#<- not really but the themes are there yknow

[crickacoal]

Literally this!! Because the themes of bsd are so present in classic literature (not only because they have to be due to the... yknow... classic lit author characters) and the structure of it really encourages the audience to look deeper at tiny details to form an accurate narrative.

You want an unreliable narrator? Take a look at how Dazai sees himself vs how Atsushi sees him. Yes Atsushi has reasons to put Dazai on a pedestal but he doesn't look past his flaws, he just accepts them and moves on rather than making them the be all and end all that other characters (and Dazai himself) do.

You want that conflict of morality? The whole plot. You want it to get more complex? Take a look at Fyodor, someone doing absolutely heinous acts for what he sees as world peace. Take a look at Atsushi, terrified of being anything but good and avoiding what he sees as "immoral" actions purely for the selfish reason of saving his own soul.

The aching lonliness present in so much post-war Japanese literature as a direct result of the westernization of Japan is so blatant and so well-done. Dazai is in a world unto himself most of the time, and he's only barely pulled out of it by the characters around him. Look at Oda, a self-described sea creature travelling through a world he doesn't belong in but loves anyway. Ango, made to be a traitor and entirely hating the role, forced into isolation because it's what's safer for those around him. And Akutagawa, so hell-bent on a goal that others won't understand that he isolates himself before others can reject him into isolation.

To me, understanding our relationships with others is the crux of literature. Conflicting moralities, what we keep to ourselves, how people are shaped by the decisions of those who came before them and those who send them on their different paths. Setting bsd after the war was absolute genius because it creates this shared experience which so shapes the culture of Yokohama and shapes its characters without making it clear to the characters in question that this is what has impacted them so deeply, because, well, everyone went through the war. It's not until we get to Fukichi and Yosano where it's made so explicit we can't ignore it anymore. The war is the catalyst for unrest and the elephant in the room until we see its claws come out of the dirt and realize what's been rumbling under the characters' feet this whole time.

I'm not going to get into the interdependence of every character on the other in bsd, nor am I going to get into cycles of abuse and the power of human connection because they're so overdone in analysis it would be useless.

But this is what literature has been getting at for so long. It's looking into the eyes of someone who has been long dead, someone a million miles away who has made a million different decisions than you would ever think of, and being able to say "so this is how it is for you. This is how you've come to understand the world"

I would say that bsd gets so many people into classic literature but to be fair I think it attracts the type of people who would get into it anyway and just needed an excuse.

[flowercrowngods]

knightmærs

love: saying "i love you" even when you're scared written for @steddielovemonth day 20 (@quinns-shadowy-arts)

M | ~3.1k | tags: medieval-ish au, prince!steve, lovers to enemies who are still lovers but it’s intrigue cw: torture (both implied and explicit), past & on-screen brainwashing, manipulation, angst, violence, open ending, mild gore, traditional fairytale imagery

princemær

It is not the sensation of cold steel touching his throat that makes him halt, the blade against his skin a feeling so familiar these days that he barely falters in his steps anymore. Nor is it the clearly spoken threat of, “One wrong move, Kas, and I will paint the soil with your blood so that something good may come of your existence after all.” 

Original, that. Eddie is not loath to admit it. 

And were this valiant knight anyone else, he surely would have worked his clever tongue to make it count, at the very least, that they should have caught him at last. Judging by the determination in the man’s hazel eyes and the absolute calm in his hand, sword unwavering against Eddie’s throat, he would have paid gravely for it. 

As it is, though, Eddie can only stare into the eyes of his imminent captor, frozen to the spot and freezing yet more when he finds no trace of recognition in those eyes. 

What did they do to you? he wonders desperately, so forlorn in the throes of distress he finds no wherewithal to struggle against four men of the Prince’s guard as they roughly disarm and bind him. He doesn’t take his eyes off the Prince, aching for just a hint of recognition, even a glint of betrayal and hatred – but all he can find is cold nothingness as the Prince holds his gaze, looking down at Eddie from his royal mare. It’s not one Eddie recognises, and he is reminded of the years he has gone without those eyes in his life. 

“The King is expecting your return,” says the Prince, sheathing his sword when one of his men binds Eddie to the back of his horse; the first of many tortures, he is sure.

Or rather, the second, with the way the Prince is looking at him, speaking to him without that familiar melody to his voice. It is monotonous now, and Eddie wants to become the monster again that they all make him out to be, if only to rip out the throat of the person who did this to him. The person who took the Prince’s voice, his smile, his memories. 

He would gladly become a monster for him all over again. 

“A sword has been made for your head, after all. And a feast for your demise.” 

And with that, the Prince spurs his mare into a trot, his loyal guardsmen following just behind him, pulling Eddie with them. It is a small miracle that he does not stumble and fall, the floor beneath his feet unsteady as cotton as all feeling leaves his body and the world rewrites itself around him and this very moment. 

Prince Steven wants him publicly executed. That is not what leaves Eddie’s stomach with a wave of nausea he barely manages to swallow down, panting and gasping for air as he is from running after the horses. 

No, what leaves him with a frozen bloodstream and a panicked paralysis of the mind is that Prince Steven recognises him no longer. Remembers not the history that lies between them. The sacrifices made. 

Were the situation any different, allowing for tears and curses cried into the dark of night without threat of detection, Eddie would have wailed. Wept at the realisation that he should have never left Steve to the claws of the King and his advisor. 

What did they do to you? he agonises, staring at the familiar blues that attire the Prince so tragically familiar. And how do I get you back before you spell doom for yourself with my own blood?

*** 

Foolishly, Eddie has spent years of his life thinking he would never be presented with this view again: The palace in all its glory, sandstone nary white and golden, shining and gleaming in ways more sublime than the sun herself. It stole many a night from him, the thought of this vision and the heart it holds inside, a keep more than a palace, and just as out of reach for the hands of a man deemed a traitor to the kingdom. 

But now here he is, stumbling on bleeding feet as the horse drags him into the courtyard of what used to be his home so many winters ago he has lost count. People gave gathered in the streets and alleys and up by the windows, chancing a look at the man condemned, sweat and tears dried and crusted on his cheeks, ripped clothes showing bleeding wounds from falling when the Prince demanded they ride faster. 

He can scarcely hold his own weight anymore, his feet aching and burning, his entire body on fire and dehydrated, the world around him spinning just quickly enough that he takes too long to realise it when the Prince cuts the rope from the horse’s saddle and takes a hold of it instead. Holding Eddie like a mutt on a leash – and he’s panting like one, too. 

Still he catches his breath long enough to lift his chin and look at the Prince, showing defiance in one simple act that in another lifetime counted as devotion. But he wants to look at him. Wants to drink him in, changed though he might be. 

“Will you lead me to death now, Your Majesty?” 

The Prince says nothing as he rebinds Eddie’s wrists, securing them to his chest so he can’t easily break free and the Prince’s neck in the process. A wave of pride washes over him, even as he realises that he must succumb to being a prisoner for now with no means to escape. 

“I am but your humble subject. Where you lead, I will follow,” Eddie says with a wavering voice, just barely resisting to bow before his Prince for dramatic effect and hoping that would conceal the truth to his words. 

“One more word, snake,” he says, cold eyes boring into Eddie’s like a blade of ice and leaving trickles of fear in their wake, “and I will personally see to your death being so slow and painful, you will have forgotten your own name just before I am done, leaving you not enough time to remember. You will spend eternity wandering and finding no peace. Finding not even your name, as all you are has been replaced with pain.”  

Eddie flinches away from him unwittingly, hating the cold smirk that infests that beautiful face. His Prince wouldn’t talk like that. His Prince would not resort to threats of torture, inflicting fear wherever he sets foot. 

He had heard the stories, tales of a Prince changed, accounts of the Golden Prince dimmed and dulled, a tender heart hardened and smooth edges roughened to hurt whoever dared to touch him. The first few years he had heard the tales, and still he had chosen disbelief and doubt. Refusal to believe it. 

His Prince would never. Stevie could never. 

And yet. 

“What happened to you?” he whispers, the words leaving his mouth before he can stop them, and he watches as something shutters behind those familiar eyes. 

“You cut out my heart. All those years ago, when you killed him. I intend to do the same to you.” 

Eddie swallows, the words not making sense. He has killed many a man, those who deserved it and those who did not, but whom could he have killed to elicit such a response from the Prince? 

“Whom?” he dares ask, preparing for a blade in his stomach or a fist in his face, ready for the guards to pull him back and pummel him until he does indeed forget his name and the rest of the world for a while. 

But the Prince stands his ground, his cold gaze nary lifeless even as Eddie’s vision swims. 

“Eddie.” 

And all the blood flees his body in a rush as understanding dawns on him, leaving yet more confusion as he hears his own name fall from the Prince’s lips with such barely concealed grief and sadness that it makes his knees buckle. 

“I intend to repay you for what you have taken from me. Settle the blood debt. Three days from now, it shall be my hand on the sword that will have your head.”

Eddie is too stunned to speak, too exhausted from two days on his feet, dragged on his feet and on his back, and the unfamiliar sensation of fear grips his whole body and intensifies the aches and pains he feels until his legs give out and he lands on his knees in front of his Prince, close to weeping once more. 

A hand comes to rest on his chin, tipping up his face so he can meet those royal eyes, and Eddie finds himself wishing for the blade instead. 

“Good,” Prince Steven says, his voice quiet, only for Eddie to hear. “I want to hear you beg for your life.” 

Eddie cannot keep a hold of the tear that breaks free and rolls down his face, leaving a trace for the Prince to follow as he undoubtedly marvels at having the great Betrayer on his knees and at a loss for words. 

And Eddie knows he will beg. But not for his life.

*** 

Torture does come, but not from his Prince. 

Instead it is Henry, the King’s advisor, who takes great pleasure in taunting him, leaving his body bloodied and bruised before he applies whatever concoction he cooked up that will leave Eddie feeling like his insides have turned to flames, leaving him to grunt and bite down on his screams as Henry weaves tales out of thin air laced with blood, sweat and tears. 

“You were always so gullible, the both of you,” Henry continues, though Eddie must have missed the beginning of his words, as even these ones barely reach him through the pain. 

“What did you do to him?” he asks around a mouthful of blood, spitting at Henry’s feet, revealing in the sick twist of his mouth that Eddie can just barely make out as his vision blurs dangerously. 

“What did we do to him? Oh, even a decade later you are still the same stupid boy you were then, hmm? It is you who did this to him. It is you who betrayed him, killing Eddie Munson and becoming Kas The Betrayer. Do you not recall?” 

His world tilts suddenly as Henry fills his mouth with a bitter liquid, clamping his mouth shut so Eddie has no choice but to swallow it all. 

“Surely you do remember the way you shoved your blade between Munson’s ribs on your way out of this cell all these years ago, cutting out his heart and making it your first feast of your newly-won freedom. Surely you remember betraying the Prince’s trust and then killing his lover and his best friend. You must remember, stupid boy, and know that your execution will bring freedom to the Prince’s mind that is so trapped in its vengefulness.” 

Nausea overcomes him and he retches, but Henry prevents him from throwing up and emptying his bowels to rid himself from whatever the alchemist uses to cloud his senses and reshape the world to his very own liking. 

“Shut up,” Eddie wheezes, earning a well-placed punch for his troubles. “Don’t touch him. Don’t you… Don’t you touch him.” 

A smile fills his vision as Henry comes close to hum as he turns Eddie’s face this way and that, keeping him from shaking it as images of a false history manifest in his mind. 

“Oh, I won’t have to touch him. See, he will realise what he has done on the scaffold. The veil over his eyes will be lifted when your heart stops beating, all the pieces will fall into place, but still he will be blind, for the veil will be replaced with the ghost of you, slowly fading beneath him.” 

Henry is circling him, stalking him like a predator his prey. Eddie has not been prey in so long. He does not know how to suppress the shivers or the horror at the tale woven around him. 

“And then, sword still in hand as it drips with your blood, despair will overcome him and he will follow you. The kingdom will be freed of the King’s pest of an heir, and I will lend his grieving Majesty a helping hand in ruling his kingdom. That is, of course, until he, too, ultimately succumbs to grief for his only son, leaving only myself to rebuild and reshape first the kingdom and then the whole world just the way I want.” 

He comes to a stop in front of him, another dark green flask in his hand. 

“You are but a pawn in this, Kas.” 

More of the bitter liquid flows down his throat and Eddie almost chokes on it, coughing it up and trying to resist, but Henry is stronger than he is. Always has been. 

And with poison in his ears and his bloodstream alike, Henry’s words grow truths inside Kas’s mind; the memory of Eddie Munson dying on his blade, the blood dripping down his fingers as he takes a bite of the man’s heart, and the prince’s screams in his ear at this ultimate betrayal, for that heart belonged to him. 

When he loses his grasp on consciousness, out of breath and out of his mind with pain, he wishes for the scaffold. He wishes for the Prince to take his life and settle the debt. Avenge his love. Avenge what Kas can only ever dream about. 

***

Gradually, over the span of only three days spent in either sensory deprivation or torture, Henry manages to drain the dredges of Eddie’s false identity and replace them with what really happened; replace them with Kas. With guilt, with shame, with a debt so severe it could never be paid back as long as Kas remains alive. 

He forgets about most of Henry’s visits, wakes up with new injuries and new memories, the reserves of water left for him tasting bitter and wrong, but he is always so desperate for it, he has not the luxury of choice. 

The Prince never comes. 

*** 

The third sun rises and finds Kas a broken man. 

They lead him out in chains and shackles, like he poses any risk of escaping. Like he doesn’t welcome what is about to come. Like he doesn’t— 

He… 

Kas falters in his steps the very second he lays eyes on the Prince, hand resting on the hilt of a broadword that looks to be expertly crafted. A sword has been made for your head, after all. He swallows, ignoring the guard that kicks him in the shin and punches him in the neck, telling him to move forward. 

His head aches the longer he watches the Prince, the world around him becoming hazy as guilt and shame wash over him, the feeling that this is right, this is what he deserves. And still, underneath it all, when Prince Steven meets his eyes, there is the nagging feeling that none of this is right at all. That the Prince should not be looking at him like that, should not be holding onto that sword, should not be his own executioner. 

It splits his head, but still he is helpless against the shackles, cannot struggle when the guards pull him along instead. 

The Prince says not a word until Kas the Betrayer kneels before him, and once again there is a wave of familiarity that comes from this action, but he cannot place it. Kas has never knelt for anyone, so it must be wrong. It must be instinct, the last desperate flare of a dying flame, leaving him disoriented, his head flooded with visions of how life could have been. 

The headache mingles with a new wave of fevered need to live, to rip apart these shackles and kill every guardsman and the King himself before he leaves the sandstone castle behind him once more. 

But there is also a strange sensation of calmness that tells him he is willing to let it happen like it must. He is willing to give this to the Prince and repent. He is willing to give it all up and give in to this. 

Kas the Betrayer is ready to die. He is too tired to alter the course of fate any longer. 

But then? Oh, a lone man’s willingness is not force strong enough to defy the will of Fate herself. 

Because when Prince Steven opens his mouth, all the bitterness leaves Eddie’s mouth, all the visions become unveiled at the sound of that voice that for decades now has held him through pain and pleasure alike, the voice that whispered promises of a future together of even just five minutes away from prying eyes. 

When Prince Steven opens his mouth, Kas becomes Eddie once more, coming to life again inside his own tired, exhausted, agonised head. 

“Any last wish?” 

For those to be the words that save him carries a strange sense of irony, and Eddie knows it’s too late. He knows the plan will commence. Maybe it’s for the better. Ten years he has suffered without his heart, ten years spent shunned and banished and labeled a traitor to all kingdoms simply because he dared to love his Prince more than his King. Ten years that have left him tired and worn out, without a purpose to his ways. 

And Steve, subjected to Henry and his alchemy, his poisons and potions, his bitterness that will turn your insides to flames. Steve, tortured and manipulated for ten years without Eddie there to protect him. 

Maybe it’s for the best that it should end now. That it should end like this. He has no strength left in his body, could not free himself or the Prince even if he were foolish enough to try. 

Still he finds himself relieved that he should die inside his own head this time. That small mercies and miracles alike will grant him this. Looking at Steve as he takes his last breaths.

So, does he have any last wish? 

“Yes,” he croaks, daring to look up into those once so beautiful eyes that hold no warmth anymore. 

Tell me what they did to you. A kiss from my Prince. Don’t turn this blade on yourself when this life has left my body. Believe me when I say this is a trap, and I am not who you think I am.

But he says none of that. Wishes for something else. Wishes not for himself.

He swallows, straightening his back. “I wish that you would… That you would just, just listen to me.” Fear overcomes him, and he knows these will be his last words.

The Prince inclines his head, intent at least on listening. Good. That’s good. 

Because now, for the first time in a decade, Eddie will utter these words to ears that will listen. Fear grips his heart, squeezing around it until it stops. And still he speaks. 

“I love you. And I forgive you.” 

tagging: @skiddit @inklessletter @aringofsalt @hellion-child @hotluncheddie @gutterflower77 @auroraplume @steddieonbigboy @n0-1-important @stevesjockstrap @brainvines @puppy-steve @madigoround @izzy2210 @itsall-taken @mangoinacan13 (i have a permanent tag list now, lmk if you want on or off 🤍 these are only the ones who commented on the post) (sorry the first tag should be so fucked up mwah)

note: i posted this last night but then wanted to double check with the lovely lovely mod of steddielovemonth (kith for you!) if this was okay to post, and she said yes, so fever dream round 2! sorry for the inconvenience, thank you for the patience! 🤍

[the-meme-monarch]

look that tumblr ad had nice colors and i wanted to do something w it but i couldn’t think of a proper Illustration to do it with. so here’s just a bunch of deltarune characters just standing there (last two are my little ideas of ut frisk being the strange someone and dr chara being the knight)

if you ship scc and/or kr/alsei go away

[joshuamj]

In Stars And Time? More like In Ace And Gender

+ some alts

[otaku553]

Some more spy x family one piece crossover doodles :)

A fic may or may not be in progress…….

Edit: the fic is posted :)

[mishy-mashy]

Theory: some High-Ends use the corpses of past OFA users

There aren't tons of High-Ends. They can't be mass-produced so easily, and there's only one that's blatantly female, literally named Woman and with a tall, defined figure

Maybe Woman's original identity is already confirmed, but... she's similar to Nana in build, isn't she?

It's hinted that All For One actually kept Nana's corpse. How, 20+ years later, could he give Tenko his grandmother's pristine hand? Is he just keeping their hands? Or their actual corpses?

Also, when looking at corpses to give multiple Quirks to, One For All users are the best for this. Having inherited One For All, their bodies had maintained multiple Quirks when they were alive, even if they couldn't use more than their natural Quirk and One For All's physical ability. And to their bodies, One For All doesn't count as just one Quirk; the natural one, and Yoichi, are already too much for a human. But Shinomori shows that it counts each previous user's Quirk, on top of Yoichi's and one's own natural one.

Their bodies adjusted to holding multiple Quirks, and when they were alive, they didn't become deformed or lose brain function. They were perfectly fine, and only had shortened lives—but that doesn't matter as corpses.

Nomus go brain dead when they have multiple Quirks. But the past users didn't, being completely fine, making them perfect for Nomu development.

High-Ends can think. They're all physically powerful, and One For All users make the best basis, even from leftover embers and physique. So why not use that great base to make the best outcome Nomus (High-Ends)?

[midnight-mourning]

DCA Promptober Day 6: Hues

Content Warning: Implied mentions of blood/injury, reader discresion is advised.

I'll be making a very pretty piece of art to go with a very NOT pretty piece of writing, what can I say, it's what I do best (I draw yah in and then BAM pain) Anywho, enjoy!

Word count: 414

🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃

Light is such an interesting thing. How it captivates, illuminates. How its able to provide so much to the human eye, to all eyes for that matter. How it reassures you.

How it tricks you.

Blinds you.

Harms you. Unintentional or not. 

Light is a gift that can hurt. Can wound.

Just as it's doing to you now.

You hadn't meant to mess up, though no one ever does, you could argue. You'd just wanted to help. To talk. To understand.

Sun had warned you, countless times, to be fair. You had never believed him. Something about needing to see things for yourself. And you had, oh, you had.

You don't think it had been intentional, certainly not malicious. You knew Moon. You knew what he was like. Even if he had hurt you, something deep in your gut told you that it hadn't been his fault.

You know, the Attendant was a great example of light and how it shifted. Specifically the hues they represented.

Yellow. Blue.

Fun and adventure, fits of giggles and play.

Yellow. Blue. 

Cool and quiet, peace and rest.

Yellow. Blue.

You hadn't realized how deeply your care for the two had grown until you'd decided to drive back tonight and tell them. Though first, you had to deal with why Moon had been hiding for so long, why Sun had insisted on no naps and no lights off. You'd quickly gotten the answer to that.

Yellow. Blue.

Yellow. Blue.

Purple.

Black.

White.

Red.

There's so much red in your vision now. It's practically all you can see. It's to the point you can’t differentiate what's dripping into your vision and what's actually on your shaking hands. 

You can see movement in front of you, glancing up slightly you see it's indeed who you thought it would be. They're panicking, more worried than you are about what's been done. You can't hear them. 

It's causing the two of them to continuously flip back and forth. It's almost, comforting, to witness, even if you know it's anything but. Maybe because the idea they both care soothes you. Maybe it's because you can still make out the shifting hues beneath the heavy, heavy red.

Yellow. Blue. Yellow. Blue.

Your eyes feel heavy.

Yellow. Blue. Yellow. Blue. 

You don't want to close them, but know you don't have much a choice.

Yellow. Blue. Yellow. Blue. 

You smile through the pain. Maybe things will be okay when you wake up.

Yellow. Blue. 

Black. 

🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃🎃

yeOUCH (in more ways than one :)) Sorry all, my brain decided this is what we were writing when I wrote it at 1:00 am last night, I think she cooked ngl, maybe with a whole lot of onions, but she cooked fr fr. But anyway, if you want to read my other responses, see here. Thanks for reading!

[anistarrose]

This isn't something I would describe as a prominent or even intentional theme, but there's something fascinating to me about how TAZ Balance characters associated with composing and performing music are almost entirely correlated with either being forgotten, or having an incredibly warranted fear of being forgotten.

Johann is obviously the latter. I have an ongoing fic about his parallels with Barry — who plays piano, and who is the character we see spend the most time knowing he has been forgotten by people dear to him, and grappling with it. And I've seen the Johann and Lup dynamic get well-deserved attention in AUs where she lives, and they get to relate to each other as violinists — yet the parallels are at their strongest in canon, where Lup is the "most" dead of all the undead characters, the "most" forgotten, the most reduced to a near-invisible specter haunting the narrative, and the most like Johann's worst nightmare.

There's even a parallel with Davenport, who is a beautiful singer, and whose life story and dreams and achievements are all completely erased. So that's three different characters whose forgotten stories — which Johann obviously does not know — still serve to silently justify Johann's fear of the same fate, emphasizing just how likely it is that it could come to pass. How yes, it would be that horrifying.

And as a non-musician, but an artist of a kind myself... it all resonates. The fear of one's legacy being forgotten is a common fear in general, but it has a particular type of teeth to it for us creatives, who shudder in terror at the thought of a masterwork — that feels like a piece of one's soul — being forgotten, let alone cut short by untimely tragedy.

But that's why I treasure, so dearly, that all of these musically inclined characters — Barry, Lup, Davenport, Johann — are not forgotten permanently, but instead immortalized by the Story and Song, no matter the varying degrees of alive and dead that they wind up in the end. I treasure the parallels between these characters that say being forgotten is a grounded, reasonable thing to fear; that it is scary — but that no matter what, memory will still find a way.

[kittenpower05]

Oh interesting, so these guys are called the French word for nostalgia? Mhm, yeah in the game about memory and the past and refusing change and lost things? Oh yeah. Hm that head shape is familiar

Prompt list!!! Under cut

[deepseaspriteblog]

Happy Friday! Sorry I just went missing for a while, stuff happened, but I'm back and I finally finished the pokemon type fankid batch! From left to right we have; Normal, Fire, Fighting, Water, Flying, Grass, Poison, Electric, Ground, Psychic, Rock, Ice, Bug, Dragon, Ghost, Dark, Steel, and Fairy. Some of these have already been pre-bought, but there's still like 13 kids here up for grabs ^^

As always, if you're interested in any of these kids you can get them from my ko-fi through the links below!

1/2/3/4/5/6/7/8/9

10/11/12/13/14/15/16/17/18

[cuippedtea]

am,,, absolutely obsessesed w/ @silverskye13 's Redstone and Skulk fic.. Have some interpretations of guish and helsknight + wels.

pls read the fic it makes me so so happy and giddy

[gas-station-chai]

Do you think Tony asked Jack to grab a drink with him because he knew what was to come? Like there was an internal gnawing in Tony that let him know that he was going to be found out soon? And he didn't want Jack to die without feeling at least a little happy one last time?

Sorry, I'm listening to the books again, and that thought occurred to me. (This could probably be worded better, sorry, but I'm sleepy.)

You're making it sound like Tony thought of it like,,, taking a sick dog out to have chocolate for the first/last time before being put down. I'm SOBBING.

I do like to imagine that tony was just really gay for Jack and it was a. Horrible fumble in asking him out on a date, but realistically, yeah. I think you're right on the money with this one; Antonio did want to save him, he had hope that he could convince his bosses to "bring Jack over," but if all else failed,(when all else failed), at least Jack could remember a time when Tony was actually his friend, where they enjoyed each other's company outside of 'work'.

[phoenixkaptain]

I love HuaLian and WeiLan because they are both powerful ghost kings who stalk their beloved god, said god being the only person who can control them in any way. Which sucks for everyone else, because when asked to control their feral ghost king, both gods just go “nah, he’s fine” and do not stop any of the bad behaviour everyone was praying they would stop.

Also, both Shen Wei and Hua Cheng have a creepy location where they keep an unhealthy amount of images of their beloved.

I love them.

[frameconfessions]

I don't think the Technocyte Coda "boys" are the original On-Lyne boys. I think the originals are long dead and these things are cloned from leftover DNA like hairbrushes and things like that (like one of Amir's datamined emails mentions in the mall). We know the Orokin like trying to do longevity experiments and cloning experiments later on in the timeline and if Gregory V is Alad V's ancestor, the motivations would certainly line up.

[girlmetalsonic]

something that is like the baseline of amys entire character to me is that shes lonely. shes clingy and physically affectionate in a way none of her friends really are, shes always getting pushed aside and left behind. yeah, she helps out people she doesnt know because shes a nice person, but also, she sees part of herself in them. she wont leave someone else behind because she knows the feeling —and more importantly, hates the feeling. if she doesnt have somebody to stand by her and be there for her, then shes going to be that person for everybody else. something something her obsession with sonic is really just like a manifestation of that desire for closeness with someone, and she thinks that romance is the only way to get that. idk... this hedgehog can have so many abandonment issues.

[chara-55]

This was like 2 weeks after watching the movie

-Soup rambles in tags-