#in a fun but still deeply mentally unwell way.

[box16]

louis wain was right. i am happy because everyone loves me

[the-savage-dragon]

...I can't wait to tell my therapist about my 2014-2020 Tumblr lifespan

[melljam]

gosh this facial expression samuel makes is sooo interesting to me >_<

looong analysis below

only skimmed over some chapters to find it so im not sure if this is necessarily always the case but so far, all the instances ive seen of it have been in relation to samuels inferiority complex and jake

all of situations have been ones where samuel is evidently unstable (because of jake) and yet he can still look strangely calm while being in a manic state , which is considerably unsettling and adds some depth to his unwell behavior beyond “i will beat your ass reeeaally hard” (which is fun but ouhh the psychological aspects of his fights are so interestingg)

-> first image (and its context)

from chapter 311, samuels cruel treatment of the big deal girls prompt them to protest the conditions that he is forcing them to work in to make a 100k won in a month. yeonhui tries to bring up jake and how he would never do this to them and samuel immediately responds by trying to hit her (thank god jerry intervened)

when i first read this chapter and saw this scene i was so enamored with it because oh my god . its just so indicative of samuels character and how much his feelings of inferiority get to him. he doesnt care that he was about to hit yeonhui in front of everyone, he only knows that she compared him to jake and insinuated that jake is better than him, which strikes his sorest spot in the worst way possible (and no one truly understands why)

samuel got a lot more expressive after the big deal arc but his eyes in that picture say so much . he is brimming with rage and jealously over the mere mention of jakes name and comparison to him. the implication that jake could have done better, would have done better, than him just destroys any of his self esteem and sense of achievement while also bringing back all of the grief over feeling like he is no longer on equal footing with jake. he is being reminded of how he is now below him in every aspect (morally, family-wise due to gapryong, and later on in terms of strength since he loses against jake)

he is overwhelmed with his emotions and the only way that it can play out on his face is with a seemingly neutral expression displaying a crazed ache deeply ingrained into his eyes

-> second and third image

from chapter 466, during jake and samuels fight while samuel is drugged to give him a heightened feeling of inferiority and subsequent mania (or ‘frenzy’ as the official translation puts it)

all of his insecurities and terrible feelings are being intensified and it is absolutely not being helped by the fact he is fighting jake, the catalyst for his inferiority complex.

he is also remembering (and experiencing in his delusions) the sequence of events that happened during middle school: meet his real dad and committing patricide, learning that jake is gapryongs son, failing to receive guns approval twice, and becoming goos secret friend

(okay this is a side tangent but i love how this chapter was written to include all of that. the scene where samuel chokes alexander and sees his dad in him, the way he saw middle school jake and his own middle school self after re-realizing that jake is gaps son, the way he keeps on quoting people to show how much those events still affect him. its all written so gut wrenchingly well. i love the mental anguish)

he is effectively feeling his worst throughout this entire fight, and his face spells it outright for us

the second picture is samuels reaction to jake grabbing his collar after he ‘sentences him to death’ and lands a bunch of hits on him in tandem. this is probably looking waaaay too deep into it (but so is this entire post ¯\_(ツ)_/¯) however it almost like samuel is being reminded of his perceived inferiority simply by being stopped by jake. even though he cant be gapryongs son, he can still be stronger than him, right? right? jake continually disprove this and no matter how strong samuel gets, jake always seems to come out on top regardless.

in the third picture samuel is stepping away from his frenzied insanity (and the terrible, terrifying facial expressions that he makes because of it) to quietly question why it is that the universe has put jake in front of him to make him feel awful all over again, with a similar neutral face that displays undertones of distress and misery

and here he says it directly! jake shows up and makes samuel feel pathetic no matter what happens and its just … so perfect how his solemn face reflects how utterly defeated he is by that feeling

the way he is stepping on jake here, quite literally on top of him, yet he still feels lesser to him. he can beat jake up all he wants while smiling but at the end of it? he is still left with a burning feeling of inferiority that never gets resolved. and he can only wonder why that is

the frustration from not being able to figure it out overwhelms him, and thus causes the sudden change of his expression to a serious one. this is the issue that plagues his entire character and so it is only fitting that he reserve a special look for it; one of somber neutrality as the only way he can express his feelings of defeat and inadequacy

-> stylistic analysis

so all of that covered the context which surrounds that facial expression and the psychological aspects of it. while that serves to make the expression impactful as the culmination of all of those factors, the way that his face is artistically depicted also plays into its effect

i mentioned the look in his eyes before when discussing the first image, so lets just build onto that point of a crazed ache in his eyes by explaining why it evokes that feeling. his irises are small and much of the white of his eyes are showing, which is a stylistic choice that usually signals to us that a characters mental health has plummeted

his eyes are also shown to look like that in his other frenzied faces, but the contrast of his crazed eyes with the rest of his emotionless features distinguishes it well

and the second artistic choice i would like to point out is the use of lighting and shadows to depict his face to the audience

shadows are a very useful tool for artists to convey emotion on seemingly neutral or indifferent expressions as a little signal for the reader that the character is seriously ticked off but attempt to not show it

in all of the images, the light source seems to behind his head and leaves his face in the shadows. this lighting conveys a sense of seriousness along with undertones of horror. his somber expression is incredibly unsettling in contrast to all of the emotional turmoil he is feeling, and the use of shadows excels at giving us this visual cue

and its very interesting how the lighting stays consistent whenever he makes a face, signaling a certain emotion (of disdain? of grim comtemplation?? something along those lines i think) each time

final thoughts

well, my first final thought is that i wrote too much about this and somehow managed to overanalyze three panels into a little mess of angsty mush but it was sure fun :)

but secondly, i love how ptj does facial expressions, of course samuels faces in particular (this whole post is about him after all) since he is always so incredibly expressive. i love unhinged samuel, i love his ‘actively in mental decline’ faces. so freaky, so awesome ^_^

third and lastly, the parallels for samuel throughout the story are so, so interesting. i had to resist multiple tangents that go waaay beyond the scope of this post while writing it because of the sheer amount of stuff i found out i wanted to write about. so i will likely be writing more about that stuff in the future :p

thanks for reading !!!

[strawhatsoraya]

hi sunshine! how are you? hope everything’s good and you’re doing fine! sorry if I might sound too cheesy but I absolutely adore the way you write, everything you post I eat it up immediately and the fact that you do this for free? you’re a gift, so I was wondering if you’d like to write this scenario (exclusively if you’re comfortable and interested in doing so) it’s NSFW for shanks with a F!reader (there is just something about him that is so damn attractive) and it’s about her being maybe part of the crew or another pirate (your choice), we know his crew and him are not particularly interested in treasures and money, and I would think the one they have are obtained similarly to what the strawhats do and not by raiding cities, and I would imagine shanks to not be interested in jewelry so he lets his crew take what they want for themselves with the only exception that he always calls dibs on the most gorgeous necklace he can find, the crew knows this and it’s cause he absolutely LOVES to adorn her simply cause he adores her and gift giving is one of his love languages, what they don’t know it’s that what he loves even more is fucking her while she’s wearing nothing but that necklace. that’s it, oh bonus point if you make him like madly, deeply viscerally in love cause I think that man would be the kindest of partners.

Have a wonderful day and do not feel pressured to write this if you simply don’t enjoy it <3

I'm not even going to attempt an apology because there is no apology that could justify me letting this be in my inbox for 7 months. LMAO. I simply just have not been writing as much as I was. I'm hoping to correct that. Please know that it wasn't that I didn't like this idea. I was and am obsessed with it. I'm just mentally unwell~~ lmao.

ANYWAY. HERE IT IS. idk if you're still on tumblr, or long gone, but either way I had fun writing this. Thank you for sending this great idea months and months ago.

SHANKS X FEM READER / NSFW word count: 6.5k (i know i know, but what can I say, it's shanks) content warnings: nudity (duh lol), vaginal penetration, biting, scratching, there's some shower shenanigans, unprotected sex (they are pirates and live dangerously), pretty straightforward, have at it. A SUMMARY: nope.

The truth was, he should have let you go a long time ago. Let you fall to the bottom of the ocean along with all the ships he had sunk, with all the drowned men he had no sympathy for. He should let you go, but you are like the ghost of his arm. On hot humid nights, he wakes up with an itch on a forearm he can’t scratch so he tosses in bed, dreams of you–of the hand he can’t touch you with.

Shanks never cared about treasure, not even in his early youth. He was happier watching his men divvy the spoils among themselves. He’d take their laughter as reward, watch the joy in their faces and know that he had conquered more than just another pirate, more than just another adventure. He had conquered life itself. 

Yet, he thought derisively, he could not conquer you.

But he knew what swayed you. He knew the light in your eyes that’d shine like beacons at the sight of jewels. How broadly you smiled while counting gold coins. He adored that undeniable air of superiority that’d keep your shoulders high when he’d slip ornate gaudy rings over each of your long tapered fingers. Shanks loved the sight of your delicate neck draped in gold chains, although he thought nothing beat the sight of his own fingers wrapped around it.

He hid his obsessions behind his smile. Some that he wasn’t proud of, but then, there was you, sitting on the edge of your bed, smooth legs crossed neatly over each other; his pride hanging by a thread on the curve of your cheek.

Not that he’d ever tell you.

The din outside the bedroom is loud, as it’s bound to be. Two pirate crews getting together, one being mostly composed of men while the other women, was surely to have interesting results. You ignore the shouting, and the cussing, the laughter and the start of badly played music accompanied by badly sung party songs. After all, it wasn’t often you were honored by Shank’s presence. You needed to make sure to take it all in.

Your dark eyes size him up, from the top of his flaming red hair, to the bottom of his feet–sandal clad and characteristic of his blase persona. His size alone was enough to intimidate most but you had him moaning in your ear too many times to count to let the broadness of his shoulders deter you. 

“Fancy seeing you in these waters,” you find the words to speak. They are heavy on your tongue, and sound annoyingly childish to your ears. You hide the urge to grimace by widening your smile. Shanks had the power to make you feel like a schoolgirl; unsure, and giggly and absolutely stir crazy about him. You shake your leg repeatedly, as you toss your hair over your shoulder, your curls suddenly feel suffocating around your heated neck. 

“Did you miss me so much you had to go out of your way?” Your voice is strained and high pitched. You hate it. You want to claw your throat out, but he smiles at you knowingly–as if he could read every stupid thought in your head and suddenly, you want to claw his face out instead. “You shouldn’t have.”

You try to sound light and airy, teasing–maybe even condescending, but your voice is still off. It brings heat to your face. You try to hide your embarrassment by laughing, and turning your head. You cover the lower half of your mouth, and glare at the nearest clothing rack. On it are the latest additions to your wardrobe, expensive silks and slinky low cut attire; everything you could think of that he’d like and never seen on you.

“Is it so hard to believe?” he asks you, his tone friendly and warm. You swallow thickly, unspoken confessions sticking dangerously to the walls of your throat. You think you’re choking. You think you’ll die then, and he stabs the wooden stake right through your heart when he speaks next: “We’re friends after all. Of course I’d miss you.”

That word bleeds into you. It spreads like ice, like venom throughout your being. Friends, because that was the only option among pirates. Friends, because the other choice was enemies–and could two enemies ever fuck like you and him? You suck your teeth and cross and uncross your legs. You adjust your seated position on the bed, while the crowd outside your bedroom continues to get louder. Although you’re avoiding his gaze, you feel it skim over your skin. You feel fire over the slope of your exposed shoulders, feel it over the swell of your breasts. 

Friends did not look at each other the way he did. 

“Well,” you interrupt his thoughts. Shanks blinks as he watches you uncross your legs again. He is mesmerized by the size of your plush thighs. His fingers twitch as he reigns in the impulse to reach out, to grasp one of them tightly. You stand up abruptly. “You have shitty timing, as usual.”

Shanks blinks, before he laughs with a soft shake of his head. “Really?” he asks and points his thumb behind him at the door. “With the party going outside I thought this was as good a time as ever.” 

He approaches you, and you immediately stiffen. Shanks tries not to laugh. In place, he snorts quietly through his nose. His hand reaches for one of your hips. His strong fingers dig into flesh as he brings you flush against him. 

“Come on, Doll,” he murmurs against your cheek. His breath is scalding against your brown skin. It’s like being kissed by the sun. You smell sake in his breath, almost taste the sweetness of it. “I sailed a long way to see you. Don’t you think our reunion should be a little sweeter?”

The slap against his chest is enough to stagger him backwards. You slip out of his space, trying to find your dignity along with your breath. Inside your chest, your heart runs at a neck-breaking pace. 

“Estúpido,” you hiss at him, hands immediately going to your heated cheeks. “I’m not candy. You expect too much,” you tell him, turning your face to raise a brow. You try to read his expression over your shoulder. His hand slips into the pocket of his trousers. “Especially when you come back empty handed.”

“You think so lowly of me,” he complains although he smiles. His hand rummages in his pockets. You hear the clinking of a metal, and your body turns around completely before you can help it. “When have I ever come back empty handed?” As his last words reach you, he pulls out a gold necklace from his pocket. You immediately count eight amethysts beads in various sizes. Wrapped around the necklace is a fine woven chain with gold spears that dangle from the base. 

You approach him, and reach gently with one hand. As you hold a golden spear on your fingers you see the sconce light of your bedroom catch on the tiny little diamonds embedded within. Shanks grins down at you. He sees that light in your eyes and feels a fire in his belly. It breathes life into him. 

“You should have started with that,” you quip, your plush lips pursed together. He is sorely tempted to grab your face and kiss you. He almost puts up a fight. His hand grips your cheeks together, and he lands a noisy peck on your mouth. You resist, so he comes back for seconds and thirds. 

“Where’s the fun in that?” he laughs as you slip away from his grasp, taking the necklace with you. You make a big show of wiping your mouth on the back of your hand. “Oh, see?” he gestures at you, with his brows scrunched up together. “Now you’re just trying to hurt me.”

“You’re a brute,” you snap, tossing your head again, finding your frizzed out curls currently insufferable. It was hair wash day, and Shanks was getting in the way. “Have you even showered?”

At the interrogation, Shank’s gaze shifts from your face to your body. It lingers momentarily on your breasts, before he drags them slowly back up, leaving you breathless. You hiccup. 

“I–” you start, and your bottom lip quivers. Heat pushes you down to the ground, tethering you to the fire in Shanks’ eyes–one that is threatening to quickly consume you. “I was going to shower when you got here. That’s what I meant–”

Shanks steals your thoughts, and your common sense. He invades your space, his hand easily finding the comfort of the small of your back. He rests it there on the top of your ample backside. Sneakily, or at least he thinks so, he squeezes the top of one ass cheek. 

“Is this your way of asking me for help?” He leans forward to press his forehead against yours. “Let me help you. I’m very good at it.” You think, it should humble you, the way he’s lowered himself enough to reach your height. You think, surely, this should be enough, mean enough. That you should not crave what he cannot give; false forevers and promises written in fool’s gold. 

But you’d be a shit pirate if you didn’t dream at least every now and then.

You turn away wordlessly, and he follows quietly behind you. Inside the bathroom, he shadows your movements, his hand placed lightly over yours as you remove your clothing, and you drop the necklace over the pile of clothes. There’s a feral hunger lurking inside you, wanting you to tear his clothes off but you push past it and into the shower. You can’t see him, but you feel him grinning behind you, feel his predatory gaze sizing up your naked body. You close your eyes under the warm water coming out of the shower head, letting it soak your hair and body while you hear Shank’s clothing drop to the floor behind you.

Cleansing your body becomes a complicated task when Shanks is involved. He swears he’s helping as he slips a soapy hand between your legs. You bite your lip as his callouses brush against the sensitive skin of one inner thigh. 

“I have two hands,” you hiss as you swat his hand away. You hear a sharp inhale behind you, and his breathy laughter hot against the back of your neck. 

“All you do is try to hurt me,” he murmurs dramatically. His mouth grazes against your skin, the prickle of his facial hair against the sensitive spot behind one ear is enough to elicit goosebumps all over your body. “Are you showing off that you have two and I only have one?”

You stammer despite yourself. If you could take it all back you could. You hope the steam rising in the shower is enough to hide the color blooming on your cheeks. You turn around and fall into his embrace. Water ripples down the grooves of his chest muscles. They skimper along every ridge of his abdomen. Your hands slither smoothly over them, taking in every inch, and memorizing them until you could see it clearly behind your eyelids. 

“No,” you admit at last. Your hands are on his neck, as you pull him down gently towards your face. “I know you do enough damage with one hand as it is.”

You press your lips against his hoping this would be enough to shut him up. His hand feels like fire on your lower back. He brings you closer to him, pressing you against his pelvis. You feel his cock stir and grow harder against the softness of your lower belly. If there is any doubt left in you, Shanks takes care of it by slipping his tongue inside your mouth. The kiss is feverish, and messy. A slippery sense that is only heightened by the hot water sliding down your face and his. You bury your fingers in his flame colored hair, pulling him even closer against you.

Kissing you like this was clouding his senses. Being a captain of his own crew, placed him in the position of making most of the decisions. Something about the way you touched him, kissed him, looked at him–always made him want to relinquish control.  Still, he preferred to have you in bed, where he could have you at his mercy. Your mouth was hot against his neck, as you lowered your hands over his body. Shanks bites down on his lower lip, as your fingers wrap themselves around the girth of his cock. 

His hand shoots out to grab a handful of your wet curls. 

“Now who’s the one doing damage?” he asks in a whispered growl. 

You look up as he tugs on your hair, and almost wish you hadn't. His swollen lips, the ones you had passionately kissed as if you’d never get to taste him again, made him look disheveled and broken. That paired with the clouded look in his eyes, the heaviness on his eyelids, the slight flush on his cheeks was making your heart ache.

You press your lips together tightly, seeking control.

Your stroke is treacherously slow. You squeeze tightly, enjoying the feel of his thickness inside your hands. His lashes flutter close, and you watch him tilt his face up, watch the water drops slide down the expanse of his thick neck. You continue to stroke the thickness of his shaft, every now and then twisting your hand around the tip of his flushed cock just to hear his breathing hitch–to pretend you have some semblance of control. 

“Feels so good,” a mumbled confession tumbles off his lips. You feel it swim around your head, blurring your vision. It slithers around you, touches you where no man has touched you before. “Keep going. Don’t stop.”

The heat between your legs becomes increasingly hard to ignore. You feel your heart pulsing at the center of you, as an undeniable wetness covers your folds. You reach out with one hand to cup his balls gently. When he murmurs your name, lips parted in silent ecstasy, you know you have to walk away first. 

You remove your hands, but not before dropping a kiss on the middle of his hard and muscular chest. 

“Wait–” he protests, trying to catch you. His large hand touches your cheek but you still turn away.

Water drips to the floor as you leave the shower. You ignore the towels nearby. Instead, you bend over well aware that Shanks was watching your every move. He watches the roundness of your ass intently as you bend over, and he gets a peek of that luscious center of you–that pussy he just can’t get enough of. When you stand up, the necklace is dangling from your slender fingers. He moves towards you, water dripping from his hair and his body to the floor. He reaches out for the necklace but you move quickly away from him.

“You’re being so difficult today,” he observes with amusement. “Not that you’ve ever been easy.”

He has to admit, you were very skilled at putting on jewelry all on your own. Still, he wished he had the privilege this time. Shanks would just have to get his reward in another form. Your naked silhouette walking away from him was surely close to divinity, in his opinion. The way your hips swayed with each step towards the bed was making him dizzy. He watches you even as you climb on the bed, slowly, naked ass in the air drawing him closer. 

He gives in to temptation. As he is prone to do with your companionship. When you turn around, dropping on the bed on your back, you inhale sharply at the look in his eyes; two burning fires determined to consume you.

Shanks moves with purpose. You had always admired the way he’d move so quickly in such a large body, barely making a sound before he would strike. There’s a sense of urgency that touches you gingerly at the base of your neck. Once again, you feel goosebumps scatter across your body.

“I think I’m very easy to deal with, actually,” you counter belatedly. “The picture of angelic behavior. How dare you.” He was making you nervous as he just waited there–kneeling at the edge of the bed. You tried to regulate your breathing as you laid your head on the ample amount of pillows you insisted on having on your bed. Shanks taught it a nuisance so you continued. You’d do anything to get under his skin–and stay there.

Shanks laughs at you as he starts to move. He slithers towards you like a large predatory feline, dark eyes and flaming mane of hair. The muscles of his shoulders ripple with his movements, and you feel your mouth water at the sight. You lick your lips, and swallow loudly. He must have heard you, you think with embarrassment, as a smirk stretches his lips.

“I dare,” he drawls, dragging out his syllables. He slides next to you, sliding his hand over the softness of your belly. “Because I’m the only one who would. You should be grateful,” he continues. You bite down on your lip, careful not to make a sound but your body is a traitor and shivers under the roughness of his hand. “That I’m such a devoted friend.”

There was that damn word again. There is a lump in your throat, bitter, and difficult to swallow. It almost chokes you to death as you push it down.

“Go to hell, Shanks. I don’t need friends like you.”

His laughter wounds you more than it should. You should expect this behavior from him. It was always the same. You parried his honeyed words with sharp remarks. A frail attempt at defending yourself and pretending you had no feelings for this Emperor of the Sea. He acted as if nothing you could say could hurt him, stop him, change his mind.

“Is that right?” he murmurs, his hand drawing slow large circles over your belly. Your legs move on their own. Your brows draw together as they slide apart, knees bending as you wiggle on the silk of your bedsheets. 

“Mmhmm,” you reply. Your response is weak, you know, but your breathing was becoming more ragged the more he touched you. Your heart speeds up when he leans over to drag his mouth against the skin under your belly. You grit your teeth when he bites that same space of flesh gently. “That’s right. I don’t need you, Red-Haired Shanks,” you hiss through clenched teeth. Your hand is in his hair, fingers tangling in crimson locks. “I don’t–” You gasp, thoughts interrupted as Shanks journey moves lower to your pelvis. He kisses one hip, and then the other.

“You were saying?” he asks, a low chuckle dying on the crook of your inner thigh. You close your eyes tightly as the feeling of his hot tongue dips closer towards the center of you. 

He pulls away, grabbing your wrist to untangle your fingers from his hair, as he sits next to you on the edge of the bed. This position makes you feel vulnerable–naked and laying on your back, as he sits up, looking down on you with your wrist still in his hand, both his feet on the floor; grounded.

Yet you couldn’t bring yourself to stop floating up in the sky. The sight of him above you, smirking down at  you victorious made you crave him all the more. 

“I don’t need you to need me either,” Shanks says as he brings your wrist to his lips. He kisses the inside of your wrist gently; once, twice. “As long as you want me. That’s good enough for me.” He pauses to drag his tongue over the inside of your palm. Shanks eyes look down at you, away from where he is pressing your fingers against his mouth. They linger momentarily on your neck, and on the necklace, on your exposed breasts. “The way I want you,” he confesses in a low voice, before dragging his wide tongue up your index finger and plopping it into his mouth.

He sucks on it noisily, and slowly, holding eye contact. You feel close to combusting. Fury, or lust, you’re not sure. All you know is heat, all consuming, scorching, blinding heat. You force your hand out of his grasp, and use it to squeeze his face between your fingers. 

“Shanks!” you hiss, breathing barely regulated. He watches you quietly, eyes dipping occasionally to your heaving chest. He loved the way the necklace looked over your breasts, the way the gold caught the light; how beautiful your skin shone underneath. A smirk begins to form, so you tighten your grip. “How much longer are you going to drag this out?”

There’s a touch of remorse in the back of his mouth; barely sour enough to make him grimace. He looks away from your pleading eyes to your neck, adorned lavishly in the necklace he had brought you. You looked so beautiful and vulnerable. He supposed it was time he did something about that.

“I thought you liked this game,” he mumbles with squished cheeks. Shanks holds your wrist again and pulls until you let him go. His fingers tangle with yours, and he lowers it against the  bed by your head. Your fingers twitch, unfamiliar with this form of intimacy from him. Shanks' face draws closer to yours. You smell his sweet breath, and try not to count every freckle and sun spot on his cheeks like some kind of sentimental idiot. 

“Enough,” you say. Your voice is whiny. You loathe it. “I’ve had enough. You brute. You insensitive–” Shanks cuts you off with a searing kiss. His mouth is forceful against yours. You mumble protests, unwilling to give up control entirely. His hand squeezes yours tighter as he pushes back, nipping at your bottom lip. 

His tongue runs along your bottom lip, your back arches and you finally give in. You wrap your free arm around his shoulders to hold him close to you, savoring in the feel of his tongue inside your mouth. He brushes his tongue against yours, saliva coating both your lips until shiny. He moves to drop light kisses along the shape of your jaw. His next route of conquest is your neck, and you wince at his greediness–the way he’s sucking without a care in the world, as if he wants nothing more than to mar your skin for everyone to see what he has done.

He moves quickly, releasing your hand. You gasp when Shanks adjusts himself behind you in bed, face immediately burying itself on the side of your neck.

“Stay still, Doll,” he mumbles against your ear. Another shiver takes over your body when he takes your earlobe in his mouth. “I’m just trying to get a good feel for you. It’s been so long, after all.” He murmurs all of this against your ear, his breath hot and moist making you hyper aware of all his movements; the way his chest pushes against your back, how he lets go of the breast he was kneading to allow his thick fingers to traverse lightly over the side of your torso.

He continues until he is over your hip. He moves against your ass, pressing his erection against you. You hum lightly, enjoying the feeling of him–how thick and large he seems. There’s a ridiculous sense of pride swelling inside you for being the reason for his arousal; you, of all the seas he has traveled and conquered, it is you at this moment and no one else. His hand hovers over one ass cheek before he’s gripping it, gently massaging and spreading you open.

A brow rises high on your forehead. Before you can question him, Shanks makes a decisive move. He slides his cock between your ass cheeks, thrusting his hips gently to stroke himself between them. His breath comes out in puffs against the back of your neck with every slow thrust. You feel his precum smearing itself on your crack. It is a strange sensation, and you are ashamed to acknowledge how aroused you are at feeling him in a place he’s never explored before.

“Shanks,” you breathe out shakily. “Is this enough for you?”

He doesn’t answer you immediately, caught up in the lewd sight of his cock sandwiched in your voluminous and juicy ass. His breathing is ragged, chest burning from repressed lust. Seeing you–being with you–was not a common occurrence. The last thing he wanted to do was rush through this and forget to touch you, kiss you, in a spot he had planned–in a way he had fantasized about over and over.

“For now,” he grunts against your shoulder, biting and licking soon after. “Just give me a moment. I’ll take care of you too.”

You press your head back against him, exposing your neck to him. Shanks takes the invitation wordlessly, kissing and biting up your neck as he continues to slide his cock between your cheeks. His moans are soft, barely audible, but you feel the rumbling in his chest against your back every time he does. It makes you hotter, wetter. You sigh, desperate to feel him towards the center of you. You bring his hand around to your waist, slowly sliding his hand up your belly until it reaches the bottom of one breast. 

Shanks smiles against your shoulder, where he bites down once more, eliciting a moan from you. “I know, Doll,” he mumbles, reaching for your breast as you had wordlessly requested. “You need more, don’t you? Always so needy. Always needing more,” his breath is hotter than your skin at the moment. It bounces off of it, as he twists your nipple between calloused fingers. You bite back another moan. “You’re never satisfied, but what can I say?” He pulls at your nipple harshly, making you cry out. “That’s what I like about you.”

He slips out from between your cheeks. You start to protest when he releases your breast. Shanks sucks his teeth, trying to silence you. 

“I said I’d take care of you, sweetheart,” he mumbles against your ear, using his hand to lift one of your thick thighs. “You need to trust me more.” You help him without thinking, keeping your legs open while he slips his cock between them. His hardness is pressed against your soaking pussy. Your folds are slippery against his length. You hear him grunt softly against your ear, his breathing irregular as he stays very still. You chuckle, aware that he’s stalling–buying himself time.

Shanks loved a long game. He hated to cut things short.

Yet, like you, sometimes he was impatient. He moves shortly after, thrusting between your legs. It starts slow enough, his breath coming in short puffs hot against your ear. You reach behind you to grasp his hip. He rocks into you as you gasp, enjoying how thick he felt against your pussy, how the tip of his cock–mushroom tipped and meaty–would rub against your clit just right at certain angles. You reach further back, twisting your body, to grab a handful of his hard ass.

“Come on,” you goad him, finding it hard to think much less speak. “Touch me where it feels good.” Shanks laughs against your shoulder, and bites down over a blooming bruise. Your moan is high pitched as you try to reign it back. Although the party seems to continue outside the room, you don’t want to run the risk of your own crew hearing you moan. 

“Don’t hold back,” he tells you, licking the teeth marks he left behind on your brown skin. “I’ve come a long way, you know. The least you can do is let me hear you fall apart.”

You grit your teeth, as heat wraps itself around your head. Your eyes sting from embarrassment, and what’s worse, is that you feel yourself dripping all over his cock, coating it in your arousal. You’re well aware he feels it too. It can be the only reason he picks up the speed, a throaty laugh echoing in the room. 

In an effort to even out the playing field, you reach between your legs and grab the tip of his cock. You hear him gasp next to your ear as you guide his tip to your clit.

“I said here,” you repeat, rocking your hips so you can rub your clit against the tip of his cock. “This is where I want to feel you.” Your toes curl at the sensation, at how pleasure seeps deep into you, tightening with intensity at every rock of your hips. Shanks stills his movements, and presses his pelvis tightly against your ass. Your whines drive him to the brink of madness. He feels them inside him, tightening around him, pulling at his navel filling him with pleasure. His eyes shut close as he lets you take control–or lose it, he’s not sure. You seem delirious as you chase your orgasm, rocking on his cock as if your life depended on it.

Your juices coat his shaft, and he feels them slip lower, trickling down his balls. He pulls you even closer with his arm wrapped tightly around your waist.

“Go on, Doll,” he encourages you, his voice low and seductive as it breaks through your higher pitched moans. “Take it if you think it belongs to you. Take what you think is yours.”

You gasp as your ecstasy builds, your back arching as your hips stutter. You lose rhythm but it doesn’t matter, your orgasm swallows you whole. You reach out behind you blindly, your nails digging into his hair, scratching his scalp. You hear Shanks hiss as you cry out. He bites the top of your ear, and follows it down to your earlobe, to lose himself inside the crook of your neck, nuzzling your skin past the necklace. There’s plenty of reminders there–ones he had carefully left behind, but he figures a few more could never hurt. After all, you’re apart so often, he fears you’d soon forget how it feels to be desired and consumed by his affections.

You’re panting, barely coming down from your orgasm when you feel Shanks moving between your legs. His fingers rifle through your folds, enjoying the silky sensation of your cum around his fingers. You mumble something he can’t quite grasp as he tentatively inserts a finger inside you.

“Shanks!” you cry out, panting, eyes barely focused. “Hang on. Gimme a second.” He chuckles next to your ear, curving his finger slightly; searching. You bite your lip to keep from whimpering.

“I gave you plenty of seconds,” he says softly, playfully–as if he was singing. “You had your fun. I want to have some too.” You tremble in his embrace as he inserts another finger, and starts scissoring them inside you. You know he’d be annoyed, as you stay as quiet as possible, but you want to hear the way his fingers squelch when they go in and out of you. You want to hear him panting, the little soft moans that puff past his swollen lips. You want to feel him digging into your ass with his hips, feel his leaky cock on your skin.

“You’re doing it again,” he chastises as he pulls his fingers out. You gasp at the empty feeling, immediately craving him as soon as he’s gone. “I guess my fingers aren’t enough, huh?”

You swallow thickly, and move your hips testily, wiggling your ass against his erection. The look you give him over your shoulder is seductive enough to threaten to blow his head wide open. 

“If you know that then why don’t you hurry up and put it in?” you mumble breathlessly. You’re breathing so loudly, Shanks swears he can hear you panting inside his head; over and over. “Or do I need to help you with that too?”

Shanks resists the urge to laugh. He scoffs instead, a tinge of embarrassment weighing heavily on his face. He didn’t need your help period when it came down to pleasing you. Your assumption was daring, and insulting. Perhaps he should teach you a lesson–a good one–before he leaves again. Shanks uses his free hand to guide his cock towards your entrance. He swirls the tip around your opening, watching gleefully as you wiggle your hips, trying to get him to slip inside you.

“Impatient as usual,” he remarks, a broad grin as he avoids your entrance again, choosing to slide his tip up and down between your folds instead. “Good things come to those who wait. Ever heard of it?”

“Your English sayings mean nothing to me,” you mumble, despite understanding fully well what he was saying. You turn your head, trying to glare at him over your shoulder as best as you could while he was still busy teasing you with his cock. You shiver as you speak: “What about ‘el que tiene tienda que la atienda’? Ever heard of that one?”

Shanks chuckles again, kissing your ear, and your temple. He lets his mouth linger there as he presses his tip against your entrance. You breathe in a gasp, full to the brim with expectation.

“You’re right, never heard of it,” he mumbles against your skin as he pushes forward, sinking into you slowly. You moan softly, it rumbles at the bottom of your throat, and drops into the pit of your belly where it starts a fire. “You should teach me more. What does it mean?”

Your brain can barely comprehend his words. All you can think of, all you feel, is Shanks cock moving inside you, you feel his body behind yours, his strong arm wrapping around your waist. All you can smell is his breath on your skin, all you can feel is the heat his kisses leave behind.

“So?” he asks you again, moving his hips slowly as he lets you adjust around his girth. “You won’t tell me?” Your gasp is ragged, little jitters shaking your body with pleasure. Shanks was no small man, and this was not even close to your first time with him, but he always took you by surprise. Not that you’d ever back down and admit defeat.

“Gimme a sec,” you spit through clenched teeth. He begins thrusting into you, picking up the pace without another word. His pelvis slaps into your ass, making a loud sound as skin hits skin. His balls feel heavy against your swollen pussy. “I said–gimme a damn…” You moan loudly, and press your head against his chest. Shanks smiles and cranes his neck to kiss your cheek. 

“Take your time,” he grunts in between thrusts. You shut your eyes tightly, trying to keep from crying out but as usual, he reaches deep inside you, to the spongy spot that makes you fall apart. You gasp loudly, pants becoming closer and closer together. Shanks slides his hand from your belly to your breast. He grips it tightly, kneading, as he sucks on your neck, his fingers expertly finding your perky nipples.

They were already sore and sensitive from his earlier teasing, now, you could barely resist him.

You cry out, feeling control slip right past your fingers. 

“W-wait!” you beg, kicking your legs impulsively. Shanks lets go of your breast to pin it down, as he continues fucking you from behind. He squeezes your legs together, creating an even tighter sensation as he thrusts in and out of you. You whimper, and shake, eyes unfocused as pleasure pools at the center of you. Your pussy throbs and aches. Shanks can’t help but grin at the way your pussy squelches every time he moves. You’re dripping so much he feels your sweet juices down to his balls. 

“I’ve been waiting,” he says through gritted teeth but you don’t respond. He looks over at your face quickly, and realizes with glee that you won’t be telling him anything soon. Your hair still wet, is disheveled and tangled, partially sticking to your flushed face. Your cheeks glow under the scone lights, brown and warm and enticing. Your eyes are blown wide, lips glossy and swollen from all the kissing. On your neck and chest he can see bruises blooming already, only made all the prettier by the necklace hanging from your neck and over your breasts.

You look devoured, glorified and an absolute mess. Just the way he likes you. 

“Are you gonna cum for me?” he asks you, his breath scalding against your cheek. His hand is clamped tightly on your thigh, keeping your legs tightly together. “You’ll cum for me, right, Doll? After all, I came all the way here to see your pretty face. To give you one of the necklaces you love so much. To give you all of this,” he says with a violent thrust. “Because I know how much you love it.”

You reach behind you blindly, savagely, your arm grasping his upper arm. You scratch his skin with your nails as you continuously cry out, the tip of his cock hitting your cervix almost painfully. You reach out again, his hip, his ass, a part of his shoulder. You know you’re not being kind, your nails digging deep to leave your mark, but you have lost your grip on reason.

You cry out his name when you cum, twisting, and shivering under his embrace. Shanks holds you tightly, not stopping his hips. He continues to fuck into you, grunting louder and louder. He moans your name against your neck, as you feel him stiffen. His hips stutter, as he spills into you, losing sense of rhythm. Your body is too sore, and your mind too fuzzy for you to care about him cumming inside you. 

Normally, you’d chew him out for it, but you had lost your fight the moment he shoved his cock in your pussy.

“Hey,” he drawls, licking the shell of your ear. You shudder, eyes fluttering close as your body feels heavier and heavier. You could fall asleep right there, if you really wanted to, covered in his scent, full of his cum and so spent. “You haven’t told me yet what it means.”

You somehow find the strength to laugh lightly. 

“It means if you’re not here to fuck me, somebody else will be,” you reply, looking up over your shoulder at him with heavy lidded eyes. Shanks gasps dramatically and drops a gentle kiss on the tip of your nose.

“See? All you try to do is hurt me,” he whispers with a crooked smile. You reach up with one hand to cup his cheek and bring him closer to your mouth. You rest your lips just over his.

“And you like it too,” you tell him before kissing him once more.

[iliketalkingaboutmoviesandtv]

We're All Going to the World's Fair (2022, dir. Jane Schoenbrun) - A Review

You're wrapped up in bed, headphones on, playing with your laptop. It's 1am and you have school in the morning. You click on the next shitty creepypasta video, but then something happens. It's unnerving, strange, even somehow scary and now sleep is just not going to happen. Every lonely kid with unsupervised internet access has done it and that's what Jane Schoenbrun's We're All Going to the World's Fair feels like; the one creepypasta that was actually scary. The trans filmmaker draws on these formative online experiences for her incredibly strong directorial debut.

Casey (debuting actor Anna Cobb) is a teenager that seeks out distraction in a popular creepypasta "The World's Fair Challenge". After commencing the challenge with a filmed ritual that involves smearing blood on her laptop screen, she continues to create videos which contribute to a growing community and expanding lore claiming to document the challenge's sinister consequences. People say they're losing feeling in their bodies or turning into plastic. Casey is a horror movie fan and decides that it would be fun to live in one. You get the impression she'd like to live anywhere else. Cobb is immediately outstanding, pulling off her portrayal of being young, alone and too online with a similar intimate familiarity to Schoenbrun. The way she looks into the camera can only come from the eyes of someone who has seen a liveleak video.

We never see Casey with friends or family (although we hear her father once) and this loneliness is deeply felt throughout the runtime with us rarely leaving the perspective of a laptop or camera. Where else is an isolated teenager to look to other than the webcam? In the occasional bursts of an outside world for Casey, we see a generic snow covered woods and a barn where her father stores a rifle. The shots in these moments are cold and distant, filled with a general dislike and disassociation with the outside world. Schoenbrun likes their horror quiet and subdued, shots regularly hang still for uncomfortable and odd amounts of time accompanied by a droning and effective score from Alex G.

Like with any good online storytelling, the great tension is whether or not Casey's videos are real experiences and she's a mentally unwell adolescent putting herself at risk or is really an inventive online filmmaker. This is asked in the film by another World's Fair participant. The film also occasionally follows JLB (Michael J. Rogers), a middle aged man who begins messaging Casey, into a massive empty house with the seemingly sole lived in space being his office that couldn't feel further from the girl's bedroom.

I've never seen anything attempt to truly capture being a chronically online youth before, but it's hard to imagine anything doing it better. With it's truly unique and fresh take and style, We're All Going to the World's Fair is a must watch that you'll never forget. Jane Schoenbrun is an extremely unique and exciting voice and I very much look forward to seeing their future work.

[rickity-rickity-i-need-help]

Okay, so here's what had happened.

I originally started writing a Rick C137 x Reader fic. The mc is non-binary / gender neutral, and they were gonna be a type of space traveler kinda like Rick. It was gonna be super rad, I still have a hella long outline for the story, and i'm definitely gonna write it eventually.

But then I started brainstorming a one shot-

Again, it was C137 x reader. However, this time, it was just gonna be like a one-off scenario where Rick is absolutely blackout drunk, and he tries to kill the mc. Is it healthy? Probably not- but then neither is Rick. I was really excited about this one shot (and am still writing it- I just thought it needed something and am still workshopping it.)

But THEN.

I read Rickfucker's absolute MASTERPIECE of a story called "10 Ways to Say I Love You" and it was about Young Rick when he was in the freedom fighters x reader. That story was so immaculate. So unbelievably good- it got my head spinning on a Young Rick x reader fic.

(Because bro, who doesn't love Star Wars? That shit slaps. That kind of story would slap- and thus I got REALLY INTO WRITING ONE.)

And now my brain is spinning a beautiful idea of a Rick Prime x reader fic that has something to do with the finite curve (because I just rewatched season 5 ep 10 and It slaps so hard holy shit.)

But now my brain is spinning, bro. Idk which one to work on first. Is it sustainable to work on several at once? Is there one that's more appealing? I'm kinda lost, man, lol.

I'm probably gonna finish the Young Rick one first if I'm being completely honest here. That one is so fun to write. But then again- so is the Rick Prime one. I'm very much scrambled and in need of fanfiction to the point where my brain is writing it, bro.

Help me I am deeply mentally unwell.

[yeastymuffin]

It is well into thursday afternoon, the curse of living in Europe i guess, but I'll still post something for the wip wednesday. Thanks for tagging me @paperstomach!! :D

I don't know which one of my mutuals are working on stuff, so if you see this, feel free to share your wips (even if it isn't wednesday) and tag me in it if you want some feedback or just a fun comment ^-^

I have two things I am working on at the moment (three if you include my thesis 🤐) so I'll post both. One being a sapphic Victorian-esque ghost story about a haunted hotel near the beach. The second being my recently revived medieval Brittana fic inspired by this piece of art by @katimanki

At the bottom, below the 'read more' link, is the first chapter of the Brittana fic. It's like 5k words so enjoy! (@unholy-fabray you seemed interested so I'm posting this for u <3)

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

Premise: Addie and Dolly are riding horseback on the beach. This is the first time they are being honest to eachother about what they are dealing with (Addie being mentally unwell, and Dolly caring deeply for her)

Addie shared a look of deep earnest. A heaviness settled upon hers shoulders. The weight of which her companion shared, for she halted her steed, letting the silence beg for Addie to answer the unspoken question.

“I want to be emaciated.” She said at last. “To feel the same kind of instinctual hunger the gulls feel as a need to drive them up into the sky. That way, and that way alone, could I explain why I feel the way I feel.”

A breath of silence fell between them. The gulls sailed low today, feeding on what tiny creatures hid beneath the surface of the sand. Dolly watched the birds with a naïve kind of curiosity as they spread their wings to glide up each time a wave got to shore with the intent to wipe away all that was before – the rhythm of which never seemed to tire.

“Well then, it must be so.” She spoke. Her face contorted in a stern frown. “But only long enough for you to explain it to me. Then, afterwards, when you sink away in the despair you cried out, let me raise your chin and fill you with love. Let me fill you till it comes out of your nose, and I will wipe away the snot, and hold you, and tell you all can be well. If only you let yourself feel it.”

✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦ . 　⁺ 　 . ✦

AAAAAND THE GLEE FIC:

Long Live: chapter one

Throughout the evening the regular folk enters the taverns until a lively buzz of songs sung by drunk rumbles through the streets. Every so often, when a drunkard is kicked out for becoming too rowdy, a passerby would be able to distinctly make out the lyrics of the drinking song as the words roll of tens of stumbling tongues. Where each tavern poured their own ale, so were the songs and festive hymns hand crafted and specific to the place.

The Vulgar Elderberry, known by locals as the most disorderly and unrestrained pub of the city, where middle-aged men go to pick fights and prostitutes make a humble fortune, is as busy as usual. At every hour of the day there is a group of drunk men, but as soon as the sun goes down the benches and stools fill till the early morning sun peeks over the horizon.

Santana, who might as well be wearing Hans Christian Andersen’s red dancing shoes, is having a blast. With only a bat of her eyes a new drink finds its way to her hand. Men are at her feet with every sway of her hips or twirl of the skirt. And they are at her feet in the literal sense since she is up on her third table of the night. Drunkards are watching her from below, tongues nearly rolling out of their mouth and on the sticky surface of the table which has seen the spillage of many a beer.

On the table next to her is a blonde girl she has seen a couple times before. She does not know her name but somehow they always end up at the same tavern and decide to entertain the guests together. Though it is clear the girl does this on a regular basis, dancing into the early hours of the day, Santana thinks she is decently able to keep up in her drunken haze.

The regular bard is strumming away on a lyre, his beautiful song drowned out by the intoxicated attempts of the patrons singing along. Santana has reached the point where the loud chants do not sound loud anymore and the world is engulfed in a blanket of bliss. Yes, this means she sometimes misses a beat or nearly hits one of the guys who is sitting at her table in the face when she kicks her leg up, but hey, she is at the Elderberry. Any visitor is bound to come home with multiple bruises.

At a dark corner of the bar she sees someone dressed in a dark cloak and a blue tunic. The guest has had two mugs of beer at most and has been looking at her intensely all night. Santana, being a glutton for attention and praise, dances harder for every guy staring at her but tonight she has been dancing for this visitor and this visitor alone. Sharp eyes ogle her from under the hood, face inexpressive no matter how suggestive her dancing gets.

If anyone is sober enough to pay attention to the relatively tall visitor in blue, they would notice how out of place the person is. Not only does the person look too old to still be dressed as a squire, the light blue fabric of the tunic is too expensive for any commoner to wear to a pub like this. A night without a fight is rare, and though people like to show off their riches and power in any social setting, the average response to vanity in the Vulgar Elderberry is a punch to the throat. To wear a light blue dyed linen tunic is asking for trouble.

Santana’s eye fucking gets interrupted when she feels a slosh of beer hit her feet. Still dancing, she looks down at the two guys who just toasted too zealous for the state of their motor control. Their spilled toast is all over the table. She shouts a string of curse words at them and not so subtly stomps in the pool of beer, trying to splash them back.

Too drunk or turned on – or both – to care, the men wipe the drops of beer from their face and out of their beards. Two pairs of lust filled eyes look at her, not registering the thundercloud that is forming above Santana’s head. The bald one barks at her like a dog, which encourages another fellow at her table to howl at her. All night, men have whistled and jeered at her but now most guests are unable to remember how much they had to drink. The last bit of Santana’s rationale takes over. Too much exhilaration will lead to men grabbing her for a dance and trying to suck her tongue out of her mouth, which is the last thing she wants.

Helplessly, she looks over at her blonde friend as she twirls, which may not be the best thing to do as she is certain she would trip if asked to walk in a straight line. Still, Santana never said her rationale was logical or the most efficient. After a couple twirls, she finally meets the eyes of her friend who frowns at her, asking what is wrong. Santana nods to her feet where one of the men is trying to grab at her dress to smell it. The girl nods, having understood the cry for help, then looks at her own crowd of drunk men and smiles teasingly.

“Me and my friend here are kind of getting bored.” The girl shouts. Santana is barely able to make out what is trying to say despite their close proximity. The men at her feet perk up, ready to serve this nymph anything as long as it gets her to keep dancing for them.

One guy jumps up on the bench and props one of his feet on the table. He extends an arm and reaches out for the girl. She places her hand in his outstretched hand. He grabs it tenderly and kisses it. Despite the softness of the kiss, which feels out of place seeing the tavern they are in, it is the lewdest thing Santana has seen all evening. She gawks at the sight. There might as well have been two people going at it doggy style on the table next to her.

“Two ale for these lovely broads who have been entertaining us all evening.” The guy screams at the bar.

“It’s on the house!” the bartender yells back as he puts two large mugs on the dark oak surface of the bar. An ocean of hands reaches out to bring the mugs to their destination.

A hand grabs Santana’s lower arm. Ready to fight off a man who cannot keep his hands to himself, Santana spins around to face her assailant, fist in the air ready to punch a bloody nose. To her surprise, it is the girl. She is leaning dangerously far forward and beckons for Santana to join her on her table. Assisted by a steady tug, she jumps over to the table. Delighted when her shoes do not stick to the table top, a luxury her old table did not have.

The girl does not let go of her. Repositioning her hand instead and intertwines their fingers together, her other hand finds Santana’s waist. The blonde turns her head and screams something at the bard. Santana is too drunk to hear it, overwhelmed by the sudden close proximity and the intense brown eyes the girl has.

“Dance with me.” She says. And Santana does.

Never before has she danced a peasant partner dance. After a minute of stepping on toes and legs tangling in skirts, she understands the rhythm of the dance. She smiles brightly at her partner when she figures it out. The girl grins back, all shiny teeth and pink lips.

Beneath her, the men’s clapping slowly increases. Santana dances like it is the only thing she has ever done in her life. Her body moves on its own, keeping up with the pace that grows faster by the second.

They hop and twirl and shimmy. Without looking away from the girl, Santana knows her whirling her red dress and the orange dress of her partner creates for an impressive sight. Two flames growing brighter and brighter in an endless waltz until they burn up together.

They dance on and on. The muscles in her legs are screaming at her to stop, but Santana cannot help it. If this is where she dies, dancing on a table in a disgustingly dirty tavern, so be it. May the heavens find her exhausted soul and realise that for once she enjoyed what she was doing with every fibre of her being.

One of the gods must have heard her death wish, as in the next second one of Santana’s feet slips off the table and she nearly tumbles into the lap of a sweaty, overweight guy. The only thing keeping her on her podium is the blonde girl who instantly drags her back on her feet.

The delirium of her aching body is taking over, or perhaps she is a lot more drunk than she thought she was. An all-consuming laughter bubbles up from her stomach and leaves her body. She looks like a maniac, but she cannot find the energy to care. There is no one here able to scold her for her unruly behaviour. The chest pressed against hers starts moving in shocks. The girl, too, is laughing hysterically.

She needs a full minute to get her laughter under control. Suddenly, as the last hiccups of her giggle die down, she realises she is still clinging to the girl who is sweaty and hot under her grip. A droplet of sweat rolls down the girl’s neck and pools behind her collarbone. Aware of the heaving chest pressed against hers, and the inappropriate intimacy Santana lets go. Albeit hesitantly.

The girl smiles at her, bright eyed, then turns to the men at their feet. “Where are those beers? I feel hot!” She knows exactly how to play a crowd.

“Yes you are!” A guy screams from a couple tables over.

A large mug filled to the brim is pressed in Santana’s hand by the girl. Her head is spinning. If she drinks this and keeps on dancing, she will sleep in the gutter tonight. Having sweat off half of her body weight, Santana takes a big gulp of her beer. She cringes when the lukewarm liquid fills her mouth, having expected the beer to be cold.

“Chug! Chug! Chug!” A guy with a sophisticated moustache chants. He must be a notary of some sorts during the day.

The blonde nudges Santana with her hip and lifts her mug suggestively. Not really caring much for her future self, Santana lifts her own mug with a devilish grin. They toast clumsily, spilling a fair amount as the mugs hit and start chugging.

From across the room, Santana makes eye contact with the peculiar visitor as she chugs her beer. Wanton from dancing, Santana decides to do something she has never done before. With her free hand, she undoes two buttons of her dress, showing off her cleavage. Nearly finished with her beer, she pulls the mug away from her mouth ‘accidentally’ spilling the remainder which drips down her chin and disappears between her breasts.

The cheers of the crowd beneath her leave her cold. Still, Santana bites away her smugness. She caught the visitor biting her lip and fumbling with the belt, hands restless from seeing Santana act all licentious. The victorious smile on her face is hard to supress so she turns to her still nameless friend and focuses her attention on her.

Her heart is running in circles behind her ribcage and kicking up a storm. A heat is growing from deep within and burns her up from the inside. It is dizzying. Santana feels like she can puke at any moment.

The girl says something.

“What?” Santana asks confused.

“It’s Quinn.” The girl repeats. Santana blinks. She does not remember asking the girl for her name, but she must have. Whilst she struggled to keep the content in her stomach inside, her body must have taken over and made small talk. Like when her mind goes away to that special place where she can run away on the back of a horse and ride into the sunset, while her body is talking about the current affairs of the kingdom with some stuck up duke.

“Are you okay? Do you need to sit down?” Quinn asks. Her eyes warm with worry. Santana wishes she can take her home. Quinn seems like a person you can be truly honest with, who would not judge you for the demons in your head.

Santana shakes her thoughts away. She forces herself to take a couple deep breaths. “Yeah, I’m good. The dancing wore me out.” She says. “I’m San- Rosario. Rosario San Cruz I think we’ve met before.”

“Quinn Fabray.” Quinn grabs her hand and spins her around. The soft fabric of Santana’s red dress undulates in graceful waves as she twirls. “We have. I remember because I never had a dance partner that’s able to keep up with me the way you do.”

“Why thank you.” Santana says demure, instinctively bowing elegantly as she takes the compliment. As Santana comes back up she bites her tongue to keep from smiling too hard. Though it’s too late. This Quinn girl has already brought out her cheek dimples. Santana hates them. She is usually pretty good at showing off a certain emotion when really she is feeling something else, but when her cheek dimples show, everyone can see she is truly happy in and out. Information which she prefers not to give away.

Quinn takes Santana’s mug with one hand and holds her other hand up invitingly. “May I have another dance with you, Rosario?” She says with an accent mocking the highbrow and royals.

“But of course you may.” Santana grabs the hand, responding in the same accent.

Quinn regards her, then pecks a kiss to each of the mugs and throws them behind her without looking, like a bride throwing her bouquet. Men dive after the mugs, deeming them worth more than jewellery. Not even a peregrine falcon diving after its prey is as fast.

The bard is playing a joyful song, Quinn sings along softly as she leads Santana. Santana cannot fully commit to the dance however, she keeps one eye on the men fighting over the mug - not trusting it will simply blow over. The tension she had tried escaping by going here has returned. The tiny demon running around in her skull is pulling on all the strings, creating doom scenarios of what could happen. Ranging from a simple barfight to a dragon ripping the roof of the tavern and burning them all alive.

“Stop thinking.” Quinn points out sharply. “This is the third time you’ve stepped on my foot and your eyes keep darting to the side. I know for a fact you’re not distracted by a handsome knight.”

Santana frowns at what Quinn might be implying. “What? I totally like knights.”

“Yeah, who doesn’t?” Quinn lets go of her for a second to do her own little freestyle whilst she stares at the guy whose hand she kissed earlier. “But I don’t see them here. Just enjoy the moment. Worries are for tomorrow.”

Quinn’s hands find her body again and she leads them into a high tempo waltz. Santana gets twirled around again, seemingly Quinn’s favourite move, and lets her thoughts fly away from her as she spins around.

In anticipation of the dip Quinn leads her into she takes a deep breath and closes her eyes. Arms stretched out dramatically, she fully trusts the hands around her waist to not drop her. Her long, dark hair nearly brushes the table top. Her flair for the dramatics is appreciated as whistles and shouts fill the air, shortly drowning out the music.

Then she is pulled back up, rougher than she expected. A yelp escapes her mouth as she crashes into Quinn. Instinctively, her feet position themselves so she is ready to waltz away but the lead does not come. Quinn is looking at something behind her then hisses in her ear. “Duck.”

Before Santana can ask what is going on, firm hands grab her shoulders and she is pushed downwards. With a thud she falls on her ass on the table top. Tears jump in her eyes at the sharp pain that shoots up her spine. Her skin will be bruised for a week. One foot is in the lap of a passed out drunk guy. Carefully, she tries to remove her foot and crawl of the table. A heavy body crashes into her and nimbly slides off the table.

“There is no time to be nice.” Quinn chides. Rudely, she drags Santana to her feet and checks her over. By then, Santana realises the side of the table they are on is empty, aside for the passed out guy. The gears in her head are turning as she looks around. People are chanting, not the regular songs, but cheering and howling. Instead of the low notes of a mostly male choir, deep aggravated grunts fill the air.

The chanting, together with the groups forming between the tables click in Santana’s head. There are fights happening. Multiple.

“I knew the mugs were going to cause trouble.” Santana says to no one in particular as she looks at the fight at the opposite side of the table. A shoe flies through the air and hits a guy who had previously nursed his beer unbothered. Agitated from the beer that spilled all over his tunic he grabs the shoe and throws it back, hitting a different bystander in the face. The bystander makes a face that can only be described as an toad blown up with anger, and stalks towards the guy with heavy steps, nearly stumbling over a nearby bench.

“Good for you genius. We have to go.” Quinn snipes. Her hand locks around Santana’s forearm. With difficulty, Santana keeps up with the swift pace with which Quinn moves through the maze of tables and drunk, fighting barbarians. The closer they get to the exit, the rowdier things become.

The tavern has been filled to the brim the whole evening. Multiple fights are breaking out and escalating. In the chaos of fallen benches, mugs flying through the air and people being pushed over or stumbling away in a drunken stupor, it is hard for two women to fight their way through the crowd. Quinn pushes herself in the slowly moving stream of exiting people, attempting to pull Santana with her.

“Wait!” Santana shouts at Quinn. “I’m missing someone.”

“Forget it.” Quinn shouts back over her shoulder. “We need to leave now or a guy unruly from fighting thinks he needs a victory prize.”

Santana looks back but her vision gets blocked by two tall guys behind her, seemingly brothers. All around her are sweaty bodies. The air smells of barf and wet, dirty clothes. Her arms are pressed to her body. If people are not careful she will be crushed like grain in a mill. The only thing that is keeping her from fully panicking is the death grip Quinn has on her.

All of a sudden the pushing from behind stops, but before she can look behind her to see what happened, a strong arm wraps around her waist. She is yanked out of Quinn’s grip and dragged backwards. She screams in surprise, then a second animalistic scream leaves her throat fuelled by pure anxiety.

Quinn was right. A burly guy who has had too much to drink thinks he owns the world and anyone in it. In order to truly feel like the king he is, he needs his little princess to entertain him. And he has decided Santana will be that princess.

Her whole body stiffens. She is a drawn bow ready to let go. This is yet another guy who thinks she is only good for one thing. His audacity is as big as a dragon and his regard for the thoughts and feelings of others is as true as the existence of gnomes – just a fable. He is a dirty pig, just like the rest of the scum that fills this tavern each night. In a blind fit of rage, she turns around and punches the guy square in the face. Then adds another punch at the nose, for good measure.

Instantaneously, the person lets go of her and grabs at their face. Then throws the hood they are wearing off their face. Two angry and confused blue eyes stare back at her.

“Santana, what the hell?”

“Oh my god Britt I’m so sorry.” Shocked, Santana clasps two hands over her mouth.

Brittany, her self-acclaimed bodyguard and partner in crime, is standing in front of her. Blood seeps from her nose and between her fingers down her chin, dripping on her sky blue tunic. It will suck to wash the blood out later.

“What did I tell you? If something happens. You find me and we take the back exit.” Brittany’s tone is razor sharp despite her the slightly nasal tone from pinching her nose. It cuts through Santana’s heartstrings. Never before has her friend ever been this angry with her, and Santana has gotten entangled in big messes.

Santana nods quietly. Even her mother’s tyrannical scolding has never hurt as much as this. She grabs Brittany’s clean, outstretched hand and lets herself be lead outside. Whether Brittany has threatened the bartender or has found a way to pull some strings Santana does not know. Regardless, they exit through a hatch in the basement through which the beer barrels are transported.

The side street is quiet. There is a light drizzle but Santana refuses to wear the cloak Brittany offers her. She tells herself it is because Brittany will need it later on, as she will face the elements face first as they ride back home on their horse, not because she feels ashamed therefore refusing any comfort.

Brittany holds her close as they walk to the stable. The bleeding has stopped, but she sports a dark red moustache on her upper lip. More smears of blood cover her chin, cheeks and hand. Santana’s ears are buzzing and the ground sways like the sea. She hopes she will not have to puke later the evening, or worse, wake up in the middle of the night and having to find a tub to puke in. Besides her obvious drunk ailment, she is aware of her exhaustion. She just wants to cling to Brittany as she rides, maybe cry a little, and lay in bed.

They do not share a single word until they reach the stable. By that time, her intensely beating heart as calmed down, and the rush and fear from the last few moments in the tavern feel like a dream. In spite of that, Santana still knows it really happened. With every step she takes, she is reminded through a growing bruise on her ass. She sighs as Brittany pulls her pockets inside out for a pair of keys.

“I’m sorry.” Punching Brittany square in the face is not something she ever thought she would do. The shame and hurt inside her do not subside. On the contrary, they keep growing. Santana knows she did something very, very wrong.

Brittany sticks the key in the lock and pushes open the heavy stable door. “I should be sorry. For stealing these keys of the stableboy. He probably got into a lot of trouble for losing these.” Brittany jingles the keys. She grabs a burning oil lamp that hangs on a nearby hook and turns it up, leading them to Fleetwood.

The gelding is chewing his hay loudly. Being the glutton he is, he attempts to take a couple last bites as Brittany pulls him from the stable. Santana watches with her arms crossed as Brittany tightens the girth. She is swaying lightly on her feet, too intoxicated to stand still. They left Fleetwood in his tack with the knowledge they would be back within a couple hours and wanting to leave as soon as possible - maybe even fleeing from a scene.

“After you, my lady.” Brittany bows elegantly as she lets Santana get on first.

A bit unstable, Santana climbs on the back of the tall, grey dappled horse. She has climbed on many a steed with a dress, but alcohol is a consistent humbler and makes even the greats question their skill if they consume enough. Once she sits secure with both her legs on one side Brittany leads the horse outside by the reins and locks the stable again. She then pushes the keys through a gap between two planks of the door.

It is as if they were never there.

Santana is staring at the stars when she feels the saddle underneath her shake. Brittany climbs on behind her. She watches as Brittany makes her red dress disappear by pulling the dark cloak over her legs, protecting her from the cold of the night. A warm hand splays over her stomach, pressing her into the squire’s body. Unconsciously, Santana chooses to believe Brittany wants to feel her close, and that it’s not an act to keep her from slipping off the horse’s back.

With the slightest pressure of Brittany’s feet, Fleetwood takes off in the direction of the castle. His heavy hooves echo through the narrow city streets, a nuisance to anyone who is not vast asleep. Santana cannot muster up enough energy to care, both her body and mind exhausted from drinking and dancing.

“I danced the whole night.” Santana mumbles as soon as they reach the edge of the city. Fleetwood steps sound muffled on the dirt. The words fall off her tongue with difficulty, the muscle too ungainly to pronounce words properly.

Brittany nudges her cheek with her nose. She hums. “That you did.”

“And, I made a friend.”

“You always make friends. You’re very charming.”

“Yeah but, she’s a real friend.” Santana turns to face Brittany, since she is sitting sideways on the horse she does not have to turn much. Nonetheless, the hand around her waist clings on tighter, making sure she does not fall off. “Like… We talked. We had a connection.”

“Sounds amazing.” Brittany deadpans, her focus on the dark trail ahead as she encourages Fleetwood to counter.

“You don’t have to hold on so tight.” The grip of the hand on her hip is bordering on painful. “I’m drunk. Not dumb. I can sit on a horse.” The grip slackens, albeit a little bit.

By the time they reach the castle, Santana is sure she is not imagining the tension between her and her best friend. Normally, Brittany would guide Fleetwood in an easy canter once they leave town until they reach the open field. From there, they would watch the lights on the castle walls grow bigger, Fleetwood walking at his own pace.

Brittany would reminisce about funny figures she saw at the bar or how she won the rigged game of dice. Santana would giggle, perhaps even laugh vehemently in that way only Brittany can make her laugh. She would ask how she did it, how does one cheat the cheater. Brittany would stay silent, and smile a smug smile that makes Santana melt like cream on a warm cake. In those moments, with her head nestled underneath Brittany’s chin as she listens and the light of the stars guiding them home, Santana feels normal.

Any sane person would argue it is extremely dangerous, two girls on a horse in the middle of an open field at night. Raiders or anyone who is uncivilised enough to attack random people could easily sneak up on them and overpower them. Perhaps it is exactly that, the fear of being raided, something any peasant on a trip fears, is what makes her feel normal. Between the castle walls, there is always one pair of eyes on her at least. Where the most vile thing that can happen is someone dropping her new gown on the floor. There, the things she fears most being Miss Corcoran’s lectures about taxes or her father finding out about her nightly escapades, which don’t seem so bad when compared to being held at knifepoint in the dark.

Besides the couple sentences they spoke at the beginning of the ride, they have not talked at all. Brittany forced Fleetwood to canter home without taking a rest, making no effort to enjoy the nighttime through laughs.

Santana feels like an intruder as she watches Brittany remove the tack and makes Fleetwood comfortable for the night. She lingers in the walkway between the stables and pretends to be busy with one of Fleetwood’s neighbours. When the horse retreats her head and there is nothing around Santana can distract herself with. She mumbles an apology.

“What?” Brittany sticks her head out of the stable she is in.

“I’m sorry.” Santana repeats, supressing her usual jeering. She never repeats an apology. She barely even apologises for things in the first place. So, if Brittany can simply accept her apology that angry feeling in the pit of her stomach will go away and they can both sleep soundly.

For a moment they just stare at each other. Brittany’s face is blank, but Santana knows she is thinking. She can tell by the way Brittany keeps tapping the handle of the bucket she is holding with her index finger. She is bothered.  

Brittany sighs deeply, closing her eyes for a moment. “It’s okay. It just… hurts.” She flashes a forced smile.

They confronted the problem, talked about it, and Santana apologised. Perhaps not in that order, but it doesn’t matter. Things are a-okay again, starting now. There is totally no reason for tension anymore, Santana decides.

“Yeah.” Santana lets out a shaky breath. “Let me at least clean you up.”

As response she gets a smirk that blooms into a toothy grin. And now Santana knows things truly are okay again.

Quietly Brittany shuts the door that leads to the kitchen. Santana lights up a discarded oil lamp and searches for some rags in drawers. Which, despite the light of the lamp, is hindered by darkness. She grabs the empty air next to a handle on multiple occasions. Once she finds a clean rag, she dips the cloth in a vat of water that stands off to the side and walks back over to Brittany who perched herself on the table. Next to Brittany is a tray covered by clean cloths, the surface of which billowed by the pastries underneath.

“Do you really think they’ll miss one or two?”

“Mercedes worked really hard on them. They’re for the feast tomorrow.” Santana puts the oil lamp on the table and brings up the damp cloth to brush of the dried blood. “Or tonight, I guess.”

“Another one of those stupid dinner parties? Didn’t you have one a couple days ago?” Brittany scrunches her face. The cold cloth uncomfortable against her skin.

“I did.” Santana responds factually. “My parents are inviting all the princes from neighbouring kingdoms and hope I like one. That way no more stupid knights die from Sapphian. Apparently she already has 110 documented deaths since she first appeared, not counting the peasants she kills when she raids the nearby towns. Half of those deaths are our own knights.”

“Never come between a dragon and her treasure.” Brittany says solemnly, then grins.

“You’re so weird.” Santana scoffs, feigning annoyance.

Brittany wraps her legs around Santana’s waist and pulls her close, locking her feet together at the ankles. “You love it.” She teases.

Santana hums in agreement. She ignores whatever Brittany is doing with her hair. She assumes the squire is braiding the strand of hair, judging by the repetitive tugging on the left side of her forehead. When she deems Brittany clean, she grabs a dry part of the rag and wipes off the damp skin.

Brittany pulls a face of disgust and lifts her head backwards, away from the dusty cloth, and wipes her lips with the back of her hand. “It’s good. You know I hate that.”

“You prefer staying wet?”

Instantly, she regrets her word choice. Brittany bursts out laughing. Santana punches her lightly in the stomach, directly in a patch of dried blood. She wipes her knuckles clean, an annoyed frown on her face.

“The gods punish immediately.” Brittany smirks. She sits back, leaning on her elbows. She has this smug twinkle in her eyes that messes with Santana’s head. She hates it, and Brittany is very much aware of that. The legs around her hips tense up, squeezing slightly in a teasing manner.

Brittany stares at her for a while. The light of the lamp reflects in the corner of her eyes and highlights a few loose strands of hair. This observation jogs Santana’s memory. She looks down to see a tiny, messily braided tuft of hair. She picks it up to get a closer look.

“You know Tina is going to brush it out in the morning, right?”

Brittany shrugs. “’s our little secret.”

For a few seconds Santana simply stares at her. “I am way too drunk for riddles right now.”

“I meant,” Brittany sits up and reaches over towards the tray of pastries and grabs two, “that only we know who ate these.” She bites into her enthusiastically, spilling crumbs all over the table and her lap. She presses the other one to Santana’s lips, waiting for her to bite it.

Santana gives her one of her ‘are you serious’ stares but bites when Brittany keeps pressing. She moans obscenely when the flavours of the icing and the berry filling blend in her mouth. She stuffs the rest of the pastry in her mouth.

“These are so good.”

“Told you we should try them.”

Santana rolls her eyes. Not knowing what to do with her hands, she plants them on Brittany’s warm thighs. “You always want a bite of everything when there is food available. You’re always hungry.”

“Yeah, but these are Mercedes’ pastries, so they make me like, extra hungry.” Brittany waggles her eyebrows.

“Weirdo.” Santana says through a yawn. She wants to touch the tip of Brittany’s nose lovingly but instead presses her finger into the cheek beside it. She frowns, annoyed with her own failure to perform a simple task. Brittany watches her for a moment, then jerks into action.

“Let’s get you to bed, my lady.” She says solemnly. Her feet untangle and drop to the side, finally freeing Santana from her leg trap.

As they sneak to Santana’s room, Santana anticipates getting her cuddle on; The only thing that will help her survive the tedious dinner tomorrow.

[yume-fanfare]

hajime shino please? 👉👈 also do shu enstars pls.....

hajime!!!! my boy

favorite thing about them: where do i even start. i don't know what to say. everything. he's such an interesting character. he's just like me fr. his growth means so much to me. maybe the fact that he's afraid of change but he is now facing it with a smile! harenohi sugar wave means so much to me

least favorite thing about them: i wish he'd stop getting relegated to support roles and helping others for a bit. i really want a character development story in !! era like romantic comedy or sweet halloween

favorite line: can i copypaste the entirety of sweet halloween. i remember seeing a translator say that it was one of the hardest stories to tl that they had ever worked on alskjdmlsjkdm. but yeah, i have to answer the "if there's a wall blocking your way, then i'll lead you to an alternate route. we should be able to build some muscle as we're walking, and we'll get to experience new things" because i think it's such a nice mentality! if you can't keep going forward to your objective and need to take an alternate route, it's no problem! you're just building muscle

brOTP: said it with tori and i'll say it again: hajitori!!!!!! loev them. besties. and well of course ra*bits as a whole. i love that he has so many friends <3

OTP: tomohaji make me unwell ❤

nOTP: none!

random headcanon: he's autistic guys. he's sooo autistic

unpopular opinion: you guys need to understand that he actually does want to be cute! while he's still in the process of deciding what he wants to do with his future, right now, he wants to be cute and is working to be a cute idol. ive talked about this already but he chose to wear the skirt in his fs1 outfit! because, as he himself said in the story, it is an outfit only the him of right now could wear

song i associate with them: i've been thinking of miraizu..... plus since in his last event there was the scene of him talking to his past self and everything waahh

favorite picture of them: ensemble-stars.fandom.com/wiki/Hajime_Shino/Gall- i think his fs1 is perfect <3 heals your soul

and shu! legend <3

favorite thing about them: theres actually many other things i like but even if it sounds shallow. his aesthetic sense is so good. valk's theme and music are Everything i love them sooo much they go so hard

least favorite thing about them: hmmm. saying things like his treatment of nazuna or anything doesn't really make much sense because he's behind that already so. hmmmmmmmmm i'm not sure there's anything i dislike rn, i'm enjoying his growth

favorite line: man. can i say the entire human comedy monologue. you know the one. "humanity is, for example, the will that one requires to kil that which they love deeply". that monologue. but also, as simple as it may be, "at the same time, i wish from the bottom of my heart to be an artist" really, really resonated with me. yeah, i do, too.

brOTP: the eccentrics!!! <333

OTP: honestly it's not even necessarily in a romantic sense because whatever they have going on is. truly something else, but shmk are. whoa

nOTP: none i think!

random headcanon: pushing my agenda of i think he should be a terrible mentor figure to tori's little sister. they would be so fun

unpopular opinion: ik theres people who get tired of enstars monologues but well i think he should talk as much as possible i eat that up

song i associate with them: the doll's dream's vibes are Off The Charts. it's not necessarily that the lyrics fit but you HAVE to listen to it.

favorite picture of them: i'm a huge fan of his chocofes bloomed!!! love

[captainderyn]

🖊 🖊 Handing you some pens for your Nine & Five 👀 It is always IA time in my brain

*falls to knees before you* pls take my eternal love for asking about my AGENTS. HNNG.

This is going under a readmore whoops.

Quick and dirty tl;dr for those who haven't been here for the full Deryn Lore: Cipher Five (Valetyn Slovoko) and Cipher Nine (Erabelle Torven) were two OCs of mine up until about ~2/3 years ago now when I took an extended break from SWTOR. I'm not constantly on the cusp of bringing them back, without their previous ties.

OKAY with that out of the way:

Era/Nine:

Era is my canon Cipher Nine, she goes through the whole story line and all that fun stuff.

She "met" Five when she was a college student at the Intelligence Academy (side note: kind of view that like the US military colleges, someone in The Olde SWTOR Days had worldbuilding with that, cannot remember who ugh) and came across mission reports and stories of Cipher Five in his glory days of field work. He was The Example used when talking about what an effective cipher agent was. He became her idol and her idea of the standard she was working towards.

She finally met him personally when he was the temporary instructor in one of her training classes for a semester and it turned out he was...rough. Aloof, seemingly arrogant, and downright not what she'd built him up to be. She was devastated, but little did she know that her determination to prove herself to her idol in the face of that aloofness was what honed her existing skills.

Turns out, he's actually just Very Tired and Worn and is really a great man who cares for those in his circle. She leans on him intensely as a mentor and eventually as family.

Era struggles intensely in the IA storyline. The whole trigger word bit almost drives her over the edge. She becomes severely mentally unwell, ruins a lot of her relationships around her on a self-destructive path as she struggles to cope with what feels like losing herself to a puppet. She comes out of it on the other side severely traumatized (who wouldn't be) and it takes her a long time to recover.

She ends up destroying the Codex, refusing to be, what she sees as, a pawn to either side. It has been ~4 years since I've played the IA storyline but I do remember that.

A fun fact about her is that she is a painter, she adores it, and she has a series of pieces that she paints throughout the storyline that get progressively darker. Five finds them in her apartment and that's how he learns that something is deeply wrong, as he was not privy to the knowledge of the mind control Intelligence & Co put on her. It's then that he buckles down to try and get her pulled from the mission, but by then they're in too deep.

Post storyline I still like to think she opens an art gallery on Dromund Kaas and her favorite thing is when she's commissioned to paint murals in people's homes or offices. It brings her peace.

Valetyn/Five:

Val, aka Cipher Five, is my precious grumpy agent man. He's in his ~late 40s when Era begins the Imperial Agent storyline and has been her mentor ever since she joined Imperial Intelligence. He's had a hand in basically every step of her training.

He tends to go by Five rather than Valetyn. He's been an agent so long he feels disconnected from his birth name.

In my canon he's the most senior of the cipher field agents in Imperial Intelligence at the time. By this point the higher ups have most relegated him to doing things behind the scenes on Dromund Kaas while the other agents physically go out into the field, especially as things start to heat up and the higher ups are putting out more and more fires.

As such, he doesn't spend much time in the field, and actually spends most of his time training new agent cadets and bringing along the new cipher agents. He loves this aspect of Imperial Intelligence and he cares deeply for his agents. He does what he can to keep them safe. They all see him as their grumpy Office Dad.

Era unintentionally becomes his prodigy when she comes into training as a cadet. He sees her potential and decides to hone that talent, which then turns into recommending her for a cipher position, which then turns into taking her under his wing and...oh no he sees her as a daughter now, goddamnit, not another Grumpy Man Unintentionally Adopts A Daughter.

He's wracked with guilt over what happens to Era throughout the IA story, personally blaming himself for his hand in training her. He tried to put himself up for the IA mission string, but was told he was too valuable of a resource at home base to risk putting him in the field.

He's a cat person, he has a cat he found in a dumpster that he jokingly calls Agent until the name sticks and he can't change it anymore. This cat is basically a space!Maine Coon.

If he wasn't in Imperial Intelligence he should've been a librarian. He already basically has a library of his own in his home office, with walls of bookshelves and books stacked where he's run out of space. He has one of those book stampers.

He has a younger sister, named Vitaliya (aka V), who is a high ranking enlisted personnel in the Imperial Army. They fell apart for awhile during his years as a cipher agent, where he basically fell off the face of the Earth to his family, but begin to reconnect after Imperial Intelligence is disbanded. She teases him all the time that he's married to his work, he isn't amused.

[a-flickering-soul]

do kylux for the ask meme 😳 you + me = mental illness

i love you so much for sending this in this truly is the mortifying ordeal of being known

putting this under a readmore because it is LITCHERALLY 1.2k words because i am literally clawing at the walls of my enclosure about these two

ANYWAYS go ahead and send me a character and i’ll give you some headcanons bc im having fun doing these!!!

Kylo Ren

Sexuality Headcanon: ambiguously queer. Don’t make me think about him having sex he makes me so angry

Gender Headcanon: he Must be a cis man. He has so much mommy issues. He is such an incel. He is so full of toxic masculinity. He must be a cis man.

A ship I have with said character: Kylux. Every single angle you take this ship from it’s funny and good. Canon—they hate each other and want each other dead. AU—they still hate each other but they’re (probably) less fascist and genocidal. It’s just so funny. They are so obsessed with each other. They gaslight each other into love confessions. It’s unreal. I’ve been thinking about Kylux for the past month and I feel like an entire geological age has passed. You can tell I’m a Kylux shipper and a R*ylo anti because I almost exclusively refer to him as Ren instead of Kylo. The gay angel went to superhell for Kylux to go canon in Lego Star Wars (twice) and a kids’ comic book. God mocks me to my face.

A BROTP I have with said character: This got literally shot to shit but post-TFA when a bunch of people headcanoned Rey as Luke’s kid and she and Ren were cousins and he reluctantly babysat her because he was literally ten years older than her (hhhhh.) and they had this weird mildly-contentious relationship as adults where they grudgingly acknowledge they are both the most powerful Force users in the galaxy and are the only ones who mutually understand the legacy they bear and care about each other but also cannot be in the same room together and hold a civil conversation for more than five minutes before resorting to uncomfortable silence. Like when you’re at a family reunion and you’re automatically shunted with the only other kid around your age so you have to make conversation but you are just so fundamentally different there’s nothing to talk about. Unreal.

A NOTP I have with said character: Hhh. R*ylo. I’m one of those evil lesbians who hate that ship viciously and one of my dreams is to be one of the mean antis that that bully a shipper in a story that’s clearly exaggerated or made up and then get cancelled for having good taste.

A random headcanon:  I think he and Phasma used to spar a lot. I keep thinking about the five years he spent on the Finalizer pre-canon and I can’t reasonably justify the Knights of Ren hanging out with him for the entire time on a literal military ship and I like the idea of them being the only people that are reasonably on par physically (I also like how Phasma is an inch taller than him because....whew).

General Opinion over said character: God. He drives me wild. I have a lot of thoughts about him and how good he was in TFA and the pre-canon comics/novels as a really fucking good example of a morally-conflicted villain (especially the comics where it made it really clear that he was very much manipulated and gaslit since like…ten years old). Like! The way he could flip at will from drawing strength from both the light AND dark side of the Force is just!! So cool! The way his strength literally derives from moral conflict is just really interesting to me but….idk the way post-TFA he was thrown into a redemption (Rendemption) arc that hinged on Rey being a literal genuine fascist sympathizer made me just really disappointed. He had a lot of amazing potential to be either a really interesting semi-redeemed Byronic antihero OR a full on unhinged animalistic power-mad villain that Rey has to mercy-kill like a rabid dog. And then. Well. Yeah. I like him a lot in very specific contexts and flat out hate him in most others.

 Armitage Hux

Sexuality Headcanon: gay! He is gay! I have an entire list of reasons why he’s gay and it grows daily! Without a doubt a homosexual! Gay and repressed!

Gender Headcanon: Also a cis guy even though I still do have a lot of half-formed thoughts about gender in the First Order/post-collapse of the Empire society.

A ship I have with said character: Kylux! Again! I’m obsessed with how obsessed Hux is with Ren. He hates him so much it’s unreal. I keep reading the novelizations and thinking so fucking hard about how consumed Hux is with hatred for this one man. He’s so repressed. He’s so damaged. It’s unreal. The brainworms in my head have metamorphosed into moths and they’re flapping their wings so hard they’re disintegrating my grey matter. I think near-daily about how he personally went down to retrieve Ren from the collapse of Starkiller Base and yet would not touch him to drag him to shelter in the Hux graphic novel. Would you take off your glove to check his pulse or would you attempt to feel it through the leather and touch something’s dead skin rather than his living warmth. I’m so deeply unwell.

A BROTP I have with said character: Him and Phasma!!! The way they are on first-name terms with each other….the way one of the few times in the graphic novels you see him smile is when Phasma comes back onto the base…..the way they plotted to kill Brendol together….truly evil mlm/wlw solidarity you simply love to see it

A NOTP I have with said character: Oof I see a lil bit of shipping him with Resistance members (I think I’ve seen him with Rose and also Poe??) and I know TROS made the decision to have him defect from the First Order (out of. again. his obsessive hatred with another man. writing choices.) but it makes me INSANELY uncomfortable seeing people of color being shipped with a literal fascist parody of British colonialism and imperialism lmao like….just ship Kylux bro they’re mutually bad people AND a power couple

A random headcanon: Frankly at this point I joke so much about how much like a sick Victorian orphan he looks like that I could write an entire fake medical file for him but I’ll spare you all and simply say that I am incredibly partial to the headcanon that Hux is a freak that bites string cheese instead of peeling it like a normal person. Also…the implications that he Personally placed the tracker in Ren’s belt rather than someone else, so that he alone could keep tabs on him…..I’m unwell. Enough.

General Opinion over said character: If Ren is a character I love to hate, Hux is a character I hate that I love. I just. I can’t stop thinking about this gay little war criminal. It truly, genuinely baffles the mind how much information there is about him. It triggers that same little part of my brain that goes wild over like. ARGs and stuff. There’s just so much lore. With every new piece of canon or semi-canon information I learn about him I can feel my grip on sanity slipping. He owns a black robe. He has a personal hitman in the First Order ranks to poison people he doesn’t like. He drinks tea. He’s a bastard son. He’s great with kids. He was in charge of a squad of feral orphan child soldiers at five years old. I just. I just don’t get it. I’m enamored with him. His compulsive attention to grooming. His hubris. His ambition. How literally unhinged he is (the “rabid cur” line genuinely lives in my head rent free). The way he systemically killed every single person who saw him weak and abused as a child. There’s just so much to talk about with him. He’s so evil. He’s so fucked up. I love him so deeply. He is such a horrible person and he is so fun to make fun of and he is so fun to think about. God wants there to be a bullet in my head so badly.

[why-this-kolaveri-machi]

you’re not the poison; it’s me.

... um. titans 2.07 absolutely WRECKED me you guys, and i would like to tell you why in excruciating detail:

SPOILERS ahead

(and before i go ahead, i just want to say this: this episode deals with ptsd and psychosis and suicidal ideation explicitly, in ways that even i found difficult to watch. it’s very intense. please keep that in mind if you decide to watch it.)

1. usually genre tv shows like to pile on the trauma but deal with its fallout either rarely or in oblique ways--shots of the character brooding, a couple of ‘candid’ talks filled with frustrating euphemisms, then it’s on to tackling the next plot point. not titans tho--for this show, the trauma is very much the point. the plot is wafer-thin and takes a backseat as the show takes episode after episode to break down its central characters and hammer it in that there are no easy fix-its for complex trauma, and that Dealing with it is a continuous, sometimes lifelong process. it forces you to keep re-evaluating and re-contextualising the actions of these characters and challenges your assumptions.

1.5. for instance: let’s take donna troy. in s1 she was the put-together big sister to dick, content with living her life outside the superhero community while giving sound advice to dick about how he can get his own life back on track. now? she’s a stressed, paranoid wreck, plagued by horrible memories and taking her insecurities out on dick and jason and whoever else is available. deathstroke’s machinations aside, there’s something deeply dysfunctional about the way the original titans operated, the ways they brought both the best and the worst out of each other. it seems like none of them really understood the seriousness of what they were doing until they did something truly terrible that they couldn’t take back, and it was earth-shattering enough that donna completely abandoned her old life to live as a civilian. trigon’s vision for her in 2.01 reminded her that she was fooling herself; coming back to titans tower and actually having to face what made her run away in the first place has broken down the walls she’s spent five years putting up. it’s not pretty to watch, but... it tracks.

2. after having written post after post about dick cracking under relentless stress and the weight of his own guilt complex, it was startling to see him actually fall apart. halluci!bruce was absolutely brutal and really brought home the fact that Good Lord, Dick Grayson Is So Far From Okay That It’s Not Even Funny Anymore. 

because here’s the thing: dick is deeply unwell, and however the show proceeds with his character from here on out, this episode made absolutely no bones about that fact. his single-minded dash to find and kill slade is framed as both irrational and suicidal. he’s visibly on edge, bursting into bouts of uncontrollable rage. he’s shown to carry a guilt complex the size of mount everest, to the point where it actually seems delusional. he’s fucking terrified of abandonment, to the point where he’d rather cut off ties on his own rather than have others leave him. he’s constantly berating himself and this doesn’t give him a moment to sit down and think and try to form a rational plan. halluci!bruce even mentions meds and “uppers and downers” to cope, and i am genuinely concerned that that was what dick actually did to cope in the immediate aftermath of whatever the fuck went down with him and joey and deathstroke. maybe it’s ptsd with a secondary psychosis triggered by nearly losing jason the same way he lost his parents (and massive sleep deprivation, i imagine), or maybe there’s another underlying chronic mental illness. either way, he needs help. 

man but halluci!bruce was vicious. if this is what dick has running in his head at all times, no wonder he broods, and no wonder he takes others admonishing his choices with barely any protest! 

2.25. looking at this from a different perspective, tho, here’s another way in which bruce wayne functions as a symbol on this show. phantom!bruce is how dick normally externalises everything he hates about himself, and this dynamic plays out very literally in this episode. 

interestingly, and somewhat heartbreakingly, it took dick accepting and internalising his low opinion of himself and his veritable ocean of guilt for judgy!bruce wayne to turn into loving, concerned!bruce wayne, who would comfort dick and wipe his tears. (it is entirely heartbreaking that that’s what dick subconsciously craves from bruce.) dick must debase himself for love and acceptance. it’s fucking tragic. 

2.55. and what does it mean--for dick and for his friendships with the og titans--that he’s so convinced that they would leave him if he told them the truth about jericho? for one, even back then, it seemed like dick was doing a lot of the emotional labour for the team: as a leader he both funnelled and executed the team’s plans, with responsibility for the fallout falling unevenly and mostly on his shoulders; he acted as the go-between for the team and bruce, for donna and garth, probably for hank and dawn, given he was dawn’s rebound. later, hank and dawn are visibly concerned by how viciously he fights. after re-forming the titans, he continues to shoulder responsibility for the shit-show that deathstroke rains on them, although he didn’t know deathstroke was alive when he re-opened the tower. of course he thinks that the team will think that he’s beyond redemption if they find out the truth; of course he’d want to go and finish off deathstroke on his own--or die in the process--before any of them finds out. 

2.75. but guys, here’s the thing: in spite of all of this, dick grayson still went around to check on conner and jason and assure the latter that he didn’t blame him for running off on his own. he saw jason standing there on a precipice right at the end, and decided he was going to be opaque anymore, or fall back on what he learned from bruce. he sits down with jason and finally divulges the secret that he had been willing to die to protect--making himself vulnerable to save jason’s life. he’s trying so goddamn hard even though his brain is rioting against him right now and probably has been for years. it’s just--i can’t imagine a truer, more sensitive portrayal of dick grayson than this.

3. watching jason reach his breaking point was,,, Not Fun. it’s one thing to be seemingly passed on like unwanted baggage from guardian to guardian. to be viewed with contempt and impatience when he just wants to make sure his voice isn’t lost in the constant shuffle. to be looked at as an impostor by the very people he looks upto. to be assigned the role of hot-headed fuck-up despite all his attempts to be useful, to prove himself. but to have all of that fall on him all at once on top of (poorly) dealing with a near-death experience? yikes.

3.25. and the horrible, tragic, human part of it all is that donna and the others probably didn’t even know what they were doing to jason by piling on him like that? he’s a relative outsider to both rachel and the og titans. he’s an arrogant prick that’s easy to hate. without dick and gar to stand up for jason, he’s cornered by people who haven’t even gotten to the point of seeing him as a vulnerable kid that’s struggling, just like the rest of them.

3.5. and so the two robins perch on the ledge, each convinced that they are poison that will either kill or drive their friends away. it’s a fraught moment of connection that stops jason from jumping, but he doesn’t step away. both of them are on a precipice in more ways than one; i can only hope they help each other land on the right side.1

also, bruce wayne? send your sons to therapy MY GOD

4. kory and rachel using their awesome powers in concert to cure conner! kory using her cultural background to connect to and help conner! conner mumbling in kryptonian! krypto fucking shooting across the sky with eve on his back! in such a sad and intense episode, it’s important to remember that some fantastic things happened as well!

5. here’s the thing: i don’t think dick killed jericho in the way that he probably thinks he does. dick is a hugely unreliable narrator--that’s been his Thing since s1. part of me thinks jericho should be dead; whatever happened with him and the titans has been built up to be such an earth-shattering event that it would kinda be cheating if he survived anyway. the other bigger part of me says: fuck that noise. JOEY WILSON LIVES, and that’s that

6. gar was sleeping? are you kidding me??? i’m assuming deathstroke drugged him or something so that he wouldn’t be there to Talk Sense and stop these melodramatic fools from tearing into each other. i can only hope that there’s some Big Plans for him down the line. 

[editoress]

🍄,🍁🌾💐- for Byleth twins and/or non-binary Byleth

Pretty sure I’ll combine those ideas, so here are your answers for Byrena and Lethandre!

🍄 What are your OCs favourite snacks? Their favourite comfort food which always cheers them up when they’re down? Favourite meal to make? Do they enjoy baking and cooking and are they any good in the kitchen?

Let me start by saying neither twin is at all picky about food.  (Thank you, mercenary life.)

Byrena in particular, as much as she appreciates good cooking, sees it mostly as sustenance to keep her body going.  She eats whatever is in front of her.  But as far as comforts go, she will take a hot drink over anything in the world.  She knows her way around a kitchen (or a campfire).  But she can’t bake, and she’s far from a master chef.

Lethandre has more discerning taste and is therefore the better cook.  They’re talented at making a meal taste good with very few supplies.  Their favorite thing to make is meat pies---partly because it’s also their favorite thing to eat.  Like By, they take comfort in hot tea, and one good way to tell they’re feeling down is if they make soup.  Leth would be great at baking if someone taught them how.

*

🍁 Where does your OC go when they need to have some time to themself? Would they ever have their own “comfort corner” filled with all the things they like? Do they have a favourite spot outside that feels like its theirs and theirs alone?

Both of them are pretty spartan when it comes to possessions.  They have very few if any items of sentimental value.  Honestly, the twins’ rooms at the monastery are probably depressing for the first six months at least.  And both of them find comfort in keeping their hands busy.

Leth’s instinct is to go up when they need alone time.  They used to climb trees a lot, and sometimes they still do.  If they want to be alone, you can usually find them on a top floor, on a balcony, or even on a roof.  That said, Leth generally only seeks out alone time when they need to think something over uninterrupted.  And they only stray when they feel safe, so for the first couple of months at the monastery it didn’t happen.

By, on the other hand, will look for somewhere that feels enclosed and protected, usually woods or gardens.  Somewhere she can walk around.  She does a lot of extra sword training to unwind.  She also cooks for the same purpose, which Leth makes fun of her for.

*

🌾 Describe your OC through the eyes of someone absolutely head-over-heels in love with them.

“There are rumors that she’s something more than human.  I don’t know.  I understand where the belief comes from.  She does look like a saint from the illustrated texts, a warrior myth come to life.  And when she leads a battle... it’s incredible.  Her poise.  Her absolute certainty.  As if it’s impossible for her to lose.  As if she’s not mortal like the rest of us.

“But they haven’t seen her smile.  I have.  Maybe it’s wrong of me to think of happiness as a purely human thing.  But the way she does it is so small and uncertain, like she’s just learning how to do it.  And maybe she is.  To think that we cause her such happiness that she learned how to smile....  It’s that human side that captures me.  I will do whatever it takes to see that she continues to smile.”

“I never know what they’re thinking.  I wish I did.  I wish... ah, no.  Perhaps it’s a matter of practice.  After all, their father and sister seem to know how they feel.  Or perhaps I should learn to judge by actions, as they do.  They can be... unmindful of social and political nuances, but their deeds show their true nature.  Even when I barely knew them, I knew that much.

“What do they do?  This: I mentioned my favorite food once, and months later they remembered what dish to cook.  They brought all the students unfamiliar with horses to the stables, and spent hours teaching them how to handle and pacify the beasts.  In all the time they have been here, I have never known them to turn anyone away.  They have always listened.  They have always had patience enough for all of us.

“So yes, they are difficult to read.  But I believe that if I listen and practice patience myself, I will find all I need to know.”

*

💐 How does your OC handle being unwell or forced to rest in bed? Who cares for them and in what ways? Does your OC enjoy being doted on or are they a terrible patient? Reversed: is your OC good at taking care of others who are ill or in need?

Lethandre pretends they’re totally fine without actually lying.  The only person they willingly admit suffering to is Jeralt, and of course By knows immediately and will needle it out of them.  Fortunately, Leth knows when they need rest and healing; they just want to do it alone, without fuss.  They don’t mind being taken care of by their dad, obviously.  He’s all pragmatic sympathy and steady presence.  They’ll push against By’s protective streak but largely allow it.  They secretly enjoy being taken care of by friends, too, though it’s almost impossible to tell.

I just got the best mental image of Alois telling Leth, loudly and in detail, how important it is to rest and drink fluids when you’re sick, and Leth is just staring deadpan at the ceiling.  Don’t let me forget that.

Byrena is, of course, terminally honest and will state outright when she’s not well.  The hard part is getting her to slow down and take care of it.  She shares an exception with Leth in that only Jeralt can order her to sit around until she’s better.  She can appreciate the thought behind fussing, but it makes her genuinely uncomfortable unless it’s by someone she trusts deeply.  She’ll let Leth do it but keeps trying to tell them that she’s fine and they can go now.

Both of them make excellent healers and caretakers.  In fact, By can get... single-minded about it.  They’re good listeners.

[linkspooky]

No , please don't say you are a dumbass , you are not, you just disagree with my point and I disagree with yours, that does not makes you or me a fool. About Hinami reality is people can't know how others feels if you don't tell them you can percibe how they feel but it's not fair to blame others for not guessing, and the ccg never really saw kaneki as a human to begin with. So what can he talk about if they already made their minds to kill him, they already saw him as a tool knowing he was a

Victim , a human transformed into a ghoul and a really disturbed person so it makes sense to me that he did not thought that things can be talked in the Naruto way, yet he did had the intentions to talk to the people that controled the system The washuu

But anon, I am a proud fool. A clown. I wear the title with pride. See ultiamtely it’s a good thing that we disagree! That’s what makes narratives so fun. No two people can read a work the same way, there’s no authority on how a work should be read so you can read one thing in a thousand different ways! You’ll never run out of things to talk about that way. 

Allow me to talk narrative for a moment. More follow up and debate time under the cut: 

I mean see what you’re talking about is wiggle room.    We can talk wiggle room all day when it comes to the actions of a character and the amount of choices they had in a situation, but ultimately Kaneki is not a person but rather a constructed character. All of his choices were purposefully chosen by Ishida to convey something, so technically being a fictional character he could have done anything. What I think is more reliable is to look at the construction of the narrative. Take a look at Kaneki outside of the narrative as a character entirely outside of context, and then look specifically at the hurdles Ishida chose to set up for him. Each challenge is not the world being unfair to Kaneki it’s a challenge set up by Ishida that he was either meant to overcome, or to fail at and his reaction to that is supposed to convey a message about his character. A character themselves out of context is just a list of personality traits, however inside the context of their arc certain personality traits are given focus in reaction to certain situations and they come to be defined as a character. 

I for one don’t really expect a torture victim like Kaneki to be able to make the kind of decisions that would be required of him to actively reform the world. I totally understand how he he’s insular and inside his own head as a method of protecting himself, especially after being exposed to extreme violence and developing a fracturing psyche because of it. 

I understand Kaneki’s character. As I’ve said I don’t have a problem with Kaneki’s character, I don’t think it’s wrong for a character like that to focus more on their own personal happiness or trying to protect a few more manageable people rather than taking the whole world on at once. Taking on the whole world has shown to be rather strenuous for Kaneki’s psyche and usually results in him being overwhelmed. I don’t have a problem with the narrative of an abuse victim who doesn’t understand love, finding value in himself, and realizing there are more healthy ways to love rather than continually needing to prove himself to others. That Kaneki will still have loved ones in spite of his mistakes is a good thing. 

What Kaneki the character are, and what Kaneki’s narrative is however is woefully mismatched. 

TG:Re is a narrative about trying to radically reform the world around you. It’s about the circumstances that created the world, the greater forces at play, the conflict between the two sides. 

I don’t expect somebody who has been abused to the point that Kaneki has and has even lost his memories and had to regain it all back over three years to be able to understand and work out such a conflict the way Kaneki has. But I’m not the one who gave him that role of the conflict. 

Kaneki’s arc is a personal one. It’s mismatched with a story that’s about solving the problems of the world. Ishida is the one who set up this arc and made all of these story telling decisions. If Ishida had chosen to make Kaneki’s character not about him leading a ghoul revolution when he’s woefully under prepared for it and not in the healthy mental space to do it, if Ishida had chosen to make Kaneki’s arc about his own personal recovery after getting out of the CCG and trying to reinstate Anteiku and work out the problems of ghouls on a smaller scale showing the power of human connection and forgiving others which Kaneki specifically is good at I think that would have been great. 

So yes it’s understandable that a torture victim is inside his own head as a method of protecting himself, ad therefore doesn’t go out of his way to understand the minds of violent people like Furuta, Mutsuki, and Hajime when he abhors violence hiself. It’s understandable that Kaneki focuses on his own recovery when he’s very mentally unwell most of the time. I think the title of king was too much pressure on him and it was doomed for him to fail.

My point is merely to point this out. Kaneki’s arc is a very deeply personal arc, and Furuta’s arc is an arc about the world because he was born into the conflict of the world. Therefore the character who is involved with and ultimately deals with the conflict of the world is Furuta. 

[sn0tcl0wn]

did anyone watch the same movie as me because the dogs were not her fucking tragic backstory. her whole thing is that she was literally unhinged even as a child and got the shit beat out of her daily until one day she lost her mother in a really fucked up way that caused her to blame herself for ten years, most of which were spent as a petty career criminal. her little monologue that people take that one cheesey line out of and ignore the rest is her origin story. she gave it to us right there. she was always fucking nuts and she always had a nasty mean streak and she was tired of pretending to be nice and sweet and of keeping her head down all the time only to get nowhere.

no the movie isnt profound or deep but it at least has more than what everyone is saying. like most of you will outright refuse to watch it and those are the exact people clogging up the tags. like all the jokes about gaston or count olaf losing their moms to books and orphans missed the whole movie and what created cruella out of estella. cruella already existed before she lost her mother and she never came out of estella until she wanted her mother's necklace back. cruella was a coping persona created by estella to come out when she wanted to be bold, brave, and badly behaved as a means of sticking it to the man and fighting for her right to exist while being different from everyone else.

the movie literally opens with her being treated like shit by the people around her because she looked and dressed differently. it wasnt the fucking dogs. if anything it was mental illness and violent coping mechanisms. also she never skins any puppies and states it was a rumor she allowed to spread for the publicity and drama of it all. it was a nasty prank done by a horrible girl with a violent grudge and became something that made her even more of an elevated figure in her universe's fashion industry. she wanted to be a legend and truly ruin the baroness' life in every way she could think of. that is where this timeline's dog killer comes from.

and if she does go off the deep end like that later on it's already been made clear that she was never mentally well and that by the end of the movie she was slipping and literally grappling with homicidal urges towards the baroness. she was a deeply unwell person who's only family for half of her life consisted of two thieves not much older than her who showed her how to survive on the streets and their dogs. of fucking course she is going to grow up and lose her shit when she finds out what she found out after idolizing and even becoming an assistant to her hero.

half of you tuned out because you didn't want to actually watch it to begin with and the other half just took one thing they saw on tumblr and ran with it and im sick of movies coming out and having this shit happen because i want to go into the tags and vibe not sift through variations of the same two fucking jokes to find actual thoughts, art, and aesthetics from people who actually did watch the movie. like even negative reviews or thoughts are fine just say something that suggests you WATCHED the fucking movie or shut the fuck up. if you didnt see it or didnt pay attention to it why do you think the main tags are the place to put your thoughts on it? where the fuck do you think those of us who liked it can go for fandom shit if we cant go into the tags? and yall tag your shit thoroughly too. like i will try all different tags and those posts still show up as if you actively just want to get attention for being unoriginal and assume no one could have ever liked it because you didnt. like ffs at least come up with better jokes because the movie has plenty more to make fun of but yall basically just focus on what the trailer gave you and the dalmatian cliff scene. like it isnt even funny after getting full context for those scenes. it just makes no sense when you actually watch it.

[beyondthetemples-ooc]

I was going to ramble about which of my stories is my Own Personal Favorite.

But then, after deleting 4 or 5 different paragraphs of mind-changing pre-write, I realized... I really can’t choose just one? Or even three???

** NOTE that all of these can be found on my fanfic profile!  - Raven’s secret-keeper over there! - Two on AO3: Ravens secret-keeper (pseudonymn: StellarSecretKeeper)

~ Dove’s Dark Discovery is the best-written Actually Published story! It has a sub-plot (re: her struggles with her powers as they grow, AND her relationship with Raven being strained throughout the story), it included the other Titans in Important Scenes (Dove and Raven are by far my favorite characters to write about, but the whole reason I write these stories as TEEN TITANS fanfics is the background of the team!), it EXCELS at “rising action” and “building escalation” (it gets concerning, then anxious, then frantic, then downright devastating), and the DESCRIPTIONS. Holy heavens and hells, the mindscape descriptions!! I absolutely LOVE some of those lines! And the goddamn cLIMAX. That scene alone has literally gone through 6 versions (though the kernel of an idea, “Raven vs. Evil!Dove in the Mindscape”, has always remained the same), and while it’s still not as smooth as I’d like it, some of the rhythmic cadence in that scene is pure stylistic GOLD.

~ The Final Journey is so incredible to write! It has long held an especially special place in my heart, because it’s one of the first stories I ever started writing. I can remember where I wrote almost every single scene in the binder. 

~ Even in Death got some High Quality Additions! Though it’s still not As Great as far as verbiage and pacing and the silky-smooth emotional transitions I’ve been teaching myself to use, the headcanon power it runs on (re: Azarath and Raven’s Abilities and Dove’s PTSD) is GREAT. It discusses something that’s really close to my heart, and also really close to both Raven and Dove’s (mental illness, PTSD, loss and grief and healing). It has a lot of Personal Significance too; let’s just say the revision was inspired by an Actual Astral Adventure and I realized how deeply a revelation like that would affect Dove... And that revelation finally gave that oneshot a reason to exist besides just, “I learned there was this one time...” Dove needed that closure. Desperately. And it’s a big step in her healing from that traumatic day.

~ Heart to Heart was so incredibly sweet, adorable, dramatic, AND satisfying! As far as a self-contained oneshot, it’s definitely the best I’ve ever written. (I daresay it’s among the best scenes ever, and certainly among my favorite flashback-containing scenes!) Dove and Srentha deserve a lot more Emotional Heartfelt Moments that really dive into how much they mean to each other, but I’m an emotionally-stunted aro whose sense of romance is basically “tell her i love her once in awhile”. and I don’t really know how to write those Emotionally Intense Moments with a romantic bend yet. ;; The fact that I wrote that entire scene in like, two weeks, was a complete fluke. 

~ Speaking of oneshot flukes, I’m also really proud of Umbrella? I wrote that sucker in a singular fucking HOUR. I didn’t realize “drabble” had a character limit, but  I’m glad I didn’t know, because it grew into an excellent exploration of Dove’s mindset during her first months on Earth, how she experienced the city, how she experienced strangers, and in the end, human kindness.

Also, my favorite fanfic writer for the animated series (and others!) was inspired to headcanon the random man Dove encounters in the city as his very own protagonist OC. Which I delightfully endorsed. And he wrote it into one of his very own stories. So that absolutely blew my entire mind. It’s still blown to this day! (That writer was also kind enough to review the DDD climax when I desperately needed feedback. It should be “three times as long and nine times the punch”, he said. I took it to heart, took it to the words, and I like to think I KILLED it at long last~)

~ Mystery Sickness is probably my favorite in terms of Total Rewrite Growth^tm? But it’s not Finished Yet, so I can’t show you all the Changes! Its original version (visible on fanfic.net) is heavy on the deus ex machina, and Things Happening without anyone really knowing why. Hell, I didn’t know why when I wrote the damn thing! I kind of treated it like “this is just what I see happening so I gotta write it down”. Raven falls ill, figures it has something to do with Dove, never really explain why Dove is Making Her Unwell, then she kind of just gets better? But now: Oh stars, we have a HUGE Reason! (And it’s Dove’s mother’s spells! It took a good long while for me to really Understand what was going on in Dove’s childhood, what with Alerina constantly and desperately doing everything in her power to hide Dove’s existence, including a slew of spells that kept Dove safe from the rest of Azarath AND Trigon.) And now, when I re-publish it, everything’s going to make sense.

Not to mention, I am having FUN with Mumbo in the rewrite.

~ Something Special About Srentha is probably the first story I wrote with Actual Plot, clear in the story from start to finish. It’s definitely one of my most Cohesive Plots, with the most Consistently Relevant scenes. Granted, in the Mindquest trilogy (Missing: Raven, DDD, and TFJ), every plot point plays into how it progresses, but in Something Special it’s really quite obvious and complete. Intruders are in the mystical forest, they investigate, Dove gets kidnapped, they try to save her, fail a couple times, Dove suffers and learns about her kidnappers, Srentha finds out if they don’t save her they’re going to force her into a ritual to become one of them, and then they try Extra Hard to save her. And then the sequel (Something Strange) is all about the Direct Results of the intruders’ magic having an effect on Dove and Srentha. So, you should all know by now how mystical my ass is, and Srentha’s too come to think of it, so writing these stories touches on a lot of Personal Passions for me AND them. Even the personal struggles, for everyone involved, come as a direct result of everything happening in the plot. And it just naturally turned out that way. I don’t think any story had been so entirely Relevant to one plot before, nor have I managed to captures such contiguous storytelling since.

[matthewbacker]

Talking things Only Heaven Knows with Matt Backer

By Kat Czornij, May 17, 2017

Only Heaven Knows is a beloved musical set in the 1940s and 1950s, telling the story of one young man’s discovery of love and life in Sydney.

Having just finished his critically acclaimed Puck in STC’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream at the Sydney Opera House, Matthew Backer will now make his Hayes Theatre Co. debut as Alan in Only Heaven Knows.

We caught up with Matt during rehearsals to chat about the classic Australian musical!

Could you introduce us to your characters in Only Heaven Knows?

I play Alan, a gay man in his late twenties living in 1940s Kings Cross who at times struggles very deeply with his homosexuality.

This is your first Hayes production! Excited?!

Incredibly! That theatre has changed Sydney’s theatrical landscape in so many joyous and important ways and I’ve seen many shows there as a Hayes fan so it’s exciting to now get the opportunity to perform in that intensely intimate space. And the fact that my Hayes debut is in an Australian musical with such strong ties to the area on which the Hayes Theatre stands makes it even more special.

You’ve predominantly done theatre roles in recent years, with smaller singing parts here and there. What’s it like to be part of a full musical production? Is it very different?

This show is not drastically different to a play because it’s quite a scene-centric piece. Characters in Only Heaven Knows don’t really burst into song mid scene or sing songs directly to other characters, nor do the songs ‘advance the plot’, so to speak. Most, if not all, of the songs exist in a type of stasis, separate to the advancing plot. The scenes are really what drive the piece and songs are scattered amongst it, often used to feature a character singing on their own, whether in a concert setting or like we’ve caught them mid-thought. For that reason, it doesn’t feel vastly different to doing a normal play. That being said, when you’re side stage listening to the likes of Hayden Tee, who’s just been doing Les Miserables on Broadway and the West End, belt out a big ol’ number, you’re definitely reminded where you are, who you’re amongst and what you’re doing!

Only Heaven Knows is set in the 1940s and 50s. What do you think of the time period? How do you think it would have been like living back then?

I think living in any time period would have its charms and its woes. I do find the 1940s and 1950s charming in an Old Hollywood type of way – or an Old Aussiewood type of way, in this case. They were two extremely contrasting eras. The 40s were a time of certain freedoms for women and queer individuals, with many of the nation’s men who would usually call the shots in society being overseas fighting in WWII. Then came the Menzies era, which brought with it harsh winds of change and control over these groups of individuals especially. From my research, homosexual individuals would have lived tough, closed-off lives, as their sexual nature was considered illegal, immoral and deemed them to be mentally unwell. So, safe to say, probably wouldn’t have been too much fun.

In the musical it’s a particularly intolerant time and place. What do you think is the most important message that comes out of Only Heaven Knows for the LGBT community?

That, as a community, it is a joyous, unique, vibrant, resilient, loving, caring, strong, fierce, needed one in today’s world climate. It is a family. Extreme far-right, almost bigoted, sentiments seem to be sweeping the globe at the moment and it’s so important for minority communities, such as the LGBTQIA community, to remember those who existed before them and have fought, and in some cases fallen, for more equality in the world. But also to remember that there is a long way to go in this long march towards equality, and to never get complacent. It’s hugely embarrassing that we are still waiting on Marriage Equality here in Australia. Our ‘politicians’ need to put their tails between their legs, pull their socks up and clip themselves round the ear for not seriously listening to 62% of the population supporting same-sex marriage. So hopefully some of those pollies come along to our little show and I want them and others, whether they’re gay, straight, bi, whatever, whatever, to leave feeling more hopeful, more open-minded and more fabulous than when they walked in.

Now that you are well into rehearsals, is there a favourite scene or moment that we should all look out for?

I’m really enjoying when all five of us are on stage together. It only happens a few times throughout the piece so it’s pretty fun when you catch yourself standing on stage with the likes of Hayden, Blazey, Tim and Ben. Our director, Shaun Rennie, has assembled a killer cast and creative crew and I think my favourite moment is going to change with each and every show.

And finally, what’s something “only heaven knows” about you?

That’s for heaven to know, and you to find out…my folks will be reading this.

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