his nerves alight with lustful delight, “and you’ll never know misfortune again.”

“I—oh! I’m close, so close! Please, Sea Witch! Please don’t stop. Please fill me up and make me yours!”

The sheer vulgarity twined through amatory vehemence, coupled with his own hurried pace, has him tumbling down the slope, arousal peaking and spilling over in thick, creamy spurts. He has half a mind to catch his spend before it can ruin the pristine interior of his car, and he blinks down at the semen sullying his palm. Idly, he rubs his fingers together to test the viscosity, wondering how his fluids would look on your face, your stomach, your ass—or even pooling out of your hole in plentiful amounts.

That fantasy is enough to send blood rushing right back to his softening cock, and he wills those thoughts away with logic—complex calculations and the financial forecast for Mostro. There will be plenty of time to indulge in sexual cravings later. He reminds himself of this while he tamps down his zeal, his heart relaxing in his ribs as he sits with the slowly ebbing aftershocks of orgasm.

You seem to be doing much the same, for you’ve gone perfectly quiet.

“Everything all right, angelfish?” he whispers after a few minutes, his breath now evened out.

“Mm, yeah. All good over here. Messy, but good.”

“I’m comforted knowing we’re in the same boat.” He chuckles while fumbling to dig a cotton handkerchief from the depths of his suit jacket. He cleans the cum and residual lube from off his hands and dick before neatly tucking himself away. Soon, there will be no need for this charade. Soon, he can adore all of you from beyond the screen. “Angelfish, there’s something I’d like to tell you.”

“What’s up?” you murmur, your own voice settling into its usual cheery cadence. He suspects you’re just putting on an act to sound happier. That will change when you’re reunited in person because it will be real. Because there will be no point in pretending through the phone.

“Well…” Azul smiles, folds and unfolds the sodden handkerchief, and then straightens his posture. He should be on his way now. “Ah, it’s nothing. Never mind it. I’ll tell you later.”

“Whaaat? But you’ve made me so curious now. Don’t just leave me in suspense!”

“Then I’m afraid you’ll have to remain in that suspense indefinitely.”

“Ugh. You’re so annoying sometimes.”

He knows you don’t mean that.

“I’ll tell you soon, angelfish. Exercise a little patience. There’s no rush.”

“Easy for you to say. You know what it is.”

“That I do, yes.” He hums, considering his next words. “Would it help if I left you with a word of advice?”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Everything.”

“Um. Okay, sure. Hit me. What’s your advice?”

Azul buckles himself in, starting his car via push button. It rumbles to life, smooth and steady. “Don’t fight so much, my dear.”

“Don’t what? Sea Witch, what are you talking—”

Your words are interrupted with a startled yelp. Azul listens to the struggle as if it’s a podcast enjoyed at sunrise. Things are toppled in the chaos; something shatters. He catches the beginnings of a blood-curdling shriek before it’s swiftly silenced. There’s more muffled scuffling before, eventually, absolute peace.

It’s broken by Floyd’s petulant whine. “Maaan, Shrimpy was so difficult. Thought you said they were easy, Azul.”

“Understandably so,” comes Jade’s astute reply. “We did catch them when they were most vulnerable.”

Floyd hums his agreement. “Y’know, Jade, Shrimpy’s kinda cute…”

“They are, aren’t they, Floyd?”

“Whatever you’re thinking, perish it right now,” Azul hisses, features twisting into something dark. “Keep your slimy mitts off of my angelfish.”

There’s an unsettling silence. Azul rolls his eyes. They’re fishing for a reaction he refuses to give.

“Clean up whatever mess you’ve made.” He takes his car out of park and eases into drive. “And don’t let anyone see you. It’ll be a hell of a pain if neighbors make unnecessary reports.”

“Yeah, yeah. Heard ya loud and clear.”

“Very well. Farewell for now.”

The call is cut. Azul grips the steering wheel, smug.

Soon waits for him on the horizon. He will not be a minute late.

You wake on a bed, in a spacious bedroom with exquisite floor-to-ceiling windows, many stories up in the clouds. A brightly lit cityscape sprawls beyond the confines of this room, illuminated with the deceptive shine of promise and success. At first it looks foreign. But then you recognize notable buildings, each standing tall and proud amidst the rest, and it occurs to you that you’re in a stranger’s home, in the heart of the big city.

The room itself is plainly colored; it reminds you of a hotel or a room you might find in a real estate catalogue. Perplexed, you sit up and take pause as your unfamiliar surroundings prove to be more frightful than your own confusion.

Pasted to the walls are various printed screenshots from Magicord, each one detailing a conversation of sorts. You stare at the wall behind you, the one in which the bed is currently pushed against, and peer closer at the contents of these messages.

They’re all from you.

Endearing terms you’ve called him in passing. Gentle insults. Lewd flirts. Vents and rants. Photos you’ve sent of very insignificant things—houseplants, meals, clothes. And then there are the photos of your body in skimpy lingerie and cosplay, all taped to the wall like this is some abstract museum of the digital you. The you who, despite being honest most of the time, took solace in the world of Magicord. The you who’d grown close with the mod from that whimsical ocean-themed server. The you who is now trapped, your ankle enclosed in a cuff. There’s a lead that only allows you to meander into the attached bathroom if you so please, and you suspect it’ll pull taut if you try to leave the room.

“What the fuck?” you mutter, your stomach twisting with disgust.

You look down at your clothes—you’re in someone’s collared shirt, intentionally designed to be oversized so that it drapes like a nightgown—and horror prickles your skin.

And then he arrives.

He’s dressed casually in black slacks and a simple white dress shirt, primly tucked in with the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. You stare for a long moment, studying his features as his familiarity dawns. Your mouth falls open in a muted scream.

He smiles sweetly, stepping further into the amber glow from the bedside lamps. “It’s nice to formally meet you. I’m Sea Witch.”

But that’s not what’s shocking about this. The real shock—the thing that has your brain stumbling in an effort to put the pieces together before the picture can crumble—is far more jarring than the kidnapping and the captivity. You find your voice then, and before you can stop yourself the words are falling out in a hurry.

“CEO Ashengrotto?!”

Sea Witch—CEO Ashengrotto—stiffens, his brows furrowing immediately. He gives you a sharp, dangerous look. A look that seems to radiate one unspoken question: Where did you hear that name?

“You… You’re A-Azul Ashengrotto,” you continue, swallowing thick trepidation. “CEO of Mostro. You opened a new restaurant last year—Crave, right? And the menu features celebrity favorites—celebrities like Vil Schoenheit and Neige LeBlanche.”

He laughs his disbelief, carding a hand through soft, silvery locks. “How…do you know this?”

“I work there. You visited once with your secretary for quality checks. We even crossed paths.”

Azul gawks, realizes he’s gawking, and clears his throat. “I… I see. Well.” He inhales, holds his breath for three seconds, and exhales. “This makes things rather…awkward.”

“When you said businessman, I didn’t think… I mean, how was I supposed to know? Your voice sounds so different over call than it does in interviews.”

“Of course it does! I never use the same inflection for those things.”

This cannot be real, you think, watching him flounder anxiously. Azul Ashengrotto is Sea Witch. This whole time… Nine entire months… I was talking to the CEO—to the city’s most popular bachelor—and I didn’t even know it. They write articles about this guy! He’s all over the TV! How did I never realize?

And then a very mortifying thought worms its way in: Oh my God. We both know each other’s preferences. He saw so much of me—more than I’d ever want him to see—and I heard too many private things during our calls…

“Let’s just…” You rub circles into your temples to quell the incoming migraine. “Let’s never talk about this again. You can buy my silence and I’ll move on with my life. I’ll even forget all of…” You glance at the Magicord conversations stuck to the wall and then the chain binding your ankle. “All of this…stuff. We’ll agree to call it a misunderstanding and life will be good, yeah?”

The bargain doesn’t seem to reach him. He continues to stare at you, his eyes glazed with an emotion you can’t place. Whatever it is, it’s stormy and dark. You don’t like it, and you shrink away when he steps closer.

“All this time you were right under my nose…”

Azul climbs onto the bed with you, the mattress depressing under the additional weight. Framed by the hypnotic radiance of the skyscrapers climbing heavenward, he’s certainly earned his place in every celebrity gossip magazine you’ve ever read. Articles debating whether he’s secretly committed to a relationship. Articles theorizing what his life plans may have in store for him. Articles discussing whether he’ll ever get married, if he’ll remain single for the rest of his life, if he’ll ever open his heart to the many people who hope to earn his romantic affections.

No one knows it—how could they when he’s so tight-lipped with the paparazzi?—but you are the secret variable the articles have yet to discover. You are the covert partner, the one who has won his heart, the one who now sits shackled on his bed.

What sort of tabloid journalist could ever spin this story?

You scoot further up the bed, your back pressing against the ornately extravagant headboard. Your knees are pulled into your chest, a futile attempt at protection.

“All this time you were so close to me…” He marvels at this, his baby blue hues locked permanently on you. “And neither of us knew. I could’ve had you much sooner had I just realized…”

You blink at him, your heart sinking with every passing second. “Mr. Ashengrotto, what do you mean by that?”

A pout tugs at perfect, pretty lips. “Why so formal, angelfish? We’re much closer than that, surely.” His hands settle upon your knees, gently pulling them apart. Your blood curdles with fear. “There’s no need to be so tense. It’s only me.”

“No… Please wait. Hold on!”

“Hm? If I’m not mistaken, this is what you want. You were rather vocal about your desires. You’ve always been. So why are you looking at me like that? I’m not scary, am I?”

You squeeze your eyes shut. “Please let me go…”

He clicks his tongue in disapproval, his tone patient despite the subject. “You know I can’t do that.”

“But you… You kidnapped me! Y-You had those guys hiding in my home and they…” You shake your head, unable to describe the sheer terror that had overwhelmed you when those creepy twins descended. Hopeless, you open your eyes to give him your most despairing look. Tears brim in your eyes, threatening to fall at the slightest prodding.

“Oh, my dear, did they scare you? They’re brutes who know nothing of how to treat a person with adequate care. You needn’t worry anymore. I’m here for you.” He cups your face in a fond hold, thumb rubbing soothing circles into your cheek. “Don’t cry, angelfish. You’re in good hands—my hands. And have they not been the most generous?”

“You’re crazy. Obsessed! How can you think any of this is okay? Look around at the walls! You’ve pasted our conversations everywhere—they’re practically the wallpaper!”

“What of it?” His hand slides down to grip your chin, forcing you to meet him at eye level. “I love you. I have for months now. And if those are the ways you choose to classify my care, so be it.”

Tear trails trace down your face. He leans in to kiss the rivers away, but they morph into the saltiest of seas.

“You may not approve of my affections right this very moment. You may hate me, think I’m monstrous, a culmination of all things foul, but you will love me. In due time, my dear. And when you do, the world will open and the chain will come off and you will know freedom under my roof.”

He has the gall to worship you with a loving smile. It poisons you with newly brewing abhorrence.

“So cry your heart out. Scream and kick up a fit. Do what you must. And when the floods subside, we can learn to love one another. Both at our best and our worst, within and beyond Magicord.”

[danandfuckingjonlmao]

me, waking up drenched in sweat, violently sitting up in bed and letting out a gasp: IT'S A METAPHOR FOR BEING A YOUTUBER

idk if someone already thought of this and this is also probably the most obvious reading of it but here i go anyway: i was just walking a dog and listening to potato prints and when phil said "you've come a long way daniel" i was like "huh phil is in the teaching position in all of these just like he was for youtube" like phil just gives editing pro tips the whole time and it all parallels their story as a youtube duo.

and obviously the entertainment industry is rife (not proper usage of that word but it Feels Right so fuck you) with satanic symbolism/imagery/iconography/motifs. being an entertainer is "selling your soul to the devil" etc etc and we know dan hates being a youtuber and does feel that way. you gotta upload twice a day every day in order to be the number one art channel on youtube dot com after all. you gotta make those crafts for satan. bo burnham has a ton of lyrics/songs that i'm thinking about rn like "you used to do comedy when you felt like being funny but now you're contractually obligated so dance you fucking monkeeeey DANCE MONKEY DAAAANCE" and in "repeat stuff" which is a commentary of how mainstream pop love songs and pop stars have to be really superficial and unoriginal because they need to appeal to everyone and at one point he sucks satan off lmao and is like AHFRUEHQFWIIO I AM A VESSEL IDUSHISKA 666 KAJSDFI ILLUMINATI UIGDFSAHIO FREEMASONS. highly recommend looking at the lyrics to that song if you're into that kind of thing.

also the (very rightful) dig at phannies for the "don't cry craft" spamming like "we love all of our crafty audience that spread the message of this channel on all the other videos on the internet! everywhere! everybody enjoyed that!" is how creators who want to keep status have to address their audiences no matter how annoying or harmful they're being. thinking of the ajr line "stay out of politics, stay on the fence / stay out of all of it to keep half your fans" because like,, yeah if a creator ever expresses an opinion that declares their feelings on one side of an issue then they will lose support (smosh is a perfect example of a bunch of people never ever ever expressing an opinion if it could be considered controversial among their audience, like refusing to address the genocide happening right now and just taking their zionist member who the fans are mad at out of some videos to be like "shhhhh nothing to see here we don't know what you're talking about"), ESPECIALLY if that issue is the behaviour of their audience.

obviously the first dapc video was not made with any intended meaning, they just woke up and were like "let's be weird and freak people out" and they did that, and then adding in symbolism and making it all mean something developed with time. but i'm gonna pretend that it has always had consistent meaning because i'm neurodivergent and love overanalysing silly little media.

i am so jhfbvdahfkiufadkhlj right now so if anyone has more theories or things to add lmk and thank you for coming to my ted talk

[woniverse-writes]

"Moth to a Flame (part 5)"

Bada Lee x Reader

part 4 ⟵ part 5 ⟶ part 6

series masterlist

summary: y/n l/n is the youngest team member of Jam Republic, competing in the second season of Street Woman Fighter. she’s got the sweetest smile and the most vibrant personality, but she also may or may not be the biggest hothead on the show when it comes to defending her teammates. apparently that’s attractive to Bada Lee.

word count: 6k

warnings: swearing, angst, y/n is a little psycho asshole in this chapter, but like- bada.... eeh scary, a lot of plot changes cuz I like playing the victim lol, not proofread, ending was kind of rushed, nothing i write is a reflection of anyone's true character and is a work of total fiction

Shortly after Rie Hata’s message finished playing on the monitors all teams wrapped up their fun and began heading back to the studio to begin preparing for the mega crew mission. They all dry their hair and get changed, reapplying their makeup to prepare for filming again, when the host appears with another message. He congratulates the remaining teams for surviving, and at the mention of Tsubakill’s elimination y/n and the rest of Jam Republic immediately frown. 

Daniel continues to explain the mission and informs them that there will be three different concepts that they have to use, but the way they will be decided is by group discussion. On top of that team Bebe has the benefit of going straight for whatever concept they want without discussion. The three creative prompts consisted of ‘outdoor’, ‘structure’, and ‘all gender’. 

“Ooh we could definitely do something sick with structures” Audrey perked up and her partner-in-crime nodded in agreement before speaking

“Yeah but honestly I think we could do well with any of these…” y/n countered smirking cockily prompting Emma to hum and hold out her hand for a high five.

“I personally feel like we should go for outdoors. I already have so many ideas for what we could do and I know some of you do too…” the leader chimed in, eyeing Ling and Y/n at the mention of other members having ideas. They decide to have their three creative directors be Kirsten, Ling, and Y/n and the three begin coming up with their own separate ideas, with the help of another member. 

When the crew came back together after a few moments of planning and creative briefing, they all shared their ideas. Kirsten came up with the idea of showcasing the beauty of New Zealand since it was most of their crew’s homeland- she wanted to shoot on the beach and have the rocks behind them. Ling’s idea was to take more of an approach that would appeal to their Korean audience, by incorporating more K-pop dance styles and music and shooting in the heart of the city with all the lights in the back. Everyone really liked both ideas, but y/n’s quickly became their favorite when she explained it.

“Okay so this might be too much, and could easily get muddled- but what if we did a sports theme? Like- we each represent a different sport or activity while also representing our culture or background… each of us could get a highlight and we’d all have our “teams” that would dance in our own styles- then we’d all come together in the end as a sort of pep-rally type thing…” y/n finished off the basic ideas of her take, and everyone immediately either nodded or clapped, thoroughly impressed with how quickly she had come up with such an elaborate idea.

“And this is exactly why you’re here girlfriend- forever a genius…” the leader nodded and smiled at her youngest, clapping her hands slowly and appreciatively. It was an idea that could work with all three concepts so the team decided to mark y/n’s as the top choice as of right now.

When all the teams gathered to pick their concept Jam Republic and Bebe were the only groups that chose something other than ‘structure’, Jam Republic sticking to their outdoor idea and Bebe going with the all gender category. After the pink team explained why they picked what they did, it caused Deep n Dap to change their pick to outdoor as well, saying it was because they felt their crew could easily rival Jam Republic, which caused Kirsten to maturely and professionally nod, while y/n covered her mouth and snickered.

After Jam Republic has guaranteed themselves a spot in the outdoor concept, they head back to their team hideout and begin to plan out their ideas in full. Y/n already begins to map out choreography for her and Ling’s sections, while Emma does the same for herself and Audrey, leaving Kirsten and Latrice to pair up. The girls decided to head back to New Zealand and take advantage of the scenery as part of the expression of their members’ culture. It was a nice blend of y/n and Kirsten’s concepts. 

______

Y/n and Bada hadn’t really talked much since they began preparing for the Mega Crew mission, both focusing on their team’s success. Although they still texted daily, sometimes it was only a quick good morning or goodnight, while other times they had fuller conversations.

‘Have a safe flight, text me when you land plz!’ y/n read the message right before she got on the plane. She felt her heart swell at the little gesture of care, hearting the message and replying with a selfie of her in the airport paired with the words ‘thank you lovey, I will <3’.

Jam Republic boarded their plane and took off from South Korea to New Zealand, with many plans already going wrong as soon as the plane was in the air. You see, they had just been informed of how bad the weather was in the area, then about how many of the dancers they called for wouldn’t be able to make it. Each member was responsible for contacting and securing 10 members to come dance with them, explaining how the show would be paying for their trip and all the dancers had to do was show up and give it their best. It started off really well, with each of them actually coming back with more than 10 dancers. Then the weather hit. Flights were canceled or delayed to the point where people wouldn’t make it in enough time to learn the dance. On top of that, their idea to shoot at the beach was totally scrapped due to the intense winds. With the major setbacks of losing over half their dancers and not being able to use their original scene, the girls had to redo choreography and practically start the whole project over.

“This can’t be happening…” y/n was the first to start spiraling, ever the drama queen- but this time it was very justified. All six members of the crew stood in a circle in the middle of the studio floor, eyes flitting back and forth between each other and their leader, who was staring at the floor deep in thought. Kirsten let out a huge sigh and crossed her arms tensely.

“I’m sorry girls… but I really don’t know what we’re gonna do…” the leader ran her hands down her face and let out another deep breath, turning away for a moment with her hands on her hips. At that moment, the youngest realized how serious the situation really was, seeing as her leader wasn’t presenting her usual calm self. Typically when there was an issue, Kirsten was calm, cool, and collected- even if it seemed unsolvable… she always had an answer no matter what.

y/n being the perfectionist she is, began racking her brain for any possible solutions, already feeling her lungs begin to collapse at the possibility of complete failure. On top of being a perfectionist, the young girl also had a pretty bad case of savior complex, feeling like she had to fix everyone’s problems, especially when there was no one else who could- even if she knew that she herself probably wouldn’t be able to fix it either (at least not without bending over backward and bleeding herself dry). 

“No… no we can easily fix this-” all eyes went to the youngest member who ran off to grab all their notebooks and bring them back over to where the crew still stood. She spread them out, riffling through the pages until she found ideas they could use. 

“We can still use the stadium… it won’t be as grand of a scale as we wanted, but that can still work. And- and we can make it related to New Zealand instead of all of our different backgrounds, so it’s easier to put together and less choreography to make up… we can fix this!” y/n was frantically and hopefully (delusionally) explaining her ideas, trying as hard as she could to bring the team’s morale back up. They sat down in their circle and began connecting the ideas, just hoping for the best at this point

Even though the Jam Republic girls were frustrated, they only let it fuel their will to work even harder. It crushed y/n a little to have to scrap her idea, knowing it would’ve brought them an easy win, but she was determined to make their new routine strong. The team had ultimately decided to keep the athletic theme but changed it quite a bit to highlight rugby which was a big part of New Zealand culture. The girls planned on dancing in the bleachers and on the field to portray a Friday night lights feel, or a game- since it technically was still a competition between them and deep n dap.

A few days go by and it isn’t getting any easier for Jam Republic. As much as they try to stay positive, the insane lack of dancers makes it hard to achieve the impact they’re going for. Y/n kept saying how they needed to keep trying to find more dancers, but Kirsten just wanted to focus on perfecting the routine with what they had. The young girl also kept mentioning little ideas and elements to add in order to amplify the concept they were going for, but again the leader was more focused on solidifying the present piece. Y/n ended up getting so frustrated that she would just randomly start tearing up and crying during their breaks, not allowing herself to stop for more than 30 seconds, grabbing a quick sip of water, and then immediately going back to practicing. She thought that maybe if she gave it her all, she wouldn’t be as disappointed in herself when she wasn’t satisfied with the outcome. 

Of course, all of the girls were on edge but they at least were able to put it aside at some moments, still being able to enjoy parts of the process. y/n tried her best not to let her teammates see how anxious and worked up she was, but the girl was so overwhelmed with fear of failure that it would be impossible for anyone not to see it. Which is why it made everything so much worse for her when she continued to go through the rest of the preparation without a single person asking what was wrong. Y/n understood- really, she did. Everyone needed to focus on the end goal, and that meant there wasn’t time to deal with her feelings.

Bada was beginning to worry, seeing as the last response she had gotten from y/n was days ago. The girl had landed her flight and texted the Bebe leader immediately, letting her know she was safe, but also explaining the problems that had already arisen. They talked briefly about how the pink team was likely going to have to restart everything if the weather didn’t ease up. Then a couple of days later, they talked on the phone about the complete concept change and reboot of their whole routine. Y/n tried to keep her stress to a minimum, not wanting to be a burden to the other girl who was also beginning to get stressed. 

It had been many days since then, and she’d texted the younger girl three separate times as well as tried calling her twice. Bada finally got a response the day before Jam Republic would be flying back to Korea for the midterm mission check, where they as well as the other teams would be reviewing each other’s practice videos of the choreography. It had been a somewhat longer text message reading ‘hi. I’m really sorry for not responding at all for the last few days. I know you’re probably just as stressed as i am, so I’m sorry for not being able to be there. Things haven’t been going good over here and I’m honestly really scared to present what we have… but I’m sure everything will be fine haha. How have you been?’

Bada felt her heart clench at the girl’s words, understanding why she wasn’t responding but still feeling a bit upset nonetheless. It hurt her to see y/n try to brush off her stress and redirect her attention so it would focus on caring for others instead of caring for herself.

Jam Republic arrives back in South Korea and heads straight to the studio to film their reactions and judgments of the other teams. They immediately make their way to their pink hideout passing by other crews, but not having time to mingle or really do anything more than smile and wave. The girls were exhausted from the flight, jetlag, and overworking themselves. y/n didn’t even realize team Bebe wasn’t with the rest of the crews when they passed through the lobby.

Bebe sat in their room, feeling more anxious than usual, a bad vibe floating through the air. No one could quite put their finger on it, but something definitely wasn’t right and it was causing all of the members to feel its effects. It officially came time for all crews to review each dance practice video. Each team’s video played one by one and the members had time to fill out the review cards before moving on to the next. 

Bebe’s video played next and the reactions were not positive, to say the least. Everyone seemed disappointed by the piece as a whole, expecting something much bigger- the music was too big of a risk, the props were poorly utilized, and it was overall just too simple. It wasn’t a bad video- it just didn’t meet anyone’s expectations since they were all waiting for some elaborate project, knowing Bada was very capable of doing so. Shortly after, a similar reaction was felt while everyone watched the Jam Republic video.

“They don’t have enough people…” Mina Myoung was the first to observe the team’s lack of crew members. They even paused the video to count how many were shown, seeing 28, which was under the minimum limit of 30 people.

“It honestly isn’t powerful enough… it’s just not impressive” Buckey commented, crossing her arms over her chest. Yoonji sighed and frowned.

“This is so sad… I was really rooting for them” The girl mumbled, genuinely feeling pity for the international team, hoping they’d be able to pull through.

When it came down to voting for the team that should be eliminated, Jam Republic ultimately chose Bebe. They were originally tied between voting for Bebe and Wolf'lo, with y/n fighting her best fight to vote for Wolf'lo because it just didn't look entertaining to her and they had no story or plot.

"y/n…" Kirsten started off in a warning but gentle tone

"We can’t just not pick Bebe because of you and Bada… this is a competition babe." and y/n was kinda hurt by that because she knows how to be objective and she didn't even think she was biasing Bebe- she just personally didn't like Wolf'lo and thought they should be eliminated over any other team.

Then it finally came down to the results. Each team would be given a scorecard showing the comments and feedback they’d received from the others. One card would reveal the team voted as most likely to place first, and another would reveal who was most likely to be eliminated. When Jam Republic opens their card, it felt like all of the air suddenly got sucked out of the room. 

“God DAMN” Audrey laughed humorlessly in absolute shock, as they all stared at the words ‘MOST AT RISK FOR ELIMINATION’ in big bold letters at the top. y/n stopped breathing for a few seconds and she’s pretty sure everyone else did too, seeing as there was not a single sound to be heard in the dressing room. The young girl once again tried to convince herself to think rationally, but couldn’t get past the anxiety and crushing weight of failure that was starting to fill her lungs. She wasn’t even angry, even though she should’ve been because she understood. y/n understood that they didn’t meet the criteria, and their dance simply wasn’t as put together as it should've been, especially in comparison to other teams/

What really got her emotional was realizing that Bebe- that BADA- voted for them too… it felt like such betrayal and she wore that shit on her face like usual. But still- she didn't feel angry, just betrayed and heartbroken, and really fucking disappointed. The more mature and logical side of y/n was still trying not to jump to conclusions because maybe it wasn’t Bada that decided… Maybe it was the same situation her team had going on- maybe Bada didn’t want to vote for Jam Republic but the majority of others did. Y/n truly did understand everyone’s reasoning, but that didn’t make it hurt any less, especially having Bada vote to eliminate her as well

“It’s gonna be okay lovey… I promise” Kirsten wrapped her arm around the youngest’s shoulders and whispered reassuringly to her as she watched her begin to have a mental breakdown. Moments later, the rest of the crew’s ranking was revealed, showing 1 Million in first and Jam Republic in last, but also- Bebe in sixth, the second to last place. Seeing this, Bada sighed and began to have her own slight mental breakdown.

Some teams celebrated their rankings while others sat quietly, reviewing the feedback and pondering what to do. Jam Republic sat in silence as Kirsten read over the comments. Y/n sat by her side with her head in her hands sobbing silently, so overwhelmed that she didn’t know what to do. The entire team was at a loss, and soon Kirsten started crying too, wrapping and arm around the youngest members, who finally let her emotions be shown to her team. The loud cries were the only sound in the room.

Y/n was able to calm herself down after about 20 minutes of crying. The poor girl felt so awful about how things were going feeling responsible for a lot of it- thinking that maybe if she had pushed her ideas a little more, or gotten in contact with more people, or even just tried a little harder, maybe Jam Republic could’ve done so much better. Even though she’s calmed down, tears still flow down her face without her even realizing it. Y/n was never angry at anyone else for their opinions, but now she’s feeling awfully spiteful towards herself. The youngest member was filled with so much resentment and self-hatred, that it immediately sent her into an inescapable depression.

The show writers and staff were cruel. So cruel for making these girls show off their inspiration boards and creative briefs live in front of the other teams. Each team explains their given concept and how they came up with the details to highlight what they chose. While it was much more of a relaxed environment (in the sense that there would be no feedback or ranking based on this), a majority of contestants were nowhere near feeling at ease. 

The members of Jam Republic were able to build themselves back up and put on their game faces while presenting, except for y/n. She really did try her best to not look like she was about to cry at the drop of a hat, but it was no use. The girl was simply not herself. The small girl’s usually bright and energetic personality was nowhere to be found, not once cracking even a hint of a smile- even when Jam Republic received immense praise for their ideas. She didn’t find any enjoyment in the other crew’s presentations, although to be fair she wasn’t really able to focus on them- she just sat there in a daze.

It made everyone nervous to see Jam Republic’s youngest member like this. Her members noticed that she had become even more irritable than before- but now in a scary way that genuinely had them concerned for themselves and everyone else. The girl was calm but you could just feel the rage and depression and resentment radiating off of her to the point it made chills run down your spine.

_________

After every crew had shared their ideas and idea boards, they were allowed to go back to head back to their hideouts to discuss any adjustments or further plans that had to be made before returning to their projects. Jam Republic had to get right back on a plane in a few hours to head back to New Zealand and somehow fix their entire routine, again.

Y/n just finished walking up the staircase leading from the fight zone to the crew lounges, when she heard someone call out her name from closely behind her. The girl turned around to come face to face with the tall leader she had been talking with for the last few months.

“Hey, are you okay? I called your name like three times…” Bada questioned worriedly, her eyebrows furrowed and head tilted as she waited for the younger girl’s response, with wide caring eyes.

“...I'm just really tired” y/n whispered in the meekest voice possible, already feeling her eyes start to sting again, but trying to cover it up with a smile. Bada sighs and pulls her into a big hug, and surprisingly y/n doesn’t burst into tears. The girl continues to try as hard as possible to keep the droplets from escaping her eyes as she squeezes them shut.

“Look… I’m really sorry” the older of the two began resting her head atop y/n’s, but the shorter one felt her body tense at the apology already not liking where the conversation was headed. y/n let go of Bada’s waist and backed away, waiting for the older girl to continue.

“It wasn’t personal… the dance was still very good, and it’ll look even better with all of the ideas planned out!” she finished, referring to how her team had voted Jam Republic as the worst crew. Y/n’s face lost any emotion she had regained, looking empty and exhausted again, making Bada’s skin prickle.

“no, I understand” was all y/n spoke, already trying to disconnect from reality to save herself from crying again or making a bigger fool out of herself than she already has. But Bada is only more upset by the reaction, seeing as y/n just doesn’t seem at all like herself. The girl genuinely looks empty inside and no one on the show has ever seen her like this, in fact- no one in Jam Republic has even seen her like this and they’re all beginning to become extremely worried about her. And even though it’s clear the small girl just needs time and space, Bada decides to keep talking 

“The vote was objective I promise, I don’t want you to think anything personally of it” At the end of the older girl’s sentence, y/n just felt the tiniest bit of a scowl make its way onto her face, feeling pissed off at the thought of someone once again thinking she doesn’t understand the concept of a competition.

“Obviously- I’m not stupid, this is a competition.” the harsh tone that comes out of the younger really throws Bada for a loop because she has never seen y/n speak to or about anyone like this- and it makes her feel sick to her stomach that her first time witnessing it is directed at her.

“I- no, what? Of course you’re not stupid! I just wanted to make sure… to make sure you knew. That’s all.” Bada started off a bit panicked and emotional but quickly was able to calm down and speak rationally, understanding the younger girl was known to have a bit of a temper. There was a long silent pause.

"did you decide on Jam Republic?" y/n asked a bit accusatorily

"Huh?" the older tilted her head, still absolutely confused about how this situation was occurring right now.

"did YOU, as in yourself, Bada Lee, decide to vote Jam Republic as the team to be eliminated, or was it someone else's idea…" There was silence for a moment before Bada sighed then pursed her lips

"We all decided-" 

"but who's idea was it? Did you even argue it? Were you even thinking of anyone else? Or did you just immediately decide and agree that my team should be the next to go?" Bada didn’t say anything as she started to get a little frustrated, but she watched as y/n just scoffed at the lack of response and turned to walk away, rolling her eyes. Bada followed her and pulled her aside, a few feet away from the outside of Bebe's dressing room

"well you voted for my team as the worst, so how is this any fair at all?" the tall leader finally let her emotions take control of her as she shot back with much less frustration than her counterpart, but still irritated nonetheless.

"because I didn't want to vote for you! I fought to vote Wolf'lo over you guys because I know you don't deserve to go home! I understand it from an objective perspective- I promise Bada, I do- but that doesn't make it hurt any less!" There were a few beats of silence before y/n continued

"and it's honestly really infuriating that you don't think I understand that this is a competition-" she finished off quieter than before but still filled with annoyance and betrayal.

"WOAH- now when did I EVER say that??" now it was Bada’s turn to blow up

 "Oh my god- you don't have to say it! You clearly think I'm just here to have fun and make friends!" y/n once again raised her voice, this time rising in pitch as well.

"Why would you say that??" Bada fired back and was immediately met with the calmest tone of voice y/n had spoken in since the argument began, and it terrified her.

"Bada- you haven't seen me as a threat once this entire competition… have you? Not to you, not to your team…" Bada stuttered for a second, completely blindsided by the argument

"where is this all coming from y/n?" the tall girl asked, genuinely concerned. y/n sighed and her eyes softened, shook her head.

"never mind" She turned and went to walk away, but Bada grabbed her by the wrist again and dragged her inside the blue team room, closing the door behind her

"you need to speak to me. You need to communicate with me what's going on right now because whatever you're feeling is totally valid- we had a rough day out there- fuck, we’ve had a rough few days, especially you- but that doesn't mean you get to take it out on me… so please tell what's wrong, so I can try to help." the older girl calmly and gently explained her thoughts and feelings to the girl in front of her, and y/n almost cracked. almost.

“I think it’s best for me to focus on the competition… building relationships clearly isn’t working out to my benefit" Her previously soft and watery eyes, had quickly cleared up within a few seconds, leaving her looking cold and unapproachable again. The response was petty and childish, y/n herself knew that, but she said to hurt Bada. 

why do you want to hurt Bada? She was apologizing, why are you making this harder? You’re being childish and proving everyone right- you’re not fit for this competition, you’re too young y/n and you don’t know how to handle things when you actually need to.

The younger girl’s internal dialogue was emotional and resentful towards herself, but for once, the expression on her face didn’t show how she was truly feeling. The anger and hatred taking over her features wasn’t directed towards the older girl in front of her, which is what anyone witnessing the interaction would assume. y/n could feel her stomach churning and her face getting hot with embarrassment. She didn’t understand why she was acting like this and didn’t know how to get herself to stop.

It felt like hours had passed before Bada spoke again and when she did it was led by an aggressive scoff.

“You can’t be serious right now…” she challenged so calmly that it sent a chill up y/n’s spine, the younger girl’s resolve finally breaking down and it became apparent that she wasn’t actually as tough as she was trying to be. Bada could see the cold glare falter for a split second, watching as her eyes became full of emotion before the younger was able to reel it in again.

“Why wouldn’t I be serious? This is a competition and the only people I should be trusting are my teammates, I shouldn’t be letting my emotions get in the way of things…” y/n responded just as calmly. If anyone else were to be present for the interaction they probably would've froze to death due to how cold the two were being.

“Next time I'll make sure to vote objectively and solely based on what I see in front, instead of trying to think about who deserves to be here more.” she finished with an empty, tight-lipped smile, tilting her head feigning understanding, and Bada let out a humorless chuckle

“God- have you always been this manipulative?” it was her turn to try and hurt the other girl. y/n’s cocky grin dropped immediately and she straightened up entirely.

“Excuse me?” the younger girl furrowed her brows and scowled again

“You heard me…” Bada replied cooly and nonchalantly as if this were any other normal conversation 

“I came to you, apologizing for what I did and your response to that is to start an argument- and THEN when you realize you’re in the wrong, you try to turn it on me?” the older girl finished, voice rising slightly

“I never turned it on you- I said how I needed to focus on the competition and stop being so friendly with everyone, how are you so self-absorbed to think that was about you?” y/n could barely even get her last word out before the other was shouting over her.

“BECAUSE IT WAS- it so obviously was a dig at me y/n, because who else are you close with? Huh??” the volume of Bada’s voice caused the younger girl to flinch, no longer being able to preserve her emotions. The tall girl took a few steps forward and leaned down, getting in y/n’s face.

“Who else can actually stand being around you…” shot after shot fired, Bada was doing a much better job at hurting y/n than y/n was doing hurting Bada. She wasn’t even thinking about how she used to tell herself that she would never be the reason y/n would be crying, and now here she is, feeling satisfied when she sees a single tear run down the girl's face. She wasn’t paying attention to how it sucked all the air out of her lungs and made her stomach turn in disgust, only noticing the minuscule feeling of satisfaction.

“I think it’s so funny how you say that, knowing damn well you get jealous any time someone even looks at me… you know better than anybody that anyone in this fucking place would love to be in your position-” and this caused Bada to let out a loud laugh of disbelief, backing away slightly before getting right back in her face

“Yeah? Then how come nobody even paid attention to you until I took notice… you know that’s the only reason you’re popular, right? If it had been anyone else, no one would’ve cared… admit it to yourself, nobody wants to be in my place y/n- they all wanna be in yours, so maybe think about how lucky you are…” Bada didn’t believe in a single thing that was coming out of her mouth, she honestly couldn’t even believe her own voice hearing how condescending and spiteful the words sounded as they left her lips. She could feel a slight ringing in her ears, part of her brain processing it as a tiny voice screaming at her to stop and that she was making a mistake. But the damage was already done.

Y/n was barely holding back tears anymore, pursing her lips and clenching her jaw did nothing to stop the flow of salty droplets from streaming down her face. Her nostrils flared slightly as she swallowed down sobs and tightly closed her eyes.

“I’m not having this conversation anymore…” she managed to get the words out without sounding horribly choked up as she turns away to leave, hand about to turn the knob as the older girl lets out another dry chuckle.

“Oh so now you wanna act mature? Let me tell you this isn’t the mature way to handle the situation anymore- you don’t know how to talk to people or resolve conflict, in fact you’re NOT confrontational at all, and are really just a scared little girl who’s all bark and no bite. You’re such a child- that’s all you are- is a FUCKING child…” it’s dead silent after Bada’s done screaming at her. Y/n turns around slowly and just stands there for a moment with a blank stare, then lets out the most dry, humorless laugh. It honestly scares the shit out of the older girl, eyes going wide and face paling, coming to her senses and realizing how fucked the situation was. 

Y/n was smiling and laughing, albeit a little psychotically, all while still crying- she had finally snapped, and Bada was terrified. The girl in front of her could easily be a danger to herself, and possibly others in the state she was in, but all the leader could think about was how there was probably no coming back from this. The younger of the two just closes her eyes and takes a deep breath before opening them and nodding at Bada with a tight-lipped smile, taking a deep breath.

“Okay” y/n smiles painfully as tears continue to run down her face- she turns around, swings the door open, and slams it shut as she walks out. The silence that followed was broken only seconds later as Bada heard the sobs that were almost immediately released by the girl who had just left.

y/n hadn’t even noticed the rest of Bada’s team standing around the corner, as she walked in the other direction to head back to her own room. Once she was far enough away, Lusher led the group quietly into their space seeing their leader sat on the couch with her head in her hands.

“Hey…” she speaks quietly, and Bada looks up with an empty look in her eyes, but tries to hide it when she realizes her team is present. Before she can even try to pretend nothing happened, the sub-leader was speaking up again

“We heard everything…” Bada sighed and felt tears pricking her eyes, disappointment and heartbreak finally taking over as she realized how fucked up the things she said were. The younger members sat around their leader and rubbed her arm or leg while they all watched with sad eyes as she sobbed. This was going to be a rough next few days.

notes: i'm so sorry...

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[raisedbythetv89]

The writers I think mostly completely by accident with the assistance of James charming his way into becoming a main character created the perfect storm to ensure people who love spike would reach absolute peak levels of being completely obsessively deranged about him forever

Season 2:

He’s a punk rock villain with killer cheekbones, enchanting eyes, and an absolutely DEVILISH smile - who’s an incredibly dedicated and dangerous fighter who specifically seeks out challenging fights he’s not guaranteed to win (brave and reckless - normally traits seen in heroes) hates everyone except his mentally ill physically sick wife (the statistics of men who leave their wives when they get sick in the US is horrifying like nurses literally have to warn married women who get sick it happens so often) who he’s hopelessly devoted to and unbelievably soft with and always listens to her while also exuding a psychotic amount of sex appeal and is just F U N he loves being a vampire and he loves fighting and it makes it so much fun for the audience. While still showing how much he respects and admires his enemy for her skill, strength, resourcefulness, and intelligence - NEVER underestimating her just because she’s a tiny blonde girl - and instead of destroying the world for love he SAVES the world for love - a villain doing good to get the love of his life back who essentially dumped him for her ex????????? D E V O T E D and shockingly extremely trustworthy??? And has amazing chemistry with our heroine and is there for a pivotal moment in her life and is the only one there for her when she has no one else????? *enemies to lovers girlies ENTER THE CHAT*

Season 3:

He shows he fucking MEANS IT when he says Dru is the love of his life when he shows up in Sunnydale because he blames Angel not Buffy or Drusilla but the man actually responsible for all their problems and he is the most pathetic mess we’ve ever SEEN!!!! He’s crying and drunk all the time and he’s so sad he goes to Buffy’s mom TO TALK 💀😭 our pathetic sensitive little self admitted lover boy who KNOWS he’s love’s bitch and he won’t be pretending he’s anything otherwise who shows how clearly he sees and understands other people and the depths of his emotional intelligence so much so Buffy herself admits she can’t fool Spike she can fool her friends BUT NOT SPIKE OR HERSELF EXCUSE ME MA’AM WHAT???????

AND Spike doesn’t just uselessly MOPE forever he gets some perspective and is like I know what I’m gonna do to her back and I’m gonna go do that now! 😁👍🏻 showing he never stays down for long and is always gonna get back up to keep fighting for his love while BOTH he and Buffy still honor the truce even though he’s broken it by coming back??? While Buffy’s all “I violently dislike you” YEAH OK GIRL WHATEVER YOU SAY *enemies to lovers girlies chomping at the bit intensifies*

Season 4:

CLEARLY heartbroken about Drusilla (DEVOTED!!!) but it’s turned into anger and resentment directed at Harmony who how bizarre looks nothing like Drusilla but A LOT like Buffy…… hmmmmmmmmmmmmm HOW INTERESTING *enemies to lovers girlies are vibrating with anticipation that turns into a full blown combustion when something blue happens*

Spike doesn’t pretend to love Harmony in order to get what he wants from her (shown in direct contrast to Parker) he’s ironically very honest despite being a villain - he’s showing he’s STILL loyal to Drusilla in ONLY loving her even after she’s dumped him... again!

We see Spike treat Buffy the EXACT same way he treated Drusilla during something blue reaffirming THIS IS HOW THIS MAN LOVES WHEN HE LOVES YOU. He’s extremely affectionate, helpful, protective, caring - D E V O T E D - and is truly just the most certified lover boy we’ve ever fucking seen

Season 5:

SURPRISE HE’S SECRETLY A LOVESICK MAMA’S BOY POET AT HEART UNDERNEATH THE BAD BOY PERSONA AND A PROTECTIVE BIG BROTHER AND NOW BUFFY AND HER FAMILY’S MOST LOYAL DEFENDER AND IS WILLING TO DIE NOT JUST FOR BUFFY BUT FOR ALL THE SUMMERS WOMEN AND HE KNOWS AND SEES BUFFY SO DEEPLY AND INTIMATELY AND CAN HOLD SPACE FOR HER PAIN LIKE NO ON ELSE CAN AND SHOWS THE DEVOTION THAT ONCE BELONGED TO DRUSILLA NOW BELONGS TO BUFFY AND IT IS GOING NOWHERE EVEN WHEN SHE DIES AND WE'VE SEEN IN HIM CRY BEFORE BUT NEVER HAVE WE SEEN HIM BREAK DOWN LIKE HE DOES AT THE SIGHT OF BUFFY'S BODY!!!!!!!!!!!

*all of us screaming, crying, throwing up, climbing the walls and generally just losing our minds*

Season 6:

No soul, his love is so great for Buffy as is his loyalty and devotion to her, he now helps all of his dead love’s friends fight evil and is raising her sister and dreams of saving her every night for 148 nights 🤚🏻😭 don’t even fucking talk to me I can’t take it

Forgive the absolute 180 in tone change here:

Dick game is FIRE - his touch is the only thing that makes Buffy feel alive AND SHE WAS IN HEAVEN BRO SHE KNOWS WHAT IT FEELS LIKE TO BE IN HEAVEN AND SPIKE IS THE ONLY THING KEEPING HER GOING like damn girl yes YOU FUCK THAT HOUSE DOWN!!! Also he is now just naked 50% of the time just to drive us all even FURTHER out of our minds and somehow has just gotten even hotter as the seasons have gone on like this is what’s been hiding under the leather jacket all this time! Enjoy!

And THE MOST unintended consequence of jw’s vindictive writing:

SPITE

He clearly didn’t want us to love Spike and tried to manipulate us into hating him in such a blatant and clumsy ooc attempt all that did was weed out the weakest amongst the Spuffy/Spike fans until all that remained were us:

The most devoted and stubborn fans who REFUSED to have the thing they loved ruined or taken away from us and were smart enough to see through his bullshit manipulation attempt in the first place.

Genuinely they created the equivalent of supersoilder strength level fans with this absolutely lethal combination of events 💀

AND THEN as if all that wasn't enough he goes and gets his soul on purpose for Buffy so he can be the man she deserves and she can love him without hating herself for loving him despite the immense pain it will cause him which is the most selfless thing we have ever seen anyone do for Buffy only to be topped when he sacrifices himself to destroy the hellmouth, save the world and free her from Sunnydale!!! Plus ya know once he gets the soul even though he did it for her he never tries to use that as leverage to get anything from her like he truly expects nothing from her at all but still wants to help her and James delivers the most devastating performances we've ever fucking seen, finally tells her friends off which has needed to happen for 5 seasons, the "you're the one speech" him being a dad to all the potentials with Buffy giving us supernatural parent core who made it through their rough patch with their first kid in season 6 with Dawn and now are just the beautiful team with their found family and Buffy finally has someone who can truly carry her burdens with her and just all the tenderness and devotion they both deserve after so many years of pain and fighting. Basically giving the audience the message that even if you have a metric ton of pain and trauma there are people out there who see you and understand you and there is a chance for you to heal both together and separately to build your own version of a more normal and stable life. It's a message of such hope and I personally know several people, including myself who watched what Spike and Buffy have and it inspired us to look at the relationships we were in and realize we deserved SO MUCH MORE than what we were getting and in my case it turned out I was being emotionally abused and manipulated that entire time!! Much like Buffy was by both Riley and Angel. So it isn't an exaggeration to say Spuffy saved my life in a lot of ways both in being there for me at such a dark time and helping me draw a map of how to get out. Not to mention loving them in fandom spaces has helped me connect with so many people just like me who share very similar experiences and have helped me feel so much less alone and has helped me heal in so many ways 🖤

Spuffies get "hOw cAn yOu liKe sPiKe aFtEr wHaT hE dId" all the fucking time and truly the better question is how can you NOT like Spike???? HAVE YOU BEEN PAYING ATTENTION AT ALL??? DO YOU EVEN KNOW WHAT GOOD RELATIONSHIPS NEED TO WORK?? BECAUSE AT THEIR CORE SPUFFY HAS THEM ALL!

It's jw writing so NOTHING will escape his toxic bullshit but Spike - because he was hated by jw for so long - so much of the time when he tried to make Spike less popular he just kept making him better and more complex and more and more targeted to the female gaze which is exactly why he snapped and made the choices he literally forced everyone else to go along with despite their protests with that scene to make it the most traumatizing scene in all of Buffy history not just for the audience but for the actors as well because yes it is incredibly horrific and upsetting to watch (which is why I skip it on rewatches) but I still am able to see if for what it is which is a narcissist lashing out at people he hates because he hasn't been able to control them and too bad for him I refuse to be manipulated by his bullshit so it failed completely and made so many of us that much more stubbornly protective of Spike and his and Buffy's relationship not just from other fans but from the creator himself 🙃🖕🏻like he basically just trauma bonded us to Spike and Buffy which has led to the creation of one of the most devoted, loyal, intelligent fanbases who is absolutely unhinged (affectionate) with their love of this character and his relationship which is why we are all still creating and writing about this character 25 year later and show absolutely zero signs of slowing down or stopping 💀

[honeyspawn]

Real talk, I think Frank Pricely is a genuinely really interesting character.

So when we meet him in Black Friday, he is basically a cartoon capitalist supervillain. He's obsessing over money, he is condescending to Lex, and we get the impression that he's Mr. Krabs level of money-grubbing shitty boss. He gets a whole song where he revels in how much money he's going to make, and shows ambivalence to how dangerous black friday shopping can be. Then Feast or Famine happens, and something... changes. There's a visible shift on stage when he and the audience realize that he is no longer in control that's genuinely really eerie. Put a pin in that, cuz I'm gonna come back to it.

When when we're introduced to him in "Daddy", we get a much more complete image of who he is as a character. It's not that he's not a greedy and condescending person, because he definitely is, but that's not the foundation of his character. When we see Toy Zone outside of Black Friday, we see that it's a struggling small business, and a genuine passion project for Frank. It's not that Toy Zone is a means for financial success, but financial success is a means to keep Toy Zone operational.

Then there's his relationship with Lex. He's definitely snarky and condescending, but he also actually cares about her, and sees himself as a parental figure to her. He gives her advice that he feels is in her best interest, and shows her a lot of the "tough love" that he thinks Sheila should be showing Sherman. Lex is even one of the people he says sorry too when he's about to die, because he worries that he failed her. While I do think Lex has some level of respect for him, I never really get the vibe that she sees him this way; she seems to think of him as more of a hard ass, and she would absolutely leave Toy Zone the minute a better opportunity comes up. Her job at Toy Zone for her is more about her need to take care of her family. And this is significant, because Frank is a very lonely person. After his dog Buddy dies, he has no family left. He reminisces on his parents, who didn't support his passions. He thinks of himself as a father figure to Lex, because he has nobody else left in his life. I'm not necessarily saying that he's a good parental figure to Lex, he can be pretty selfish, and even denied her for a raise once he could afford it, knowing she damn well needs the money. It's clear though, that he's trying to look out for her more than her actual mother (low bar as it may be), and on some level, he does think he's helping her. Because she's all he has. Her and Toy Zone, and he's about to lose that too.

This is why Sheila is so appealing to him. She represents not only financial stability, but a chance to not be alone. He doesn't love her, and I think he knows it, but he could learn to love her. He could have love and money, and if that doesn't work out, at least he'd have money. That's what he thinks anyway. But again, he's not the one with the power.

When we first see him in Black Friday, we initially think Frank represents the corporations, but he doesn't. He's a small business owner, and can only support his passion by participating in capitalism. He is a retailer, not a CEO. And that's what puts him in so much danger in Black Friday. Capitalism treats him as disposable. And that's how he dies. Frank was just as much under Wiggly's influence as anyone else. He lived a lonely life, and the business he's prioritized over forming any lasting bonds with other people is about to go down the toilet. Then this little green doll comes along that's supposed to fix everything. He doesn't want to keep the Wiggly dolls, but he still thinks they're going to fix the holes. And once he's served his purpose, Wiggly disposes of him. And that's what Sheila tries to do, too. The only reason he survives in Daddy is that Sherman decides he still has value. It's honestly really haunting how these stories mirror each other.

[hotvintagepoll]

Propaganda

Loretta Young (The Farmer’s Daughter, The Stranger, Love is News)— Her cheekbones!! Her lips!! Her big eyes and small nose and not quite classical features!! The planes of her face hypnotize me and her smile clears my mind of anything else. She’s an interesting beauty, not a standard one, almost in a Mads Mikkelsen type way (I repeat: cheekbones). Also I’m begging people to watch The Farmer’s Daughter, a charming rom com where my babygirl Joseph Cotten falls through the ice while skating because he got distracted by how pretty she was, and where Loretta puts on a 40s-bad Swedish accent and runs for Congress! Girlboss!

Marlene Dietrich (Shanghai Express, Witness for the Prosecution, Morocco)—its marlene dietrich!!!! queer legend, easily the hottest person to ever wear a tuxedo, that hot hot voice, those glamorous glamorous movies.... most famously she starred in a string of movies directed by josef von sternberg throughout the 1930s, beginning with the blue angel which catapulted her to stardom in the role of the cabaret singer lola lola. known for his exquisite eye for lighting, texture, imagery, von sternberg devoted himself over the course of their collaborations to acquiring exceptional skill at photographing dietrich herself in particular, a worthy direction in which to expend effort im sure we can all agree. she collaborated with many other great directors of the era as well, including rouben mamoulian (song of songs), frank borzage (desire), ernst lubitsch (angel), fritz lang (rancho notorious), and billy wilder (witness for the prosecution). the encyclopedia britannica entry im looking at while compiling this propaganda describes her as having an “aura of sophistication and languid sexuality” which✔️💯. born marie magdalene dietrich, she combined her first and middle names to coin the moniker “marlene”. she was a trendsetter in her incorporation of trousers, suits, and menswear into her wardrobe and her androgynous allure was often remarked upon. critic kenneth tynan wrote, “She has sex, but no particular gender. She has the bearing of a man; the characters she plays love power and wear trousers. Her masculinity appeals to women and her sexuality to men.” in the 1920s she enjoyed the vibrant queer nightlife of weimar berlin, visiting gay bars and drag balls, and in hollywood her love affairs with men and women were an open secret. she was an ardent opponent of nazi germany, refusing lucrative contacts offered her to make films there, raising money with billy wilder to help jews and dissidents escape, and undertaking extensive USO tours to entertain soldiers with an act that included her a playing musical saw and doing a mindreading routine she learned from orson welles. starting in the 50s and continuing into the mid-70s she worked largely as a cabaret artist touring the world to large audiences, employing burt bacharach as her musical arranger.

This is round 2 of the tournament. All other polls in this bracket can be found here. Please reblog with further support of your beloved hot sexy vintage woman.

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

Loretta Young:

[additional propaganda submitted under the cut.]

"ms dietrich....ms dietrich pls.....sit on my face"

"First of all, there are those publicity photos of her in a tux. Second of all, I have never been the same since knowing that she sent copies of those photos to her Berlin lovers signed "Daddy Marlene." Not only is she hot in all circumstances, but she can do everything from earthy to ice queen. Also, she kept getting sexy romantic lead parts in Hollywood after the age of 40, which would be rare even now. She hated Nazis, loved her friends, and had a sapphic social circle in Hollywood. She also had cheekbones that could cut glass and a voice that could melt you."

Bisexual icon, super hot when dressed both masculine and feminine, lived up her life in the queer Berlin scene of the 1920s, central to the 'sewing circle' of the secret sapphic actresses of Old Hollywood, refused lucrative offers by the Nazis and helped Jews and others under persecution to escape Nazi Germany, the love of my life

Her GENDER her looks her voice her everything

“In her films and record-breaking cabaret performances, Miss Dietrich artfully projected cool sophistication, self-mockery and infinite experience. Her sexuality was audacious, her wit was insolent and her manner was ageless. With a world-weary charm and a diaphanous gown showing off her celebrated legs, she was the quintessential cabaret entertainer of Weimar-era Germany.”

"The bar scene in Morocco awoke something in me and ultimately changed my gender"

"Her manner, the critic Kenneth Tynan wrote, was that of ‘a serpentine lasso whereby her voice casually winds itself around our most vulnerable fantasies.’ Her friend Maurice Chevalier said: ‘Dietrich is something that never existed before and may never exist again.’”

"Songstress, photographer, fashion icon, out bisexual phenom (notoriously stole Lupe Velez and Joan Crawford's men, and Errol Flynn's wife, had a torrid affair with Greta Garbo that ended in a 60-year feud, other notable conquests including Erich Maria Remarque -yes, the guy who wrote All Quiet on the Western Front- Douglas Fairbanks Junior, Claudette Colbert, Mercedes de Acosta, Edith Piaf), anti-Nazi activist. Marlene was a bitch - she had an open marriage for decades and one of her favorite things was making catty commentary about her current lover with her husband, and her relationship with her daughter was painful- but she was also immensely talented, a hard worker, an opponent of fascism and the hottest ice queen in Hollywood for a long time."

"She can sing! She can act! She told the Nazis to fuck off and became a US citizen out of spite! She worked with other German exiles to create a fund to help Jews and German dissidents escape (she donated an entire movie salary, about $450k, to the cause). She looks REALLY GOOD in a suit. If you're not convinced, please listen to her sing "Lili Marlene". Absolutely gorgeous woman with a gorgeous voice."

Gifset link

"Bisexual icon and Nazi-hater. Looks absolutely stunning in the suits she liked to wear. 'I dress for the image. Not for myself, not for the public, not for fashion, not for men'."

"Did a bunch of humanitarian work during ww2, pretty sure a shot of her from Shanghai express was the inspiration for one of queens album covers and also her in the suit in Morocco (1930) CHANGED LIVES. I’m sure she’s already been submitted but I wanted an opportunity to submit one of my favourite pictures of her for the poll"

"would you not let her walk on you?"

[mirnilop]

𝓉𝒽𝒶𝓉 𝑜𝓁𝑒 𝒹𝑒𝓋𝒾𝓁 𝒸𝒶𝓁𝓁𝑒𝒹 𝓁𝑜𝓋𝑒 ˚₊·͟͟͟͟͟͟͞͞͞͞͞͞➳❥ wally darling

⚠ tags: sfw, mob au, yandere!wally, gn!singer!reader, power imbalance, discussions of violence

♡ synopsis: you’d be surprised how many fans you accrue as a small-time lounge singer. while this is usually a good thing, one of yours happens to rule half the city, so he isn’t exactly receptive to the word “no”.

♡ word count: 5,310

⛧ﾐ‧*･ﾟ the following content may be triggering to some. please proceed with caution! ･ﾟ*‧ミ⛧

a/n: hello!! ₍ᐢ.ˬ.⑅ᐢ₎ goshh, my very first post on this acc!! i haven’t posted fanfic in a hot minute but i’m suuuper excited to get back into it!! 💞 i have sooo many wips for this fandom, it was difficult to choose which one to finish first! credit to @/clownsuu for creating the au and for the lovely art!! i tweaked the concept a wee bit so that it takes place in a roger rabbit-esque world where puppets and humans live together unharmoniously (with a jessica rabbit inspired reader ofc >v>). it was a lot of fun trying to marry wally's canon personality with a Scary Mob Boss (*´ 艸`) i can't wait to post more!! what are y'all's favourite aus? let me know!! ･*･:≡(　ε:)

There’s a rose on your vanity.

The sight of it snuffs out your high spirits, irritation igniting in its place– and it was such a good day, too! You and the girls were perfectly in sync for your entire performance, bolstered by the unusually affable audience; you even rewarded them with a sneak peek of new material, which made them go wild!

Dreams of stomping it beneath your heel stew in your head as you drop it in the faience vase at the rim of the mirror, where a crinkled, beige-tipped rose droops against the rim. Why not break the vase too? An idea that’s crossed your mind too many times, and while it gets harder to resist with each flower, you endure it. They’re presents, after all, and you doubt your admirer would take kindly to the news that you’ve trashed them. You’re certain one of his minions would obtain the evidence, if not witness you do it; you can’t pinpoint the extent to which they survey you, but the crawling sensation of eyes on your back crops up often, and obviously they have no problem barging into your dressing room to play delivery service.

Sighing, you comb through your rolling rack to pick a suitable outfit to change into. Most of the articles hanging are also gifts, but you’ve made sure to keep some of your own hard-earned clothes here out of sheer spite. A burgundy cashmere number has just slipped into your grasp when the door bursts open.

“How’s that for a show?! And what a great crowd, a whole buncha dolls! Or– well, puppets– and humans! Hahaha!”

Lottie skips in with her usual energy, the bell on her collar jingling alongside the clack of her Mary Janes. You hate that their manager mandates the bells as a part of their costumes, as if puppets being treated like second-class citizens wasn’t enough. “You wanna make money or not? It’s part of the appeal! You know, Mary Had A Little Lamb and all that!” is what he told you after one of your countless tirades regarding his treatment of them, but the sleazy smirk wrapped around his cheap cigarette allowed you to read between the lines. As much as you despise that man, it’s not your business to judge the trio for staying contracted with him. Mottie’s recalled to you how difficult it was to hire a manager at all, and you suppose you have to (begrudgingly) thank him for bringing them into your life, since he’s the one who bagged them the backup singer gig.

A swell of color in your peripheral lets you know that she’s come near, but you don’t bother diverting attention from your search. This is such a common occurrence between you two that pleasantries are no longer required.

“And they were mighty generous with the tips! So me and the gals was thinking we should go somewhere to… celebrate…”

Hearing her trail off, you turn to find her staring at the new rose, her once-perky ears fallen limp. You click your tongue, remorse prickling your heart, though you’ve done nothing wrong.

“I’ll be alright, Lottie. Here,” You grab a wad of bills from your personal tip jar and fold them into her hand. “You take your sisters somewhere nice, my treat. As an apology for having to skip out tonight.”

When she doesn’t move from her spot, merely pouting at you with big, glistening eyes full of concern, you swaddle her in a hug. Fleecy strands of shell pink hair tickle your nose as she nestles her snout into your shoulder, squeezing you like a lifebuoy. Having her in your arms is a vital reminder as to why you continue to put up with everything. Lottie, Dottie and Mottie are your beloved friends– your family when you had none– and you are willing to do whatever is necessary to build a life with them.

“Are ya sure?”

“Positive. And if that bug gives you even a whiff of trouble, you come get me right away, got it?”

She laughs, the sound a balm to the ache of your worries. “He never gives us any trouble– n’fact, I haven’t heard ‘im say a single word!”

“Good. At least one of them has manners. Now go have fun!”

After a few more hugs and a promise to relay your apology to her sisters, she trots towards the entrance. Halfway through it, she pauses.

“Promise ya’ll play nice?”

An involuntary grimace twists your face, which you smooth immediately.

“I was planning on it,” you concede, earning an exhale of relief from Lottie.

“Thanks. Honestly, I’m kinda worried...” She leans against the doorframe, gaze trained on the checkered floor. “I see more and more of that Napoleon-wannabe’s goons lately. Do ya think he’s gettin’ antsy? It’s been real quiet since that incident with Dorelaine.”

Ah, the incident. It happened a handful of months ago; he refused to go into specifics, but what you’ve gathered from his gnomic recount and various news stories is that their rival organization– led by Ronald Dorelaine, a human man– planted explosives somewhere important, racking up thousands in damages and dismembering several puppets, left to be mended with those horrific stitches. You didn’t receive another rose until several weeks afterwards.

“I can’t be sure,” you admit. “He doesn’t tell me much about the goings-on of the ‘family’, not that I care to know. But I noticed he’s been more wound up lately… maybe they’re going to retaliate?”

A visible shudder travels through Lottie, and she tosses her head as if to ward off the gravity of your predicament. It was easier to ignore the implications when there wasn’t an active turf battle.

“You’re right, we should stay as far as we can from that nasty business. Wear the red, then. To butter ‘im up a little.” She offers you a conflicted half-smile, most likely holding herself back from proposing a makeover, before sidling out the door.

Glowering, you follow the advice, shucking your tight, shimmering stage outfit for the cozy cashmere you were eyeing before. Like I need to be reminded of his favorite color. I’ve practically lived in red since I met him. It inexplicably fits like a glove, as do all of the clothes you've been bestowed; for the sake of your sanity, you prevent yourself from delving too far into that subject.

As you fix the little bits of your appearance that got mussed up during your performance, you can’t help but contemplate hiding in your room until morning, even though you know it wouldn’t work– and you’d have to pay for a broken front door. Once every speck of lint has been removed and your ensemble is flawless, you steel your resolve with a hard look in the mirror. If things go south, at least you’ll make a gorgeous open casket.

You step into your shoes and out of the dressing room, swiping your bag and a matching hat from the plethora that dangle on knobs affixed to the wall along the way. The haze that eternally permeates the lounge envelops you as you walk, no longer springing tears to your eyes like it did so long ago, when you were a starry-eyed fledgling. Upon entering the foyer, you call out to the owner, Gene, who’s counting the register behind the bar.

“Hey, I’m heading out!”

“Geez, you’re in a hurry! Got a hot date or what?”

“Something like that,” you breathe, your nerves relighting tenfold now that you’re so close to the outside.

“Ahh, I getcha.” His amusement is clear, construing an innuendo within your words that is absolutely not there, but you’d rather die than clarify. “You did a great job today, you deserve it!”

Somehow, your admirer has managed to limbo directly under Gene’s nose; thus far he’s made no indication that he’s aware he has a very important patron. For a moment, you observe him, and see how he absentmindedly rubs the pocket of his button-up– where a polaroid of his two children is safely tucked away– and you decide that it’s probably for the best.

“Thanks, Gene. Have a good one.”

“You too!”

His reply barely reaches you as you cross the threshold from the comfort of your work into the cold, pensive night. A luckier soul may have suffered a fright when greeted with the colossal figure standing below the street light, carved with shadow, but it’s a familiar sight to you now. An inconspicuous black car is parked behind him.

“Hi Howdy.”

“Evening, Mx.” He bows slightly, whisking open the sleek passenger door which you reluctantly slide inside.

“I wish you’d stop calling me that. I do have a name.” It’s true. Being addressed formally by such an important figure imbues you a with a sick feeling, like he’s won, and you’ve already been initiated into this fucked up institution.

Though he waits for you to finish speaking before shutting you in, he doesn’t grace you with a response; not that you were expecting one. In all the times he’s escorted you to these duress-dates, as you’ve taken to calling them, he’s remained stoic to a mechanical degree, acknowledging your presence and nothing more. Thrashing, crying, screaming– you’ve tried everything to escape, and have never elicited a reaction more severe than that of a tired parent handling a tantrum. If you resist, he simply manhandles you. It’s hardly a fair match, with him having 4 arms and several feet of height on you, so you opt to reserve your energy for dealing with his headache of a boss.

When he hauls his many limbs onto the driver’s seat, the car lurches, too small to accommodate a puppet of his stature; he has to hunch forward to see the windshield, antennae pushed flat. You lean back and vacantly turn towards the window, wondering if cars big enough for someone like him to drive comfortably even exist while the engine rumbles to life.

The umbrous cityscape passes you by, inklings of humans and puppets flashing in and out of the darkness like ghosts. Thick boughs of red and green tinsel are strung across a few lamp posts, but by the end of the season they’ll all be covered. Dottie’s already triple checked that you and her sisters have one day of the annual Christmas market off, even though you strike the same deal with Gene every year; the four of you get Saturday, then he gets Sunday to take his family. It’s one of your favorite times of the year, if only because you get to experience the aura of wonder that enlivens Lottie when the first snow falls, Mottie’s timid wheedling to attend The Nutcracker, and Dottie’s alphabetically-organized checklist of fun winter activities.

Those cheerful thoughts are wiped away as Howdy turns into a private garage attached to a sleek, angular skyscraper. He parks in the spot nearest to the entrance, the first in a row of spaces labeled with metal “Reserved for Staff” signs, and circles the car to let you out. The sensation of him gingerly lifting you comes with no alarm; he always assists you up the concrete stairs leading to the elevator, as if you’re so physically inept you can’t handle 3 tiny steps. You assume his needless precaution is for the same reason he hasn’t beaten you yet despite defying him so often: boss’s orders.

With a reedy knell, the elevator glides open, and Howdy signals for you to go ahead. Once you’re both inside, he inserts a key and presses the button for the uppermost level. Expecting a noiseless ride, you tune into the low muzak emitting from the speakers, which makes you miss the first time he calls you.

“Mx.”

Startled, you swivel towards him. His steadfast profile is unreadable.

“Boss doesn’t know you’ve opposed him so vehemently in the past. Please keep that in mind tonight.”

The entrance broaches before you can interrogate him as to what the hell he means, granting you entry to a luxury penthouse laved in gold, ivory, and– of course– red. A glimmering chandelier suspends from the ornamental ceiling, bathing the antique furniture in an amber glow. If you hadn’t just ridden up the elevator, you would have assumed such a lavish drawing room belonged to an old mansion.

It’s something straight out of a romance novel, except instead of a chiseled, broody Italian, it’s a short puppet sitting at the marble-topped dining table. He lounges at the head in a slate blue silk suit with its jacket buttoned to the top; an honor seemingly reserved solely for you, because it’s the only way you’ve seen him wear it, despite street tales describing the way it billows from his shoulders as he stalks the town. Revealed by its plunged neckline is the collar of a white dress shirt embossed with rainbow pinstripes, and a red ascot neatly tied and pulled askant around his throat.

Wally Darling, in the felt: kingpin of The Neighborhood, and resident thorn in your side.

When you arrive, he rises to meet you, dismissing Howdy with a pointed glance; you’ve learned that the relationship between a crime lord and his loyal bandog transcends language. You watch him as he leaves through a pair of swinging doors to the left, his cryptic advice-slash-warning heavy on your mind.

And so, you find yourself alone with the most dangerous man in the city– puppet or otherwise.

“Good evening, dearest. I hope my gift found you well.”

The concept of personal space might as well be Greek to Wally, since he hasn’t once respected it from the day you had the misfortune of making his acquaintance. He crowds so close that you have to crane your neck to see his face, the heat emanating from him eliciting shivers in your chill-soaked body.

“Yes, thank you. It was quite a lively night,” you chirp, wielding a civil smile.

Although the contours of his wispy, coiffed curls only reach your ribs, he extends his arm to you, which you take with such a featherlight hold that you barely brush his sleeve. Rather than leading you to the dining table like you expected, you’re guided towards a small lounge area to the side, the crackling croon of Billie Holiday wafting over from a refurbished stereo console in the corner. Oh, great. He’s feeling sentimental.

“Would you indulge me with a dance before dinner?”

Don't have much of a choice, do I?

“I’d love to.”

Dancing with Wally is funny, in an ironic sort of way; it certainly caught you off guard the first time he asked. When you envision dancing with a powerful, deadly mobster, you think of being swept away, wrapped snugly by strong arms and a dastardly smirk, or perhaps something more courtly, like a waltz steered by a polite hand on your waist. Turns out both versions are incorrect.

Muscle memory ushers your arms open, and Wally falls into the space in between them– literally. Slack against you, his full weight is heftier than his height would imply, but not physically uncomfortable– emotionally and morally, however, are another story. An air of pure peace washes over him as his cheek nuzzles the underside of your chest, arms limp at his sides; you swear you even hear a little trill. Your face burns, but you say nothing as you begin to sway faintly to the beat, tracing a loop with your feet as you traipse along. Wally follows easily, tethered by the reluctant cage of your embrace.

“Do you remember the night we met?”

The query is felt more than heard, his gentle monotone muffled by the downy fabric of your garb. You huff softly to yourself, rustling a few gel-slick strands atop his pompadour.

“How could I forget?”

The day the infamous Mr. Darling appeared in your club, his two largest henchmen in tow, is burned into your brain like a regrettable tattoo; Gene was off, so you were covering entertainment for the night while the sisters managed the bar and floor. As you were singing the very song playing now, you detected a curious hush that had overtaken the throng of guests, and strained to cut through the stage glare and cigarette fog to locate the cause. Tracking the audience, who were all regarding the bar with varying amounts of subtlety, you nearly dropped the microphone when you saw the broad blue back of Barnaby B. Beagle, someone you’d only heard of in gossip. He gesticulated as he spoke boisterously to poor Mottie, who was as white as a sheet behind the counter. Situated a slight ways away was Howdy Pillar, who stood as motionless as a statue with both sets of forelimbs fastened behind him.

And then you noticed him. A puppet no more than 4 feet tall, but whose oppressive presence commanded full attention. He paid no mind to the (one-sided) conversation between his colleague and your friend– no, he was staring right at you. Boring into you so acutely that you felt pinned, compelled somehow to continue singing until the final note trickled away.

As if a spell had been broken, you leapt from the platform and scurried to Mottie, who stayed petrified even when you tried to covertly nudge her to the side. How avidly you wished a fissure would open beneath their shoes and swallow them whole; but, armed with years of appeasing difficult and sordid customers, you spoke.

“Evening, fellas. I hope you enjoyed the show.”

Barnaby, who had stopped talking when you rounded the bar, bellowed a laugh.

“Fellas?! Is that any way to greet the boss and I?"

He tilted forward with menacing glee, propped up by furry elbows as his claws scraped the laminate countertop. Each of his fangs were as big as your nose.

"Dontcha know who we are, toots? Or do ya just need a refresher on respect?"

The acrid smoke from his cigar blew directly into your face, making spikes of anger bubble in your belly as you choked back a cough. Just when you felt composed enough to reply, a surprisingly mellow voice chimed in.

"It's alright, Barnaby."

The shock slacking his jaw mirrored yours, although you hid it under a mask of cool indifference. You dared a glance at Mr. Darling, but the pressure of his peer chased your gaze back to Barnaby, who grumbled as he straightened back up. It was difficult to stay trained on his good eye, but you soldiered on. Fear was not something you could afford to show, and you knew you'd crumble if you peeked at the fabled gaping socket that he stapled open himself.

"I don't suppose you're Gene Clifton, aged 54, father of two, owner of this joint?" He joked, recovered from the flub.

"No, sir, but my banker would sure be happy if I was. Can I take down a message?"

"A message! I love this bird!" Snickering cruelly, he waved a flippant paw. "Y'should try that material on stage sometime, might bring ya more customers than the singing bit."

You sucked a sharp inhale up your nose. Serenity now.

"See, here's the problem. This is family territory, and in return for our protection, we charge a teensy fee. Now, we ain't unreasonable– we've sent ole Gene a few letters. And what’s our thanks for such humble hospitality? Zilch."

Oh dear. Gene doesn't bother investigating any mail the lounge receives before tossing it because it’s typically adverts. He definitely would've noted The Neighborhood's seal if he did. Regardless, the frank abuse of power only fanned your annoyance, obscuring your better judgment.

"What protection? I don't recall seeing any of your members patrolling outside. Besides, we didn’t ask for protection."

Mottie snapped towards you, looking as though she might faint. The corner of Barnaby's mouth twitched skyward, like he was hoping you'd argue, but his boss beat him to the punch.

"We can reach an agreement, I’m sure. I'd hate to see a family establishment go under, especially when they have such lovely entertainment."

Apparently Wally was so smitten that he'd accept your company in lieu of money, and so the agreement (if you can even call it that, since you were coerced) was this– whenever a rose was delivered to you, you'd attend a rendezvous with him. When you returned to your dressing room later that evening, you discovered the first gift of several: your vase.

“I knew because of your eyes.”

The floral wallpaper in front of you shifts back into focus, Wally’s voice shaking you from your recollection.

“Pardon?”

“That night, you drew me in; I couldn’t concentrate on anything else, least of all a petty protection tax. And I knew I had to have you when I met your eyes.” He sounds dreamy, reminiscing as you were before, though his framing of events is worlds apart from your own; he recalls a destined encounter with his future partner, whereas you mark it the day your wings were clipped for good.

“They shone like stars, even through the smog.”

It’s only after he’s finished that you realize you’ve stopped moving, wrapped in an intimate hug like true lovers. A strange mix of pride and disgust floods you at the compliment, stomach flip-flopping rapidly.

He untangles from you, receding so that only your hands remain connected. The newfound distance eases some of your tension, but to your horror, you find yourself mourning the loss of the husky scent of his cologne. Loath as you are to admit it, the bastard smells amazing: a dark, leathery swirl of apples and saffron that you’d buy out if someone turned it into a candle.

“Let’s not delay any longer. You must be starving.”

True to his gentlemanly veneer, he seats you at the table before settling himself. You don’t see him call, but a server emerges immediately from the doors through which Howdy left with a tray of appetizers.

There are two graces you award Wally Darling: his excellent taste in cologne, and his staff’s Michelen-quality fare. Though they adopt the four courses typical of fine dining, the dishes are more grounded, toeing the border between grandma and Gordon Ramsay perfectly. Truthfully, you’re not even sure what to categorize it as; virtually everything is transfigured into a jello, pie, or salad, harkening back to the post-war cookbooks you used to gawk at as a child in your late mother’s library. The yellowed pictures in those books appeared extremely unappetizing, but somehow The Neighborhood makes it work.

It could be because of an illusive member named Poppy, one of the 7 who make up Wally’s illustrious inner circle. She’s scarcely seen due to her fretful and skittish nature, but Wally lauds her cooking and baking skills, regaling you in the past with plenty of kitchen mishaps that occurred when she tried to decompress by experimenting with recipes and was interrupted by their more excitable comrades. If you remember correctly, he once told you that most of the menus in rotation were created by her.

The nature of these duress-dates is wholly dependent on Wally’s mood– if he’s happy, then he’ll gladly chat your ear off about frivolous happenings in his and his friends’ private lives, though he takes care to be shrewd with any details that dive too deep into the murky underbelly lying just below. If he’s unhappy, then they can be utterly unbearable; his mere existence puts you on edge, so it’s exponentially worse when he’s out of sorts, tone curt and glare fierce.

Thankfully, he’s amiable tonight. The first 3 courses march on without incident, and painless conversation flows between the two of you, even if he does most of the talking– you’re not exactly eager to share more than you have to. It’s when the server presents dessert that things go awry.

“Say, how are those triplets you work with doing?” Wally says, spooning at the Bananas Foster. “I haven’t had the pleasure of catching a performance since our mishap a while back. So much paperwork, so little time, you know how it is.”

The mention of both your friends and the aforementioned Dorelaine incident have you bristling reflexively, but you do your best to tamp it down.

“They’re well, overall. Sometimes it’s difficult for them– their manager’s a real piece of work, and we get all types at the lounge.”

“I see…”

He lets out a long “hmmmm”, like he’s reflecting on this information.

“My family has also come upon hard times. It can be… trying, sometimes, to guide my children. Especially now, when we are under unjust attack.” He confesses, wistfully resting his chin on a thread-scarred palm. “Every family requires a head, but what is a head without a neck?”

Unjust my ass. Still, the weird metaphor confuses you.

“A neck?”

At that, his catlike grin only grows. What is he talking about?

“Yes, a neck; that is, someone who supports the head. I care for my family, so it’s only right I am cared for in return, wouldn’t you say?”

Though the phrasing is puzzling, you’re fairly confident you can infer what he’s purposefully dangling in front of you, and oh, it makes your stomach plummet. Sweat breaks out underneath your suddenly-sweltering outfit; it's as if you've been tied to a railroad and have managed to divert the train through pure will for a year, but now it's steamrolling square for you. The anxiety of impending doom renders you mute, unable to piece together a coherent thought.

Taking your silence in stride, Wally leans forward, intense as he grasps your hand in both of his own. The yellow fuzz does nothing to help how clammy you feel.

“What I mean to say is, I think that it’s time to settle down."

No.

“Wh– what? Settle down how?”

“To get married, silly.”

You’re unable to help the gasp that escapes you. No, no, no!

“Get married? You mean– to me?!”

“Of course. I’ve been courting you all this time, haven’t I?”

You sputter, and he rubs your hand as if to soothe you. His many gold rings gleam under the chandelier, teasing a glimpse of your fate.

“I know in the beginning you weren’t receptive to the idea of this life, but I've shown you that I can provide for you better than anyone else.”

Your expression must betray your surprise, because he chuckles– a slow, stilted sound that sends gooseflesh blooming across your skin.

“You thought I didn’t know? Howdy may not have reported it– which I’ll rectify in due time– but I have eyes everywhere, dear. You’re quite the talented actor, though.”

That trademark simper melts into something beguiling; he cradles you as if you’re the most precious thing he’s ever held.

“I love you, and I will take care of you, as I ask you to do for me. Doesn’t that sound wonderful?”

An inviting facade of genuine affection, so ardent that you almost want to believe it. Wouldn’t that be the easiest path to take? To surrender to the hand that feeds, because where it strangles others, it caresses you sweetly? It’s more tempting than you’d ever divulge, because underneath the armor of aplomb you've so carefully forged, you're exhausted. This burden has been yours alone to bear– and what a bear it is, because if you mess up, the people you love could be injured, or worse. So much worse.

Perhaps sensing an opening, Wally continues.

“Be reasonable. The family welcomes you with open arms! Haven’t you missed having a family?"

The words stab you right through the heart, and your waning resolve springs back tenfold by the fury that ruddies your vision. When you rip your hand away, he makes no move to stop you.

"My friends are my family. I don’t want anyone else, especially not murderers!” You snarl. “You kill people– and torture and maim them! How can you expect me to accept this?!"

"All in a day's work when cleaning up the city, unfortunately," Wally hums. "I wish we didn't have to resort to such things, but you must understand. As it is, puppets are treated as less than, and hardship runs rampant for both humans and puppets alike. You’ve experienced these firsthand.” With the elegance of a master conman, he touches his chest in mock respire. “All we wish to do is provide a safe haven for those in need– somewhere to rest your bones, enjoy a hot meal, and where everyone accepts you as their own. A home.”

You abruptly stand up, feeling like you’re wound so taut that you could erupt at any moment. The mahogany chair behind you tips over from the force, striking the floor with a leaden thud, though the sound is deafened by the blood rushing in your ears.

“Bullshit! You don’t have to start a gang to combat discrimination or help suffering people! Maybe that spiel works on the poor saps you trick into doing your dirty work, but it won’t work on me. The answer is no.”

All is still for a moment as you struggle to calm your heaving breaths, trembling and locked in a quiet stalemate with Wally, who’s as relaxed as ever. Your attention flits from his right eye to where the left would be, if not for the lesion carved from a notch above his eyelid to an inch below, giving the illusion that what lies beneath is impaled.

Oh shit.

The magnitude of what just transpired comes crashing down as your adrenaline flushes out. After playing it safe for months– stomaching unwanted exorbitant gifts, being tailed by his employees, and rousted to innumerous “dates”– you just rejected Wally Darling in the most aggressive way possible. So you do the only thing that might garner you a chance to make it out of this alive: run.

You’re halfway across the room when 4 thick arms suddenly wrangle and force you to halt, a scream ripping itself from your throat out of fear. Can this motherfucker teleport now?! How the hell did he get here so fast?? Thrashing, you throw your head back to search Howdy’s face, desperate for an ounce of the sympathy he’d offered in the elevator, but it is in vain; his stony visage is impenetrable, as though it had never wavered.

“How about you sleep on it, hm? Think about all of your options. We wouldn’t want anything to happen to those little lambs when their adorable shepherd isn’t around to protect them.”

Delicate fingers cup your jaw, making you freeze as Wally stretches up to plant a faux-kiss on your cheek, complete with a small “mwah!”. You scowl daggers at him as he collects your hat from where it flew to the floor, dusts it off, and lovingly places it back on your head before giving you a few pats.

“Aw, don’t be that way, darling. I truly meant what I said; you have beautiful eyes. I can hardly wait to try one on.”

With a snap, you’re hauled over Howdy’s back and spirited out of the room, presumably to be transported to wherever you’ll be staying. Hopefully not Wally’s quarters.

It’s all too much; you feel like you’re trapped in a nightmare. How else did you expect this to end? You’re not sure. With all of the awful things he’s done, forcing you into marriage is not beyond him. You just thought you’d have more time: to plan, to save up enough money to take the girls and race to the hills.

Tears gather on your waterlines, and the minute your mouth wobbles, they spill ceaselessly. Full-bodied sobs wrack you, the pain of Howdy’s shoulder jutting into your midsection compounding the profound ache of sorrow. All this time, you’ve been trying to fight, but there was no fight to be had; it ended the moment his eyes found yours across the lounge that day.

[izzyhandslightofmylife]

Official statement on why Izzy's death affected me so much

Our Flag Means Death, is, at it’s core, is a show that focuses on queer joy- a form of therapy for those that have been raised on queerbaiting, shipping minor side characters, or watching, when nothing else is available, queer tragedies. You know how it goes- the two main characters, both male, have chemistry. They say things to each other that seem weirdly like declarations of love. They look at each other with love in their eyes. You see these things and the main man gets married off to a badly written, unfinished female character and is left feeling empty. The best friend dies for the main character to live. When everyone talks about how cute the main couple are, you want to scream all of a sudden, because nobody can see this love story play out except you. It’s queer, it’s tragic, and nobody else can understand it. 

Not Our Flag Means Death. From the moment it aired, it was praised as a show with unabashed queer joy, which means more than I can possibly say. The two main male characters meet, they have chemistry, and they fall in love. It’s not implied, or hinted at, but blatantly obvious. Their romances and the queer romances around them attracted so many queer fans who felt that after so many years, this type of show was a vindication for what they had been through with other media. 

In this show, piracy itself was that of a found family. Though Stede Bonnet and the crew of the Revenge start off with many differences, the core of the show centers around a theme that many queer audiences are attracted to: found family. The Revenge was depicted as a safe space, where everyone could express themselves freely, a refuge from a world of judgment. Queerness was not only accepted but normalized on The Revenge. No homophobia, no coming out, no typical complications of queer romance. Just love and safety. Warmth, which was Ed Teach wished for in purgatory. Which was what he found on the Revenge. The ship was a safe space that so many queer audiences had dreamed of. 

Well, a safe space except for one person: Izzy Hands, Blackbeard’s First Mate, who was a man painfully stuck in the wrong genre. This is the general consensus by both fans and the cast: Izzy, Edward and their crew had been in a gritty action movie, whereas Stede and his crew were in a muppet movie of sorts. While the majority of Blackbeard’s crew quickly acclimates to and celebrates the change, Izzy doesn’t. 

And right away, many fans felt a deep attraction to Izzy. The reason that Izzy couldn’t get Edward to love him was because, in the end, the only way that Izzy knew how to love was through blood. To give and receive pain in an action movie is one of the greatest forms of love, but Izzy fails to realize that Ed is not in an action movie anymore. He is happy with this stability, and the reason that so many people felt Izzy’s presence so was strongly was that he wasn’t. 

So many queer people are, in a way, addicted to tragedy. Tragedy is all that is represented in queer media for the most part, or was until very recently. Take Achilles and Patroclus, one of the most celebrated and recognized queer love stories of both ancient and modern times. Why that one? There are other greek love stories, many of them queer. The tragedy of it- Patroclus’ death and Achilles’ rage- made it all the more appealing. Many in the audience of Our Flag Means Death were not comedy fans, they were horror or drama fans, attracted to a comedy because of the love story. But Izzy, to them, was a physical representation of who they were, carrying an awareness of homophobia, of blood and pain that so many queer relationships had previously been illustrated by (i.e. Hannibal). Though Ed may not have understand this type of affection, the audience did- Izzy’s Otherness from the crew despite it’s safety, his expressions of love and his unrequited love story were all things that the audience were familiar with feeling. 

If Ed and Stede were good queer representation, Ed and Izzy, for example, were a foil of that. They were evil, messed up, and fed into the worst parts of each other because it brought them closer. This is a theme present in a lot of queer media, and by extension, queer lives: “if you love me, Henry, you don’t love me in a way I understand”, is an excerpt classic queer poem about unrequited love that fits the situation. The very reason Izzy stuck in people’s heads because he was of a different genre. His grittiness and bitterness made sense to the audience. They saw Izzy and saw what was familiar. He was exquisitely written, simultaneously making even casual audiences both hate him, and against all odds, find him oddly endearing. The idea of this man sacrificing every inch of himself for an unrequited love was a concept of tragedy, leaking into a comedic show. 

So fans projected onto Izzy. He was a catalyst for the heartache, for the audience’s sheer inability to have a happy show. For one reason or another, some of the audience simply couldn’t live with a show that was all fantastical, which I theorize is because they couldn’t see themselves in it. So Izzy became the epitome of queer suffering: pining longingly after another man that couldn’t understand him. This projection of suffering, however, led to a new wish: happiness for Izzy. If Izzy in Season 1 was a tragedy, assimilating him into the found family in Season 2 would have elevated the safe sense of the ship all the more. It would have proved to so many of these Izzy Fans that yes, even though you view yourself as unloveable, even though you see yourself as Israel Hands, Villain, even he can be loved too. Why can’t you be? 

And Season 2, for the most part, delivered beyond our wildest dreams. Izzy had people who cared about him. And though the genre shifted into the darker, Izzy himself shifted slightly to the comedic side as well. His life, which had been centered for so long around a man that didn’t reciprocate his feelings, was gone. He started a new life, and this life, again, focused on queer joy. The queer joy from Season 1 was suddenly for everyone, even those like Izzy that couldn’t have understood it. He sang, he whittled, he talked about feelings, he dressed in drag. Many elder queer fans also saw Izzy as another metaphor, too: that queer joy can be attained overtime. You don’t have to have had it the whole time, but you can accept yourself even when you are older. The message of Izzy was one of resilience and stubbornness, one that the queer community needed to hear: that you don’t have to be like this, you don’t have to create pain for yourself. You don’t need to watch tragedies all the time. You, too, can heal from the past.

And then, the season finale happened. By this point, many argued that Izzy had stolen the show. Con O’Neil’s acting mixed with his general arc of self acceptance had made him a fan favorite. In the last episode, it is Izzy himself who sums it up perfectly, accepting that he belongs somewhere despite his pain and flaws. Despite the darkness within him, he was still accepted and loved. He says it right to the face of Prince Ricky, who thinks himself above it all. That piracy, a metaphor for otherness, wasn’t actually about being alone; it was about finding others that understood you when nobody else could. 

Listen, this show is known for it’s nonsensicality. In the finale of Season 1, Lucius is thrown overboard by Ed and survives by simply swimming to another ship. Stede reunites with his crew by sailing a rowboat. Buttons turns into a seagull. Stede stabs Ed for a comedic bit. Earlier in the season, Izzy himself gets shot and survives. This queer joy show was celebrated for being, well, joyful. Even when things like getting thrown overboard did happen, they were, ultimately, a blip in the character’s journey towards acceptance, healing, etc, which was what made the show unique. Our Flag Means Death, whose audience had been living for years off of the “Bury your gays” trope, was adored because it illustrated a world where things didn’t have to be that way. A place where the impossible, such as Izzy Hands being loved, could happen. This show was one of survival. 

But not for the one person that was seen to struggle with this concept the most. Not for the one person that was a metaphor for belonging in this place, who became, over the course of a season, the embodiment of the message itself. Not for the Unicorn, the very symbol of this magical, nonsensical ship. Not for the most stubborn, most indestructible, most enduring (queer) person in the show. Not for Izzy Hands. 

This trope, honestly, was one that many have seen before, both in mainstream and queer media. A character, previously shown to be a villain or else to have gone through a lot of pain, is shown to heal, to get better, and then to die in order to “complete their arc”. This trope is common: Loki, Cas. even Ted Lasso, who doesn’t die but goes back to the very place that broke him in the first place. But the reason that Izzy’s death, while it might have been expected in another show, felt like a betrayal in this one is because it was known for subverting those tropes. From the “Bury Your Gays” to the “Up For Interpretation”, it was known to look those tropes in the eyes and say “fuck you, these people deserve to be happy”. And this did happen! Except for the one character who’s healing journey was one of the most relatable, at least to queer audiences. 

What also made it so jarring was that all the other characters got to be happy, except for the one that had struggled with the idea of happiness the most. In the scene immediately after Izzy is buried, Lucius and Pete get married. In the scene after, a montage of queer joy and found family is shown amongst the whole crew. In the final scene, Ed and Stede, our main queer couple, are shown healing themselves and starting a new life together. The last shot, however, showed Izzy’s grave, visited by Buttons the seagull while Ed and Stede had dinner. A tragedy in it’s finest. It wouldn’t have been difficult for Izzy to live. Because, in the end, his death meant nothing. His healing meant nothing. He died and was moved on from in a matter of seconds. He was, as I mentioned, the catalyst for tragedy, more specifically, queer tragedy. But because of this, of his genre, Izzy didn’t get to live. He had to die in order for the rest of the characters to keep living in this fantasy world. This death was, in a way, a preservation of these other love stories.

I maintain, however, that it would have meant more if Izzy had lived. If he had been  able to show to us that yes, despite what you have been through, despite what you may have inflicted upon yourself, you can switch genres. It’s possible. Izzy’s survival up until that point had been a profound testament to many that it is possible to heal, that queerness does not have to mean sadness. It would have continued to be a testament to that if only Izzy had lived. And so, this pirate that we latched onto, not in spite of his darkness but because of it, was buried on land on the side of the road. 

As a side note, many previous incidences in the story point to the idea even though Ed and Stede will definitely stay together, it’s uncertain if the inn would have worked out. It’s likely that, being a whim, those two might have chosen to move, or go back to the sea, or sail to China. If this is true, they would have left Izzy’s grave by itself, like a family pet buried in the yard. If this is true, Izzy Hands, a metaphor for belonging, would rot alone. 

Long live the tragedy addicts. Long live the Richard Siken poems. Long live Izzy Hands. 

*When I talk about the "fandom" I am referring to the canyon.

[posletsvet]

Thoughts on Geto Suguru's Psychology Pre-Defection

There's something that I've been meaning to talk about for a while now, and that is Geto's apparent tendency to conceal his negative impulses that allows for, in my view, faulty interpretations stating that he was faking his righteous beliefs all along just because assuming high moral ground gave him a sense of superiority and fed his ego. Meanwhile I would argue that, on contrary, this habit is more indicative of Geto's insecurities and heightened sense of self-awareness.

My thoughts on this underneath the cut, but beware: it's going to be long!

To begin with, I think there are two major factors playing into the misconception that I mentioned. The first one boils down to prejudice forcing people to look upon younger Geto through the lense of a person he would go on to become. The kind of cautious logic that says that a deeply empathetic, caring highschooler couldn't have turned into a murderous cult leader preaching the merits of genocide, and thus seeks ways to dehumanize him from the very beginning (because that's a terrible concept to wrap your mind around, I agree). And the second factor being... well, that Suguru's behaviour really does come off as fake at times.

We experience 'negative' emotions as naturally as 'positive' ones, and despite some of them are conventionally accepted as 'good' whereas others are painted as 'bad', no emotion is inherently harmful or invalid; they all are a part of what makes us human. While it's undoubtedly a chilly and ominous concept for someone to be completely devoid of any positive traits, just as unnatural it is to display positive responses only. Perfection is stored away at museums, no living breathing human being can go through their life without being affected by negative impulses or thinking. But more often than not negative emotions are condemned and stigmatized (in the end, we still refer to them as 'negative'), and self-consciousness can make one ashamed or guilty of experiencing them. The end result of this would be trying to hide your feelings under one more appealing appearance, creating a warp between what's intuitive and what's manifest, an inadequate emotional response.

Gojo (at least in his teenage years) is widely outspoken and doesn't hesitate to outwardly express himself, whether verbally or via body language. It probably takes root in Gojo's upbringing: he was spoilt rotten, revered for being born with a silver spoon in his mouth, his every whim indulged and tended to. There simply wasn't any need for him to try and make a good impression by faking docility and emotions that are more pleasant and easier to digest. Gojo may be boisterous and bratty and obnoxious, but he isn't trying to 'trick' anyone into thinking he's better than he really is, and this paints a more sincere, believable picture to the audience.

On the other hand, Geto's emotions, partly due to his more solemn demeanour, are often toned down or consciously concealed. For instance, when Riko manages to strike a nerve in him, his response is to immediately plaster on mawkish 'customer service' smile to not give away his annoyance. This scene is especially interesting to me because of how Amanai's reaction gives voice to the audience's concerns. Referring to Suguru, she says, 'You look like a liar!' -- and by doing so calls him out on his tendency to mask negative emotions. Intuitively, she can still read his feelings in his body language, in the delay in his expression rearranging itself into a smile, and so can the viewer. We know he's annoyed, and his words about having no intention to harm Riko don't exactly align with how he behaves (even if in a playful manner) a moment after saying them. It creates a tangible contradiction between what he says his intentions are and what his actions speak of, between the appearances and what lies behind them. And this contradiction raises suspicion, in a way that if somebody's making an effort to hide something, then there must be something to hide.

In retrospect this doubt might seem reinforced and justified. I see how it's easy to fall into thinking that Geto, having become a criminal who's done unspeakably cruel things and who backs up his delusional ideals with bigoted reasoning, should've been hiding darker parts of himself behind all those fake smiles and talks about righteousness. But pinning the blame on Geto alone by claiming that he had violent tendencies to begin with is essentially disregarding systematic issues that the story strives so much to convey to the audience. Holding innate individual qualities accountable for the catastrophe is basically the sort of thinking that the higher-ups display, whose main strategy for dealing with problems is public scapegoating and disposing of every single threat to the current order by giving out one death sentence after the other. I don't think we as the viewers are supposed to reach the conclusion that Suguru is at fault for what happened, which is not to say he's faultless, nonetheless the narrative goes to great lengths to make us sympathize with him, not the other way around.

Now, there's really a handful of ways in which Geto's character seems to contradict himself. He shares overspilling empathy for the people around him, that is his character's core trait, but that very empathy spells out his downfall when it degrades into resentment and hate. He displays a largely considerate and sympathetic demeanour, but he's first introduced to the audience as someone who backhandedly bad-mouths Utahime for being weak. He's one half of the strongest duo, but whereas Gojo is a natural-born genius, Geto evidently struggles with his powers. His entire career as a curse user is based on the mentality which justifies the means to an end, but reaching the end goal is impossible for him as he is, Geto himself as much as admits to it during his last conversation with Satoru. He sets on his wild-goose chase for power, but ends up stagnating to the point where his use of Curse Manipulation in the Hidden Inventory Arc is much more inventive and creative than in Jujutsu Kaisen 0. The list goes on, but you got the gist.

To live for the purpose of being yourself. And for that goal, Geto could only continue to pursue his twisted dream, drowning himself in a curse that lies in the gap between ideal and reality.

I believe this to be such a poignant phrase when it comes to Geto's characterization because of how well, in my view, it encapsulates the conflict of his character -- or, if you will, the contradiction of it. It succinctly expresses his outlook on things, where he views the world how it's ideally supposed to be rather than how it realistically is. I've actually somewhat already elaborated on this in my very first rambling on here:

To me, Geto seems to be a type of person who needs something to guide him, some clear-cut ideal to make it possible for him to navigate through his life. He is pedantic in that sense: the sharp outlines of his views define his surroundings, the very way he looks at things and perceives them. He needs everything to fall precisely in line with his own set of ideals, which seems to be quite verified and well-adjusted within his mind, like a strict and refined concept he constructed for himself, like a routine he's used to following out of pure principal. His own belief system being so defined, it's that which makes him indulge in excessive discourse on the subject of morality and responsibility, like he's patiently laying out the basics in front of a disobedient child to help them wrap their mind around some fundamental truth that is so obvious and natural for him.

In a way, Geto concealing his negative emotions is not a false front put up against scrutinizing looks that could reveal his 'true nature'. Quite the opposite, I think it speaks more of his well-meaning intentions. When trying to change the way things are, start at yourself, and I guess this is the principle Geto's trying to apply here. By following through his own ideal, Geto does his best to be an upright person he believes himself obliged to be, whether that means forcing himself to absorb curses or putting on a customary smile. It might be juvenile and wishful thinking on his part, probably akin to 'fake it till you make it', but it's important to keep in mind that at that time he was still but a teenager. Moreover, he was put on par with somebody as praised within jujutsu society as Gojo, he must've felt on top of the world, too entranced by their warm spring of youth to care too much about the occasional slips. With Satoru by his side, I imagine Geto could afford to cut some slack and participate in the mischief. Later we see post-defection Geto drop his frivolous facade only when he's entirely alone -- another hint at how Gojo was really the only person Suguru allowed himself to confide in, that is untill the SPVI put uncrossable distance between them.

While I do say that Geto's intentions are well-meaning, the way he positions himself actually reveals some quite problematic aspects of his mindset. Namely, his attitude towards non-sorcerers, whom he clearly sets into a different category from himself and his fellow sorcerers. Regular people lack crucial understanding, they are weak because they are helpless, therefore they have to be shielded from the source of harm. This is a largely patronizing concept of empathy, since it's based on the notion that the 'weak' are inherently inferior to Geto himself and others involved in jujutsu society. It's interesting how it's reflected in Geto's insistence on the necessity of curtains. The use of curtains furthers the extent of non-sorcerers' ignorance, they never learn how to stay out of harm's way as they are deprived even of as much as their perception of the existing danger. It reminds me of how a parent would brush a child's concerns aside because they're too young and naive and do not need to be aware of adult life's hardships. Just like Geto's paternalistic outlook, it does not come from malice or negligence, it's just an attempt to keep someone less experienced and skilled safe. Nonetheless it's harmful as it puts that person in a position which denies them agency.

In my view, Suguru's fake smiles are an extension of his acute sense of responsibility. In front of those over whom he assumes responsibility, he presents himself as calm, collected and dependable as if it's supposed to reassure them. It's his job to protect them and make them feel safe, so there's no need showing them his own struggle. Even if such thinking is condescending, it's not in any way malicious. Geto's entire character arc would be simply non-existent if he wasn't completely genuine in his sentiments.

So why do I talk about Geto's insecurities when first introducing the topic of this post? Well, I'm about to take a deep dive into the field of speculation and theories and finally get to the point why I'm writing all this in the first place (took me long enough, lmao). There's also a reason why I brought up Gojo's upbringing when talking about his personality and how it contrasts Geto's. You see, like Satoru's way of dealing with his emotions can be linked to his childhood experience, Suguru's behaviour might also give us some clues about the circumstances he grew up in.

The more I look into it, the more convinced I become that Geto was in one way or another exposed to emotional trauma in his childhood. Remember when I mentioned inadequate emotional responses? While being one, smiling in reaction to stress may act as a defense mechanism of sorts, shielding the person from the chronic nature of the unpleasant experience. It also may serve as a way to avoid alienation by others who are not privy to the source of your distress or are not comfortable with it. Affiliative smiles are motivated by social factors, it's a tool used to create and maintain social connections. Human beings are hardwired to connect with others, feeling alienated by the people around us causes us great pain.

The thing us, we must assume that Geto is relatively new to the jujutsu world in the flashback arc. Given his non-sorcerer background, chances are he was the only one in his immediate surroundings with the ability to see and exterminate curses. There couldn't have been a way for him to confide in someone with his concerns and fears born from interacting with something only he could see. So I assume that eventually that resulted in Suguru developing an unhealthy habit of masking his emotions before the ones he cared about. And as over time he grew more aware of his abilities and got a grasp on how his CT works, I imagine Geto committed to exorcising curses in order to protect ordinary people from them -- all by himself. This, in turn, must have solidified that conception in Suguru's head which ultimately othered him from the people around him and put them in a position inferior to him since they were the ones depending on him and his powers.

As Geto should've mostly kept to himself, I also see how he might have grown heavily reliant on his analytical mind. Overthinking is a habit developed early on in life as a way to wade through feeling uncertain or unsafe. It's an attempt to make sense of confusing reality by applying an analytical lense to it and compartmentalizing it into neat, easily understandable categories. And also a way to regain sense of self when you find yourself in a situation you otherwhise have little to no control over. And while over-analyzing can create a sense of security, it may also interfere with a person's emotional responses. I guess it's something that could be applied to Geto, too, because for such a self-reflective character he always struck me as someone with oddly little regard of his own feelings.

As a side note, I like how Geto's tendency to over-analyze things is shown in that one scene when Yaga's briefing him and Gojo on the upcoming mission. Suguru's clearly presented as someone who's very mindful of how the world around him works. Understanding helps him assign meaning to different aspects of life, and he relies upon it heavily. Also, as someone who's been uprooted from his former society and introduced instead to an entirely different world, I guess it's important for Geto to fit in. Him being highly knowledgeable about such essential details is, in my view, indicative of such effort on his part. Whereas Satoru simply does not care about such details, the reality makes sense to him as it is as he was born perfectly fit into it.

Last but not least, Geto's infamously guilty of a dichotomous, or black-and-white, outlook on things. This is the all-or-nothing mentality that leaves little to no room for nuance and does not allow two opposite statements to be true at once. It's a common cognitive distortion that manifests immature thought; a rigid mindset more often than not bordering on extreme. Meanwhile the very foundation of Geto's downfall is the inability to adapt to the complicated reality which doesn't align perfectly with his idealistic vision. He ultimately failed to wrap his head around the world with grey areas, his black-and-white thinking thinking prevented him from doing so.

The development of such maladaptive personality traits has been repeatedly linked to the effects of childhood trauma. If the environment which a person grew up in was traumatic and chaotic, black-and-white thinking might have given them a sense of control through rationalization. That's why a mentality which doesn't allow for nuance and doesn't reflect life in its intricate complexity comes off as childishly simplistic. Seeing the world in all-or-nothing terms in some way means reverting to your inner child. And this is actually something that Shoko accuses Geto of during their brief conversation in Shinjuku. In his thinking Geto doesn't grow past his traumatic experience, whether it was his parents actively abusing his abilities for their own gain or the ache of being alienated at such an early age.

If the nature of Geto's relationship with his parents was abusive, it would also explain his altruism. Suguru goes out of his way to express his concern for well-being of those around him, and he does genuinely care, but all the while it could be a way for him to tend to his own unsatisfied needs by helping others. He seems to be highly attuned to others through his empathy, but also somewhat has trouble advocating for himself, resulting in harmful patterns of self-sacrifice or self-neglect.

It's true, there is a lot of contradictions housed within Geto's character, which are evident in his mindset and his actions. But I don't believe this to be due to sloppy writing, on contrary -- it's the kind of writing that speaks through detail and nuance and invites the reader to ponder why is this or that character the way they are.

[weixuldo]

No Attachments pt 2

Jedi! Anakin x F/Dancer!Reader

a/n: so idk y this story appealed so much to me, but I just wanted to write pining casue I haven't done that in a while... I hope you all enjoy the second part of this mini series :)

Slight NSFW

Anakin’s growing interest doesn’t go unnoticed

Warnings: cursing, anakin is a little bit of a perv, exhibitionism, voyurism, horny thoughts, cursing, fantasies, masturbation, cannon typical violence, mentions of sexual harassment

________________________

The colorful lights of the club shone perfectly against your skin as you enchanted the audience- you made sure to dress up extra nice tonight though because your little jedi was in attendance. 

The duo had been coming in every few days for the past couple of weeks to monitor the areas, get new information, and to search for any dodgy characters.

Once you realized they would only be here on certain days, you decided to switch up your outfit cycle and routines; you said you wanted the younger of the two and you knew just how to get him. 

Today was a normal day- the pair walked in and greeted your manager and the other employees; of course the younger, whom you learned was named “Anakin”, came up to greet you with a nervous smile.

Even after meeting several times, he just couldn’t seem to get a hold of himself when you were in his vicinity. 

You noticed his lingering eyes as you weaved your way through the crowds each night, his sweaty palm when he shook your hand after a check-in (he noticed his perspiration and began offering his gloved hand instead).

The way he’d bashfully look away once you locked eyes with him- he was totally smitten. 

The times he chose to “check-in” also didn't go unnoticed; he always pulled you aside right after a performance or right after you switched outfits (he really just wanted an excuse to gaze upon you for just a moment longer). 

Little did you know that you were always on his mind- when he left the entertainment district and went back to the temple, no matter how hard he tried, you just simply would not leave his thoughts. Your perfect body haunted him as he would try to resist his natural urges. 

He was better than this and he knew it! So why couldn't he stop himself from imagining you, spread out on his bed at the temple in one of your little outfits, beckoning him with hooded eyes. 

“Anakin” you would call in a sultry tone, drawing him in. 

He’d ravage your body with hungry kisses and pull at the perfectly fit clothing stuck to your body.

How many nights had he stayed awake with the company of his own hand, just imagining you around him?

He’d watched every one of your shows- he had seen your hips, how flexible you were, how calculated you were… he needed you to himself.

__________________________

You finished your main dance for the night and had a few private sessions lined up for some very eager patrons. You didn’t mind doing the private dances, it brought in good money- but they could be… uncomfortable sometimes. 

The lace of your newest lingerie set brushed your thighs as you pulled it up; the first patron was a regular whom you really did not like- he was rude, touchy, and would often try to convince you to do things above your pay-grade…lovely way to start the night. 

The dim hallway was lined with what looked like velvet and rhinestones, an obvious reminder of what you were here to do. 

At the end of the hall were your assigned private booths, your patron was already waiting in there- you could feel the sleazy aura from behind the door. With a sigh you fixed a fake smile onto your face and strided for the door. 

You prepared to knock but you felt a demanding presence behind you

Anakin. 

Your perfectly painted lips curled into a smile and you gently nibbled on your lower lip before turning around. He stood a few feet from you, back straitened, arms crossed, and legs holding a domineering stance. 

“Well look who it is, what can I do you for? Oops! I mean do for you” you teased with a confident smirk. 

The jedi’s scarred eye twitched before he unfurled his arms and strode towards you, “need to do a check-in” he said bluntly before looking down at the floor (so cute). 

“I’ve got a dance I gotta do first- can it wait for a minu-”

“No, tell that pervert he can get another dancer to straddle his lap- you’re occupied” he stated; his demanding tone sent shivers up your spine. 

Funny he thought the people who pay to see you were creeps when he does the same things for free… just the other day you heard him stroking himself in the employee refresher; the fast plaps of his dick sliding through his strong hands, his concealed groans, and breathy pants… you heard it all- and you knew exactly why he felt the need to do that while he was on shift. Quite hypocritical of him. 

“Pervert, huh? Well I happen to need these pervs to come in and request dances so I can pay my bills” you said back to the man standing in front of you. 

He stepped forward and pulled out a small device from his utility belt and fiddled with the controls, you stood on your tippy toes to peek at what he was doing. Once he was done he turned the screen towards you and impatiently muttered, “there, now may we proceed with the check-in?” .

The small device showed your banking account and a slip for a transfer of 3500 credits- holy shit!

“Anakin, what?” you said in shock. 

“Now you don’t have to complain about losing money from that man” he said blankly before guiding you back to your dressing room. 

You knew the Jedi temple had a stash of funds, but that was just crazy! 3500 credits to skip one dance! 

As he guided you Anakin mulled over what to discuss with you in the room- he had just “checked in'' earlier today and both of you knew there wasn’t anything that went on in between then and now.

To be honest, he just didn’t want you going in there and dancing for someone… he didn’t like the idea of you doing that for anyone in private (unless it was him). 

Once you reached your room, you sat comfortably on your sofa and he took the seat adjacent to you. He was about to speak when a pile of your fabric began to move- Anakin’s senses heightened and he was ready to attack anything that came out. 

“Nechaska, my sweet girl! C'mere '' you smiled calling for your fluffy loth cat. 

She hurried to your side and hopped into your lap with a content purr. Anakin scoffed at the cat, a little embarrassed it startled him so much. 

“Nechaska?” he questioned, “you speak Huttese?”.

“Tagwa, um u jedai?” you responded with a smile.

“Tagwa mee'm tuta tatooine” he said, calling out his home planet. 

“Very nice- I like your accent” you smiled at his blushing face. 

“And I like your kitty” he smirked, pointing as Nachaska growled at the strange man in front of her, though both of you knew which kitty he was referring to. 

“You like my kitty? Wanna play with her” you flirted back with a laugh before coaxing the ball of fluff in your lap to back down. 

Yes I would, Anakin thought to himself before he strode closer and squatted down slowly so that he was eye height with the loth cat in your pretty lap. 

“Nene” you cooed, using her nickname, “It’s ok baby, he’s not gonna hurt you”. 

Anakin slowly extended his gloved hand but the cat swatted it away; she hissed once more before sinking her claws into his glove. Your eyes widened at her peculiar behavior before you pulled her away. 

“Nechaska! Bad girl- we don’t claw people! Are you alright Anakin?” you asked worriedly.

Anakin’s eyes were trained on your cleavage as your robe slid off your shoulder as you calmed your cat down and it didn’t help when you called his name so breathlessly (it made his dick stir). 

“Oh yea, i’m good” he said, snapping out of his trance. 

“She has really sharp claws, are you sure you’re ok?” you asked again. 

“Yea, don’t worry about it doll, can't feel it anyways” he laughed. 

“What do you mean?” you asked. 

He shrugged and began to take his glove off; you had never seen him without it. As it slid down his arm the fabric and skin was replaced by cool metal- a prosthetic! Did he lose it in battle-

“See, not a scratch- you don't have to worry about me” he said before reaching to pet your cat with his flesh hand, “She probably could tell it was metal- I’ve found that animals prefer the real thing” he smiled as she nuzzled her face against his large hand.

His large, strong, veiny hand. The tendons pulled as he maneuvered his fingers around Nene’s soft coat. His long fingers looked a little too appealing; wonder what would they feel like inside of-

“You’ve got a really nice pussy here” he said with a smirk, still looking at the cat (and not you). 

“Yea, she’s really sweet” you said before pulling her from his reach, “Now what did you need to talk to me about?” you said impatiently. 

He looked down with a smile and shook his head; he could tell you were jealous of the attention he was giving your pet- it was cute.

“Just wanted to ask if you had any more info or if you’d overheard anything lately?” he said as he took his normal seat on the velvety couch adjacent to your vanity. 

“Ani- what would I have heard? I’ve been on stage all night” you sighed; you didn't even realize you had shortened the Jedi’s name (it was a habit for you to give everyone nicknames, especially since you’d been in this business to long- people loved a good pet name). 

“What did you just call me?” the Jedi asked, placing his elbows firmly on his knees and leaning forward. 

He seemed displeased; you inhaled sharply. 

“Sorry, ‘ts a habit- I just shortened names a lot, I didn’t mean to offend you” you sputtered out as you subconsciously held Nene closer to your chest; her purrs against your chest gave you comfort. 

What you didn’t know was Anakin had to slide forward because his dick perked up at the name; he called you into this meeting so he couldn’t just leave now- but he also didn’t want you seeing his obvious hard-on.

…Especially just from his name. 

“It’s alright-” he said deeply. 

“I won’t call you that again, My apol-”

“No!” he half shouted, half pleaded; he cleared his throat and shook his head, “no, you’re good, sweetheart”. 

Sweetheart…

You almost had to suppress a moan as you clenched your thighs together. Anakin observed you and tried to analyze what was going through your mind- was the name too much?

Sure you were a flirty person but he could never tell if you actually meant it or if it was just your work persona. Either way, sometimes he just had to take a risk. 

“Well then, Ani… What other knowledge can I offer you?” you batted your lashes finally gaining your footing again. 

Before he could answer there was a familiar knock on your door, “Hey Z! C’mon in” you said standing. 

Your boss walked in somberly with Obi-Wan and another dancer, “Excuse the interruption my dear, but a new development has just arisen in the case”.

“Anakin, we need to talk to this young woman, now” the bearded man beckoned. 

“Would you be ok to do another dance tonight? Since Rini needs to be spoken to…” Z asked anxiously, his pale blue hands wringing around his robes. 

“Of course, Z” you said as the jedi and your coworker left the room. 

“What’s going on?” you asked worriedly once the door was closed. 

The tall twi’lek shook his head and you ran to his side as he buried his face in his hands. 

“Tarkir was found in the back alley, disarmed and severely injured” he explained and you allowed your Nene to sit in his lap. 

Takir was a Togruta who was a few years older than you who worked as head of security at the club. You and him didn’ talk much but there was a general sense of comradery among the club’s employees.

But you did know that he and Z had been together since you had worked at the establishment (which was years…). 

“Maker?! Where is he now? Is he going to be alright?” you asked, placing a comforting hand on Z’s back. 

“He’s been taken to a med center but I’m not sure if he’ll pull through…” Z sniffled.

“I'm so sorry Z- Is there anything I can do?” 

He shook his head, “No, but thank you dear… But Rini-”

“What about Rini?”

His fingers ran through your cat’s fur as he calmed himself (you’d never seen him so vulnerable). 

“She- She has been involved with the crimes… and the patron- Nevermind, I’m sure the Jedi will fill you in” he wiped at the tears forming in his eyes. 

“No- I need to know that you’ll be ok, I don’t want to leave you like this Z” you said as you placed your hands on his shoulders. 

He shook his head, “I’m fine- What would help me the most is if you would perform Rini’s number since she’s probably going to be arrested in a few hours” he attempted to joke and you nodded. 

“Alright” 

____________________________________

That night was the last time you saw the jedi pair; with the case solved, there was no reason for them to stick around.

The whole club had kinda gotten used to seeing them; honestly kind of a shame they wouldn’t be around anymore. 

Months went by and people moved on, but you couldn't remove Anakin from your mind- you really did start to like him… But it was relieving to know the immediate danger was gone. 

You still weren't really sure what actually occurred, but you did know that Rini was taken to the jedi temple and promptly replaced. Z hired a new head of security and spent more time at home caring for his lover and less time at the club. 

Things had definitely changed- for the first time in years you were not enjoying your work anymore. You couldn’t quite put your finger on why but you had begun searching for other jobs.

Sure the crimes had been absolved but something about the place just felt unsafe- especially since Z wasn’t there to manage it full time anymore. 

Tonight was the same as always, you got ready, warmed up, and headed backstage to wait for your cues. Recently your dancing had been lackluster- of course the patrons still enjoyed the show, but your heart just wasn't in it anymore. 

The presenter announced your oh-so familiar stage name and you strutted onstage. The LED lights of the club flashed as your song began. Without much effort you strutted down the stage to the silver pole and completed a full carousel swivel before landing in a split. The crowd cheered as you maneuvered your legs into a new position.

There were more patrons than usual tonight; was there a holiday you weren’t aware of? You scanned the crowd to get a feel of what kind of people you would be entertaining here tonight- they seemed kind of rowdy.

You almost missed your next move when your eyes landed on a familiar face; those piercing blue eyes, that scar- Anakin.

As you continued your performance, he watched intently, eyes never leaving your form. He really wasn’t supposed to be here but it had been too long since he saw you. No matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remove your enchantment from his mind. 

Night after night, he dreamed only of you; some nights he woke to stained boxer shorts, others, he had to rut his hips into his mattress to suppress his desire. 

Finally, today he was able to slip away from the temple to take some much needed personal time; Obi-Wan had asked him what his plan was and he explained he needed to go into the city to look at new parts for his arm.

Obviously that was a lie, because Anakin had just repaired it about a week ago, but Anakin had a feeling Obi-Wan already knew what he was doing. 

He donned civilian clothes and headed into the heart of the bustling city, ready to see you again. 

And here you were, dancing across the stage- how he missed the colored lights across your soft skin; he needed to speak with you. Your song finished and he practically ran to the teller to set up a private meeting. 

Forcefully he slammed his credits down on the counter and spoke, “I want to request room 3 with the last dancer that was on”.

“Oh, she is our highest rated dancer, her fees are very-” the woman said cautiously. 

“I’m aware, I’ll pay whatever I need to have an audience with her” Anakin spoke formally, making a few patrons laugh at his vernacular. 

“Alright” the woman replied skeptically, preparing to jot his name down. 

“Tell her it's Anakin,” he said before the woman handed him the shiny golden key to the room at the end of the hall. 

He entered the familiar room and sat with a nervous sigh- he was finally going to ask what he had been wanting to for months. 

_________________________________

You let your hair down from the tight updo it was in as someone knocked on your door. 

“Come in!” you said with a sigh; you really just wanted this night to be over. 

The desk attendant walked in with a notepad and started reading off the private dances you had scheduled tonight. 

“- Anakin” 

You stopped what you were doing and turned towards her. 

“Anakin?” you confirmed. 

“Yes, he's a taller guy with a scar over his-” she began.

“Clear my schedule for the rest of the night- I’m only seeing him” you said as you hastily searched for your best outfit (an elegant dress that wasn't too revealing). 

“B-but y/n, what about the other-”

“Tell them I have been fully booked or tell them that my availability has changed, ‘t doesn't really matter to me” you said, touching up your lipgloss. 

She nodded before heading for the door, “He’s in room 3”. 

Room 3… you took a deep breath as you made your way down the velvety hallway.

Everything's gonna be fine- just be confident as always.

With a tremor in your hand you reached for the door.

***

a/n: soo yea sorry abt all of the new characters but i wanted to make this story realistic lolll- idk y but perv ani has been on my mind 😩