#martyr club this is for you

[queenlucythevaliant]

🪆

I would love a good dark poem.

--Rain on Main

Okay, this is maybe my favorite really bleak Russian poem. It's called "In the Bottomless Pit," but there's this tinge of hope in it that just makes the whole thing work so well. Anyway, I hope you appreciate:

In the Bottomless Pit In memory of Alexander Blok and Nikolay Gumilyov Day by day more brutal and more savage, deathly horror holds the night in thrall. Putrid winds extinguish lives like candles. No more strength to scream, to help, to call. Dark the destiny of Russian writers and inscrutable the roads they trod: Pushkin stood before a dueling pistol, Dostoevsky faced the firing squad. I shall draw my lot and know my fortune, bitter Russia, fierce infanticide. I may slip on blood outside the dungeon, or I may perish wretchedly inside; but your Golgotha I never will abandon, and your graves shall never be denied. Whether slain by hunger or by hatred-- I shall choose no other lot instead: if we die, then let us die together and arise like Lazarus from the dead.

--Maximilian Voloshin

[fungi-maestro]

Questionable Images - The Question #5 (1987)

[nonegenderleftpain]

To all the new, young MCR fans out there who are just finding them during this tour - you will never know what it was like to be a fan back before and during the hiatus.

And that's a good thing.

I have been following My Chemical Romance since I was ten years old. MCR was the band that the freaks liked. The band that young queer kids were called fags and dykes for liking. Someone once called them the "poster child for suicidal depression," and they aren't wrong. We watched the band struggle with drugs and drinking and idolized how much they were able to do while blackout on tour, because if they could do something so powerful at such a disadvantage, then maybe we could, too. We watched the popularization of "guyliner," because having a term for men wearing makeup could make it an ironic fashion statement instead of a deliberate choice that would get you left bloody and unconscious on the floor of a gas station bathroom. We watched these guys destroy themselves, and we saw ourselves in them because we were destroyed, too. We wanted to believe that we could be just as important, no matter how broken we were, and we found shared experiences at concerts and cafeterias and skate parks and libraries, with other fucked up kids that wanted to listen to the guys that didn't care if people called them gay. The guys that made out on stage to the jeers of thousands of people and got bottles of piss thrown at them but kept doing it anyway. The guys that played with gender and sexuality and everything on the fringes of acceptability, in their lyrics and their performance and the way they treated each other.

This was important. It was life-saving. It provided a comparatively safe space in an unsafe cultural environment for the freaks to find comfort in. It was also hugely and dangerously unhealthy.

I've talked at length to my friends about how healing and lifechanging this tour has been for me, and I want to illuminate that for these young fans that are falling in love with MCR like I did when I was their age. When we were kids, most of our heroes were already dead. They died young, had tragic lives, and we saw ourselves in them. I fully believed MCR would end up the same way. It would have been so easy to be martyrs - to die young and beautiful. Gerard said it himself, back in the day, that MCR was destined to die young in a car crash and stay beautiful forever, and I think he truly believed that.

So they broke up. And, like a miracle, things started to change. They got clean. Got married. Had kids. Not just Gee, but the lot of them. They aged out of the 27 club, and then out of their 30s, and they only seemed to continue to thrive. Today, in 2022, Gerard Way is 45 years old. He has wrinkles. He has a daughter who is older now than I was when she was born. And they are touring again.

The cultural change from when I was a teenager to now, when you guys are, is monumental. It's insane. It's fantastic. Back in the day, Gerard made some occasional comments about playing with gender presentation (that all us trans people, including those of us that didn't even know yet, hunted down and cherished and kept in our chests for safekeeping), but the idea of doing something so flagrant as headlining Riot Fest in a dress was ludicrous. It would have gotten him booed (still did, even now). It could have gotten him killed. The fact that Gerard Way has stepped on stage three separate times this tour in a dress (so far! it's not over!) is such an incredible, monumental change from when I was a kid and I am so, so happy for you to be experiencing it as kids.

I had a cry about this at a P!ATD concert in 2018, after seeing preteens running down the halls in pride flags, and I feel even more strongly about it now than I did then. That you're able to talk openly about Gerard's gender performance without fear, that you're able to hear them go by he/they pronouns, that you're able to interact with other young fans in the wake of MCR's revival in a safe environment and take in the messages that are at the core of what they stand for? These are beautiful fucking things.

You can't know what it was like, growing up with MCR back in the day. But you get to know what it's like to grow up with them now. Cherish that. In Detroit, Gerard told us to take our meds, and reminded us that we made it. They made it. They fought through the hard parts, fought the demons, and came out the other side better for it. As you watch them put those demons to rest from concert to concert, know that there are older fans cheering you on, so fucking happy to see you sharing this experience with us, and so excited to see what way this changes you. We know it changed us.

[jtl-fics]

Fluent Freshman - Part 21

PREVIOUS

“What made you think taking on a mafia hitman was a good idea?” Andrew asks as he and FF were positioning themselves the best the could for an ambush on Romero.

Since, they APPARENTLY had time to talk.

Romero had gotten the text Andrew had sent him and INSTEAD of coming out right away to progress the whole SCHEME to kidnap and murder Andrew’s Junkie like any sensible goon Romero went to the BAR. Romero went to the Bar to get him and Jackson a round of CELEBRATORY drinks. Romero is still there at the bar waiting to be served by an INCREDIBLY nervous Roland if the number of exclamation marks and puking emojis is to be believed.

What the FUCK is there to celebrate?

These two idiots want to kidnap NEIL and so far the only thing Romero knows (thinks) that they’ve caught are two people that Neil would come for but even in Andrew’s text he’d been clear that he needed help getting ‘The boyfriend and the new friend’ to talk let alone getting them to call ‘The Wesninski Brat’ out. Andrew had hated typing the name in reference to Neil but it was the only thing the two ever referred to him as in their chats.

Is it some insane mental game that Romero thought he and Jackson were going to play on Andrew and Smith? Toasting to their torture so they’d give up Neil? Who knows.

He realizes that FF hasn’t answered him, his eyes focused on the door when Andrew’s thoughts had drifted. A reliable guy, steady in a pinch, and focused like most the others weren’t.

(Andrew does not know that FF is thinking about how one would go about becoming a Mafia Hitman. What is that career path like? Do they show up at job fairs? Do you get a job as a short order cook at a business that acts as a front and see to much but you’re also the only one that knows the secret spaghetti recipe the boss likes so you have to sign yourself to the family? Are you out doing your own freelance crime and someone higher up sees your work one day and literally head hunts you? Is it like in Saw where you survive an ordeal and then-)

“Smith?” Andrew draws FF’s attention away from the door.

“I didn’t think it was a good idea at any point.” FF says and Andrew is surprised by the admission and is more surprised by the twist of FF’s lips into a frown, “I just did what I thought I needed to do.” He adds.

(Andrew does not know that the twist of FF’s lips has more to do with the fact that he is realizing that Romero likely STILL has not washed his hands. Romero hasn’t washed his hands and he is going to hand Jackson a DRINK with those hands. Ugh. Honestly a contract killer AND someone who doesn’t wash his hands? Who RAISED him? What does his grandma think of this? FF hopes she’s disappointed in him.)

“You thought you needed to lure a hitman into an alley?” Andrew asks because the plan is stupid even if so far it has worked out for FF. The fact that Romero hadn’t just come out when he sent Jackson the signal is only due to FF’s good luck and their stupidity.

“I didn’t have a lot of time to think up anything more than the first plan I thought of. I saw him looking at Nicky on the dance floor.” FF says with another twist of his lips as he self-consciously rubbed at his cheek. It’s never fun to have someone who has time to pick apart a plan that you barely had time to form. Andrew can understand the irritation and is glad that FF isn’t lashing out at him for it.

(Andrew does not know that FF is not irritated he is just remembering that he had held up his broken toilet bowl phone to his face to pretend call Captain Neil. He’s contemplating asking if Andrew maybe possibly has a wet wipe? Actually the murder van probably has bleach to clean up evidence, maybe he can just dip his face in there for like a minute.)

“Don’t use a plan where you martyr yourself. I already have to deal with Neil’s bullshit tendencies.” Andrew says instead of thanking him. “You should have just called me.” He says.

FF just holds up his phone, “Dropped into a club toilet. Completely unusable.” He says and yeah that makes sense. FF would have probably just texted Andrew but coming out and seeing a hitman going after Nicky probably made it impossible for the freshman to go get help without drawing all the attention to himself first if he wanted to make sure Nicky stayed safe.

Still.

“You dropped it into a toilet? You haven’t even had anything tonight.” He says because that clumsiness is not something he expects from FF.

“You try taking a pee next to someone on the FBI’s most wanted list and see how dry your palms remain when he’s talking about grabbing one of Captain Neil’s friends to lure him out.” He says with a brow raised.

That’s fair.

He figures that Romero hadn’t even noticed FF standing there. FF was incredibly good at just making himself unnoticeable (to Andrew’s occasional great annoyance and to Kevin’s great desire to study him for Exy related purposes).

“You recognized him?” He asks.

FF’s gaze slides to him, “I looked up a lot about the Foxes after I signed.” FF answers before his gaze slides back to the door. Roland had just texted Andrew that he’s getting Romero’s drinks ready (Two bud lites. Those are the celebratory drinks he waited for?? Embarrassing.) “I really looked up to Captain Neil. So, I read a lot more about him than anyone else.” FF admits but the fact that FF looked up to Neil was not in any way shape or form a secret.

FF was the only one who was ALWAYS paying attention to whatever Neil was saying and never argued with it. Even Andrew tended to just get lost in the sound of Neil’s voice when he’s going over Exy plays and not actually listen to the plan. FF’s eyes were always right on Neil and his actions on the court showed that he had been paying attention and knew what he was doing. Kevin also listened but he tended to fight Neil on the finer details of plays, strategy or anything else. FF was the one who would just nod and do his part in whatever possible play Neil had broken down for them.

FF was also categorically incapable of referring to Neil as anything other than Captain Neil.

Neil had bristled early on at it. He had thought it was a mocking title, something FF was saying to rile him up because that’s what Freshman Foxes did. That’s what Freshman Foxes always do. FF slid into the team without a whisper of rebellion and it hadn’t taken long to realize that FF was using the title with sincerity even if his monotone did not perfectly convey that.

It’d been that sincerity and that ease that had FF be the only option he’d considered when Bee said he should consider expanding his friend pool.

So if FF looked a little deeper into Neil’s past and sees Neil’s part in it as something to respect, something to admire?

Well, he personally thought he always had great taste in people. (He ignores the voice in his head that sounds like Nicky complaining about Kevin still not knowing German despite it being the family language.)

“You sure you don’t want one of my knives or the knife Jackson had?” It was pretty big and Andrew didn’t think it would work well with his general style but maybe FF could use it somehow. He was uneasy that FF was going into this fight unarmed. FF still hadn’t talked about how he’d taken out Jackson when the man had a knife like that.

“Do I look like Crocodile Dundee to you?” FF asks with a raised eyebrow and Andrew has to pause a moment for the movie to load into his brain before he offers an amused quirk of his own lips.

FF is a funny guy.

His phone dings. “He’s on his way.”

***

Aside from thinking about how nice the conversation he was having with his friend Andrew (his friend! His friend Andrew! God how is he going to admit to Gran that Andrew was never planning on stabbing him? She threatened to come over and square off with the ‘mean young man’ bullying him. He’s gotta go grab the makings for a secondary pie to even start to make up for this. Maybe Andrew would prefer a cobbler? He should ask his friend his preferences.) he was thinking about how he really wished they hadn’t had a cut away from Gracie Hart showing all the various forms of self defense she knows in the movie.

He had no idea if he could do a repeat performance of S.I.N.G. with Romero.

It’d be nice to have a few more things in his repertoire because all he has is striking Romero with the heel of his hand in the nose, getting grabbed from behind to throw him over his shoulder (which what if Romero is shorter than him? How will THAT work. Gracie Hart guide my steps!), and of course S.I.N.G.

If he survives this he might write a letter to the writer.

The door opens and honestly FF and Andrew agreed that surprise and speed were going to be their best weapons. The two of them go in for a full body tackle but Romero must just be a higher class goon than Jackson was since he manages to body them away. The door shuts which is mostly what they wanted anyways. Romero can’t go back in and grab someone to use as a shield.

He sees Andrew pull out his knives and now FF realizes that any level of threatening Andrew had done before must have mostly been in jest or just as intimidation. When Andrew wants to stab someone it’s obvious that he’s aiming to stab them.

Romero manages to parry Andrew’s first stab with a move that FF had seen on the ‘how to handle someone coming at you with a knife’ videos. FF sees Romero go in to bash one of the Bud Lite bottles over Andrew’s head so he launches his water bottle at Romero’s hand. The bottle falls and shatters harmlessly on the ground.

He kicks Romero’s other hand since the water bottle bought him time to get close. “You fucking brat!” Romero hisses.

He sees Romero reaching for something at the same time Andrew is going in for the second round of stabbing. Romero dodges out of the way but FF can see what might actually for real be an entire gun concealed in his jacket.

He can see Romero going for it. Sees the same smile on his face he’d seen inside as his hand wraps around the handle.

FF doesn’t think.

FF doesn’t think because if he does he’ll freeze.

So FF acts.

“Gun!” He yells and runs full force tackling Romero as hard as he can but unfortunately he tackles Romero into Andrew.

The three of them grapple on the ground. It’s hard to keep track of what limb is who’s and he’s pretty sure he’s accidentally hit Andrew a few times instead of Romero but he’s also pretty sure that Andrew punched him in the stomach so he thinks they’re equal. Finally FF gets a hand on the gun that Romero had been trying to get the safety off of and he knocks it out of Romero’s hand. “You kids will-“

Romero doesn’t get to say anything else because Andrew manages to land a punch right to his jaw that has Romero go limp under the two of them. They look at one another and Andrew manages to pull the handcuffs they’d purloined out of the Van while they were waiting off of the belt loop they were hooked onto and gets them around Romero’s wrists.

They stare down at the second unconscious man on the FBI’s most wanted list in the alley.

Then they roll off of him and onto their backs. Both of them wheezing from a combination of exertion, adrenaline, and (at least in FF’s case) a fair amount of pain (Christ Andrew packs a PUNCH his stomach is already sensitive. It’s a miracle that punch hadn’t made him puke.)

“That was…so stupid.” Andrew pants.

“Yeah probably.” FF admits.

They lay there for about a minute and FF thinks that maybe someone will need to carry him because his stomach is KILLING HIM with all this.

“Alright let’s-“

Andrew is sitting up and looking at him when he stops talking.

FF doesn’t really know what the issue is but starts to sit up, “Don’t you DARE.” Andrew hisses and FF finds himself being pushed back down to the ground to lay flat. “Don’t move Smith.” He demands and is pulling his phone out of his pocket as he keeps a hand on FF’s shoulder.

FF doesn’t really understand what’s got Andrew so upset all the sudden. “Andrew, what’s-“ he tries to sit up again. Is there a third person and Andrew wants him to keep down? There’s not really cover here they should move towards the dumpster maybe?

“Smith, I told you to not move.” Andrew hisses before whoever he’s calling seems to pick up. “I need police and an ambulance. We’re at Eden’s Twilight in the back alley.” He looks to FF, “What’s your blood type?” He asks.

FF has NO idea.

“I don’t know.” He answers and Andrew makes a disgusted sound. “Andrew, what’s-“

Then he sees it.

He doesn’t quite get how he missed it before now.

“Huh.” He hears himself say.

That’s Andrew’s knife handle sticking out of his stomach.

It appears that Andrew Minyard may have stabbed him in the stomach.

“Well, that’s about what I expected.” He says and lets his head rest against the pavement.

MASTERPOST FOR ALL PARTS OF FLUENT FRESHMAN AU

NEXT

Per your requests:

@i-have-three-feelings @blep-23 @dreamerking27 @andreilsmyreligion @belodensetdust @rainbowpineapplebottle @yarn-ace @iwouldlikesometea @lily-s-world @obscureshipsandchips @booklover242 @whataboutmyfries @sahturnos @pluto-pepsi @dreamerthinker @passinhosdetartaruga @leftunknownheart @aro-manita-muscaria @hologramsaredead @Chaoticgremlinswishtheycouldbeme @tntwme @tayspots @nick-scar @crazy-fangirl2524 @blue-jos10 @stabbyfoxandrew @splishsplashyouropinionistrash @sammichly @the-broken-pen @bitchesdoweknowu @very-small-flower @ghostlyboiii @its-a-paxycab @bisexual-genderfluid-fan @cheesecookie @theoneandonlylostsock @foxsoulcourt @blueleys @adverbialstarlight @elia-nna @can-i-just-stay-in-the-corner @nikodiangel @foxandcrow-inatrenchcoat @hallucinatedjosten @satanic-foxhole-court @vexingcosmos @chalilodimun @insectsgetcooked @angry-kid-with-no-money @queer-crows @lillyndra @themugglemudperson @readertodeath @apileofpillows @mortalsbowbeforeme @hellomynameismoo @next-level-mess @youreonlylow @interstellarfig @notprocrastinatingatalltoday @percyjacksonfan3 @queenofcrazy27 @bsmr261 @ghostlyscares @spencellio @adinthedarkroom @harpymoth @sufferingjustalilbit @anxietymoss @oddgreyhound @ohno-myhyperfixation-itsbroken @ken22789 @atiredvampire @isoldescorner @not--a--pipedream @azure-wing @bushbees  @roonilwazlib-main @crumplelush @foldedaces-paperbirds​ @thesenseinnonsense​ @let-tyrants-fear​ @ketchupfriesandallthingsnice​ @legowerewolf​ @deadlydodos​ @but-we-respect-his-craft​ @cariniqe​ @zanypersonapricotbiscuit​ @lesbian-blackbeard​ @lesbiansupernatural​ @silvermasquerade​ @thepeachfuzz​ @minniemariex @kazoo-the-demjin​

The requests to be added to the tag list keep being spread out across a few different areas. If I missed you please just ask again in the replies I promise I just missed you.

As stated before if you’re up here and I spelled it right but you didn’t get a notification there might be something switched around in your settings that won’t let me tag you properly?

[the-90s-music-colosseum]

Round 5, Match 2

propaganda below the cut! (wall of text warning)

Selena:

"truly probably one of the most beautiful women to have ever walked this earth. voice of an angel, dazzling smile, looks like she smells good"

"if u don't vote selena ur mexicanphobic /j"

Brian Molko:

"Gender"

"IM GOING TO EAT HER. He is soooo beautiful and freakish and small and weird and girlfriend and tiny like a little princess bug fairy. Literally gorgeous she has to win"

"When he flipped over the table with the little limp wrist.... someone find the video"

"1998 woman of the year"

"Brian Molko is peak gender envy, gender bending and being yourself without caring about other people's opinion, on top of all that he is a great guitarist that writes amazing songs"

"Brian’s gonna win this. I think we all kinda know that."

"Tumblrinas would be nothing without Brian molko"

"Kills her kills her kills her kills her kills her kills him kills her. He's my everything <3"

"He came 10th in the list of hottest women sometimes in the 90s. Gender goals."

"No one in the world can sound so nasal and look so angelic....."

"don't you wish you had his gender"

"Single-handedly took my gender by the scruff of the neck and threw it in a washing machine at full speed. He talked about not expecting to "get away with" passing as a woman to the degree that he did when he started purposely presenting feminine. He talked about the importance to fuck with people's heads through his appearance and behaviour, the importance of ambiguity. About how being in the band allowed him to do stuff he couldn't have done otherwise, to exaggerate some of his traits. He had the fuck ass bob makeup nail polish dresses stuff down, but not in an overly sophisticated way, especially in the early career 90s days the vibe was more shabby punk rock chick. Also he fantasized about being in an all-girl band called Skirt and playing guitar and singing backing vocals in drag. According to a 1997 melody maker interview bandmate steve hewitt called him "the most confused woman he's ever known". And if you go down that rabbit hole there's just more of this. Lots of material to focus on if you like genderweird bisexual unclean libertines (song ref) who will just say Anything in interviews. It's fun."

"I've drawn him as saints and martyrs such as saint sebastian and joan of arc. Or all bloody lying in a wet alley after being thrown out of a club. Or unconscious on a snowy road. Or dying in a glue trap. Or shocked after seeing a dead body. Also as a nun and as rose mcgowan in the doom generation. This is because I'm normal."

"She's a sick little angel faced freak. My theythem girlboy queen. He reminds me of an ant. He's like 5 foot 4 or something. My goth girl boyfriend. <3"

[northgazaupdates2]

13 May 2024

Journalist Mahmoud Abusalama documents the occupation’s vicious assault on Jabaliya in north Gaza. Instagram user semsem390 provides a full English translation:

We convey to you the scene and image from the heart of Jabalia camp, in Jabalia camp specifically.

In every corner of this scene, this is block 2 where Israeli occupation vehicles are present. There is a fire in the home of the Hamad family in block two and a fire in the Jabalia Services Club. Dozens of martyrs in the streets of block two in Jabalia camp. We show you the picture and scene on the worst of days, a day that seems like doomsday.

This is the scene.

View this post on Instagram

A post shared by Mahmoud Abusalama (@almajd_free)

[katakaluptastrophy]

We've heard the story about the young woman living under imperial oppression conceiving an unusual baby with god, but what happens after that?

The local potentate gets twitchy about succession and engages in a spot of mass child murder, of course!

It's the fourth day of Christmas, aka the Feast of the Holy Innocents, and it's time for more weird Bible study for goth lesbians!

A quick refresher on the Christmas story: following some hotel over-booking shenanigans, baby Jesus is born in a stable and after singing angels turn up to chivvy them along, is welcomed by some shepherds. A little while later, three enigmatic wise men from the East turn up with some rather odd baby gifts, having been led to Jesus by a star.

While cash, liturgical incense, and embalming ointment feel like they'd be considered practical new baby gifts on the Ninth, Gideon doesn't get such fanfare with her arrival. Just a few geriatric nuns who only manage to necromantically scrounge up a name between them.

However, by toddlerhood Jesus and Gideon are on a rather more equal level: people are trying to kill them.

In Jesus' case, it's the local king, Herod the Great ("the Great" is perhaps best read in the same way as "Democratic Republic" or "gentlemen's club"). Herod was a client king, ruling on behalf of the Roman empire. The wise men stop to ask him for directions and Herod is non-plussed to say the least, because prophecies of the birth of great kings who will deliver their people from oppression are not great news if your job depends on said oppression. Handily, the wise men are warned in a dream not to tell Herod where they found Jesus and they go home a different way to avoid having to see him again.

But since Herod knows the general time and location of Jesus' birth, he decides it's better to be safe than sorry and has every boy under two murdered. (It should be noted that historical accounts other than the Bible, while generally agreed that he was a bit of a shit, do not mention this). Mary and Joseph had also conveniently been warned in a dream and left town before the unfortunate incident.

If this story sounds familiar, it's because it's not the only political baby murder incident in the Bible: you may also recognise elements of it from the story of Moses in Exodus.

Meanwhile, Harrow's parents are also rulers of a small but significant province of an empire, whose power is threatened. Though in their case, the issue is not a birth but the total lack thereof. With necromantic fertility issues and approaching menopause threatening to end the line of Anastasia, they murder 200 under-19s to generate enough death juice to ensure a necromantic fetus in what must have been one of the worst date nights on record. This incident is also not widely reported, in their case likely due to their ability to necromantically bind people's tongues.

Gideon, of course, is probably not actually spared in Pluto's own Massacre of the Innocents. But she handily does not stay dead, thus escaping the fate of her fellows. As with Jesus, being god's child has its perks.

Churches that celebrate the Holy Innocents understand them to be among the first martyrs, often considering them saints who have the power to intercede with God, particularly in situations involving babies and children. That is, a collective group of infants (6-144,000 of them, depending on who you ask) have the ability to impact outcomes across time and space.

What metaphysical impact those 200 Ninth infants imprinted on Harrow's soul might have on the outcome of Alecto the Ninth remains to be seen...

[diosapate]

sorry this became an essay but on the topic of john as misogynist, i know there are obviously more blatant examples in htn and ntn (and admittedly i'm only halfway through htn) but at least to me, i felt the misogyny was there even in gtn with the way he describes his relationship with / treatment of cytherea during the epilogue?

it's a different form of misogyny than the open disdain and degradation leveraged at mercy, but to me “She was the very best of all of us. The most loyal, the most humane, the most resilient. The one with the most capacity for kindness. I made her live ten thousand years in pain, because I was selfish and she let me" reads as a classic example of female objectification in the direction of the mother / martyr figure.

cytherea is defined here by her goodness and how she benevolently and selflessly served others. even though john fully names and takes blame for the pain he forced her to endure, he also places the blame on her for letting him do it. he denies her boundaries, complexity, and autonomy except where it would absolve him of guilt (see also, the scene in htn where john insists the murders at canaan house only happened because boe corrupted her). i know ableism definitely factors in to this attitude and treatment, but i don't think her being a woman was a small part of it either.

never apologize for writing me asks i LIVE for this. but you are absolutely correct in that this also falls back on Cytherea; admittedly it has been a hot minute since i read GtN so i appreciate a fresher take on this!

but yeah you're hitting my personal nail right on the head. from the way the other lyctors talk about Cytherea it really does look like she was subject at least some of the boys' club that the Mithraeum seems to be—(once again, the women began outnumbered and ended outnumbered; i'd love to know more about Cassiopeia and what her dynamic with the rest of the group is, although we get a glimpse from how John talks about her when he admits that she called his shit out for being "appallingly vindictive." would love to know how this translated over after her resurrection? hoping and praying we get more about her in AtN.) though it is, as you say, different from what is leveled at Mercy, and we know these dynamics can absolutely manifest in different ways.

where Mercy is shrill and "unlovable," Cyth is "gorgeous" and she "loved them all" which... isn't exactly degrading on its face but subsequent "poor little Cyth" by Augustine is definitely condescending!! (as much as it is endearing, in a way. they contain multitudes.) but i think most blatantly this behavior comes from John almost... victim blaming her? we can talk in circles for hours and hours about whether or not he could actually cure her cancer but it still stands that whatever he was enabling in her, she was (heavy quotation marks) "letting him do it."

John's insistence that Cyth was corrupted and denying her agency in genuinely hating him is really where i started to doubt that he just fundamentally doesn't misunderstand everyone he considers a close confidant. we already know he's completely fumbled Mercy & Augustine and that's how he ended up the object of two nefarious threesomes and also, like, exploded, but he's misunderstanding that everyone wants him dead because they want him dead. his actions are all the fault of other people and he cannot fathom not being adored, needed, and liked.

[jacksprostate]

Bob in female fight club au. Thoughts

Probably named Marge

Rather than doing a direct inversion (ie making the character the exact opposite, much tits -> no tits, etc) I think sort of an analogue would work better riffing off the motherly role Bob has, in combination with the group being for uterine cancer/ovarian cancer

The women come together, and they cry, cry, cry, over lost husbands, who left them because they got cancer, because overwhelmingly, men leave if their wife gets cancer, over lost relationships with children, who stayed but resent them, over lost Motherhood, that thing you were told was your worth but now you are told you're shit. Remaining Women Together. Despite. Despite despite despite.

What is it, about purposes. Want to see misery, see women fed their own physical oppression as lost salvation.

Marge, whatever her name is, her husband divorced her, left her with the kids and medical bills stacked as high as she is tall. She is thankful she still has her kids, it makes her feel like she's still worth something. She's had to try and get back into the workforce. No one wants to hire dear former stay at home mother Marge. She shows you her kids in her wallet in her purse and there are no pictures of her. There's a picture of her old husband, which she keeps to show her kids if they ask. They're old enough to go to school now, which is good, because it gives her more time to work. Life is hard, but she's doing her best.

Marge, who is on hormone therapy so she doesn't get those "side effects" she's heard about from other total hysterectomy patients, the future of early dementia and degeneration and horror. Who does pelvic floor exercises in hopes it will minimise the fallout of the surgery. Who carefully rips every hair out of her upper lip and chin because even if it would be normal for a woman, a woman whose gone through menopause, a woman at all — she knows, it's probably the estrogen tipping back over into testosterone, and she can't handle any more losses. She compensates. They all do.

The support group is her Me Time. It is the single hour plus half hour commute she can afford once a week for herself. So she gets here, and she cries, cries, cries, and the others cry with her, all over how their lives have fallen apart since they got ovarian cancer, got breast cancer, and their lives derailed because they can't be proper women anymore.

They cry in their waterproof makeup. Another product to promise womanhood. Identify yourself via consumption. Identify yourself by covering yourself up.

And when she finds fight club. When she finds something that says, jesus fuck. You are more than your children. You are more than your ability to have kids. You aren't a failed woman, that's a sack of shit you've been sold wholesale. When she finds something that promises her she will grow, achieve personhood, not because she was the ultimate martyr mother, not because she played the game of human or woman, but because it promises a freedom from all that, identification and repulsion of such sickening chains. When she stops worrying about her slightly deepened voice, and works to keep her dose even keel for her health, to avoid the toxic highs of accidentally juicing, rather than the lesser effects of a black lip hair or two. When she has a photo, not of herself in her wallet, but of the things she makes with other women from fight club, of the one view of the sunset from that one parking lot that she always thought was wonderful, when she has things in her wallet for her and her enjoyment. When she has corded muscle and a built up spine, when she sits her kids down and explains why they only see dad one weekend every other month, all the fun holidays, because dad decided staying with her through cancer was too hard even when she stayed with him through four lost jobs pissed away in alcohol and lottery tickets.

And Marge, who gets shot by the police on a regulation chill-and-drill assignment for Project Mayhem. Whose obituary in the newspaper talks about the children she left behind, how she battled cancer and kept caring for them, how she was such a strong mother, whose kids would now be shipped off to their grieving father who is so, so brave and stunning for standing up and taking care of the kids he made and dropped as soon as his live-in servant had a few issues. Her name is Marge Paulson, and she was forty-eight years old. She was a person. She will be remembered in the annals of Project Mayhem, lest what little there was of her be stolen from the world. She was killed by Project Mayhem, but they're the only ones who will remember Marge Paulson.

[yarrayora]

one day after servamp ends, tooru is going to walk into a bar, sees hugh in a baby chair nursing an alcohol and lily as the bartender who greets him with a smile "hi! welcome to the--"

tooru backs out and checks the name of the bar

"--We Lied to Our Kids Club, may I take your order?"

tooru looks at lily in the eyes "fuck you. we are not the same"

lily meets his gaze levelly "your nephew has martyr complex and abandonment issue. fuck you."

[jojotier]

hey! for tmastuck! what are the beta trolls avatars of? :0

ARADIA: The End. the death ties are too strong in her character to be anything But.

SOLLUX: The Extinction. the world is always ending. he's been telling you this but the world is Always Ending.

TAVROS: The Buried. there is solace in being grounded; how ironic, that trying to fly would be a torment, and to be cradled, comforted by the pressure of the earth and expectations, would be freeing?

KARKAT: Not an avatar; every fear wants him sososoSO bad and he keeps running away Wily Coyote style

NEPETA: The Hunt.

KANAYA: The Slaughter. she doesn't revel in ruin nor the chase; her violence is regimented and righteous, a martyr, a soldier. would say "Murder Club Was Not Supposed To End This Way."

TEREZI: No entity. The Eye wants her but can't have her. Leans towards the Web also, but hasn't been caught yet.

VRISKA: The Web. just look at her.

EQUIUS: The Flesh.

GAMZEE: The Spiral. I know the clown thing is a stranger deal but the everything else about Gamzee's character is a Spiral thing. Capriciousness, colors, having senses that lie to you... it's all Gamzee

ERIDAN: The Desolation. This guy? This guy revels in ruin. he isn't just trying to enact violence. if you cross his path, if you get under his skin, he wants to burn everything that you are to the ground.

FEFERI: The Vast. the sea is infinite and so are the whispers of what lies beneath; realities and dreambubbles spanning out for eternity.. Feferi is Made for when everything is Big

[see-arcane]

considering it was the late 1800s, do you think Seward and VH are oblivious to Jonathan's watchfulness because Stoker couldn't justify writing Jonathan implying that "vampirism and blasphemy are fine if it's for Mina, actually" beyond his initial declaration? We don't seem to get much more of it directly from Jonathan's entries either after that, just by implication.

I wouldn't be surprised if that was a factor.

Considering all the very potent metaphors at work in the premise of 'God has denied love and protection to my beloved over X Violation and/or X State of Being which is beyond their control, and I have decided our love is more holy than any decision of the Almighty, and I would rather be a monster with her than shun/destroy her As Is the Righteous Thing to Do,' Stoker was already dancing on the edge of acceptability with Jonathan making his secret vow even once.

But thankfully, that single vow--and the adamant refusal to even pretend to make a new 'Yes honey, I will absolutely vampire martyr-murder you like a good Christian boy! God says it's chill just like it was for Lucy and everyone else Dracula has snacked on for untold centuries! God's will be done!'--likely flew over a lot of heads back in the day (as it does now) and simply landed in a lot of hearts with the more obvious factor of...

"Oh. He is literally willing to brave Hell and eternal damnation as the conscripted undead, possibly even cutting down his stake-wielding friends, just to protect and be with his beloved? ...That's kind of hot."

Especially during a period when romance was basically just a bonus to tack on to the Job of Being Married. Jonathan Harker is proven multiple times to be the un-Victorian Victorian man, running from the Brides (mistress stand-ins), happily letting his wife take the lead and holding her up as his equal until he's peer pressured out of it (which leads to dangerous consequences! Social mores fucked everything up! And He Only Follows New Directions with Mina's Approval Going Forward!), and now here's this romantic motherfucker ready to skin Dracula and French kiss the Devil so long as it sees his beloved safe and un-slaughtered, even if she isn't ~perfect and saintly and non-monstrous~.

Girls gays and goths of 1897 were definitely fanning themselves at the next tea party book club once they reached October 3rd.

Even without the ell gee bee tee undertones to glean from Stoker's own romantic leanings, the idea of 'selfish' personal love, of a mere human being, getting held up as more important than God, someone worth Hell, was extremely spicy to depict during that period. If Stoker had had Jonathan repeating himself over and over regarding his secret plans, it would have started to sound a bit like writing a smitten Poe protagonist. Which would also be sexy! But it'd risk taking some of the heroic shine off of him towards the end.

Better to let it hang over the narrative's neck in silence like an axe waiting to fall.

Or a kukri.

[hsvh-hp]

what drarry fics would you recommend that are very in character?

Before I get into it, I’d just like to say that I started working on a fic rec sideblog last month. The posting schedule doesn’t kick in until April, so it’s blank at the moment. But, it’s there, if you’re interested in giving it a follow!

Anyway, two caveats about this: one, I read a lot of drarry fic and have a bit of a poor memory, and two, I'm not certain that what I consider in-character to be the majority consensus of the drarry fandom (for example, I don't like down and out Draco, soft Draco, Draco hating either of his parents, or Harry being overly judgmental or unforgiving (though that's not to say I haven't read those tropes and enjoyed them)).

In general, any fics from my ao3 bookmarks will meet my bar on being in-character, since I tend to hit the back button if I start asking myself, 'who are these people?'. I took a cruise through my bookmarks in spirit of the ask though, and I'll post a list below the cut of fics that stick out in my memory as having some of my favourite characterizations:

Twelve Months by dysonrules (14,840 words)

Hermione buys Harry a journal and he ends up using it to record his DEEP THOUGHTS. Not surprisingly, those tend to mostly involve Draco Malfoy.

This one cracked me up. Since it's written in journal form, we get Harry's running internal monologue about his life. And a lot of Draco, because of course we do. I also always enjoy a Draco who actually is up to something, but it’s for a good cause.

The Gentlewizard Club by Sophie_French (28,129 words)

Draco wants what Draco wants. And if he has to snuggle up to Harry to get it, well, surely, Draco can handle that. Problem is, not sure Harry can.

This fic starts with Draco and Harry as both friends and Auror partners. As friends, the high point of every day for Draco is when he gets to read (oft-times aloud, and dramatically so) Harry's fan mail as it's delivered to their office. As Auror partners, Draco is barred in writing their field reports because he sucks at it. He's very happy to put that work onto Harry, and Harry is happy to do it (because he's pining hard, okay?).

That Draco and Harry are Auror partners isn't actually important in this fic (although the sequel has a case that they tackle). Harry gets a letter about having been admitted into a club that Draco really, really, really wants to join, and he begs Harry to sponsor his admittance. Harry can't say no to him, therefore, commence operation fake relationship for a weekend getaway. I love the balance in Harry trying to give Draco what he wants while fearing that what he wants will only hurt him.

Martyred by dothechachaslide (82,004 words)

Harry Potter only wants one thing: to take care of the people he loves. After Teddy’s abrupt departure from his role as Andromeda’s caretaker, Harry decides it’s finally time to step up and handle the job himself. Castoff Manor, an old Black family estate, has never seemed as sinister as the stories make it sound, but it’s there that Harry stumbles upon ghosts, haunting family secrets, and a familiar, snarky blond gardener hell-bent on chasing him out. Maybe if Harry sticks around long enough, he’ll finally learn why all of Andromeda’s previous caretakers have fled without looking back.

Harry and Draco are in their fifties, in this fic. The summary about sums up Harry's characterization: he takes care of the people he loves, and a mystery at hand draws him obsessively in. As for Draco, I would consider him post-redemption. He took the consequences handed down to him after the war seriously, and has grown so used to the Muggle world that he lives there as comfortably as the magical world. He tends the garden at Castoff Manor to prevent anyone else being harmed in the role (part of the fic's mystery), and tutors Squibs in the nearby village.

One small detail that I love about Draco is how every time he gets uncomfortable, he hops on his bike and runs away. It's one of those things that, despite the rather far-flung future from the canon years, it's so absolutely in-character across time and space for him. He's changed so much, but there's still this degree of pettiness and cowardice deep down inside. It's just expressed in a less harmful way than it used to be.

Lethe by QueenieJinny (70,885 words)

A new form of vanishing sickness is sweeping across Britain. Healers Harry Potter and Hermione Granger are on the case. When Draco Malfoy is admitted to the isolation ward, Harry never imagines falling in love with him will be the easiest thing he’s ever done – and watching him fade away to nothing will be the hardest.

Like above, Harry again takes care of the people he loves and cannot resist a mystery to solve. He's a Healer in this fic, a line of work that suits him well for his compassion, and Draco ends up his patient. Draco is on the difficult end of the spectrum as far as patients go (are you surprised?). Watching their Healer-patient power dynamic swing toward equilibrium is wonderful. They fall in love, Draco comes to terms with his (temporary) mortality, and Harry goes as far as he possibly can for Draco after he's gone: finding a way to rescue him from where the vanishing sickness took him.

Draco Malfoy, Bloodsucking Fiend by Kbrick (23,198 words)

There are two things that Draco’s Auror partner, Harry Potter, must never know about him. One is that he’s a vampire. The other is that he’s been completely, pathetically, head-over-heels in love with Harry for years. But when the duo is trapped inside an old shop on Diagon Alley with no means of escape, Draco finds himself fiending for blood and unable to put even a modicum of distance between himself and the man he can’t stop lusting after.

There are 3 of Kbrick's fics on this list, and I could have honestly added more. All of her fics that I haven't gotten to yet are on my to-read list. I just love the way she writes Draco and Harry, okay?? I'm a big baby when it comes to angst and hurt/comfort (more on that further down), but I absolutely trust her to put the boys in a blender on the highest setting that I can personally handle.

Anyway, this fic in particular, I'm all about that pining and the feeling of a countdown being on. Draco is resisting on two fronts: his feelings for Harry and his need as a vampire to feed. Harry is perfectly balanced in his obliviousness and perception.

You See Through My Disguise by aibidil (9,666 words)

Bellatrix's knife flew across the room, but Harry leaped, pushing Dobby and Griphook to safety but stranding himself at Malfoy Manor. Now he and Draco are locked in the cellar with Wormtail's corpse and a rat, waiting for Voldemort to return and decide their fate.

The premise is on the tin. As for their characterizations, Harry and Draco are on a countdown to sort themselves out enough to make an escape from the dungeon at Malfoy Manor during the war. They can't help but poke at each other, so the fic is a compelling balance of ego and necessity.

Criminal by The_Sinking_Ship (83,497 words)

Things were going just fine for Draco Malfoy. He successfully conned and counted cards across Europe and America, amassing a small fortune, along with a lengthy rap sheet. That was until he made the grave mistake of returning to England for a high stakes card game and got himself caught – by Harry Potter no less. Now, Draco is stuck in England under Auror Potter’s guard with no friends, no distractions, and no escape. How the hell will he pass the time? And since when did Potter get so bloody fit?

I'd had this fic on my to-read list for ages before seeing it on a rec list for morally grey Draco. That's my favourite kind of Draco, so I decided to jump this one to the top. Also, like I said about Kbrick above, The_Sinking_Ship is another writer with whom I've either enjoyed everything I've read (recs within recs: Never Mind the Bullocks, Dwelling on Dreams, and Chasing Dragons) or I've simply yet to get to the rest of their work.

For this fic specifically, Draco's done the best he can with the shit situation his life was in post-war, and he's a lion in a cage when he gets legally stuck in England. He and Harry meet for check-ins, and the chemistry goes from there. Draco has some self-harm tendencies, and his want for Harry ends up (temporarily) going that way for him. Harry's in a rut in his life as an Auror. I love fics where he goes into the force and then becomes disillusioned with it. That feels very in-character for Harry, to me.

AITA for being "obsessed" with my childhood nemesis? by RainstormRadish (4,289 words)

Alrakis I [24M] attended a small boarding school in the UK. There was a boy in my year, a couple of months younger than me, and he became my nemesis after we developed an intense rivalry. My friend [25F] told me recently that our dynamic was "weird back then" and that "it’s even weirder" that I still think about him today. She argued that I talk about him all the time, but I believe the amount I talk about him is reasonable. AITA? prongymcprongface i completely get what you mean. i had a nemesis (like a school one, separate to my other nemesis) and we had a dynamic super similar to what you are describing. having a nemesis is a very cool and normal thing dw about it. NTA In which Draco asks the internet if he's being reasonable. Only one commenter is sympathetic. They start talking.

Draco and Harry cross paths on Reddit. Everyone else in the AITA thread thinks Draco (the OP) is absolutely nuts for his 'nemesis' situation. Except one, because of course that one person had a similar situation and it was totally normal, don't worry about it. I'm aware I basically just repeated the summary, but it says it all, really!

Rookie Moves by peu_a_peu (75,328 words)

Aurors Potter and Malfoy crack the case.

More Auror partners with a Draco that is unhinged. Tbh, I am very fussy on Auror Draco fics. I don't see Draco as someone to subject himself to much pain and suffering (like in fics where it's emphasized that he was subject to much bullying/pranks/etc during training, and he persevered regardless). He's too hedonistic, and I don't particularly think that the war would have warmed him to the Ministry or the means it possesses of authoritarian force. Fool me once, and all that.

In this fic, each chapter covers a job or case that Draco and Harry embark upon. It's meant to be funny, and holy shit is it ever. These two are such dumb cops. Even with the genre shift from serious to goofy, they get the work done. It's been long enough now since I read it that I can't remember specifically, but I feel that sometimes Draco and Harry being disasters helped them solve their cases. The other fics in the series Rookie Moves belongs to are 100% reading through as well. I cried happy tears in the end.

Timeshare by astolat (14,156 words)

“It’s not for long,” Hermione said. “By the time we get back to Hogwarts, the Unfettering Brew will be ready.” “Listen to you!” Ron said. “He’s got to get through a month with the Dursleys and a month at Malfoy Manor. With Draco Malfoy.” “Yeah, thanks,” Harry said, because he hadn’t just spent the last week contemplating just how much more horrible his summer holidays were about to be than they’d ever been before.

This fic has wonderful fuck/fight dynamics between the boys. I also like fics where the writer isn't afraid to let Draco be flawed with bigotry. Things like that he cannot fathom 'Potter's Muggles' talking to him and that he whinges the entire month he's at the Dursleys' house that it's too small, and the food isn't up to par, etc. As for Harry, he wants Draco despite all this, as well as despite how uncomfortable his month at the manor with Lucius and Narcissa is. I love when Harry is allowed to be flawed in that way.

Hey, Potter by SunseticMonster (16,024 words)

Harry returns to Hogwarts for his 8th year, determined not to let Malfoy get to him. But when the snarky teasing starts up again, Harry finds that returning the jibes with compliments has a far more interesting outcome.

This fic explores something that I've always headcanoned about how Draco and Harry got along throughout the canon books. We never see them have a single good or even neutral interaction (rather than Draco's part in their Madam Malkin's meet). They're always going at each other with their claws and teeth out, taking everything the other does in the most bad-faith interpretation. So, what happens when Harry starts killing Draco with kindness? I personally believe that if Harry did as such in the canon books, he would have very easily won Draco over.

Lumos by birdsofshore (41,476 words)

Harry never expected to spend eighth year listening to Draco Malfoy wanking.

I love eighth-year fics where Draco doesn't return to Hogwarts with his chin down and shoulders hunched. It doesn't feel in-character to me; he'd feel just as free as anyone else post-war, and I can't see him even hiding his relief and happiness for it to be over for the sensibilities of the other survivors. On top of that, Draco coming back to Hogwarts and immediately pushing Harry's buttons? 100% him. Harry playing into it every time? Also 100%.

A Convenient Impracticality by firethesound (38,540 words)

Somehow Harry ends up agreeing to a fake relationship with his ex-nemesis-turned-friendly-acquaintance-with-benefits, except for some reason it involves an awful lot of actual dating and, sadly, not much sex. Confused? Harry is too, but when has anything with Draco Malfoy ever been as straightforward as it seems?

More fake relationships! Harry and Draco fucking but not being sure what they are or what the other feels in return is so my jam. I can see both of them being attracted enough to each other to land in bed together, but the intimacy is more hard-earned because of their history. It's all the more satisfying once they figure it out.

Who we are in the shadows by Quicksilvermaid (99,714 words)

What happens when you’re forced to become the very thing you despise? Ex-Auror Harry Potter, tossed out of the Ministry for something he had no control over, has been looking for a way back to his former life. When he comes across Draco Malfoy in the criminal underbelly of Wizarding London and in need of protection, Harry figures bringing him in to face the Ministry's justice is his ticket back to everything he's lost. But nothing is exactly as it seems. Not even Harry himself. And as he gets drawn further and further into Malfoy's world of honour and deception he finds himself questioning everything he thought he knew—about his childhood nemesis, the Ministry job he misses so much, and most of all, about himself. What happens when you’re forced to see that you were wrong?

I wrote up above about loving a Draco who's up to something, and it's for a good cause. This fic takes that notion and turns it up to like, 15 at minimum. Draco's an investigative journalist, and he's going after some very dangerous people. He needs muscle, enter security agent Harry who's still adjusting to life as a werewolf. Harry tags along out of (hired) necessity on Draco's job, and they are a team not to be reckoned with. On top of their chemistry, this fic left me gasping for breath. Folks who've read it before will know what I mean when I say my heart was pounding out of my chest during the tunnel scene.

Star Quality by who_la_hoop (118,607 words)

Two years after the war, and Harry’s content with his life. OK, so it’s a little annoying that he keeps winning Witch Weekly’s Most Eligible Bachelor award, and he’s really not looking forward to the unveiling of an enormous gold statue of himself, but he loves his friends, and he loves being an Auror. And if he yearns for something more, something he can barely bring himself to think about, well, he’ll probably get over it. No one’s happy all the time, are they? But then everything changes, and Harry’s thrown into a new and dazzling world he’s not sure he can actually escape from. And as time goes on, he starts to wonder: does he actually want to?

Draco and Harry end up in such a wonderfully ridiculous situation in this fic. Harry wakes up in an alternate (Muggle) universe where Draco is a pop star. The Draco of his universe has come along with him, and he's a total shit about helping Harry get them back home. Harry's grumpy, Draco's having a blast. It's fun. It's them.

The Day Before the Wedding by Kbrick (39,419 words)

Harry's getting married to Ginny tomorrow. The problem is that he can't seem to get beyond today.

Time loops and Kbrick, my beloved (Turning Leaves is another excellent fic of hers with this trope). The summary says it all for the premise. Like Star Quality above, Draco is 'in the know' with Harry (though he doesn't tell Harry right away lmao). Harry makes some Realizations in the time loop. Seeing as it's a Drarry fic and Harry was meant to get married to Ginny, I'm sure it's quite plain as to what that might be.

Bad Habits by No_One_Special_01289 (70,509 words)

Circles can be tiring. They have no end. But sometimes, the path is set for a reason, as anything outside the circle is even worse than what's within. Harry is running in circles with Draco Malfoy, and no matter how hard he tries, he can't escape.

Another fuck/fight kind of Drarry fic. This one takes place through OOTP, HBP, and DH canon, as if Draco and Harry had a secret sexual relationship throughout. I love how they come together like two accelerated particles, only to scatter to lick their wounds or attempt to process just what the hell is going on. It has the explosiveness that I love to see in Hogwarts-era Drarry fics when the war is on and they remain on opposing sides through to the end of it.

Dwelling by aideomai (83,382 words)

Curses, James and Lily Potter ride again, several Ministry balls, a teenage Summer of Love, a grim young adult dystopian winter, a few different Draco Malfoys, secrets and the problems re: not having any, alternate lives, impossible lives, real lives, allusions to Dirty Dancing, and just because it's not called the Mirror of Erised doesn't mean you shouldn't know better.

Listen: I bawled. I'm going to try to say this without spoiling the big twist. The fic nails how Harry and Draco tick together twice. Whether it's in a No Voldemort AU or a canon post-war era, these two cannot stay away from each other. I love the solution Harry and Draco reach at the end of the fic - the only way they can fathom any sort of resolution for what happened to them, despite how turbulent their waters remain.

Lovesick by corvuscrowned (7,688 words)

People keep spiking Auror Harry Potter with love potions. Healer Draco Malfoy keeps having to pick up the pieces. But it's getting harder and harder for Draco to watch Harry fall in love with everyone except for him.

corvuscrowned is another writer I put in the same category as Kbrick and The_Sinking_Ship. I've either read their fics and loved them, or just haven't got to the rest yet. What can I say? I love a slow burn. For more excellent fics from corvuscrowned, I will also humbly offer Loverboys (their first fic I read, which blew me away) and Seeker's High for your future reading consideration.

For this fic, the premise is on the tin, and crow executes it perfectly for characterization. I love their Harry in general, how he has his own complexes and the Harry POV isn't just Harry witnessing Draco's character. This fic is Draco POV, and Harry under a love potion is great. So is Draco's pining. They're perfect.

The Matchmaker's Spell by Kbrick (20,859 words)

Thanks to a spell cast over all of wizarding Britain, Draco is forced to marry Harry Potter, who still hates him. But Draco refuses to live a cold, sexless existence, choosing to fill the emptiness in his life and his bed with a parade of lovers. And while Harry may not be able to stand Draco, he despises seeing him with anyone else.

Remember earlier when I said that I trust Kbrick to put the boys in a blender at the exact intensity I could personally handle? This fic is right on the precipice of that. It's so angsty and dark. Draco and Harry are forced to marry, and their journey is so turbulent. Draco cuckolds Harry to push his buttons, and at one point their marriage goes well for a little while before shit happens and they're back on the rocks. They almost had it! We saw a glimpse of their potential!! Also, Draco's lovers keep mysteriously dying? That's sure weird and coincidental. The last scene in the fic made me gasp out loud.

Salt on the Western Wind by Saras_Girl (60,549 words)

When the war isn’t quite as over as it first appears, a guilt-ridden Harry is sent to a mysterious safe-house. Among sandwiches, insomnia, and Mills & Boon, he discovers something quite unexpected.

This fic starts up right after the Battle of Hogwarts, where Narcissa demands the trio take Draco into forced hiding with them. This leads to Draco and Harry being accidentally bonded. Oops! I don't think I have to make the case for how well Saras_Girl characterizes the boys, but I think this one is my favourite so far of the ones I've read (also, obligatory Turn and All Life is Yours to Miss mentions here).

Recalibrate by Saras_Girl (20,921 words)

Sometimes, you need to step back and think about things from a new perspective. Other times, you’ve just got to open your eyes to what you needed all along.

Yay, more eighth year! I read this one a looong time ago, but I still remember reading this and thinking 'oh, this is so them' at so many points. I am overdue for a reread.

Actually, that's probably true of all of these, lol. I should reread them and give them their own post/shower of love on that rec blog I mentioned.

This list took a couple days to compile. I could never make a wholly comprehensive one, but I believe I answered your question, anon. 🤪

[hawkwidows]

And what are you going to do when the town is on a witch hunt for Mike and the rest of the hellfire club, but they notice 'Zombie Boy' is back in town (like you mentioned in the tags of another post)? Except while the mob chases after them, Mike and Will run and hide and have a !moment! until they suddenly hear an angry voice around the corner say: "Come out come out wherever you are, Michael. And bring your little boyfriend out too".

heLLOOOOO???:!:!/? excuse me a moment

I would cheer. and giggle. thank you for this addition this is exactly the vibes I was thinking for the scenario. the last line ohhhh please, mike instinctively putting himself in front of will even while they’re still hiding AND mentally reacting to the words just said, another layer of fear springing up 🙊

there really is just something so juicy about the town (or at least the kids of these adults, who are more directly connected to will, like troy and his trust in his father for example) getting even more dangerous now that they can pin it on the easy target that - in their eyes - got back to hawkins at a too convenient time. and the thought of it being personal like this is so!!!!! jason dying and becoming a martyr in the town’s eyes really opened up an interesting possibility that I’m anticipating

something something hunt the freaks, right?

[dystopicjumpsuit]

Stars Beyond Number - Chapter 6

This Last of Meeting Places

Rating: M - please head the warnings; minors DNI

Pairings: Echo x Riyo Chuchi; Gregor x OFC Cerra Kilian

Wordcount: 4.1k (I know, but trust me)

Warnings: use of alcohol as a coping mechanism; panic attack (described); blood and injury (including self-inflicted); threats of violence; medical emergency; heavy angst

Suggested Listening:

Summary: Cerra and Gregor go undercover at 79's.

A/N: This story shares continuity with Martyrs and Kings and "Do It Again," but all three fics can be read as stand-alones.

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In this last of meeting places we grope together and avoid speech.

—T. S. Eliot, “The Hollow Men”

The roar of the crowd washed over Cerra as she entered 79’s. Deep, thumping music pounded in her ears, and neon lights flashed through a dizzying haze of smoke. The club was packed and dark, but she spotted Gregor in seconds, drawn to him like durasteel to a magnet. The tension eased out of her shoulders slightly; he had her back, and he would never let anything happen to her. He leaned casually against the bar, chatting with another clone, and he only acknowledged her with the barest flicker of a glance.

She threaded through the crowd, making her way slowly to the bar. Her head hurt. 79’s was one of the few places where clones were free to cut loose and have a good time, so it had naturally become Fives’s main destination during shore leaves. Cerra had loved the frenetic energy and gritty atmosphere, the electric buzz of sex and booze and spice and blasting music and bodies coming together on the dancefloor. Now it was nearly impossible for her to view the club as anything other than a punishment. 

Rex’s voice hissed in her ear. “Smile, Cerra. You’re supposed to look like you’re having a good time, not like you’re about to burn the place to the ground.”

She schooled her features into a pleasantly vacuous expression. Gregor angled toward her for Rex’s benefit, and his eyes lit with amusement at her sudden shift. She suppressed the urge to flip him the bird, and instead focused on the conversations swirling around her. Many of the clones were discussing Admiral Rampart’s sudden and shocking fall from grace and subsequent arrest. A few complained about forced retirements. In general, the mood was more somber than she would have expected from a nightclub, but plenty of clones were eager to forget their troubles, and the dancefloor thronged with the gyrating bodies of drunken troopers and civilians grinding on each other. 

She skirted around the perimeter and finally made it to the bar, realizing only as she arrived that there was a good chance that the bartenders would recognize her, if the staff hadn’t turned over in the past couple years. Her shoulders tensed as she searched covertly for familiar faces behind the bar, but for once, it seemed that luck was on her side: she didn’t recognize any of them, and none of them showed any sign that they knew her, either.

Gregor shifted to make space for her at the bar, and she slid into position behind him, brushing against him lightly for comfort. Beneath the rough wool of his uniform, he was warm and reassuringly solid, and he slipped a hand covertly behind him to give her a quick, encouraging pat. She ordered a double of Dodbri whiskey, tossing it back as soon as the bartender pushed it across the bartop to her. It was cheap and strong, and it burned like hell going down.

“Slow down, Cerra,” Rex said. She could hear the frown in his voice.

A clone squeezed in next to her, jostling obnoxiously into her personal space. Cerra’s heart lurched when she saw his face so close to her own. 

It’s not him, she told herself sternly, ignoring the way her stomach flip-flopped inside her.

“Hey, gorgeous,” he grinned. “Can I buy you a photon fizzle?”

Cerra nearly grimaced at the idea of the sugary abomination of a cocktail. It was actually the perfect drink to sell her persona if she wanted to convince everyone in the club that she was just another party animal looking for a good time.

Showtime, she thought, batting her eyelashes at him in what she hoped was an alluring manner. It had been years since she’d flirted with anyone, but once upon a time, she’d been pretty good at it.

“That’s the best offer I’ve had all night,” she said in a husky tone. “What’s your name, trooper?”

She felt Gregor stiffen behind her. The clone’s eyes darkened. Shit, maybe she was laying it on a little too thick.

“I’m Stew,” the clone said. “Want to get out of here?”

“Amateur,” Rex jeered through the comm. 

Cerra traced a finger up Stew’s chest. “Pump the brakes, soldier. I haven’t even gotten a drink yet.”

“Ease up on the bedroom voice,” Rex said. “You won’t be able to do much surveillance if you’re hooking up inside a supply closet.”

Cerra gritted her teeth. Her standards were significantly higher than a supply closet, thank you very much. And she wasn’t likely to hook up with anyone in this bar, no matter how much her mind chanted Fives, Fives, Fives when she saw their faces. Another clone stumbled closer, clapping Stew on the shoulder.

“Don’t mind Stew, ma’am. All that time shooting heavy artillery has scrambled his brains. I’m Trapper, and my brain is fully intact.”

Cerra faked a sultry laugh as Stew shoved Trapper away. “So, you’re telling me Stew has a big gun?”

Behind her, Gregor choked on his drink. Trapper looked comically disappointed, and Stew preened.

“Yes, ma’am,” Stew said. “Biggest gun in the fleet. And I always hit my target.”

The bartender slid two photon fizzles across to them. Cerra braced herself for the saccharine onslaught.

“Here’s to heavy artillery,” she said, clinking her glass against Stew’s, “and a man who knows how to handle his weapon.”

Gregor snorted. Cerra took a sip and tried not to gag on the chewy, slimy orbs in the cocktail. The sweetness made her jaw cramp. Stew chugged his drink with a delighted smile.

“Want to dance?” he asked hopefully.

“Try to get him to take you back to his booth,” Rex said. “We need to get him talking about something other than the size of his blaster.”

“I think I’d rather sit and talk with you boys,” she said, casting a simmering look at Trapper, who rallied immediately. “Do you have a table?”

Trapper nodded enthusiastically and looped an arm over Cerra’s shoulders. “Right this way, beautiful. I didn’t catch your name earlier.”

“That’s because Stew never asked before he propositioned me,” Cerra said with a touch of acerbity.

Trapper slapped Stew on the back of his head. “That’s no way to treat a lady, dickhead.”

“Ow!” Stew said, rubbing his head as he trailed behind them. “Watch your kriffing language, you degenerate.”

Out of the corner of her eye, Cerra caught a flash of the iconic crimson and white armor of the Coruscant guard. Her heart began to race, and her palms felt damp and hot.  It’s not Fox. Fox is dead. It’s someone else. Fox is gone. He can’t hurt you. He can’t hurt anyone ever again.  She worked to control her breathing, wishing that her mouth didn’t suddenly feel so dry. Stew and Trapper were still squabbling, and she made herself focus on their conversation.

“Quit complaining and order that round of shots you owe us,” Trapper said, steering Cerra toward a corner booth with a good view of the dancefloor. Two troopers were already seated inside, and they both straightened up and watched with interest as Cerra approached with their brother.

“Stak, Razor, I’d like you to meet my friend, er—” Trapper stopped, realizing that he still didn’t know Cerra’s name.

“Kallie,” she lied, forcing a smile to cover her shakiness.

“Nice to meet you, Kallie,” Razor said. “Is this idiot bothering you?”

“Not at all,” Cerra said as she slid into the booth, positioning herself so she had a clear line of sight on Gregor. The Corrie must have left the club, because there was no sign of red armor in the crowd any longer.

“What’s a pretty thing like you doing in a dump like this?” Stak asked.

“Has that line ever worked?” Razor asked his brother.

“No, but I’m an optimist,” Stak grinned.

Something about their names nagged at her memory. Had she met them before? If so, she hoped that her appearance had changed enough since she’d abruptly deserted the GAR that they wouldn’t recognize her. All four troopers were wearing their gray uniforms, so she couldn’t even identify their units from their armor paint. 

Not the 501st, she thought. Rex raised his boys better.

Trapper flopped down into the booth next to her, effectively pinning her between himself and Stak. Across the club, Gregor raised an eyebrow inquisitively. She could practically hear him ask, You good?

She sent him a covert thumbs-up under the guise of sipping her horrible cocktail. The three clones sharing the booth with her looked at her expectantly.

“At least it’s subtler than Stew,” she said with a hollow laugh. “He went straight for the kill.”

Trapper, Stak, and Razor all heckled Stew as he approached the table bearing a tray of shots. The beleaguered trooper gave her a wounded look. 

“I hear he has a huge blaster, though,” she added, taking pity on the gunner.

“It’s really more of a cannon, if I do say so myself,” Stew said with false modesty as he set the tray on the table and slid into the booth next to Razor. He passed out the shots, leaving one extra on the tray.

“Who’s the sixth shot for?” Cerra asked.

“The commander,” Razor said.

“Where is he?” she asked.

“Gone,” Stak said grimly.

Cerra’s stomach dropped. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t realize.”

Stupid. Should have known. Should have remembered. We always left a shot for Hardcase.

Stew gave her a reassuring smile, and then the clones raised their shots in a toast.

“To Commander Ponds,” Razor said, the others echoing him.

Cerra dropped the glass, which bounced off the table and rolled across the floor. Miraculously, it didn’t break, but it did splatter cheap rotgut all over everyone in the immediate vicinity.

“Shit! Sorry, so clumsy,” Cerra gasped, wiping herself with a napkin to cover her confusion.

Shit, shit, shit.

Across the bar, Gregor tensed, ready to spring into action if she needed him. Stak and Trapper mopped up the spilled booze while Stew retrieved the errant shot glass before somebody could step on it and break it.

“Sorry, boys,” Cerra said again, hating the way her voice trembled.

Rex’s voice hissed in her ear. “Tap the table twice if you need Gregor.”

“That’s all right,” Razor said. “Not the first time one of us couldn’t hold our liquor.”

Cerra shook her head in mock disapproval, making sure Gregor saw the motion. “That was a terrible pun, Razor.”

“It was,” he said with a twinkle. “Maybe you should… ‘pun’-ish me for it.”

Trapper, Stew, and Stak groaned simultaneously. Cerra relaxed a bit. Once she’d gotten over the shock of hearing Ponds’s name, she realized that she had never met Stak and Razor after all; their names had been familiar to her because Ponds had once told her about their heroic actions on Ryloth.

It had been at a family dinner—the dinner when Uncle Shoan had brought Ponds home to introduce him to the family. Cerra’s father had teased Shoan ruthlessly about undermining the chain of command. Shoan had retorted that her father would know all about it, as he’d been a colonel when he’d married Cerra’s mother, an enlisted mechanic. The night had devolved into good-natured bickering, and Ponds had jumped right in as though he’d known them all for years. Cerra had gone back to the Resolute afterwards feeling a warm glow of hope that someday Fives would receive the same welcome from her boisterous family, if she were ever brave enough to take the next step with him.

Cerra dug her nails into the skin of her thigh to bring herself back to the present. Ponds was gone, and Fives was gone, and there was no such thing as happily ever after. The best any of them could do was survive, and try to piece together whatever fragments of their shattered lives they could dig out of the rubble. 

The four clones at the table still hadn’t taken their shots, so Cerra lifted her photon fizzle and repeated their interrupted toast: “To Ponds.”

They all knocked back their shots, and Cerra chugged what remained of her drink.

“Cerra. Slow down,” Rex repeated, and maybe he had a point, because the club started to look a little wobbly. The syrupy cocktail must have been stronger than it tasted.

“Atta girl,” Trapper said approvingly, draping his arm across her shoulders.

“Best commander we ever had,” Razor said glumly. “Not like these natties.”

The other three clones made identical faces of disgust.

“Natties?” Cerra asked, feigning ignorance.

“Natural-born officers,” Trapper explained. “Not clones. No offense.”

“None taken,” Cerra said. “What’s wrong with them?”

“Treat us like cannon fodder,” Stak spat. “Most of them have never even seen combat, but they act like they’re better than us. Like we’re worthless.”

“Expendable,” Razor agreed.

“That’s horrible,” Cerra said sincerely. “After everything the clones have sacrificed, it’s unbelievable that the Empire is treating you like this.”

Stew leaned in, hunching his back to the rest of the club. “I’ve heard rumors about clones going AWOL,” he said in a low voice. The other three clones looked around nervously, watching for eavesdroppers. “Even high ranking officers.”

“How high?” Trapper asked darkly.

“At least one marshal commander,” Stew said.

Cerra stifled a gasp. In her earpiece, Rex whispered, “Cody?”

“I don’t believe it,” Stak declared. “If one of the highest-ranking clones in the army had gone AWOL, we’d have heard about it.”

“Would we?” Trapper asked. “Seems like the empire would want to keep that intel quiet if they hope to avoid mass desertions.”

“Why bother?” Razor asked. “They’re already replacing us with those useless TK troopers. What do they care if a few clones leave ahead of schedule?”

“Because they don’t want us to survive,” Stew said grimly. “If we all get wiped out on the battlefield, they won’t have to worry about us causing any problems down the road.”

Stak reeled back. “That’s—that’s—you shouldn’t be talking like that,” he said, shooting an anxious look at Cerra.

“Keep them talking,” Rex ordered.

She dropped a soothing hand onto Stak’s clenched fist, brushing her thumb over his knuckles. “I won’t tell anyone,” she said. “You should know that a lot of people are grateful for your service to the Republic.”

“Don’t you mean the Empire?” Razor asked, eyes narrowed.

Cerra shrugged. “Sure. Slip of the tongue.”

Four identical pairs of eyes peered suspiciously at her. Dank farrik. She was losing them. She took a gamble. 

“My—late husband was a clone,” she said. 

Stak sucked in a breath that was audible even over the thumping music. All four troopers gaped, visibly shocked. Marriage to a clone was very, very illegal.

“Cerra?” Rex asked uncertainly.

“We always said we were going to run away together,” she continued, ignoring her captain. “Find some nice, remote moon and start a new life. He had names picked out in case we had children.”

Her voice cracked. Damn. That wasn’t supposed to happen. She was only telling them this to get them to trust her. So why did it feel like she’d ripped open her chest and exposed the remnants of her mangled heart?

“Kriff,” Razor cursed. “What happened?”

“He died,” she said, her words coming out in a broken whisper. “Trying to save his brothers. I would never dishonor his memory by betraying any of you.”

Stak turned his hand over to hold Cerra’s. “I’m sorry,” he said. “Don’t cry.”

Cerra looked around the table at the four troopers, whose faces now held no trace of suspicion—only pity. Something warm tickled her face, and she reached up to swipe it away. She stared down at the gleam of moisture on her fingertips. Stak was right. For the first time in two years, she was crying. 

Kriff.

“Excuse me,” she said, pushing against Trapper to force her way out of the booth. “I need to use the refresher.”

He moved, but not fast enough, and in her desperation, Cerra crawled over the top of him to escape. She stumbled blindly toward the refreshers, the strobing lights of the club blurring through her tears. Inside the refresher, she braced herself against the sink and took several deep, gulping breaths. She tilted her head up and caught sight of her devastated reflection.

“Fuck!” she screamed and punched the mirror. “Fuck! Fuck!”

The glass shattered with a satisfying crunch under her repeated strikes. Dimly, she heard raised voices outside the fresher door, and Rex shouting something in her earpiece, but she couldn’t make out any of it over her own guttural sobs. She sank to her knees on the grimy floor, and all of her grief and anguish poured out of her like the blood and tears that mingled together and dripped down onto the filthy tiles. 

The door burst open, and someone cursed violently, then scooped her up and carried her back out into the flashing, pulsating club. Bodies jostled against her, but the arms that held her were strong and steady as they pushed through the crowd. Abruptly, they exited the club. The music receded, and the cool night air washed over her.

“Cerra!” Gregor said. “Cerra, come on baby, tell me you’re all right.”

She heard a strange keening sound and was mortified to realize it was coming from her.

“Echo is inbound,” Rex said, his voice clipped and harsh.

“Negative,” Gregor snapped. “There’s no time. She’s injured. Have to bring her in on the bike.”

“Copy that,” Rex said. “Echo, return to base and help me prep the med station.”

“On my way, Captain,” Echo said.

“The speeder is right here, honey,” Gregor said in a soothing tone. “I’m going to get you home. Karking damn you, Rex.” He muttered the last bit.

“Hey!” A shout came from behind them. “What the kriff do you think you’re doing? Let go of her!”

She could hear footsteps running toward them. She took a gasping breath, trying to steady herself enough to tell Gregor that she was okay, that she could walk. But instead, she lost control and began to hyperventilate, wheezing helplessly.

Gregor whirled around to face their pursuers, clutching Cerra to himself.

“Piss off,” he growled fiercely. “She’s coming with me.”

His voice had no trace of his usual good humor, and she could hear the deadly commando that lurked beneath the easygoing surface.

“You’re not taking Kallie anywhere,” one of the voices barked. “There’s four of us and one of you.”

“I like those odds,” Gregor said. “Now piss. off.”

Cerra choked, clawing at her throat. Her hand was slippery with blood.

“Kriff,” Gregor whispered, crouching down and setting Cerra gently on the plastcrete. He leaned her against himself and rubbed between her shoulders. “Breathe, sweetheart. All the way out. Come on, love, all the way out, then count with me. One, two, three, four, five. Now breathe in. One, two, three, four, five.”

“W—what’s wrong with her?” a voice asked. “She’s bleeding! What happened to her?”

Gregor ignored the questions and kept coaching Cerra’s breath until she slowed into some semblance of a normal rhythm. Her entire body trembled, and she felt sweaty and cold at the same time.

“Hey, asshole, I’m talking to you.” The voice was hard and angry and very close.

“What the fuck did you do to her?” Gregor snarled.

“What do you mean, what did we do to her?” the voice asked. “We were just talking, then she went to the fresher, and the next thing we knew, you were kidnapping her!”

“I don’t think he was kidnapping her, Stew,” a second voice said.

“Can you stand, honey?” Gregor asked gently against Cerra’s ear, apparently having decided to ignore the other clones.

Cerra nodded weakly. “I think so.”

Gregor stood and pulled Cerra gently to her feet, steadying her as she swayed. Once he was certain she was not about to pass out, he guided her onto the speeder bike.

“Easy, love. I’ve got you. I won’t let you fall.”

One brave soul approached and asked, “Kallie, are you all right?”

Cerra looked up and saw Stak fixing her with a worried stare.

“I’m all right, Stak, I just—” Her vision swam.

“Kark, she’s losing a lot of blood. We don’t have time for this.” Gregor mounted the speeder bike, cradling Cerra in his arms, and they were in motion before Stak could object. Gregor piloted the bike expertly through the skylane, muttering a combination of reassurances and curses in Cerra’s ear. She must have blacked out at some point, because the trip seemed much shorter than it should have, and then he was carrying her again—easing her out of her coat—laying her gently on a cot—examining her hand.

“Medkit,” a voice said, and it sounded just like him.

“Fives?” she whispered brokenly, but there was no answer.

She felt the sting of antiseptic as Gregor cleaned the wounds, and her eyes flew open at the sensation. Echo was handing Gregor medical supplies, and Rex paced in the background.

Not Fives. It’s Echo. It’s not him.

“You have glass in your hand, sweetheart,” Gregor said. “It’s going to hurt when I pull it out.”

“I’ll be fine,” she croaked.

“I’m going to count you down from three, okay? Three, two—”

A searing pain shot through her hand, and then he pressed the wound firmly with a gauze pad.

“Who taught you to kriffing count?” she gasped, her eyes watering.

“She’s got her potty mouth back,” Gregor said with a tiny laugh. “She’ll be all right.”

He pulled out a few more shards, then stitched up the worst of her injuries and applied a generous coating of bacta before wrapping her hand in bandages. Cerra kept her eyes trained on the ceiling, knowing from experience that it would be a bad idea to watch him work. Finally, he finished up and draped a blanket over her. 

“All done, love.” He leaned over and pressed a kiss to her forehead as she felt a pinch on her shoulder. She whipped her head to the side and saw him withdrawing a hypospray.

“What was that?” she demanded, and then the world went black.

Echo began to clean and sanitize the improvised med station, gathering up the blood-soaked gauze and swabbing away the trail of red droplets that had oozed from Cerra’s hand as Gregor had carried her through the shop. Gregor handed the empty hypospray to Echo for disposal, then checked Cerra’s vital signs as she succumbed to the sedative he’d administered. Once he was satisfied that she was stable, he tucked the blanket more securely around her and stood. Tension radiated from him, and Echo gave him a wide berth.

“What happened?” Rex demanded.

Gregor snapped. He shoved Rex against the wall and pinned him in place, his forearm locked against the captain’s throat. Echo dropped the biohazard containment bag and rushed to intervene.

“You know kriffing well what happened,” Gregor snarled. “You knew she wasn’t ready, and you sent her in anyway.”

“She wouldn’t have gone if she didn’t think she could handle it,” Rex gritted out.

“She will do anything you tell her to, and you know it,” Gregor said, slamming against Rex again.

Rex shoved him off. “I didn’t have a choice.”

“Banthashit,” Gregor snapped. “I could have gone in alone.”

“And what good would that have done?” Rex demanded, a challenge clear in his voice. “Did you learn anything useful?”

“As a matter of fact, I did hear something interesting about the Balmorra system. I didn’t have a chance to find out more because I was busy watching Cerra’s back,” Gregor retorted.

“Oh, and you did a great job,” Rex taunted. “Guarded her so well she damn near bled out.”

Gregor laughed—a harsh, ugly sound that seemed out of place and wrong coming from him. His fist lashed out so fast that Echo almost didn’t see it happen. Rex stumbled backward, blood pooling in his mouth.

“Kark you, Rex. Stay the fuck away from her.”

Gregor strode away to stand guard next to Cerra’s makeshift cot. Rex started to follow, but Echo laid a hand on his shoulder to stop him. Rex shot him a questioning glance, and Echo jerked his head toward the landing platform. With one last look at Cerra’s unconscious form, Rex turned and followed Echo outside.

“What is it?” Rex asked.

Echo paced back and forth, anger and confusion buzzing just below the surface. “What the kriff, Rex? She and Fives were married? You didn’t think that was important enough to tell me?”

Rex didn’t meet his eyes, and when he spoke, his voice was hoarse. “I didn’t know.”

---

Next chapter

[the-90s-music-colosseum]

Round 4 Match 4

propaganda below the cut! (massive wall of text warning)

Miki Berenyi:

"shes the most beautiful woman i have ever seen. her hair is amazing and she's just gorgeous idk what else to say or how to fathom her beauty"

"I met miki berenyi a few weeks ago and shes the coolest and nicest person I've ever met so down to earth and nice and lovely which imo makes her incredibly hot"

"Founding mother of Shoegaze"

"I want to hold miki so tenderly and tell her jokes that make her laugh like we’re childhood friends and have a sleepover where we do each others makeup and then fuck so nasty the neighbors get alarmed and debate with each other whether or not to call the cops"

Brian Molko:

"Gender"

"IM GOING TO EAT HER. He is soooo beautiful and freakish and small and weird and girlfriend and tiny like a little princess bug fairy. Literally gorgeous she has to win"

"When he flipped over the table with the little limp wrist.... someone find the video"

"1998 woman of the year"

"Brian Molko is peak gender envy, gender bending and being yourself without caring about other people's opinion, on top of all that he is a great guitarist that writes amazing songs"

"Brian’s gonna win this. I think we all kinda know that."

"Tumblrinas would be nothing without Brian molko"

"Kills her kills her kills her kills her kills her kills him kills her. He's my everything <3"

"He came 10th in the list of hottest women sometimes in the 90s. Gender goals."

"No one in the world can sound so nasal and look so angelic....."

"don't you wish you had his gender"

"Single-handedly took my gender by the scruff of the neck and threw it in a washing machine at full speed. He talked about not expecting to "get away with" passing as a woman to the degree that he did when he started purposely presenting feminine. He talked about the importance to fuck with people's heads through his appearance and behaviour, the importance of ambiguity. About how being in the band allowed him to do stuff he couldn't have done otherwise, to exaggerate some of his traits. He had the fuck ass bob makeup nail polish dresses stuff down, but not in an overly sophisticated way, especially in the early career 90s days the vibe was more shabby punk rock chick. Also he fantasized about being in an all-girl band called Skirt and playing guitar and singing backing vocals in drag. According to a 1997 melody maker interview bandmate steve hewitt called him "the most confused woman he's ever known". And if you go down that rabbit hole there's just more of this. Lots of material to focus on if you like genderweird bisexual unclean libertines (song ref) who will just say Anything in interviews. It's fun."

"I've drawn him as saints and martyrs such as saint sebastian and joan of arc. Or all bloody lying in a wet alley after being thrown out of a club. Or unconscious on a snowy road. Or dying in a glue trap. Or shocked after seeing a dead body. Also as a nun and as rose mcgowan in the doom generation. This is because I'm normal."

"She's a sick little angel faced freak. My theythem girlboy queen. He reminds me of an ant. He's like 5 foot 4 or something. My goth girl boyfriend. <3"