#i project so heavily onto that man its not even funny

[daily-ish-syndicate-headcanons]

Techno has the nastiest resting bitch face you will ever see. He constantly looks like he's furious at something.

[maryonaccross]

Blackcels still pushing this narrative that Alicent is a hypocrite for telling Rhaenys she should've been queen when she doesn't want Rhaenyra on the throne because she is a woman is so funny.

Like Rhaenyra's entire claim is based on the fact that Viserys became king instead of Rhaenys.

And unlike Viserys who becomes king just because his gender Alicent had other motives"like she wanted her blood on the throne"

Doesn't that make Rhaenyra a hypocrite too ?🙄

I honestly don’t understand this brand of Team Black fans that cannot understand Alicent is only trying to get Aegon on the throne because he is HER son and would insure her and her younger children’s survival. She heavily benefits from him becoming king. That is the reason why she is pushing for him to be king, him being a man doesn’t have anything to do with it.  

But what does have a lot to do with it is the fact that women in Westeros do not have many rights within their marriage. Their husbands can do anything to them and the only thing the woman gets in return is protection and the reassurance that her children will not be left without an inheritance.

Alicent has sacrificed almost her entire life tending to Viserys and raising his children. Isn’t it only fair that after all of that she at least get the one thing society and the law says she is owned??

I try to delete the scene between Alicent and Rheanys from my memory all together because that brain dead dialog was character assassination at its prime and I think we all lost a lot of respect for Rheanys right there. And I won’t even get into the hypocrisy of the little speech she made about Alicent not being a feminist which was clearly just about her projecting her own lack of self respect onto her.

I think Rhaenyra’s line about how she “ learned over time that she had to earn her inheritance ” says all that needs to be said about her hypocrisy. She doesn’t care about Rheanys or her granddaughters being robbed of their inheritance by her illegitimate sons.



[zealctry]

@fallesto ( Nagato Pein Dearest Leader ) , cont'd from HERE.

there're things that could ( do ) set Hidan off, like a match thrown onto incredibly dry timber ( snap his patience like a twig underfoot. set his nerves aflame, and suddenly, everything in his head is a wildfire. ) they do exist, although they are far fewer than people generally anticipate ( think they know ) after making his acquaintance. they can make his blood boil, those things ––– and once they do, it always circles back to two things: blood and pain ( ha! pain, Pein. real funny. there’s a joke in there somewhere, if you attempt to take a stab at it. Hidan doesn't linger long enough on it to try. )

but this isn’t it. between one sentence and the next, catastrophe is prevented. maybe they take a wrong turn, somewhere in the labyrinth of his mind. because instead of tensing in vexation. . ..  Hidan laughs. ( laughs in the face of everything he cares little about. that village, its people, this man's assessment of him. they're all so . . . )

a brief thing, more a bark of a sound than uncontrollable amusement. ( it dies down to a scalding, sweet-flavored countenance, a smile coating his lips, enveloping the threat of violence. sweet like syrup around a pocket of cyanide. )

a c h a n c e t o a i d a l l o f u s i n . .. .

( fucking hilarious. the best joke he’s heard in a while. what makes you think I want anything of the sort? that I have ever aided anyone, even once, in my life. . .. .? lie lie lie, but Pein isn’t in his head, so how would he know ? )

                 “ hey hey hey. what’s this bullshit about? don’t you think you’re underestimating me, just a little? ” still sickly-sweet. you see, it comes naturally ––– Hidan is sometimes indulgently obnoxious ( because he can. because he wants to. ) “ I’d like to see him try ! ”

( his supposed partner, who acted like anything but one. a mock-partner, a mock-leader. all of it a masquerade. like his supposed giving a shit about this whole organization. was any of this meant to faze him? or was it merely a play, put on for his entertainment?  )

above, behind the haze of pollution projected upon the skies by the village ( he hates this place ), clouds gather heavily ( shades of grey, always ; daylight, nighttime – all shades of . . .. ). passive onlookers to this tiny. . . dispute? difference of opinion? ( Hidan is bored. Hidan is restless. therefore, Hidan makes a nuisance of himself. )

a shrug, deliberate and slow, followed by the roll of his shoulders.  as if to ( purposefully! ) contrast ( counteract! ) Pein’s neat, precise angularity ( of bearing and of tongue, of ideas and of speech ), Hidan relaxes – even slouches just a touch, or pretends to, anyway. lets his arms become cooked noodles at the very least ( his back posture is, by force or habit and obligation, impeccable. it comes with carrying a significant amount of weight at his back. ) but it’s all showtime, after all. it’s the message that matters. and he’s certain that his message, in the here and now, is being received quite clearly.

                 “ see? case. in. point. no trace of leadership, Dear Leader. ”  the last syllables weigh down his tongue with a mockery that Hidan doesn’t bother to conceal. pale lips twitch, knowingly, as he jabs a finger in the other’s general direction.  “ don’t forget that you’re the one who wanted me. so what I’m saying is, make it worth my time. ”

[gingerbreadmonsters]

soft focus

or: lucifer, and the frozen moments that hold you close to him.

*sigh* look. when i started writing, this was supposed to just be a cute little something about lucifer being all soft and sweet on you! somehow i’ve ended up with some sort of weird character study about pride instead… oi, what do you mean, “i’m projecting”? gn!reader, angst to fluff, blood mention and the tiniest bit of (tasteful) body horror in the middle. heavily inspired by chet baker’s “my funny valentine”. lucifer seeing the world through a very particular lens in 1800 words or less.

there are no pictures in lucifer's study.

asmo goes on at him about how "honestly, lucifer, you spend half your life in here... you ought to at least make it look nice!". he's probably right, but lucifer always dodges the issue and shoos him out before he can suggest something like that ridiculous floral monstrosity that seems to consume most of asmo's room.

and okay, fine, maybe his office is a bit plain, but it's not a bad place to be, as long as your name isn't mammon. tastefully decorated and understated in its richness, those soft, plush furnishings, that lovely dark wood - all lovingly chosen, all part of lucifer's carefully cultivated image. he’s prince diavolo’s right hand man, first of the seven lords of the devildom, the avatar of pride. it stands to reason that his study should reflect that, right?

sophisticated and refined, without being too gaudy or tacky. it’s a space fit for a gentleman, the sort of gentleman that lucifer knows he needs to be. the sort who has meetings in town with only the most important of demons, who does his paperwork diligently at his desk in the afternoons, who sits comfortably on the shelf of high society. lord lucifer is an iron fist in a velvet glove, and everything around him has to - has to - reflect that, from the cut of his overcoat to the paperweights on his desk.

so maybe it gets a little exhausting, always having to examine and sharpen and polish every little facet of his life. so maybe it’s a little difficult. but how could he stop? he’s managed like this for thousands of years now, and it’s second nature to him now - the constant compulsion, this need to be perfect and beautiful and prepared. that damned desire, unchanging and unending, to take on the impossible and breeze through it like it’s nothing at all. because who else could do it quite so well as him?

the golden son of heaven, the myth made flesh, who tore down gods and angels alike in the name of love. the most infamous being in all of creation, who spun the straw of sorrow into gold, and his fallen brothers into the rulers of demons. no challenge is too great, too difficult - or, if it is, nobody can ever know.

and isn’t that just terrifying? that thought that someone might see him, truly see him at last? the fear of being blown wide open, the slip and shatter of the mask, of looking down to see his bones and his blood and his burden spilling out onto the earth - of the whole wide world looking, and pointing, and laughing, and knowing that he isn’t what he said he was, what he thought he was, what he’ll never be-

sorry, where were we? ah, yes - his office.

it's comfortable enough for work or play, but a little impersonal. a little traditional. personally, lucifer prefers it this way, finding that keeping his office a bit more streamlined lets him focus on his paperwork (even if he often wishes that said paperwork was less… plentiful). it’s effective, in both form and function.

what it is not, however, is sentimental.

you see, lucifer isn’t much the type to mix business and pleasure - when he’s working, he’s working, and when he’s off the clock? good luck getting him within ten feet of a royal memo. as such, there aren’t really any personal touches or decorations anywhere, none of levi’s manga recommendations on the shelf, none of belphie’s favourite cushions on the chairs. they clutter up the space, tugging at his focus with shiny surfaces and noisy colours. they’re distractions.

hmmm. you know that lucifer likes having pictures of his brothers and friends saved on his D.D.D., seeing as he asks you to send him some every now and then. you also know that he definitely does something with them - a few weeks ago, he’d sent you the weirdest text about “the most effective colour for picture frames”, which had thrown you for a total loop until you remembered seeing him carrying a big box full of the things up the stairs that morning.

right, so we know that lucifer definitely has some framed pictures somewhere. you’ve checked up and down the stairwells, but there are no new portraits there (save for the family one that they insisted you be in when you came back to the devildom. curiously, it’s one of the only portraits on the wall where everyone in it is properly smiling…).

it took ages to check all of the hallways, even the ones leading down to the crypt, but there’s nothing new there either. his room has a few pretentious-looking abstract bits and pieces on the wall, but that turns out to be a dead end as well! perhaps he’s got them in his study? you’ve spent quite a lot of time in his office with him, and while he does tend to take up most of your attention (curse his pretty face!), you’re fairly sure the pictures aren’t in there.

this, of course, begs the question - “if they’re not in the common spaces, and they’re not in his room, and they’re not in his study, then where are they?”.

well.

you’ve become quite familiar with lucifer’s room (although you still make a point of avoiding the creepy skeleton, in the silent hope that he’ll notice and get rid of it - no wonder he never goes to bed, what with that thing watching him!), and consequently you know that most of the art on the walls isn’t actually much to his taste. it’s just kind of there to make the walls less plain, although he admits that the big black-and-white one over the bed is his favourite. you’re not allowed to touch it, though - apparently it’s very cursed, and you don’t fancy your chances against something that even lucifer thinks is powerful.

what you don’t know is that lucifer had only been half-telling the truth when he’d told you that the paintings in his room were cursed. he was correct in the sense that they contain a lot of magic, but the type of magic he said they hold wasn’t quite right.

they’re not cursed, not at all. they’re glamoured.

it’s a very effective hiding place - you’ll never guess, not until he tells you, and that won’t be for a while yet. to the rest of the world, his room is nice enough but a bit bland, nothing there worth a second look. but to lucifer? he could spend a thousand years looking, and he still wouldn’t have had enough.

behind the thick, heavy layers of magic over the paintings, the walls are overflowing with pictures - fine portraits, instant film, delicate landscapes, crayon scribbles, blurred selfies, pencil drawings… every single kind of picture imaginable fills lucifer’s room, the finest gallery in all the devildom, maybe in all three realms.

the lonely walls are suddenly plastered with the faces of his brothers, diavolo, barbatos, even the purgatory hall students. there are photos of demons from many years ago, friends of times gone by - a noticeable lack of angelic faces, with the exception of simeon, who makes a number of appearances around the room (funnily enough, he hadn’t had the time to grab his photo album from his room during the war. do you think it’s still there?).

the frame above his bed hides the most precious pieces in his collection, and when he has the chance, lucifer likes to come in here and just look, a harmless tourist wandering through the halls of this most exclusive of museums.

some are pictures that he’s taken himself, some have been taken by other people. some have been professionally done, others more casually - group outings, candids, snapshots of a long and busy life. some aren’t even proper pictures at all, remnants of afternoons and brothers long-past, but hold so many cherished memories that lucifer finds himself too fond of them to throw away.

there’s magazine covers of mammon, cut carefully from their bindings and mounted on crisp card. selfies of asmo and satan together in various places, most frequently the cat café near madam scream’s. beel and the RAD fangol team after a memorable victory, beaming smiles all around. there’s even a little cluster of photos, clearly taken with a disposable camera, of levi next to as many sleeping-belphies as he could find, posing in increasingly weirder and weirder ways - lucifer remembers the day these were taken, as clear as anything, watching beel and levi run around the house in search of belphie’s many napping spots.

a million moments, hanging in the air, hanging on his walls - and lately, there’s been an explosion of new pictures to add, enough that he could make a whole new exhibition, all dedicated to you.

you’re everywhere, every possible detail of you immortalised forever in ink, in oil pastel, in film. your blinding smile dazzles him from across the room, your hands reaching playfully towards him like you’ll pull him right into the photograph with you. you’re bent over a devildom history textbook, focused and unaware of satan’s D.D.D. pointing at you from across the table. you’re half-asleep, pillow creases in your cheek, blinking up at him from the graphite blur of belphie’s notebook. you’re dressed up for the valentine’s day dance, a vision in black and crimson watercolour, smiling up at him as you take his arm. his lovely muse - you splash yourself across the great collage of his life, a riot of colour and laughter and love, the most dazzling work of art he’ll ever see.

it’s all hidden for now, concealed behind the sticky web of magic that just evades your reach, but perhaps that’s for the best. you see, there’s one picture that’s missing - and it might not get there for a while, but lucifer can already tell that it’ll be his prize exhibit.

just one more picture, a photo this time, of just the two of you. he’ll be kissing you, shiny rings on both your fingers, your arms around his neck. the rest of the universe will stand still for just a single, frozen moment. as if it finally realises, as if it knows (as lucifer does already) that it revolves around you, just you, just you.

his lovely human sweetheart - his most treasured, precious, masterpiece.

this is an original work by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute

masterlist

[that-damn-girl]

(1) Daze of Pollen

(Work in Progress - 1 of 8; Slow updates)

Daze of Pollen Materlist

Pairing: (cis)fem!Reader x Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers x Sam Wilson

Words: 1800+

Warnings: None except language?

Summary:  Bucky, Steve, Sam and you are in the safe house post mission when a retrieved Hydra device activates, releasing a kind of pollen you don’t know of, but the effects of which are soon discovered.

A/N: To all my horny bitches out there, I’m sorry the first chapter isn’t smutty. I didn’t plan on keeping the entire first chapter as the intro but it just...happened. Also, This is my submission for @buckyssoul​​ ‘s Rae Hit 1k Marvel Writing Challenge. I’m sorry for the delay. Hope you like it!

It is a strange concept, really. We don't always get what we want. But  if we do, it's when we least expect it, in the most strangest of ways as well.

Call it your good luck, fate, destiny, a simple mere coincidence, or whatever. You were grateful for that night in the safe house regardless. For the first and the last time, you could say that you were thankful for a little Hydra contraption.

It all started during a peaceful dinner. You and your group of friends were relaxing after a successful mission, treating yourselves with any and all comfort food available in the safe house. The mission was anticipated to be much harder than usual; the only reason why Bucky and Sam had asked you and Steve to accompany them. Quite unexpectedly, the mission went smoothly and it seemed there was no need for the extra help they had requested. But considering the mission consisted of scoping out an abandoned Hydra base, being overly cautious was preferred than being overconfident. One never knew the levels of villainy Hydra truly possessed.

Oh, you were about to discover the truth in that statement just fine.

Bucky sat across from you on the dining table, Sam to your right. The duo played catch with a balled sheet of paper, their half eaten meals abandoned on the table. You and Steve conversed with them while enjoying your respective sandwiches.

It was true that Steve had given up his Captain America mantle to Sam, a man just as deserving of the title, but hadn't completely retired. He didn't get out on the field anymore, but used his excellent strategic skills in planning the missions sometimes, especially if it included Hydra. 

All of you would have been enroute to the Compound had Rhodey and Scott not hogged the quinjet. None of you minded though. With the four of you together, it was very much like a quiet night in with close friends. Unbeknown to you, it wasn't going to be particularly quiet much longer.

"Does it smell funny to anybody else here?" Bucky asked, pausing midway while rocking his chair. Squinting his eyes, he glanced around himself to locate the source of the smell, a deep frown etched onto his features.

Steve took a tentative whiff, you and Sam doing the same. "No pal, I don't smell anything."

"It's…" Bucky closed his eyes, taking in deep inhales. "It's faint but it's there. I'm sure of it." 

You and Sam glanced at each other, a raised eyebrow followed by a shrug. Suddenly Bucky sat up with a start, his gaze fixating on a corner of the room. Following his line of sight, you found the hard black stacked containers with the Shield logo which held the Hydra files and devices you had retrieved from the base earlier in the mission. 

"It's coming from there, I think." Bucky stood up and reached the stacked containers in only a few long strides. Before any of you could stop him, he lifted the cover to inspect its contents. 

Immediately a puff of bright yellow powder-like substance was released from the inside, as if a smoke bomb had been triggered. Bucky coughed as the coloured dust hit his senses. It didn't take long for the particles to dissipate in the air. Soon the clean air around you was shrouded with the yellow dust, leaving all of you a coughing mess.

"What is it?" You wondered, one hand waving in front of your face to get rid of the dust while the other protectively covered your nose. It was no use though. It was everywhere, the particles so fine they slithered through the gaps between your fingers. You could do nothing but inhale it as you coughed helplessly. The particles stuck to the insides of your mouth. You couldn't feel them on your tongue or the roof of your mouth, but the dryness that followed was a sure shot indication. The tangy scent of it overwhelmed your senses, making you wonder how could you have missed it.

"Look inside the container, Bucky. See what released it." Sam instructed with broken words in between the coughs.

"Fucking Hydra," Steve muttered under his breath.

Following Sam's orders, Bucky peeked inside and pulled out a wooden cube. It was small enough to be grasped in his palm. One of its faces had the ugly red symbol of Hydra painted on it. The cube was heavily cracked along the sides. Had Bucky not held onto it firmly, it would have fallen apart right then. 

Sam, you and Steve drifted closer to Bucky as the yellow dust gradually dissipated into nothing - or rather as the most of it was already inhaled by you all. The cube appeared to hold some carvings in a language you supposed was Russian. 

"I...don't...understand…" Bucky's fingers drifted across the letters as he tried to make sense of it. "Fuck!" With widened eyes, Bucky retraced the words, confirming what he had read. Throwing the cube across the room, he started pacing the room, his head hidden behind his palms. 

"Come on, man, you're scaring me." Steve said, approaching his friend.

"You should be!" Bucky yelled, all his frustrations coming out on the wrong person. He loudly groaned, rubbing his forehead, "I'm sorry. It's just that…"

"What is it, Bucky?" You asked.

Bucky looked at you, his gaze sweeping over your form. He bit his lip, an almost remorseful look coming over in his eyes. In a much softer voice, he said, "I don't know how to explain it. I don't know where to start."

"Do you know what the yellow dust we all inhaled was?" Sam asked. 

Bucky replied after a long pause. "It was a sort of pollen which Hydra had engineered." 

"Hydra modified...pollen?" You asked. The idea sounded as bizarre to you as snow in the Sahara. "What?"

"No- Well, um, yes," Bucky took a deep breath before he started explaining. "Hydra could never replicate the super soldier serum they used on me. But they needed more super soldiers. It hardly ever happened that anybody else would succeed in recreating those serums so that Hydra could steal. They decided that if they couldn't transform using the serums, they would...breed super soldiers. That's when Project Growth started. These pollen were engineered to assist in it." 

"How did the pollen assist Project Growth?" You asked, confusion dripping from your voice.

Bucky glanced at you but quickly diverted his gaze, unable to keep the eye contact. "Project Growth was about using super soldiers like me and those four others to... impregnate willing women. Conception with super soldiers is harder than usual for some reason. So they came up with this pollen to aid the process. It's an aphrodisiac. They called it sex pollen, because well, it increases one's sexl drive... by a lot. So much so that it might be fatal if the person exposed to it doesn't, you know, climax."

"What? Are we gonna want to fuck like rabbits then? Become Hydra's breeding bitches?" Sam asked, crossing his arms in front of him.

"The experiments were never successful. They did it a couple of times and it never resulted in a pregnancy. This box," Bucky gestured to the broken cube lying on the floor, "I don't know how or when but it got activated somehow." He shrugged helplessly. "I have no idea if the pollen inside it was a sample of those failed experiments or if that of a new one. Either way, we don't have long before the effects would start showing."

There was a lull in the room, the implications of what Bucky said sitting heavy on everyone's minds.

"We can keep ourselves locked in our separate rooms until it wears off to...get ourselves off." Steve's cheeks were tinged a deep shade of red as he proposed the idea.

"It's not that easy. Trust me, I've been through it." Bucky looked at Steve. "It's something about needing another person's touch; a sense of intimacy. No matter what you do on your own, it won't ever be enough. It would send you in a daze of lust, where the only thing you could focus on would be to anyhow satiate yourselves. You would desperately want another person to touch you, no matter who or what gender. You'd need them to touch you." He glanced at each one of you. "I'm sorry, but it's going to be nasty."

"So what you're saying is, it's basically fuck or die?" Sam said.

"When you put it that way…" Bucky tried to think of a better phrase but finding none, he replied, "-Well, yes."

"I don't know what to say," You crossed your hands in front of your chest. To say that you were shocked was a massive understatement. You couldn't even begin to believe that any of it was true.

Unconsciously, your gaze drifted over each of the men in the room. They all stood with a hard look on their handsome faces, lost deep in thought. You weren't sure if it was you or the pollen due to which you felt yourself get wet, your panties gradually dampening and sticking to your form. 

Truth be told, you had always wondered what being with these men would feel like, what fucking them would be like. Would Sam choke you in a sensual manner with those bulging arms of his? Would Bucky keep you pinned to the bed with his thick thighs? What would gripping America's Ass feel like when Steve would be pumping his length into you?

You bit your lip, your mind conjuring up a train of lewd images. You wondered if it all would come true that night. Though you had considered them insanely attractive since the day you had met them, you never dared to act upon any of your desires with either of them. They were your close friends, and you'd be damned if you'd destroy it for a night of pleasure.

Now though, you had no other option but to fuck them if you valued your life. On any other day you would have laughed boisterously had anyone suggested such a thing, but it was your reality right then. 

You realized it didn't have to be a necessarily bad thing though

Huffing dramatically, you stood straighter, hands falling by your sides. With a newfound confidence, you asked, "Well then, what are we waiting for?"

"What?" Steve asked, dumbfounded. 

"At one point or the other, we would eventually go crawling to someone. I don't think we'd be in control of ourselves if it would make us that desperate. Avoiding the inevitable makes no sense. It's better to start it while we are still able to make conscious decisions and consent to being with each other. At least I'd prefer that."

The men looked at each other, a silent conversation happening amongst them. Bucky asked, "Are you sure, Y/N?" 

You smiled. "I am, Bucky. If it's gonna be this way, then I'm glad it's the three of you. Are you guys sure though?"

Bucky glanced at Sam and Steve before smirking, "You bet we are, babydoll."

You walked closer to Bucky, standing on the tip of your toes as your arms curved around his neck, excitement thrumming through your veins. "Let's get this show started then."

Chapter 2

Blog’s Main Masterlist ||  Tag lists

I’m taking requests if you want a particular kink to be featured. Send me an ask or text me for the same or to be tagged.

Thank you for reading!

[strongerthanafork]

Foreign Shadows

Karl Heisenberg x Reader: Part 1

Warnings: weapons, blood, gore, kidnapping, torture, cursing, sexual content.

"Ethan, you can't be serious?" (Y/N) calls after her friend. "I am serious. She's missing and I'm going to find her." Ethan shouts, over his shoulder, continuing into the woods. "Its getting late, you can't go out there alone." She says, stomping after him. Ethan turns suddenly. (Y/N) bumps into her chest, inhaling sharply. He looks down at her with desperation.

"Then come with me."

(Y/N) walks beside Ethan, arms crossed. They hadn't spoken to each other for at least twenty minutes. "Look, I'm sorry, okay?" Ethan sighs, breaking the silence. "I know this is hard for you." (Y/N) starts, feeling an uncomfortable shiver run down her spine. Someone was watching. "But this wasn't a good idea. We're out here alone, in that dark, with a only a flashlight. I mean this is classic horror story shit." (Y/N) says. "I know, I know." Ethan mumbles. What sounds like a small branch snapping under someone's foot his heard. They both fall quiet. Ethan looks at (Y/N). Shs looks back wide eyed. He glances around, suddenlt noticing lights in the distance. He pulls (Y/N) to him, whispering in her ear. "There are light down the hill. When I tap your arm, we run, got it." He explains, having a feeling of dread in his gut. (Y/N) lets out a shaky breath feeling him tap her arm. She boots.

Ethan is hot on her tail, as they both sprint down the hill. The lights get closer and closer to reveal a small village. "What the hell?" (Y/N) whispers. Ethan doesn't see her stop running and bumps into her, knocking them both to the ground. "Shit!" Ethan says, grabbing the attention of some people walking the street. (Y/N) groans, sitting up, feeling eyes on her. "Ethan." (Y/N) says, patting the ground beside her. He was gone. She stares at the spot of the ground he once was sitting on. Did he leave her? (Y/N) stands, brushing her hands on her jeans. "Ethan!" She whispers harshly. "Dammit." She mumbles, looking entirely out of place in the village. "Are you lost?" Someone asks, from behind her. She turns, quickly. "I don't- I'm not from here." (Y/N) stutters watching the woman's face light up. "A foreigner! How lovely." She starts. (Y/N) doesn't let her finish. "Have you seen a guy, about this tall," She gestures with her hands, "Blonde hair? He was wearing a green jack-" The woman stops her. "I've seen no man. Please come, inside!" She says ushering (Y/N) inside her home. "Wait, but-" The woman sushes her. "I insist! We never get foreigners nowadays." The woman laughs, eerily. (Y/N) swallows, thickly. "Let me go find my husband, and I'll be right back." The woman says, giving her a creepy grin. (Y/N) shutters as the woman leaves. She rushes to the door, opening it. It slams on the wall as she bolts out of the woman's house and into the square. Where the hell was she? What was going on? Where did Ethan go? What was in the wood? Her breath quickens and she glances frantically around the village for an escape. Villagers stop in their tracks, staring at her as if she were a digusting creature. A dull pain, resonates on the back of her skull. She grunts, falling to the ground from the impact. She turns, seeing villager with some heavy object in hand. (Y/N)'s head pounds. Her adrenaline begins to kick in. The man raises his weapon to strike again and she rolls to the side hearing it clank on the brick below her. She kicks the man in the shin, pulling herself up. "Oh no you don't!" The man yells, aiming a shotgun at her. Where did her get that from? "What do you want? What's going on?" (Y/N) roars, anger filling her. "Where is my friend? What did you do to him-" The gun goes off, the bullets piercing her thigh. (Y/N) falls on her back, crying out in pain. Her hands shoot to her injured leg, holding it. Blood seeps onto her hands. She sobs, looking up through her tears at the man. "Mother Miranda will be very pleased to see you." The man says, confusing the hell out of (Y/N). "Please-" The barrel of the gun comes down the hit (Y/N)'s head. 

Darkness.

"Oh, please, that is utter nonsense!" A female's voice booms. (Y/N) winces, feeling cold metal around her wrists. Her thigh is numb and pulsates with her heart. Her head hurts. It's throbbing, aching. She turns to lie on her back. "(Y/N)!" Someone hisses, from beside her. "Ethan?" (Y/N) croaks, quietly. "Thank God. I thought you wouldn't wake up." Ethan says. He's bloody and dirty. "What's going on? Ethan, please tell me this isn't real." (Y/N) whispers. "Ah!" The same female voice says. "They're awake." She chuckles. (Y/N) props herself up against a wall. Oh god. A woman looms above her. She's enormous. She towers over (Y/N) like a tree. She has to crane her neck to see the woman's face. She glances around the room seeing several other figures. Her eyes widen. What the fuck was happening? "Oh, don't be alarmed, darling." The woman, grins. "The worst is yet to come." She says. Someone snorts and (Y/N)'s head turns to see a gruff looking man, smoking a cigar. "What the fuck is going on?" (Y/N) projects, taking all of the strange people by surprise. Ethan feels anxiety bubble in him. "Who are you? What are we doing here?" (Y/N) drills. No one answers. "Answer me, goddammit!" (Y/N) shouts. Cigar man let's out a laugh. It sounded like it came from deep within her gut.

"What's so funny, cigar man?" (Y/N) growls, making Ethan kick her uninjured leg. "Dont provoke them." He mumbles. "Cigar man." The scruffy man repeats. "Don't provoke them?" (Y/N) says lowly. The strange people watch the two humans interact. "Don't fucking provoke them?" She shouts at Ethan, making him flinch. "Some dumbass shot me in the leg and all I was trying to do was get some answers." (Y/N) rants. "You're the one who dragged me out here to find you're precious daughter!" She says raising her hands mockingly. Ethan's face contorts. "Oh so it's my fault?" He says, laughing bitterly. "Obviously! We're in this situation because of you!" She argues, shoving her index finger into his chest. "Me? I'm not the one who-" The tall woman becomes tired of their bickering. "Enough!" She booms, shutting them both up. "Mother Miranda is on her way and she will decide what to do with both of you." She says, obviously annoyed. "I like her." The man says, pointing his cigar at (Y/N). "She's got spunk. Now him," He pauses, pointing to Ethan, "He seems like a pain in the ass, if I'm being blunt with you." He says, ignoring that the two humans were even there, talking to the tall lady. The large woman, sighs heavily. "It isn't your decision, Heisenberg." She says, sitting down. "Now hang on just a minute," (Y/N) says squinting. "Since when am I property?" She glares at all of them. Ethan swallows. "Since you set foot here." A new voice says. It's filled with power. It was quite intimidating. A female figure covered in feathers enters the room. "What the fuck." (Y/N) whispers, eyes trailing her as she walks. The Heisenberg man snorts. Ethan  cowers to the wall behind him. Idiot. 

Miranda stops at the center of the room. "We will decide your fate, from now, forward." She says, speaking with a kind of grace. "So we don't get a fucking say in this?" (Y/N) fumes. "(Y/N)." Ethan says, weakly. "Don't '(Y/N)' me. I don't want anything to do with this! This is insane. It this a joke? Did my mom set this shit up? She's been after me for years. I knew-" (Y/N) is silenced. "Shut your fucking hole and let the woman speak. Damn." Heisenberg snaps. "I thought you liked me, cigar boy." (Y/N) sneers. Heisenberg rises from his seat, suddenly, making her jump. Mother Miranda sighs. "Now you listen to me, princess." Heisenberg growls, stalking over to her. (Y/N) stands her ground, rolling her shoulders back. Ethan starts to shake in fear. He grabs her jaw, roughly.

"You ain't making the fucking decisions around here." He says. (Y/N) tries to pull her head out of his grasp, but he simply tightens it. "Your fate is already layed out for you. So I suggest to cooperate or you will face the consequences." Heisenberg grins. "Get your hands off me you pig!" (Y/N) says, lowly. A loud crack echos inside the room. (Y/N) falls back against the wall, hand to her face. He just hit her. "Learn your place or you won't survive." Heisenberg whimpers. (Y/N)'s eyes sting with tears. Everything hurt and nothing made sense. "Go to hell." She mumbles. "What did I just say-" heisenberg starts raising his voice. "That's a great show you put on for us, dear, but I think that's enough." The tall woman says, boredom in her tone. (Y/N) slumps back against the wall, defeated. It was no use. 

"Ethan Winters." Mother Miranda says. "Your fate has been decided." She speaks with authority. There's a pause. "Lady Dimitrescu will have you." She states. The tall woman grins wildly. Ethan shrinks back against the wall. (Y/N) sits there, a cut on her cheek from something Heisenberg hand on his hand. Possibly a ring. She didn't care. Ethan is carried away by the tall lady she had learned to be Alcina Dimitrescu. "Good fucking ridens." (Y/N) mumbles to herself, watching Ethan struggle. "(Y/N) (L/N). Your fate has been decided." Mother Miranda repeats. "Oh, great." (Y/N) says, voice dripping in hate. "Lord Heisenberg will take you." She says. (Y/N) feels anger filling her. "I'm not going with that idiot." She says, looking at Miranda while referring to him. She hears him stand. Goosebumps rise on her skin, seeing his shadow on the ground as he looms above her. "Get up." He orders. "Fuck off." (Y/N) retorts, still looking at Miranda. "Get the fuck up!" Heisenberg booms. (Y/N) glares up at him. "I said, fuck off!" She yells back. Heisenberg smiles, adjusting his hat. "You're in for a ride, pretty girl." He growls, grabbing her forearm, forcing her to stand on her bad leg. (Y/N) yelps, numbing pain shooting through her ankle to her hip. She pants, pulling at the chains surrounding her wrist. She would glady, for no money at all, kick him in the balls, if her leg was healed.

"Well? C'mon walk." Heisenberg says, in a teasing manner. "I got shot, dumbass! I can't walk." (Y/N) spits. "Guess I'll either have to drag you or throw you over my shoulder. What'll it be?" He says, a glint in his eyes. (Y/N) remains silent. He grabs her by the middle, hosting her over his shoulder. "Put me down!" (Y/N) shouts as he begins to walk. "Oh! I see. You'd rather be dragged on the ground, huh?" Heisenberg says, stopping. "No." (Y/N) says, quickly. "That's what I fuckin' thought." He says, hand resting on the bad of her thighs. It didn't seem like he really cared about the wound on her thigh.(Y/N) starts to feel blood rush to her head. The man was carrying her at an uncomfortable angle. She grunts, wiggling to adjust herself. "Quit movin'." Heisenberg barks, slapping the back of her injured thigh. (Y/N) flinches letting out a pained sound. She dangles from his shoulder like a ragdoll. This was embarrassing to say the least. He was treating her like a sack of potatoes. 

After what felt like a month, they reached some sort of plant. A factory maybe? This was all surreal. A whirring sound is heard and (Y/N) is walked through a door. "Welcome to your new home." Heisenberg chuckles. "This isn't my home." She snaps, hitting his back with her chained wrists. "Now you've done it." He says, before throwing her down on the floor. (Y/N) hisses, her leg aching. "Look, this us how it's gonna be." He starts, kneeling down to an eye level stance. "You ain't gonna cause trouble and your gonna do what I say. You hear?" He says. "You may need some trainin'," He pauses, eyes hinting some darkness,

"But you'll fuckin' learn."

[htmlerror]

☕ + wfa

i do not like wfa with ham, i do not like it, sam i am.

I have a lot of problems with Wayne Family Adventures. The idea for it is solid enough, but the execution is. bad. I've put my thoughts below the cut because this got long, so I hope you don't mind me going in depth on my feelings.

Duke Thomas as a POV character - I'm plagerizing heavily from my convo with @phamtai about this. Def check them out for more info and better insights than mine into the character. Duke is extremely well established in canon despite only having been around for a decade or so. Remarkably, it's taken until WFA to butcher his character. Duke in this series is too polite. He's too clueless. He's been presented as the Relatable Kid archetype that he doesn't fit. In canon, Duke has never not been self-assured. He's a relatable character, yes, but not because he doesn't know what's going on. He has experience as a hero long before the batfam became involved. And since then, he's bonded with them. WFA doesn't show his connection with Cass, his dynamic with Bruce or Jason, and completely ignores his conflicts with the family. In a supposedly family-focused product, those are damn near cardinal sins. He may as well be a totally new character. Duke has been watered down so much for the sake of this series. WFA could be a vessel to explore so many things about him that we don't see a lot of on the regular page. We could see a dive into the parallels between him and Bruce, the full psychological impact of losing his parents, epecially in contrast to Jason, how his world view and morals differ from Batman's, the daily consequences of his powers, or the fallout of his mourning independently for the friends he's lost. But those would be interesting angles WFA doesn't seem eager to explore. If you can't imagine a version Duke punching a cop just because they're a fucking cop, you're doing it wrong. Another issue is, unfortunately, Duke's role as the only Black batman member. I shouldn't need to explain why it's problematic to be showing his as constantly less knowledgeable and presumably skilled as the other bats. (No, it doesn't matter that Dick and Damian are drawn with dark skin. Dick has been written as a white man for nearly his entire existence. The person who retconned that is notoriously racist and has spent years defending her inclusion of sexual assault in her writing. I have no issue with Dick being Romani, but just changing the color of his skin is not the way to do it.) DC has recently had a push towards inclusion, on the page an behind the scenes. This is good, of course. Though if they really are committed to representation and inclusion, it needs to be an effort seen across the board. Faux pas like this paint a pretty obvious picture.

The Webtoon format is shit - Webtoon is a great platform for indie writers and artists. It's not my style of content, but I get the appeal. IMO, it's ridiculous to accept a professional comic publisher shitting out 12 page fluff pieces. Yes, the weekly comic format has been phased out for a reason. Yes, halving the workload is a possible way around that restriction. But there just isn't a good enough reason to do it. It's a pretty obvious ploy to seem "hip" and "get in with kids these days." It's lazy and frankly kind of embarrassing. For anyone who doesn't know, a standard comic book is usually 24-28 pages. This isn't an arbitrary number, it's part of the format for the art form. That length allows for necessary plot developments in a serial story line while also giving the characters, themes, and artwork time to breathe. Furthermore, it's what most comic readers have come to expect over the decades. Halving that wouldn't necessarily be a problem, there are plenty of examples of well made shorts out there, but coupling that WFA's love affair with single panels and splash pages is a major issue. Say you make a 12 page comic with 4-6 panels per page. You have 48-72 panels to work with. You can sit a compelling story into that, with or without heavy dialogue. But bring that down to 12-24 panels, and you have one of two options: either 1) ultra-compress your narrative or 2) reduce the plot to compensate. Ignoring the formatting choices, WFA is a convenient reason for DC to keep the worst of the status quo in the bat titles. There's no need to acknowledge criticism of Bruce's treatment of his family when they can simply point and say "Jason's throat hasn't been sliced open here! And look, Damian hasn't been left with the crushing guilt of his grandfather's death! We even let Tim exist as his own character!" WFA doesn't change anything, it shows that DC is aware of its problems but would rather outsource them than put in the work to fix it. There's a special kind of rejected feeling that comes with being told "I hear you, I just don't care.

Fandom isn't bad, but - Everyone is familiar with the incorrect quotes format by now. Sometimes they're funny, most of the time they tend to over-saturate. WFA is like if a incorrect batfam quotes blog was a comic. It's a steady supply of one-liners and references, sure, but it lacks any real substance. If that's what you like, I can't fault you for it, but it's not going to be everyone's cup of tea. The way the batfandom has piled onto the "this is the best thing ever" bandwagon is concerning to me. There has been good batfam content in canon, you just need to know where to look for it. The lack of critical analysis of the project and dismissal of critiques is always an alarming pattern, but the way WFA has come to be the odd face of the fandom is just bizarre. It's everywhere, as you know if you've ever tried avoiding it. Thinking about WFA being the default interpretation of these characters makes me nervous. They lack the depth their canon counterparts. I don't care if you enjoy WFA, I do understand the appeal of it, but for the love of the gods, take it down from it's pedestal.

WFA is... fine. It's yet to commit any sins too egregious, but, like all DC properties, it's a ticking timebomb. I won't be surprised when it goes off, and I can't say I'll be sad to see it go. Ao3 has better content, anyway

[dadsbongos]

Reges Sumus

Movie/Game/Show: Danganronpa (which game/anime? who tf knows) Dynamic: Izuru Kamukura/Reader (heavily mentioned Hajime Hinata/Reader) Warnings: despair arc tings, i tried to put more into izuru’s character so i’m sorry if he comes out ooc :( Summary: Izuru knows he’s miserable, but he can never find himself pulling away. ~~~

“The world has fallen into despair. A despair so deep the entirety of humanity has cascaded into bloodlust. Anger. Fear. Hatred. Those outside our walls feel it all. Those outside our walls are jealous of us. Of our hope. Of our unity. Of our home. We cannot let them take us. We cannot let them take anything that is rightfully ours. Protect this place with your lives, for if you fall - so does our hope. So do I. So go out and fight, fight with all you have, fight with all you are. For your spouses, for your parents, for your children - for me. As long as you do so, we can save this world. We will save this world using my Ultimate as a weapon.”

“Praise be, oh Dominus.”

“Praise be, Reges Sumus.”

(Y/n) outstretched her arms to the crowd, “Now go, my children, my loves, save this world!”

In near perfect synchronist, the people pulled down their masks and turned to the large front door of the ransacked mansion, picking up their guns, bats, and knives as they left. Just in case, of course, it wasn’t their fault if someone wasn’t willing to give their rations to the leader. Same as it wasn’t their fault if their bat slipped over someone’s head, hard enough to crack open the skull like a nut, or if their fingers slipped over the trigger long enough to kill a small family over a can of beans. It wasn’t their fault. It was despair’s. It was Junko Enoshima’s.

“Dominus, aye?”

Looking to the source of the voice, (Y/n) gave the boy a close-eyed smile, she turned completely and waved off the guards that escorted the pair, “Fuyuhiko, Peko, my dears!” she let her hands fall on the blond’s cheeks, pressing a holy kiss to his forehead, leaving a lipstick stain in her wake before moving onto Peko and doing the same, “It’s lovely to have you visit.”

They both knew better than to wipe off the lipstick stains on their skin, anything even close to slander aimed at (Y/n) could be met with merciless death at her follower’s vengeful hands.

Fuyuhiko looked about the lavish room, decorated with stolen jewels and furniture, before nodding, “Not fuckin’ shabby.”

“Thank you,” (Y/n) clasped her hands together, bringing them to her chest in delight, “As much as I adore having you here, I must ask why drop by so suddenly?”

Peko piped up, “We got chased out of a hideout. Kazuichi thought it’d be funny to send us some Monokumas.”

“Oh, my! That’s not good at all,” the girl shook her head before turning and beginning to walk up a set of stairs, “Come.”

Following close after, Fuyuhiko watched as his fellow Despair trailed her fingertips gently over the paintings of herself hung in the hall. (L/n), (Y/n), Ultimate Charisma, had truly built herself a cult of lies. The belief that somehow her followers could rebuild the world and rid it of despair, somehow she could save the world with the power of her ultimate status.

She had no intention of doing so, but it gave the people something to believe in and fight for - and that was good enough.

“Here we are,” (Y/n) opened a bedroom door, a queen-sized mattress laying on the floor with no bed frame, “It’s the best I can do at the moment, my dearest apologies.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Fuyuhiko brushed off - he knew better than to complain.

Peko nodded, “This is enough.”

“I’m glad,” she gestured the pair inside, taking each of their hands and pressing a kiss to their knuckles, “Anything for my comrades.”

As she left, she shut the door. What despair would become of the poor soul whose room that was, a shiver went down (Y/n)’s spine at the mere thought.

Minor, of course, but only in the moment. It was one of many things that would slowly build up into a cacophony - and she was reveling in it.

Entering her own room, (Y/n) jumped slightly at the dark silhouette standing by her king-sized mattress, completed with the fanciest bed frame she could steal, before recognizing the long, flowing hair. She smiled at the boy, hands already reaching out for him, “Oh, Izuru, my darling,” she took his cheeks, lovingly brushing her thumbs over the bones and bringing his forehead to her lips in a staining kiss, “Did you get in with Fuyuhiko and Peko?”

He made no gesture of nodding but the agreement was there, or perhaps he simply ignored her question and she was projecting upon a blank canvas, “I’ll admit, I wasn’t expecting you to start a cult, but won’t they tear you apart when they realize what you’ve done?”

The lies she’s told. The things she’s stolen. The people she’s killed. The sins living in her veins thrived on every weeping babe and execution splattering across these walls of hers.

“Isn’t that the point? The despair. Having everything I’ve worked for crumble when the worms revolt,” she answered, sitting upon her bed and patting the space beside her for Izuru, “Sit, my dear, I haven’t seen you in ages.”

“It hasn’t been that long,” he corrected.

“No, but I missed your face,” she leaned over, not particularly caring of any personal boundaries he may have, and brushed back his hair, slicking it away from his face and tying it back, “Well, it’s not truly your face, is it?”

Izuru didn’t respond, simply watching as the woman took a finger down the bridge of his nose.

“It’s Hajime Hinata’s,” her smile faded for the first time in a long time, a soft frown taking its place, “We were close, you know?”

“So I’ve heard,” Izuru grabbed (Y/n)’s wrist as her fingertip brushed his cupid’s bow, “I have no memory of that, you know.”

“I do.”

“So don’t force me to.”

“I’m not,” denying his claim, (Y/n) knew he didn’t believe her - though to be fair, she didn’t believe herself either, “I just like the despair of being so close, yet so far, from my beloved Hajime.”

Silence festered within the room once again.

A smile slowly teased back onto (Y/n)’s face, “You must be tired, but there’s something I simply have to show you.”

He knew where she was going with this, an attempt at recruitment as usual, but something deep, deep, deep down told him to go along with it. Perhaps it was a rare pity.

Perhaps it was the part of him enamored with the one called Dominus.

Perhaps it was the part of him that mourned the Ultimate Gamer.

Perhaps it was both.

Perhaps it was him. 

Any which way, he stood and followed after the woman, the red of the sky drenching the walls through cracked, dusty windows as they traversed down the hallway.

Passing Fuyuhiko and Peko’s room, passing the guard’s posts, passing the main room - (Y/n) led Izuru to a room at the very end of the grand corridor. Cardboard had been hastily tacked onto the wood with messy, uneven letters spelling out ‘nursery’ in bold. She pushed the door open easily enough, despite the clear indication it should’ve been locked, and gestured the long-haired man through. 

It was dark save for the faint light emanating from a baby monitor hooked onto a stained crib in the corner with ‘K.S’ etched into the corner. From what Izuru could see, there were about four cribs in the room and all of them filled with a sleeping baby.

“I feel no sympathy for babies in despair.”

“I never wanted kids,” (Y/n) brushed past the man and his words, her voice quiet to avoid waking the children, “I always thought they were snotty, whiny, loud, annoying little money-suckers who took and took and took until they were of age to take care of themselves and then they leave you forever…” she ran a finger over the sticky wood, “and I still do. But Hajime,” she hesitantly took a glance at Izuru, knowing she’d never find what she wanted in his gaze, “Hajime liked kids. He wasn’t sure he wanted any but I think he might’ve.”

Izuru watched the woman slowly revert back to his side to watch the babies as they slept, “So?”

“Do you want kids, Izuru?”

“I’m a war criminal.”

“War criminals can want kids, can’t they?” she huffed at his difficulty, previously cheery attitude slipping into her real feelings, “Someone being unfit to be a parent doesn’t stop them. I don’t know of any restrictions preventing someone from having a child, do you?” when he didn’t respond, she continued, “Hajime’s parents were unfit and still, they had him. I’m glad he was born but I wish it was to better people.”

“He didn’t seem to resent them. From what little I can feel of him.”

“He doesn’t seem to resent a lot of people he should. But it’s his life, who am I to interject?” she sarcastically mumbled, patience for Izuru Kamukura growing thinner, “I told him the procedure was an awful idea and look who’s standing next to me…”

“You seem to hate me and yet you strangely desire me at your side.”

“I told you already, it’s the despair.”

“I’m not stupid, (Y/n), I can see through you.”

Her shoulders tensed.

“Your request is impossible and you know that.”

She just wants her boyfriend back, is that really so much to ask for?

“My request is…” she paused, pursing her lips and furrowing her brows, “My request is…”

“I’ll be taking a room for the night,” he coldly informed.

“Stay with me,” (Y/n) took Izuru by his sleeve, fingers grasping at the clothes she’d never seen on her lover before - and she still hasn’t, technically. Because it wasn’t him, no matter how much she wished for him to magically wake up and be Hajime again - deep down, she knew better.

Izuru looked at the woman, her eyes slowly wetting and bottom lip quivering. She didn’t want him. She may have thought he was attractive, but that was only because he had stolen a man’s face.

She’d never want him.

It… stung. To know a woman so enamored with a lesser version of yourself, or who you had taken over, wasn’t similarly enamored with you. And she never could be. He didn’t like feeling so hurt over her rejection. He didn’t like knowing why it hurt.

Because he always wanted her.

He shook off her hand before wordlessly leaving the room and beginning his trek towards their shared abode for the night.

He wasn’t Hajime Hinata, he was Izuru Kamukura and he knew that no matter how much he wanted the sting to die, he would still be Izuru Kamukura when he woke up in (Y/n)’s arms the next morning.

It was Junko’s curse.

It was despair.

[tealquacks]

Sunlight Over Me (No Matter What I Do)

Originally posted here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27618575

Massive thanks to @dontatkiwi for helping me edit this.

Enjoy!

——————

Dream gave him black armor that glistened in the moonlight. Schlatt, for as strong as he was, swayed under the weight. The heat. Dream’s words sounded funny, as if he was speaking to him through water, form shifting like a verdant mirage. They stood in a grey stone tower, staring down at the world. Schlatt leaned against the balcony. The sun slowly inched up over the horizon, golden beams burning his eyes. Manburg sprawled out below them in all of its glory, the podium still decorated for the festival. Birds chirped and called for their mates, flapping from tree to tree. The air smelled fresh and cold, a gentle breeze carrying the smell of the sea. It would be a beautiful day, an even more beautiful night once the war was over. Schlatt sighed.

They wanted him to fight, didn’t they? Even though he had everything to lose. Wait, he didn’t. He’d already lost everyone, except for Fundy and Manburg. Now that was his everything, all he had to live and die for. How lonely. But still, he would fight. He was big and strong and so was his heart, and everything would be fixed soon. Schlatt reached into his pocket and pulled out a flask. He drank slowly. It did nothing to satiate his thirst. If anything, the burn of the alcohol made him feel thirstier than he’d ever been before. His mouth opened, then he shut it hard enough to make his tongue bleed. Quackity’s name died on his lips. His tongue throbbed from the pain, but it was worth it to keep that name out of his mouth. He didn’t need a weakling around him. He never needed anyone. He could win wars with the smallest gestures, he could topple towers with his whiskey scented breath. The rapid pounding of his heart was a war drum. He took another swig, washing away the iron taste of blood.

Quackity had had the audacity to look at him with tears in his eyes before scampering away. The White House was ugly as shit and deserved to be taken down, so something beautiful could grow in its place. But Quackity just couldn’t understand that. They fought. Schlatt didn’t remember what he said, just that Quackity shot him and left in fear. Quackity was a deer. A deer. His darling little fawn. Deer. With big black eyes and terror coursing through his veins. And Schlatt was a wolf, a predator, an emperor. He was stronger than everyone. Cowards, all of them.

“All of you are fucking cowards.” He muttered. Dream turned his head, giving him a masked glare. Schlatt flipped him off, and laughed. He slumped against the tower wall, metal clanging against stone. No knives would be put into his back. Not tonight. Not by a deer or a man in a box or anyone else.

Dream wouldn’t talk to him. They weren’t friends, they didn’t even trust one another, but the end justified the means. They could at least agree on that. If Dream was his second in command, they’d at least get shit done. But when he and Quackity worked together…

It was good at first. Quackity was easy to sway to his side with a simple talk. They drank wine before going to bed, a glass for each of them, and Schlatt would always pick on Quackity for stirring a bit of honey to negate the bitterness. Things felt less foggy back then, and he could spend a whole day without drink. Then Quackity wanted them to marry. Quackity wanted so much, but couldn’t read the room for shit, couldn’t see what needed to be done for Manburg to prosper. He never knew what was needed. Soon a glass for each of them turned to half a glass for Quackity and three for himself. After Quackity left, three glasses turned into downing close to the entire bottle before collapsing into bed, cold and alone. His room was filled with empty bottles.

An arrow flew at the tower. It impaled itself in the stone. He didn’t even flinch. The people around him erupted into action, knocking arrows and shouting about holding the tower. It needed to be held. He took his helmet off, sweat dripping down his face. He ran his fingers through his unkempt hair. A matted portion right by the base of his left horn stopped his fingers in their tracks. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d bathed or combed his hair. Surely his horns would look horrid, too, crusted with dirt, and his goat like ears were probably matted, too. He laughed quietly, wiping the sweat off his face.

God it was so fucking hot. The sun was so gold, so glorious, and hung heavily in the sky. It felt like an omen. A swarm of people ran to the tower all wearing the same armor, chest plates and helms that made them look like a flock of black flies. He took a drink from his flask, fire burning his throat. He couldn’t remember what the hell he’d put in it. Alcohol, and some of his other favorite things.

Dream grabbed his arm. It hurt. He shouted something that Schlatt couldn’t hear. But Dream looked away and jumped from the tower. Of course, Schlatt followed, stumbling over the balcony, toppling head first down, down, down, his body landing with a splash in a bit of water. The sun was high in the sky— where had that time gone? He crawled from the murky water, kicking his boots off into the fields. They landed in a half grown patch of wheat, resting in the rich farmland. He felt so hot. The sun, the sun, the glorious sun, pummeled him with heat.

Lucky for him, his grip on his flask didn’t waver when he fell. He guzzled from the flask and staggered to his feet, shoes squelching in the black earth. The people shot at one another. Arrows hailed down from the high balcony of the tower. Some went up, too. Fireworks crackled, thick, sulfuric smoke filling the air. He walked away from the tower.

This wasn’t his fault, it couldn’t be. It was Wilbur’s. Fucking Wilbur, that sanctimonious bastard with all of his grand ideas of victory and freedom. Just because he was pretty and eloquent didn’t mean he was a good leader. Wilbur was a warmonger, an idealist. So the logical thing was to banish him. Yet he still decided to start a war against him, his presidency, the peace he had made. All he wanted was to bring peace, where had the peace gone? He’d done all he could. Gotten rid of all the evil bits, all the useless bits. The weak parts. He’d scorched the land down to the soil, new things would grow.

Fireworks crackled nearby. He unclasped his netherite leggings, letting them fall to the ground. His chestplate went too, both of them striking the earth with a satisfying thud. Someone shot at someone. Someone was screaming. Every firework blast made his head throb, the shouts piercing his head like a knife. He drank again, stumbling forward. The grass looked so green. Manburg looked so beautiful, decorated for the festival. He closed his eyes. Tubbo had so much potential, it’s a shame he couldn’t see past the short term. It’s a real shame.

When he opened them, he was standing before the ocean, sinking into the sand. He stared out at it. The air smelled like salt. Waves pounded the beach, as if the tide was at war with the earth he stood on. But the waves had made the beach, and the earth was nothing but a place for him to mold as he pleased. A high pitched noise came from nowhere. He kicked at the sand. He took a swig from his flask, the alcohol sloshing around until the last drop went down his throat. He dipped it into the raging waves. Water sounded so nice, especially the ocean, glimmering like diamonds in the bright sunlight. He’d been drinking. And yet, he still felt so, so thirsty. With one hand he tilted it up into his mouth, with the other he loosened his tie. The sharp taste of salty water hit his tongue, and he gagged at how cold it was. Still, he swallowed. God. Where was he?

Manburg. His Manburg. With raging oceans and deep forests and supple farmland. He had made it so, so wonderful. Washed the bugs from the nation, but now they returned like a swarm of locusts. His heart felt like it would explode. Everything around him was so blurry and too bright, the heat was driving him crazy. It had to be the sun. So thirsty. The salt tasted bad. Bad things were fine, they made you stronger. And if there was one thing he was, it was strong. He had to be, or they’d eat him alive, and leave his bones to bleach in the sun.

The world around him felt blurry, the world shifting. Like a mirage, almost, ears ringing. He stumbled over something. Darkness fell around him.

When he opened his eyes, there was a wooden floor beneath him, and more bottles. He finally was free of the horrible sun, and surrounded by bottles of drink, a perfect combination. Looking around, he noticed the dirt walls and the hole in the ceiling, and realized that he was in his little hideout, where he would go in the day to hide. Of course, there was alcohol. He poured the salt water onto the floor, picked up a bottle, and sipped from it. Whatever was in the bottle was strong, almost tasting like a protein shake, nice and refreshing. Wonderful. He drank. Maybe after all this blew over, he and Fundy could work out together. And he could work things out with Quackity. It would all be fine. Of course they’d have to spruce Manburg up a little, take down the ragged, unorganized buildings, and build from the ground up. Then he and Quackity would be married in winter and be one another’s warmth. Come springtime, they’d watch Manburg grow. Together.

No, that wouldn’t happen. He was weak. Quackity was weak.

He gracelessly lowered himself to the floor, legs shaking like a baby deers. Once sitting, he pulled out a lighter and a cigar. He flicked his thumb on the lighter once, twice, then took a long draw of the cigar. It did nothing to calm him. Someone poked their head in. Then they ran away. He took another draw of his cigar, hands shaking. Then, he drank again. Draw, drink. Draw, drink. His heart banged against his ribcage. His heart was a war drum. Once all this was done it would all be back to normal. There would be peace, he could rest, and be at peace. He’d go back to being president. And everyone would kneel to him and he’d celebrate be happy even without the alcohol and the drugs.

Happiness. Peace.

A flood of noise rushed into the place he was hidden. He tilted the bottle up, licking around the glass rim before letting it pour down his throat, trying to chase the high. It burned his throat like bile, but had a sickly sweet aftertaste.

Someone touched him.

“Schlatt, what are you doing?” A warm, familiar voice said. Schlatt frowned, squinting at the source of the noise.

“...Wilbur?” He slurred. He looked around, eyes finally focusing on Wilbur. His coat and scarf were tattered, stained with soot and blood. So many people were around him. Dream, Tommy, Purpled, Tubbo, and Wilbur. Everything smelled like gunpowder and iron. They stared at him. Their eyes burned like the sun. He chuckled.

“What are you doing?” Wilbur repeated. Schlatt looked around frantically, a smile blossoming on his face.

“What the hell? Is this a surprise birthday party?”

He knew it wasn’t. As if anyone would care enough to celebrate his life. He took another long drink of whatever was in the bottle, emptying it, and picking another one up from the floor. It burned his throat in a wonderful, familiar way. Wilbur shouted at him, but that damn high pitched noise made his words incomprehensible, making his ears twitch frantically. The drink was good at least. A protein shake, maybe. With creatine, probably, something that would make him big and strong, untouchable, unhurtable, hammer curls, his head spun. He tried to catch his breath, taking deep, even breaths. He counted, trying to calm himself. The voices around him picked up but he couldn’t discern one from another, it was simply a cacophony, a horrifying sight, and he couldn’t breathe.

People around him talked. He finished the bottle, and dropped it, then took another bottle from within his jacket. He tilted his head back, taking a long drink. Up, in the sky, no, standing on the roof—

“Fundy?” He screamed, “Fundy what are you doing here!?!”

“Schlatt, are you fucking drunk,” Fundy deadpanned.

“Fundy are you— “

Fundy dropped down from the roof, right in front of him. His fur was matted in places with blood and dirt. He’d been fighting. The one person he thought he could trust. Staring at him. Big black blank eyes. Like a deer, a deer in fox clothes.

“You BITCH!” Schlatt howled. He lashed out at Fundy with the bottle. Who’d lift with him now? Fucking bitch.

“Schlatt, you fucked up the country, you fucked up everything! You had a dream and I followed it and you brought it downhill.”

Schlatt drank. He didn’t want to hear it. His heart wouldn’t stop violently hammering against his ribs. His arm hurt.

“You ruined it!” Fundy continued, “you ruined everything we had!”

Maybe the shake had something in it. Was he talking? His skin felt wrong. Too hot. The sun crawled through the windows. It crept through the ceiling.

“I thought you were something,” Fundy shouted.

Schlatt glared at him.

“Oh my fucking God. Yeah, I am something, I’m what you’re not, Fundy.”

His cigar had burnt out. He needed another puff to stop his hands from shaking. With quivering hands, he flicked the lighter. No flame came out. He’d need more butane. He flicked the lighter again, and a tiny flame lept out. There we go. He lit his cigar, taking a long, deep pull. The world around him was spinning, like a little carnival ride.

“What am I not?” Fundy barked. Schlatt breathed acrid, grey smoke into his face.

“I’m a man,” Schlatt hissed.

Everyone gasped. Wilbur went up in his face. His mouth moved, but the words that came out didn’t make sense. He slammed the bottle into Wilbur, over and over, until Fundy came back into his eyesight. He broke the bottle against his armor. So many people were shouting. Someone had a sword— he had a sword? Rage took over. He slashed it at Fundy. Chased him. Then stumbled back. If he was speaking, he couldn’t tell. Thought and words had all blended into one. What the hell was in the drink?

He didn’t care. He grabbed a new bottle and chugged.

Something sharp pressed against his forehead. His eyes fluttered, before finally focusing onto whoever was in front of him. Blond hair, blue eyes— Tubbo? No. Tommy. Tommy held a crossbow up to his head. A twinge of fear made his heart lurch in his chest. Was he going to kill him? Don’t, don’t. He stared at the crossbow.

“Victory or death,” Wilbur exclaimed, so proud. He would’ve been a shit President. Schlatt couldn’t help but give a small chuckle. This was his country. His. Nobody else knew his plans to rebuild, and they’d all fail. They weren’t as strong as him.

“You know if I die, this country goes down with me.”

“No it doesn’t, Schlatt,” Tommy said, voice calm and level. Schlatt laughed, and drank. He swallowed down the liquid. Right there in front of him stood Quackity. Sunglasses hid those doe eyes from him. His heart felt like a clenched fist. It hurt.

“I had everybody turn on me,” he said darkly, “in my time of need, everybody left. You left.”

His fist connected with Quackity’s face before he could even think. Quackity stumbled back. More words stumbled from his mouth, but he didn’t know what he was saying anymore. He wanted to collapse. He wanted to not have to be strong anymore. His breath caught in his chest. He couldn’t breathe.

“You made a mistake, you made the biggest mistake by not taking me—“

“You’re pathetic, Schlatt!” Fundy crowed.

“This is your fault and your fault only,” someone else said. They weren’t wrong. He’d fucked up over and over.

Schlatt just mumbled and cried out whatever he thought. His body was separated from his mind. He didn’t know what he was saying. Bad, bad, everything was bad and doomed, oh god.

Tommy pressed the crossbow against his chest. He coughed. The breath left his body. Oh god they were going to kill him. Under the bright sun. The sun. People were talking. Too many people were talking, voices mingling with the ringing in his ears, a horrifying symphony. He wheezed. Something was burning. Toast? Wilbur looked at him. Said something. He drank. That had to help. Nothing could help. Something was happening.

He didn’t feel good. One last puff. Had to help. Had to get him stronger. Didn’t feel good. His heartbeat crescendoed. So many people were looking at him but they wouldn’t help, they wouldn’t help, were they just going to watch? It hurt, it hurt so bad, why wouldn’t they help him?

The pain in his chest made him crumble. His head hit the hard floor. A weak gasp escaped him, and his empty eyes gazed up through the hole in the ceiling.

The sun stared down at his body.

[phoenixfire-thewizardgoddess]

What is your opinion on straight passing privilege? I (bi) don’t think it exists, but a close (lesbian) friend of mine insists that it does bc “You can hold hands with your SO (nb cis passing man) in public without risking being the victim of a hate crime.” I have been researching but keep seeing this same argument coming up, and I’m unsure and don’t want to be making anyone upset if I’m being ignorant here.

I think that there's a lot of fucked up internet politics around who is and isn't allowed in the community. Which is ridiculous.

Gay, Lesbian, Bi, Pan, Poly, Ace, Aro, Trans, Intersex, etc.

The only people who shouldn't be in the community are cishets, and pedos, none of that 'it's a sexuality' nonsense, it's predation.

The concept of straight-passing is ridiculous, primarily because it's all based on assumptions. If you're in an m/f relationship, and you are both cis and heterosexual, it's straight.

But here's the catch, if you identify as any LGBPT+ then it's not straight.

Two trans people in an m/f relationship is not straight passing.

Two bi people in an m/f is not straight passing, it's queer babes, it's in the name. If you're bi and your partner is like, straight, it's still queer from your side of the fence.

It's the 'pick a side' argument from another direction, this straight passing nonsense. Where you are villified by the straights if you have a same-sex relationship (or fetishised, let's be real, every part of the acronymn has it's own p*rn category aimed at straight people with a kink), and if you have a relationship with the opposite gendered person, the queer community gets cranky.

Two things:

1) Is this friend between 13 and 25? Bc they could still be working this out or being mentored by t*rfs, or had some bad info. IT could be jealousy or fear of being open where you live. Perhaps you could question what makes her say that; has she had a bad experience, or did someone say this to her. where are you Are you in america? are there snake wielding jesus warriors near you? Blink SOS if you need an escape route, child

2) Who wins when everyone in the queer community is divided and policing one another? Telling everyone off for dating this person or that person or not at all

I didn't get an invite to the big queer conference to make these decisions, so like, they're not valid. It's some pocket of internet active idiots who think they can speak for everyone.

What we need to do is stop pulling this bullshit on one another and get back to asking just why the fuck it's not okay for people who are perceived as not-straight or cis etc to hold hands in public.

There's a problem for every facet of the acronym, babes and dudes and theys. Lesbians are heavily sexualised by straight cis dudes. Gays are heavly fetisihed by straight cis women. to the point where even saying 'I'm gay' is considered to be an obscene, sexual act that you should not let children be exposed to.

And there's always someone from the opposite gender who thinks they 'are confused' or 'haven't met the right (gender) person yet', or 'they could fix them with their magic genitals' or mumbled religious nonsense. There's such intense stereotypes that people can't stand women who look butch, but also you can't 'really' be a lesbian unless you are' or gay men can't just be, like, a normal dude, instead of some flamboyant in-your-face charicature.

Of course people who match the stereotype exist, too. And they get no respect for fitting into the stereptypes either, it's just another reason for disrespect. There's no winning.

Bi's can't talk to anyone without hearing a question of a threesome come up or being attacked from either side for coice of partner.

Pans, same, but also kitchenware jokes. Both Bi and Pan are considered sluts and whores and can't decide or are going to cheat, etc. Or the 'you're being special snowflakes', 'choose a side', 'you're secretly gay and won't admit / you're secretly straight and want attention' etc.

Ace/Aro - everyone under this banner gets the whole 'you just haen't found the right person' or 'when you're older/you're a late bloomer' or 'how do you know?' or 'maybe you're straight/gay and haven't worked it out yet?' invalidating them completely and trying to push sex onto them. The queer community has always let Ace and Aro in under the Bi banner, and they are welcome. But the internet community, usually young people, are tearing each other to shreds over it lmao.

Chill.

Non-binary, trans, intersex. They have been here for ages, but people from one community try to destroy their credibility, despite them existing since humanity has. It's big on p*rn and fetish sites too, lot of straight dudes think these things are hot and sexy, but would spit on trans people in the street. Hypocrites (I mean, every second low-brow comedy movie out there makes a thai-l*dyb*y joke, and how it 'doesn't count' like yikes).

Nb has only just been recognised, which is funny bc society literally made up gender and the rules and pretended that was how its encoded in DNA lmao.

Transpeople have it bad though. Between the cis straights, the cis queer community (primarily t*rfs and those who fall for misinformation) and the fetishists, and the medical community who treats them like an illness rather than people. Like, they are afforded respect if they 'pass', but even then it's still an EW factor.

Transwomen are seen as 'men in dresses who want to break into women's spaces' and treated horrifically; assaults are very high. Transmen are seen as butch women, and 'gender tr*itors' by the Crazy Motherfuckers we mentioned before; their assaults are high. They're not considered Real People unless they meet the ridiculously high standards for each gender; unless they perform Right.

I remember, but did not understand at the time bc I recall i was little, that there was a gameshpw bachelorette style and there was a big twist. You know what the twist was? That the bachelorette they'd been dating and trying to win over... was trans. I don't think that she knew it would be the big twist, either; of the two men remaining, bother were angry and one might have been sick. Might be on youtube.

But like, that's funny to the non-queer community. They put a huge fucking target on this woman's back, put her in danger of being hurt, abused, killed, by anyone who watched it. By the men who she had 'lied to' as they chose to frame it, of their weird white american families who could have sought revenge. Like yikes.

And intersex people (called h*rmaphrodites for a long time even by medical personnel) were also a p*rn category and/or medical curiosity for centuries. Not to mention all the cases of parents who just went with 'make them a (specific gender)' if there was mixed presentation, at birth, and got mad at the kids for being like "Hey so, you flipped the coin wrong and I'm ___" even thought the potential for this was always on the cards.

And the parents often make a big messa bout how their baby ___ is dead and gone, even if they DO accept the person/child as who they really are. It's like, I get it they have changed but you didn't mourn their first haircut or lost baby tooth like this and that was change too, chill.

-

Straight-passing is a projection and a weapon. Like, is it the people in the relationship's fault that society looks at the pair and decides they are m/f, straight and cis? Nah, it's what people are conditioned assume and that's on them.

We can't bring it into the queer spaces and keep perpetuating that shit, because it's nonsense. Queer people are dying in other countries and your friend wants to being smart-assed about the fact you hold hands with your nb datemate in public?

-

Nonsense. That's right up there with t*rfs and the gold-star bullshit that was going on for a few years there. Probs still is among the younger people lmaoooo.

'Passing priviledge' is a myth, and it is used to hurt people. Vulnerable people and those who need support / guidance and assistance from their queer communities more than ever. So try to talk to your friend or try The Whole Friend disposal services, either way, chill.

The real issue here is that any of us are at risk of a hate crime for daring to even show affection in public. That even in safe spaces, 'allies' and those wise enough not to be openly homo/trans/bi/pan/ace/aro/other phobic are still side-eyeing you and wanting to talk 'for you' without listening to the community itself.

We have bigger issues than this, and your friend (and some others on the internet) need to get a grip and prioritise.

[Insert strained analogy about being pro-child but childfree in a suburb where everyone got married out of high school and anticipates you and your partner will too, no matter how often you remind them No Thanks. But you babysat the other day and people thought you and your partner looked like 'naturals' when you took child to the park and played with them. And you remind them, hey, chill, we like kids too but it's not for us. And they get pissy and pushy.]

---------

I can only point it out from my perspective, I'm certain there other queer people from the above acronymn community who can present their thoughts on the matter to and what it means to them.

Thanks for the question, good-bi.

[youreacowgirllikeme]

Tuesday: Crossing The River

note: here we go, part two of my 'A week with Chris' drabble series (part one here) again, COVID doesn’t exist bc this is my escape from reality

I wrote a bit more today. enjoy :)

words: 1.2 k

warnings: none

(Monday, 8:33 pm)

Hi, this is Chris. Meet me tomorrow morning, 9:30 am, at NY City Hall. I’ll bring coffee, you bring your walking shoes. I’ll see you there.

+++

(Tuesday)

Getting up at 8 am wasn’t exactly your preference when you had a day off, but the way to City Hall took its time, especially considering the location of your apartment in Upper Manhattan.

You walked the short distance from the metro station, and when you arrived, Chris was already waiting for you. He was bundled up in a coat to fight off the chilly morning air. You had never seen him in anything else than his work attire so at first, you were a bit perplexed, it was almost like witnessing an animal in the wild. Still, he looked rather cute, but what looked even better were the steaming cups of coffee he was holding.

“Good morning.” You greeted him, stifling a yawn and grabbing the offered drink. You gulped down two huge sips, without caffeine you weren’t a good company at all in the morning.

“Not an early riser, huh?” Chris laughed. “Don’t worry, my plans for today will wake you up in no time.”

“So, where are we going?” You asked, feeling slightly more present now, the coffee and fresh air had done the trick.

“You and I.” Chris said. “Are going to cross the East River. We have this really nice thing called the Brooklyn Bridge, maybe you’ve heard of it.”

You rolled your eyes at him, he was being rather cheeky considering the early hour.

“Very funny. Doesn’t that take forever.” You groaned. Walking wasn’t your number one hobby, and from where you were standing now, Brooklyn looked like it was an eternity away.

“It takes about an hour, each way.” Chris replied, and as he saw your shocked expression, he continued “Come on, that’s no distance at all! We can take a break once were on the other side, and then we go back. The way back is much more impressive because your facing the skyline.“

So he was planning on doing both ways. Great. Accepting your faith, you quickly emptied your coffee, silently praying that the walking shoes you had chosen were as comfortable as they looked.

+++

The walk was actually really enjoyable. There was soft spring breeze in the air and the sun was shining, creating bright reflections on the East River below you. You took several stops to take pictures, and Chris even reluctantly agreed to pose for a selfie.

You were talking animatedly about everything and anything, falling into a slow, but steady pace next to each other. Chris was still slightly annoyed about having to take the entire week off, but you tried to cheer him up.

“Look on the bright side, you wouldn’t be able to enjoy this beautiful day in such great company if you had to do the show tonight.” You joked, and he smiled down at you.

“I have to admit, the company is pretty good.”

Your heart did a little jump at his words.

+++

After fifty minutes, you arrived at the Brooklyn-sided exit of the bridge. Chris led you down the pedestrian walkway and around some corners, until you arrived in a beautiful park located directly at the waterfront.

“And this.” Chris exclaimed. “Is what we came for.”

You knew exactly what he meant. Stretched out before you was the most beautiful, picturesque view of the Manhattan skyline you had ever seen.

“This looks like a damn postcard.” You whispered, more to yourself, but Chris heard you anyway, laughing in agreement.

“It’s the best perspective you’ll get. I love the skyline; every building has a story.” He replied, looking across the river with an almost wistful expression on his face.

“Come on then, Mr. Tour Guide, I walked all the way here, now I want to hear some of those stories.”

“You’re quite demanding.” He chuckled. “Alright. You see the grey, slim one over there.” Your eyes followed to where his finger was pointing.

“That’s 8 Spruce Street.“ he explained. "They built it in 2011, there are apartments in there, offices, even a school and a kindergarten. Imagine, the kids don’t even need to leave the house.” He grinned at his own joke.

You studied the skyscraper, and the way the sunlight got reflected by its countless windows. “It’s beautiful.”

Chris shrugged. “To me, it’s cold. It has no personality, no history. If you look a bit more to the left, the white one with the green roof? That’s the Woolworth building, it got built in 1913. Back then, the owner paid the whole 13,5 million bucks for the project in cash, imagine that. It’s neo-gothic, if we were closer I could show you all the little details on the facade. See, that’s the kind of architecture I like. I hate how they’re plastering the city with those soulless glass towers. But I guess that’s the course of time.”

Both of you were silent for a second, and you looked at Chris before bursting into an uncontrolled fit of giggles.

“Oh my god, you just sounded like such an old man, I am so sorry.” You snickered, trying to stop laughing.

Chris gave you a hard glare, and for a moment you felt dread in your stomach, fearing that you might have offended him.

“Oh my god, Chris, I’m so-“

He grinned at you. “Gotcha. Come on, how about the old man buys you some ice cream before we head back?”

“Ice cream in March? You’re mad.”

+++

“Oh my God, Y/N, stop nagging, we’re almost there.” Chris called over his shoulder to where you were dragging several feet behind him.

“I can’t.” You whimpered. “It hurts.”

Your originally comfortable walking shoes had turned into an absolute nightmare about halfway across the bridge. You were sure that by now there were several blisters on your feet, every step was painful like hell and you still had about half a mile to go.

“We can’t just stop here.” Chris groaned, looking at you with a mix of annoyance and pity. “I parked my car at City Hall, can you make it there somehow?”

“I don’t know.” You said through clenched teeth as you tried to take another step.

“There’s only one way then.” Chris sighted heavily, taking a step closer and crouched down in front of you.

“What are you waiting for, hop on.” He said.

You almost couldn’t believe what he was implying.

“You want to take me piggyback?”

"Do you have a better idea?“

You didn’t, and so you carefully climbed onto his back, trying to ignore the funny looks the other pedestrians were giving you. Wrapping your arms around his shoulders, you were surprised how broad and muscular they felt.

Your initial embarrassment about the situation quickly faded as Chris continued to talk to you as if everything was perfectly normal, something you were incredibly grateful for.

He carried you effortlessly, his steps didn’t waver even once. You were impressed and also a little bit turned on by his strength, trying to ignore the warm tingling feeling at where his huge hands were holding onto your legs.

+++

“Alright, here we are. Get some rest, and I’ll text you again tonight.” Chris spoke as he pulled up in front of your apartment building.

“Thanks again, for the ride, and well, everything.” You said, still a bit embarrassed about what had happened earlier.

Chris just shrugged, giving you a warm smile.

“Don’t worry, it was no big deal.”

You spent the rest of your evening cooling your blisters, excited about what the plan for tomorrow would be, and even more to see Chris again.

to be continued…

[maplecourtesy]

TAZ:G NOTES, EPISODE 27

oh we’re starting with a full recap of the history huh;;

HHHHHHH ARGO, all i can think about is argo…. ever since last week my brain has been like many thoughts head argo keene

argo…… already…… oh god the music. argo gripping fitzroy’s shoulder;;;;; i love how that’s the thundermen’s love language.

[most of the content under the cut, because spoilers!!]

OH L O R D I DID NOT WANT TO HEAR ABOUT THIS…oh jesus christ JESUS FUCK GOD WHAT THE HELL IM IN SO MUCH PAIN. THE ONE THING I DID NOT WANT. THE O N E THING. WAS HEARING ABOUT ARGO KILLING FITZ AND THE FIRBOLG. I KNOW THIS ISN’T REAL BUT IT VERY WELL COULD BE IF THINGS GO WRONG OH THIS IS AWFUL. IM IN A FITZROY KINSHIFT AND I FELT PAIN BETWEEN RIBS WHEN TRAVIS SAID THAT…. IM ALREADY EMOTIONAL SOMEONE HOLD ME. “you consider what you have done, and you smile.” NOTHING HAS HURT ME AS MUCH AS ARGONAUT KEENE.

i’m like . shaking. that singular dream sequence has convinced me that argo is genuinely one of my Highest comfort characters. i feel nothing but pain.

unfair that this cute music is playing while argo is waking up from the. WORST possible nightmare.

“does fitzroy have his own bedroom?” “he does” “*evil bastard chuckle noises from griffin*” GOD I LOVE HIM

notes in the adventure zone are never good. why are they never good i almost don’t wanna hear this even if its just a good lil fitzroy note. BE BACK SOON. if travis had made it say just “blah blah blah. back soon.” i think i genuinely would’ve fucking lost it. sorry for having taz balance brainrot i dont do it on purpose <3

NOOOO GOD I HATE THIS SO MUCH. GET OUT OF ARGO’S HEAD ARGO DON’T LISTEN TO HIM BUDDY THEY LOVE YOU SO MUCH THEY THINK YOURE THE ABSOLUTE BEST OH MAN IM SAD. i knew gray’d be capitalizing on argo’s fears and doubts n insecurities but i didn’t realize it’d hit this hard…. man argo cmere lemme give u a good good hug.

NOT @ THEM BEING MEAN TO CLINT TOO SDBFJDKSJ;;;;; STOP BULLYING CLINT AND ARGO!!!!!! >:T JAHSBJSDF TRAVIS MAKING THEM APOLOGIZE;;;

right before justin said his little podcast law thing i was literally Just about to click the 1.5x button and i felt very called out

FAST FIRBOLG FAST FIRBOLG. ITS VERY FUNNY THAT HIS UHHHHHH’S STILL REMAIN THE SAME THOUGH. hey does travis know what Talking Faster means.

“i have been giving this much thought”
“HELL YES"

"the worry-"

"aw no"

WHEJDJDBSJSHBS

OH THE MUSIC!!!!! FESTO TIME THIS IS FESTO TIME!!!!! I MISSED FESTO SO MUCHHHHH GOD FESTOS THEME MUSIC SLAPS SO HARD

as always fitzroy is already being The Best. hes so good. man festo better be impressed by this.

“DID YOU SEE?????” EVERY DAY I LOVE FITZROY MORE..

you heard the man travis!!! we need a festo and fitzroy rave scene and we need it NOW

OH THANK GOD ITS FESTOS PROPER VOICE AGAIN I WASNT FEELING THE VIBES

I MISSED SNIPPERS SO MUCH TOOOOO I LOVE SNIPPERS TO THE MOON AND BACK…. snippers the phantasmal crab well spring of all magic ever

I LIKE GORDY SO MUCH!!!!! GORDY GOES TO RAVES!!! :DDD

hey festo do u wanna spill the hot drippin wet goss

YOU DO HAVE A HABIT OF PISSING PEOPLE OFF WJDNSNFJSKDFJKN THIS WHOLE EXCHANGE….

FESTO MAKE JOKE SDHJFBHSHDJFJHB

rip fitzroy <3

CLINT THE POWERFUL WIZARD…. GOD CLINTS CANONICAL IN EVERY UNIVERSE…. THE. SDHFJJBSDFHJSDHJFB THE CLINTORIS. LET ME OUT OF HERE I WANNA GO. I HATE IT SO MUCH. I HATE IT I HATE IT.

hehe pretty music!! i will never shut up about how beautiful griffin’s composition is especially in these recent episodes;;

I REALLY ONLY LISTEN TO THE AD READS FOR BABY DOT NOW I LOVE HER SO MUCH;;;;;; <333 THAT’S A GOOD HALLOWEEN GROWL;;;;; HEY BABY DOT;;;;;;;; oh i love dot so much im ;3;

glad we had that chat about using the potty!!! thanks guys very cool!!

now why would fitzroy bring that up.

WHERE IS ALL THE ART OF THUNDERMAN LLC IN BOOTY SHORTS CLIMBING GEAR!!!! I NEED THAT!!! GET ON IT ARTISTS!!!! /LH

WHJBDHHJSDHJFHBJ NOOO GOD;;; i saw a post that said it sounds like argo seems like hes feeling some rejection sensitivity dysphoria and Yeah;;; little sidetrack but i really do feel like all the thundermen are neurodivergent in some way. i project my adhd very heavily onto fitzroy and i think that argo and the firbolg could both be somewhere on the spectrum!! argo could also be ocd and thats a very comforting headcanon too;;;

GOD SARCASM…..

oh its hieronymous;;; sad music time i don’t like this;; i care so much about hiero i hope he’s doin alright;; “i’m just tired.” yeah me too hiero…

GOD EVERYTIME FIRBOLG MAKES A JOKE I LOSE MY MIND…. canon that firbolg does a little celebratory dance after each banger joke

“we can’t take that risk” “well MAYBE THEY SHOULDVE BEEN STRONG ENOUGH”

yall think fitzroy could get that influencer cape on and charm his way into the heroic oversight guild. but yeah hiero and althea!!!!

OH NO ARGO. O H. N O. AR G O.. OH JESUS ARGO OH GOD FUCK ARGO……OH NOOOO OH NO OH GOD FUCK ARGO DONT DO SHIT I SWEAR TO FUCKING G O D. ARGO PLEASE IM SO SCARED I CANT HAVE FITZROY GET STABBED… argo sounds so … defeated oh im so sad;;;; i have so many argo feelings…

maplekeeners how are we feelin…

HOW DOES ARGO KEEP FUCKIN ROLLING CRIT FAILS… oh no;;; fitzroy fuck him up. do it. fuck him up. FUCK Y E S. HOLY SHIT FUCK HIM UP FITZROY.

if gray don’t get the FUCK out of my boy argo

thank god argo knows now because idk if i could’ve dealt with him feelin that shitty self deprecation and thinkin it was still him even after that;;

thunderman llc love each other so much god i'm so sad...

oh i cant wait to see the art people come up with for the godscar chasm scene this sounds beautiful...

OPALESCENT SKIN??? CHAOS????? not? chaos??

"i have been called many names, some of them unkind. i think the one i most identify with is order."

HOLY SHIT I JUST GOT C H I L L S WHAT THE FUCK THAT WAS SO INCREDIBLY COOL OH IM IN AWE. THAT WAS SUCH A COOL ENDING OH MG GOD.

this commentary got Long but for good reason god this was such a good episode i believe in taz g episode 27 supremacy.... holy moly folks.

[bloodfromthethorn]

Accident

Matty, usually, loves her job, but there are some days where she can't help but feel she just isn't being paid enough for it.

Part eleven of the July of Whump 2021 prompt challenge.

Also on AO3. 

..

For all its covert operations, thanks to the think tank cover, The Phoenix was still technically classified as a regular place of business. That meant a lot of things, like paying property taxes and having to report earnings to the state, but by far one of the most mundane outcomes was the need for an Accident Book. In theory, any time someone employed by The Phoenix was injured while at work they had to write a short report detailing the accident for the book, and every year or so, The Phoenix would have to submit their anonymised incident reports to the local council.

Of course, this posed something of a problem for a government agency trying to stay off the radar; even with identifying information taken out, someone was probably going to take note if a seemingly mundane think tank reported 18 gunshot wounds over the course of a single year.

The workaround, therefore, had been that any injuries acquired outside of the building – like, say, when agents were out on missions – didn’t go into the book, and instead it was filled with the much more minor things that occurred in the relative safety of the Phoenix. There were still a couple of things that had to be omitted, like Bozer getting stabbed, but mostly, the plan seemed to work out okay. With a whole block of science labs taking up a considerable chunk of the building, there were more than enough burned fingertips and electric shocks that weren’t suspicious to fill a passably convincing report.

That being said, Matty wasn’t entirely sure how she was supposed to play this one off as a standard workplace mishap.

“Okay, okay, stop. I’m going to need you to run this by me again. Start at the beginning.”

“Well, like I said, we had Sparky up on the table-”

“At the beginning, Bozer,” she cut in, shooting her two agents a firm look. Boze’s natural charisma was, as ever, unhindered by her glare, while Mac did his usual trick of falling back on his army training and acquired a blank expression to let any yelling wash right over him. Jack did the same whenever he was genuinely in trouble and it drove Matty crazy any time it happened.

“We were working on separate projects,” Mac explained in a much more level tone than Boze had managed. To be fair, that might have had something to do with the gauze wrapped tightly around his forehead. “I’m still trying to troubleshoot that luminogen work for the dev team – you know, the glowstick stuff?”

She nodded.

“Right. And Bozer-”

“I was trying to fix a glitch in Sparky’s programming.”

“You were trying to make him call you sir,” Mac put in with a snort. He sobered as soon as he caught Matty’s hard stare. “But, uh, yeah. We were both just in the lab doing our own thing. Then Boze called me over to take a look at something-”

“I needed a spare part of hands to rewire the circuit board while I updated the code, and you know how much Mac hates someone else messing up his wiring.”

“I wasn’t working on anything volatile, so I dropped what I was doing and went to help. All of my stuff should have been completely fine where it was.”

Matty eyed him critically. He didn’t look like he was lying, but then it was a little hard to tell how much of that was down to the concussion and the bruises swelling on the left side of his face. “But it wasn’t,” she concluded.

“One of the other lab techs came through when I was focused on Sparky,” he explained with a wince. “She didn’t know that I still had things running and she noticed that my nitrogen line was still live, so she shut it off.”

“Don’t we have standard practices in place so that doesn’t happen?”

“Yes, but she’s only been with us two weeks. She didn’t know any better.”

“Mhmm.”

“Honestly Matty, it’s not her fault. I shouldn’t have left an active reaction unattended without sticking a red form up. That’s the standard practice that’s supposed to stop this thing from happening.”

“But you didn’t fill in the form.”

“I didn’t think I’d be gone long and I was still in the same room. Besides, the team usually knows not to mess with anything I’m working on, whether I’ve put up a form or not.” He went to rub at his face, then aborted the attempt when his fingers brushed over the gauze, wincing. Bozer and Matty were both watching him carefully, but he didn’t start keeling over so it would have to be good enough.

Matty sighed heavily. Playing the blame game wasn’t going to get them anywhere; she just needed to know what happened. “Okay then. You and Boze were over with Sparky and a lab tech shut off a nitrogen valve. Then what?”

“Well, nothing, for a little while. I was using the nitrogen to keep the reaction system anoxic, so everything was already sealed. Even without the nitrogen feed, it should have been fine to just sit there until I came back to it. Only, it turns out that when you combine the fluorescent polymer our dev team synthesised with NMP – the solvent I was using – it drops a proton and turns acidic.” He rolled his eyes as he said it, as if judging his own mistake like either Matty or Bozer had any concept of how predictable the problem could have been, then regretted it as it sent him dizzy again.

“Let me guess,” Matty said to give him a moment to recover, “The acid burned through a seal?”

“A rubber bung I was using to act as an injection port,” he confirmed grimly. “The seal failed and oxygen got in.”

“And the polymer is pyrophoric,” she finished for him. When he shot her a startled look, she shrugged. “I do read the reports I get sent Blondie. The spontaneous fire problem was one of the things they wanted you to take a look at, right?”

“Yeah. I hadn’t got to that part though.”

“Evidently.”

Boze jumped in to spare Mac the effort of defending himself. Now that the actual chemistry stuff was out the way, he knew the rest of the story. “While all this was happening, we were having a few problems with Sparky. The code was disagreeing with his logic boards, and it was making him fritz out pretty badly. He nearly took Mac’s fingers off when he sat up without warning.”

“And scared the hell out of us both,” Mac agreed.

“Yeah. Thank god Jack wasn’t in the room. We’d still be trying to get him down from the rafters.”

Matty cleared her throat and the pair of them snapped back to attention. Well, as at attention as Mac could reasonably be sitting up on one of the examination tables in the med bay.

With a cowed look, Bozer continued. “We were trying to work out what had happened, so we got Sparky going through a few movements. Because we weren’t finished, we didn’t bother getting him down off the table, so when he stood up completely…”

“He was a nine foot tall, eight hundred pound accident waiting to happen,” Mac finished. He gave a single shoulder shrug when Matty raised an eyebrow at him. “What? Even I’m willing to admit this whole thing was stupid.”

She’d more or less pieced together the rest of the story by now, but she still felt she should hear it for herself. Proper protocol and all that. “Alright. Then what?”

“We were trying to get Sparky back down when the reaction system blew,” Mac said. “We were far enough away that we weren’t at risk of burns, but Boze got a facefull of dye and Sparky got knocked off the table.”

“And onto you.”

He grimaced faintly, casting an offended eye at the sling supporting what had recently been a very dislocated shoulder. The expression did nothing to soften the bruises scattered across his face. “Yeah.”

Beside him, a slightly discoloured Boze swayed to knock their uninjured shoulders together. “Sorry, man,” he said, not for the first time. “Can’t help but think this is my fault.”

“It wasn’t. My reaction, my boom. Besides, you’re the one who’s going to be glowing in the dark for the next two weeks.”

“Yeah, and I’m sure the ladies will love it. You’re the one with the busted up arm.”

“It’s nothing, really. My shoulder pops out all the time.”

“You say that like it’s comforting and I gotta tell you man, it really ain’t.”

Matty’s gaze flicked between them. As much of a mess as Mac was, and despite the fact that Bozer was a lot more green than he had been when he’d arrived at work that morning, they’d both been signed off by medical with minor injuries. In theory, it was exactly the sort of thing that should go in her accident report, and yet she had a sneaking suspicion this particular story was going to raise a lot more questions than she was really willing to answer. It was funny – Mac had a habit of bringing that feeling out in her.

“Okay,” she said. “Okay. I think I’ve got the picture. I’m not even going to pretend I understand how you managed to configure such a comedy of errors, but I trust that you’ve both learned how to avoid this problem in future?”

Like two boys caught doing something they shouldn’t, they both nodded quickly in unison. She couldn’t quite bite back her smile. “Alright then. Bozer, you’re cleared to work for the rest of the day should you wish to. Mac, you’re off rotation entirely until that concussion clears up, then it’s light duty to let your shoulder heal. I’ve called Jack to come pick you up.”

That certainly got his attention. “You called Jack? It’s his day off!”

“I’m well aware. But you can’t drive with that arm and as your nominated next of kin, he’s left standing orders to be informed every time you get injured. He should be here any minute.”

Bozer was snickering to himself, while Mac’s expression had folded into something between desolate and sheepish. Matty had had a hell of time getting Jack to calm down and listen when she’d first called to tell him Mac was in medical and evidently Mac had some idea of the helicopter parenting about to rain down on his head. Maybe that would be the thing to actually make him realise the seriousness of his own actions.

“Great,” he muttered sarcastically, just as Matty heard the door to medical swing open so forcefully it cracked against the wall. With a dry smile, she stood back and waited to see the fireworks.

[vyylet]

Personal Recommendations Logic - Under Pressure Review

Logic finally reaches his full potential on Under Pressure.

To me at least, Logic’s career has always been one of missed potential. Ever since Under Pressure and the Young Sinatra mixtapes, Logic has always demonstrated the pen game and instrumental pallet to make a great record. He also has some truly amazing songs that I find myself coming back to often, such as Growing Pains III, Dear God, Soul Food, Everybody, the list goes on. However, on every record Logic’s released up until this point, he always seems to be stuck in mediocrity that keeps him from releasing a great album. He had an especially bad 2019, coming off of Confessions of a Dangerous Mind, easily the worst rap album of his entire career, and Supermarket, a record I haven’t listened to yet, solely because of the reviews of this album making it sound so terrible that I don’t want to stomach even a second of it. Coming into this record, I wasn’t really sure what to think. I’m always interested and hopeful for every subsequent Logic release, however at this point I’ve kind of come accustomed to be disappointed. However, the album’s title being a clear homage to his first album, as well as him bringing back legendary producer No I.D. into the fray seemed to signal that this album wouldn’t be like most of the other albums that Logic has released up until this point.

Thankfully, I can say that this album does not disappoint, and actually blew my expectations out of the water. While this certainly isn’t the most revolutionary hip hop album of all time, its tracklist is filled with great song after great song. The appeal of this album is shown perfectly on the first track, No Pressure Intro, with its crispy boom bap drums, jazzy chords, and a nice flow and energy that Logic brings to the table. Logic’s pen game has also taken a step up since his past few records, with some funny and memorable quotables like “Gangsters put that heat to your head like a hairdresser”, and “On my Rosa Parks, in the back writin' like B-Rabbit”. 

All of these things combined make this track extremely enjoyable, and it continues onto the next track, Hit My Line. While I don’t think Logic’s melodic chorus on this track is all that stand-out, everything else about the track is great. The production is grand and gorgeous, with some heavy drums and warped piano samples, mixed with some grand synth bass hits at some points. The verses are also another part of the track that I love, with Logic rapping about just general injustices in the world, pleading to God to help solve and fix these issues. While this certainly isn’t the most revolutionary song topic, it’s made up for by some great lyricism, as well as Logic’s verse almost being a little anthemic with how passionate he sounds. 

The track GP4 is one that I have sort of grown to love over time. The song is a clear homage to the track Elevators by OutKast, with many elements of the track such as instrumental and the hook clearly being heavily inspired by that song. While I don’t love the fact that this song is pretty much a rip off of the OutKast track, in a vacuum I can’t help but love the song. Logic displays a lot of personality and penmanship on this song, with some stand-out moments, like the pretty funny Erykah Badu impression, as well as that Biggie Kick In the Door line, which completely blew my mind when I finally found out what it meant. 

Next on the album, the track Celebration is a fun banger, with Logic sounding confident as hell, and a beat that genuinely sounds like a Celebration. I also really love the track Open Mic//Aquarius III, with a nice beat and a performance that sounds kind of like a quick freestyle. One small part of the track that I really love is the way Logic’s voice is mixed, where Logic genuinely sounds like he’s performing at an open mic night.. After that part of the track, the Aquarius III part of the song starts, which is a fun, celebratory way to end the song, with some great production to boot. 

The track Soul Food II is another highlight, taking the beat from the first soul food with some great bars from Logic, talking about how he’s changed as an artist and as a person after the release of the first Soul Food song. My favorite part of the track is probably the flip of the first line on the first Soul Food, where instead of saying “Goddamn, goddamn, conversations with legends, Crazy how one day your idols can turn into your brethren”, he says “Goddamn, goddamn, conversations with people, Crazy how one day, the legends forget that they equal”

The second half of the song is Logic talking about this whole overarching story that’s been going on across his albums. While it may be cool to someone who’s super invested in that part of Logic’s career to hear this, I never much cared for the whole story aspect of his albums, so I didn’t really get much out of it. Still, though, Logic has a great delivery and flow throughout that entire part, and the beat is nice enough to the point where I can still thoroughly enjoy it. 

The track Perfect is a fun banger in the tracklist, with some trap-style hi hats, loud kicks, and 808 cowbell melodies. Logic sounds zany, funny, and confident on the track, and my only real complaint about the song is that it’s only 1:40. 

After that track, we get two more lowkey cuts, man i is and DadBod. The track man i is is a track that I have mixed feelings about. While I do appreciate the instrumental on the song, the song feels a bit long-winded, with the horn sections taking up an extremely long amount of time. Additionally, I feel like Logic could’ve done a little bit better with the lyrics here. While I most certainly like them, it doesn’t really seem like Logic truly hits any super salient realization about who he is, and the track kind of devolves into rambling at a certain point. The track DadBod is a track that I like much more. The drums on this track are probably my favorite part of the instrumental, as I just find the way they hit and all sound to be extremely satisfying. While the track has a painfully simple chord progression in the sample, it’s more than made up for by the catchy chorus on the song, as well as the lyrics on this song. While some might find the song a bit annoying, it’s rare to see someone like Logic admit how truly boring some aspects of his life are now that he is a dad, rapping about cleaning baby shit and complaining about the bad hotel wifi when he’s touring, and I find seeing this part of the song to be really admirable. 

After those two tracks, there’s a much-needed pickup with the track 5 Hooks. While I think the song’s decent, I feel like there isn’t really all that much to the track. There’s not many quotables that I can remember from it, and while the beat is fine, it’s certainly not one of the best on the project.

The track Dark Place is honestly one of my favorites on the album. While the instrumental is very stark, I think Logic lays down one of his best verses on this song, talking about his mental health and a lot of things that are honestly really sad to hear. I really love the message of the song, admitting that you are sad and realizing that it’s ok- everyone gets sad from time to time.

After that is probably the worst track on the album, A2Z, which is an ABC rap. It’s one of the only songs on the album with an instrumental I genuinely dislike, and the lyrics aren’t all that impressive either.

The song Heard Em Say is another highlight on the album, with one of my favorite instrumentals. There’s a huge Kanye influence that I hear on this song, whether that be the drum pattern of the instrumental, or a lot of the inflections that Logic uses during his verses.

Overall, I’m really happy with this album. Do I think it’s going to convince any Logic haters to appreciate his music? No. Do I think this is going to go down as one of the greatest hip hop albums of all time? No. However, this is still a very quality release from an artist that has always had the potential to release something this good. It’s nice to see Logic happy in retirement, and I love this record lots. I don’t think he could have released a better sendoff to his career than this.

8.7/10

Favorite Tracks: No Pressure Intro, Hit My Line, GP4, Celebration, Open Mic//Aquarius III, Soul Food II, Perfect, DadBod, Dark Place, Heard Em Say

Least Fav Track: A2Z

[aanotheruniverse]

Something close to my heart I wrote a few years ago

THE SUICIDE CLINIC 

CIARAN HARDIE 

 The Waiting Room Nobody made eye contact at the Suicide Clinic. Everybody knew why you were there. If you are about to kill yourself, small talk is not really a high priority. As George craned his neck to take in the high ceiling, he was reminded of the similarly high ceilings in airports, and the Suicide Clinic is a sort of an airport - a temporary drop-off point between life and death. The Clinics all looked the same inside: spacious, fashionably modern, with wide white corridors, littered with suicide prevention signs and pretentiously artistic glass panels. They were the type of place where the floor squeaks as you drag your feet across it. To George's left side was a black man, in his fifties, whose short hair had started to turn white. Chancing a glance at him, George couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to him, and how his life had brought him to this moment. On his left, was an elderly woman clutching a kitsch pink handbag. A man sat in the corner of the room, dressed like a rocker, had his head firmly in his hands. Amidst the waiting room, George felt his individuality and personality slip away; he was just another face in the crowd. He felt, and not just in this moment alone, merely an observant to the world, and not a participant. He was simply being. Nothing happens after death, it’s all just biology and chemistry. Life, George thought, my life, maybe life itself is wholly insignificant objectively, so he had stopped bothering to try to add any subjective meaning to his life either. Although everything is, eventually it will not be, so why bother? Before Emma had taken her own life, George had never really given suicide and the means of suicide much thought, which can be cited as a good thing. Carbon monoxide poisoning is pretty painless, and you could even sleep through it, but there’s a bit of a tedious wait. Best to get it over with as quick as possible with something like hanging, but that’s a tad dark and unpleasant. Suicide bombing would be quick, but George didn’t know the first thing about improvising an explosive. Lethal injection lacks the sex appeal of exploding, or setting yourself on fire, or whatever, and a pill overdose would be too painful. At the Clinics, they provide you with the most sought-after method of suicide - although a difficult commodity to come by in England - a handgun. You would think the handgun would be the ultimate solution to a quick and easy suicide, but all sorts can go wrong. People attempt to shoot themselves from funny angles and often, they shoot only their ears off, or their nose, or part of their chin, and some even miss entirely. If a non-fatal shot were to be fired, there are medics waiting on site at the Clinic, but there would only be one bullet per gun at a time, so you only had one chance to get it right. If you were to miss, you would have to get a new ticket and wait all over again. Once you were dead, the Body Disposers would come and take care of your remains. Afterwards, the room is tidied spotless for the next person. As the unattractive glare from the overly-polished floor caught George’s eye, he was stuck by the institution’s obsession with cleanliness; would people really care if the room they were coming to die in were a little dirty? When George had collected his ticket (Number #227) from the annoyingly pretty receptionist, she had explained the procedure and he had to fill out a form, savouring the Clinic from any responsibility over your imminent death. They also let you choose what you hear before you die. George had known this in advance and had brought with him a CD of himself and Emma talking. One night, a couple of years ago now, Emma had interrupted one of his recording sessions, and he had accidentally left the tape running for hours, and recorded their conversation. They laughed about it and listened to the tape back after realising. Now that she was dead, and things had changed so severely, it felt like a tape from another universe, a relic of a time that now it is over, felt like it had never really existed in the first place. You also got to choose what image was projected in front of you as you die too, and he had brought a photograph of Emma from when he first met her. First there were designer handbags, then designer babies, and now, you could even design your own death. They didn’t want people to kill themselves, but local authorities couldn’t deal with the amount of blood and carcass painting their streets. Washing out the high street every morning, before the foggy-eyed, grey-faced consumers came to... consume, became somewhat of a chore. First there was the Super Hose, which lived up to its name only in its size, and not in efficiency. A team of Body Disposers would hose down the streets and it would all be drained down the newly introduced sewer system - the Bloodstream. The larger pieces, too big to be collanderised, would be put in the back of a lorry and driven off to an infirmary. Naturally, people revolted. They didn’t like the Super Hose, they didn’t like the strewn organs down their high street, and they especially didn’t like the Body Disposers, with their threatening red jumpsuits. George, who was fairly up to date with current affairs, remembered how it all had started: a research team in Europe had been controversially investigating if suicide-prone individuals would be more likely to commit suicide if the process was facilitated for them. George could no longer recall the results of the experiment, and it had become irrelevant now anyway, as the English government had leapt onto the idea, and implemented Suicide Clinics in every major town to cope with the epidemic. A place you could go to kill yourself, and not make so much of a mess for everybody left here still existing once you were gone. 24/7, 365, a place to die. Everywhere had a McDonald’s and a Suicide Clinic. It was supply and demand. People still threw themselves off buildings, however. Some people just refuse to conform to committing in the way they are “supposed” to commit. Drowning maintained a popular alternative too, and it handily came without the dreaded stigma of pavement bombing. There was one case, George remembered, in the news, where one lake was deemed such a spot of idyllic beauty that it had to be dredged due to the sheer number of bodies in it. Of course, the biggest concern to the authorities was simply why were so many people suddenly killing themselves? What had happened in order to make suicide rates increase tenfold? Even now, nobody really knows. As George’s mind wandered the history of the Clinics, he ran in to the question that had driven him in to one of them. Why, like all the other hundreds of thousands of people, had Emma killed herself? She was the one who had handled the break-up; she was the one who’d carried on with her life and her degree and seemed unchanged by things. George was the one who had been made redundant; the one who begged for her back; the one whose life had shrivelled up to being no more than an exercise of misery. Yet two weeks ago to the day, George had received the news: Emma, like all the others, had walked in to a Suicide Clinic, collected her ticket, waited her turn, and ended her life. 14 days of looking for answers had driven George to do the same. Still, in this waiting room, as he anticipated his death, George couldn’t help but wonder why? TPs (Technological People) - “Robots” had been deemed a derogatory term - had certainly had something to do with the other suicides. If there was a TP that could do your job, within a few weeks, you would be out of work. That’s what had happened to George, who was once a recruitment consultant for the IT industry, but now there was a computer that could do his job better, and for free. Conglomerates totally replaced the working human race with TPs. As you would conduct your life; shopping, eating, working, living, you were no longer greeted by human faces, but by metallic, dead-eyed, machines. Technology had sucked all the life out of the world, and days and weeks could go by without seeing another human face. Human social interaction all but died out, and friendship can no longer exist in these conditions, unless it is virtual. George wondered all the time, what is everybody doing? The human race has never been so unproductive. After millennia of rapid evolution in the right direction, we have just ceased. We slowed down, and then we stopped altogether. Nobody is doing anything, they are just existing. Observants, and not participants. That’s the fundamental problem, George thought, people’s lives aren’t worth living anymore, and the people are realising it. Shit, he was realising it after all, and now had come to do the same as all the others. A collective air of nihilism is present at every turning. We are opting out of the game; we just don’t want to play any more. Every day, another lieu of faces at the Clinic, another batch of people who won’t play, if they don’t see the point in playing. The cliches about finding yourself, determining your own happiness, and bringing meaning in to your own life don’t stick anymore, and the futility overwhelms. What’s the fucking point? They want an objective answer to that question. George became aware that he had started breathing heavily, and tried to decelerate his thinking, and calm himself down. He realised he had been clutching his right thigh very hard, and let go. He looked around the room once more; everybody shared the same expression of utter resignation. In the 54th minute since George had collected his ticket (#227), the silence in the room reached a no longer bearable decibel, and his fidgeting could no longer oppress his discomfort. Desperately, George wanted to engage the rest of the room in conversation. He had no idea what he wanted to say to all of these strangers, but the urge was definitely there. Feeling an excruciating sensation rise up in to his chest, George found himself on his feet and then over at the annoyingly pretty ticket- giver’s desk. “Hi”, George spoke, with no idea what he was doing. “Hi”, the ticket-giver looked up at him with an ill-disguised look of animosity. “Er, do you reckon I could, like, wait somewhere else? Is there like a private waiting room?” “Does there seem to be a problem with this waiting room?” “No, it’s not that, it’s just, I feel, uncomfortable waiting around with all these strangers”. “Sir, I can assure you that everybody feels the same. Please take your seat”. “Okay, well that doesn’t make anybody feel any better”. “Sir, please take your seat and wait for your number to be called”. George opened his mouth to respond, but found himself heading back to his seat. Across the room, sitting with her legs crossed, was Emma. George blinked in incredulity, but she was still there. She gave him a flirtatious wave. George got to his feet and tentatively walked across the room. “Yes?”, said the girl, and after a beat, “Can I help you?” “No. Sorry. I just thought you were someone else.” Back in his seat, George mentally kicked himself for being so stupid. She’s dead, he told himself, she’s dead. “Seeing me everywhere are you, George?”, Emma’s voice hit his ears, “Can’t get me out of your head?” The black man was no longer sitting to the left of George. Instead, Emma was there, with her perfect legs and tangled brown mane of hair. Laughing at the sheer ridiculousness of it all, George replied, “Can’t get you out of my head? Well that’s why I’m here isn’t it?” “What if it doesn’t work though?”, said Emma, as if the idea gave her great pleasure, “What if after you kill yourself there’s some sort of afterlife based on your living psychology? What if your eternity is me?” “Then I’ll have to find a a way to kill myself again”. “You can only kill yourself once, silly”. “Oh I know, it’s a grand shame, I would have done it loads by now, if I could. I’d wake up every morning any kill myself” “So dramatic”. Even a hallucinatory image of Emma could still get right under George’s skin. “You always call me dramatic, when you’re the one that’s dramatic” “You’re the one who’s speaking to a dead girl”. Anger swelled in George but before he could release a venomous retort, Emma was gone, and the black man was back in her place. “Okay, number 227, you’re up next”, the ticket-giver’s announcement brought George back to reality. “If you’d like to follow me”. Checking his ticket, George got to his feet yet again and followed her out of the waiting room and down a narrow, white corridor. The gravity of the situation hit George at once, and he felt the need to gag. When they reached the menacing black door, George stifled his queasiness. George resented himself for not wanting to embarrass himself in front of the ticket-giver. “Everything in the room will be exactly as you’ve been told”, she said, “The sound will already be playing, and when you enter the room, the image you’ve chosen will be projected in front of you. The gun is on a platform right in the centre of the room, you can’t miss it”. She held the black door open for him, and George entered the last room he would ever enter. The door closed behind him, and he was left alone. The CD of George and Emma was already playing over the sound system, and his stomach continued to churn unpleasantly. But, there was no image being projected. Rather, Emma herself was standing in front of George, looking as she had in the photo George had chosen. Her school uniform brought out her immaturity, and George felt a twinge as this is how she had looked when he had first fallen in love with her. “Of course you chose to have an image of me where I’m in my school uniform. You’re such a perv”, she said, purposefully emphasising her disdain. “This is how you looked when I first met you”. “Yeah, before you knew me. Before you knew you couldn’t control me, and I wasn’t really just a little girl. You put me in this uniform because you want to keep up the charade of me loving you and you controlling me”. How could she still be torturing me, George thought. Even now, after she’s gone, she’s still hellbent on torturing me. “It wasn’t a charade”, George replied, flatly. “I didn’t love you, George. I never did. I was young, I didn’t know”. “That doesn’t mean anything. You still loved me”. He was yelling already; George was always quick to yell at her, as she had liked to point out when she was still alive. “No I didn’t, George”. At times like these, George didn’t know if he loved her or hated her. Clearly, the more obvious feeling was hate, and every single word she said was like a personal calculated insult to him. And yet, he was so willing to get her to submit to him and admit that she loved him. “I wish I could still kill you. I wish you weren’t dead, purely for that reason. I want to bring you back to life just to choke you with my bare fucking hands”. “Well, I’m here. And hey, you don’t even need to use your hands. There’s a gun”. George was totally disoriented, and things had stopped making sense altogether... maybe he was already dead. He didn’t know, but with immense satisfaction, he picked up with gun and pulled the trigger. It was a perfect shot, hitting her square in the temple, and blood that was so dark it was more black than red, began to gush from the wound. She stayed standing. “What the fuck?” George looked around and hit himself in the face, trying to put a stop to the insanity, “Why aren’t you dead?” “George, silly, you think that’s going to kill me. This isn’t what it looks like; you’re still in the waiting room”. The walls around George warped and blurred until he realised he was in fact, still sitting in his chair in the waiting room. Emma was now sitting in the ticket-giver’s chair behind the desk, and she teased George from across the room, “Think you’re going crazy, George? Think you’re losing it yet?” “I have nothing to lose”, he muttered. “Seriously! All the fucking drama all the fucking time!” She seemed to be completely unaware of the fact that she was provoking him. “Shut the fuck up”. He had to end it, and a force comparable to nothing he had felt before flung him to his feet and he made his way over to the desk. He was going to hit her... he was going to hit her so fucking hard... And she vanished again, out of thin air, leaving George trembling on his feet in the middle of the waiting room. Knowing her next move, he turned around and as he expected, saw her sitting in his chair, looking very casual, and very, very happy. She reached into her pocket, pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and lit one. “You can’t smoke in here”. Now, standing outside of the Clinic, each puffing on a cigarette, George racked his brain once more for answers. “You didn’t get this done, I don’t believe you. I know there’s something else going on here; this type of shit wouldn’t make sense to you”. “Because you know me so well?” God, why can’t she just turn it off for one second, George thought to himself. “Okay, maybe you’re right, maybe I don’t know you at all. I think that sometimes, that I just had it wrong the whole time. That we were so close and yet at the same time, we really didn’t know each other at all. But we spent 4 years together, Emma, I know for a fact that you did not kill yourself. You wouldn’t go to once of these places”. He was certain of it. “But you would, I know that. You have, after all”. “Only because you did”. “But you just said I didn’t do it!” “Okay, only because you allegedly did it!” “That’s not fun. You’re just gunna give up? You’re not gunna figure it out?” “I can’t figure you out”. “Draaaaaaamaaaaa”. A sigh escaped George. “Come on, George, if I killed myself, I wouldn’t have used this place. I would have just done it, you know, jumped off a bridge or slit my fucking wrists or something. I wouldn’t have come and sat in a queue and all this shit. Come on, you know I wouldn’t have done that”. “I don’t know why I’m here”. This was the truest thing George had said in recent memory. “You would’ve ended up at this place, whether you thought I had or not. This is so George; it’s got your name written all over it. You were always gonna kill yourself.” “I dunno. I guess, although everything is, eventually it will not be... So why bother?” “Come on, George, think. What happened to me?” George furrowed his brow, and concentrated. He visualised Emma, and his memories of Emma, trying to remember every moment they had shared together, in the hope of something somewhere igniting an epiphany. He remembered walking down his old suburban street with her, hand in hand. She would always instinctively take his hand, and not taking her hand would always cue an argument. He remembered how when she had so suddenly fallen out of love with him, how she had flinched when he had tried to touch her. He longed for the days when she would take his hand, without him having to take hers. Deeper memories... he remembered hugging her late one night down the high street after a comment from a tramp had made her cry. How something so stupid like a comment from a tramp could have shattered her, and made her need him. How truly fragile she had been underneath her tough demeanour. He remembered the smell of her hair, the smooth of her legs, and then, he remembered the sensation of her legs pressed against his head, and his tongue inside her vagina. He remembered how she would wither and moan, and clutch at the bedsheets. Was any of it real? Everything is so brief. Everything feels like it wasn’t true, like it was just a delusion, George thought. To him, everything just felt like some fucked up chemical imbalance in his brain. Too many drugs. Too much TV. But her, such a pretty, perfect thing. She had to have been real, the only real thing in a sea of distortion. Although everything is, eventually it will not be... George jolted in his chair in the waiting room. Emma was gone. The elderly woman sitting to George’s right turned to him, and said, “Were you thinking about eating out my pussy?” “What?!” George said, flabbergasted. It took a moment for Emma to take the place of the elderly woman. “I said were you thinking about eating my pussy? You were, weren’t you? Your lip quivers when you think about cunnilingus, George. I’m dead, you know, isn’t that a bit necrophilic?” “You’re not fucking dead!”, George yelled at the top of his lungs, and as he did, all the lights in the Clinic abruptly turned off, and all the people around George and Emma became immobile. Emma erupted in to tears and teared towards the door to the corridor. He couldn’t let her get away, she had to answer for this, so he pelted after her down the long, white corridor, calling after her. “Emma, wait! Emma! Emma! Come back!” She was impossibly quick, quicker than Emma had really been, quicker than anyone had ever been. George reached another door which had no handle, and began banging on it. “Emma, let me in! Emma, let me in, let me in now!” Emma called back from the other side of the door, her voice thick with authentic terror, “Leave me alone! I’m scared.” “I’m nothing to be fucking scared of Emma!” She had always said she was scared. Knowing she wouldn’t submit to persuasion alone at the time being, George kicked down the door which came off with surprising ease. George found himself in his flat kitchen, just as he had left it this morning before heading out. Emma was darting across the flat towards the front door, but he managed to catch up and grab her arm as she tried to negotiate her way around the furniture. “LET GO OF ME!” she squealed, still crying. “Emma, wait!”, there was tremendous force in George’s voice, “Listen to me”. “You’re fucking hurting me, George”. “How could you do that to me?!”, he screamed square in to her face, “How could you fuck those other guys! You’re fucking evil!” “Then let me go! Let me go, George, now!” Without thinking, he punched her and she fell to the floor. She was still fighting back, and with all his strength, he restrained her and, still without thinking, began to strangle her. She gasped and clawed at his face with her nails, but he wasn’t to be stopped. She pressed her thumbs in to his eye sockets, momentarily blinding him, and when he regained his vision, he was back in the waiting room. The lights were still off, the people around were still all in a dead sleep, and Emma was still in the place of the elderly woman. “Oooh, maybe that’s what happened!”, she said with tantalising excitement, “Maybe you killed me! What if you’re crazy? Like, like actually crazy. What if you killed me and you don’t even remember killing me?” “Emma, shut up. This is serious”. “What? Is it not dramatic enough for you?” The anger George had felt had climaxed with the sensation of asphyxiating her, and now he felt nothing but sad. “Were you scared of me, Emma?”, he asked. “Yes”. “Why?” “You’re obsessive, George. It’s too much. It’s scary”. The words instantly drew tears out of George’s eyes, and he wept. “Don’t you care that you hurt me?” Emma exhaled, and sounded more serious than she was normally capable of being. “You stole my childhood, George. You scandalised me”. “What fucking good is a childhood anyway! Hey! Who wants one!”, the notion of a spoilt childhood brought back George’s anger as if it hadn’t gone anywhere. She looked back at him with the same repulse that he recalled vividly from their last ever encounter. She spoke the same words, “I’m gonna go now”. George clutched her shoulder and searched her eyes for the person he once knew. “No, please, please don’t go Emma, not again. Don’t make me do this, please, please don’t leave me”. “See you on the other side, George” “NOOOO!” She had evaporated. The lights to the Clinic turned back on, and the people around came back to life. But George was really screaming this time, and the people around him jumped back in their seats. He wasn’t able to get out any words, he was just wailing at the top of his lungs. The ticket-giver instantly dashed out of her seat and over to George. “Sir, please, calm down, sir, sir, please, if you’d like to come with me”. “Fuck off!”, George mustered and threw his shoulder away from her as she tried to touch it. Two especially muscly Body Disposers with vacant faces barged in to the waiting area and each grabbed one of George’s arms. George was taken aback by their strength, and started flailing his legs around. The people in the waiting room looked in horror as George shouted, “No! This is wrong! This is all wrong!” The Body Disposers dragged George out of the waiting room, down the white corridor, and through yet another door. This time they had entered a much smaller room than any of the others, and the walls all matched the red of the Disposer’s ghastly jumpsuits. Before George could react, one of the Body Disposers was injecting him with a foul-smelling blue liquid. “What the fuck is that?!” George exclaimed. Nobody responded. After he had been injected, the Body Disposers softened their grip on him and he was able to break free, push the ticketgiver out of the way, and he flung open the door and began sprinting for the waiting room. The Disposers and the ticket-giver gave chase, and his feet slipped on the squeaky corridor floor. George felt as though his legs were filling up with concrete, and movement became an increasing struggle. His back hunched and he felt as though something invisible was pulling him down to the floor. Still, he pushed on and reached the waiting room door, and without a second of conscious-decision making, flung himself at the black man’s feet. “Don’t kill yourself. Please. Please, don’t kill yourself”. A few people jumped to their feet, and even the rocker with his head in his hands looked up at the commotion. The man looked back at him as if George had just asked for his hand in marriage. The concrete sensation as now filling his entire body, and he felt like an anchor was forcing him through the ground. “DON’T KILL YOURSELVES”, George screamed at the rest of the waiting room, and before the Body Disposers grabbed him again, he fell to the floor, unconscious.

[archived-brokentoys]

anonymous asked:

🔥 + arkh/m knight r!ddler

IT’S UNPOPULAR OPINION TIME ! / ACCEPTING !

Definitely my least favorite portrayal of Ed in the Ark series... it’s not the worst portrayal of Ed in general. But there are just some problems I have with it. While I actually love the design, I don’t like it for Ed. For one thing, it just feels like it contradicts with what City Ed is supposed to be... for example, these are from the concept arts for City;

It’s still known that Ed loves to dress up nicely, (in fact, the usage of the words ‘OCD pristine’ makes it feel like something he needs to do.) Saying he had no choice made it sounded like, you know... he was forced to get dirty, but still wears the suit regardless. So... it’s just strange how in Knight, he’s wearing a... wifebeater filled with holes, and very dirtied clothes. Like, I get the point is “oh, he’s so desperate, he’s now not bothering to take care of himself!” Which makes me sad, but also just doesn’t feel right for Ed’s character. Because of the question marks on his suit, I presumed he had it custom-made. Hell, the question marks even look like they were even sewn in. Perhaps by a tailor, or Ed himself.

So, in Knight... he still has the question marks? Where’d he find this shirt? Did he have IT custom-made? If so, he could bother with this, but not bother throwing his suit on?

I loved City’s design so much because there feels like A LOT of thought put into it, and it made me think differently about character design. Like for example; Ed has messy hair because it feels like the designers actually remembered he had OCD. They thought it would be messy because of his stimming. Which amazed me that someone would think of that, because with Ed... most people really do just design him with slick back hair, or neat hair. Because you know, gentleman ha-ha-ha. I also liked that his design was a suit, but it was a bit of a messy suit... it wasn’t buttoned up, he had combat boots and fingerless gloves. And as the design said, he does have his sleeves rolled up as symbolism of him having to dirty his hands. As I’ve already expressed, fingerless gloves make way more sense for Ed’s character realistically since he’s gonna be dealing with a lot of touch screens. Modern technology and all that, it’s no longer the 60s! But why I’m really pointing this out... because not only are the combat boots, and fingerless gloves make sense realistically... but they’re also VERY symbolic for Ed’s character and tells you a lot about him. Like he dresses professionally... but unprofessionally at the same time! I feel this shows that Ed’s a guy who pretends to be a gentleman... but he’s not, really. He’s actually rude, very loud, and quite emotional. Therefore, him dressing in a suit... but not dressing as nicely feels like it REALLY tells you this in design alone. Why am I going off about City’s design when we’re talking about Knight? Because this is to help show why the Knight design is bad. As I said, it felt like less thought put into it. I know that they just wanted him to look like a MECHANIC because Knight had far more missions in cars, and Ed specifically gave you tracks to race, as well as constructing robots. Yes... it gives you the idea that he is heavily involved with cars. But... that’s it. It doesn’t actually tell you much about his character other than the idea that he’s more hopeless. Which again... as I’ve explained, just doesn’t feel right for Ed, even if he’s at a lower point in his life. I also noticed they omitted any purple from that design, which I don’t mind. But like, D/C feels this need to make Ed look less like J0ker (which is also probably why Ed’s such a victim of BAD DESIGNS.) But I always find that funny. Because D/C’s like “J0KER AND R!DDLER BOTH CAN’T BE PURPLE AND GREEN!!! WE MUST STOP THIS!!!” meanwhile Sp!der-Man is like “haha several villains green and purple haha”

Okay, I’ve rambled on ENOUGH about his design. Now let’s move on to his characterization... as I’ve mentioned on this blog before, he suffers the same thing General Hux suffered in the Last Jedi. Both characters were seen as a bit of a threat in the previous installment, then in its sequel... they just become a joke. Again, I know the game was going for “ED’S DESPERATE NOW.” But when the thugs/henchmen are making fun of him, too? It’s just difficult to take his character seriously as well. And then him not believing Bruce is B/ataman... 😑 Just feels like another joke. Especially when in Origins, Ed ACTUALLY suspected Bruce was B/atman BEFORE he even became the R!ddler and when B/atman had just started out. That’s impressive! Now I know lots of people will argue because Origins was made by a different team, and therefore different views. But... I dunno, Ed obviously can’t fight well. What he has going for him is his intelligence, it what makes him a threat, and what makes him scary despite not being able to fight. I like it when he suspects or even knows that Bruce is B/atman. Because it makes him feel like a bigger threat. Especially because it makes up for what he lacks in comparison to the other villains. (Who are usually depicted as very smart, AND they’re very strong/can fight.) As people suggested once before, him refusing to believe Bruce is B/atman could’ve been him angry that he had suspected it first but never went anywhere with it. But with as many jokes that he has in this game... it just feels like another “haha he’s pathetic, isn’t he pathetic?” quirk.

The two things I liked from Knight, from what I recall... is his finally calling B/atman “dad.” (Because well... I felt since City, or even Asylum... Ed was projecting his father onto B/atman. Knight only confirmed it, which made me feel satisfied.) And that newspaper with he and Harley~

Now, Knight isn’t Ed’s worst portrayal... but it falls short compared to Ed in the other games.