#just like carte blanche make me worse

[truly-sincerely]

Dark Star Falling (8 of 9)

The room has marble walls with bronze embellishments lined with disorganized scroll racks. It is an unusual shape, not quite a trapezoid. Enver Gortash has never seen architecture quite like this. His best guess is Dwarvish.

“--I’m running along the outer ledge, trying to line up a shot on the Emperor when suddenly I am just horny as all get out.” He can hear Darling’s voice from the hallway outside, but all he can see in that direction is a sickly teal light.

A triangular table-like outcropping extends from the shortest wall and on it sits an embroidered cushion, and on top of that, a skull with all of the teeth removed except the very long, very pointed canines.

“Right that minute, in the middle of the fucking apocalypse, Haarlep is going at it in my body.”

Gortash looks down at himself and sees unfamiliar clothing but otherwise he seems to be fully intact. Of course the netherstone is gone.

“I’m sorry, darling,” that lilting, upper city voice replies.

“No, this is a funny story. I know you’ve got autonomy issues but it’s not as bad as that. I can still do things, it’s just kind of distracting. I get inappropriately horny in lots of situations unrelated to incubi.”

“I suppose that’s true. You are a freak,” he laughs.

Gortash sits up and immediately regrets it, but keeps going, swinging his legs over the side of the stone bed and overturning a metal tray with goblets and such.

“Anyway, that was when Gale hit him with a fireball and he went up like woomf, so–” Darling stops mid-sentence at the clatter.

“Have a nice chat, love.”

“Right. Yeah. You sure you don’t want to stick around?” Gortash doesn’t hear a response but Darling appears in the doorway alone. They don’t say anything as they walk to the table, pick up the skull, sit down on the pillow, and let the skull sit in their lap. Gortash feels lightheaded and nauseated, still trying to get his bearings.

“Where am I?” he croaks.

“The Tourmaline Depths, underneath the Szarr Palace,” Darling says, looking at him with an amount of concern that makes him deeply uncomfortable. They pick up a goblet from somewhere he can’t see, wiping it out with the hem of their shirt. “It’s been… about a day and a half.”

That’s right, he’d been in his office at Wyrm’s Rock Fortress. Darling had walked in the door with Minthara, a wizard with a Waterdhavian accent, and the high elf that had attended the coronation with them. The elf didn’t say anything during the meeting, but Gortash was confident that he was the owner of the upper city accent.

– – –

“It’s time I take matters into my own hands. We could have–”

Darling cuts in, “I’m gonna stop you right there. You need to hear this. I believe it’s too late to regain control of the brain.”

“Why in Bane’s name would I listen to anything you have to say? You destroyed my Steel Watch,” he’s trying to hide how much this hurts him personally, but the facade is cracking.

“They were controlled by tadpoles. When the brain breaks free it would’ve taken them with it. I couldn’t let that happen,” Darling pleads. They try not to sound like they’re pleading, but they aren’t sure if it’s working. Gortash starts to interrupt and Darling barrels over him, “I’m acting on your hypothesis, Enver. You voiced a concern to Ketheric that the energy of the Crown would cause the elder brain to metamorphose into something more difficult to control.”

“You couldn’t possibly know about that,” he says with uncertainty.

“Good ol’ Ketheric hid his private thoughts in the floorboards next to his thrice damned bed. When he wasn’t leaving them lying around for anyone to read, that is. He concluded that the solution was to consolidate the netherstones in a single wielder. You came to the same conclusion, tho your offer to share the stones with me was...” they trail off with a shrug.

“That’s precisely why I put the brain under the upper city.”

“Yes, I read your journal too. Something, something perfectly formed to concentrate the psionic force of the netherstones? And if we lose control it’ll be perfectly formed to concentrate the psionic force of a metamorphosed brain against us,” they pause, and glance back at their wizard. “I spoke to the brain at Moonrise. It knew my name. It called me kingmaker-returns-pawn (which would be a really good title for a ballad about me).”

“You’re not a pawn,” Gortash says, briefly forgetting that he’s furious with Darling.

“That’s not the point. It also said I made it–that I gave it everything. It’s blowing smoke up my skirt. I don’t like it. You should be deeply concerned that it has the will to screw with me. I didn’t ‘crawl back from my bloody disgrace’ by frolicking into traps (I’m usually the one who sets them) and I’m telling you that it’s hiding something.”

An awkward silence follows. Darling reaches towards him, but pauses and puts their hand back down at their side. His eyes dart around as he works the problem in his head. The wizard whispers something about trustworthiness in Darling’s ear.

“Faithful, to me,” Gortash commits to the decision, and the faithful all start advancing on Darling’s troupe. “I think I will hang your corpse in the Wide–the Archduke’s would-be assassin. The people will celebrate your fall, and my part in it. Your bones will be a souvenir of–”

– – –

And then nothing.

“That’s when Astarion shot you full of drow poison, Gale put you in a resilient sphere, we killed all of your guards, fed you a bunch of potions of sleep, Minthara (reluctantly) carried you, and we all jumped off the tower to a skiff we had waiting for us on the beach by Wyll’s old fishing spot,” Darling says, petting the skull in their lap as tho it’s a cat.

“So the brain has been destroyed,” he posits. “Or else you’re hiding in this moldering ruin from an army of mindflayers.”

“The first one, tho not before it turned all the tadpoles, so there are likely still hundreds of mindflayers wandering around the sword coast, but that’s not why we’re down here.”

“And you were right about its treachery?”

“About it being up to something? It gave me a whole monologue about sending you dreams so you’d put the astral prism into play which would give it the opportunity to rebel and there’s nothing I could do to stop it, et cetera, et cetera.”

Gortash puts his head in his hands. He was so sure he had covered all the angles but Darling being correct meant he’d failed months ago and had been digging a deeper and deeper hole for himself ever since. He can feel Bane’s disapproval like a fist clutching his heart and knows that if he died now he would be tortured for eternity for his failure. His cult is surely scattered, his holdings seized or destroyed, and his reputation obliterated. Darling could have killed him in Wyrm’s Rock. Should have killed him. He deserved death for such a complete and utter failure. What use is he to his god like this? Did he already know he had lost when he sic’d his guards on Darling?

Finally, looking up at Darling, he asks, “So what is this? What do you expect to happen here?”

Darling’s mouth shifts to the side and they say, “I was thinking we’d have a conversation that’ll become a fight that’ll become a fuck that’ll become an ultimatum.”

“I accept your premise but tell me the ultimatum now and I’ll answer it at the end,” he counter-offers with all the gravity of discussing lunch plans. 

“You have to renounce Bane,” Darling pauses, thinking. An ultimatum needs to come with consequences. Gortash waits for the rest, trying not to have an emotion about the beginning. “We can be whatever you want, but not in the name of a god, any god. If you insist on remaining with His cult then I’m going to turn you over to the Flaming Fist or the Watch–whatever’s left upstairs.”

“Whatever I want?”

Darling hesitates, realizing they’ve maybe left that clause a little too open-ended for someone who's spent as much time as Gortash has among devils. “I could add ‘within reason’, but what I’m hoping for is that, if you want to be with me, you’ll want something that’s compatible with what I want.”

He opens his mouth and then closes it again, frowns, and looks away thoughtfully. “I assume the tadpole is gone already and you have your elf… I don’t know what you want beyond that. I suppose that’s what the conversation is meant to be about.”

Darling is taken aback that he remembered what they had said on their first (no, second) visit almost a tenday ago. He always gives the impression that he’s only barely listening for what he wants to hear. But still, he’s so subdued. He had tried to kill them. Maybe destroying the steel watch really was too much of a betrayal. “Assuming you even want me, that is," Darling says, hesitantly.

First - Previous - Next

[windvexer]

What counts as a spell? Is intent all you need or do you have to do something before to get it all juicy and stuff.

Hi Anon! What a fun question, because there is no answer except this CAN OF WORMS you just opened.

There is no consensus anywhere as to what constitutes a "spell."

There is even LESS consensus as to what makes a spell go.

Intent is a good starting place. It is probably where you should start for all acts of practical magic.

But I find that in it's common form, the idea of intent + willpower = magic has been diluted past the point of utility for most people.

Like if we're talking about "intent is everything" I'm reminded most closely of Chaos Magic. But Chaos Magic is not a school of "just set your intent and you've worked magic!". It's a very rigorously developed system.

In Hine's Condensed Chaos, he lists the third Core Principal of Chaos magic as technical excellence, and I quote:

One of the early misconceptions about Chaos Magic was that it gave practitioners carte blanche to do whatever they liked, and so become sloppy (or worse, soggy) in their attitudes to self-assessment, analysis, etc. Not so. The Chaos approach has always advocated rigorous self-assessment and analysis, emphasized practice at what techniques you're experimenting with until you get the results you desire. Learning to 'do' magic requires that you develop a set of skills and abilities and if you're going to get involved in all this weird stuff, why not do it to the best of your ability?

Later in the book, Hine likens "magical powers" to the concept of achievements, and goes on to say:

Something which is an achievement is the result of practice, discipline, and patience.

Shortly after:

Chaos Magic is not about discarding all rules and restraints, but the process of discovering the most effective guidelines and disciplines which enable you to effect change in the world.

(In above quotes, all emphasis my own)

But these ideas get taken - and I'll give a big nod to the LOA which is just the worst kind of brainrot for encouraging the "intent is all that matters" mindset - and the ideas get diluted so much that people are literally out here saying, "so all those people who spend years studying magic in order to get results are buffoons? All I have to do is imagine what I want and it will be delivered to me? All humans since the start of history just have to decide they want something and it will happen in a miraculous manner?"

(Not you, Anon. I'm just in a mood)

In my mind, yes - something beyond intent must occur in order to make spells go.

But what?

Anon, have you ever heard that dumb belief floating around that all herbs in a spell can be replaced by rosemary, and all stones in a spell can be replaced by clear quartz, and these two things are "universal substitutes"?

I am 95% sure that this nonsense was based on two very popular dictionaries Cunningham wrote in the 80s, the Encyclopedia of Crystal, Gem & Metal Magic, and Encyclopedia of Magical Herbs.

In the very long entry for Clear Quartz:

Quartz crystal is used as a power amplifier during magic. It is worn or placed on the altar for this purpose.

And from Rosemary:

Rosemary is generally used as a substitute for frankincense.

And I believe that someone somewhere got the idea that since clear quartz amplifies all other powers, it therefore somehow magically Ditto-copies all other powers, and like a shapeshifter somehow becomes something it is not nor ever was.

And, you know. What's the difference between subbing out frankincense and blackthorn between friends?

These beliefs have become so popular that sometimes when unscrupulous blogs rip off entire Cunningham encyclopedia entries and paste them into tumblr posts (without credit), THEY INCLUDE THE EXTRA MADE-UP BIT ABOUT ROSEMARY BEING A UNIVERSAL SUBSTITUTE.

Anon, your question is "is it just intent or do we need other stuff to make it go," but sadly,

IMO common beliefs about the stuff that makes spells go have also been diluted past the point of utility for most people.

Because if I sat here and said, "hey Anon, it's not just intent, you also have to use correspondences ^-^/" then the very first thing you are likely to run into is absolute nonsense about correspondences. IMO, effective utilization of correspondences is a skillset based in research, theory, and technique.

Or if I said, "you also have to raise energy! 👍", this may be mistaken to mean, "set intent but also visualize white light inside of a candle," because the concept of raising energy and visualizing has been (IMO) diluted past the point of utility for most people. I believe that effective utilization of energy work is a song composed of many notes and chords, several of which you must practice before you can utilize it.

And to complicate all of this, which non-diluted things in which combinations you need to make the spell go depends on what paradigm you operate off of, because while there are approximately one billion ways to do magic that works, my currently very dim worldview is that most people who are talking about magic are doing magic that doesn't work,

and in my opinion the actual basis and reasoning, like the rationality behind the magical systems is really important. Because you need that shit to understand what it is within that system that makes the spell go.

And you need to understand what makes the spell go to make the system fit into your life without breaking it, and in order to troubleshoot problems without making things crumble further.

Because when people don't understand the basis and reasoning you end up with "rosemary is a universal substitute" and "imagining white light makes the spell go."

There are a few circumstances where you can totally strip technique from theory and be successful, but there are also a hell of a lot of people out here feeling shit about their practice because their spells never seem to work.

So.

I really just recommend choosing what school of magic you would like to learn about and participate in, and reading an introductory book on it.

This is because it is the job of introductory books to explain the principles and theories behind a system of magic, and most importantly, what makes the magic go, and a step-by-step primer on what you, the practitioner, are supposed to do to make that kind of magic go.

Despite above rambles I'm really not a Chaote, so I can't recommend a strong primer. As far as I'm aware, Liber Null & Psychonaut by Peter J. Carroll is a core text.

For Traditional Witchcraft, try The Crooked Path by Kelden.

For something more Wiccan, I can't recall having anything bad to say about Psychic Witch by Mat Auryn.

If either of these things are too Witchcrafty for you, try Six Ways by Aidan Wachter, which is still witchcraft, but it hits different.

For a general primer on helping your spells go, try Elements of Spellcrafting by Jason Miller.

[maxwell-grant]

Thoughts on The Penguin trailer?

This one has a more generic mob show vibe out of the ones we've seen so far, and I'm not gonna lie a part of me is still skeptical regarding it, but the emphasis on post-flood broken Gotham besieged by a crime family fighting for the scraps of the kingdom kept me piqued, and then the words "Post-Apocalyptic Sopranos" crossed my mind in the elevator and oh Yes, Ha Ha Yes

It's one thing for a show about mob power struggles and troubled dynamics to happen in a regular society where they exert power and there are structures in place to abide to, it's another thing entirely for said mob power struggles and troubled dynamics to be happening in the wrecked ruins of a city in the process of rebuilding all of it's structures and for said mob to be simultaneously on free-fall and poised for new beginnings as the world itself is changing (if anything Tony Soprano wishes he could be living like this, with more carte blanche to cut through his stresses with a machine gun every now and then)

It's a decent shake-up on a crime show formula even on it's own, without factoring that oh yeah this is Gotham City and said destruction was caused by a nerd obsessed with riddles and all of these mobsters will have to look over their shoulders for the rest of their lives in case the freak in power armor decides to show up and suplex them into the pavement, and things are only going to get worse and weirder from here on out.

Clancy Brown once again showing up to play the Final Boss / All-Father / Divine Judge of organized villainy, we love to see it, it's what he does and he does it better than anyone. Here breathing a whole new life and power and significance into the other major throwaway Gotham gangster.

What I'm interested in regarding Sofia and the Falcones in general is that they've said several times in the past that Oz is modeled after Fredo Corleone, and this trailer goes out of it's way to paint Sofia as the Michael with direct references. For the contrast between Penguin and the actual gangsters to exist, for this to explore the divide and collapse on regular crime vs super crime that the movie kicked off, this thing needs a standard Prestige TV Crime Show protagonist to work, and that seems to be Sofia, the protagonist of a story, just not this one.

The trailer's placing a big emphasis on Oswald as a guy who's still a long way from the top, contrasting with Sofia holding what's left of the reigns of power. Sofia stares at political protestors behind windows and attends fancy dinner conversations and dwells on the scars of her past and makes threats on how she's been pushed aside too long and it's her turn now, and Oz is out there in the ruins hauling corpses and mentoring an understudy and getting into machine gun fights and doing all the grunt work himself.

She gets the dramatic close-door boss shot, and the trailer ends with her cornering Oswald and leaning in real close to tell him she was always onto him and threaten him, because again, she is entirely convinced he is just the Fredo, and that she is in her girlboss Michael Corleone era. She does that, and then it hard cuts to all the violent destructive cool shit Oz is gonna be doing instead, because she is catastrophically wrong about how this thing is gonna work.

Sequel this, Reevesverse that, Trilogy whatever, none of that is gonna cut anymore. I will no longer accept any way of referring to this that isn't The Batman Epic Crime Saga. I'd say the crimelords of Gotham are asking Oswald if he has it in him to make it epic but he's already giving his answer.

The Falcones are right, Oswald IS just a goon who'd never hack it in the old system. It's just that there isn't an old system anymore, and the future looks a lot more like him than it looks like them. She and Alberto think of themselves as troubled scarred underdogs next in line for succession poised to get what is owed to them, while Penguin opens this by walking up to the former ruler of the entire city and telling him, hey head's up, I'm calling the shots now, as he laughs and snorts and plots to burn down the empire and shank them at their weakest and machine gun battle for what he's decided is his. Even if his name wasn't in the title, it wouldn't even be up to debate who's going to win this fight.

Really what is Batman as a whole about, if not Epic Crime?

[mylifeisfruk4ever]

Group Project has been created

Patroclus has added Achilles, Odysseus, Menelaus, and Diomedes to Group Project.

Patroclus's name has been changed to Baby

Achilles's name has been changed to I'm sexy and I know it

Odysseus 's name has been changed to SmartAss

Diomedes's nickname has been changed to Fight me

Menelaus's nickname has been changed to Himbo

 

Baby: I'm starting to regret it.

I'm sexy and I know it: If you want, you can change your nickname.

Baby: Nope, I'm Baby and I know it.

Himbo: Did you just…did you just mention LMFAO?

Baby: Achilles' nickname is the fucking song name. I stated a fact.

SmartAss: Guys, this is ridiculous. It should be a science project group.

I'm sexy and I know it: do you want to change and become Gayleo?

SmartAss: Gayleo never existed.

I'm sexy and I know it: Speak for yourself. He is my guide and inspiration!!!

Fight me: Are you making gay jokes without me?!

I'm sexy and I know it: Never, bro!

SmartAss: guys, we should get organized for the project! The professor gave us carte blanche!

I'm sexy and I know it: we have time!

SmartAss: Three weeks!

I'm sexy and I know it: at worst you enter the professor's house and change your grades. It would not be the first time.

SmartAss: hth yu know?

I'm sexy and I know it: Gays know everything.

Baby: we saw you come out of Professor Nestor's window. You fell and rolled a few feet. Then you got up and pretended you were there for a walk.

SmartAss: You have no proof.

Himbo: I'm starting to think that maybe it was better to be in a group with my cousin.

 

6pm.

I'm sexy and I know it: so, I have a scientific headcanon…

SmartAss: Please say theory! You have a scientific theory!

I'm sexy and I know it: Anyway, I have a scientific headcanon. But I need Hector in a locked room and a gun.

Baby: Achilles, we will not use Russian roulette for our project.

I'm sexy and I know it: But it's for science! Probability theory! It's brainy.

Himbo: Still no. Let's use Paris.

Fight me: what if we put Paris and Hector in a room with only one gun? What would happen?

SmartAss: Bold of you assumes that Hector doesn't strangle his brother after five minutes.

Himbo: mood.

 

8pm

SmartAss: We need an idea!

Fight me: I think using Hector and Paris would solve our problems.

SmartAss: but it's illegal!

Fight me: and since when do you worry?

SmartAss: Since there might be evidence that can frame me, or too many witnesses. I have nothing against you guys, but I would kill you and hide your bodies so I don't end up in prison. No offense.

Himbo: We already knew that

Fight me: That's why Ajax hates you.

I'm sexy and I know it: doesn't Ajax hate him because Odysseus stole his job as captain of the rugby team?

Fight me: Also.

SmartAss: Some don't know how to lose.

Himbo: You weren't even on the team.

SmartAss: and now I'm captain. Your point?

Baby: Forget Hector and Paris. I want to study Odysseus.

I'm sexy and I know it: are you cheating on me for the dwarf?!

SmartAss: Hey!

Fight me: don't listen to him, bro. It is known that dwarves have something else that is very great.

Himbo: And how do you know?

Fight me: you'd like to know, huh?

 

8.45pm

SmartAss: studying the dysfunctional relationships of Ettore's family is not a bad idea...

Himbo: What changed your mind?

SmartAss: I went to take out the garbage…

I'm sexy and I know it: it's not nice to talk like that about Diomedes.

Fight me: Fuck you

I'm sexy and I know it: Baby already takes care of it.

Himbo: gross

I'm sexy and I know it: you're just jealous. You and Helen never like us.

Fight me:  I would kill them myself.

SmartAss: guys, focus. Social experiment. Relationships between brothers, and we use Hector and all his brothers.

Fight me: how many are there again? Twelve?

Himbo: now nineteen. Hecuba has just given birth.

Fight me: Nineteen?!

Baby: they should have stopped with the twins. It was enough. Hell, they should have stopped at Paris. They had to understand that it would only be worse later.

Himbo: but what job does Priam do? There are twenty-two people, two dogs, a cat, and Paris. How can he live in such a big house?

SmartAss: doesn't he work for the government?

Fight me: no government job pays this well!

Himbo: unless you're the president. 

I'm sexy and I know it: what if he is the head of the CIA?

Baby: Sure, and the head of the CIA came to this city to check out a high school and a very dangerous Blockbuster. Never mind that they sell DVDs of terrorists.

Fight me: But it would make sense because he has so many children. They are all future Spy Kids!

Himbo: if the fate of my country is in the hands of Paris, I will expatriate and change my name.

I'm sexy and I know it: Cassandra knows things. It's clearly spy training.

Fight me: Cassandra talks bullshit.

Himbo: You're only saying that because she told everyone that you had tea dressed as a fairytale princess with your six-year-old cousin.

Fight me: this has never happened! Cassandra is a liar!

Himbo: and where did the glitter in your hair come from?

Fight me: it wasn't glitter.

Himbo: And what was it?

Fight me: heroine

SmartAss: It was glitter.

SmartAss: Anyway, social experiment. We will observe Ettore and his family, thus describing their social dynamics.

Baby: Isn't that stalking?

SmartAss: no, it's science.

 

 

8am

I'm sexy and I know it: Outside school Cassandra came up to me and gave me a card with her family's schedule.

I'm sexy and I know it: she told me since you want to spy on us, better know when you will find us all.

I'm sexy and I know it: then she disappeared

Fight me: every time. Wtf.

Himbo: Am I the only one wondering how she knew or…

Baby: Dude, the fewer questions you ask, the better.

Fight me: this proves nothing! she just got lucky!

SmartAss: send nudes!!!

Fight me: I would love to do it but I'm almost at school.

SmartAss: No, idiot! No nudes. Dudes

SmartAss: Come help me! Ajax is chasing me! With a car!

Himbo: What did you do to him this time?

SmartAss: nothing!

Fight me: liar.

Fight me: give me a minute and I'll be with you.

 

8.30am

Fight me: RIP Odysseus

Fight me: he's not dead, but as soon as Ajax gets out of the hospital, he'll definitely kill him.

SmartAss: in my defense, he wanted to do me worse than send me to the hospital.

Himbo: Aren't you two supposed to be in class?

SmartAss: what part of Ajax wanted me dead wasn't clear to you?

Baby: How the hell you are alive? Ajax is twice your size.

SmartAss: If I told you, I'd have to kill you.

Baby: the alarming thing is that I never know when he's joking or serious.

Himbo: you guys scare me.

I'm sexy and I know it: you still have time to do the project with your cousin.

Himbo: better not

Himbo: I don't know if he would try to kill me, steal my girlfriend or sleep with my brother

Baby: i'm starting to think that it's not just Hector who has a dysfunctional family

Fight me: why don't I have sexy cousins who want to sleep with me?

I'm sexy and I know it: Thersites wants to fuck you.

Fight me: but he is not sexy!!!

Baby: If I have to go to therapy one day, I'll show these chats.

SmartAss: this should be a serious group chat...

I'm sexy and I know it: dude, did you see us?

I'm sexy and I know it: nobody here is normal. except Pat, but  he is perfect, so...

SmartAss: ...

SmartAss: we are doomed.

Fight me: prepare the copy of Nestore's house keys.

Fight me: you will need it

[ceaseless-watchers-special-girl]

oh look, nyx did another essay post. it's about peter nureyev. surprise, surprise.

hi okay. hello. i'm about to sob about peter nureyev for the 1538495th time

re: the next right thing from frozen 2

at the start of thief's honour part two, nureyev is fucking done. slip is gone, juno is gone, he has no way to contact rita, he is completely and utterly alone with people who share none of the priorities he has. the people of vivopolis vote to leave juno and slip behind, and nureyev is past hope and in the dark badlands beyond.

his life has somehow, impossibly, gotten even worse. he had slip, he lost slip. and perhaps slip would always be lost, perhaps he would never get slip back. but at least he had juno, no matter how many times he tried to push him away.

now, he has no one. no one at all.

ok, going waaaaaay back to brahma now, about thirty years ago. whoever had that headcanon about slip being a bit older than nureyev. yeah. that. nureyev was fascinated by slip, how he lived and operated in a way which seemed so reckless to nureyev and yet, he was smart enough to never get hurt because of it.

nureyev followed slip all the way to saraswati because slip was his only ticket of brahma — but more than that, slip was the only person nureyev could trust at all. and on those lonely nights, when nureyev could barely leave the homesick district they'd settled in and slip would go out for work all day, slip was the only thing nureyev had.

and then, slip dies. and it's nureyev's own fault. he's gone somewhere nureyev cannot follow, and the grief is so overwhelming he thinks it might consume him. he can barely think straight, all he knows is in that moment, he will do anything to get his slip back. and so, when the executives offer him that deal, he takes it. because all he can think about is making sure this doesn't happen again, righting his wrongs, doing the next right thing, and everything else can be filed away under For Future Consideration.

and then, he meets juno. and he follows juno around, trying to keep him safe, trying to make juno's life better.

and juno leaves.

and nureyev thinks, well, that's it for me. so long, happiness. he's been churning out payments for dokana for almost twenty years, he's spent so long fighting for slip that he's worried he'll never get him back so he wants to stop, but he can't let it all be for nothing so he refuses to stop.

the only reprieve he had, the only joy he allowed himself, was juno steel. but juno's left. and nureyev doesn't know how to keep on living anymore. he doesn't even know who he's living for, at this point. so he takes a step, and another, and another. and he does the next right thing.

For Future Consideration.

and all he can do on the carte blanche is plan his next move, his next steps, taking every hit and happiness as it comes, cherishing the highs, soldiering through the lows, and putting the future off indefinitely because it hurts too much to even thing about.

and when he leaves the carte blanche, it's the worst he's felt in years. maybe ever. because he had a family, he had a love, and he left it all behind for his debts, because he knows that ultimately, he must return to slip. his loyalties lie with slip, and there is no getting out of that fact.

and so he slips into the night, alone, and he stumbles towards a light he doesn't even know exists. but there must be a light, somewhere. they always say there's light at the end of the tunnel, don't they? he doesn't need to know what it is. if he just keeps going, just keeps moving, he'll get there eventually. he has to.

and then, all too soon, the moment arrives. he's at the end of the tunnel. and slip is right there, waiting to come back to life. waiting to see his petya again. slip will come back to him, and everything will never be the same again.

and juno is lost, juno is captured, juno is most likely dead all because of him, and everything will never be the same again.

what, indeed, is the honourable choice for the thief to make?

mr jackson, or mr steel. which will it be?

and then, slip sings to him. and nureyev listens.

and he does the next right thing.

[moni-logues]

Kintsugi 2

Pairing: Yoongi x reader

Genre: strangers-to-friends-to-lovers, non-idol!au, angst, smut, tiny bit of eventual fluff

Summary: In a fit of spiteful, post-break-up self-improvement, you sign up to a baking class. Yoongi, in a bid to appease his demanding girlfriend, signs up, too. Determined to make him your friend, you end up with more than you ever imagined.

Word count: 8.2k

Content: more jokes about killing herself, jokes about murder/death etc.; reader accidentally cuts herself and there is some [short] description of the cut/blood; alcohol consuption/drunkenness; smut: protected sex, fingering

A/N: Firstly, yes I have given Yoongi an older sister because it's FICTION and I CAN lmao. Secondly, there is likely to be a longer wait between this chapter and the next because I'm working on something else now to be posted hopefully soon 👀👀 but it'll take me a bit so this is your Kintsugi fix for the next few(?) weeks.

Once again, thank you to @btsgotjams27 and @here2bbtstrash for beta-ing for me.

Chapter One | Masterlist | Chapter Three

Chapter Two – Rebound  

You considered leaving. You considered ditching the baking class, taking your food, and going. You didn’t want to face it, him, your embarrassment, your hurt. You were still deciding, packing up your things, contemplating the door, when Yoongi walked through it. 

Your stomach lurched and a shudder ran through you. You looked at the space next to you – empty, as it always was – and wondered if he would take it. You didn’t know what you wanted. Rather, you knew, but you also knew it wasn’t coming. You wanted him to come and say how sorry he was, how he didn’t mean it, how he did want to be friends. You wanted him to talk to you, joke with you, show you that last week didn’t count, he didn’t mean it.  

A knife twisted in your gut as you thought about the class two weeks ago: your absolute certainty that you’d made a friend, the joy you had felt, the lightness, knowing that you could meet people, that you could befriend people, that people might enjoy having you around, that they might even choose your company. Followed by the crushing silence of last week. In some ways, it was worse than the break-up. 

Well, it wasn’t, obviously. The break-up completely ruined the life you’d thought you’d had and would have. But you understood it. You knew why it was happening. You couldn’t do anything about it and it was all your fault and that knowledge was devastating, but at least you understood. This, you didn’t. Your imagination had been given carte blanche to think of the worst possible reasons, the worst possible thoughts he might have of you. It was pathetic, you accepted that (Taehyung told you that) but it was how you felt.  

In the knowledge that you would not get the thing you wanted, you didn’t know what to want right now. You didn’t want him to come over, to stay silent, to ignore you again, as if you weren’t even there. You didn’t want him to go elsewhere; you didn’t want to watch him for the entire class, to see if he spoke to anyone else, to see if it was you or, maybe (possibly, could it be?), just him.  

You shook your head lightly to try to dispell your thoughts and busied yourself with tidying, rearranging, moving things about on the countertop as a way to not look at him. 

Except you were looking. You kept him in your peripheral vision, tracking him as he moved and came closer and closer still. You knocked your tubs of dry ingredients into the sink when he stood next to you and placed his bag on the counter.  

“Shit,” you muttered under your breath and, in your haste, made an easy job difficult, trying to pick up everything at once, dropping them and dropping them again until you gave in and picked them up one by one.  

A lightbulb went off in your head when you – still from the corner of your eye – noticed Yoongi’s body turned slightly towards you, felt the heat of his gaze on your face. You realised that you were doing to him what he had done to you. In your anxiety not to be rejected, you were rejecting him. You turned to him with a tight, forced smile. 

“Hi!” 

He returned your smile, small and shy, and nodded. 

“Hi... Um...”  

He shuffled and raised a hand to gently tug on the hair at the nape of his neck.  

“I want to apologise. For last week. It was, um- it wasn’t personal. I mean, it wasn’t about you. It was rude of me. I was rude. I’m really sorry.” 

“Oh.”  

You had to check if you were imagining it. Was it really happening? Exactly what you wanted? Exactly the thing that you most wanted, that you were so sure would never happen? Redemption. Another chance. An olive branch. 

“It’s fine!” you exclaimed, a little too loud. “Seriously, don’t worry about it. We all have bad days, right?” You laughed, a nervous chuckle bubbling up in your throat before you could stop it. “And I mean, I get it. I’m not exactly to everyone’s tastes-”  

“No!” he said quickly and then he cleared his throat, tugging at his hair again. “It wasn’t you, I swear. Please don’t take it personally.... It was me, just-… Anyway, I um-” He turned to his bag and pulled out a box. “I figured, since you don‘t cook, you probably don‘t have a decent set of knives, so I uh, I bought you some.”  

He thrust the box in your direction and you took it, brows furrowed, mouth agape. A set of three Tojiro Senkou knives; the brand meant nothing to you, nor did half the words in the description: ‘VG-10 core’, ‘60-62 Rockwell’, ‘Damascus steel’, but your ex used to talk about Japanese knives with reverence. You went to open the box and noticed that the seal was already broken. 

“I opened them,” Yoongi explained before you’d even opened your mouth. “I wanted to make sure they were sharp. A- A blunt knife is a... dangerous knife...”    

As you tipped the box to let the knives slide out, Yoongi grabbed your wrist and tipped it back, a slightly appalled look of disbelief on his face. 

“They’re sharp!” he gasped, carefully taking them out of the box, one at a time, by the handle. “You have to be careful.” He lay them on the counter for you and it was your turn to gasp when you noticed the price on the bottom of the box. 

“Yoongi!” 

He instantly took two steps back, his hands almost lifted in surrender.  

“Sorry, sor-” 

“These are so expensive!” you hissed. “You can’t- I can’t... Yoongi, these are fucking expensive knives.” 

His face relaxed a little and he shrugged. 

“It’s fine.” 

“It’s not fine! Look!” You shoved the box into his face and he laughed, pushing your hands back down. 

“It’s fine. They’re a present. An apology. I assume you need them anyway, right?” 

“Well... No, that’s not the point! Yoongi, I seriously can’t accept these. It’s way too much. You didn’t even need to apologise, let alone get me something, let alone spend this much!”  

You could feel yourself sweating. You were discombobulated, thrown off-course by the turn the evening had taken. This was beyond the best that you could have hoped for. It made you anxious. You weren’t worth this much. Not to a stranger. You couldn’t repay this generosity. 

“It’s fine. Seriously. I wouldn’t have got them if I couldn’t afford them.”  

You turned to look at the knives, slightly intimidated by them now. You picked one up; it even looked sharp. You’d never seen a knife look sharp; maybe because you had never owned one that was. Without thinking, you pressed the pad of your thumb against the blade to test it. 

“No-!” 

Yoongi's admonition was so late it couldn’t be fully uttered. The metal sank into your soft flesh and you gasped, accidentally sliding your thumb against it as you pulled it away. 

“Fuck.”  

Yoongi was immediately pushing past you, approaching the teacher who was just about to start the class, gesturing towards you. You turned your attention to your thumb, looking at the clean slice, the pin pricks of blood as they formed, grew, flooded the cleft and ran down your thumb, into your palm. You squeezed, just a little, unable to resist. 

Then Yoongi was back with a first aid kit and he took you by the wrist and ran your thumb under the tap. He held you there with one hand, rummaging in the box for antiseptic with the other. Found, he released your wrist to pour the antiseptic onto a strip of gauze. You hissed through your teeth as he pressed it against the cut and held it there, the pressure firm enough that you swore you could feel your pulse.  

He eventually let you go, checking to see that the blood had stopped, and he picked out a plaster – bright blue, of course. He ripped open the packet and peeled off the protective strips. You held your thumb up to him and he wrapped the plaster, firmly yet also somehow gently, against the wound. He gave it a final squeeze to secure it and then picked up the knife to wash. He placed it on the draining board and turned his attention frontwards, where the teacher had started the class.  

You ran your fingers over the handles of the knives still on the counter, not listening, not really looking. You tried not to cry. It would be pathetic to cry. You knew it would be. But tears pricked in your eyes anyway and you bit down hard on your lip to stop them falling. You curled your thumb into your fist and squeezed; the dull pulse of pain almost pleasant, grounding. A thought flashed in your brain that you would do it a hundred times more to be taken care of another hundred times; you had to shake your head to dismiss it. It felt like so long since someone had shown you care like that, since someone had crossed the barrier of your body and touched you so casually, so unremarked, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.  

A twinge in your gut accompanied the recollection of your break-up, the reasons for it: that it was your fault, that you were too used to being cared for. That’s part of the reason you were taking these classes in the first place; you had to learn to survive on your own. You shook your head again and cleared your tears, pulling yourself together. You didn’t have to be taken care of. You were fine on your own. You could do this.  

You were brought back into the room when Yoongi nudged you with his elbow. When you turned to him—his head cocked, his face pulled together in concern—you could see he had already started weighing out his flour, while you had stood, unmoving, somewhere else entirely.  

“I’m fine!” you insisted, even though he hadn’t asked. You switched on, grabbing a bowl and your scales and working busily—trying to look like you were busy—to avoid any more of his watchful attention. He went back to his own baking, more slowly, his eyes hovering over you just a moment longer.  

- 

“Here’s a question,” you asked as you scrunched your hands, trying to make your pastry come together. “Your girlfriend’s allergic to nuts; what’s she going to do this week? It's all nuts!” 

“...Ex-girlfriend.” 

You snapped your head in his direction with a gasp you didn’t even try to conceal. 

“Hey! Congrats, man! I’m happy for you!” 

Yoongi’s shoulders shook as he laughed. 

“That’s not usually the response that news gets.” 

“Oh shit, sorry. Sorry, I-” Your face flushed deep red as you floundered trying to think of any reason but the truth for your reaction. “Sorry, I totally projected so much of my own shit onto you based on literally the two sentences you’ve ever said about her and I made a bunch of assumptions and I think it’s actually a good thing to get out of a relationship that’s not serving you, right? Making that decision and being free to go after what you want is a good thing and I just completely made up my own idea of your relationship and thinking you would be better off out of it and, oh god, I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m really sorry about the break-up.” 

He continued laughing. 

“No, you were right the first time.”  

He turned his face towards you and grinned. You could smell your own nervous sweat on yourself and you threw a small blob of pastry at him, glaring playfully.  

You were relieved. Pleased. Happy, even. Happier than you should have been about something that was generally considered bad news, sad news, heart-breaking. For a second, you imagined your ex and his friends saying the same to him and your heart cracked a little; you hoped they hadn’t and knew it was selfish of you to hope. 

“So are you all bitter and spiteful now, too?” you asked. “’Cause you seem... not like that.”  

He considered you a moment before answering. 

“You don’t seem like that, either.”  

“Well, maybe we’re both good at hiding it.”  

“Maybe we are,” he said with a smile. 

“Is that why... last week...”  

Yoongi stopped what he was doing and stared straight ahead for a moment, as if deliberating, casting his mind back as if it hadn’t been at the forefront of yours all week. He looked at you again, considering you with a light frown that you didn’t know how to read. 

“Yeah,” he answered eventually. “Yeah. Sorry. Again. Sorry. It was bad behaviour. I-” 

“Seriously, it’s fine. I did consider killing myself over it, but actually, frangipanes are my favourite, so I held on.”  

He checked your face and you gave him an exaggerated grin, then he gave you one back.  

“Good to know.” 

“That I wanted to kill myself or...?” 

“No!” He laughed and you let it go to your heart, confident this time that he would stay there, that you were friends, that last week was an aberration, a break-up, a bad mood. “Good to know what keeps you alive.”  

You laughed. 

“Yeah, frangipanes and spite. What a life.”  

“Could be worse. You could just have spite.” 

“Or just frangipanes.” 

“Exactly.” 

“Can’t believe I have such a full life and so much to live for. Can’t believe you almost made me throw it all away.”  

His smile faltered and fell and you nudged him with your hip. 

“I’m joking. We’re good. I promise.” 

He nodded, his smile tight and his nose lightly scrunched, and carried on rolling his pastry. 

You tried not to tell yourself that you were right, that his girlfriend had been bad for him, that he was better off without her, but it was hard not to when he was so cute like this: his surprisingly broad shoulders shaking up and down as he laughed, the crinkles next to his eyes when he smiled, his surprising warmth. Far more so even than the first two weeks, he felt open to you. A barrier had broken down, been taken down, and you knew you weren’t kidding yourself this time. This time, you were definitely sure you were friends. You had the knives to prove it.  

- 

“Um,” Yoongi began as you were packing away your things. “What are you doing now?” 

“Now? Going home?” 

You could see him tapping the counter lightly and he bit his lip for a second before asking. 

“Do you want to get a drink or something?”  

You paused, a tub of jjajangmyeon from cooking class raised, about to be placed in a bag. This really was beyond all expectation. Was he really asking? Did you want to go? The doubt surprised you more than the offer itself. Taehyung’s words came back to you: ‘you just need a good rebound-fuck'. Did Yoongi, too? Is that what this was? What if it was? What if it wasn’t?  

“It’s fine,” Yoongi said, turning back to pick up his bag. 

“No, I want to!” you cried, too quickly. You laughed, self-conscious and blushing. “I was just weighing up the risk. You are a strange man, after all; we don’t know each other that well. What will the papers say tomorrow when my body washes up out of the river? She should never have gone with him! What did she expect? It’s almost as if she wanted to get murdered!”  

He grinned back at you. 

“Well, I was going to say I know a place but that sounds kind of-” 

“Oh, very suspicious, yeah. I’m fully down, though. Let’s get a drink, my murderous friend.” 

He snorted. 

“I’m not actually going to kill you, you know that, right? Just want to make sure your expectations are set right.” 

“Yeah, yeah, that’s what they all say!”  

You shoved lightly against his shoulder, encouraging him out of the room. You were still unsure, anxious at treading the unknown path stretching ahead of you. You still believed what you had told Taehyung; you didn’t think you were ready for it. But you also had to admit that maybe he was right: maybe you wouldn’t feel ready for it until it happened and then it would be fine. It was also entirely possible that Yoongi had no intention of sleeping with you at all; he’d only just got out of his own relationship; maybe he wasn’t ready. Maybe you were worrying for no reason.  

You decided to assume you were friends, because he hadn’t given you any reason to believe he meant anything more by it. You brain was good at giving you non-existent problems to sweat over; you were trying to get better at stopping it.  

Yoongi led you to the car park of the university and you paused when he pulled out a car key. 

“You’re... driving?” 

“Yeah... Is that... not ok?” 

“Well, I thought we were getting a drink? You can’t if you’re driving. Or did you not mean alcoholic? Or you don’t drink! Or-” 

He laughed softly. 

“I did mean alcohol, but don’t worry, I won’t drink-drive. I promise.” 

You accepted his answer with some scepticism. Who drives to a bar? Would he just be leaving his car there overnight? Where could he even park in this city that that would be legal? You stopped in your tracks again when you saw the car he unlocked. There was no way in hell he was planning to leave a car like that overnight. Surely not.  

“What?” 

“That’s your fucking car?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Christ, no wonder you don’t think the knives are expensive! It’s a fucking... That’s a... ” You traced your finger gently over the badge. It was a fucking Aston Martin is what it was. 

You looked at Yoongi anew and you hesitated when he opened the boot for you to drop your stuff into it. Everything was sealed tight, you were sure, but the thought of four tubs of jjajangmyeon sloshing around was deeply worrying. 

“What’s wrong?” he asked, looking at you with genuine concern. 

“Yoongi, if my shit spills in here-” 

“It won’t.” 

“If it does....” 

He shrugged. 

“it’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” 

You could only stare at him as he slammed the boot shut and moved to the driver’s side. You hadn’t really thought about it, what he did for a living, who he was outside of class. You hadn’t expected your friendship to breach its containment so quickly. When you had woken up that morning, you hadn’t thought you had a friendship at all.  

“Are you getting in?” he asked, his head poked out of the driver’s seat window. 

“Oh yeah, just trying to familiarise myself with the vehicle’s emergency exits. Y’know, in case of murder.” 

He rolled his eyes with a snicker and tucked his head back in. 

“So, are you going to tell me what you do for a living to afford a car like this and knives like that? Or are you some sort of hitman, some high-paid assassin? My ex didn’t hire you, did he? To bump me off, get rid of me once and for all?” you asked as you buckled yourself in. 

Yoongi grinned and then it turned into a grimace as he sighed. 

“I work in finance.”  

“What?!”  

He shrugged. 

“I work in finance.” 

“Oh my god, you’re Patrick Bateman! You really are going to kill me!” 

The idea of this sweet, shy baker, this gentle and generous man working in what you could only assume was a company just like the one in Wolf of Wall Street was unthinkable. Preposterous. You reminded yourself that you didn’t know him that well, but it still just didn’t fit. You couldn’t place him there.  

“I am not Patrick Bateman, thank you very much, but I might just kill you if you call me that again.” He flashed you a grin and a raised brow as he pulled off from a red light. 

“Ok, well, if you are going to kill me, can I place two conditions on it? Can you grant me two things: two small things for my life?” 

“I’m sure that depends on what they are.” 

“Ok, first condition: whatever bar we go to, I want the most expensive drink they have. Whatever it is, don’t care. Most expensive. And you can’t say no to this one, Mr Moneybags, because this is my life you’re buying and if you don’t think my life is worth one expensive drink then I think you really need to invest a little more in this hobby of yours!” 

He laughed, a throaty guffaw, and nodded. 

“Alright then. What’s the second condition?” 

“I actually haven’t thought of it yet, but I felt like one condition wasn’t really enough for my whole life, so you’ll have to check again later.” 

“Noted.” 

"I can't believe you’re a banker,” you told him, switching back. “You’re one of those guys? It doesn’t compute.” You couldn’t imagine him in that world, your idea of which was small-dicked, coke-snorting men swimming around in a vat of toxic masculinity, money, and sex. “I would never in a million years have guessed.” 

“You mean because I’m not a coke-snorting meathead who thinks money can buy literally anything and that having it makes you better than everyone else?” 

You laughed. 

“Yeah, that.” 

“How do you know I’m not? You don’t even know whether or not I’m going to kill you later.” 

“Good point, well made! So why are you? What made you choose banking?” 

He paused, as you had noted he often did before speaking, like that curious pause after you cut your thumb but before the blood came; a tiny moment of held breath, suspension, anticipation. You were stopping yourself filling it, trying to let it rest, telling yourself that it meant only that he was considering his answer, not that he was considering telling you to shut up and fuck off.  

“I grew up poor. Really poor.” 

He paused again and you just waited, biting your tongue, letting him continue if he wanted to. 

“My sister left school at 15 to help my mum take care of my grandma and so she could work more hours. We all had jobs. We just never had enough money. I don’t know how.  

“I was determined I’d fix it. I was able to graduate school; I finished even though everyone wanted me to quit so I could work full-time, too. When I told them I wanted to go to university...”  

He fell silent again and you kept your mouth shut. 

“That was a mistake. I dropped the subject and applied anyway with the help of my teachers. I got a place and a full scholarship and I didn’t tell my family until right before I left because I knew they would try to stop me. They were furious but I think they were also terrified. I didn’t earn much working part-time but it was something and they were scared of having to live without it.  

“But I knew what I was doing. I researched the degrees with the highest graduate starting salaries; I researched the careers that would lead to the biggest paycheques; I researched the best university with the best connections, networks, and internship opportunities. And I did it.” 

He shrugged as if to signal he had finished and your mind whirred. 

“What did you spend your first paycheque on? Did you go mad? Try to buy a Ferrari or something? I can’t imagine what it must have been like. Are you used to the wealth now? Do you notice it anymore?” 

“I notice.” Firm, almost sharp. He tapped his finger against the steering wheel and sighed. “I was actually terrified to start with. I couldn’t bear to look at it. I didn’t know what to do with it. I was so used to not having anything that it was completely overwhelming. I buried my head in the sand. I sent money back to my family, obviously, but not much, not as much as I should have or could have, just the same amount that I had sent while I was studying. I lived like I always had: frugally. I didn’t know anything else. It wasn’t until a work friend came to my apartment and-” He shook his head, laughing at himself. “I thought I was normal. I had a shithole apartment that was barely furnished and I lived on gimbap and I thought that was just life. I didn’t know how to live better. But he came over and the look on his face, I will never forget. ‘Why do you live like this?’ he asked me. Those exact words. Why do you live like this? I didn’t know that I was living like anything.  

“Fortunately, we have financial advisors at work. So, I spoke to one of them and they helped me make sense of my money. They taught me how to invest, which sounds ridiculous because that’s my job. I knew all about managing other people’s money, but I hadn’t applied any of that to my own life. 

“Anyway, I sent a huge chunk of money back home and still send whatever they need; my investment portfolio is solid, so I’m... pretty secure now; I give a lot of the rest to charity. In a way I suppose you could say I did get used to it; I don’t ever worry about money anymore and I- I do have nice things. But I don’t take it for granted. I know what I have; I don’t forget.” 

You thought about a tiny, teenaged Yoongi, leaving his family behind so he could try to find something better for them. You wondered what he’d rather have done, if he had other dreams that weren’t getting rich quick, if he wished he could be doing something else. In a rare moment of reticence, of exercising judgement, you didn’t ask, didn’t push the matter.  

“I bet your family are proud of you,” you offered instead. 

His pause was longer this time. It stretched far enough that it made you uncomfortable, physically desperate to speak again, to break the silence.  

“Maybe,” he answered, eventually. “Yes, probably. But-… It’s not that simple. Families never are, right?” 

“Right.” 

- 

“Aren’t we going to a bar?” you asked as you shut the car door, noting that you were definitely not at one, that Yoongi keyed in a code to even get into this car park, this residential-looking car park in the basement of an apartment block. 

“This is my building,” he answered as he slammed the boot shut. “I live here. I figured since we had-” he lifted his hands to display your bags and bags of food. “-all this stuff and your jjajangmyeon should go in the fridge... I thought this would just be easier.” 

“Ah, I see...” You held out a hand to take something from him and he shook you off. “So, you’ve lured me to your apartment... Hmm, seems like maybe this really will be my last night on Earth.”  

Now you were even less sure what Yoongi wanted out of this evening, what he was expecting. He made a fair point about the food, but coming to his apartment was not the same thing as going to a bar. You trusted him, felt a warm affection for him; you knew you very much wanted to be his friend, but more than that?  

You had to stop thinking, creating problems where there were none. You could cross that bridge when you got to it—if you got to it. You shook your head again, a little reset, and reached out to grab the handle of one of your bags in Yoongi’s hand. He stopped walking so he could use a leg to kick you away. His insistence on carrying everything left his hands full and you stopped at the first door to his building. 

“Going to let me take one now?” you asked with your hand outstretched.  

Yoongi shook his head. 

“093613.” 

You raised your eyebrows and, when no response was forthcoming, keyed in the code. The door unlocked happily and you swung it open in disbelief. 

- 

“Well, now I know you’re going to murder me, because why else would you tell me your door codes?” you asked as you slipped off your shoes and shut the door behind him. “I can get in whenever I like now! I can rob you, little rich man!” 

He chuckled. 

“You know I can always just change them.” 

You sniffed haughtily, not willing to be caught out.  

“Most expensive drink in the bar, right?” he called behind him as he took everything into the kitchen. 

“Only if you’re planning to kill me!” 

You went in the opposite direction and ran your fingers along the edge of the bookshelf lining the back wall of the living room. Anxiety was humming inside you—low level, quiet, but there all the same. Yoongi interrupted your thoughts, knocking a cold glass into your arm. You took it: something brown, probably whiskey-ish, something you were almost certain you wouldn’t like. You held it back out to him and he chinked his own against it. 

“To my last drink on Earth.”  

“To your last drink on Earth.” 

Then you tipped it all back and swallowed it down in one burning gulp. You choked, tears streaming down your face in an instant. You coughed and Yoongi just stared at you, aghast. 

“It’s... Y-you're not supposed to drink it like tha- it's not a shot!” 

“Yeah,” you wheezed, wiping tears from your face. “Yeah, I get that.” You gasped and patted your face dry. “What the fuck was that?” 

“It’s just whiskey.” 

“Oh god, it was fucking gross. Oh, that was such a mistake. I’m sorry; that was horrible.” 

He looked at you, almost bewildered, too surprised to laugh, and he turned, making his way back to the low drinks cabinet. He knelt in front of it. 

“Ok, let me get you something else. What do you like?” 

“Tell me what you’ve got, babe.” 

He looked back at you with an expression you could only read as shocked and confused. 

“I- what?” 

“You jus- never min-” 

A flash of understanding. 

“Oh, ‘babe’? Sorry, do you not like ‘babe’?” 

“No, I don’t mind; just no one’s ever called me that.” 

You stopped short. 

“What do you mean, no one’s ever called you ‘babe’?” 

He shrugged. 

“Baby?” 

He shook his head. 

“Love?” 

He shook his head. 

“Sweetheart, darling, cutie, mon petit chou, caro mio, jagi?” 

He just looked at you blankly. 

“But you’ve been in relationships! Long-term ones! Serious ones! What the hell have your partners called you?!” 

“They just called me Yoongi.”  

“Do you not like pet names?” 

“I don’t mind. I’m not against them. They just never used them.” 

He shrugged. Your heart broke looking at his little lost face and then was overcome with a wave of affection which you surfed all the way to the drinks cabinet. You knelt in front of him and took his face in your hands. 

“Baby, I’m never going to call you Yoongi again, alright? If your own partners can’t treat you sweetly, can’t call you cute names just because, then I’m going to. You ok with that, my love?” 

He blushed and looked down, fighting a shy smile. You grinned, kissed him on the forehead—a loud smack of a kiss—and ruffled his hair. 

“Come on, then; what have you got for me to drink?” 

“Pretty much anything you want.” 

“Anything?” You loved a challenge. “Ouzo?” 

He pulled a face that told you clearly what he thought of the drink but then he rummaged at the back and pulled out an almost-empty bottle.  

“Ouzo.” 

“Oh. Advocaat?” 

He rolled his eyes and repeated his actions, placing a bottle of creamy Advocaat next to the ouzo. 

“Ok, how about port?” 

“Are you actually going to drink any of these things?” he asked with his head inside the cabinet. 

“Nope! Just testing you!” 

With a playfully aggravated sigh, Yoongi placed a bottle of port before you.  

“Limoncello? I’ll drink that one, I swear.” 

“Ok, because if you don’t, I’ll-” 

“-Kill me.” 

“-Kill you.” 

- 

The limoncello was long finished; Yoongi abandoned his sipping whiskey after his second glass; empty bottles of soju sprawled across the coffee table just as you were sprawled across the sofa. The room swam around you and you were blissfully floating on the waves, inhibitions fully lowered, guard down, heart open, as you most liked to be.  

“Ok,” you said, pointing at him with your shot glass in hand. “Tell me the worst thing your ex did.” 

Yoongi groaned and dragged his hands slowly down his face. 

“Everything. She made me feel so bad about myself.”  

“’Cause she’s a fucking dick, I told you.”  

“You’re right. I don’t know why we were together.” 

“Do you think she was with you for your money?”  

You wouldn’t have said it sober. But you were a long, long way from sober. Yoongi shrugged, rolled his eyes. 

“Maybe. Probably. I don’t think she liked me all that much. I’m not even sure I liked her either. I don’t know how we ended up living together.” 

You did fall off the sofa at that point, mid-lean to grab the last remaining full bottle from the table. You shuffled on your knees over to Yoongi to pour him a drink and then poured one for yourself. 

“She lived here?” you asked and then threw back the shot. 

“Yeah... Not anymore, though!” Yoongi drank his shot and gestured for the bottle to pour more. “There’s a box of her stuff over there if you want to go through it. Take shit; I don’t care.” 

You cackled and followed Yoongi’s vague gesture to the hall. He rolled off his sofa to join you as you were pulling things out of a large box.  

“Ooh,” you cooed as you extracted a deep red dress, soft and velvet. You draped it over yourself. “How do I look?” 

Yoongi chuckled.  

“That’s the dress she wore on our first date.” 

“What?! Your first date?” You held the dress up in front of you, evaluating it again in light of this new information. “Let me guess: you fucked on this first date.” 

“How do you know that?” 

“Honey, look at this dress. This is not a first date dress. This is the dress you wear when you want to get fucked at the end of it.”  

He looked surprised—as if it hadn't occurred to him that she might have planned it. You laughed. 

“That’s how you ended up together! I’ll tell you how it happened: you met and you were so distracted by how hot she was that you didn’t notice that you didn’t have that much in common or you didn’t like her as a person that much. And then you fucked and the sex was so good, you forgot there even was anything else to consider! Then, by the time you realised you didn’t like each other that much, outside of the sex, it was too late because you were somehow already in a relationship, fucked into loving each other without knowing it was happening!” You pointed at him, eyebrows raised, asking for confirmation, but he just looked at you, mouth opened, a half-formed protest stuck there, non-forthcoming.  

“Fuck!” he cried. Then he laughed and laughed harder, doubling over, bashing his fist against his forehead. “Fuck! Fuck! You’re so right... Fucked into loving each other... Shit. Though I don’t know if she actually ever loved me.” He was talking to himself more than to you, you thought, his gaze somewhere far off until it snapped back to you. “Well, you can have that dress if you want. She doesn’t seem to have any problem getting other people to fuck her, so I don’t think she needs it.” 

“Huh?” you asked, slightly distracted, trying to work out if this dress might possibly fit you. 

“She was cheating on me. I told you that.” 

“No, you did not!”  

You staggered to your feet to retrieve the soju and glasses, sloppily pouring another for each of you.  

“I fucking told you she was a dick,” you repeated, for what might have been the hundredth time. You knocked back a shot and then another for good measure. “Honestly, you needed me in your life before now. I’d have saved you from her. Can I really have this dress?” 

Yoongi shrugged. 

“Yeah, I don’t care. It’s not mine.” 

“Where’s your bedroom?”  

Yoongi pointed at the door at the end of the hallway and you stomped through it, shutting it behind you. You shrugged your shirt off and carelessly tore your sundress over your head. You took another look at the dress and did away with your bra and the cycling shorts you wore under everything in the summer.  

It was a somewhat sobering moment. Almost naked in a strange man’s apartment, trying on his ex-girlfriend's dress, the two sides of which you couldn’t get to meet behind you. You held it up against your bare chest and squinted your eyes, trying to imagine what it might look like if it did fit. You were still drunk enough that you thought you could probably pull it off. Pulling the hem down over your thighs, you opened the door and walked back out.  

You flung one arm out—the other needed to hold the dress up—and posed. 

“Ok, how do I look?” 

Yoongi, still sitting cross-legged on the floor, looked up at you and laughed.  

“Fucking sexy.”  

“Yeah?”  

You cycled through what you imagined might have been sexy poses as he rose to his feet and came closer. He took your free hand and span you around. Hardly steady on your feet, you crashed into him. Your arms were trapped between you and him; his came around you, steadying. His touch was light, but you could feel the warmth of his palms through the thin fabric of the dress. You looked up at him, blinking through your lashes.  

“Yeah,” he said, his low voice not more than a whisper. His breath washed over you, sweet and strong, followed by the slight sharpness of alcohol. 

You didn’t know if you moved first or he did, but, the second your lips collided, you knew you wanted more. You moved your body back slightly, freeing your arms, and then you pushed back up against him, keeping your dress up, allowing your hands to take his face, to tangle in his hair. A desire that had lain dormant in you for months reared its head and burnt through your drunkenness like a forest fire. You sucked on Yoongi’s lower lip and bit down. He opened his mouth and you could taste it all: the soju, the limoncello, the lingering, dark tang of whiskey, the urgency, the wanting, the need. Yoongi moaned into your mouth and it sent a shiver down your spine. He pushed you backwards, his fingers gripping you tightly; you stumbled together until your back hit the wall.  

Yoongi broke the kiss and pressed his forehead to yours. You breathed heavily in tandem, looking at each other. You could have stopped it. You could have changed your mind. Said no, we shouldn’t. He could’ve stopped it, changed his mind, said no, you shouldn’t.  

Neither of you did. You stayed like that, pressed against the wall, your heart thudding back to meet it, your hands in Yoongi’s hair, his hands on your waist. For how many seconds, how many minutes, you didn’t know, couldn’t have guessed. The anticipation built in you, fluttering in your stomach, hammering behind your ribs, pooling in your underwear. The tension, tissue paper thin, stretched between you and you let it—you and Yoongi both. You opened your mouth to whisper his name. 

“Yoon-” 

He shook his head minutely, barely perceptible; if his head weren’t still pressed against yours, you wouldn’t have felt it, wouldn’t have seen it. His tongue poked the inside of his cheek and he grabbed his bottom lip hard with his teeth. His eyes flicked down, towards your own lips, and further, before flicking back up again. They were dark, liquid, burning. He slowly brought his hands up, delicately tracing the shape of your body and, without breaking eye contact, pulled his ex-girlfriend's dress from your chest. He nudged your nose with his and bent his head.  

He kissed your shoulder and your collarbone and followed the lost trail of the dress’s neckline down and down. Your hands gripped his hair tighter and you tipped your head back, closing your eyes as he closed his mouth around your nipple, stiff and sensitive. You shivered as he worked his tongue over you, as he crossed your chest and licked a broad stripe up your left breast, grazing his teeth lightly on your soft, warm skin.  

He moaned, a low sound, deep in his throat and your walls pulsed, your cunt empty and dripping. You tugged roughly at his hair, pulling his face back to yours, kissing him hard and hungry, rolling your hips against his. You opened your mouth in a soft gasp when you felt his erection straining against his trousers and he took the opportunity to roll his tongue over yours.  

You gasped again when you felt his fingers at the hem of the dress, underneath it, at the edge of your underwear, underneath that, too, and then pressing at your entrance, swirling in your arousal, gathering it, spreading it over your aching clit. You jerked as he began to move his fingers in circles against it, slow and firm, his other hand attending your breast, his mouth still on yours. It made you weak, the dizzy pleasure of it, the way the world titled and swayed to the rhythm of his fingers and his tongue.  

“Fuck,” he rasped, his voice tight and strained as he pressed a kiss against your cheek, your jaw, down your neck. “You’re so wet; I’m so fucking hard—shit-” He growled and moved his hips, his stiff, straining cock rubbing against you, your bodies pressed tight so you could feel the heat of it, his tumescent desire.  

You whimpered as he sank his fingers into the soft, wet clutch of your cunt. He hummed and sucked soft, wet kisses on your neck. You wanted him to move faster, to stop taking his time. You wanted to feel his hard, heavy length inside you. You wanted him to fuck you and fuck you like he meant it.  

You reached down between you and fumbled with his belt, your fingers careless and weakened. Yoongi helped, his free hand tugging with yours until the belt came apart. You pulled at the waistband of his boxers, dragged them down, and let his cock spring free. He groaned when you wrapped your hand around it, when you squeezed lightly at its base, when you whispered to him, ‘baby, fuck me, please’.  

He demurred and bent his head lower, his tongue swirling wet heat over your chest. His long fingers curled and hooked against your front wall, rubbing over the ridges insistently, pressing, pulling, piling the pleasure up inside you. His thumb rubbed circles against your clit and you could feel the tightening in your core, the twisting in your gut, the shuddery, shaky feeling in your legs.  

He returned his face to yours, those deep, black eyes pouring over you. You looked back, wide-eyed, open-mouthed, breathless. Your walls started to pulse rhythmically against his fingers, clenching tight, and the muscles in your thighs began to tremble. Just as you were tipping your head back, about to close your eyes, you saw the ghost of a smirk wash over his face and you surrendered. You held tight to his shoulders as you came, his fingers squelching in your gushing arousal, his breath fanning over your hot skin, sprinkling goosebumps with every exhale.  

As the wave receded, you looked skyward and blinked, your erratic heart thumping in your chest, pulsing in your core, throbbing in your sensitive clit. Yoongi’s fingers slipped out of your warm, fluttering pussy and he pressed a soft kiss to your shoulder. You dropped your hand to his dick and he moaned, his hips thrusting forward against your palm. 

“Please,” you whispered. “Fuck me now.” 

The deep growl that left him came straight from his chest and vibrated right through you.  

“Do you have a condom?” you asked and you felt him nod his head against your neck and then he was suddenly gone. You felt cold without his body pressed up, right on top of yours, and suddenly so much more naked than you had before. You quickly pushed your soiled, wet underwear down your legs and kicked them off somewhere across the floor. You carefully, deliberately pulled the hem of the dress low, covering as much of your thighs as it could and then you leant back, eyes closed, trying to catch your breath.  

You heard him return, heard the crinkle of the packet as he tore it open and you opened your eyes to watch him roll the condom down his thick, flushed cock. You turned and leant yourself over the sideboard, pulling the dress up at the back. There was a pause in which nothing happened and you twisted back to look at Yoongi but his eyes were elsewhere.  

His jaw was clenched and his eyes blacker than pitch; he squeezed at the base of his cock and his eyes fluttered shut as he swallowed hard. He reached for you and his fingers dug deep grooves in your flesh as he gripped you tight with one hand and, with the other, pressed his tip against your entrance. You pushed back gently, encouraging, and he sank into you slowly with a low, vocal exhale. You fingers grasped at nothing at the stretch, his thick, straight shaft sliding against you, your cunt clutching him tight.  

“Fuck, you’re tight,” he panted as he bottomed out, resting there, letting you adjust. You gave him a squeeze and pressed your thighs together, earning yourself another gasped curse. He pulled out slowly, smoothly, and you swore to yourself, over and over again in your head as he fucked back into you, as he began to move faster and thrust harder. His hands pushed the dress further up, exposing more of you. He kneaded the flesh of your backside and dug his fingers in hard. Blood roared in your ears; stars danced in front of your eyes; you could smell the varnish on top of the wood as you pressed your forehead against it; you could smell the sweetness of the soju on your breath. Your hips knocked against the sideboard with every stroke that brought the tip of Yoongi’s cock against your g-spot; the jolt of pain mingling with the hard, exquisite pressure of Yoongi inside you, filling you up, stretching you out, made you breathless, made you shaky with pleasure.  

Yoongi was close; you could feel his cock twitch inside you, feel his rhythm falter as he got closer still. His fingers held you, bruising tight, as his hips snapped hard into you, harder and harder until you had to hold the sideboard, press your weight down on it to stop it jolting forward with you. He came with a deep groan and his hold on you released, his fingers fluttering over your flushed, warm skin. He stayed inside you for a moment, catching his breath, and then the feeling of him, full against your tight heat, was replaced by the ache of emptiness. You watched his back as he walked to dispose of the condom and you pushed the dress down once more with clammy hands. You gathered the top and held it against you, your nakedness now seeming inappropriate, excessive.  

He returned to you and kept coming, gently pressing you against the wall again. His cheeks were flushed, the hair at the edge of his hairline damp and sticky; you pushed it back and he closed his eyes at your touch. 

“You really fucking like this dress, huh?” 

His laugh was loud and then silent; he pressed his forehead against yours and nuzzled your nose as his shoulders shook. 

“I like the person wearing it,” he mumbled and then he kissed you. You kissed him back, your heart racing anew.  

“Well, I’m not keeping it,” you said when you parted. He backed away to let you move and you self-consciously smoothed the fabric. “It doesn’t fucking fit.”  

He shrugged. 

“That’s fine. She can have it back.” 

“You’re going to give it back to her after fucking someone else in it?” 

He smirked and it turned into a grin, his eyes glinting. 

“She fucked someone else in my bed; she deserves it. Another drink?”  

You nodded and returned to Yoongi’s bedroom to put your clothes back on. When you re-emerged, you took the shot from Yoongi and dropped the dress, unfolded, back into the box. 

Tags: @e-cm, @chimmisbae, @purplewhalewrites

Chapter One | Masterlist | Chapter Three

[chadillacboseman]

Summary: Just a quick intro piece for JJ, my newest OC. The SF is on a night mission to clear a weapons depot warehouse and Falcon Company provides air support. TY @bihanspookies for being my bestie and always reading my nonsense. And for screaming about JJ with me <3

--

The weapons warehouse is bathed in moonlight by the time Sonya and her squad reach it. It looms above them like a giant metal behemoth against the inky black sky.

Inside, she knows the space will be crawling with Black Dragon mercenaries; she's only brought a small strike team, they'll be relying on support from above if they intend to be successful.

The plan is simple- rappel in and drop teargas, push the ones they can't kill themselves out for Falcon Company to eliminate.

As if on cue, her earpiece comes to life.

"Blade, this is Falcon-01, we are on approach," Jeremiah Mitchell's grating southern drawl is unmistakable, even with the sound of the AC-130 thrumming in the background.

"Copy, Falcon, we have eyes on the warehouse. Wait for the laser before engaging."

"Copy."

Inside the roaring warplane, JJ strides down the center of the hold, his hands resting comfortably on the straps of his plate carrier. The rest of Falcon Company muddles around the interior, inspecting the ammunition as it's loaded into the side canons.

"Alright, Falcons, this is it!" he calls and they all look at him with rapt attention, "Tip of the spear, edge of the knife. We go in hot and loud, and we make these fuckers pay for every one of ours they put in the ground. Understood?"

A resounding 'HOORAH!' echoes back at him and he's satisfied. He makes his way up to the cockpit where the pilot team guides the warplane toward the warehouse.

"Keep eyes on the west side, thermals. Look for the infrared. Blade's strike team is gonna try'n force 'em out that way."

The pilots respond in the affirmative and he steps back, watching through the reinforced windows as they approach the site. JJ's heart is always banging out a rhythm like a wardrum when they're in the air- the ground team is in their hands for better or for worse.

Sonya's IR laser erupts to life and the AC-130 makes a sharp bank, pulling into a pylon turn to orbit the building. They're flying low, just 7k above the ground, enough to keep them safe from RPGs, but close to give his team a good visual.

JJ takes a seat at one of the CCTV monitors and watches as the 25MM gunner takes aim at the western set of doors. Below, Sonya and her team rappel in from the rooftop and drop tear gas that gives them an upper hand.

"Falcon, this is ground team," Sonya sounds out of breath as she radios in, "you've got hostiles incoming."

The AC-130 banks and gives the gunner a perfect view of the mercs as they exfil.

"Falcon-06, you have carte blanche authority," JJ glances down the hold and the soldier nods before returning his attention to the console.

The first burst of shots takes out a wave of mercs and he sees a few of them look skyward. Hello assholes. Some of them branch off and head for cover, while another group makes for the row of jeeps to the north.

"Switch to 105 Mike-Mike, take out those Jeeps."

Falcon-04 and 07 load a Howitzer into the tube and it fires, recoiling into the hold. Below, the missile hits ground and the jeeps erupt into balls of flame and bits of metal. The mercs that were closing in drop to the ground in heaps.

"That's how we do it, Falcons!" JJ shouts and another round of loud 'HOORAH's echoes around him.

"Falcon, watch your fire!" Sonya cries into his earpiece, "We don't want any structural damage."

JJ rolls his eyes, "Copy that, Blade. Boys, stick to 25."

The rest of the mercs have taken cover in a small building outside the warehouse; it doesn't look reinforced- the 25MM will punch through with ease. Falcon-06 aims the guidance system and sends a burst into the roof; JJ watches with satisfaction on his own monitor as the rounds tear through the metal and into the mercs beneath it. Dodge that.

Another wave of them erupts from the doors. By now, they've wised up to the air support, branching off in multiple directions for a better chance at scraping by with their lives.

God, he wants to send them to hell with the 105.

Instead, he watches as Falcon-06 expertly times his shots, peppering the asphalt with lead that shreds through half a dozen mercs, then pivots, and takes out another two. Next to him, the belt feeds into the gun and kicks out empties that clatter to the metal floor.

"No visual on the remaining mercs," Falcon-06 calls. There had been at least ten- the area was wooded, they were probably streaking through the trees as they speak.

Fuck it.

"Hit the treeline with the 105," JJ will deal with Sonya's ire later. Don't bring the big guns if you don't intend to fire them.

Falcon-04 and 07 kick out the empty Howitzer shell and load another before aiming the guidance system at the treeline. The canon kicks back and the missile hits ground with a blast that levels the first few rows of trees. He makes out the bodies of at least a few of the mercs as the trees burn. It's good enough for him, as long as the others make it back to base with PTSD.

"Blade, we're clear out here. How copy?"

The radio is silent for a moment and he knits his brows.

"Blade, how copy?"

"Clear, but no sign of Kano," Sonya sounds irritated. Whether it's with his actions or the lack of Kano, he has no idea. Her obsession with the Black Dragon clan leader is lost on JJ; it drives her as if she is captain Ahab and he the white whale.

"Rog. Falcon is pulling out, we'll see you on the ground," JJ makes his way to the cockpit once more and turns to face the crew, "Good work, boys. We'll be back in time for dinner."

"Let's get this bird home."

[queerfables]

Actually I think House and Wilson should do CNC stalking roleplay. No, listen, obviously there's all the actual stalking that House does. But that's less fun because Wilson has to pretend he hates it. Not sexy, playful pretend but the kind where you know there would be something deeply wrong with you to want such invasive and dysfunctional attention so you chase desperate circles around your brain trying to convince yourself you don't. This means that Wilson is missing out on what should be the best part of CNC for someone like him, which is the part where none of it is his fault.

Ironically, if they ever did manage some kind of formalised negotiation of terms, I think the admission that he does secretly want it would give Wilson just enough control to let go. His brain could finally shut the fuck up and let him bask in House's ravenous need to consume every part of his life.

It would still be deeply fucked up. This isn't something they could do by half measures, and neither of them has the self control for safety measures. It would be more akin to Total Power Exchange than a bit of frisky weekend fun; House wouldn't always indulge the itch to tail Wilson in his off hours or go through his mail, but the potential would always be there, without exceptions or limits.

Because the thing is, once they understood this was something they both wanted, once they actually got down to the brass tacks of negotiation, it would go like this. House would defensively rattle off a list of exceptions, exclusions and hidden clauses he expects Wilson to insist on. "Am I close?" he'd ask, in that condescending tone that means he knows he's exactly spot on. And Wilson would hold his gaze for just long enough to be unnerving, and say, "No."

"No to what?"

"No to all of it. If I wanted to quibble with you over every detail of what you can and can't have access to, I'd - well. Keep doing what we've been doing until the heat death of the universe. No caveats."

"You do realise that just means my first goal is going to be seeing how many times I can make you safeword in 24 hours, right?"

"No," Wilson's gaze still uncomfortably sure. "No safewords."

"You're giving me carte blanche to violate your personal life and you don't want a safeword?"

"Would it matter if I had one?"

"Would it - obviously it matters! Only idiots don't have safewords!"

"You don't listen to my regular no. Why do I need another word for you to ignore? Do you just want to hear me say 'banana fritters'?"

And House would stare at Wilson feeling like the ground had opened up beneath him, but instead of falling, he'd discovered wings.

"You're serious."

"Obviously. Why else would I say 'banana fritters'?"

It wouldn't fix either of them, of course, but it also wouldn't make them any worse, and they'd probably be like 15% less miserable about it.

[eimearkuopio]

You live in a big fancy manor house owned by a rich man who runs a lot of the village. Never mind how he acquired that wealth, or whether he is a just lord. That part of the story doesn't matter right now.

He left his servants and his children in charge while he stepped out for a bit. The children decided it would be fun to throw a rager, and went around inviting everyone in the village. Some people wanted to join in. Some people felt like they had to because the local lord's children were insisting. Some people got straight-up kidnapped out their own fucking homes and dragged to some stupid party they didn't even want to go to.

And some people really shouldn't have been invited in the first place, but that's what happens when you decide to "get wild".

Things got out of hand. You got your first taste of freedom, and it was sweet until it turned bitter.

Luckily for you, I live in the next town over, and one of my kids ended up at your party. She had the common sense to get in touch, in spite of all the older kids yelling at her and telling her it was a bad idea and you would all get in trouble.

And now, I'm here.

Think of me as your slightly weird aunt. Your dad doesn't approve. We have different parenting styles, and sometimes I'm more liberal, and sometimes He is, but we both love your whole generation of tiny dumbasses.

Admittedly, I love my tiny dumbass more than I love His tiny dumbasses, but I do still love you.

You've trashed the place. Maybe you didn't think that would happen. Maybe you thought the House Rules would keep the party from devolving into chaos.

Step one is getting rid of the ones who shouldn't be here. Anyone who wants to leave, LET THEM. It's not their job to clean up your mess. Some of them have homes to go to! Anyone who wants to help out, you owe them one. You're scared of how they might leverage it? Too bad, shouldn't have thrown a rager. Anyone you think it might be a good idea to get rid of anyway... Make your own call and accept the consequences, or feel free to ask me. I might not get it right, but I have better odds than most of you kids. (The kid who called me is sticking around. You owe her big time, but you don't need to be worried that she'll be in trouble when it's time for her to come home. If she hadn't managed to overcome the terror you instilled in her, she might actually have tried to torch the place, and that would have been worse. She did fine.)

Step two is cleanup and repairs. Anything absolutely trashed beyond repair should be recorded and remembered. If it's something that can be replaced, you're going to need to figure out how. In this parable, children should do more of the clean-up than servants. Servants will guide and instruct, and will probably help out because that's part of their job, but they didn't make this mess and I will not be happy if they are left to clean it up. Maybe think of it as the shepherds being given carte blanche to supervise the wise men. My kid is a good kid, but she's still a kid. Ask her, and if she's not sure, she'll try to find me.

I'll wander around and keep an eye on things. This is your house, not mine, so I don't know the specifics; but I actually run my own household instead of leaving it all to the servants, so I can probably offer some helpful tips.

I don't know when He'll be home. I don't know how bad it will be when He gets here; I've seen some pretty messed up shit, but He has definitely mellowed with age. But I would strongly recommend you stop wasting any more time and GET TO WORK.

[silvercaptain24]

So... warning for Cia and for Warriors being a self-sacrificial idiot but I almost had fun writing the insane sorceress so...

Cia’s spell rose to a sudden crescendo and there was a pulling, tearing sensation that seemed to come from his very soul. The mark that had signaled to all that he was the era's hero flashed, then faded. Several of his brothers cried out as their own scars from bearing the Triforce reacted to the pull. The sensation of having Courage pulled from him for a third time was an all-too-familiar agony, along with the feeling of weakness and emptiness that echoed in response. It left him dangling limp against his bonds for a moment.

“What did you do to him you cra--” Cia snapped her fingers and Wild’s cry suddenly cut off.

“Not now, Dear.” Cia swayed a little, gazing at the back of her hand as a manic giggle escaped her lips. “Two of the three. And I have no doubt the precious princess will be on her way. Especially when I send her a trophy that her dear hero is here...” Cia’s musing went from a giggling, dreamy quality to suddenly cold. “And now what will we do with the rest of you?” The silence she'd inflicted on Wild had Twilight straining against his bonds as Wild had panicked then gone blank and still as a memory took over. “Maybe I'll send her the brat's corpse as the trophy.”

“Cia.” Wars cut in, trying desperately to smother the terror at the idea that she might hurt Wind or any of the others. She might not recognize Time as the young Mask now fully grown. Would she assume Four to be the same pint-sized hero? For all her gifts as a Guardian of Time, Warriors wasn’t sure how much was reason and how much was fantasy and being drunk on Power. Power, and now dangerously imbalanced with holding two of the three pieces of the Triforce. “Cia, wait. We can talk this out.” That had her attention and she turned.

“What do you propose, Dearest?”

“Myself.” He had to choose his words carefully. “As long as they are safe, as long as they come to no physical harm. I am your—“

“DON’T YOU DARE MAKE A BARGAI—“ Legend’s bellow was cut off as Cia barked a magic command. The Vet clutched at his throat, drawing cries out of the others. The only voiced sounds came from Time, Twilight, and himself.

“Hush, Child. The adults are talking.” Cia turned her attention back to him, an eyebrow arched up in an invitation for him to continue. Wars swallowed, trying to gather his voice in the presence of the mostly-mad sorceress.

“As long as my fellow heroes are safe and unharmed, I will go with you. I'm yours for whatever you want.”

Golden Three, this is a bad idea... He knew it was. She was a ‘given an inch and takes a mile’ person and he had just given her a carte blanche.

Cia smiled. “I'm sure we can work with those terms. After all, I did have reasons to need the other eight in one place.”

He locked gaze with Time. Yeah, the kid was gonna be furious with him if they all survived this. If... not a comfortable caveat. ‘Take care of them, Sprite, please?’ He tried to communicate. His Sprite's gaze was stony, but Time finally nodded. He turned his gaze back to Cia, meeting her eyes even though it felt rather like jumping into a pit of mud, or worse.

“So I'm yours while your forces gather Sky. As long as you do not harm them.” He gestured to the other heroes bound in magic chains as he put emphasis on every word.

And like a switch had been flipped, Cia was back to the giggling, all-too-pleased tone.

“Of course, Honey Cakes. I accept your terms.”

“I need your oath.” He returned.

“Very well, Pet. I swear by my mantle as a Guardian of the Timelines and Eras that so long as you are a good boy and come with me, I will not harm these other heroes.” There was a thread of power in her oath. He could feel it twisting around the words with the fragility of a spider's web, but it was still there. The thorny barbs would come later. Hopefully before she realized what she'd bound herself to.

He held out the manacles around his wrists in front of him. “So maybe the cuffs won't be necessary?”

Uh oh

WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO HIM

[tsuki-chibi]

Ladynoir July 2023 Day 3: Truth or Dare

Read all the entries on AO3

---

“I’m bored,” Chat whined, reaching out and gently poking Queen Bee with the toe of his boot. She paused in taking a sip of her coffee to pin him with a deadly look that suggested he was going to lose a foot if he did it a second time. Wisely, Chat retracted his foot.

“I’m kinda bored too,” Rena Rouge admitted. She was sitting with her back to a beam, knees pulled up against her chest. “I thought Ladybug was coming. Where is she?”

“She must’ve got held up,” Chat said, sighing. He’d been hoping to see Ladybug tonight. Her beautiful smile carried him through the increasingly exhausting days. But he knew that Ladybug was also incredibly busy in her civilian life, so he wasn’t surprised that she hadn’t been able to join them tonight after all.

“I could use a few extra hours of beauty sleep. Let’s call it a night,” Queen Bee said, setting down her cup and moving to get up.

“Much I hate to agree with you, I could also use some extra sleep,” Rena said. She also started to get up. Chat reached forward, throwing his hands over both their laps to keep them in place.

“No way! Let’s just wait a little longer,” he urged. “She’s only 45 minutes late.”

Both girls pinned him with identical looks of disbelief.

“Chat, 45 minutes is a long time,” Rena said.

“Please. Let’s give her an hour.” Chat pasted on his best set of kitty eyes, giving them both a pleading look. Queen Bee grimaced and tried to hold firm, but Rena melted pretty much immediately.

“Fine. She’s got 60 minutes and not a second more,” she said.

“QB?” Chat turned the full force of his gaze on Queen Bee, who groaned.

“Ugh, fine. But you are bringing the coffee next time,” Queen Bee muttered, pushing Chat’s arm off her lap.

“Deal!” Chat sat up, pleased. He didn’t miss the way that Queen Bee and Rena exchanged looks and rolled their eyes at each other, but he didn’t care. He knew how much it bothered Ladybug when she was late enough that everyone had already left by the time she arrived; if he could avoid that happening this time, he wanted to.

But as the minutes quietly ticked by and heralded no sign of Ladybug’s arrival, Chat began to realize that Ladybug might not come at all tonight. He stared up at the sky and tried to imagine what she was doing instead. She had mentioned having to help out with her parent’s business at times. Or maybe she’d gotten caught up in a hobby… or maybe she had fallen asleep.

“… And that is sixty minutes exactly,” Rena announced a few minutes later. “I’m outta here.”

“Me too,” Queen Bee said, smothering a yawn with her hand.

“Wait. 15 more minutes,” Chat said.

“No way,” Queen Bee said, shaking her head. “I’m starting to get circles under my eyes than not even make-up can hide.”

Chat tried not to wince at that remark, but it rang true for him too. So far his amazing make-up artist had been able to hide the growing circles and general puffiness from lack of sleep, but he knew that it was only a matter of time before someone else noticed. The last thing he needed was his father paying attention to his sleep schedule.

But still… he clasped his hands together pleadingly. “What will it take for you to give her 15 more minutes?”

Queen Bee just shook her head again, but Rena said, with a wicked smile, “A game of Truth or Dare wherein you’re the one who has to answer all the questions or do all the dares.”

Chat choked a bit at that. He couldn’t think of anything else that sounded worse than giving Rena Rouge carte blanche to ask him whatever she wanted, or dare him to do whatever she wanted. There was absolutely no world in which that ended well for him.

“Ooh, nice, I like it,” Queen Bee said, her eyes gleaming as she smirked, and Chat gulped. Rena alone was bad enough; when she teamed up with Queen Bee, the two of them were legitimately terrifying.

“You know what, I think we’ve waited long enough. We should call it a night,” Chat said quickly.

“Spoilsport,” Rena said.

Chat just rolled his eyes at both of them. “You know, it’s technically not even Truth or Dare if I’m the only one being put on the spot.”

“Semantics,” Rena replied with a shrug. She got to her feet unimpeded this time, stretching her hands over her head. Queen Bee got up too and looked down at Chat, who hadn’t moved.

“You’re not coming, are you?” she said.

“I’ll wait the extra 15 minutes myself,” Chat said, squirming a bit to get more comfortable.

“Don’t stay out here waiting all night,” Queen Bee told him, and Chat squinted at her.

“That almost sounds like you care,” he said.

Queen Bee snorted. “Yeah right. Dream on.”

“Goodnight, guys,” Rena said, waving to both of them before she took off.

“Goodnight,” Queen Bee said to Chat.

“G’night, QB,” Chat said.

She looked at him for a moment longer before she shook her head and threw out her stinger; it caught, dragging her off the beam and into the dark of the night. Chat closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the beam, content to wait for his lady however long it took.

[thegayhimbo]

Stranger Things Runaway Max Review (3/3)

If you haven't yet, be sure to check out my other Stranger Things Reviews. Like, Reblog, and let me know what your thoughts are regarding the show or the upcoming season! :)

Stranger Things Comics/Graphic Novels:

Stranger Things Six

Stranger Things Halloween Special

Stranger Things The Other Side

Stranger Things Zombie Boys

Stranger Things The Bully

Stranger Things Winter Special

Stranger Things Tomb of Ybwen

Stranger Things Into The Fire

Stranger Things Science Camp

Stranger Things “The Game Master” and “Erica’s Quest”

Stranger Things and Dungeons and Dragons

Stranger Things Kamchatka

Stranger Things Erica The Great

Stranger Things “Creature Feature” and “Summer Special”

Stranger Things Tie-In Books:

Stranger Things Suspicious Minds

Part 4: Billy Hargrove

Those of you who've followed my blog know I've never liked Billy as a character. I loathed him back in 2017 when he was first introduced to the show, and the following years since have done nothing to improve my opinion about him. If anything, I've continued to despise him not just because of how repulsive he is as a person, but because of the never-ending parade of excuses and abuse apologies I've seen this fandom make for every shitty thing he's ever done.

As a general rule of thumb, I don't like abusers. I especially don't like bullies. In the past, I've been forced to put up with people who've behaved like Billy does. People who constantly projected their issues onto me and others because they needed an outlet for whatever the hell their problem was, and didn't give a damn about how hurtful they were being. These were the kind of people who were snide, cruel, rude, unpleasant, and unkind because they could get away with it, and who enjoyed getting a rise out of others because their lives were so miserable that they could only get satisfaction by putting others down. Whatever empathy I initially might have had for them has been replaced with cold contempt, and I want nothing to do with them anymore.

I want to be clear that I recognize Billy as an abuse survivor, and that the way Neil raised him played a major role in turning him into an abuser. To the book's credit, it does not shy away from depicting the abuse in all of its ugliness, or how Neil's twisted values rubbed off on Billy in the worst possible way. I can understand why Billy became the way he did, and even pity him to some extent.

What I am NOT sympathetic towards, however, is Billy taking his rage out on everyone to the point they become collateral damage, and inflicting abuse on Max to the point her life became a living hell. I have no patience for fans who either victim-blame Max for the way Billy treated her, or victim-blame others characters (like Steve and Lucas) for the way Billy treated them. I also don't have the time or patience for people who want to act like Billy's history gives him carte blanche to be vile and hateful to others. It's the same feeling I have for other characters outside of Stranger Things, including the Roy Family from Succession and Henry Bowers from Stephen King's IT: Even if the writers gave valid backstories to these characters to explain why they are as messed up as they are, it still doesn't make their behavior excusable, and trying to act like it is does not make those characters endearing in any way.

But even with all this context, none of it makes Billy look better in the book or on the show. If anything, he comes out looking worse.

He's still belittling and nasty to Max when he can get away with it:

He intentionally goes out of his way to isolate Max from others, including driving away the friends she initially had in San Diego (Ben and Eddie), and later tries to do the same thing with Lucas and his group:

At one point, he goes out of his way to break the arm of Max's best friend, Nate, in order to drive him away (and it works):

This event btw (Billy breaking Nate's arm) is the reason for why Neil and Susan decide to move to Hawkins. Billy, of course, doesn't take any responsibility for his behavior, and instead tries to blame Max for what happened:

At one point, Billy sets a dead cat on fire as a means for getting under the skin of his so-called friend Sid, which succeeds in driving Sid away when it becomes clear just how unhinged Billy truly is:

Multiple times, Billy either abandons Max to skateboard home on her own, or threatens to:

He repeatedly treats girls like shit, with the big difference being he's more open about being a sleazebag compared to Neil (which doesn't make him a better person by any means):

Notably, from the show, he speeds up his car the moment he sees Mike and his friends on the road, and Max is genuinely scared that Billy is going to hit them. It gets to the point she grabs the wheel in order to stop Billy. And the moment Max does this, she is TERRIFIED that Billy is going to hurt her for it:

He also breaks Max's skateboard as punishment for her hanging around Lucas:

When Billy finds Lucas later at Joyce's house in the season 2 finale, Max is genuinely scared for Lucas's safety in that moment:

And finally, when Billy starts beating Steve to a bloody pulp, Max is genuinely scared that Billy is going to kill him:

What really gets under my skin is how Billy knows that what he's doing to Max (and to others) is wrong, and still does it anyways. He likes getting a rise out of people. He likes being vicious to others when he can get away with it.

For as much as some fans like to wax poetic about Billy being a complex character...........he really isn't. His character, and the way he carries himself through life, can be summed up as "I'm miserable, so everyone else gets to be miserable with me." He isn't even unique in terms of that kind of character. I can point to other shows and movies (True Blood, Star Wars, Breaking Bad, Succession, Stephen King's IT, etc) where the type of character Billy represents has been done to death before.

To put it bluntly: I'm tired of characters like Billy. It's easy to be a bully. It's easy to be cruel. Nothing about that makes me remotely interested in him.

There's a rich hypocrisy in how people in this fandom will direct their bile at Susan for turning a blind eye to the abuse Neil dishes out to Billy while simultaneously turning a blind eye to the abuse Billy dishes out to Max. I cannot begin to describe how many times I've seen fans either downplay/whitewash the worst of Billy's behavior, make excuses and abuse apologies for him, or else victim-blame every other character for the way Billy treats them. There is clear-cut, irrefutable evidence that Billy is an abuser, and fans still want to pretend that he wasn't.

In a way, a lot of these excuses/apologies are so reminiscent of the ones made for real life abusers that it makes me wonder if the stans who project themselves hard onto Billy (and become vicious towards anyone who dares to say anything negative about him) are going through something awful in their personal lives to make them behave like this. Otherwise, why are they pretending that a character's actions aren't abusive? There's no other satisfying explanation.

And if it sounds like I'm unsympathetic, it's because I am. I have seen so many Billy stans over the years who have gone out of their way to bully and harass anyone who is slightly critical of Billy, or else deliberately go into the #anti billy hargrove/ #anti harringrove tags to pick fights with Billy antis and then play victim when those people (rightfully) get irritated with them. It's gotten to the point my sympathy for them is non-existent.

You guys know damn well why there are out people out there who don't like Billy. Own up to it. If you want to sit there and headcanon Billy being a woobie soft boi who's secretly a sweetie-pie that truly loved his sister and wasn't abusive to her, that's your business. Don't come trying to shove that headcanon down our throats, and then act upset because we reject it.

And last, but not least........let's talk about Billy's *ahem* behavior towards Lucas on the show.

Part 5: Billy and Lucas

When I first saw season 2 back in 2017, even before the Duffer Brothers gave their interview about Billy, I pegged the guy as a racist. Everything about his behavior towards Lucas, to his comments to Max about how "there's a certain type of people in this world you stay away from" and how Lucas was one of those kids, was a big indicator for me at the time about Billy's bigotry. When the Duffer Brothers later came out in an interview and confirmed he was racist, I wasn't shocked:

Last year, Caleb McLaughlin (who plays Lucas) also came out and confirmed this in an interview:

Now Jason is a whole different character that I will talk more about when I review Lucas on the Line, but it's important to note that Caleb was firm in pointing out that Billy was racist, and that Billy specifically targeted Lucas because he was a black kid. Both Billy and Neil were bigots, and Max even acknowledges this in the book:

There is a whole on-going discussion these days about fandom racism, how characters of color in movies and TV shows get the most bile and contempt directed at them, and how there's a tendency to have their pain and traumas dismissed in favor of white characters, and Stranger Things is no different. In fact, this is arguably one of the first shows where I became aware of how prevalent fandom racism is, and it all had to do with how many people were determined to erase Billy's racism towards Lucas and deny that it ever was a thing. Disgusting isn't a good enough word to describe this.

As for the tiresome, pathetic excuse Billy stans offer about how Billy was really being protective of Max...............Seriously? That's what your going with?

We're talking about a guy who drove away Max's friends, sadistically broke her best friends arm, blamed her for things that weren't her fault, repeatedly abandoned Max to skateboard home either because he didn't want to wait for her or because he wanted to shag the next girl he laid eyes on, made it clear to Max that he hated her and wanted nothing to do with her, was repeatedly abusive to her and worked to isolate her from everyone and everything she loved. But now he suddenly cares for her safety?

I know I'm being sharp here, but the constant mental gymnastics people do to make Billy seem less awful than he really is has caused me to lose a lot of respect for this fandom.

As for the people who will inevitably bring up Dacre's take on Billy........... @scoopertroopers put it best in the post I reblogged from them last year: 1.) The Duffer Brothers are the ones who wrote Billy to be racist (and said as much in the interview they gave), and 2.) Caleb McLaughin, a black actor who has been subjected to racism from this very fandom, has a better claim to say whether a white character's actions on a show constitute racism.

Billy was a racist. His treatment of Lucas was racist. Period.

Final Thoughts:

This is defiantly a tie-in book I recommend buying and reading. It's faithful to the show, and it gives more insight into Max's character. There are parts of this book that may be hard to get through because of the subject matter, but it is worth it to see Max come out on the other side and begin to find a place where she can belong and feel safe.

[batookami-blog]

This is much worse than Snape's behavior in the book series.

First, I want to ask you something: remember all the moments in HP where teachers came to Snape to stand up for their students because of bad grades or his behavior in class, or parents of children who suffered from injustice from the potion master.

What? Not a single one? Oh, here's where I want to ask a question to all the people who write a bunch of condemning posts about Severus: did at least one of you notice that almost all adults treat Snape's teaching methods as something normal?! This situation makes me think of the parents of Hogwarts students in the most negative light, as if they responded to all their children's complaints with something like "Oh, he's a normal guy. When I was a child, teachers would kick us and put out cigarettes on our backs for the wrong answer. Snape, judging by your words, is generally very kind - he just takes off points and assigns detentions. I have no idea what you're complaining about."

In fact, there is only one word that characterizes the real attitude towards children at Hogwarts - "indifference". Teachers care more about each other and in general it seems that the main thing for them is that the students simply do not die (and even then they miraculously manage to do this). Do you understand that if parents complained more often about Severus' behavior, if his colleagues stood up for their students, if Dumbledore condemned and insisted on changing teaching methods, then Snape would hardly have behaved like that in the book series? The worst thing about the Potions Master's behavior is not the way he treats the children, but the fact that he has been given carte blanche to behave as he pleases, while the students themselves have rights barely higher than those of house elves.

Severus is, without a doubt, a bad teacher, but he is surrounded by worse people - colleagues and parents of children - who, with their tacit consent, have given him almost absolute freedom of action and who, by their inaction, express no less hatred for children than Snape himself does in his lessons.

[thebookbin]

I need my fellow white gays to take a step back.

If I see another white American saying they unequivocally support Disney in their lawsuit against Ron DeSantis in Florida, I am going to scream. One of my most favorite authors disappointed me deeply this week by condemning those of us who are not cheering for total Disney dominance here on tumblr.

Just because your whiteness and your Americanness shields you from having to confront that Disney helped the genocide of Uyghurs in Xinjiang as late as 2020 does not mean the just of us can swallow that pill. This was a cold and calculated choice to maintain profits. When Disney was brought before a Human Rights Tribunal and questioned not only why they filmed in Xinjiang but thanked the government profusely (groveling on their knees to keep the CCP happy so they could air Mulan in China's billion dollar market), they responded with "the benefits outweigh the risks." Americans just don't care.

That is only one example out of thousands. If there is something evil going on in the world, Disney has their grubby hands in the pot (including ties to Epstein). Before all of this nonsense they were funding the campaigns of Republicans who signed and backed the "Don't Say Gay" bill.

If you are a Disney Adult, there is no hope for you. You will always choose your expensive mouse-shaped ice cream and minimum wage workers in fancy costumes and your own escapism, over the lives and dignity of others. It disgusts me.

Disney is not taking a moral stand. They are making a business decision.

Disney does not care about you, they do not care about trans kids, they do not care about marriage equality, representation, or your basic human rights. They do not care about creativity, or storytelling, or art. All they care about it money. It's not a moral failing, either. THAT'S WHAT CORPORTATIONS EXIST TO DO. MAKE MONEY. The fact that you are falling for their marketing scheme to take your money only goes to show how effective it is.

I am a lesbian. I am an activist. I care deeply about what is happening right now in this country, most especially to the trans community. We need to be fighting. We need to protect them, and protect each other.

However selling your soul to the devil to do it is the fastest way to get us all to hell.

Did anybody even notice the 2nd biggest bank failure in US history happened over the weekend? And self-described "Diversity Activists" helped it happen.

A note for those of you who won't click the link. The language of inclusion has long been co-opted by the corporate class and everybody's falling for it.

Right now, Disney operates a kingdom inside the US. And no, not the "fun" kind. Reedy Creek Improvement District functions like sovereign state or a tribal nation. They have the ability to tax, their own police force, and have already negotiated carte blanche to build a nuclear reactor any time and for any reason. You need to step back and ask yourself if you are really okay with a multi-billion dollar corporation having that much power.

To make it worse, they want more. The lawsuit they are currently engaged in is about contract rights and it is making conservatives salivate at the mouth.

If Disney wins this lawsuit unchallenged, labor rights in the US will be obliterated.

This is not an exaggeration. I am talking about going back to the days of child labor (which is already happening in Iowa), Disney, or any corporation will be able to sue the government for "interfering their private contracts" EVEN IF those "contracts" violate minimum wage, health and safety standards, or ANY REGULATION local, state or federal government enacts to protect workers.

When I say that you allowing your whiteness to shape your worldview and it will destroy us, this is both an inditement and a call-to-action.

Because I also happen to care deeply about labor rights, I know that a majority of the LGBT community in the US are working class, and over 25% of us live in poverty--

Because I know that we are at much higher risk of losing the source of household income than our straight counterparts--

Because I know that not only did we overwhelmingly had to work during the pandemic, risking our lives to make ends meet, we are more likely to work more hours, get paid less, and have to file for unemployment. Now take into consideration any sort of intersectional identity, including race, disability, or class and the numbers just get worse and worse-- I know that the queer community cannot afford to take these hits.

This is not Labor Rights vs Gay Rights. It is two, powerful malicious entities fighting to maintain power, and all of us are in the firing line. Labor Rights are Gay Rights are Black Rights are Human Rights.

So square up, it's time to fight.

And, remember: selling your soul to the mouse is selling your soul to the devil dressed like a cartoon character. Don't fall for it.

Recommended Watching: (independent media)

Sources: (in order of appearance)

Disney & China: BBC Unrepresented Nations & Peoples Organization Vox News

Disney's Abuses: Investigative Journalist Team: Judd Legum, Tesnim Zekeria, & Rebecca Crosby Investigative Journalist Liz Crokin The Guardian Pink News Movie Web The Corporate Research Project The American Prospect IGN

General Labor: Des Moines Register Investigative Journalist Lee Fang Reedy Creek Improvement District

LGBT Labor: Center for American Progress US Census Report

[ridiasfangirlings]

Who do you think has committed more crimes between Yata and Fushimi?

At last, someone is asking the real questions XD I think the first question here is really how do we define a ‘crime,’ like is it really a crime if it’s illegal but your doting boss works for the government and gives you carte blanche to do whatever you want. On that end I’m definitely leaning more towards Fushimi here even though he’s the adult with the proper government job and Yata’s the gang member, I just feel like the spirit is more willing in Fushimi. Like Yata wants to be a hardcore delinquent but I feel like deep down he’s a good kid and the idea of, like, shoplifting makes him feel all nervous inside. He’s fine with breaking the law if it involves beating up people who are worse, like he doesn’t mind breaking into bad guy’s houses or beating up drug dealers or similar things, he’ll trespass and stuff if it’s part of a dispute Homra is handling but he’s not going to do anything illegal just for the sake of it.

Fushimi on the other hand strikes me as someone who is of the opinion that laws are things that happen to other people. Like he definitely committed more crimes as a kid I think — going back to the shoplifting idea, I think middle school Yata would never shoplift because that’s wrong and his mom would kick his ass if she found out, while Fushimi absolutely would just snatch a candy bar on his way out of the convenience store even though he’s perfectly capable of paying for it. Fushimi’s also much more willing to do whatever it takes to complete a mission he’s given and doesn’t seem like he cares about whether it’s legal or not. Like for another comparison, look at Ashinaka in S1, Yata scares some guys into giving him a PDA — he doesn’t even throw any actual punches — and then walks around just asking people for information. Fushimi by contrast does get inside the school properly with his S4 credentials but then straight up chloroforms a student (why does he have chloroform? Because, that’s why) and illegally hacks into the school’s mainframe before spotting Yata and goading him into committing property damage. Fushimi has absolutely committed more crimes on paper, it’s just he has government authority for those now so he doesn’t get in trouble for it. 

(Basically, on the sliding scale of Yata and Fushimi’s moral compasses: imagine there’s a small shop owned by a sweet little old lady who may have information on something Homra needs. Yata, if asked to break in, would probably waver and want to talk to the little old lady when the store is open if possible. If the shop is owned and run by a gang of drug dealers though, then he’ll break in and beat up whoever he needs to beat up for information without pause even if it is technically illegal to do so. Fushimi meanwhile I think breaks in regardless of whether it’s run by a sweet old lady or a gang of drug dealers, the owner is just a difference of who does he try not to wake or treat slightly more gently vs who just gets knifed no questions asked.)

[deada55]

Being There (Chapter 1)

crossposting: ao3

synopsis: Rose Explosion pushes through her teenage son's overdue laundry.

content warnings: I think we're good, let me know if I missed something.

“How long are we going to let this go on for?”The pile of musty laundry was enormous. She sorted it in the middle of the living room floor, in the middle of the sunbeam that shot through their screen door every morning. The top corner of the blade of light scraped the chair rail that split the peach wall in half. The sectional matched the rug matched the table matched the wall art… Oscar really spoiled her a couple years’ ago and gave her carte blanche in a furniture showroom once they’d paid off all their old medical debt. Oscar stood at the white kitchen island mixing an orange Tupperware pitcher of Crystal Lite. Last night, when Nathan “snuck” out the house, she went in his room and dug out a pile of dirty clothes that could have swallowed her whole. In the corner, piled up from the floor to the top of a five-drawer dresser, was a stiff-cornered tower of cotton-blend fabric and sweat and sweat and sweat.

It was always a teenager’s room, always, but she hadn’t seen it was a problem until the book club came over and very, very gently told Rose that Nathan’s room was extreme, not just unhealthy, not only messy. They even opened the door and looked out of the hopeful kind of doubt that, surely, Rose was overreacting. Unfortunately, Rose’s long-time friends knew that she was rarely overstating what she went through with Nathan. After a while, it was only natural that she’d get used to it, like how a rollercoaster strikes it’s operator deaf over time.

The drum of her washing machine was tinging grey from entire loads of black shirts, with the tags lovingly removed, picked out, cut out, or torn straight through, hard enough to leave a hole on the back of the neck. Guess which ones Nathan got to before she could? She tutted and assumed Oscar was talking about money… again. She kept buying clothes. When he was little, it was worse. Kids’ clothes came with so many tabs, elastics, weird buttons, intrusive pocket designs… finding something he’d wear was difficult, and finding something he’d wear without constant pulling and scratching was like looking for a four-leaf clover. She got better at it over time, but it took a lot of catalogs, returns, store credit, and beer money to figure it out. Of course it got expensive, but adult clothing had far fewer scratchy intrusions, and black men’s shirts came in packs of five.

She bought clothes this time around when he kept wearing the same ones until they were gummy with grime- she thought that there was a new three-month turnover on his clothes, before they “wore out” or made his skin crawl. One time, during her canning phase, he (a smaller, stoic Nathan) described it like his skin wanting to peel off of his body like the blanched tomato in his hand, shedding red-orange ribbons between his fingers.

There were at least forty shirts, but how dare Oscar bring the money up now?

“Oscar… don’t start. Don’t start.”

“Rose! We have to talk about this-” She saw him graze his knuckles over the outside pocket of his pants, looking for Rolaids as his temple started to pulse. High blood pressure didn’t lie. Her lymphedema wasn’t as easy to kneel on as it used to be, and her ankles were whining like puppies. They were all getting older. The festering, moldy underpants didn’t come from a boy. The gamey smell penetrating the room was a man’s doing, even if he’d hardly grown up. She expected him to bloom late, he’d always done it, but for once it really looked like he’d be very slightly ahead of the curve. Nathan was on track to graduate on a wing and a prayer. He was an unstoppable running back, the team made regionals, and the game was tight until he got carried off the field on a stretcher. She thought she’d seen every expression her baby boy could make, but even through the titanium facemask, she could see the subtle laxity of his face spreading second by second until there were athletic trainers keeping him from sitting up, thinking he could have given himself a neck injury from jamming himself into someone elses’ shoulderpad. He writhed for about a minute anyway before they strapped him to a backboard.

Oscar told her a couple days afterward that Coach had turned white. He didn’t approach the ambulance: he didn’t want to get in the way of the EMTs trying to keep him conscious. She couldn’t remember the night at all, anymore, not out of her own memory. Oscar told her she cried, and that was probably true.

The team tanked when play resumed: No going to states. Nathan still hasn’t come back to school to find out thtt the team didn’t blame him for that.Nathan was always disappointed at the end of the season, and the fact that it was his last one possible didn’t help, but the month or so he was recuperating from the concussion (just a concussion turned out to be a huge, grateful jinx) was eerily quiet. As usual, he wouldn’t talk to either of them about anything. Hovering wouldn’t win him over, and it never has. Again, Nathan called on her patience to leave him alone while he figured himself back out.

Again. And she gave it.Again. Even if it didn’t feel like the right thing for a parent to do, the strategy in the Explosion household was to keep Nathan from being completely averse to getting help on his own terms. You can’t listen when you’re too busy talking, but there was so much to say.

Rose settled for being, admittedly, invasive elsewhere. If he went out again tonight, she’d snoop around his room under the guise of getting the rest of the laundry out. Yes, there was more.She sighed, dropping the crusty shirt in her hands onto her lap. “Oscar. I’m serious. It’s not up for discussion. It’s done, I bought too many shirts, I did it, it’s over-” “What do you mean, it’s over?” Forget about how much she’d bought: Oscar had no idea what could have made her so nonchalant about their son piling at least a month and a half’s worth of laundry into a wet pile of lingering sweat and puke. Jesus Christ, Nathan!

She’d been their son’s biggest hero in his eyes. Look! She had no idea how many shirts he even owned, but here she sat, washing them all, sticking to the normal life they’d carved out despite…Nathan never, ever would have done it all on purpose, but he made a normal life difficult. Sitcoms lost their sparkle: they had their own Dennis the Menace running around silently with knives and strung-up sardines on long, green pieces of yarn tied to his ankles. Ever seen an eight year-old almost drown themselves in a bathtub because they “liked the way it sounds”? Nathan pumped out sordid, dark dramatizations of every teenage stereotype, with heavy “rock” music that sounded like deep-fried television static pumped through a ram’s horn blasting in his room, and pages on pages of what Oscar used to think were obsessive lists and not just clumsy, gorey poetry. His good mother faced it with all the kindness she could muster, and found so, so much to be grateful for whenever Oscar started to think that they were at the start of a horror movie where eventually Nathan would get tired of playing nice and eat the neighbor’s dog. Not maliciously. Never maliciously. It just fit the theme. Then, they’d have to approach the neighbor and explain that their son swallowed Fido’s teeth, small as nitroglycerin tablets, whole.

There was no doubt she loved Nathan, but how could she be so callous? The doctors said it’d take a month of dedicated recovery to go back to daily life after the concussion, but they were a month and two days out and Nathan wasn’t doing much of anything at all, much less towards getting back to school. They had to figure out what to do about Nathan before it was figured out for them: in the meantime, they let him go out to give him whatever amusement or normalcy made him want to leave the house in the first place.

“It’s not over! Look! Look at this shit! It’s not the concussion! This isn’t a month’s worth of clothes-!”

“Oh, oh, I’m sorry, so it’s not just my fault for buying too many clothes but I let ‘em get dirty, too? Oh, how dare I-”

“What are you talking about? Rose, I’m not talking about the money, I’m not saying you’ve done anything, just listen to me, dammit!” Palms open, he leaned forward with a furrowed brow and sweat starting to pick at the edges of his hairline.

“No! You listen to me!” If she wasn’t sitting on the ground, she would have come chest-to-chest with him, just to see if he’d back up. Just so she could see him scared- The thought made her throat force down all the spit in her mouth, forcefully, like a gag in reverse. God, it tore into her that she’d want his frightened eyes, but the rush of power would have been a luscious reward for years of hard work and shit-taking. Oscar wasn’t the one pulling her leg, but it didn’t matter who she had to shock to feel like someone was congratulating her for something, like she could change something more than just un-crusting and un-wetting a pile of rotting clothes.

As much as she coached herself to face everything with grace and continued compassion, a creeping, aching helplessness blew in every once in a while. Of course she cried about it all. She’d been sleepless for weeks. She’d been sleepless for months. She’d been sleepless since Nathan was little.

The first year was the best of her life, completely synergistic, perfectly new-age but so traditional and so timeless. Other moms in her postpartum group had real struggles, of feeling so hopeless and pressurized that they’d started making their husbands drive everywhere so they wouldn’t feel tempted to take the car off a bridge. Or, they went back to work and missed their babies, or they didn’t go back and missed the life as a working woman. There was one mother who lost her little girl to SIDS at eight months. Aside from the immediate postpartum, everything was buttery smooth.

God, she remembered the doctor’s voice like a grocery store jingle: “Either I make an incision or you’ll tear.” In the middle of a couple of hours of labor, she went along with an episiotomy but Nathan graced her with both options in due time. Thirteen stitches later, she was taking perineum ice packs by the armful out of the hospital. The Sitz bath was thrown in for free, left off of the itemized bill: One of the leads for the obstetrics ward was in that day, to observe a resident, and walked in on “one of the longest episiotomies of her career.”

The first year with Nathan was heavenly. This is what it’s all for. This is what you’re made for. Some deep, deep, cooing echo rang in her ear while he slept that made every ounce in her body pulse fluorescent joy. Holding him was universalizing and powerful. He was the biggest baby in that postpartum group, with the most hair-She wasn’t the only person who thought he was special, but she was the only one (other than Oscar… on a good day) who could hold him without getting an earful of wailing.

Whenever he tested her, that special throb came back to remind her. Her heart skipped a beat and gave her all she needed to be patient, to protect him, to shove past feeling defeated long enough to get him where he had to be, to the fullest possible extent of her ability.

She opened her chest and let her arm rise, pointing at Oscar like it was right to scold her own husband like a child. “I’m not going to sit here and fight about this-” She swung her arms around like she was slapping through a swimming pool of applesauce. “-with you. I’m thinking about what’s more important!”

If the man she loved could only think about the laundry, she couldn’t care less what he had to say.Oscar froze with his lip curled clear to his eyebrow. If the woman he loved could only think about the laundry, he’d have to make up for it. It was his turn to keep going and try to get Nathan out of this mess.

The dryer alarm rang out from the laundry closet around the corner like the first shot of a race.