#i did not pre grieve

[dylan0bemyboyfriend]

me seeing loki stuck in that chair

[thiagodasilva]

half an hour </3

[segretecose]

.

[shegoeshometoacactuss]

Happy Roman Roy Cataclysmic Breakdown Day to those who celebrate!

[loverboyromanroy]

🫡🫡🫡

[edith-is-a-cat]

Fuck.

I wish I could help.

[mattodore]

logged in

[dredshirtroberts]

i'm just a dude and my mind is a NIGHTMARE

[agueforts]

guyssss i miss my fucking . activity :C :C :C

[ghelgheli]

Historians are rarely challenged just for applying words like ‘woman’ and ‘man’ to the past; it would not inevitably cause a backlash to say that a historical figure wanted power, or grieved, or felt anger. A trans historian, though, is caught in the double-bind of the DSM-5. Our experiences and our desires are quite literally mad. We do not have the social license to see ourselves fractured and reflected in historical figures; we are standing in the wrong place to write. Put simply, if you foreclose trans readings, you foreclose trans writing. When we reflect on the similarities between our lives and those of historical figures, we are accused of spreading our social contagion to the dead. To read our own anamorphoses in a text, to communicate that to a cis academic establishment who have rendered our unqualified subjectivities unimaginable, we are forced to accuse historical figures of transness. And then, of course, we are chastised for pathologising them. For a trans historian, it is not viable to simply universalise our experiences of gender. In order to relate to historical figures’ gendered experiences in our writing in a way that is legible to cis readers, we have to assert that those figures were trans. There is a gap to be bridged, and the onus to bridge it falls on us… Transmisogyny and anti-effeminacy were and are integral to the structure of patriarchy and therefore to cisness (or vice-versa). In ‘Monster Culture (Seven Theses)’, Jeffrey Jerome Cohen proposed a methodology for reading cultures: ‘from the monsters they engender’. In concluding this sketch of Byzantine cisness, I would like to attempt to apply this method. To monster a group or an individual is a violent act, and through examining the way transfemininity was monstered in Byzantium, we can begin to understand the shape of the violent regulation of gendered possibilities that constituted Byzantine cisness… Synesius [of Cyrene] did not simply compare the image of the elegantly coiffed effeminate with the shiny dome of the soldier’s helmet; he went one step further, proclaiming that pretty hair was the give-away for hidden effeminacy. He rails against ‘effeminate wretches’ who ‘make a cult of their hair’, who he suggests engage in sex work not out of economic necessity but as an act of sex and gender exhibitionism, to ‘display fully the effeminacy of their character’. Then, he goes on to say:

And whoever is secretly perverted, even if he should swear the contrary in the marketplace, and should present no other proof of being an acolyte of Cotys save only in a great care of his hair, anointing it and arranging it in ringlets, he might well be denounced to all as one who has celebrated orgies to the Chian goddess and the Ithyphalli.

The implication is clear: long, well kempt, perfumed and curled hair is not just hair, it is a signifier, one that signals total abnegation of manhood, and therefore of cisness. This demonstrates one of the mechanisms by which cisness was maintained and enforced in the Byzantine world. Relatively minor embodied gender transgressions, like too-long or too-pretty hair, could be linked to transfemininity and to sexual receptivity, the two farthest points from patriarchal manhood. That is not to say that this prevented people from committing such gender transgressions; rather that it made them risky, a weapon that could be used against you by anyone who wanted to do you harm. The other thing demonstrated by Synesius’ invective is the relationship between effeminacy, unmasculine vanity and presumed sexual receptivity. It would be tempting, based on the relationship Synesius draws between long beautiful hair and receptive anal sex, to suggest that the animating force of this antipathy is, if not homophobia, a narrower pre-modern equivalent. There is, however, a fantastically complicating detail in Synesius’ remark on the reasons such ‘effeminates’ engage in sex work: being sexually available is presented as an instrumental, rather than terminal value. In Synesius’ imagination, sex work is the means, but social recognition of the feminine gender of the sex worker is the end: to ‘display fully the effeminacy of their character’. The monster Synesius invokes to shore-up his own gender position, to guard his own cisness and his access to hegemonic masculinity, is an unambiguously transmisogynist fantasy. It is here that Byzantine cisness most sharply converges with twenty-first-century cisness.

‘Selective Historians’: The Construction of Cisness in Byzantine and Byzantinist Texts, Ilya Maude [DOI]

[tieflingkisser]

‘The machine did it coldly’: Israel used AI to identify 37,000 Hamas targets

Israeli intelligence sources reveal use of ‘Lavender’ system in Gaza war and claim permission given to kill civilians in pursuit of low-ranking militants

The Israeli military’s bombing campaign in Gaza used a previously undisclosed AI-powered database that at one stage identified 37,000 potential targets based on their apparent links to Hamas, according to intelligence sources involved in the war. In addition to talking about their use of the AI system, called Lavender, the intelligence sources claim that Israeli military officials permitted large numbers of Palestinian civilians to be killed, particularly during the early weeks and months of the conflict. Their unusually candid testimony provides a rare glimpse into the first-hand experiences of Israeli intelligence officials who have been using machine-learning systems to help identify targets during the six-month war.

[...]

“This is unparalleled, in my memory,” said one intelligence officer who used Lavender, adding that they had more faith in a “statistical mechanism” than a grieving soldier. “Everyone there, including me, lost people on October 7. The machine did it coldly. And that made it easier.” Another Lavender user questioned whether humans’ role in the selection process was meaningful. “I would invest 20 seconds for each target at this stage, and do dozens of them every day. I had zero added-value as a human, apart from being a stamp of approval. It saved a lot of time.”

[...]

Several of the sources described how, for certain categories of targets, the IDF applied pre-authorised allowances for the estimated number of civilians who could be killed before a strike was authorised. Two sources said that during the early weeks of the war they were permitted to kill 15 or 20 civilians during airstrikes on low-ranking militants. Attacks on such targets were typically carried out using unguided munitions known as “dumb bombs”, the sources said, destroying entire homes and killing all their occupants. “You don’t want to waste expensive bombs on unimportant people – it’s very expensive for the country and there’s a shortage [of those bombs],” one intelligence officer said. Another said the principal question they were faced with was whether the “collateral damage” to civilians allowed for an attack. “Because we usually carried out the attacks with dumb bombs, and that meant literally dropping the whole house on its occupants. But even if an attack is averted, you don’t care – you immediately move on to the next target. Because of the system, the targets never end. You have another 36,000 waiting.”

[...]

“We were constantly being pressured: ‘Bring us more targets.’ They really shouted at us,” said one intelligence officer. “We were told: now we have to fuck up Hamas, no matter what the cost. Whatever you can, you bomb.” To meet this demand, the IDF came to rely heavily on Lavender to generate a database of individuals judged to have the characteristics of a PIJ or Hamas militant.

[celtic-crossbow]

Ok hear me out. Reader and Daryl go on a run for supplies with a few other people. Reader makes a mistakes and almost gets seriously hurt/ near death experience. Daryl gets pissed at reader, maybe yells at her. Reader laughs it off and acts like she doesn’t gaf. Daryl later finds reader all shaken up and crying by herself. Love if you don’t, love if you do!

I Might Change Your Life, I Might Save My World

Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Fem!Reader (pre/early)

Setting: Alexandria

Warnings: Typical TWD Violence and Gore; Mentions of canonical character death; Some verbal aggression

A/N: I had them on the run alone. I hope that’s okay!

The run had so far been uneventful. You’d even dare say boring. That was a word that wasn’t used carelessly. Life in the apocalypse was rarely boring and usually consisted of running for your life while scrounging up anything possible to ensure you could just survive. At least you were out with Daryl. He was your best friend and could usually keep you at least mildly entertained whether or not it was intentional. 

You were a survivor of the Governor’s insanity at Woodbury. It had seemed safe enough, but he had fooled everyone. Or maybe he had at one point been a kind, reasonable man that was just pushed too far by the cruelty of the end of the world. Regardless, it was there that you had met Merle, the right hand man. You had always teased him about that. Right hand? Get it? To most people, it would have seemed cruel, but not to Merle Dixon. He would ruffle your hair with a gentle shove and tell you to get lost. 

You never did.

When Merle left, you had followed and he had allowed it. He even held your arm and dragged you out behind him. That’s when you actually met Daryl. You had seen him in the fight pit, eyes wide as the Governor revealed he was Merle’s younger brother. He had never mentioned having a brother. Maybe he had thought him dead. Most would say Daryl was everything Merle was not, but they just didn’t know the elder Dixon like you did. Merle was crass, sometimes downright unkind, but below that rough exterior, he had a big heart. He was learning, little by little. You would have liked to take some credit for that.

Daryl had left his group that day, following Merle, just as you did. You remained quiet, watching the younger Dixon watching you. He looked almost wary, but there was a naked curiosity there too. When the two butted heads, you trailed behind while Daryl led the way back to the prison. Where he belonged, he had said. 

You had fit in easily. Merle, not so much. It made your heart ache for him when you could see the poorly hidden love he had for his little brother. He was absolute shit at showing it, sometimes selfish, but it was there. When he proved it by trying to be better, trying to show Daryl that he could do the right thing, it had cost him his life. You blamed Daryl for the longest time. You knew it wasn’t his fault, deep down, but you needed someone to catch the fury of your grief. The archer had taken it willingly.

When the prison fell, you had tried and failed to save Beth. Grieving yet again, right on the heels of losing Merle and then Hershel and then your home, you found a way out with Daryl, leaving the two of you stuck together on the road, alone and with a dense cloud of animosity billowing between you. It wasn’t until one night in a rundown home that Daryl had said reminded him of where he grew up, moonshine was flowing and then so were the emotions. You had both yelled, thrown things, killed the walkers that the fight attracted while continuing the verbal onslaught. In the end, drained and resigned, the two of you had talked. 

And the rest was history.

Alexandria had been a saving grace. It had taken a while to adjust. For Daryl, he had never lived in a community like that. He slept on the porch most nights, fleeing the confined spaces that left his chest heaving and his skin damp with sweat. You felt as if it were Woodbury all over again, destined to crash and burn and leave the group nothing but ashes. So, you slept on the porch with him, if for no other reason than to keep a fellow outsider close. You both knew it was more than that. 

Months had gone by. You had both finally moved inside a house and were even closer now than you had once been to Merle, which was surprising. Rick was confident in sending the two of you out together. You got shit done. That day in particular, things just weren’t moving in your favor.

For one, it was cold. The seasons were changing and you hadn’t adequately prepared for the chill in the air, especially when on the bike. The two of you were scouting for places that could possibly still have necessary supplies. Daryl had—as always—been quick to notice your discomfort. Though he had usually sewn the sleeves of jackets right onto his sleeveless shirts, that day, he had actually worn a leather jacket. 

“Here.” He shoved the article toward you, prompting a raised brow in response.

“What for?” You queried. It was a stupid question, but useless banter always kept things light between the two of you, comfortable even if Daryl would always claim the opposite. The space that lingered was never oppressive, not anymore.

“You’re cold, idiot.”

“Daryl Dixon is being sweet to me. This is one for the record books!” You chuckled while slipping on the jacket. The hunter scowled and bumped you with his elbow.

“Stop.”

“Didn’t hear you disagree.” You would have continued to tease if he hadn’t held up a fist just in front of you, the signal to be still and silent. The telltale groans, snarls, and shuffling feet were growing closer, blocking the two of you from the bike. “Aw, crap.”

“Yup.” He agreed, leaning around the corner of the building just enough to see the sizable herd. “Need a plan.” He mumbled, unclipping the sheath of his knife for a quick draw when needed.

“Got one.” 

“What?” When Daryl turned, you were already rounding the opposite corner of the building with a quiet shout of get the bike. “That fuckin’ woman’s gonna be the death’a me.”

There were a great deal more undead than you had anticipated. “Well, hell.” You grumbled. It was too late to turn around, several of the milky yellow eyes already landing on you. As you walked backward, keeping a safe distance but close enough to hold their attention, you could see Daryl peeking out from the corner. You exchanged nods before you began to wave your arms. “Hey! Over here! Keep your eyes on me!!” The noise ensured that Daryl’s already near silent footfalls would go unnoticed. He would get the bike, circle the herd, and you’d jump on. Piece of cake. 

Until you bumped right into a walker that led the other half of aforementioned herd. 

“Oh, fuck!” Quickly grabbing its throat to hold it back, you pivoted, walking backward toward the open area at the edges of the corpses. Daryl was shouting your name, the bike roaring to life. You just happened to choose the wrong time to glance in his direction in an attempt to gauge the distance between you. The next walker had fallen somehow, levering clumsily to its feet just beside the one you were grappling with, your knife having just sank into that one’s skull. There was no time to react. You could only watch the blade slip free as the teeth came together on your arm. It was painful but nothing like you had expected, more pressure than anything. Still, it was too late. You were bit.

“Y/N!!” Daryl shouted, grabbing you away from the dead man, your arm slipping free from its jaws to throw it off balance. That gave you a chance to climb on behind Daryl, the injured arm cradled to your chest while the other wrapped tightly around his abdomen. “Just a minute, just hang on. We’ll take care’a this.” He was rambling anxiously, the cool wind whipping and stinging as the herd grew smaller and smaller in the distance.

“I’m bit. I’m bit. I’m bit.” You chanted against Daryl’s back, only barely holding back your sobs. The bike slowed to a stop, the kickstand lowered roughly before Daryl was scrambling off when you should have been the first to move. 

“Lemme see.” When your teary eyes met his, he growled through the sting at his waterline. “Lemme fuckin’ see!” He wasn’t as gentle as he could have been but he didn’t hurt you. Pulling your arm away from your chest roughly, he grabbed the shoulder of the jacket and yanked it down, ripping one of the seams in the process. You were both greeted with bruising flesh, the slightest indents of where teeth had vehemently pressed, but no broken skin. No blood. No scratches. While you stared in a shocked relief, Daryl wasn’t so graceful. His legs buckled and he went down hard to his knees. “Goddamn it, Y/N!”

“I’m okay.” You blinked, eyes transfixed on your arm. It hurt but it wasn’t a death sentence. You weren’t going to turn. “I’m okay, Daryl.” You smiled through the tears, now falling for an entirely different reason. “Daryl?” He was trembling fiercely, his shoulders moving in a way that suggested he might have been crying. You started to throw your leg over the seat to comfort him when he drew back his arm and planted his fist into the asphalt with a crunch that made your stomach turn.

“You’re so fuckin’ stupid!” He roared, barreling upright to stand with his nose nearly touching yours. You were too shocked to react properly. “Ya couldn’a waited for a actual plan, just had to go balls to the wall an’ run out there like a fuckin’ lunatic!” Your eyes followed anxiously as he started to pace.

“I’m sorry. I was just trying to get us out there in one piece. I didn’t even see the—”

His uninjured hand grabbed your wrist, tight and firm but not without care. He’d never hurt you. Not intentionally. Not physically, at least. “Ya call this one piece? I woulda had to take your arm, ya fuckin’ useless idiot!” That sent you reeling. Daryl had been angry with you before, but for things like keeping the squirrel over the fire for too long or kneeing him in the groin while trying to get comfortable enough to sleep. But that? That was different.

If Merle Dixon had taught you anything, it was to never show how you really felt. When you began to laugh, Daryl dropped your arm and stepped back, eyes wide and full of disbelief. “My god, you’re dramatic. I’m fine, Dixon. Let’s just chalk this up to a shit day and get the fuck out of here.”

“A shit d—are ya fuckin’ kiddin’ me?”

“Stop it. Get on the bike and let’s go.” You pulled the jacket back onto your arm, your red flannel peering through the tear in the shoulder. Now adjusted once again and ready to go, you looked back to find him still staring at you with the same incredulous expression. You chuckled and shook your head. “Stop being ridiculous. Let’s go.”

“Nah.” He was stepping backwards with his own head twisting back and forth. “Take the bike and go home. M’gonna walk.”

“It’s at least fifteen miles and it’s cold. Now who’s being stupid?” When he turned his back, leaving his crossbow strapped to the motorcycle, you actually began to panic. You could drive the bike, sure. He had taught you a few months back, just in case. Still, leaving him behind with nothing but his knife was not something you would do without a fight. “Daryl! Seriously, please, let’s go.” He ignored you, stalking off into the trees until the wings of his vest disappeared. 

Chasing him wasn’t a good idea. You knew him well enough to know that much. Or did you? It had been a long time since an argument like that, one where both of you had shut down in one way or another. You started the bike, toeing up the kickstand before propelling it forward, your chest constricting tighter and tighter with every mile. 

It had taken him far longer than necessary to make the walk back to Alexandria’s gates. Granted, he’d stopped for several smokes to calm himself down. He’d slide down the nearest tree and sit there—flexing his throbbing fingers—until he had drawn the cigarette down to the filter or he heard the incoming growls of the walkers that had been tailing him. He had to take an extra half hour to put down the ones he could and lose the ones he couldn’t. By the time Sasha pulled open the gates, Daryl was bone weary and more than a little ashamed of how he’d reacted. 

“Seen Y/N?” He asked in lieu of answering when she questioned where he’d been.

“She came back a while ago. Haven’t seen her since. Sorry.” She patted his shoulder and returned to her post. You were back, so that anxiety was at least remedied. 

Still, he needed to talk to you. The way you had laughed in the face of his anger had unnerved him. It reminded him so much of his brother that it hurt. That type of behavior didn’t suit you. Then again, who was he to tell you how to behave? He had spoken to you so harshly instead of just telling you that you scared the shit out of him. He should have hugged you and been thankful that you didn’t lose your arm, didn’t lose your life. But emotions and Daryl weren’t exactly on speaking terms. When he didn’t understand why or how something made him feel a certain way, he lashed out at it. He was conditioned that way, it was in his blood. He had been trying so hard to be better. He actually thought he was getting better. Boy, he couldn’t have been more wrong. He was still a work in progress. He needed you to know that. He needed to apologize, even if it burned coming out of his mouth to admit he was wrong, to admit to feeling anything at all. 

Damn you for wiggling your way into his useless heart. He thought he had crushed and buried the thing years ago. Then you came tagging along on his brother’s heels and challenged everything he thought he knew about himself. He chose not to acknowledge it, even when people like Carol and Rick did. Often. 

Sighing, he stopped on the porch of the home he shared with you and Carol, lighting up a cigarette and leaning over the railing on his forearms. He would have assumed that you’d already spilled everything to Carol but when she didn’t barrel out of the house with a rolling pin aimed at his head, it was easy to figure out that you hadn’t. Maybe you hadn’t even been home yet. He trampled that worry down quickly, not willing to let it compound into another wave of anger he’d have to answer for eventually.

The streets were quiet with the sun now completely gone, replaced by the waning crescent moon. There was enough light for him to see, of course. His eyes were trained from years of hunting and surviving out in nature. He could hear frogs close to the pond, even hear the paper of his cigarette sizzling with each drag. But then he heard something else. Something that shattered him to his very core because he knew immediately what and who and why it was.

He didn’t bother to keep his steps light. It wouldn’t do to surprise you. You’d just be even more upset without time to even try and compose yourself. Even so, it was possible you still didn’t hear him approaching. Your sobs and sniffles continued, probably barely audible to anyone who didn’t know how to listen and not just hear.

You were perched on the bench beneath the gazebo, knees drawn up to your chest with your face hidden behind them. Even in the dark, he could see your shoulders shaking. He wasn’t sure how long he stood there watching you but once it was clear that you hadn’t noticed him, he cleared his throat. Had it been any other day, any other situation, the way you unfolded and nearly climbed over the back of the bench would have been comical. Maybe it still would be when the two of you looked back on this, but that was only if he could make things right.

“Hey.” He rasped, still rooted to the same spot.

You sniffed, wiping at your face with the sleeve of your flannel. The leather jacket was nowhere to be seen. “Hi.” All the confidence from earlier was gone, leaving your voice but a tiny echo of the woman that had called him dramatic. “I’m glad you made it back safely.”

“Ya alright?” He chanced a step toward you, pausing after one when your eyes darted down to his boots and back up. God, he felt like an asshole. Were you afraid of him now?

“Mhm. I’m okay.” You sniffed again and settled back onto the seat, pulling your knees against you once again. “I hung your jacket on the doorknob of your room. I fixed the sleeve.”

Great. You fixed the thing he tore. Now he felt like a major asshole. “Listen, Y/N, I—”

“It’s okay, Daryl.” You interjected, offering him a small, feigned smile while your eyes betrayed you. “Carol has dinner ready. I put your plate in the oven.” It was just getting better and better. You had still thought of him enough to make sure he had something to eat when he got back. And the award for Asshole of the Year goes to: Daryl Dixon.

You stood so quickly that he nearly flinched. “I should—I have a new job assignment tomorrow. Need to get some sleep.”

That threw him. “New—ya ain’t goin’ out anymore?” You shook your head.

“I’m gonna work in the pantry, dabble in the armory too. Give Olivia a break sometimes.” Your tone wasn’t cold but bordered on emotionless. You’d asked Rick to take you off the run list, and you’d done it because of him.

“Y/N, don’t do that.” He watched as you approached, your head down. If you hadn’t seen his boots when he stepped into your path, you surely would have slammed into him. “Shouldn’a talked to ya the way I did.” Even while you looked off to the side, he could see the way your face screwed up like you were about to cry again, but after a moment, you settled.

���No, you were right. I should have waited. Things could have gone a lot differently. I didn’t stop to think about how you would have felt if I had been bitten.” Daryl deflated at the utter dejection in your voice. “Anyway, goodnight, Daryl.” 

Watching you walk away, your arms wrapped around yourself so tightly, he let himself think about it; allowed himself to think about what he would have felt if you had been bitten. It wasn’t anger then. It was loss, despair, guilt. Whether he’d had to have taken your arm or not, the prospect of possibly losing you was more than he could even think to bear. What was more terrifying was that he realized that your loss would devastate him more than his own brother’s had.

“Y/N, wait!”

He couldn’t let you think he had acted that way out of anger alone. Yes, he had been angry but he had been scared. He couldn’t say you were his closest friend. That spot was taken by Carol. You were something else entirely. Something that he would never get the chance to explore or define, fear and awkwardness be damned, if something happened to you.

His feet were carrying him toward you at a brisk pace, your eyes wide at his approach but you didn’t move. You didn’t flinch or cower, even when he grabbed your shoulder and pulled in against his chest, wrapping both arms around you to hold you there.

“M’sorry.” He whispered into your hair. You weren’t hugging him back but that was most likely because your arms were pinned between the two of you. “Ain’t no reason for me to ever talk to ya like that. Ya ain’t stupid. You’re quick on your feet an’ it ain’t fair’a me to fault ya on that just cause m’too scared to lose ya.” He felt your sharp inhale while his face and neck flushed at the admission. “I—Christ, ain’t no good at this talkin’ an’ shit.” When your shoulders shook, he knew he’d made you cry again and took a step back, his hands sliding up to hold your shoulders. While that was true, the movement was from the laughter bubbling up from your chest instead of the tears falling down your cheeks. “The hell ya laughing at?”

“I like you too, Daryl.” Goddamnit, you had a pretty smile. He’d make a fool of himself ten times over if it meant you’d give him that smile just once.

“Ain’t a thing ‘bout likin’ ya.” He swallowed hard and looked away, the pink hue on his cheeks deepening. “Don’t know what it is, but, uh—well, maybe we can try to figure it out together?” He sounded like a lovesick teenager and was two seconds away from rolling his eyes so hard that they would relocate permanently to the back of his skull.

“I’d like that.” 

“Really?” He straightened, expression embarrassingly hopeful.

“Yeah. Yeah, I would.” 

“Right.” He cleared his throat and stepped back, not feeling like he’d entirely lost the right to call himself a man. “So, uh—Guess we should tell Rick that Olivia can get Spencer to help her. Maybe he’d stop oglin’ ya all the damn time if he’s cooped up in the pantry.” You reached for his hand and he let you take it. “Maybe I could talk her into lockin’ him in there for a while.” The walk back to the house wasn’t a long one and all too quickly, you were climbing the porch steps just in front of him.

“What’s wrong? Don’t want other guys checking out your girl?” 

Daryl almost missed the top step. “My girl?” He didn’t mean for it to come out quite so breathlessly. He was mostly definitely losing his man card that night. You were blinking at him, your smile slowly faltering.

“I—I misunderstood, didn’t I? Jesus, Daryl, I’m—”

“Nah.” He quickly derailed that train of thought. “Just liked hearin’ ya say it s’all.” 

“Are you—”

“Yup.” The smile was back and Daryl could breathe again. Somehow, standing there with you on the porch and him on the top step, just staring at one another was more comfortable than he could have ever imagined. 

“So,” you began, twisting your upper half back and forth, “you walked me home. Are you gonna say goodnight and kiss me now?”

Daryl’s face contorted in confusion, a dark brow arching. “I, uh—I live here too.”

“Does that really matter?” You asked, stepping a little closer. 

“Guess it don’t, really.” When you leaned forward, he didn’t stop you. Found that he didn’t want to. Even as new and undefined as whatever this was, this felt right and he’d be damned if he’d let a chance like that pass him by. 

Inside the house, Carol swirled the wine around in her glass, watching the kiss happen with a sigh of relief. “Finally.” Picking up her book, she took a sip and placed the glass down on the table before opening to the dog-eared page. “Now I don’t have to lock them in the pantry together tomorrow.”

[icaruien]

more nanami content with top male reader pls 😩😩

You've got it, Captain!

Nanami Kento was a man on the run.

It was an inescapable hell of his own making. The ghosts of his youth and his failures were a perpetual monster clinging onto his shoulders, curses designated just for him. Kento did not make a habit of being a coward, but he could not afford staying in a place like this.

So, he ran.

He ran, and ran, and ran and he kept on running until Time became a loose construct that could not suspend him; until Space became a volatile concept that could not keep him afloat. The Universe was at a constant state of expansion, and Kento ran as if he was trying to see how far it would go.

('It expands a pretty damn long way,' was what Kento would answer if he were asked that question. But no one did, no one was ever given the chance to. Kento always ran before they could stop him just long enough to ask.)

So, it must be some big cosmic joke that Kento found himself landed back here once again, at the centre of your gravity, pulled in and desperately trying to pull away from the boundaries of your magnetic field. You were his best friend, his favourite What If, his greatest Could Have Been.

You were not supposed to be here, buried hilt deep inside of him and moaning out his name as if it was a prayer worth worship over.

His nails dug into the skin on your back, threatening to break through and into the flesh, but you didn't seem to mind. Your mouth was still on his skin, teeth painting yearning all over the canvas of his skin in shades of purples and blues.

Fuck, he hadn't done missionary in so long. Hell, he hadn't even had anyone like this in a long time. He was always too cautious, too hesitant of what he would reveal. But it was you—you with your charming smile and bright eyes—and if Kento couldn't trust you with himself, then he couldn't trust anyone; not even himself.

Kento should be self-conscious. He had changed across the years since he had left you—gotten better; gotten worse. He was not the boy you knew, then. He had grown out of it, grown into it, grown up into something else entirely.

But you smiled at him the same, held him the same, and he could not find it in himself to grieve the boy he used to be.

Kento had become Schrödinger's Cat, trapped in his youth and in his present. You kissed him the same, but you fucked him different. You cradled his face the same, but your cock dragged against his walls. You liked him the same, but you loved him different.

Kento's back arched, feeling the tip of your cock hit his prostate, and he found he didn't mind it at all. He didn't mind it a single bit as long as you kept painting stars in the dark abyss behind his eyes. He didn't mind it a single bit as long as you kept fucking him as if he was a man precious, a man loved. He didn't mind it a single fucking bit as long as you would just—

"Kento." Your voice was ragged, fucked out, high off endorphins and adrenaline and sex and him. "Fuck, Kento, you feel so good."

And Kento couldn't say a damn thing back, because you were inside him, fucking him good, making him shake, and for a moment, Kento wasn't running anymore. He wasn't running, and he was neither here or there, but he was still in your arms. He still had you.

"Come on," he grunted. His arms tightened around you, forcing your body closer against him. "I wanna feel you."

He felt your breath fan against his skin, soft and incredulous, but you indulged. Your pace picked up, hands wandering from his hips up his chest over to cradle his jaw. Your mouth met his in a sloppy kiss—all tongue and teeth—while your hips snap against him harder.

Kento could barely think, pre-occupied by the feeling of your cock fucking against him, hard and rough, damnation and salvation all at once. You didn't seem to mind, though; tongue fucking into his mouth in rhythm with the way your hips moved.

Kento was not a religious man, but he would believe in the existence of god just for a moment; just for you, just because of you.

Kento didn't believe that he could be saved, but he would like to be for a split-second. He wanted to be divine, wanted to be beautiful all over again, if only so that you would not have to stain yourself with his filth. So that he could have you, over and over again, and there would be no sin in the act of it.

"Kento," you murmured against his skin, as if you still couldn't believe he was quite real. He let out an ugly sound at the way you spoke his name; half a sob, half a whimper. "Kento. God, Kento. You're finally here. I've missed you."

But for now—

For now, perhaps, he could have you. For however short the while, for however mortal the moment is.

[destinysbounty]

Three important facts that I promise are connected:

Although it seems that the ninja take turns cooking, Zane's food is apparently so good that they all eagerly await his turn. And his pies are apparently so good that just the smell of them brought a tear to Jay's eyes.

When someone passes away, grief makes menial tasks like cooking and cleaning very difficult. It's for this reason that a lot of bereavement support advice recommends giving gifts of pre-made food or service to those who are grieving. I can imagine the grief would be doubly worsened if you are grieving someone who typically did a lot of the cooking, or someone with whom you strongly associate such tasks.

In s4ep1 "The Invitation", Lloyd invites each of the ninja to dinner with him at Chen's Noodlehouse. However, he phrases it as "if you change your mind, you know where I'll be". Despite his vague wording, all of them unanimously know exactly where to go and when to be there. Furthermore, Cole even says "you're late" to Kai despite the fact that a meetup time was never discussed.

Anyway, my theory is that due to the grief of losing Zane making it difficult to cook, the ninja became regulars at Chen's Noodlehouse. They would go to the same location at roughly the same time almost every night, and that's how the ninja knew exactly where/when to meet up. Which means the place that helped them keep their heads above water post-s3, the place where they spent many nights grieving Zane's loss, is also the same place Lloyd chose to suggest adding a new teammate. And also the same place they found out Zane was alive.

This restaurant has become so strongly tied to their grief over Zane's loss, simply through the way it was there for his friends when he was not. Feeding them the food he himself was no longer present to cook for them. The statue in the garden represents the legacy of his heroism while the noodlehouse represents the legacy of the grief created by his absence, and in this essay I will -

[bliss-is-in-blood]

Hannibal in Florence was miserable and deep in grief.

And I think one of the best way we are shown that is with the two fight scene with Crawford. like seriously, in Mizumono even if Hannibal has difficulty because Jack is a fucking beast he still hold his ground. In Contorno Jack just beat the shit out of Hannibal and Hannibal is so out of it, just let it happens.

In Mizumono Hannibal is very proactive, he defends himself but most importantly he attacks. In Contorno he mostly just 'tries' to flee.

(Note that the gif are not in order of how the fight goes, it's just to outline what I'm saying.)

Hannibal jump above his counter, it's a big jump that ask a lot of effort and energy and he goes to attack Jack

He has something to defend, something to keep and an ennemie to defeat. But in Contorno he wasn't confrontationnal. Before the fight start he was planning on leaving as fast as possible so to not fight and Jack had just been quick enough to reach him, he has to stop when he smell him, knowing he won't escape the fight. First thing Jack does is to send Hannibal crash on a showcase (left).

In Mizumono (right) he also pushes him until he crashes against glass cupboard.

What does Hannibal does next in Mizumono ? get back up to fight quickly, Jack handle him quite rougly. But in Contorno Hannibal struggle to get up, he is slow, Jack has all the time to give him a strong kick and send him back on the ground.

In Mizumono Hannibal recovers as soon as possible and pursue the fight giving Jack a Hard time while in Contorno he crawl on the floor as if he can't recover from the blunt hit when we know he already went through something similar and managed just fine.

Jack has free reign to beat the shit out of him. In Contorno it keep on the same patern, Hannibal tries to flee and Jack have the pleasure to drag him back to his feet to beat him up. Sure Hannibal does manage to flee but he didn't gave Jack any struggle. He has no fight, no energy, no rage, no bite. He just endure the beating.

In Mizumono he gave Jack his all. All because he was waiting for Will so they could leave together. In Contorno he's been grieving so much and is so miserable he doesn't even fight. He lost Will and fleed to one of his favorite place in the world to heal and get back on feet. The grief make it impossible. He flee out of habit or reflex for survival, instead of actual will. He didn't want to fight Jack this time because he knew he wouldn't be able to give his all, all his heart and mind and energy all because it's been sucked off by grief. We know Hannibal is capable to hold his ground in a fight, he might not be the best fighter especially against a trained FBI agent but let's not forgot he won against Jack and nearly killed him. In Contorno, in all of his time in Florence really, he's just a shadow of himself.

Getting back Will bring him the fight he need in the Mason manor but when Will reject him he knows he can't go on like he did in Florence because without Will liberty is almost tasteless. He can't handle being on his own again, he can't handle Will rejection so he give himself up, it's just too much. And sure he was thriving in Florence but he was also taking big BIG risk, it's a man who managed to keep under the radar for his whole life, yet he was found quite easily. Grief takes many form especially for a man like Hannibal.

In Florence he was just miserable and barely managed when you compare his life pre-Will and post-Will (That's another parallele for those two, Hannibal was as changed by Will than Will was by Hannibal)

[carlyraejepsans]

as a sans is from Deltarune truther what do you think about the. implications of papyrus remembering green grass pre snowdin times

well, my engines are whirring and roaring like a sports car in the hands of a cucked mid-life crisis ridden 50 year old, as you might imagine. I've heard some folks interpret it as him referring to the patch of grass from the papyrus' cool song kickstarter promo, but he explicitly mentions that song earlier in the q&a and sans doesn't cut him off to prevent him from answering the question like he does in the final one. so yeah. I think that green grass is not UT native grass, HAHAHA.

i think the q&a pretty much seals it for me that wherever they came from, sans and papyrus came from there together (how else would sans be able to finish the question for him) which. WOOH. weight off of my chest, honestly. i was getting worried, what with the possibility of them being biologically different and papyrus not being included in sans' lore/character arc about moving on.

... actually, that is another matter that the q&a has opened up.

answering "what was your life before you moved" with "there was green grass" is... a weird choice of words. of course, the obvious doylistic explanation for it is that toby wanted to drop a hint without spoiling anything more, and the result sounded a bit clunky in its execution. but if there IS a watsonian, in-universe explanation for that weirdness, i wonder if he might be struggling to remember his past? because sans is obviously still homesick and misses his old friends, he tried to go back for a very long time (boy did he try) before giving up, and he has grieved his old life for a WHILE. papyrus doesn't really have anything similar in his character arc. he's lonely, yes, but he doesn't really miss anyone. and those few times when he does hint to the past, it's always related to sans. specifically, I'm thinking of the winter alarm clock where he literally can't remember the last time sans got to celebrate the holidays with a lot of friends (friends we know for a fact he had, and that he misses. a lot.)

sooo...... question mark??? it could be that papyrus doesn't remember something of their past that sans does, or it could be just a weird choice of words on Toby's end. I'm especially intrigued by sans shutting the question down. i wonder what his deal is.