#i want to add director's commentary!!!!!!!!!

[autisticandroids]

CASTIEL: Stop. What's the point if you don't mean it? You fear me - not love, not respect, just fear.

[youtube with closed captions]

a godstiel pity party. i'd like to thank an anon i got way back in february of 2021.

[parameddic]

and then one day when he was, he didn’t know, 19, and living between the firehouse and his first apartment, she’d just shown up one day with her favourite tea (lapsang souchong), looseleaf, like they’d had plans. “Mum?” because they’d been going out, because Josh wanted to go somewhere (some boyfriend; he had not lasted longer than two months when the sex had started feeling too ‘real’; but he was TK’s roommate, at the time) and get high or find a club or – “We were kind of–”  “TK,” she had stopped on her way past, her fingers just touching the highpoint of his cheekbone, touch so so gentle.  He’d been getting so lost, there, at that point of his life. Hadn’t found which way was up for years. He thought she’d see the red-rimmed eyes or the track marks or the hollowed cheekbones or the way he needed it now, more than he was just having fun, and tell him she was ashamed.  Her hand drifted down to his jaw, then down his neck, onto his collarbone, over his heart. Strong heart, she had told him, once. Courage and courage and courage. The strongest heart she’d ever known.  “Let me have tea with you, OK? I miss you.”  “I live around the corner.” How could she miss him? How could anyone-?  “You’re my son.” With a little shake of her hand over his heart, as though to affirm it. Said like a promise. (God, even thinking of it now, some lump leapt into his throat, which he had to swallow down.) “I miss you everywhere you go. And you just finished a shift. C’mon.” 

TK was pulled easily into the kitchen, gravitating after her automatically, the promise that she had, the warmth of her. God he’d needed that warmth, right then. God he’d needed his mum. “That’s really sweet, mum, but I thought–”  “Do you remember the kitchen table? When you were little?”  She’d interrupted him on purpose, and TK … something twisted inside of him, flipped over so the other side faced up, some inalienable tug, and he came to sit at the breakfast bar, both elbows on the bar in front of him, “The one in Brooklyn?”  “With the leaky tap,” Mum agreed, with a smile and a laugh. TK remembered thinking, vitally, that he did not remember the last time he’d seen her laugh like that in the morning light, with the kettle on, in a kitchen. “And you’d always try to get up early.”  “I got up!”  “You went back down,” she told him, pulling a little sloth-shaped tea strainer out of her handbag - The Tea Strainer of TK’s childhood, not ‘a’ but the tea strainer - and navigating his kitchen like it was her own. It might as well have been. Josh didn’t cook, TK had set this place up all on his own, and he’d learned the set-up from his mum.  “Hey –TK,” Josh had trailed in after him –  “Are you joining us?” Mum had always invited everybody. He didn’t remember if she knew at this point that they were dating. It didn’t matter.  “No,” Josh blanched. “Thanks. I’m, um. I’m gonna head out, OK?”  “You’re leaving?” he’d half-startled out of that quiet peace, at that.  “Yeah.” Now, looking back at it, he wondered if maybe this had been the beginning of the end for that relationship. “Yeah, I gotta - I’ll see you later.”  And then it was just TK and his mum, and they drank tea at his kitchen table, and after that they baked cookies, and she hugged him so tight when she had to leave ‘cause she had an afternoon meeting and she told him to take care and “Be safe, OK?” and touched her hands briefly over his elbows, where the track marks were just starting to appear. He’d been bouncing his leg all morning. The itch didn’t go away.  It - the need - lessened, when she held onto him like that. He’d wondered about it then. Moreso, he had thought he was gonna find the liquor when she was gone, but he’d had that little flash of, maybe this could be enough. (The immense number of frustrating glimpses of a life that could have been lived if he’d just been better – TK would not wish addiction on anyone but he could not, either, explain to anyone who hadn’t lived it the way it was obvious how surviving worked, how it looked to put down the addiction, it was obvious it could be better sometimes he just – it just–).

hums hums hums hums. tk thinking about his mother is one of the softest kindest sweetest things wow. tk loves his mum with his whole heart. i could write these about owen as well but OH he loves his mother with his whole heart. tk is his mother's son

anyway if your muse ever wants to befriend tk the hard and fast rule is just ask him about his mother and care about the answer, he will melt

[lesbiancarat]

want to give my two cents on the AI usage in the maestro trailer--

i think seventeen doing a whole concept that is anti-AI is very cool, especially as creatives themselves i think it's good that they're speaking up against it and i hope it gets more ppl talking about the issue. i also understand on a surface level the artistic choice (whether it was made by the members, the mv director, or whoever else), to directly use AI in contrast to real, human-made visuals and music in order to criticize it. i also appreciate that they clearly stated the intention of the use of AI at the beginning of the video

however, although i understand it to an extent, i do not agree with the choice to use AI to critique AI. one of the main ethical concerns with generative AI is that it is trained on other artists' work without their knowledge, consent, or compensation. and even when AI generated images are being used to critique AI, it still does not negate this particular ethical concern

the use of AI to critique also does not negate the fact that this is work that could have been done by an actual artist. i have seen some people argue that it's okay in this context because it's a critique specifically about AI, and it is content that never would have been done by a real artist anyway because it doesn't make sense for the story they're trying to tell. but i disagree. i think you can still tell the exact same story without using AI

and in fact, i would argue that it would make the anti-AI message stronger if they HAD paid an artist to draw/animate the scenes that are supposed to represent AI generated images. wouldn't it just be proof that humans can create images that are just as bad and nonsensical and soulless as AI, but that AI can't replicate the creativity and beauty and basic fucking anatomy that's in human-made art?

it feels very obvious this was not just a way to cut corners and costs like a lot of scummy people are using AI for. ultimately it was a very intentional creative decision, i just personally think it was a very poor one. and even if some ethical considerations were taken into account before this decision, i certainly don't think all of them were. at the very least i feel like the decision undermines the message they want to convey

i would also like to recognize that i myself am not an artist, and i have seen some artists that are totally on board with the use of AI in this specific context, so clearly this is not a topic that is cut and dry. but generative AI is still new, and i think it's important to keep having these conversations

[king-crawler]

@servonium for some reason I missed your tags earlier but Oh my God.

I’VE NEVER ACTUALLY THOUGHT ABOUT THE IMPLICATION THAT TURBO SPED ACROSS GAME CENTRAL STATION AND THEN THROUGH THE CORD TUNNEL WITH HIS CAR!!??

First off. INSANE visual

Perhaps it was similar to how Ralph’s hijacked spaceship flew everywhere in GCS except it’s Turbo in his racecar screaming OUT OF MY WAY!!!! And clouding up dust everywhere .. and then characters are like. Was that Turbo ?? Oh no…

But It would be SO COOL to see that event play out real-time in the game world instead. Cuz the flashback is Highly Condensed. Did it really all happen at once? Probably not, maybe over the course of a day or two ..? But I find it so interesting that the sequence is all from the perspective of the outside world… there’s just something about that that presentation that made him all the more mysterious and unnerving.

(It was also probably to prevent spoiling what his 3D model looks like but Yeah)

Also some more speculating ..

Do you think he was able to get out of that Terrible Fiasco he caused because running into the other racer corrupted them both into Glitches ? The Roadblasters guy was probably corrupted too badly.. but maybe Turbo somehow glitched out to escape and then tried to alter his code to repair himself- Maybe in some old debug menu where nobody would notice. Maybe THAT’S where he realized he could code himself into whatever he wanted.

FOR BEING A MAIN VILLAIN (twist villain to be fair. But Still .) THERE SURE IS A LOT OF MYSTERY AROUND HIM.. but maybe if we knew more he wouldn’t have been as mysterious and the twist wouldn’t have worked . BUT I NEED ANSWERS!!!!!!!!???

[hythlodaes]

this fire is bound to burn

emile x estinien / 9.4k words spoilers up to the very beginning of endwalker

There’s something to be said for these old habits and the way they find each other again, the shadows of their bodies recognizable in the dark.  Here they come alive, here they unravel the years between them.

It begins in a snow covered clearing. 

Under the moonlight, Emile searches the remains of a campsite with only a story in the back of his mind. Despite the wind screeching through the air, he turns at the sound of someone approaching. Estinien stands, guarded by his armor, his face hidden by his helm, and his words are as harsh and as angry as the cold. 

Emile thinks nothing of him until the Eye awakens, something suddenly alive and tangible between them. 

It takes but a single moment for fate to bind them together.  

—

It begins in Tailfeather, in the Churning Mists, beyond the Gates of Judgment. 

What draws them closer is what pulls them apart: vengeance is a word that would dig their graves. It is a path they both know but one they cannot walk together. In anger, there is understanding. In Estinien’s freedom from Nidhogg, there is still the death of Emile’s father on the Garlean’s hands.  

There is no way forward as they are. 

—

It takes time, it takes distance.

—

In truth, it begins on a ship bound for Sharlayan. 

It begins at the end of it all. 

—

Emile blinks through the muted dark at the bunk above him, eyes roaming along flat color as the ship sways in place. He almost forgot about this—the strange adjustment to the constant motion of residing at sea. It stirs within him as restlessly as the lack of a task to focus on, and he finds that the night passes with little motivation to sleep. 

In the bunk above him, he can tell by the steady in and out of Alphinaud’s breathing that he does not have the same trouble. Nor does G’raha, who sleeps just as soundly on the top bunk across the room. Below him, however, Estinien’s bunk is empty. 

Emile watches the neatly made bed for too long, the feeling in his chest a remnant of their days long before this. It was always the two of them slipping away from camp, the deep blue shadows of Estinien’s face as they talked under the stars turning in the sky. 

He swallows back the memories as he gets up, pulling on a sweater and his cloak. Though dulled by their years apart, it’s still instinct to seek him out, like some part of him knows they’re meant to pass the night together. 

The ship is quiet. Emile moves through the dark in silence until he reaches the upper deck, where the cool sea air rushes towards him and the sound of the ocean rolls beneath the ship in heavy, slow repetitions. He takes in a deep breath, damp and salt lined, and looks for Estinien. 

He finds him at the far edge of the deck, the wind pulling at his shirt and suggesting the strong shape of his shoulders down to the taper of his waist. Moonlight curves over his hair, still loose and blowing in the wind, and his arms rest before him, half leaning over the railing until he turns at the sound of Emile approaching. 

For a moment they simply watch each other. It’s been some time since they’ve stood alone like this. 

Estinien seems to realize it as well, judging by the smile that steals at just the edges of his lips. It doesn’t feel real sometimes that he’s here again, that they’re doing this again. Emile thought it was over after they’d said goodbye in Ishgard all those years ago. Their chance encounter in the east felt like the remnant of a memory, a feeling found and quickly forgotten again. Their reunion in Ishgard felt even more fleeting. 

In Azys Lla, Emile pulled him aside, certain that he’d only have a brief window to speak with him. He’d stumbled over a quiet thank you for saving his life against Elidibus, something he regret not getting to say before. 

But now—

“Couldn’t sleep?” Emile asks as he comes over to stand beside him.

“Nay,” he murmurs. His voice sounds different at this time of night; softer. “I suspect much for the same reason as you.”

Emile smiles. “When’s the last time you were this still?” 

Estinien’s answering smile is just a flicker and then it’s gone. “More recently than you, if Alphinaud’s stories are anything to go by.” 

Emile turns his head towards the horizon. The moonlight casts a film over the water, highlighting each rippled wave that rises from the vast dark. He remembers the same sight on a different ship, one headed east. He remembers those long days of battle after battle, death after death, with years clawing at the space in between. That it ended in a short lived victory, with Zenos’ body rising once again as the Scions fell, until Emile joined them on the First. 

Remember us. 

He takes a breath. 

“They are.”

He can feel Estinien’s gaze slide along his profile, and he waits for the familiar question to follow. It’s never quite a question, never quite a command, but it’s always the same:

“Tell me,” he says. 

Emile meets his gaze. “If Alphinaud has already spoken of it, then I’m sure there is little for me to add.” 

“Still, I would like to hear it from you.”

Something in Emile hesitates—the clearest memories are the sharpest. Sometimes he still feels the sharp pain of light cracking through his body. There are nights where he still speaks to Ardbert in his dreams. As hard as he tries, he cannot forget the words Zenos spoke over him—you and I are one and the same.  

There is more to it than what simply happened, would Estinien want to hear this too?

Yes, he thinks. He remembers spilling story after story before him, each one carrying more weight until he revealed the heart of him. This is something safe. 

“All right,” Emile murmurs, and he picks up the thread shortly after the end of the Dragonsong War. He tells him about Baelsar’s Wall, Ala Mhigo, Kugane. He describes Hien, the Steppe—though they met there later—and Sadu. There were other women: Lyse, M’naago, and Fordola, who saw through him. The memories crawl up his throat, and once they start, they don’t stop.

Estinien listens with his hands loose and open on the railing, his eyes fixed on Emile until he too turns his attention to the horizon, fingers curling into fists. Emile doesn’t like to think of the last few years as unhappy, but it was hard, and he can hear the strain in his voice as he traces his way back to the present. 

The night grows colder, and Estinien shivers once, twice—quickly, as though it’s against his will—before Emile pulls the cloak from his own shoulders and drapes it over his. Estinien glares at him but surprisingly does not protest, and as Emile continues, he watches him clutch it a little firmer around his chest, as Emile often does. 

Emile doesn’t know how long they stay like that, only that his words grow slower as time drags on and the sky pales a little. He’s barely started on their time on the First, but soon the ship will wake in earnest and they’ll lose their chance to sleep entirely. 

“It’s getting late,” he murmurs, and he wonders if Estinien can hear in his voice how little he wants this moment to end. 

Estinien blinks at the horizon as though he’s just now realizing this, but then he nods. “So it is.” 

They descend into the lower decks wordlessly, and Emile watches the line of his shoulders in front of him as they navigate the narrow halls back to their room. At the door, Estinien stops and turns to him. Familiar and unfamiliar. Memory and the present. Emile feels like he should say something, but how do you tell someone you missed them without revealing your heart? 

Estinien’s mouth curves down at one corner. 

“Did you find what you were looking for?” he asks, his deep voice barely above a whisper.

Emile knows immediately what he’s referring to—it was the last conversation they had after the Dragonsong War, when Estinien asked if Emile would still seek his vengeance. I have to, he’d said then, and only now does he know how foolish it was. 

“I did,” Emile murmurs. “There was no satisfaction in it.” 

He admits it without shame, because he knows Estinien understands. Where I once craved vengeance, I now crave rest. 

Sure enough, Estinien nods. He removes the cloak from his shoulders and holds it out for Emile to take back, their eyes on each other the entire time. For a moment, neither of them move. There is a question lingering between them, something unspoken but present all the same. Emile feels its weight but cannot translate its meaning. 

They pass a quiet goodnight back and forth before they slip into the room, where the only sound is the steady breathing of G’raha and Alphinaud asleep. Emile settles back into bed, turning his back to the rest of the room. 

He closes his eyes, but as tired as he is, he stays awake for a long time. 

—

Estinien is different. 

Emile has known this since they first met again, since they freed Tiamat and he led them in Paglth’an. It’s something that only grows more certain as the days carry on. Estinien’s small smiles come more easily, his teasing remarks more frequent. The hollows around his eyes still exist but the constant anger in them is gone. Emile watches him interact with the others, and he fits in with the Scions as much as he doesn’t. 

Emile is almost greedy for the easiness of these days. The cold sun tinges Estinien’s cheeks in pink, makes the white of his hair shine. He is just as restless as Emile but he does not complain, he merely busies himself about the ship. More than once Emile spots him chatting with the crew, his gaze focused as they point to the sails above them, to the horizon beyond them, or once with a map between them, plotting out their course. 

The twins are near constant companions to him at first. Alisaie is just as interested in him as her brother, even if she feigns otherwise, and though Estinien feigns his own irritation with them, Emile knows how much he enjoys having them around. 

Most days, however, Estinien disappears for hours at a time. Emile never asks where he goes. 

It is the night that belongs to them. It becomes Emile’s favorite thing, watching the empty space of Estinien’s bunk before retreating to the upper deck to find him. There’s something to be said for these old habits and the way they find each other again, the shadows of their bodies recognizable in the dark. 

Here they come alive, here they unravel the years between them.

Emile finishes telling him about the First, often tripping over his words, retracing his way back and explaining the same things differently. Estinien is patient with him, letting him figure it out as he goes, prompting him with questions where he can. It helps Emile make sense of it in his own mind, the wounds of that time still fresh, still hard to understand. 

And then it turns to Estinien, who tells him about what he’s done during their time apart. Like before, his stories are short but to the point, and he tells him about where his travels have taken him, the world he’s rediscovered in this new life free from the weight of vengeance beating through his blood, the new path he found until it eventually led them back together.

They talk about Orn Khai, Alberic, Aymeric. There are things they share, and things they do not. The conversations change over the passing nights, from things that are deep to things that are lighthearted, and they laugh like a couple of kids instead of two men in their thirties. 

More often than not, Estinien winds up wearing Emile’s cloak. He brought little by means of a change of clothes, and nothing warm enough to comfortably withstand the windchill at night. He never complains but Emile hates to watch him endure the cold, and so each night he pulls off his cloak and drapes it around his shoulders. Estinien, to his credit, rolls his eyes less and less each time it happens.

“Is this the same one from before?” he asks one night, fingering the worn edge of the seam. 

“Aye,” Emile says, his eyes on Estinien’s hands. He wore it night after night in Dravania, using it as a blanket as they slept around the fire or throwing it on as they slipped away from camp together. “My mother wove it for me when I first left Gridania.”

Estinien’s gaze is sharp and immediately on him, and Emile looks up with a raised brow as he moves to take it off. 

“I shouldn’t—” he starts. 

Emile reaches out to stop him with a hand on his shoulder before he can think better of it. He watches Estinien for a moment, a question on his tongue that he will not ask. He clears his throat. “I am happy to share it with you, and I think she’d be rather cross with me if I didn’t.”

A small frown pulls at Estinien’s lips, but he does not shake off the cloak. After a moment, Emile realizes his hand is still on him and pulls away. 

“‘Tis very fine,” Estinien murmurs. 

“Mother is an excellent weaver,” he says, only a little embarrassed at the pride in his voice. “She’s tried to teach me many times, but in my youth I did not have the patience to dress a loom. In truth, I’m not certain that I’d have it now, either.” 

Estinien laughs a short sound. “Do your sisters weave?” 

“Very little,” he answers. “Renee has the skill for it but rarely the time, and Max has even less patience than me. I fear the three of us are quite the disappointment for her.” 

“I’m certain she does not view it so,” he says, voice soft.

“Nay,” Emile relents, but he lets himself remember the wide windows of her studio, the dappled light that spilled through in shades of gold in the afternoon. As a teenager, he spent more time staring out at the trees than actually weaving, but he thinks the repetitive motion of it might be nice, now. “Mayhap I’ll pick it up someday.”

Estinien raises a brow. “Retirement plan?”

He laughs. “Aye, I’ll make sure to weave something for you.”

The conversation rolls on until the night winds down. He doesn’t mind when it’s over, when they retreat down below deck again. He finds himself looking forward to the way they murmur goodnight, the look they share at the door of their room, something that comes closer and closer to understanding what they’re really saying. 

—

The interest in Estinien cannot be helped. It is a long trip, and he’s the newest addition to their team. The Scions give him space for the most part, but as the days stretch on, questions begin to arise. 

The topic of Azure Dragoon comes up one night at dinner. It is one of the rare occasions that all of them sit down at the same time. When they’re together like this, the conversations carry on quickly between topics, overlapping in a way that only makes sense when you’ve known the same people for years. 

Emile frequently loses track, but he wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“Emile was Azure Dragoon as well, though,” he hears Alphinaud say, and his attention snaps over to the other end of the table, where Alisaie’s brows turn down as she looks back at him.

“‘Tis easy to forget, with how little you speak of it,” she says.

Estinien sits across from them, and his gaze shifts to him as well. Emile lifts a shoulder. “‘Twas Estinien’s role, truly.”

“Haldrath himself possessed you, and still you give me the credit.” 

Emile smiles. “No one will know that part of it. ‘Twill always be the story of the Warrior of Light and the Azure Dragoon.” 

But the conversation moves on to Haldrath, to the Eyes, to Lahabrea, to the Ascians. There’s a question in Estinien’s gaze but he doesn’t say anything, disappearing into the background of the conversation as he often does. 

It’s later that night, when they’re alone, that he brings it up again. 

“The Warrior of Light and the Azure Dragoon,” Estinien repeats. It is bitterly cold, and the two of them sit under the cover of one of the masts to block out the wind. Emile’s cloak drapes like a blanket over their legs as they sit shoulder to shoulder, and Emile feels like a child again, hidden away from the world with him. 

“Do not think that I have forgotten myself,” Emile murmurs. “But I do not presume to believe that I will be remembered as anything other than the Warrior of Light.” 

“Does that not bother you?”

Emile shakes his head, letting his gaze travel up the sails, their scale even greater from this angle. He continues further up, casting his eyes among the stars above them. His shoulders drop as he considers the question. “Part of me thought of it as a burden for some time. I’d felt that there was too much expectation on my shoulders, and all that hope felt useless in the face of those I could not save.” 

The weight of Estinien’s gaze no longer feels heavy, but Emile knows when it’s there all the same. 

“Now I often find myself grateful for it,” he continues, eyes still full of stars. “If I am to carry one title, ‘tis an honor for it to be one that lends strength to others.”

“And what about you?” Estinien asks. 

Emile finally looks at him, light ghosts over him, and there’s something melancholic in his gaze. “What do you mean?”

“What lends you strength?”

Emile blinks at him for a long moment. It’s one thing to know that Estinien understands that Emile is just as mortal as everyone else, it’s another to be reminded of it again. Just as they’re talking about the magnitude of his role, Estinien looks right through it and sees him alone on the other side. 

“The Scions, of course,” Emile answers immediately. “My family. The memory of those I’ve lost. You.”

The last one comes quietly. Hesitant. Estinien hears it all the same. 

“Me?”

Emile is grateful for the dark covering over them as he feels his face warm all the way to the tips of his ears. “Aye, well... we’ve had similar paths, have we not? When I think of your strength in overcoming Nidhogg, it gives me hope for my own future. I’ve hardly had a moment to reflect on my freedom from the burden of vengeance, but being here with you reminds me of it every day.” 

Perhaps it’s too much of an admission, but Emile cannot keep it to himself. There are things he’s had to bear alone, things that he would not burden with others, but to tell someone how they’ve helped feels important. Telling this to Estinien feels important. 

Estinien looks away, and Emile watches him openly. It’s the tilt of his mouth, the slight slope of his nose, the way his bangs lower over his eyes as he considers what he said. There isn’t anyone like him, is there? 

“I do not often wish things were different,” Estinien says finally. “I used to, in my youth and in my anger, but there is no point to it. Yet still I find myself wanting more for you than what the world has offered, than what I myself have asked of you, just like all the others.” 

An admission for an admission. Emile can scarcely breathe. 

“‘Twas important, Estinien,” he says. “All of it. Unfair at times, yes, but I do not resent what has been asked of me—especially not from you.” 

Estinien looks down at his hands. “Then full glad am I that I can offer what strength I have in return. ‘Tis no one more fitting to be the Warrior of Light.”

“I should say you made a fine replacement while I was on the First.” 

“Only out of fear of your receptionist,” he says, and he glances at Emile again, who laughs into the emptiness of the night. Estinien’s eyes crinkle at the corners, just the slightest hint of amusement in his expression, and Emile feels that unspoken thing again, that indefinable feeling, but finds that he’s no closer to explaining it. 

He knows, in his heart, what he wants it to be. 

—

It’s always present in the back of his mind. 

Emile has long stopped denying his attraction to Estinien—something he’d felt the moment Estinien first took off his helm in front of him. There’s a certain beauty in the sharp lines of his face, in the angle of his eyes, the soft sheen of his hair. It’s the shape of his body, the breadth of his shoulders, the thick line of his thighs. Emile has to stay his wanting hands at the cut of his waist and the curve of his jaw, fingertips itching to brush back his bangs when they fall into his eyes. 

Estinien sees him for who he truly is, he understands him in a way Emile hasn’t felt with anyone before. They can relate about such painful memories and share such stupid laughs, they can talk for hours at a time or sit comfortably in silence. Some foolish part of him feels like they were meant to find each other, but he knows that he’s greedy to want more than he’s been given. 

It only grows in difficulty. 

Their room is below deck. Despite the cool air above, down here it grows humid and stifling. Emile wakes with the sun even when he can’t see it. He wakes to the sight of Estinien asleep in the bunk across from him, the naked line of his scarred shoulders visible above the blanket, his long hair spread loose across the pillow, mouth parted in sleep. In the lifting shadows of the room, he is mesmerizing.

Sometimes Emile thinks about crossing the short distance between them. Early morning slips by slowly, and he lets himself imagine pulling back the covers and crawling in beside him. He wants to know what his body feels like against his, the touch of his skin, the taste of his lips. He wants to know the comfort of Estinien’s affection, know the heat of his desire, he wants to believe that Estinien could feel the same way he does. 

At a certain point, Emile stops looking over at him entirely. 

In his haste to get up one morning, however, he forgets to duck his head under the bunk above him. He collides with it with a solid smack in the silence of the room, and he immediately recoils with a hand to his forehead, wincing against the ache that comes in the aftermath of his shock. 

“Are you all right?” he hears Estinien whisper. Emile’s attention snaps over to him. He’s on his side facing him, barely holding back a grin. 

“Yes—don’t laugh,” Emile whispers back, but he can't help it either. It isn’t the first time he’s forgotten his height in a small space, and the same embarrassment creeps up his neck as he laughs, trying to keep quiet. G’raha isn't in the room—always the first awake—but he can hear Alphinaud stir in the bunk above him. 

Emile is careful in his second attempt to get up, and he can feel Estinien watching him as he stands. They’ve seen each other in just about every state of undress before, but Emile still feels self conscious about his bare chest as he turns to throw on a shirt. 

It shouldn’t be any different, he reminds himself as he pulls a sweater over his head next, but when he glances at Estinien, he has rolled over and his back is to him. 

—

Alisaie is fast, and she hits hard. 

Her and Emile take to sparring on the deck most afternoons, when the sun has reached its zenith and the chill in the air is welcome. They use wooden poles instead of lances, and Emile walks her through posture and position, step after step, strategy—things he learned at her age. 

She is a quick learner, and even happier to be taught by Emile. 

He doesn’t let her win —he knows that she would only be angry with him if he did. Still, he does not use his full strength against her despite the way she pushes him to. She is relentless, always looking for an opening, and tries to create one with force when Emile doesn’t let her in.

More often than not they find themselves with an audience. Scions and strangers alike stop by to watch them spar. Y’shtola merely lingers with an amused expression, Alphinaud is the only one that roots for Emile, and Thancred is the most vocal. He spurs Alisaie on, calling out where Emile’s weak spots are to give her the advantage, laughing when Emile grumbles about how unfair it is. 

Estinien stops by one afternoon. They’re mid-spar, so Emile can only catch glimpses of him in their back and forth. He stands with his arms crossed, expression neutral but intent on them as he watches. Alisaie fights harder in his presence, whether out of something to prove to him or to show off—Emile isn’t sure. 

Either way, his observation weighs differently. The fight continues in silence for some time before he speaks. 

“You should lower your stance,” he says to her, straightforward but not quite a command. 

“Emile taught me just fine, thank you,” she returns, but she does as he says. Emile adjusts, refocusing on her hands, watching her feet as she circles around him, but then—

“Emile stands too tall for a dragoon,” he comments, like it’s nothing. And it is. It’s merely an observation, but it still makes Emile hesitate long enough for Alisaie to land a hit to his shoulder, the blunt end of the wooden pole enough to leave a bruise.

“I do not care to be a proper dragoon, I care about whipping his arse,” she returns with a pointed look at Estinien. 

“A fine job you’re doing at that,” Emile grumbles, rubbing his shoulder before taking ready position again. 

Estinien says little else as they finish their sparring session. There’s no winner, no loser, but Emile is out of breath by the time they wind down. Alisaie looks pleased with herself, a smile pulling at her lips as she hands him the pole. Emile shakes his head and grins back at her, but his gaze turns to Estinien once she leaves. 

“My stance?”

Estinien lifts a shoulder. “You hold yourself differently now.” 

He carries a different weapon, it can’t be helped. Still, a sharp feeling twists his stomach—some part of him knows that what he does isn’t right. Some part of him misses wielding a lance with an ache in his chest that only makes him think of his father. Would he be disappointed in Emile? Is Estinien? 

It’s something he’s wanted to ask ever since they first took to the battlefield again and Estinien wordlessly eyed the scythe on his back. The others do not like it, and as much as he understands why, it is a power he cannot yet yield. 

“I could still keep up with you,” Emile challenges, though maybe it’s too bold of a claim. They haven’t fought each other since that day in Coerthas years ago, with Alberic at Emile’s back, with Nidhogg stirring in the air. Suffice it to say that it didn’t end well for either of them. 

But Estinien watches him a moment, considering, before he holds out his hand for the pole Alisaie wielded. 

“Show me,” he says. 

Emile hesitates as their eyes stay on each other, posing both the question and the answer. Are you sure? He hands it over and the two of them slowly get into position. Both of their bodies know this dance well—Emile strikes first but Estinien meets him there. They test the waters, then they sink in. 

It is a good match. 

It’s the length of their reach, the same strength they use, the effortless glide of their footsteps around each other. They move so similarly that their push and pull comes naturally, and it goes on like this for some time, simply feeling each other in the fight, before Estinien pushes harder. He picks up the pace, bears down with more force, and Emile has to focus to keep up. 

Their lances come to a standstill between them and for a moment, neither of them move. In the late afternoon sun, Emile watches the way Estinien’s chest heaves with exertion, mouth parted and sweat curving down his face, eyes like fire on Emile. Desire flares to life in the span of a pounding heartbeat, and Emile swallows hard.

Focus, you fool.

They continue on, their pace relentless. In time it wears on Emile, and new habits are habits nonetheless. It doesn’t register until a moment too late: he expects the bladed arch of the scythe at the end of his lance, and in its absence he creates an opening that Estinien doesn’t miss. He hits Emile hard enough to unbalance him and send him to the deck, where the hard wood digs into his elbow and knees as he tries to catch himself. 

Estinien is beside him a moment later, eyes roving over him before he asks, “All right?”

“I’m fine,” Emile mumbles. He turns onto his back, sprawling his limbs out as he squints up at Estinien through the waning light. “Ali hit harder, you know.” 

Estinien smirks. “And yet who knocked you on your arse?” 

Estinien lowers his hand and Emile takes it, groaning as he helps him stand upright. 

“Next time,” Emile says, still out of breath.

“We’ll see, Warrior of Light.” 

—

Perhaps Emile’s favorite part of the night is the moment right before it begins, when he traces his way up to the deck and finds Estinien already there, staring out at the water with moonlight painting the edges of him. Something always warms in Emile’s chest at the thought of Estinien waiting for him, this anticipation being something they share. 

Usually Emile has a moment to observe him, to catch a glimpse of him simply as he is, but tonight Estinien scans the deck, already looking for him. 

“Come,” he says when he notices Emile. “I want to show you something.” 

He takes off before Emile can question it, and Emile follows him across the deck, the two of them moving as silent as shadows in the dark. Estinien pauses at one of the main masts, glancing over his shoulder as Emile tilts his head back, looking up at the crows nest that looms far above them. 

Emile laughs. “You cannot be serious.” 

“Come on,” Estinien says, and begins the climb. 

“Will we both fit?” Emile calls after him, but Estinien doesn’t answer. Emile watches the silhouette of him rise into the night, Emile’s cloak fluttering around him, outlined by the stars, and he has no choice but to follow. His hands are uncertain but he picks his way up, eyes straining through the dark. 

There’s something meditative about the climb, the way the cold wind pulls at him, the moonlight surrounding him, and the singular focus before him. Estinien is in the crows nest when Emile reaches it, and he scrambles in beside him, the small space causing them to knock hips then shoulders, shuffling their feet until they can stand comfortably side by side. 

“Why—” Emile begins, but then he glances at the sight beyond Estinien, and he has to turn his head at the scope of the sky fully surrounding them. The sea of stars stretches out from north to south, east to west, countless and shining as one. From this height he can see the dull reflection in the water below them, and sky and ocean merge together, stars above and stars below. Emile lets out a shaky breath, lips pulling into a smile as he looks over at Estinien. 

Estinien glances down at his mouth for one heartstopping moment before meeting his gaze, the slightest amusement apparent in his expression. “What do you think?” 

The night holds him so gently. Starlight reflects in the shine of his eyes, white light soft along the sharp lines of his face, and Emile thinks that he’s starting to memorize him, that even in this half light he’s one of the most familiar things he knows. 

“It’s beautiful,” Emile murmurs, but his eyes stay on Estinien, and in this hushed world far above the sound of the water rolling beneath them, it sounds like a confession. 

It’s the same feeling, isn’t it? It’s always the same, unspoken thing. 

The answer is, Emile thinks, somewhere within his reach. 

—

“Where do you and Estinien go at night?”

Emile stills, cup of tea in hand and halfway to his mouth. It’s Alphinaud who asks, and Emile looks over at him with wide eyes, though the question is posed innocently enough. Beside him, Alisae nearly spits out her own tea, coughing into the back of her hand as she sets her cup down with a small sound. 

The three of them sit huddled around a table strewn with empty plates leftover from breakfast. Alphinaud frowns at his sister’s reaction, but he looks back to Emile, who lifts a shoulder in response. 

“To the upper deck,” he answers. “Have we woken you?” 

Alphinaud shakes his head. “Naught to concern yourself with, I have only noticed your empty bunks on a few occasions and presumed you were together.” 

“Aye,” Emile says. “We both have a habit of staying up too late, we end up talking half the night away.” 

Alphinaud seems to accept this, but Alisae stares at Emile for a long moment, her brows pushed together. Emile is about to question it when she rolls her eyes and says, “Gods above, you’re just as bad as him!”

He blinks at her. “What?” 

“Estinien,” she grumbles. His name sounds almost painful in her mouth. “You’re completely infatuated with each other and then act like it isn’t obvious to everyone around you.” 

If possible, Emile’s eyes widen even further. “What?”

“I’ve had to listen to my brother blather on about him for years without you so much as mentioning him,” she continues, “and then all of a sudden you’re thick as thieves.”

“We’ve always been friends,” he tries. 

“All I’m saying is, the man has two expressions and one is only slightly less murderous than the other. Then he looks at you and I daresay he smiles.” 

“It isn’t like that,” Emile returns, distinctly reminding himself of when his sisters used to tease him about his crush on one of Renee’s friends. Mimi’s in love, they would singsong, until his ears were bright red and he’d snap at them to leave him alone. 

It was childish then, at sixteen. It’s worse now, at thirty three. 

Alisaie turns her attention to her brother. “Please tell Emile he’s being ridiculous.”

Alphinaud glances between them with a furrowed brow before he picks up his cup of tea and takes a sip. “I haven’t the slightest idea what you’re talking about.” 

Emile breathes a small laugh while Alisaie tilts her head back and drops her shoulders, huffing out a frustrated breath. “Hopeless.”

—

They grow closer to Sharlayan. 

They consult the maps, they make their plans, it is inevitable that they will reach their destination soon. It has been a long trip, and morale stretches thin between passengers and crew alike, a certain weariness in the air coupled with the boredom of almost two months at sea. 

On one of their last days, a group of musicians gather together on the upper deck and play song after song while the afternoon winds down into the evening. Many gather around, drawing up a seat or standing along the edges of the crowd, others dancing in the space in front of them. 

Emile arrives later, as the sun begins to set. He was eating dinner with Urianger when they first heard the music, and now they follow the sound up to the deck, where they find the rest of the Scions gathered to one side, standing near the railing as the lights flicker among them, the sky behind them fading pink into the night. 

Estinien stands in the back with his arms crossed, but there’s something relaxed about his posture, his expression calm as he watches the crowd. His attention snaps over to Emile as he comes closer, and a knowing smile crosses his lips—always just the hint of it but there, nonetheless. Emile smiles back, drawn like a magnet to him, and then they’re side by side again, watching the musicians as they begin another song, this one rowdier than the last. 

“Do you not dance?” Emile asks, leaning in close so he can hear him. 

Estinien levels him with a glare that is answer enough. 

“Come on, Estinien. Never?” 

His mouth presses together for a moment in that way it does when he’s debating whether or not to say something, and Emile tilts his head a little, widening his eyes. Estinien takes one look at him and sighs. “I haven’t the talent for it.” 

“I’m sure you do, you’re coordinated,” he offers.

He lets it drop though, turning his attention back to those that dance. The lights catch them, making them look like shifting paintings coming to life from the relief of the night. There are couples and groups of friends alike, laughter ebbing over the music. Emile finds himself smiling, tapping his foot along to the beat. 

And then—

“My mother taught me to dance,” Estinien admits, just barely loud enough to be heard over all the noise. 

Emile looks over sharply, but Estinien keeps his gaze on the crowd.

“Ferndale held a festival at the change of each season,” he continues. “My brother and I would fight over who would dance with her.”

Emile clears his throat. “Who won?” 

Estinien smiles, more nostalgic than happy. “She made us take turns. We’d spend entire afternoons in the kitchen learning the steps with her. We did not have an orchestrion...she would sing until her voice grew tired.” 

He still stares fixedly ahead of him. For a moment Emile lets himself imagine Estinien as a child, heart aching in his chest as he thinks about two little boys in a farmhouse kitchen, dancing to the sound of their mother’s voice. He leans over to press their shoulders together. “‘Tis a sweet memory.” 

Estinien looks over at him, staring at Emile for what feels like a long moment. “Aye.” 

“Will you show me the dance?” 

“Nay,” he says quickly, but his mouth loosens into a more genuine smile. “By all means, you should go ahead though.” 

Emile shakes his head. “Only when I’m in my cups.” 

It’s an obvious lie, but at least it gets Estinien to laugh. “I’d like to see that.” 

They lapse back into the music and the crowd. Estinien gets his wish before long, because G’raha comes over and pulls Emile away with him onto the makeshift dance floor, half his size but persistent—not that Emile puts up much of a fight. He isn’t the best dancer but he loves feeling the music within him and letting his body follow its rhythm. Raha pulls him into his arms in a loose version of a waltz, and Emile laughs until his sides ache in his attempt to get Emile to turn under his arm. 

Alisaie joins them before long, her laugh loud over the music as Emile takes her by the hands and twirls her around, lifting her in the air and setting her back down again. 

Song after song passes like that, and Emile is breathless but it’s the most fun he’s had in some time. Every so often his eyes find Estinien, still watching them with his arms crossed as he leans back against the rail of the ship. He smirks at Emile, shaking his head a little, but the amusement is clear in his eyes. Emile smiles back each time, and then he’s lost to the music again. 

—

It’s later that night, when the upper deck is empty, that they dance in silence. 

I hardly remember the steps. 

It matters not.

Emile doesn’t know why Estinien changes his mind, just that he does. They spend a long time fumbling through it, Estinien’s instructions closer to that of the Knights Dragoon as he guides him through the steps. It begins with them facing each other, hands clasped together as they cross side to side, then they turn under the bridge of their arms. They loop around, their arms drawing them closer, then further apart. It is a dance that breathes, meant to be lively, but they take it slow. 

Estinien counts aloud, the rhythm certain though his feet are not, and Emile is amused by the concentration on his face, the determined line of his brow, the way his voice tightens around the constant one, two, three, when they misstep. He takes it too seriously but Emile cannot blame him, cannot tease him or poke fun, for he knows what this means. 

They bring the past back to life, two ghosts from Ferndale on a ship bound for Sharlayan. He’s all but certain that this is the first time Estinien has danced like this since he was in a kitchen with his mother and brother, and he feels honored in a way that lingers like a weight in his chest. Estinien himself said there’s no point in wishing the past could be undone, but for a moment here, like this, Emile’s only wish is that he could change things for him and give him back the family he so brutally lost. 

Estinien’s hands tighten around his as they seem to finally get it right, and they fall into it, each repetition more confident than the one before. Estinien stops counting aloud, and the only sounds in the night are the rolling waves and their footsteps across the deck. 

Emile ducks under their arms again as they turn, but this time Estinien brings one of their joined hands to Emile’s waist, the other held above their heads, faces close as they stand chest to chest. Emile breathes him in above the sea air, and they sway in place, eyes on each other. Emile cannot be sure how long they stay like that, so entirely lost in the moment that time passes like a dream.

Eventually they slow to a stop, and Estinien wavers in the dark, shades of gray, but he’s so close that Emile would only have to tilt his head the slightest to lean in and kiss him. It would be so easy, it would—

It would ruin the threads of their friendship they picked back up these past months. You’re only seeing what you want to see, he tells himself. Still, with the closeness of Estinien in the dark, their fingers still tangled together, it’s hard to avoid the draw. 

Emile makes himself let go, clearing his throat. 

“I think your mother would be proud of you,” he murmurs. 

Estinien swallows thickly, then nods. “Thank you.”

They linger just a moment longer, and then they walk back to their room. Emile watches the line of Estinien’s shoulders in front of him, his thoughts a mess as he tries to make sense of everything that’s happened between them lately. He knows things are different, but he thinks it’s only a matter of them being different. They are not who they were when they first met. 

They stop at the door just as they always do, and Estinien gives Emile his cloak back just as he always does, but then they break routine. Estinien stays where he is, looking down at his hands, and the moment stretches on. Emile stares at the line of his jaw, his hair that falls loose around his shoulders, and feels a warmth stir in his chest. It’s hard to look away. 

“Emile,” he says, his voice like gravel, and it’s then that he tilts his head up to meet his gaze. He doesn’t say anything else, and all they can do is watch each other as the silence continues to fill the space between them and wears at Emile’s heart. I’m trying to understand, he wants to say, always this same feeling again and again, and tonight it sits heavily within him. He clings to it, searching Estinien’s gray eyes dulled by the night, but the answer is still just out of reach. 

Estinien’s shoulders deflate, and the moment passes. Still, a small smile pulls at the corners of his lips. “Goodnight.” 

Please. 

Emile nods. “Goodnight.” 

—

Emile keeps to himself the next day. 

He doesn’t say anything to the others, he merely slips away in the morning and finds a place to sit on the deck alone. The cold morning sun falls over him and he tilts his head back to let the weak light coat his face, the bare warmth of it a distraction for just a moment.

But then he leans over the railing of the deck, resting his chin on his crossed arms, and he lays his cheek along the collar of his cloak. It smells like Estinien now, and it fills him with a longing that seeps into his bones, that drives down to the most minuscule part of him with a single truth—

He wants to be his. 

He breathes in, he breathes out. He stares at the clear line of the horizon but there are no answers. They face so much ahead of them in Sharlayan, they have been through too much to get to this point. There’s no room for feelings like this—not with the Final Days looming over them, not with everything hanging in the balance. Now is the time to focus, and that means letting these thoughts about Estinien go. 

Easier said than done, though. He finally decides he’s had enough of his sulking and picks his way back across the ship, where he spots Estinien with Alphinaud and Urianger, the three of them standing together on the far edge of the deck. Emile can see the easy conversation from here, the loose lines of their bodies, the way Alphinaud tips his head back with laughter as he often does whenever he’s around Estinien. 

“Emile,” a voice calls from behind him, and he turns to see Thancred watching him, something careful about his gaze. “All right?”

“Fine,” he says, but his voice sounds thin. Thancred glances beyond him for a moment, returning to Emile with understanding crossing his expression.

“For a self proclaimed loner, he seems to be rather fond of company,” he murmurs. 

It’s that he doesn’t mention Estinien by name, knowing full well what has been occupying Emile’s thoughts, that bodes ill for this conversation. Emile can hear the caution in his own voice, “Only some of the time.” 

“Or, rather fond of your company, I should say.” 

Emile sighs, half tempted to pinch his brow. “You know we’ve been friends for years.” 

Thancred was there in those days when Nidhogg still claimed Estinien, and he saw the effect it had on Emile then. He is observant, and Emile is certain that he’s well aware of Emile’s reluctance to talk about him over the years, even more aware of the way they’re drawn together now that they share a goal again. 

One breath in, another breath out. 

“Far be it for me to meddle in the affairs of others,” Thancred says, “but I think ‘friends’ is a generous term for it.” 

Emile’s stomach drops, but he doesn’t have it in him to deny it. “‘Tis close enough.” 

Thancred raises a brow.

“‘Tis not that simple,” Emile tries again.

“Is it not?” 

Emile wishes it was. He wishes he could take the chance with this, but there’s too much at risk. It’s too much of a complication, and the last thing he’d want to do is to ruin this easy dynamic between them.

He sighs. “Even if I were guaranteed that he felt the same, ‘tis hardly the time for such a thing.” 

Thancred looks back to Estinien, Alphinaud, and Urianger across the deck, and a slow smile steals across his lips. “I daresay we have little choice in when these things happen. Or with whom.” 

Emile follows his gaze to Urianger, who gestures with his hands as he speaks. Emile knows it hasn’t been easy for the two of them, but there’s been something different about both of them since they took that step. Something happier, relaxed, free.

For a moment, the thought makes him pause, and he asks himself a single, What if. When he looks back to Thancred, he shakes his head at him, clapping him on the shoulder. 

“I trust you’ll figure it out.” 

—

They’re due to arrive in the morning. 

His head spins with mixed feelings at the thought. Most of all, he’s ready to keep going. This restlessness has been a challenge, being rendered useless when he knows the magnitude of what’s before them, and he’s eager to help in the way he knows best. He’s excited to see the place that his friends have talked about so often—that old adventurer’s spirit is still alive in him, always somewhere underneath the surface.

He can’t let himself dwell on the nerves that pull at the edges of him, the questions that rise without an answer. He is not alone, and though there’s a certain dread in the back of his mind at what they could be facing, they will figure this out together. 

But as much as he looks forward to leaving this ship, it means an end to this—

Emile hands over his cloak as soon as they step out into the night air, and Estinien takes it without a word. They stand shoulder against shoulder to keep warm from the wind. Or at least, that’s what Emile tells himself when he leans his weight against him, it’s what he tells himself when Estinien leans back just as much, sides pressed together against the chill of the night.

It cannot be this easy. 

He looks over at him, at the way he positioned the collar around his neck so he can tuck his face into it, the way the moonlight tugs at his lashes as he blinks out at the horizon, and Emile wishes he could pause time just so he could watch him a little longer, stay with him here, stay with him safe.

They’re quiet. There’s much they could still discuss but they both seem content to enjoy these last moments together in the silence. Emile debates for too long what he could say—Alisaie and Thancred’s voices in the back of his mind—but in the end, he simply gives in to the night.

Before he can overthink it, he tilts his head to rest on Estinien’s shoulder. They sat like this once before, years ago, the night after they killed Nidhogg. There was an understanding between them underneath all that raw emotion, and the comfort of being close helped him more than he would ever admit at the time. Like then, the sharp line of Estinien’s jaw comes down to rest against the top of his head in return.

If this is all we get, then let me stay here.

The night stretches on and Emile commits it to memory: the familiar sound of the wind catching at the sails, the salt air, cold mist from the water, and the thousands and thousands of stars surrounding them. There’s the rise and fall of Estinien’s body beneath him, the even sound of his breathing, the scent of him, the way he stays and stays and stays. 

The night stretches on and it stretches out—it cannot last forever. 

Emile’s eyes blink slowly, and then slower. He knows they need their rest but he’s reluctant to let go. When he finally pulls away he doesn’t go far, just enough so he can meet Estinien’s gaze. He’s equally as intent on him, and Emile’s heart thunders in his chest, stealing at the peace from just a moment earlier. 

Emile smiles at him, grateful for the way Estinien’s lips curve up in response, always only the hint of it but always true. 

“I’m glad you’re here,” Emile admits, and he forces himself not to look away. “There were many times I thought of you these past years. Many moments where I wished we could simply talk like we used to. I know our separate paths were right for us both, but I’m glad that it led us here.” 

One shaky breath follows another. 

Estinien’s smile broadens a little before he looks to the horizon. “You still yet surprise me, Warrior of Light.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“After everything, you continue to wear your heart on your sleeve.” 

Emile wills himself not to blush. “It cannot be helped.” 

“Still,” he continues, and his smile fades until it’s completely gone. “I’m not going anywhere just yet.” 

His reassurance is so simple, so solid. Emile feels himself nod, tucking this feeling away in his chest. “We should get some rest; tomorrow promises to be a long day.” 

“Aye,” Estinien says, and they separate fully this time. The cold of the night tugs at Emile as he heads back, and he doesn’t realize that Estinien hasn’t moved until he calls his name again. 

“Emile.”

Emile turns around, and it’s just like last night, isn’t it? They stand across from each other, Estinien’s bangs hang low over his eyes, and for a moment Emile doesn’t think he’ll say anything else, but then—

“I thought of you too.”

The admission is quiet but determined, and Emile swallows hard, letting it wash over him as he stares at Estinien. There’s a resolve in his eyes, something immovable, and Emile takes one step closer to him, then another. Estinien doesn’t waver, not until he has to tilt his head back the smallest amount to look up at him, though his expression betrays nothing. 

Emile winds his arms around his shoulders, pulling him into a hug. It’s uncertain at first—they’ve never done this before—but then Estinien wraps his arms around Emile’s middle, his grip tight as his hands bunch the fabric of his sweater and pull him closer. He turns his face into Emile’s shoulder, and Emile can feel his breath at his neck, can swear he feels his heart match his own—beat for heavy beat. 

Emile tightens his own grip around him, squeezing his eyes shut as he savors the warmth of his body, the sense of security that settles in his chest, and he relaxes into the unexpected comfort of it. Nothing else matters as they hold each other close, not the fear of the future or the pain of what’s behind them. Here, they have each other, and they’re safe. 

When they part, there’s something shy about the way Estinien looks at him through the shadow of his bangs, and all Emile can think is, Okay. 

He finally understands.

—

It begins in a snow covered clearing, in Tailfeather, the Churning Mists, and a ship bound for Sharlayan. 

It begins on the Steps of Faith. 

Kill me, Estinien had asked him once. It is the only way.

Emile never even considered it. 

I will not lose you, ran through his mind again and again as he and Alphinaud pried Nidhogg’s Eyes from Estinien’s body, a determination beating through his blood that he’s only felt a few times in his life, giving him a strength he shouldn’t have had left.

He thinks he knew he loved him then, too. 

—

They return to their room as they do every night, but something has changed between them. 

As they stand at the door, Estinien hands Emile his cloak, and they murmur goodnight back and forth in hushed voices. Tonight their glances are fleeting, tonight they do not linger. 

They slip into the muted dark together one last time. 

—

In the morning, she is waiting for him. 

[i-am-the-rat-king]

Just saw a zombie movie that came out a couple years ago and it was both super stupid and disappointing and wonderful at the same time. Most it was only wonderful for like two minutes, whenever the zombie tiger was on screen. Otherwise it kinda sucked. Very very very stupid logic, shoddy CGI sometimes in an otherwise clean movie, just like the most shoe horned in aspects amidst an otherwise somewhat clean story.

[tangibletechnomancy]

The (Personal) Is (Political)

~7 hours, Dall-E 3 via Bing Image Creator, generated under the Code of Ethics of Are We Art Yet?

Or, Dear Microsoft and OpenAI: Your Filters Can't Stop Me From Saying Things: An interactive exercise in why all art is political and game of Spot The Symbols

A rare piece I consider Fully Finished simply as a jpeg, though I may do something physical with it regardless. "Director commentary" below, but I strongly encourage you to go over this and analyze it yourself before clicking through, then see how much your reading aligns with my intent.

Elements I told the model to add and a brief (...or at least inexhaustive) overview of why:

Anime style and character figures - Frequently associated with commercial "low" art and consumer culture, in East Asia and the English-speaking world alike, albeit in different ways - justly or otherwise. There is frequently an element of racism to the denigration of anime styles in the west; nearly any American artist who has taken formal illustration classes can tell you a story of being told that anime style will only hinder them, that no one will hire them if they see anime, or even being graded more harshly and scrutinized for potential anime-esque elements if they like anime or imply that they may like anime - including just by being Asian and young. On the other hand, it is true that there is a commercial strategy of "slap an anime girl on it and it will sell". The passion fans feel for these characters is genuine - and it is very, very exploitable. In fact, this commercialization puts anime styles in particular in a very contentious position when it comes to AI discussions!

Dark-skinned boy with platinum and pink [and blue] hair - Racism and colorism! They're a thing, no matter how much the worst people in the world want you to think they're long over and "critical race theory" is the work of evil anti-American terrorists! I chose his appearance because I knew that unless I was incredibly lucky, I would have to fight with this model for multiple hours to get satisfactory results on this point in particular - and indeed I did. It was an interesting experience - what didn't surprise me was how much work it took me to get a skin color darker than medium-dark tan; what did surprise me was that the hair color was very difficult to get right. In anime art, for dark skin to be matched with light hair and eyes is common enough to be...pretty problematic. Bing Image Creator/Dall-E, on the other hand, swings completely in the opposite direction and struggles with the concept of giving dark-skinned characters any hair color OTHER than black, demanding pretty specific phrasing to get it right even 70% of the time. (I might cynically call this yet another illustration against the pervasive copy-paste myth...) There is also much to say about the hair texture and facial features - while I was pleased to see that more results than I expected gave me textured hair and/or box braids without me asking for it, those were still very much in the minority, and I never saw any deviation from the typical anime facial structures meant to illustrate Asian and white characters. Not even once!

Pink and blue color palette - Our subject is transgender. Bias self-check time: did you make that association as quickly as you would with a light-skinned character, or even Sylveon?

Long hair, cute clothes, lots of accessories - Styling while transmasc is a damned-if-you-do, damned-if-you-don't situation, doubly so if you're not white. In many locations, the medical establishment and mainstream attitude demands total conformity to the dominant culture's standard conventional masculinity, or else "revoking your man card" isn't just a joke meant to uphold the idea that men are "better" than women, but a very real threat. In many queer communities, especially online, transmascs are expected to always be cute femboys who love pink (while transfems are frequently degraded and seen as threats for being butch), and being Just Some Guy is viewed as inherently a sign of assimilationism at best and abusiveness at worst. It is an eternal tug-of-war where "cuteness" and ornamentation are both demanded and banned at the same time. Black and brown people are often hypermasculinized and denied the opportunity to even be "cute" in the first place, regardless of gender. Long hair and how gender is read into it is extremely culture-dependent; no matter what it means to you, if anything, the dominant culture wherever you are will read it as it likes.

Trophies and medals - For one, the trans sports Disk Horse has set feminism back by nearly 50 years; I'm barely a Real History-Remembering Adult and yet I clearly remember a time when the feminist claim about gender in sports was predominantly "hey, it's pretty fucked up that sports are segregated by sex rather than weight class or similar measures, especially when women's sports are usually paid much less and given weirdly oversexualized uniforms," but then a few loud living embodiments of turds in the punch bowl realized that might mean treating trans people fairly and now it's super common for self-proclaimed feminists - mostly white ones - to claim that the strongest woman will still never measure up to the weakest man and this is totally a feminist statement because they totally want to PROTECT women (with invasive medical screenings on girls as young as 12 to prove they're Really Women if they perform too well, of course). For two, Black and brown people are stereotyped as being innately more sporty, physically strong, and, again, Masculine(TM) than others, which frequently intersects with item 1...and if you think it only affects trans women, I am sorry my friend but it is so much worse and more extensive than you think.

Hearts - They mean many things. Love. Happiness. Cuteness. Social media engagement?

TikTok - A platform widely known and hated around these parts for its arcane and deeply regressive algorithm; I felt it deserved to be name/layout/logodropped for reasons that, if they're not clear already, should become so in the final paragraph.

Computers, cameras and cell phones - My initial specification was that one of the phones should be on Instagram and another on TikTok, which the model instead chose to interpret as putting a TikTok sticker on the laptop, but sure, okay. They're ubiquitous in the modern day, for better and for worse. For all the debate over whether phones and social media are Good For Us or Bad For Us, the fact of the matter is, they seem to be a net positive-to-neutral, whose impacts depend on the person - but they do still have major drawbacks. The internet is a platform for conspiracy theories and pseudoscience and dangerous hoaxes to spread farther than ever before. Social media culture leaves many people feeling like we're always being watched and every waking moment of our lives must be Perfect - and in some senses, we are always being watched these days. Digital privacy is eroding by the day, already being used to enforce all the most unjust laws on the books, which leads to-

Pigs - I wrote the prompt with the intention that it would just be a sticker on the laptop, but instead it chose to put them everywhere, and given that I wanted to make a somewhat stealthy statement about surveillance, especially of the marginalized...thanks for that, Dall-E! ;)

Alligators - A counter to the pigs; a short-lived antifascist symbol after...this.

Details I did not intend but love anyway:

The blue in the hair - I only prompted for platinum and pink in the hair, but the overall color palette description "bled" over here anyway, completing the trans flag, making it even more blatant, and thus even more effective as a bias self-check.

The Macbook - I only specified a laptop. Hilariously ironic, to me, that a service provided through Bing interpreted "laptop" as "Macbook" nearly every time. In my recent history, 22 out of 24 attempts show, specifically, a Macbook. Microsoft v. OpenAI divorce arc when? ;) But also, let us not forget Apple's role in the ever-worsening sanitization of the internet. A Macbook with a TikTok sticker (or, well, a Tiikok sticker - recognizable enough) - I can think of little more emblematic of one of the main things I was complaining about, and it was a happy accident. Or perhaps an unhappy one, considering what it may imply about Apple's grip on culture and communications.

Which brings me to my process:

Generated over ~7 hours with Dall-E 3 through Bing Image Creator - The most powerful free tool out there for txt2img these days, as well as a nightmare of filters and what may be the most disgustingly, cloyingly impersonal toxic positivity I've ever witnessed from a tool. It wants to be Art(TM), yet it wants to ban Politics(TM); two things which are very much incompatible - and so, I wanted to make A Controversial Statement using only the most unflaggable, innocuous elements imaginable, no matter how long it took.

All art is political. All life is political. All our "defaults" are cultural, and therefore political. Anything whatsoever can be a symbol.

If you want all art to be a substance-free "look at the pretty picture :)" - it doesn't matter how much you filter, buddy, you've got a big storm coming.

[candlelightreader]

I was just listening to the DVD commentary on the Snakes episode and I know Grissom and Sara's scene (the only scene they're present in this Nick-centric ep) is big--obviously shipper nirvana--but the commentary by George Eads and the rest (I think one of the writers and either a director or producer) added so much weight that I'd never considered before!

So, Eads remarks on how Sara is the only one who ever talks to Grissom that way. This is, as she really dials up the husky, soft voice she adopts with Grissom. Eads also observes that Grissom is always himself with her, i.e. more of a nerd and rather stripped bare in a way he never is with anyone else. They all make comments on how emotional the scene is and how revealing it is of their relationship because, as always, Sara is 'putting it [her attraction and ongoing interest] out there'. She is never shy about wanting him. (I really need to transcribe the commentaries.)

But Eads keeps coming back to the idea that Grissom is more Grissom or is more himself with her than with any of the others. I'd add that it is not only the fact of their professional position that makes him freeze with her--I think Grissom is talking about himself when he asserts that some men are intimidated by beauty.

You know what magic, Grissom!

Anyways, something I hadn't thought of is that Grissom almost says something back, such as "Let’s go to dinner." But, of course, Sara overtalks and halts his momentum such as it were. But even more, it made me realize how pivotal this scene is, even compared to the Nesting Dolls reveal of her childhood trauma, because this is the moment when Grissom knows 100% that he isn't too late. The flirting takes on a different dimension after this. The looks become more meaningful.

This is especially significant when you consider that ealier in the season, the writers and producers are talking about the explicit intro of Sofia as a romantic interest for Grissom. She was there to create tension and her chemistry with Grissom was very much not subtext. So the decision to make 'this thing' with Sara more solid in the presence of this new love interest adds to the dynamic more than ever. Because the chemistry with Sofia is too easy and too simple. He's too smooth with her. He knows what to say to her at a given moment, because he has no interest in Sofia romantically and doesn't feel threatened by her. She really is just a colleague he doesn't hate. Ultimately, Sofia doesn't leave him speechless the way Sara does. He is not 'himself' when he is with her. Sara, on the other hand, always renders him vulnerable, which of course is why he distanced himself from her in season three, as he realized in four.

And we can see how Sara's effect on him is unique when looking at his other love interests: he does have speechless moments with Terri but by the end, no so much--perhaps there is a sense that while he is attracted intellectually, and somewhat sexually, there is no sentiment after all. With Heather, he never is at a loss for words, which leaves me to lean towards the notion that he was indeed never involved with her romantically--but, perhaps, it is her who makes him discover that sex without love makes him sad whether through conversation or more... In other words, grissom is typically putting on an air with other people. He's fully insulated against them and can act out the persona of an assured, curated Grissom, the bossman, the tin man, the nerd, the professor, the mentor, the father figure, etc.

But with Sara, he is exposed.

[flareboi]

various arts that i wasn’t gonna post as a little treat (not really tagging them. if you find this post its pure chance)

ft directors commentary

my initial concept drawing for a victim gijinka. i ended up keeping most of this but i switched the hair to a ponytail. see, while a bun gives a more uptight vibe, i actually wanted them to look a little bit casual for their job since it makes their cold demeanor (and the facelessness of the mask) all the more chilling. though i did eventually add an eye for visual reasons as i couldn’t communicate enough tone through just body language seeing as they’re rather stoic y’know

idk how to explain this one. look at it man

second coming sketchbook page! it’s one of my favorites that i have in there

random chodark sketch. fun fact, my design for the dark lord is somewhat based on Him from the powerpuff girls!

[samanthamulder]

director Rob Bowman on the hallway scene in The X-Files: Fight the Future (1999 DVD audio commentary) — “ 'I need you, I need you.' That’s a theme of the movie – Mulder needs Scully. And never before has he come to that understanding quite so strongly as he does in this story. So she’s running because she’s afraid that he’s going to talk her out of it, and so the best thing she can do is hit the elevator button and go, go, go. She never makes it. That’s her first mistake.

And Mulder also knows that that’s where she’s headed, is out the door. So he’s got to tell her why it is that she’s so important to him, and tell her once and for all that in fact the whole time that the two of them have been together that she has made him better, that she has made him feel not like an outcast, not like discarded FBI trash, but somebody worthy of her friendship, and that, as he says, has made him a whole person. So in a scene filled with such virtue, people expressing their highest thoughts and feelings towards each other, you come to a sort of pinnacle of respect and mutual admiration that it leads to an intimate moment that neither of them expect, or were working towards. It just sort of happens. You just keep arguing and arguing, then suddenly it’s not an argument, it’s 'We’re for each other, we’re for each other.' And we come to the opportunity of the kiss for the first time. But it’s not out of lust, it’s not out of any of the obvious reasons, or typical reasons. It’s out of just absolute overwhelming respect for each other. Out of that respect becomes an emotional response, where you transcend logic and thinking and it becomes more visceral and human. 

The only place for him to go, in my mind, to express the next thought is to kiss her. And how do we do that in The X-Files fashion? Which is, you never give them anything that they want. You just lead them down the road and say 'Ah, that’s all you get.' And then, because of the bee, the moment is abrupt and abbreviated and stops short of the zenith that the audience is wanting. But we don’t want to end by cheating the audience. We’d like to at least add up in parts a kiss. So there’s the idea, in the spaceship where Mulder is trying to rescue Scully, and just when they get to the vent exit, she collapses again, and she passes out and she’s not breathing. What do you do when somebody’s not breathing? You give them mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. So you’ve got the intention of the kiss and the physical act of them touching mouths. I believe in Chris’s mind the idea was you take those two, add ‘em together, that’s a kiss. Sort of in frustrating X-Files fashion that’s a kiss. And I think obviously there’s more gained for the audience out of the hallway kiss, and I don’t think anybody really walked out thinking, 'Well, they sort of did, because if you add the two together…' but it doesn’t matter because the idea is they were going to. As a story point, that counts as the kiss. They didn’t stop themselves, something else entered the scene and interrupted them, so…"

[hold-him-down]

🤝 - Some help performing a basic task

✥ I Got Something For You ✥

Trigger warnings: semi-explicit noncon. 18+ only.

Notes: 2-ish months into West Peterson.

✥ ✥ ✥

When the doorbell rang, and Mr. Peterson inclined his head toward Leo, that should have been the first warning. The, “I got something for you,” should have been the second. Neither, though, prepares Leo for who greets him on the other side. When Leo opens the door to find a man, no older than he is, with short black hair and deep, charcoal eyes, wearing a Department of Labor Services branded t-shirt staring at him, there’s only a brief moment of confusion before the pieces fall into place.

✥ ✥ ✥ 

[Weeks Earlier]

“Come over here,” Mr. Peterson calls to him one night, abrupt but not exactly unexpected. Leo finishes the plate he is cleaning and sets it aside. He dries his hands, unrolls the sleeves to his crisp black button-down, pours himself a glass of wine, and makes his way over to the older man who currently holds his contract. 

He sits down cautiously, and Mr. Peterson offers him a genuine smile. “I'm– I'm just going to cut to the chase, Leo. I’ve been giving this some thought..." He reaches for his tablet and turns it on. “Now that you’ve been here for a few months, and you know– well, you know how fond of you I am,” he continues.

Leo returns the smile and nods, mouthing a soft, 'thank you,' to be on the safe side.

“I just have been thinking it’s too much for one person,” Mr. Peterson continues. Leo takes a breath, his eyebrows rising. “All of this. And, not just that. But they said, uh–” He runs his hand over the back of his neck and takes a long sip of his scotch. “Well, they said you like interacting with your peers. That you crave companionship. Something like that.”

A silence buds, and so Leo, eager to prevent the void from growing uncomfortable, says, “I suppose neither of those things are untrue.”

“Great. So I've– I’ve been thinking it has to be hard on you. When I’m away, or when I’m otherwise occupied. I thought it might be nice to… I don’t know, procure you a… a companion. To help keep you sharp, and uh– to help keep you happy, I guess,” he finishes. 

Leo swallows, tilting his head to one side, as Mr. Peterson turns his tablet so he can see the screen.

“I know that some might think of this as some type of perversion of justice,” he continues, immune to Leo’s curiosity shifting into something more tense. Leo takes a long sip of wine, peering at the screen. “I asked the director at Greenwood to pull a few options for us." Leo's jaw drops. "Before you say anything,” Mr. Peterson adds quickly, “I want you to know that I’m doing this as much for me as I am for you, and I don't... I'm not asking you for permission here, or for your blessing. I think it’ll be good for you to have someone here, but it’ll also be good for me.

"All that said, I do want your input." Mr. Peterson shows him the picture of a worker, and Leo forces himself to remain neutral, if for no other reason than to disguise his discomfort. At seeing this. At getting his first glimpse into this side of things.

“I don’t need you to make any type of final decision about the suitability of these boys,” Mr. Peterson continues. “My attorneys will review their files and ultimately determine if they’re a good match to my, and by extension, your needs. But I’d like to give you the opportunity to veto any, or if you feel strongly attached to any, I’d like to know that, too. Ideally, I'd like to find someone we both find attractive, and someone who may hold your interest through the duration of your contract.”

The evening is spent scrolling through the pictures of seventeen workers, with Leo mostly silent, entirely focused on keeping himself calm, and Mr. Peterson running a verbal pros and cons list for each one. Occasionally, he requires commentary from Leo, and in these instances, as subtly as he can, Leo tries remind him of their humanity. And all through it, Leo actively avoids thinking about the last time Mr. Peterson did this, about his own image appearing on the screen. What he had said then, with whom he had reviewed these files. Inevitably, those thoughts do creep in, but Leo shuts them down as quickly as he can.

And when Mr. Peterson closes the last of the files, glancing finally at a stunned silent Leo, and then, perhaps because he notices something in Leo's expression, excuses himself to bed, Leo finishes his wine in silence and promises himself he will not think about this night. Ever again.

✥ ✥ ✥ 

“Oh,” Leo says now, opening the front door wider. He shakes his head in a kind of detached disbelief, then steps aside, turning in time to see Mr. Peterson making his way to the foyer. “Mr. Peters–”

“You must be Will,” Mr. Peterson says, and Leo, in that moment, wishes he could be anywhere but in this room. Will is… around his age, he guesses. Around his height, around his build. Dark eyes, easy smile. He can’t help but think that Mr. Peterson has a type, and he also can’t help but wonder what– 

“Leo, introduce yourself,” Mr. Peterson says, sharply enough that Leo doesn’t hesitate to reach out his hand.

“I’m Leo.” He smiles, as he would greet any other of Mr. Peterson’s guests. “It’s nice to meet you,” he continues.

Will takes his hand, offering a gentle, if not a little bravely assertive, handshake. He watches Leo closely, holding his eye contact for just a moment too long.

“Well,” Mr. Peterson says, loud enough that Leo drops his hand abruptly, locking his fingers behind his back. “Looks like you two will be just fine.” He nods, as if to punctuate the thought.

Leo can’t shake the unease he feels as Mr. Peterson looks over Will once, then lets his gaze shift to Leo.

✥ ✥ ✥ 

They spend the first few days falling into a new routine. Leo, on edge since the day Will showed up, waits for the other shoe to drop, and Will puts a razor-sharp focus on assimilating with as little fanfare as possible. And he’s good at it.

Will, who, it turns out, is one year younger than Leo but has been in the system since the day after he turned eighteen, is, in a lot of ways, a perfect product of the training. He meets Leo in the kitchen every morning at seven, and while Leo makes breakfast, Will sets the table. While Leo cleans the bathroom, Will does the laundry. While Leo helps with the restaurant, Will does the yard work. 

Will seldom attempts to speak to him, but when he does, he keeps it light. It’s almost too easy, Leo thinks constantly, so at the end of their fifth night together, when Mr. Peterson stops Will from going to his bedroom with a terse, “Wait,” Leo immediately goes rigid. Partly because it has, he’s decided, been way too easy, and partly because Mr. Peterson is on his third scotch, but mostly because of the way Mr. Peterson looks not at Will as he speaks, but at Leo.

“Sit down,” Mr. Peterson says, and he inclines his head toward Leo. Will feels the danger here, too, Leo thinks. He’s hesitant in his step, maybe not noticeable to Mr. Peterson, but noticeable to Leo, who has watched him navigate the house with nothing but undiluted confidence for the last week. “I want to try something,” he says then. 

Leo nods, and Mr. Peterson says, “Finish your drink,” and so Leo does so without waiting, taking two big gulps of thousand-dollar wine, and then discarding his glass. “Would you like another?” he asks, and Leo eagerly agrees. Mr. Peterson looks to Will, who fills both of their glasses, and he watches as both of his workers body their drinks.

“I thought maybe,” Mr. Peterson eventually says (and here, he has the audacity to sound nervous), “I thought it might be nice for the two of you to get to know one another a little bit better.” He stands, stretching, and says, “I’m going to help myself to another scotch. When I get back, I trust you’ll both be ready to move things along here.” He looks only at Leo, with an expectant stare that makes the hairs on Leo's arm stand up.

Leo waits until Mr. Peterson has retreated out of sight before he speaks.

He looks straight ahead as he speaks, but he knows Will is listening. In his peripheries, Will leans forward, and takes a slow sip of his wine.

“Whatever happens," Leo hears himself saying, shoving his hands under his legs to keep them from shaking, "I want you to know that I didn’t want this." He keeps his voice low, loud enough to reach Will but not loud enough to reach the bar. “Whatever he makes me do, or whatever he makes you do, just know that I didn’t… I didn’t choose this.” There’s a panicked edge to his tone that grows with each word, and he knows he needs to lose it quickly. He takes the deepest breath he can, as his eyes track Mr. Peterson making his way back to the living room.

“I know,” Will responds, equally softly. And then, as Mr. Peterson lowers himself back down onto the sofa, he says, “It’s okay.”

✥ ✥ ✥ 

Leo waits until he’s sure both Mr. Peterson and Will have fallen asleep before he allows himself to stand, unsteady on his feet but eager for this night to end. He walks as calmly as he can to the bathroom before he doubles over the toilet, expelling everything his stomach has to offer before letting his forehead rest on his arm.

The feeling of Will’s hands on him, of Will’s mouth on him while Mr. Peterson coaches every movement. Mr. Peterson's voice, look at his face, and he likes that, and god, fucking perfect, and keep going, and use your tongue, and don't be afraid to go a little rougher, and fucking hands down, Leo, and you're doing good, and you're so fucking hot, and every word plays through Leo’s head on repeat and Leo wants to scream to make it stop, but he can't. There's no stopping it, and there's no end to it, and it reminds him, in some ways, of how... He thought he was done, but as images of Mr. Peterson's weight landing on the sofa next to him, of Mr. Peterson stopping Will to look at him, to touch him, as Mr. Peterson's guides Leo's hand, he doubles over the toilet once more–

A knock on the door pulls Leo back to the moment, and there's a second of sheer, perfect panic where he realizes he was too loud, and someone's awake, and things are going to get infinitely worse, before he looks up. And it's... it’s Will who stands in the doorway, backlit by the dull yellow of the hall light, and Leo can breathe again.

“I was that bad, huh?” Will asks, kneeling to a crouch next to him. Will smiles, an apologetic, soft smile that Leo isn’t accustomed to, because frankly, he's not accustomed to Will speaking to him at all, before he lets the back of his hand sweep the slightly overgrown hair from Leo’s neck.

“It’s not you,” Leo says, voice hoarse and still teetering on the edge of hysteria. “It’s me.” 

Will laughs then, and it's a genuine sound that Leo hasn’t heard in years, and something about it is all too much, setting off the months, or maybe years, of pent up anxiety, and Leo can’t stop the cascade of tears that silently begins to fall.

Will, for his part, sits next to him, and with no pressure for him to stop, and no one waiting for him to get his shit together, Leo cries harder.

Until eventually, he takes a long, deep breath, and he forces himself to calm down.

Several minutes pass, with both boys silent and processing the events of the evening, before Will finally says, “Did I hurt you?”

Leo replies, almost instantly, “No.”

“Okay," Will says. "Good.” He pauses, leveling his gaze on Leo. The silence draws out again, until finally, Will stands, putting his hand out to help Leo up. “I wish I could promise it won’t happen again,” Will says, quietly. “I… whatever I can do to make it easier, I’ll do. But I’ve been with guys like Mr. Peterson before, and I’ve seen the way he looks at you, and I… I think this wasn’t the end of something, it wasn’t a satisfaction of some dark repressed urge he had as a one time thing. I think it was the beginning of something.” Will opens the door and gestures Leo out first, but squeezes his shoulder as he does.

“I know,” Leo replies.

FIGHTER TAG LIST: @whump-cravings @afabulousmrtake @crystalquartzwhump @maracujatangerine @pumpkin-spice-whump @distinctlywhumpthing @thecyrulik @highwaywhump @batfacedliar-yetagain @finder-of-rings @dont-touch-my-soup @skyhawkwolf @suspicious-whumping-egg @also-finder-of-rings @whump-for-all-and-all-for-whump @peachy-panic @melancholy-in-the-morning @urban-dark @nicolepascaline @quietly-by-myself @pigeonwhumps @whump-blog  @seasaltandcopper @angstyaches @i-msonotcreative @mylifeisonthebookshelf @anonintrovert @whump-world @squishablesunbeam @considerablecolors @whumpcereal @whumperfully @pirefyrelight @whumpsday @whumplr-reader @lonesome--hunter @darkthingshappen @alexmundaythrufriday

[hazbinhotelactorsau]

Welcome!

hello! you can call me smiles! here, you can find everything you need to know about my actor au! asks are open, submissions are open, anon is on! feel free to add your own ideas to the au or request any headcanons/scenes/oneshots/whatever!

fic masterpost (links to fics)

the basics:

'hazbin hotel' is a tv show being filmed by a famous director with by the 'stage' name 'blitzø' for his production company I.M.P. the show is supposed to be a social commentary on genocide, classism, the black and white views of good vs evil, and the effects of trauma on a person, whilst also being a musical comedy

blitzø will not show up all that much in anything i write as it will be focused more on the friendships between the actors than between the crew!

the cast are all friends with one another after meeting over the years in different ways/through each other/etc. they're all relatively famous for something with the exception of husk who just got dragged into it for alastor's amusement more or less

they all have a decent amount of creative freedom when it comes down to it. blitzø may be a bit of a dick with a bit of a temper to him, but he wants his actors to enjoy their job and is happy to let them tweak things as long as it doesn't effect the plot too much. he's happy for them to design their characters however they wish.

they will be 'out of character'. they're actors, so they won't be exactly like the characters they're playing. they have the essences of their characters but they are their own people. they will be referred to with their names (names i have made up), not the names of the characters they play

i tried to keep their identities as canon as possible (angel being gay, husk being pan, alastor being aroace etc.) there are some of my own personal headcanons thrown in there though

alastor and angel are in a queerplatonic relationship. alastor is cupioaroace meaning he doesn't feel romantic or sexual attraction but he still desires a relationship (i am cupioaroace myself and would like to explore my complicated feelings towards relationships through him. he's still aroace and i'm not erasing that, just wanted to point that out!)

val and vox are in a happy open relationship. they are in love with each other but they're also both happy for their partner to see others if they wish (important info for further development!!!)

stay tuned, because soon you will find links to an in-depth dive to each actor below!

alastor

angel

charlie

cherri

husk

lucifer

mimzy

niffty

rosie

sir pentious

vaggie

valentino

velvette

vox

[charcubed]

I'm curious, what are the main reasons why Dean is your favorite canon bisexual in media? Love your meta and that video btw

Ooooo, anon, thank you for the kind words and for giving me an excuse to talk about my love for bisexual icon Dean Winchester <3

I'm going to be really annoying (sorry) and quote part of my meta first. It summarizes and articulates many of my thoughts on this. And then to further answer your question I'll add a bit under it!

From the very beginning, Dean Winchester has been a character tied to classic elements of American masculinity. He was introduced with a superficial veneer involving those elements, but almost immediately the early episodes provide a look at the complexity of his character underneath it. Over the years, that complexity was further explored, and he came to embody a study in things society would often have us think should be incompatible contrasts: the gruffness and grit of hunting life and its associated masculine iconography, paired with his open and deep emotional care for the world; unabashed love for classic rock, superheroes, and horror movies, as well as unabashed joy connected to TV dramas, chick flicks, and childhood favorites like Scooby-Doo; life on the road with a muscle car, but the desire for a home base with creature comforts he can make his own; motivation to always help people, but the clear longing for balance with personal domesticity and relaxation so he could save not only others but also himself.

As a whole, his character functions as an effective deconstruction of toxic masculinity and stereotypical American heroism. And while much of Dean’s most masculine traits and interests are said to come from his father’s influence, part of his journey is loving those parts of himself on their own merit not because he ever had to but because he wants to. He is not his father, and he redefines those valued parts of his identity so they are his and his alone. He also crucially learns to recognize and joyfully embody that those masculine traits were never all that he had to be, working through and overcoming shame and hesitancy along the way. The result? He’s “good with who he is.”

He and the audience are encouraged to see that there are no rules his identity and interests must subscribe to, on a micro or a macro level. The message is to disregard predetermined destiny or duty. Free will means his life is his to determine, his family can be what he makes of it and how he defines it, and what he needs and wants do not ever have to be mutually exclusive. Dean’s journey is about freedom from outwardly-imposed limitations–whether those limitations come from his father’s example and the God altering his story, or from the pervasive societal ideals and network/executive interference outside of it. Dean can and should contain multitudes, all at once.

In this way, Dean’s story is a powerfully queer narrative that acts as metacommentary. In the fullness of its execution, it is also specifically a deeply bisexual narrative.

The not-so-hidden truth is that Dean is canonically a bisexual man. His story was afforded something that’s rare for most characters and almost nonexistent for queer ones: fifteen years of lengthy, nuanced development.

[...]

Again: Dean’s identity journey is about how he can and does contain the capacity for multitudes, and it’s part of what makes him such a compelling character. He can like “this” and “that.” He can be attracted to women and men. Or, as writer Ben Edlund and director Phil Sgriccia said in a DVD commentary, Dean has “the potential for love in all places.”

I wanted to include the above verbatim because it spells out something specific: Dean's narrative is bisexual in its bones. Supernatural evolved to become a queer text, but the specific ways the show and Dean as a character evolved are very intertwined with and informed by the fact that Dean is a masculine bisexual man. SPN is a story that was not meant to be about being queer, but as it became about freedom through free will, those themes were then leveraged and emphasized in connection to queerness because of Destiel. And by the end, the free will narrative and Dean's journey as a bi man are utterly inseparable, because Dean's fight for true freedom is tied to his love for a man and their untraditional family in a way that higher forces are trying to hinder.

You cannot cut out or edit or remove Dean's bisexuality from the story, or several narratives and plot lines (not just Destiel) would at minimum be misunderstood or at maximum fall apart. And yet, simultaneously? Dean's bisexuality is also far from being the sole important thing about his character because he is written with such nuanced complexities and across so many years of material.

Of course, add onto this the overall unique situation that surrounds Supernatural as a piece of media. People talk at length about how there will never be anything like it again, including me; that's obviously true from multiple different angles and for multiple different reasons, with Destiel being prime amongst them. But a related yet distinctly significant branch of that topic is there will never be another bisexual character who is written and evolves quite like Dean.

Was Dean supposed to be bisexual from the very start, out of the mind of Kripke? Who can know for sure, but probably not. Were certain writers and members of production deliberately putting more queercoding and subtext into Dean's character/story from the very start? Who can know for sure, but potentially yes, and certainly the answer becomes unarguably definitely yes the farther you get into the show. That's part of my love and passion for him too, because all of that is deeply unique and incredibly cool.

Dean's bisexuality evolved in a way that (against all odds) actually feels organic, seamless, and like it's simply a part of his character that's been there all along. The effect when you look at Supernatural as a whole body of work is that Dean's always been bi, and his expressions of and acknowledgements of that part of him ebb and flow depending on situation–which is a very relatable notion for many queer people. And as those writing the show became more committed and certain about that piece of who Dean is, so did he, in nuanced and subtle ways skillfully embedded into his story by design. It's bafflingly, impressively cohesive; gives him an incredibly realistic feel; matches his overall character growth; and rings true to his demographic, age, personality, and experiences.

Dean and his story and the situation(s) surrounding both are simply incomparable, and that will be true forever ¯\_(ツ)_/¯

...also. Well. I simply love him, y'know? For even more reasons unconnected to this. How can you not, right? :')

Thank you for asking, and thanks for reading this bi Dean manifesto!

Putting my video that you mentioned here for anyone who's not watched it:

My new magnum opus, please stream, etc.

(or watch on Tumblr here)

[ask-mobile-iterator-project]

Intro Post

This blog focuses on my Rain World OCs involved in the "Mobile Iterator Project" AU. ^_^

The “Mobile Iterator Project” (MIP) is a project created and directed by an Ancient named "No Cost Too Great" (NCTG) with the stated goal of supporting standard iterators in their productivity, maintenance, and longevity, so that they can operate at maximum efficiency, even after the inevitable mass ascension. ‘MIP Units’—iterators under the project—are created puppet-first in the "MIP Development Center" and later assigned to Local Groups, where their structures are built to support the Iterators around them.

MIP Units are uniquely developed with personality modules formed from memories and qualia donated by Architect (in-universe name for Ancient) clients. The exception to this is TWR, who was programmed more traditionally. This decision has been considered somewhat controversial, but the Director considers it essential to ensure their efficacy as replacements for the Architects, as well as for their "artistic vision" for the Project.

In total, there are 99 MIP Units, with IDs ranging from 01 to 99.

(This AU strays pretty far from the themes and canon of both Vanilla Rain World and Downpour, so please keep that in mind!)

⚠️Importantly, here are some warnings for sensitive content that may appear in the posts:

depictions of trauma and mental illness

heavy themes of manipulation (including memory manipulation)

depictions of emotional abuse

dehumanization

depictions of dissociation

identity struggles

medical malpractice/abuse, experimentation

child endangerment

generally dark themes

violence, physical abuse

infrequent body horror

When sensitive content comes up, I will leave a warning before the cut and tag as "sensitive content"!

Characters:

Starlight Symphony (SLS) she/her, [bio]

Frosted Briar (FB) she/they, [bio]

Glimmering Seafoam In Sunlight (GSIS) she/her, [bio]

Thorns Without Roses (TWR) she/they, [bio]

Perpetual Umbra (PU) they/them, [bio]

Legacy Of Famine (LOF) she/any, [bio]

*These are not all of the characters, just the main 6 that are open to receiving asks.

How it works:

Please specify who you are asking the question to, for example: (to SLS), (to SLS and FB), (to any), (to all), (to admin)

If you don’t specify, I’ll just pick myself. Though, sometimes, I might have another character answer too, if I think it might be interesting.

For admin asks, my friend’s overseer might want to add stuff too, so don’t be surprised if she shows up. For simplicity's sake, assume all admin asks are addressed to potentially both of us.

Additionally, I might add commentary sometimes, which I’ll tag with #admin commentary. My friend might do that too sometimes, so #overseer commentary for her.

I’ll do my best to answer your asks, with varying art quality, though I won’t answer all of them. Jade might answer some of them too, primarily the ones regarding, FB, as she knows them way better than I do.

We will sign off at the end of each post, denoting who handled the “broadcast” (ask.)

[Broadcast handled by admin], [Broadcast handled by overseer], [Broadcast handled by admin and overseer]

There is a light roleplaying/interactive element: The in-universe framing device for the questions is broadcasts being sent to the iterators, hence the ask button’s title. There may also be some occasional meta shenanigans.

I will be answering some questions from curiouscat rather than tumblr, and I will crosspost to twitter, too. This is probably too much work, but whatever. The askblog will be the main source of my attention, though, so posts will come here first.

Boundaries/Rules:

Please don’t ask questions related to your own OCs, because I don’t know them.

Please try to break up multiple questions into separate asks.

Nothing NSFW or suggestive.

No “magic” asks (like turning the characters into different things)

You can send items if you want, though

Please keep in mind that Frosted Briar is, for all intents and purposes, basically a child.

Rules may change as things go along and we figure stuff out!

Non-Ask Posts:

Occasionally, I may post content related to backstories and worldbuilding and stuff unrelated to asks. This will be tagged with #mip logs.

Tags:

#silly: for silly stuff

#angst: for angsty stuff

#dubiously canon: usually used in tandem with silly, but for anything that has questionable characterization

#sensitive content: content that may be triggering or upsetting

#mip worldbuilding: asks/posts related to worldbuilding

#mip lore: asks/posts related to lore!

#mip ask: in-universe asks for the ocs.

#admin ask: asks directed towards the admin/overseers

#guest appearance: asks where characters outside of the main 6 appear.

#mip logs: non-ask posts that build upon the lore/worldbuilding

#ooc: update posts, rule posts, etc.

#meta: hehe

#admin commentary: commentary from the admin (luna)

#overseer commentary: commentary from the overseer (jade or clover)

#overseer assistance: for when the overseers help with the process

#fanart: reblogs of fanart!! :D

#admin art: reblogs of luna’s, jade's or clover's art of the characters

#luna art, #jade art, #clover art: self-explanatory

#old: from the sls ask blog, consider it non-canon

#mobile iterator project, #rw mip au: self-explanatory

post is tagged with most of these

Main Admin: Luna, @mewguca

Overseer: Jade, @fauxbia

Overseer: Clover, @cloverlady

Thank you for reading!

For additional information on my OC usage permissions, please read my carrd

[avastrasposts]

The Pilot and his Girl - ch. 28**

Sorry for the slight delay in this chapter, it's a bit of a "travel" chapter and although I had a couple of scenes I wanted to add, the rest of the chapter just didn't flow. But here it is, finally!

Series Master List

Chapter 29 - Warnings have their own post - Word count: 6.9k

The weather outside the school is a crisp, early fall day, and as you all make your way towards the interstate heading north you relish being away from the city again. The route chosen takes you away from suburban areas as much as possible so for hours you walk through green fields and patches of forest where the leaves have started changing color. It’s like a picturesque fall hike, except all seven of you are armed, guns ready, and walking with your heads on swivels.

Pope’s taken the lead, Joel behind him, not willing to let Pope be all in command. Frankie and you follow Joel, and Tommy brings up the rear behind Will and Benny. By midday you’ve covered a lot of ground and take a break by a small lake. You gratefully sink down onto the ground with your back against a log. The ache in your shoulder is a dull throb and you’re trying to get by without any more painkillers. 

“Just take the damn pills, cariño,” Frankie says when you shake your head. 

“We don’t have that many left, what if we need them for something more serious?” you object and he raises his eyebrows. 

“You can be all brave and stoic when we’re inside a QZ, out here I need you to be as good as you can be with that shoulder.” He holds the pills out again, along with his canteen and you accept them. 

“ ‘Stoic’, big word there, Frankie’,” you tease him as he watches you swallow the pills. 

“The Gladiator film,” he says, grinning, “Marcus Aurelius was a stoic philosopher.” 

“How do you even remember that?” you ask incredulously and Frankie gives you a crooked smile as he sits down next to you. 

“I’ve watched that film like thirty times.”

“Director’s cut with commentary,” Benny chips in, grinning as he sits down on the other side of you. “He was obsessed!”

“How did I not know about this obsession?” you ask, laughing as Frankie reaches across and slaps Benny’s cap off. 

“It’s a masterpiece, and the Academy agrees with me because it got an Oscar for Best Film and-,” Frankie says. 

“No it didn’t, Erin Brockowich won the Oscar for Best Film that year,” Benny interrupts, “I remember Julia Roberts on stage.��� 

“Erin Brockowich didn’t win an Oscar for Best Film!” Frankie protest, “Are you out of your fucking mind?!” 

“No, you’re out of your mind if you think Gladiator beat Erin Brockowich, that film was awesome!” 

“It was alright, but it did not win an fucking Oscar for Best Film!” Frankie throws his hands up, “I can’t fucking believe you, Benny, you’re delusional!” 

“Russel Crowe won an Oscar for Best Actor, I’ll give you that, he was awesome. ‘What we fight in life, dies in eternity!’ “ Benny quotes in his best Russel Crowe impersonation. 

“Jesus, Benny, that’s not even the quote!” Frankie sighs with a roll of his eyes as you chuckle. 

“If we had a smartphone with an internet connection, I’d solve this straight away,” you say, giving Frankie a calming pat on his thigh. “But you’ll just have to hope we find a library with an encyclopedia.”

“I’m telling you, Erin Brockowich won an Oscar for Best Film, Frankie!” Benny says and Frankie mumbles something undoubtedly rude in Spanish and pushes himself up. 

“I’m gonna get some lunch, I’ll get you a bowl too, cariño.” With a scowl at Benny he stalks off and you can’t help but smile at the mundane argument between the two men. Benny leans over and chuckles. 

“I totally know Gladiator won the Oscar for Best FIlm, but I just love winding him up.” 

“Benjamin Miller, you are a nuisance!” you laugh as Benny grins and digs into his own lunch. 

You continue on after lunch, until darkness starts to settle. You find a farmstead on the outskirts of a small town and once it’s cleared you all settle down for the night. You’re excused from the watch rosta again and sleep through the night while the guys take turns standing guard. You wake up early again, Frankie had the second to last watch and he’s sleeping soundly, his arm thrown over your waist. He stirs as you shift under him, mumbling in his sleep, and you press a kiss to his forehead, making his lips curl in a drowsy smile. 

“Go back to sleep, Frankie,” you whisper, and as you pull on your boots, you hear his soft snores start back up. 

Joel has the last watch tonight and you find him pacing the yard in front of the farm house, turning as you step through the door. 

“Morning,” you say, sitting down on the porch steps as he turns back towards the yard. 

“Mornin’ “ 

“Quiet night?” you ask, looking out over the field beyond the farmstead as Joel turns and paces back across the yard again. 

“No one came near us but a few groups of infected moving south in the distance,” he replies, turning and coming back towards you again. He stops and looks down at you, his brow furrowed, looking like he has something on his mind. You wait, looking up at him as his jaw ticks. 

“Frankie’s girl,” he says eventually, “Tommy told me. I’m sorry.” His voice is gruff, his eyes not meeting yours, instead scanning the sides of the building. 

“Thanks,” you say, “Tommy told me about Sarah, I’m really sorry too, Lucía loved her.” 

“Yeah.” He stands still for a beat before he turns and paces back across the yard, stopping at the last building and looking out over the fields. 

You remain on the porch, watching his rigid posture, but he doesn’t turn and come back and eventually you hear people moving inside the house and you get up to help with breakfast, leaving him to his vigil. 

You made good time yesterday, Pope shows you on the map how far you’ve come. 

“We should make it to the Boston QZ before nightfall, but it’ll be slower going today since we’re moving through populated areas,” he says, his finger tracing a line across the map. 

“More people, more infected,” you sigh, accepting your backpack from Frankie as he comes over. 

“Yeah, we need to be on our toes today,” Pope agrees, “But, there’s seven of us, I’d think twice before I mess with an armed group that large.” 

“Let’s hope you’re right, Pope,” Will says, scanning the map next to you, “Let’s head out.” 

Pope was right about it being slower going. Only a few miles from the farmstead the suburbs begin, a massive sprawl all around the greater Boston area. The six men quickly fall into a familiar pattern of tactical advancement, you stay close to Frankie, as two men move forwards, covered by the other four, repeating as you move through the neighborhoods. Eventually you leave the suburbs behind and move into Boston, heading towards North End where the QZ is supposed to be located. 

As you’re moving across a large street, you and Frankie in front, you suddenly hear a desperate call for help. Frankie immediately holds up his hand to halt the others, Joel moving up next to you. The call is coming from a side street just up ahead and carefully the three of you move forward, the other four covering your backs. As you clear the corner, guns raised, you see the source of the noise, a young boy is trapped underneath a dumpster, his leg jammed and he’s crying out as he pulls on it. Next to him is a teenage girl, trying to shift the heavy dumpster off his leg. The boy cries out as he sees you, his face twisted in pain. 

“Please, help!” the girl calls, “my brother’s stuck!” She puts her shoulder against the dumpster and tries to shift it again. You holster your gun and start jogging towards the pair. 

“Cariñio, wait!” Frankie calls as he sees you move, following you with his hand out to pull you back. 

“Stop!” Joel bellows and yanks Frankie to the side so that they both tumble to the ground behind a car, you look back at them as you step forward and your leg catches on a wire. You barely have time to register your mistake and then a loud explosion knocks you sideways, showering you with dust and debris, you cry out as you land on your injured shoulder. Your vision is filled with dust, your gasping to catch your breath and your ears are ringing, somehow you register the loud noise of gunshots and then Frankie is on you, pulling you backwards across the ground behind a van. His face is swimming in front of yours as you try to focus on what he’s saying, he’s patting you down, lifting your shirt to and checking your abdomen. You shake your head, trying to clear the fog, and slowly Frankie’s voice comes back to you.

“Cariño! Are you hurt? Tell me where it hurts?” He’s kneeling in front of you, his hands on your shoulders, trying to make you focus on him. A corner of your mind registers that the gun fire has stopped and you try to feel if you’re hurting anywhere. 

“Only my shoulder,” you croak finally, “I landed on it.” You shake your head again and blink and Frankie swims into view, clearer now. “I think I’m ok, my ears are ringing but nothing is broken.” 

“Get her up, we need to move,” Joel barks from somewhere to your right, loud enough to cut through the ringing, and Frankie moves around, putting his arm around your waist and helping you up. You’re dizzy but it fades quickly as you take a few steps towards the street, your legs are a bit shaky but nothing hurts. You glance over at the boy and the girl and see them lying lifeless against the dumpster, multiple bullet wounds leaking blood onto the ground. 

“Let’s move!” Pope yells and Frankie pulls you along, as Will comes up on your other side to check if you need support. 

“I think I’m good, Will, thanks,” you say, your legs feeling steadier with each step. 

“Ok, good,” he replies, glancing over his shoulder at the site of the explosion, his gun raised. “I think you got really lucky, that bomb was made wrong. Lots of noise, very little blast, amateur work.” He catches your eyes and gives you a serious look, “You got really lucky.” You drop your gaze, you know you fucked up, he doesn’t have to say it.  

You all move quickly through the next few blocks and shouts go up behind you, prompting Pope to hastily consult the map before making a sharp turn. “Down here, we’ll lose any pursuers in the alleys,” he says and you all jog along as quickly as possible while still checking every street corner. Eventually you come out on a big highway, following it north and slowing down to a walk again. 

You walk next to Frankie, he keeps glancing over at you but you keep your eyes on the ground or forward on Joel’s back. You put everyone in danger, especially Frankie, by being thoughtless and trusting. Guilt and shame crawls up your limbs and makes your cheeks burn as you remember how both Frankie and Joel yelled at you. You can’t bring yourself to look at Frankie, his concerned eyes, you know he’ll smooth it over, make it out as if it was a mistake anyone could’ve made. But you know that’s not true, the others saw the trap instantly, you just saw two children who needed help and rushed in without thinking. 

“I’m sorry, Frankie,” you finally mumble when you can’t take it anymore. And just like you thought, Frankie immediately takes hold of your hand and strokes soothing little circles onto your skin. 

“Don’t worry about it, cariño, you made a mistake, the important thing is you’re not hurt.” 

You hear Joel growl in front of you and Frankie looks up at him as Joel throws a scowl over his shoulder at you, “You could’ve gotten us all killed, being so fucking trusting, fucking stupid.”

You feel your cheeks heat up again and you bite your lip, dropping your eyes to your boots as you continue walking. But Frankie tightens his hold on your hand as he glowers at Joel’s back.  

“Shut the fuck up, Joel,” he snarls, “she made a mistake and I should’ve been more alert, should’ve seen it first.” 

“Well, that’s just the fucking problem isn’t it?!” Joel snaps, stopping and spinning around to face Frankie and you. “You’re so fucking wrapped around her that you don’t pay attention to anything. Could have fucking clickers tearing the rest of us to pieces but you’d only see her. She’s a fucking liability.” 

You see Frankie opens his mouth to yell at Joel but Will’s firm hand comes down on his shoulder. 

“Ok, that’s enough,” he says, his voice determined and signaling ‘end of fucking discussion’. “We need to keep moving, we’re almost at the QZ. This is not the time or the place.” 

Without a word Joel turns on his heel and marches off, overtaking Pope who’s looking at Frankie with his eyebrows raised. Frankie snaps his mouth shut, his teeth grinding together as he starts walking again. He’s still got a hold of your hand but as you walk you pull away from it, taking out your gun as your eyes scan the broken city around you. Joel words sting, there’s a truth to them, Frankie’s said so himself back in Arlington when you asked to help with the smuggling. ‘I wouldn’t be able to focus on what we’re doing if I know you’re out there too’. He only let you join in the operation when you pleaded with him. And now you’d proven how right he’d been, you made a mistake and his focus had been on you, not the potential danger. You grip your gun tighter, keeping your eyes on the horizon as you swallow down the lump in your throat and keep walking, trying to ignore Joel’s furious form in front and Frankie’s worried looks on your left.  

Downtown Boston is a mess, a wrecked no man’s land of broken buildings and water filled craters. It’s slow going with many detours and uneasy sprints across streets as you follow the broken signs towards the QZ. You stay behind Frankie, your gun out, pointed down towards the ground, stopping when he stops, running when he runs, making yourself small and invisible, avoiding Frankie’s eyes, and Joel’s scowls. 

The QZ gate finally comes into view as the sun sinks behind the broken skyline. You make one final detour on Pope’s suggestion, all of you hiding your rifles and some of your handguns inside a building just out of sight of the gate. 

“Better to stash them here than to let FEDRA take them,” Pope says, marking the building on his map as you hide your gun and holster at the bottom of your backpack. 

You get to the gate, get scanned and taken to a processing center. Since it’s getting late you’re shown to a temporary housing facility, bunk beds set up in the hall of a community center, and given a thin stew for dinner. After the meager meal you get ready for bed, gratefully pulling off your boots and sinking down on Frankie’s bunk bed, you’ve been assigned the one on top. He puts his arm around you and pulls you in to rest your head on his shoulder. 

“Relax now, cariño,” he mumbles, “we got here in one piece.” 

“I’m really sorry about today, Joel’s right,” you whisper, guilt welling up inside you again, “I made a huge mistake that could’ve gotten us killed.” 

Frankie sighs and lets his hand caress your hair as he pulls you in closer, “You made a mistake because you’re you, you’re not a soldier. And I love that,” he adds when he hears you inhale to interrupt. “You’re not a soldier and you shouldn’t have to be, I should keep you safe and I wasn’t paying enough attention today.” 

“Frankie, if you blame yourself for me getting myself blown up today, I’m going to slap you,” you protest and you hear him sigh. 

“But it’s true, I promised to keep you safe, both to you and to myself, and I failed.” 

You pull yourself from his grip so that you can sit up straight and look at him, “You do not get to blame yourself for that and you can’t keep me safe at all times, that’s impossible.” 

“I know, but when I’m right there, right next to you, I should keep you safe, I should’ve seen that fucking trap the second we turned the corner, I need to keep you safe,” his voice shifts, an edge to it you haven’t heard in a few years. 

“Frankie…” you say, taking his hand as you open your mouth to argue, to pull him back from where he’s heading, but he interrupts, cutting you off. 

“I need to keep you safe, you know that,” his eyes are pleading with you, “you know it’s all I have, you’re all I have. If I can’t keep you safe then…then,” he shrugs, shaking his head, “then nothing. I’m nothing. After Lucía…” he trails off, and you cup his face in your hands and lean against his forehead. “You know how close I came to leaving you because I couldn’t keep you safe,” he mumbles, “I have to keep you safe, I have to protect you.” 

“I know Frankie, I know,” you stroke his cheeks with your thumbs but you don’t try to argue with him, you don’t try to convince him, you just try to calm him down. “I promise I’ll be more careful too. And we’re safe now, Frankie, we’re both safe.” 

“I just wanna keep you safe, hermosa,” he mumbles, putting his arm around your shoulder and pulling you into his side and you lean your head on his shoulder again. “I just need to keep you safe.” 

You take his other hand and tangle your fingers with his, rubbing your thumb over the bullseye tattoo and you sit in silence while the rest of the room quietens down, people settling down to sleep. Your own eyes are getting heavy and you stifle a yawn. 

“I hope we can stay here now,” you mumble as he caresses your hair, his fingertips gently scraping against your scalps.  

“Yeah, I hope so, Boston seems good so far,” he looks down at you as you slip further down his shoulder. “Hermosa, don’t fall asleep sitting up, c’mon, get into bed.” He smiles as he nudges you to sit upright again and starts peeling your jacket off. You nod and pull off your hoodie too before climbing up into the top bunk. Frankie stands up and tucks you into your sleeping bag and cups your cheek, his lips finding yours in a soft kiss. 

“Sleep well, cariño, sweet dreams.” He chuckles softly as your eyes close before he’s even finished speaking, pressing his lips to your forehead and settling down in the bottom bunk. 

FEDRA in Boston seems to have the procedure of admitting people down to an efficient art form. It only takes a few hours the next day for you all to be assigned housing, ration cards and told to report to the assignment officer in two days time. The Boston QZ is located in the city’s North End, narrow streets lined by centuries old red brick buildings and surrounded on three sides by water. You’ve all been assigned apartments in the same building, Pope, Will and Benny in one apartment, Joel and Tommy in another and Frankie and you in a small one bedroom place on the top floor overlooking Old North Church. 

Frankie pulls you into his chest the second the door closes behind you. You’ve just managed to drop your bag on the floor when his arms circle around you and the cool tip of his nose presses against your neck. You hear him inhale deeply, probably smelling almost a week’s worth of dirt and sweat on your skin and you shift under him, feeling the need for a shower. 

“I stink Frankie,” you giggle as he holds you tighter when you squirm under him. 

“I don’t fucking care, I let you shower last time I had you alone,” he growls, “you smell great to me, you’re my favourite smell in the world.” 

“Not aviation fuel?” you tease him and he chuckles into your hair.  “Close second, hermosa.” 

He’s walking you backwards into the new apartment, guiding you into a room that turns out to be the kitchen and with a firm grip on your waist, he lifts you up onto one of the counters. 

“Look at this, perfect height and everything,” he grins as he pushes your legs apart, making room for himself between them and pulling you closer. You’ve still got your boots on, and your jacket, and you’re giggling as he starts tugging at the sleeves as he buries his face against the crook of your neck, placing wet kisses on your salty skin. When he uses his teeth, nipping that spot just under your ear, your giggles turn into a gasp and he bites harder, making you moan so that he can feel the sound come from your throat. You fight with your sleeves, finally freeing yourself and throwing your jacket on the floor and tangling your hands in Frankie’s soft curls, pushing off his cap and pulling his lips up to yours. The back of your head thumps against the cupboard behind you when he meets your kiss, his tongue greedily licking into your open mouth and pushing you back. When his hands roam under your t-shirt and caress along your sides, up your back, his fingers feel hot on your skin, making you shiver with pleasure and you tilt your head back with a soft moan. Frankie lets his mouth leave yours and instead sucks a mark into your neck, the soft tip of his tongue coming out to taste the goosebumps his scraping teeth leaves behind. 

He pulls away enough to pull the t-shirt over your head and you reach out to tug off his shirt too, to be honest, it stinks, as does yours, they both end up on the floor. His skin is still tanned and golden from the day you spent on the boat, his freckles sprinkled over his shoulders and chest and before he claims your skin again, you lean forward and smooth your hands over the wide expanse of his shoulders. Frankie’s hands are stroking your back, up into your hair, letting his nails scrape along your scalp as you pull him closer and trail wet kisses between his freckles. His skin tastes like salt and dust, the unwashed cotton of his t-shirt leaving its own scent, but underneath you can still smell him. You can feel his throat hum when your lips move up over his Adam's apple and into his scruffy beard, nosing against the sweet bare patches that never fill in. 

“Do I stink, cariño,” he says and you can hear the smile in his voice and you nod, letting your lips wander down along his throat again, your hands slipping down over his chest. 

“You taste like salt and smell like sweat,” you murmur into his skin, enjoying the warmth that’s radiating from him, the stillness in the apartment and the calm that comes from being safe and having time. And you take your time, Frankie standing still between your legs, his hands in your hair, letting your fingertips map out a path between his freckles that you follow with your mouth. Tasting him slowly, your tongue slipping over his skin, the pebbles on his throat, the hollow just at the base. You test the give of his flesh, biting lightly like you always do, until he hums with pleasure, egging you on to bite down harder. Your mouth finds a soft spot, just beneath his collar bone, and your tongue caresses it. When the pads of your fingers drag across his dark nipples as your teeth graze his skin, biting down, he hums again, a hushed moan at the back of his throat. The sound, his soft little whine, sends a shiver down your spine, making you grip your legs around his narrow hips, heat pooling in your core and you let your fingers slip down his soft belly until you find the coarse trail of dark hair that leads down under his jeans. 

He lets you undo his belt and buttons, the zipper coming down as you cup your hand over the bulge in his tight boxers. 

“Cariño,” he groans, your fingers tracing the outline of his hard cock as his breath stutters, “fuck, that feels good…” he drops into the crook of your neck, his mouth breathing hot air over your skin as you continue to tease him through the warm cotton. His hands have been kneading your hips through the denim of your jeans but now he moves them onto your thighs, stroking his thumbs up along the inside towards your core and up to your belt, tugging at it. He makes quick work of it even when he has to stop and groan as your fingers become more firm around him. You lift your hips and he pushes your jeans down your legs, cursing as they catch on your boots. 

“Take them off, Frankie,” you say, palming his heavy length again, pulling a deep growl from him as he bites down on your shoulder, making you whine and squeeze him in response. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, pulling away and crouching down to untie your laces, quickly pulling each boot off, letting your jeans fall on the floor before he kicks off his own boots and jeans. 

“Counter or bed?” he asks, pulling your legs around his waist again, his hard length pushed up against your wet folds. 

“We’re not gonna last long enough to get to the bed,” you say and he grins, seeking out your mouth as he feels your fingers wrap around his cock and give it a few firm strokes, letting the precum coat the blunt head. 

“Probably not, I’m-” Frankie’s reply gets stuck in his throat as he groans, his hips thrusting into your hand of their own accord. “Fuck, that feels good, hermosa,” he gasps, his cock twitching in your grip.

Guiding him right you look down between your bodies to watch as he pushes in, the stretch making you clench hard around him. He growls, a low rumbling in his throat, his fingers digging into your hips, the slick heat coating his aching hard cock and he feels your pussy pulse around him as you tangle your hands in his hair and pull his mouth to yours. When he starts to move his hips hips he has to squeeze his eyes shut, he wants to fuck you hard, built up tension making his body want to chase release too fast. But you’re just as greedy, he can feel it, your heels digging into his ass, pulling him closer with every thrust of his hips. Your lips slip from his and you bury your face against the crook of his neck, clinging to his shoulders as he slams deep. Every time he bottoms out he grinds against your aching clit, the wiry curls at the base of him slipping across it, making you gasp out hot air over his chest. 

“Frankie…” you moan, “harder…please…I’m so clo..ose,” the last syllable comes out as a whine as he plants his feet firm on the kitchen floor, his hands grabbing handfuls of flesh and slamming into your, pushing you up against the cupboard with a panted groan.

“Fuck, so good…” Frankie pants, “feels so good, I won’t…” 

He has to bite his lip to stop himself from coming, pistoning into you and listening to your whimpering as he hits the right spot. Your nails dig into his back, your teeth scrape across his shoulder as you seize up and cry out, your high hitting you as he grinds deep into your tight heat. The spasm of your cunt around his aching cock, deep inside you, pushes him over the edge. With a growl he pulls you in even tighter, pushing your hips onto his cock, emptying deep inside as he shivers under the onslaught.

You tilt your head back, breathing heavily as your body relaxes around him. He drops his head forward and your arms come up and cradle him against your chest, pressing kisses to the top of his head as stillness falls over you both, the only sound your breathing, as you slowly calm down.

Later, after showers with soap and shampoo, he carries you to the bedroom and places you naked on the bed and kneels by your thighs. If the first time together after a week traveling was rushed and chasing relief, now it’s slow and calm. A soft bed again, a door to close and lock, no one nearby and no need to stand guard. Frankie does what he loves best, he pushes your legs open with his calloused hands and makes himself at home between them, making you whimper his name while his cock aches under him. As your body arches up and you cry out, he pins you down, buries his tongue inside you, and begs you to let him make you come again and again. 

When you finally fall asleep, the sheets are already ruined, your thighs covered in your release and his seed, Frankie’s sweat damp curls a messy halo around his head, the taste of you on his tongue. With your face nestled in the crook of his neck, your head resting on his arm, he pulls the covers over you both and holds you close with his arms circled around you. When you hook your leg over his, he feels like he should simply stay here always, never leave this bed again. Your nose against his throat, warm breath slipping over his chest, your soft waist under his arms and he feels your body rise and fall in a steady rhythm. 

He has to keep you safe. 

“I talked to Joel yesterday,” Will says one evening, a few weeks after you’ve all arrived in Boston. “He’s been looking into trading around the QZ, talked to some of the people selling stuff to see who’s moving what.” 

Frankie and you have joined Will, Benny and Pope in their apartment, continuing your routine of sharing dinners. Tonight it’s your turn to cook and Frankie’s helping you chop up the vegetables while you try to season the rice with what little is available. 

“I invited him and Tommy over tonight, after dinner, to see what they have to say, seems Joel’s keen to get into smuggling, they used to do it in the Austin QZ.” Will says, putting down bowls on the kitchen table and knocking Benny’s feet off it at the same time, “Get your stinky, fucking socks off the table, Benjamin.” 

“Do you know why they left Austin?” you ask, turning to Will, who’s scowling at his younger brother.

“Tommy got friendly with a group of people who were convinced things were better up north and wanted to join them. Joel said he tagged along to keep an eye on Tommy,” Will replies and Benny nods.  “Seems they had a pretty rough journey,” he says, “they lost most of the group, stopped in some QZ:s along the way, moved on when FEDRA got too oppressive or the smuggling got too dangerous.”

“So everyone in the group died until it was only them left?” you ask, seems like you guy got off easy in your journey if that’s how bad it’d been for Joel and Tommy.. 

“No, they left a few behind in Pittsburgh,” Will says, “Tommy said two of the guys found partners there, one of them had a kid, another one was fed up with running, wanted to take down FEDRA there. Thanks, man.” he sits down at the table and accepts a glass of whiskey from Pope. “I think Tommy wanted to do the same but Joel thought it was a bad idea and got Tommy to leave. They were heading to New York but ran into some trouble and decided it’d be safer to go further north.” 

“What kind of trouble?” Pope asks, “New York seems to be the logical choice if you’re leaving Pittsburgh.” 

“I didn’t ask,” Will says, shaking his head, “seemed to be a sore point with Joel so I didn’t push it.” 

You put the pot of stew on the table and everyone sits down, “So the plan is to start up the way we did in New York?” you ask, “And maybe avoid pissing off any local gangs?” 

“Yeah, I guess so,” Will nods with a crooked grin, “Joel seemed to have some ideas so maybe he’s heard something about what’s going on.”

Joel does have plenty of ideas you realize when he and Tommy turn up an hour later. Tommy’s been asking around and there’s a couple of people to approach if you’re looking for something not available with ration cards. But Joel’s been more direct, he’s found a route to get outside and tested it, venturing far outside the wall and picking up the rifles and ammo you left out there. He’s also made a connection with the man who runs the private radio in the QZ and figured out which FEDRA soldiers have what weaknesses and who can be exploited for those weaknesses. 

“How’d you find out all that,” Will asks as Pope and Frankie exchange a worried glance. 

“Asked the right people in the right way,” Joel grunts, stretching out his long legs as he leans back on the couch. 

“What do you mean, ‘the right way’?” 

Joel eyes Will for a few seconds before he responds, “I ask and make sure they know they need to tell the truth;” he says, his tone curt and crossing his arms over his chest, his face closed off, it’s like watching a shutter come down the way he clenches his jaw tight. There’s a menacing tone to his voice that makes you shudder when he says it and by the way Frankie tilts his head and shoots a quick glance at Pope, you know you’re not the only one who picked up on it. 

“Joel, you know I’ve been smuggling for years,” Will says, “We’ve got to be more subtle or FEDRA’s gonna catch on and we haven’t got any protection in place yet.”

“That’s what I’m getting us,” Joel says, “protection. And, speaking of protection,” he looks over at Frankie, he’s sitting next to you as usual, with his arm over your shoulder, “you two can’t go on runs together, you don’t prioritize right when she’s with you and it puts the rest of us in danger.” 

“Joel,” Benny interjects, he can see Frankie’s hackles rising, “we came all the way from Arlington and it was never an issue, Fish’s got everyones’ back.” 

“She nearly got us killed yesterday,” Joel growls, “because he wasn’t paying attention to covering us, only her. No offense, darlin’,” he says, looking over at you and you’ve never felt less like someone’s ‘darlin’ with the way he’s looking at you, “I’m sure you can handle yourself, but I ain’t working with you and Frankie together when it’s plain as daylight who his first priority is.” Joel shifts his look over to Frankie before he lands on Will, “He’d try to save her even if it was hopeless, he’s too focused on her.” 

“Well, I guess that’s us out then, Will,” Frankie growls just as low as Joel in response, “because I’m not letting her go out on a run without me.” 

“She’s a good shot and a great look out, Joel,” Pope interjects, looking at you and giving you a small smile, “I’d work with her any day. And Fish, I trust him with my life,” Pope looks over at Joel again, “we need both of them.”

“Like I said,” Joel is standing up, getting ready to leave, “I’m sure she can handle herself and I know Frankie’s as skilled as any of you guys, but I don’t trust them together, she makes him unfocused and I ain’t risking my life for it.” 

Frankie opens his mouth to snarl something, but Will’s quick nod at him makes him snap his mouth shut while Tommy stands up and joins Joel at the door. 

“Thanks for the whiskey, see y'all tomorrow,” he says, giving a wave as Joel disappears out the door and he follows, an uncomfortable silence falling over the room when they’re gone. You’re chewing on the inside of your cheek, your eyes on your hands and you feel Frankie’s fingers flex around your shoulder. He inhales and opens his mouth to say something but you cut him off. 

“I’ll just stay behind, you need Frankie more than me,” you say to the room, “and you need Joel more than me.” 

“Cariño, fuck him, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” Frankie says, squeezing you under his arm but you shake your head. 

“He’s got a point, who would you save first, him or me?” You’re looking at Frankie and you can see in his eyes that he knows full well you’d be the first one he’d save, and you’d do the same for him. You hadn’t seen it until Joel put his finger on it, but your bond puts everyone else in danger. 

“It’s never been an issue, hermana,” Santi says from his corner of the couch, “we’re not in the army anymore, different rules apply and we adapt around it. Will would save Benny first if he had to choose.” 

“But Frankie doesn’t even want me going on smuggling runs,” you say, “I had to twist his arm to let me come,” Frankie’s eyes are pained when he meets yours, “You would rather I stayed behind and be safe.” 

He sighs, running his hand over his neck, “Yeah, I would, you know I hate the thought of you getting hurt, or worse.”

“So I won’t go anymore,” you shrug, pretending it doesn’t bother you, and stand up, getting ready to leave, “If I’m with you on a run your focus will be on me, and I know you won’t let me go with someone else. It’s just better if I don’t go at all.” You know Frankie isn’t fighting you on this because it’s what he wants, he’s trying to hide it but you see relief in his eyes as he gets up to join you. The other men remain silent, Benny opens his mouth to say something but thinks better of it, closing it again as he stands up. He surprises you with one of his signature bear hugs instead. 

“I’d have you on my team any day,” he mutters close to your ear as his arms crush you to his chest, “fuck Joel.” His support makes you smile and you give him an extra squeeze before letting go. 

You’re subdued when you get back to your own apartment and Frankie hovers in the living room as you go to the bathroom to brush your teeth. You know him well enough after all these years to know what he’s doing, and when he comes in and leans on the door frame, watching your evening routine, you know he’s getting ready to speak after sorting the words in his head. 

“Cariño,” he begins, his hand shooting up and rubbing across his neck, “I can’t pretend like I won’t be calmer if you’re here, safe, instead of out dealing with FEDRA patrols, raiders and infected and all the other shit. Joel’s right, when we’re out there, I’m always focused on you, and I’m always worried about you, in a way I never was when it was just me and the guys on missions in the army or doing runs with Pope in Arlington.” He’s gripping the door frame, grinding his fingers into the wood as he speaks, his eyes seeking yours in the mirror as you continue to brush your teeth. When you look at him he takes a tentative step towards you, his hand coming out and resting on the small of your back, as if he wants to circle your waist and pull you close, but he’s not sure how you’ll react yet. “I know you wanna come with me too, I know you worried about me when I went out with Pope, but it’ll be different now, I’ll be with Will and Ben too, we’ll be able to handle anything, it won’t be as dangerous as before.” 

You spit the toothpaste out and rinse your mouth before meeting his eyes in the mirror, “I hate it,” you say, giving your head a small shake, “the idea of you being out there, in danger, I fucking hate it.” 

“I know,” Frankie says softly, his arm coming all the way around your waist and you lean into him. 

“If you don’t come back, I’m coming after you, you know that right?” you whisper into his chest. 

“I’ll come back, I promise I’ll always come back.” He’s turning you so that he’s got you pressed against him, his arms around you and holding you tight as he drops his head against the top of yours. 

“You can’t promise that, Frankie.” 

“Watch me,” he mumbles, “Just fucking watch me.” 

Chapter 29

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[ac-liveblogs]

The interview between Kinoko Nasu (head writer at Type Moon) and David Jiang (producer Honkai: Star Rail) is quite interesting. Though Jiang is not a writer himself and he himself doesn't get involved in story creation, so I do wonder why he was talking with Nasu...

The interview was mostly about what's taken into account when creating FGO and HSR.

Honkai Star Rail's director is a huge Type-Moon fanboy and has always been influenced by the Fate series since he was a teenager - even/especially in Star Rail, while Nasu plays Genshin Impact and is currently playing the Belobog chapter in Star Rail.

And yes. Clara and Svarog are a reference to Illya and Berserker, we been knew.

There was some interesting commentary early on from Jiang that said that the story-writing and gameplay divisions worked separately, which caused issues early on that needed to be resolved. Receiving confirmation about this is interesting, because it would explain a lot of the issues present in Genshin Impact that are mostly absent in HSR - a world that feels totally divorced from the playable characters that live in it, and - up until Fontaine - a lot of playable characters feeling somewhat disconnected from the plot they're meant to be in.

It was also very interesting to see Jiang start talking about marketing, surveys, meeting modern trends, design vs generating revenue etc. versus Nasu talking about his thoughts as an author and the importance of prioritising your ideal creative vision even if you end up needing to take those things into account as well... and how FGO doesn't incorporate modern trends but instead tries to create something that will be meaningful to the players.

It was also extremely funny seeing Nasu talk about how meta wasn't an important factor in FGO (true) - he just wanted people to care about the characters, and Jiang going "oh yeah we do that too!" ...like a liar.

Something Nasu said in response to Jiang talking about how the character designers at HYV take surveys or add character elements that they think 'might attract a new user group' into consideration struck a chord with me though;

Nasu-sensei: This reminds me of an interview I read about "Street Fighter II," where the interviewer asked, "Why did the game include a character like Zangief?" And the response from the interviewee was, "Once you have a character like Zangief for comparison, characters like Ryu with an average physique become even more eye-catching." In other words, a creative work cannot only have popular characters. If we make a fetish black hole, the diversity of the world suffers.. In terms of results, even protagonist-like characters that are somewhat lacking in personality can have their own unique features.

Which speaks to an understanding of a need for variety in design and personality that HYV consistently fails to achieve. HYV has no characters like Blackbeard, Zhang Jue... or even Li Shuwen. It has pretty girls, pretty boys, and younger characters.

Jiang talked proudly about how HSR risks lowering their revenue by daring to include characters like Qingque and Guinafen in the hopes they might attract a new market, but Nasu says 'well, we think about the themes of our stories and what the characters need to be, as well as the kinds of characters we want to write'.

Nasu also plainly outlining the variety of different elements a writer needs to incorporate into a story - including the importance of each character having their own storyline to engage the players, super simple stuff! - is something I dearly hope HYV keeps in mind. HSR has less of an issue with these concepts than Genshin does, but there are several shared weaknesses between the two works.

I can only hope that HYV is taking notes instead of nodding like it already understands the things he's saying - because it does not, and it could stand to listen. I believe that the world Nasu created in Fairy Britain, despite having a lot less to it, is stronger than any single region in either Genshin Impact or Honkai Star Rail because it, the stories told in it and the characters there, are all thematically consistent and inform each other in interesting ways at all points during the chapter.

I think Belobog achieved a base level of cohesion, but Xianzhou Luofu was a shitshow and Penacony... better pick up soon. Haha. (Jiang describing Xianzhou Luofu as "captivating" though. Bro. Bro Xianzhou Luofu was terrible, what are you talking abou-)

I like reading Nasu talk about the writing process and the things he's enthusiastic about. I don't always like or agree with Type-Moon's decisions or products, but Nasu always strikes me as a down to earth guy that's truly passionate about what he creates and the works he consumes. Jiang seems to have had a lot less to say, though that seems to be because he is... as he himself admits, not a writer.

The two companies seem to have been in talks, so I'm curious to see what comes of it.