#And then I had the truly amazing self control to NOT blow the ENTIRE day

[facets-reblogging]

I actually looked into this a couple dobsonflies ago, when I probably should have been doing Actual Genetics For Work, and I think I have part of an explanation:

Letter frequencies vs genomic GC content

If you add up English letter frequencies for just the letters A C G T, you get about 23% G+C and 77% A+T.

You can figure out the frequency of each nucleotide in a genome too (usually combining A+T and G+C since they always come in those pairs) For reference, the human genome is about 40% GC, and the high 30%-low 40% range is pretty common for sequenced genomes overall. (With a big range though! Something like 20% to 80% with Implications about the advantages of high vs low GC for different organisms, all interesting stuff)

The English language's "genome" has a pretty low GC content, then! 23% is pretty darn low! Instead of being totally random, Tumblr-generated BLAST searches are biased towards AT-rich sequences.

...guess what though

The genome of the dobsonfly Neoneuromus ignobilis is 24.7% GC. Almost exactly the same letter frequencies as English.

So it probably has a very English-like pool of sequences to match to!

Dobsonflies have appeared on your blog 8 times now. That feels like a record

at this rate the flies will have taken over tumblr by 2025

[grace13star]

“Look, there’s a reason why you are not the president and never will be.” - Wilbur Soot (Am I The Villain?, 05:36)

Hi guys it’s me, Grace, with another mini essay about c!WIlbur Soot. Assume every name is about the character and not the real people. 

So there’s this scene that a lot of people use as evidence that Wilbur is “evil” or “manipulative” to Tommy in Pogtopia. If you ask for evidence of abuse or manipulation, this is a scene they point to first. 

Its literally the worst example they could give.

I’m sure you all know the scene. Wilbur and Tommy are arguing, and Wilbur tells Tommy that he’ll never be president and that they can’t trust anyone. 

So we’re gonna talk about this scene and lay out exactly how you’re wrong using critical thinking skills. We’re gonna talk about context. We’re gonna talk about quotes. We’re gonna talk about mental illness and ableism in this community. 

Strap in.

So first of all, the context. 

In the scenes leading up to the speech, Wilbur and Tubbo are exploring the tunnel system Tubbo has built under L’Manberg that leads to Pogtopia. He specifically shows him a false path he’s built so that if Schlatt ever comes down, he won’t be led straight to the rebel hideout. 

Surprise, surprise, Schlatt and Quackity show up. 

Tommy is also there at that point, and when Tubbo and Wilbur try to get him to crouch and hide so he doesn’t reveal their location, he ignores them and starts destroying the wall that is hiding them as they try to get him to stop. “Tommy, fill in the gap. (Tommy starts breaking more) No! Tommy, fill in the gap!” -(Am I The Villain?, 4:28)

Wilbur then gives in and lets Tommy have the path open, but he tells Tommy that he doesn’t want him at Schlatt’s decree because of how irresponsible he’s being. Tommy argues, and this is when Wilbur first says “This is why you are not the president and never will be.” Harsh? Maybe, but Tommy is doing things that are risking not only his and Wilbur’s life, but Tubbo’s as well. 

Schlatt and Quackity almost follow the path to Pogtopia, but luckily, Schlatt turns back to make his decree. 

The declaration of the Manberg festival is the first time Wilbur’s point of view is questioned. He has a very black and white viewpoint throughout the entire storyline.  “It was Dream, he’s kinda the bad guy. Yeah, we’re the good guys, we’re the good guys here.” - (Wilbur’s Niki joins L'Manberg: 22:28) The festival isn’t evil and doesn’t seem like some nefarious plan (we know later that it’s just a front for Tubbo’s execution, but it’s unclear whether that was planned from the announcement or if it was added later). 

This shakes his whole worldview, and the way he reconciles what he thought with what he knows now is deciding he’s the villain. Objectively, this isn’t even close to true. Schlatt was a tyrant who over taxed and imprisoned his citizens if they spoke out against him, and Wilbur’s government never really did anything. It’s worth noting as well, that one of Wilbur’s justifications is that Schlatt was elected legally. However, a lot of tyrants and dictators in history were also elected legally. Its the actions of the governing force that make them a bad leader, not whether or not they got their power legally. 

Wilbur’s response to realizing the world is a lot more morally grey is immediately the most extreme response. He thinks they should blow up Manberg and completely raze it. 

While Wilbur, in this video, claims that its because he can’t have it, he truly believes that Manberg is what caused conflict, and if he takes out Manberg, the conflict will disappear. This is confirmed by a Reddit analysis post that Wilbur reponded “Any truers” too.  Wilbur also says this directly in the video. “Do you know what would happen if we get L’Manberg back, Tommy? More blood would be shed.” -(Am I The Villain?, 18:56)

Now we get to the part that people claim is manipulation. 

First thing I’d like to say is this: look up what manipulation means for the love of god. Stop using buzzwords you don’t know the meaning of. 

This has become a problem with the meme “gaslight, gatekeep, girlboss,” where people joke about serious topics like manipulation and abuse and confuse it with completely normal things to do. I’ve seen so many people claim something is gaslighting only for it to be a character saying their opinion. It’s tiring, guys. 

Anyways, with this specific scene, people point to the part where Wilbur says “Everyone who’s claiming to be on our side? They’re lying to us! Tubbo? He’s lying to you, man!” - (Am I The Villain?, 20:27) 

This is not manipulation. 

This post explains it in a lot more depth (check it out, it’s very well written, thank you @the-redeemed-anon​), but to sum it up: manipulation requires coersion, intention, and withholding of truth. While Wilbur is trying to coerce Tommy, he does not lie to him, and that makes this persuasion and not manipulation. 

This scene, in my opinion, is just an extremely stressed, paranoid, and self deprecating man lashing out at one cause of his stress. Villainizing this scene and calling a perfectly normal emotional response manipulation and evil is not...great? Yes, he hurt Tommy. Yes, it was unfair of him, but I’ve had responses like this in real life and I didn’t have the stress of almost being killed hanging over me. It’s honestly surprising he didn’t lash out further. 

So how is this ableist?

Wilbur is a character with clear mental illnesses. He is paranoid, depressed, self-deprecating, and suicidal. There are no mental health resources on the server (at the time), no therapy or drugs, or anything that could help him. Even before exile he was under so much stress that any time he was alone he would scream and cry into his pillow. 

During L’Manberg, he kept all the bad parts of himself to the times when he was alone. Then, he was exiled and couldn’t hide it any longer. He starts lashing out and reacting in the only way he knows how, in the only way he can. 

The villain narrative only started appearing after this. 

There’s a stereotype in society that is especially prevelant in this community of calling mentally ill characters who don’t react in “good” ways insane or crazy. I see it literally every day. “Wilbur went insane and blew up L’Manberg.” “Wilbur was crazy.” Even the characters in roleplay call him that. I’ve even seen people claim that he is “a psychopath.”

It’s just plain and simple ableism. 

For one, using the terms “insane” or “crazy” especially in analysis is a good way to show you don’t know what you’re talking about. They’re too vague for actual analysis, and don’t actually describe anything about the character. Not to mention all of the stereotypes caught up in those words. Basically all of modern media uses it as a synonym for evil, especially horror movies. 

People seem to villainize Wilbur to an extreme degree all the time, even more so then other villains of the story. 

Dream, is a character who started most of the major conflicts of the server (Disc War, L’Manberg War, exile, Doomsday), blackmailed a neighboring country and threatening to imprison their people unless they exiled Tommy, abused and manipulated Tommy into almost committing suicide, planned to steal people’s things, pets, and even Skeppy so he could hold it over their heads and control them, and many other things, is excused because “Tommy was annoying” or because “we just don’t see his perspective.”

I personally don’t see Technoblade as a villain, I’m putting him on the list because he’s done much worse than Wilbur and he’s not called a villain most of the time, which shows the double standard people have for Wilbur. While Wilbur just blew up a country with only some property damage, Techno spawned multiple Withers, and then went out of his way to kill people, chasing after them and stopping them from killing the Withers. He then also helped Dream when he blew up L’Manberg again, with a lot more property damage than Wilbur’s explosion.

So why have people who have done worse things been excused while Wilbur has been villified?

You know why. 

People constantly make Wilbur worse than he ever was. I can’t tell you how many “Abusive Wilbur Soot” tags I’ve seen. People make up headcanons where he hit Tommy. Artists draw him looming over Tommy, being physically imposing or creepily touchy-feely. People make up claims that he manipulated and gaslit people. 

And the name “Vilbur”. Why. 

Too many people have tried to use Vilbur to seperate Wilbur from his Pogtopia self. They say he has “versions” of himself. They try to make them seperate people. Even Phil does this in rp, saying he wants his “real son” back. Wilbur is Wilbur. His mental illnesses are a part of him. He’s not a fake him for acting on his emotions. He’s not a different person. Like I don’t see how people don’t see that it’s ableist. 

Wilbur was not a great guy. He was an antagonist He made a lot of bad decisions that affected a lot of people negatively. But he’s not a bad guy. He’s not a villain.

Stop it. 

Sincerely, a tired psychology student

(Thanks to @kateis-cakeis​ for your amazing quote post, ily you’re doing god’s work)

[five-rivers]

Danger First

Chapter 2

Heya @pocketramblr. I have no self-control.

.

Izuku expected his anxiety to subside, one way or another, once the exam was over.

As always, the universe set out to prove him wrong.

Home was more or less okay. But, for some reason, minor household repair issues started to bother him so much he spent the rest of weekend working on them

Then there was school, which was even more hellish than usual, despite being exactly the same as it had been since the sludge incident. Izuku was way too aware of how much of a threat everyone there was to him, specifically. Especially the teachers.

His hypervigilante state did keep him from getting poked (smacked) quite so much by the teachers, or cornered by 'fellow' students quite as much as usual, but it also led him to hide in the library storage room. He'd never be able to look at the librarian the same way again. Not knowing she kept multiple copies of books by anti-quirkless hate groups on hand.

And all through the week, he got nothing but silence from All Might.

But the end of the week came, and with it a letter from UA, which told him-

.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, FIRST PLACE?"

.

"I don't know, Nana, Banjo makes a good point."

"Don't take his side just because he was your predecessor. You all know a One for All holder would never resort to such devious- Yoichi, why are you making that face?"

"In an unjust world, bribery can be a tool for justice. I'm sure Eighth didn't have to, though."

"That's it, I'm not talking to any of you anymore."

.

"Anyway," said All Might, wiping blood from his mouth and glancing nervously at the other beachgoers. "Congratulations, young Midoriya."

Izuku felt his lip wobble. "You're not mad that I couldn't use One for All?"

"Not at all! Actually, in some ways this might be better. We'll have some time to experiment privately. And if you're in school when it finally turns on... well, we'll just say you're a late bloomer, alright?"

"Okay," sniffed Izuku, rubbing his eyes. "I just... I couldn't use it. What if-"

"Hey, hey, it's alright, my boy. No need to cry. You passed the entrance exam without using a quirk at all! You should be proud. Even with a quirk, it's an incredible accomplishment. Also, just so you know, I had nothing to do with the selection process. Just in case you were worried about favoritism."

Izuku sniffed and nodded.

.

"What a strangely specific denial."

"Uh, Banjo, usually I'd be reveling in the chaos, but I think Nana is seriously considering ghost murder right now. Maybe you shouldn't insult her kid anymore?"

"You and Hikage would protect me, right?"

"Don't take this the wrong way, but I'd sell you to Satan for one corn chip."

"So would I; it's been way too long since I've eaten. As long as it is Satan and not All for One, you've got my blessing."

.

"You certainly proved this old man wrong."

"You aren't old," protested Izuku.

"We'll have to agree to disagree on that," said All Might. "Here, sit down with me," he said, settling on the sand.

Izuku hurried to follow suit, and for a while, they both just watched the ocean. It was nice, today.

"I owe you an apology, young Midoriya."

"H-huh?"

"For what I said on that roof," said All Might, "and for what I... implied later."

"You already apologized for the roof, though?" said Izuku, confused. "I mean, that day..."

"That's what I'm talking about," said All Might. "I shouldn't have- The way I apologized, when I offered you One for All... It was like saying that you couldn't do it without a quirk, that you needed a quirk to 'fix' yourself and... well, obviously I was wrong. Quirk or not, you're going to be an amazing hero."

.

"Oh," said Banjo, "I can already tell this is going to be a problem once he finds out about Danger Sense. Gonna blow a hole right through his confidence."

"Maybe he won't find out?" suggested Nana, who'd wrestled her murderous impulses into submission. Temporarily. "Danger Sense is pretty low key."

"I feel like I should be offended..." said Hikage. "But if I got offended, that would be offensive to people who don't have quirks..."

"I don't know," said En. "If someone insulted your legs by saying they were so skinny it was like they weren't even there, would you being offended be offensive to people who don't have legs? Or would the original statement be the offensive one?"

"Somehow, I feel more offended after that."

.

"Oh," said Izuku. He felt himself crying again. "Are you, um. You're not going to- Are you- Do you want it back?" he whispered. "One for All?"

"No, no, of course not. You... There's no one I'd rather have it. I'm just... even if you didn't, you could be a hero. But I'm hoping... I'm hoping you'll keep it."

Izuku swallowed and nodded. All Might awkwardly raised his arm.

"Do you mind if I...?"

"Sure?" said Izuku, not entirely sure what he was asking.

All Might put his arm around Izuku and gave him a sort of sideways hug. Izuku leaned into it. It was the safest he'd felt since the entrance exam.

Because, surprise, surprise, that anxiety hadn't gone away.

"What did you say?"

"Oh! Uh... it isn't important, it's nothing."

"It didn't sound like nothing," said All Might, concerned.

"I, well, I, ever since the entrance exam... maybe even a little bit before? I've been really... jumpy? About everything. I think it's just because I'm a wreck, but..."

"Huh. Well, you know, that could be a facet of One for All."

"R-really?"

"After I got One for All, it seemed like it was easier for me to tell when people were in danger and needed help," said All Might. "S- A friend who knew about One for All used to joke it was my original quirk. But it was subtle and intermittent, not constant."

"Huh," said Izuku. "So... it might have been One for All all along? Trying to get me to help people?" He picked at his lower lip. "Maybe... I noticed a bunch of stuff I usually don't... I'm not sure I would have seen all the people in trouble during the exam."

.

"So much for not noticing-"

"His confidence... let him have it for at least a little while..."

"He seems to be taking it alright," said Yoichi, hopefully.

.

"I'm sure you would have helped them if you did notice, regardless," said All Might, "and that's what was really being measured, so my earlier point still stands."

Izuku nodded. "It would be really strange for a quirk to have two completely different applications like that."

"Yes, but One for All is a rather strange quirk, and I've seen odder split quirks." He fell silent for a moment. "I can't think of a way to test for it, though. Speaking of which, we should find some time to try and work on One for All before the school year starts. How do you feel about coming to UA after school?"

.

"Th-thank you for helping us with this, Recovery Girl!"

"It's no trouble, dear," said Recovery Girl. "I'd be here at this time, anyway. You wouldn't believe the amount of paperwork I have to go through. Just try not to break too many bones."

Izuku nodded vigorously, still somewhat in awe of being in the presence of not one but two incredible pro heroes. And at UA.

It was like living in a dream.

Except for the highly suspicious mostly-hidden wall panels and the very intense feeling of being watched through camera by an incredibly threatening being. It was fine.

"Alright, young Midoriya! Are you ready?"

"Y-yeah!"

"Then come at me, you zygote!"

.

Nana stared at her (former) student in despair. "Toshi... why... out of all the people..."

"So, you admit he can make bad decisions-"

"Bad and immoral are two different things."

"I think calling people zygotes is pretty immoral, actually..."

Silently, Nana agreed.

.

Izuku blinked at All Might- not because of the zygote thing!

... Okay, partially because of the zygote thing.

But mostly because he was still in his skinny, prone-to-coughing-up-blood form.

"Are you sure?" Izuku asked. "What if I..." he trailed off, blushing. What he was about to say sounded so stupid, and more than a little conceited, but...

"Hey, even like this, I'm much tougher than I look, young Midori- Ahem, I mean, zygote!"

"Toshinori, don't you think role-playing as Gran Torino is a little much?" asked Recovery Girl.

"Ah, do you think so?"

Recovery Girl shot All Might a truly terrifying look, but Izuku's mind was on something completely different.

"Is- is Toshinori your name?" he asked, awed.

Blood drained out of All Might's face, making him look more skeletal than usual. Should Izuku not have asked? Was it supposed to be secret? Oh no...

"Please tell me you haven't been training this boy for most of a year without him even knowing your name."

"Oops?" said All Might, faintly.

.

"He did do that, didn't he?" asked Yoichi, his eyebrows almost touching his hairline. "Nana, your boy is a disaster."

"All of us were disasters. We're still disasters."

"I'm not."

"Hikage, you spent most of your adult life living in the woods, completely isolated from humanity."

"I know, it was great."

"Unbelievable."

.

"Back to what we were talking about before," said Mr. Yagi (Mr. Yagi! Izuku knew All Might's name! And had permission to use it!) after Recovery Girl was done scolding him. "Focus on actually hitting me before worrying about accidentally hurting me. Today, I just want to get a baseline. Next time, we can work on basic punches and throws."

"So, do I just-?"

"Yep, just come right at me!"

.

The next hour consisted mainly of Izuku being thrown bodily into various padded surfaces. Despits this, according to Mr. Yagi, he was much better at dodging than expected. As a bonus, although he certainly felt sore and bruised, he didn't break any bones.

He also didn't manage to activate One for All. Not even a little bit.

Nor did he on any of the other days leading up to his first day as a student at UA.

.

Aizawa Shouta, down two nights of sleep and dreading the new batch of bright eyed hero hopefuls he'd be teaching- and crushing the dreams of- next week, glared blearily at a computer screen. Currently, it displayed a student's name, a quirk name, and the single least helpful quirk description he'd ever seen. Which was saying something, because he'd seen Hizashi's original quirk description.

Midoriya Izuku

Quirk: undetermined

Description: None.

I am either too tired or too sober to deal with this, decided Shouta. However, sleep simply wasn't on the table, and getting drunk was illogical. In that case, simply not dealing with it was the only option.

Nevertheless, he picked up his phone and called Nezu.

"Good evening, Aizawa!" said the internally chipper maybe-rodent. "Or should I say good morning?"

"Midoriya Izuku."

"Ah, you're browsing your class list, I see. Any thoughts about their potential?"

"Illogical." It would be, to make a call about a student's potential without meeting them first.

"Quite so!"

"Midoriya. Quirk," grunted Shouta, reminding him why he was calling.

"Ah, yes, he is a strange case. He's listed as quirkless in the registry."

That woke Shouta up, just a little. He'd seen a handful of documents for the quirkless over the years. If Midoriya was quirkless, his file should read N/A, not undetermined.

"What?"

"I have reason to believe that he might have been diagnosed in error," said Nezu. "I am still investigating. In the meantime, I would appreciate it if you kept an eye on him. Assuming, of course, that he isn't expelled!"

Shouta grunted and hung up. He minimized the window on his computer and pawed through his files until he found the entrance exam video for Midoriya.

A kid who passed the UA hero course practical entrance exam either entirely quirkless or with a subtle, stubborn, or invisible quirk on rescue points alone. A kid who seemed to run straight for danger on purpose (mostly on purpose, Shouta amended after seeing him collide with the invisible girl, coincidentally pushing her out of the way of some sort of water pressure quirk. There was just no way he could have known she was there). A kid who had almost certainly faced brutal quirk harassment since the time he was four and most likely possessed the self-confidence and trauma to match.

"Least he's good at dodging..." muttered Shouta. He rubbed at one grainy-feeling eye and pulled his sleeping bag closer around his shoulders. Kid wasn't all that bad at falling, either. Some light martial arts instruction, maybe?

He paused the video and reopened Midoriya's file, flipping to school and admission records and exam results. He usually didn't look closely at this part of the file, it was enough for him that the students passed, but, exceptions...

Speaking of exceptions, Midoriya's file was a mass of contradictions. Unusually high written test score that didn't correspond with middle school grades. Dozens of citations and black marks on his disciplinary record that should have kept him from even being invited to take the exam, but a letter of recommendation from All Might.

He frowned at the last one. There was no way...

He shook his head, and clicked on the link at the bottom of the file. It brought him to a herotube video about a year old. A hostage situation with a vaguely familiar middle schooler and slime-like villain. Also, a bunch of heroes, but none of them seemed to be addressing the suffocating child. Shouta felt his lips curl. Even if this was in the past...

Then Midoriya Izuku ran into the frame and tried to pull the other boy free, just seconds before All Might arrived and punched the villain so hard it started to rain. Then the video ended.

Alright, then.

Shouta's admittedly currently-less-than-razor-sharp mind presented him with two possibilities. One, Midoriya was All Might's secret child and All Might had bribed Nezu into letting him take the exams despite his less-than-stellar records. Two, this child had, with bloody fingernails, managed to claw a single spark of luck out of an otherwise bleak existence by impressing All Might enough that he got Nezu to ignore the otherwise damning records.

If the first, well, he had still passed the practical without use of any obvious quirk. He probably had some potential.

If the second... Shouta had been a hero long enough to recognize the circumstances that drove people to desperate, and sometimes unforgivable, acts. Dangling a single hope in front of someone only to snatch it away at the last minute...

Forget the maybe-quirk. This was the real conundrum of Midoriya Izuku.

The rat knew he wouldn't expel Midoriya with these stakes. It would be the height of irrationality.

(Even if he did turn out to be All Might's kid.)

What a pain.

He flipped through a few more profiles, quickly reviewing 1-B as well, before hitting redial on his phone.

"Calling again so soon?" asked Nezu with a squeaky chuckle.

"I want Monoma." He paused. "In my class," he elaborated.

"Oh? Whatever for?"

"If I'm going to have to figure out Midoriya's mystery quirk, I want to make it as easy for myself as possible."

There was silence on the other end of the like, and Shouta checked to see whether or not he'd hung up accidentally. He hadn't.

"I must say," said Nezu, finally, "I had not considered that solution. Depending on the mechanics of Monoma's quirk... I cannot think of any reason to deny your request."

That was a strange way of phrasing it.

"We'll exchange him with Bakugo, in that case."

"Not that I'm complaining," said Shouta, "but why him? Why not..." He racked his memory. "Mineta. He's got one of those body part quirks Kan likes."

Nezu chuckled again. "Normally, I would pick Mineta, but, by my calculations, a classroom that contained both Monoma and Bakugo would be demolished within thirty minutes of their arrival."

Shouta groaned. Why did they even let people like that in?

No, wait, he had an answer to that, actually.

"Forget a mouse, a dog, or a bear," said Shouta. "You're a sadist."

"Some certainly think so! But one thing's for sure! I'm the principal!"

.

The door to class 1-A sure was big... and intimidating... and radiating a faint sense of malaise. But, then, Izuku's middle school classroom had done far worse, so...

He opened the door. No Kacchan. Thank goodness. He must be in the class B, then, because there was no way he'd let Izuku beat him to school.

The strict boy from the entrance exam was there, though, and, oh, dear, he'd noticed Izuku and was coming right for him.

(Oh, gosh, and the invisible girl was here, too. He felt himself blushing furiously.)

Still better than Kacchan.

"Hello!" he said, rather loudly. "I'm from Somei Private Academy! My name is Iida Tenya!"

"Oh, uh, I- I'm from Aldera Middle School..." said Izuku. Was stating the name of your middle school a normal thing? He hadn't read about this in any manga... "I'm Midoriya Izuku."

"Pleased to meet you!" He moved his arm in a rather robotic fashion, taking a deep breath.

Oh, no, was he about to yell at Izuku again?

.

"Danger Sense isn't even going off right now, Izuku," said Yoichi, despairingly. "Why are you still so nervous?"

"Maybe we never really gave him Danger Sense after all, and it was his natural anxiety the whole time."

"Please stop denigrating my quirk."

.

"Midoriya... you... you perceived the true nature of the practical exam. Meanwhile, I was blind! I misjudged you! I hate to admit it, but you were the superior candidate."

Oh, that was nice, but... "I didn't perceive anything, though. I had no idea rescue points were a thing. I was mostly just trying not to die."

"Ah! That curly hair! It's Midoriya!"

"Oh! Um, Uraraka?" Please, please, let him have remembered her name right.

"Yeah!" said Uraraka, smiling brightly.

Augh! Too cute!

"I'm so glad you're in my class! I was so worried I wouldn't know anyone here."

"Y-yeah. T-this is Iida, by the way," said Izuku, trying to get attention off of himself.

"Nice to meet you, Iida."

"It's nice to meet you as well, Uraraka!"

"Yeah! So, we've got the entrance ceremony and guidance sessions today, right? I wonder who our teacher will be- They're all supposed to be pro heroes, right?"

"Um," started Izuku, "that-"

"If you're here to socialize, then get out."

.

"That's a teacher, huh," said Yoichi.

"Why are you saying that like you've never seen one before?" asked Banjo.

"I've seen teachers before," said Yoichi. "I've seen all of your teachers. The ones you've had while you had One for All."

"Okay, now you're saying that like you've never had teachers."

"Yeah, that is kind of strange, Yoichi," said Nana.

"I had professors," said Yoichi.

"Still weird."

"I went to college. And med school."

"Did you graduate?" asked En, interested.

"No."

"Why not?"

"My brother kidnapped me, kept me in a vault for a while, and then I died."

"I didn't know what I expected," said En, shaking his head.

"Wait, weren't there several years between the vault and the whole dying thing."

"Yeah, but I'm ignoring them."

"Because?" Banjo hooked his thumb over his shoulder at Second and Third.

"Yep," said Yoichi.

.

"Todoroki. You were the highest scorer on the Recommendation Exam. See how far you can throw this ball with your quirk. Stay in the circle. Anything else goes."

A boy with white and red hair stepped forward, scowling faintly. He took the ball and stared at it.

"Time is valuable, Todoroki."

And then there was a glacier.

Izuku felt his jaw drop. How was he supposed to compete with that?

.

"My name is Monoma," said a blonde boy, offering his hand.

Izuku stared at it a moment before remembering handshakes were a thing.

"Midoriya," he said.

Monoma then offered his hand to Uraraka and Iida as well. "I look forward to experiencing UA's superior brand of education with you," he said.

Izuku laughed nervously. "You're confident," he said, glancing at the track where two others students were doing sprints. It would be their turn soon.

"But of course!" Monoma struck a sort of pose, fingers splayed out on his chest. "I welcome this sort of challenge, this opportunity to prove myself! It just goes to show, UA only accepts the best of the best!"

Monoma was called away to the starting line a moment later. "Two good, one dud," he mumbled under his breath.

What did that mean?

Then Monoma was at the starting line, and he was using Iida's quirk. Did he have a copy quirk? That was so cool!

... Is that what he meant by good and dud? Did he... did he see that Izuku didn't have a quirk? Oh, no... What if he told everyone? Even if people were being nice to him now...

"What's wrong?" asked Uraraka.

"U-um," said Izuku. "Nothing?"

.

"Oh, gosh," said Yoichi, crying. "I just want to wrap him up in a warm blanket. You deserve friends."

"Yeah, kid, it'll be okay," said Banjo. "Bakugo's just a freak. And so was your whole school. Place gave me MLA flashbacks."

"Sure glad they aren't around anymore," agreed En.

.

All in all... Izuku didn't do terribly. Especially given that he didn't actually have a quirk, and this was a quirk assessment. At least, he didn't think he did. At least, he hadn't tripped or hurt himself.

It had, in fact, been a rather good day. No Kacchan. No bullies. The teacher had clear standards and requirements, and he stated them up front.

He had been getting... bad vibes... from the short, purple-haired kid, and he'd noticed other people frowning at him, especially the girls. But he hadn't been able to put his finger on why, even though he had been watching him carefully during his turns.

Other than that...

UA really was the best.

"By the way, no one's getting expelled. It was a logical ruse."

Monoma raised his hand.

"What is it?"

"I must object!" said Monoma.

"You... want someone to be expelled?"

"In fact, I insist! To allow this to continue would blemish the reputation of the school."

"Well said, Monoma!" exclaimed Iida. "Living up to the reputation of UA and all the alumni who have come before us is a duty of us students! But what blemish are you talking about? Surely, as Mr. Aizawa said, we all went plus ultra!"

"Maybe so, but my concern has more to do with moral standards!"

"If you kids keep going like this, I'm just going to go to sleep. You're giving me a headache."

Izuku caught movement out of the corner of his eye, and a wave of unease went through him. He turned to see-

"Hey! What are you doing?" he demanded, shocked and more than a little horrified.

Once again, he was mortally embarrassed on behalf of the invisible girl.

"I wasn't doing anything!" said the small purple boy.

"You were looking up her skirt!"

"It isn't like there's anything to see!"

The invisible girl gasped and quickly moved away. "Gross!" she said. "That's terrible!"

"See? See?" said Monoma, wildly. "This is what I'm talking about!"

"Next time," said Aizawa, "get to the point faster. Time is valuable. Mineta."

"What?"

"You're expelled."

"What? You can't do that!"

"Go complain to Nezu."

UA really was the best.

"Midoriya."

Okay, never mind. He was doomed. Completely doomed.

"Monoma. I want to talk to you after class. The rest of you are dismissed."

Midoriya stood nervously as Uraraka and Iida bid him goodbye. Was this it? Was Aizawa going to expel him after all? At least it wasn't in front of absolutely everyone... But what was Monoma doing here?

Speaking of which, Monoma looked nervous, too... Was he okay? Surely, Aizawa wasn't going to expel him, too.

"Is this about me using other people's quirks?" demanded Monoma. "Because you said anything goes! I wasn't cheating. You can't expel me!"

Oh. There was some trauma there. Izuku could tell. Did people make fun of him for his quirk?

"I'm not going to expel you," said Aizawa, looking up at them from where he laid in his sleeping bag in the grass. He almost looked like he was praying for patience. "I need to ask you some questions about your quirk. For future reference and to better serve your needs as a student. I know how tricky meta quirks can be."

"Oh," said Monoma, slightly deflating. Then he sent a curious glance at Midoriya. "Is he-?"

"His matter is slightly more sensitive. If you would like me to send him away while we talk, I can do that."

"No, no, it's fine." Monoma sniffed, his eyes suspiciously wet. "What's the question?"

"You copy quirks through DNA contact. Do you decide when to activate passive quirks you copy, or can you choose?"

"I can choose, as long as it's within my time limit."

"When you first make contact, can you tell what quirk a person has?"

Monoma shook his head. "No, sir, I have to activate it to do that, so I can get duds- oh, that is to say, quirks I can't use because I don't have the proper activation conditions, like Midoriya's. He's got some kind of stockpile. I can get duds without realizing it. But I can tell whether or not someone has a quirk."

"Were you able to test all your classmates' quirks today?"

"Not everyone, yet," said Monoma. "I usually try to avoid more extreme mutation quirks outside of controlled conditions."

Aizawa's head bobbed up and down minutely. "Great. That should be enough for now. You're dismissed."

"Yes, sir! I look forward to seeing your superior lesson plans tomorrow!" He paused. "Midoriya."

"H-have a good day, Monoma."

Monoma had felt One for All! What a relief. Izuku had been half worried he'd lost it somehow.

But why did Aizawa want him?

"Um, sir?" he asked. Sort of asked. 'Sir' alone wasn't a question, even if it was said in an inquisitive tone.

Aizawa's eyes turned red, and his hair started floating. Izuku felt... Huh. Calmer, somehow? He was no longer vaguely aware of how the light post over there could fall on him, or any of the other many minor dangers surround him and oh, gosh, he was no longer aware of the dangers! How was he supposed to stay safe like this, when he felt like he'd been blindfolded?

Aizawa blinked. Everything came back.

"Wow," said Izuku. "That was so cool! Was that your quirk? Is it an emotional quirk? It made me feel calmer at first, but then I was, I don't know, too calm, and it made me anxious, but then-"

"Problem child," said Aizawa, and Izuku froze at the reprimand. "What I just did was erase your quirk."

Erase?

His quirk?

"Oh my gosh! You're Eraserhead! I'm a huge fan!"

Aizawa closed his eyes. Was he counting? No? Did he fall asleep?

"You do know you're listed as quirkless, right?"

"Yes?"

"But you just had a reaction to my quirk that a quirkless person definitely should not have."

"O-oh?"

"Combined with Monoma's ability to sense your quirk, I'd say you are not, in fact, quirkless."

"But I have the toe joint?" Izuku wasn't sure why he'd said that. He shouldn't be arguing against this, because, as Aizawa had said, he did have a quirk. It just wasn't exactly his.

"Yeah, that's an old wives' tale."

"Really?"

"As real as my quirk counselor license. Whoever diagnosed you was a quack."

"O-oh."

"My initial impression from your entrance exam video is that you might have a sensory quirk of some kind. On the other hand, we should take Monoma's assessment into account, and consider stockpiles. Either way, I would like to schedule some time to test things out with you."

"You- You'd do that? For me? I mean, I don't want to be a bother-"

"This is literally my job."

"It... yeah, I guess so." His previous teachers would have considered it a bother. Except Mr. Yagi, but Mr. Yagi wasn't really a teacher. He was more of a... a mentor.

(Or a dad.)

(Oh, no, he did not just think that. Bad. Bad brain. Bad brain that read too much All Might RPF as a pre-teen.)

"Besides, even if your quirk doesn't have many applications in hero work, it will be useful for you to know what it is and how it affects you." Aizawa yawned. "Also, don't tell your class that I'm Eraserhead."

"O-okay," said Izuku. "Of course, sir, but... why?"

"I have two full time jobs. I get my entertainment where I can. You can go now. We'll schedule tomorrow."

Izuku nodded, and Aizawa just... zipped his sleeping bag the rest of the way closed and rolled over.

Was... was he just going to go to sleep here? In the middle of the field.

"Um? Mr. Aizawa?"

A grunt came from the sleeping bag.

"This is... isn't this kind of a dangerous place to sleep?"

"Go home, problem child."

"... okay."

[iamnightduchess]

SnK 139 (A personal thought on Reiner & Mikasa's ending)

We have finally reached the end. For those who began this fandom since 2010, it's been 11 years of happiness, tears and heartbreak, on top of character discourse with our respective favorites. This manga is rich with amazing life values that requires more than just a quick zip through of every chapter. It requires a thorough, repeat reading. Hajime Isayama weaved his universe in a way that never cease to blow all of his readers' minds away but still touched our hearts in an emotional way.

(Special thanks to @pethellhounds for the key pointers for this post!)

No doubt, I love all of the characters, each of their flaws, strengths and growth but my two favorites have always been Mikasa and Reiner, individually.

Upon the first two reads, I was saddened, I was devastated and I allowed my emotions to filter the absolute value of the final chapter; in particularly to my most favorites. All thanks to the discourse we had in our RK discord, my brethren offered me a different perspective on how we could truly perceive ch.139 for what it truly is: a bittersweet farewell which only leads to new beginnings.

Reiner Braun

Armin was destined to save humanity, Eren confided on that himself. Even if it was Mikasa's personal choice on ch.123 that is the ultimatum that had saved humanity by eradicating the power of the Titans from the world for good. As referenced on this post, it has been Mikasa that was destined to free Ymir all along through her selflessness.

Upon first read, the following panel seemed to portray the remaining alliance members in a different light. Everyone looked amazing, happy as they exchanged banter just like how old friends with shared traumatizing experiences do. After all they're all celebrated world heroes - living with possibly an upgraded lifestyle, fame and wealth even within those 3 years. But upon several more reads and deeper observation, one could not entirely disregard the rather dark and gloomy atmosphere beyond the bright surface. In particular Jean and Reiner, who seemed to be a bit more noticeable.

Jean somehow is putting on a front as a skirt-chaser (having preference for younger girls) while Reiner seemed to be simping over his old crush (who's already married & has a child in Paradis).

The above panel seemed comical because the actions & lines seemed a bit "out of nowhere", but beyond the surface - everyone's hurting secretly from within, some are masking their pain, though some remained unaffected because they all shared a heavy burden of guilt towards Eren's death & Mikasa's withdrawal from the group to lay their friend in his final resting place all the way in Paradis. Jean and Reiner both are putting on a front.

Do remember that during the Marley arc, not even once was Reiner shown to reminisce about Historia very specifically. Not even in a fleeting thought, thus why it could also be deduced that she did not actually have a huge impact on his memory or his genuine affections beyond just a fleeting crush to hide his tormented mental state from within. How could someone who has been shown to have tremendous emotional growth and a consistent, albeit shaky psychological regulation during his primary arc was reduced to a typical simp archetype in the final chapter? This is not, a "Reiner can finally be his real self who's free of his burdens & he is someone who's enjoying his new life" moment.

The last time he portrayed this "simping" behavior? When he was 17 years old during the 104th's first SC excursion and when his psyche was almost teetering on its edges as his Warrior!alter is wrestling control against his soldier personality in Utgard Castle.

Reiner's simping (which was an intended joke) was also an indicator of a bleak truth: his DID regressed, from his regulated state and his psyche was completely torn apart from that day. In Marley, he had been extremely depressed but he was a loyal, strong and steadfast soldier who had only his duties in mind. To see him do a complete 360 & reverted to a creepy old behaviour, is truly saddening. He's been masking his pain with this front. Even Pieck could be seen sending him a silent, understanding look of concern for his letter-sniffing action.

In 139, despite having a new chance at life, having his mother's genuine love and acceptance & achieved his original dream in becoming a respected hero who is recorded in history, one could not entirely rule out the possibility that Reiner's DID has regressed to the point that either he reverted back to his soldier persona as a facąde or he'd might have developed a new alter altogether after having to experience Survivor's Guilt for the second turn. Yet this time, with no known time limit since the Curse of Ymir had been eradicated. DID is a lifelong condition. It does not go away, it cannot be healed even with modern medicine but yes, could be managed. That letter, the mentioning of Eren's name and their impending arrival on Paradis - the place he felt the happiest of his life - could be his trigger to put on that front. He, (along with the rest of the alliance on that ship) had to live with the fact that his and his family's new life and future had been at the expense of two people's livelihood; Eren & Mikasa. Eren sacrificed his life. Mikasa chose to bury Eren at his final resting place in Shinganshina and remain there to honor his memories on her own, without anyone by her side despite having fought together & almost on the verge of dying together.

(Thank you @lancerofdarkness for pointing this out!) We can see the banter between Reiner and Jean is very reminiscent of Reiner and Bertolt, where the latter cautioned the former on "not getting too carried away". Where Bertolt had a filtered approach, Jean had a more direct, head-on snipe. This dynamic had been initially observed much earlier in this post.

The alliance members could possibly have made a silent pact between them on not mentioning either Eren or Mikasa's name out of respect for that 3 years. Or if they, as well as the others, were not divulged of the real truth by Armin. With or without this knowledge, Eren's death and Mikasa's silent departure from the alliance do affect everyone. Some are more obvious than the others.

Once again, I feel compelled to share an unpopular perception that Reiner's simping is not his true self's behavior. It is a mask. A fake persona. It is a front to hide the real pain from within.

He cared about both Eren and Mikasa respectively, as much as the others do.

Mikasa Ackerman

Upon first reading, I was initially devastated for Mikasa's conclusion. It was her decision and selfless act that had saved all of humanity and won Ymir over, which completely destroys the Paths as well as removing the titan powers together with its curse. The woman who had been at the frontlines, placing her life at stake, almost dying first to protect the men in the alliance; she who had sacrificed everything ended up with nothing but only memories of the one who could never be and loneliness.

To throw salt into the wound, we saw Eren uttering in Paths on how he refused to accept the notion of Mikasa being with another man, he wanted her to only love him and have him in her heart even 10 years after his death. It was indeed a last spur of the moment declaration that ironically contradicted his plea in 138.

Their relationship was never meant to take off by riding into the sunset together, they are not destined to be with each other, even if their feelings are mutual. Despite my personal observation of their relationship as a form of enslavement in itself: Mikasa still sees it as her devotion & commitment to Eren. I have to respect her perspective on this.

Ymir mistaken Stockholm Syndrome as love, she perceives enslavement as love. Being used as a tool of war and breeding, surrendering all her will to her captor, yearning for his validation - she saw those as love. Now the glaring parallel between Ymir and Mikasa are truly obvious. Because of love, Ymir tethered herself to Paths or purgatory for 2,000 years and in exchange of Mikasa's decision & action, Mikasa remained tethered to her love for Eren & his memories for at least another 10 years if not for the rest of her life on earth. That is truly heartbreaking.

I was devastated. I personally believe she deserves better. She too deserves to have her happy end, to be loved and have a family of her own.

When Armin had dreams of seeing the world beyond the walls, Mikasa has always been a simple girl with simple dreams: i) to go back home within that forest in Shinganshina and ii) to be by Eren's side forever. Once we realised this, Mikasa actually had everything she ever desired after all. She's back home in Shinganshina, living in solitude and in peace with no burden of world peace, diplomatic affairs on her shoulder and has no need to put on a facąde. She's been grieving and she still cried for her yearning to see Eren's face again even after 3 years that she might not stop shedding tears in the next 7 years just like Eren wanted. That is how psychologically and emotionally affected she is with Eren's words, actions and death. She chose to remember Eren and keep her in her heart that it is almost seen as an imprisonment but she's also free from other wordly responsibilities unlike the rest of the alliance members.

Did I wish she would have a better ending than this? Absolutely. This young woman has never been on her own ever since she was born, it's heartbreaking to see her having to process her grief alone without even a single companion by her side. She lost all of her incredible physical strength and had to learn how to fortify her emotional strength through her grieving process. She has only learn on how to love and be loved by Eren, which has major missing components left to be desired. Mikasa deserves to be loved, to receive that affection openly in return from someone who would be ideal, respectful, trustworthy, expressive, equally devoted, the raindrop to her seed, the sun to her cold days and loving towards her and maybe one day, eventually would be able to grow a real family from that genuine love.

The last two bottom panel above we can actually observe the innocent kid!Mikasa just like Isayama promised. She is ready and curious to once again, learn more about the beautiful but cruel world. She is ready to leave the forest upon realizing that no matter where she goes, Eren will always be inside her heart.

She is at peace. Even if she looks way thinner, fragile that she should be and could be seen collapsing as she was hit by another wave of strong grief. But since the members of the alliance are coming to Paradis for a potential negotiation, it is been stated by Mikasa that they are also coming to see Eren's final resting place to pay their respects. She will be meeting her friends after 3 years for the first time and I could really hope that they can be the support that each other needed for true healing. I am holding on to the possibility of her being ready to move on and start living again after putting the course of her life on hold by mourning for Eren the moment she is reunited again with Armin, Annie, Reiner, Jean and Connie.

The bird flew over the ship carrying the alliance as it is heading towards Paradis before heading towards Mikasa's location, giving his answer to her "You're happy right?" question by wrapping that scarf around her neck for one last time. He wanted her to be free after 3 years of grief. He wanted her to move on when she meets their friends again because she does not deserve to be consumed in her grief not even another day. Not even for another 7 years. Not even for the rest of her life.

Anything that we envision happening after 139 is valid in this universe. I believe Mikasa will begin living her life to the fullest as the end of the series is also the beginning of her next journey. But this time, she will be doing it in the company of her loved ones. Together.

[oscopelabs]

Christopher Nolan: The Man Who Wasn’t There by Daniel Carlson

1.

So, we’ll start with the fact that all movies are make-believe. It’s a bunch of actors on a set, wearing costumes and standing with props picked out by hordes of people you’ll never see, under the guidance of a director, saying things that have been written down for them while doing their best to say these things so that it sounds like they’re just now thinking of them. We all know this—saying it feels incredibly stupid, like pointing out that water is wet—but it’s still worth noting. There is, for example, no such person as Luke Skywalker. Never has been, never will be. He was invented by a baby boomer from Modesto. He is not real.

And we know this, and that’s part of the fun. We know that Luke Skywalker isn’t real but is being portrayed by an actor (another boomer from the Bay Area, come to think of it), and that none of the things we’re seeing are real. But we give ourselves over to the collective fiction for the greater experience of becoming involved in a story. This is one of the most amazing things that we do as humans. We know—deep down, in our bones, without-a-doubt know—that the thing we’re watching is fiction, but we enter a state of suspended reality where we imagine the story to be real, and we allow ourselves to be moved by it. We’ve been doing this since we developed language. The people telling these stories know this and bring the same level of commitment and imagination and assurance that we do as viewers, too. The storyteller knows that the story isn’t real, but for lack of a better way to get a handle on it, it feels real. So, to continue with the example, we’re excited when Luke Skywalker blows up the Death Star because he helped the good guys win. For us viewers, in this state of mutually reinforced agreement, that “happened.” It’s not real, but it’s “real”—that is, it’s real within the established boundaries of the invented world that we’ve all agreed to sit and look at for a couple of hours. Every viewer knows this, and every filmmaker acts on it, too. Except:

Christopher Nolan does not do this.

2.

There’s no one single owner or maker of any movie, and anyone who tells you different has their hand in your pocket. But there’s an argument to be made that when somebody both writes and directs the movie, it’s a bit easier to locate a sense of personhood in the final product. (This is all really rough math, too, and should not be used in court.) Christopher Nolan has directed 11 films to date, and while his style can be found in all of them, his self is more present in the ones where he had a hand in the shaping of the story—and crucially, not just that, but in the construction of the fictional world. Take away the superhero trilogy, the remake of a Norwegian thriller, the adaptation of a novel, and the historical drama, and Nolan’s directed five films that can reasonably be attributed to his own creative universe: Following (1998), Memento (2000), Inception (2010), Interstellar (2014), and Tenet (2020). These movies all involve themes that Nolan seems to enjoy working with no matter the source material, including identity, memory, and how easily reality can be called into question when two people refuse to concede that they had very different experiences of the same event. Basically, he makes movies about how perception shapes existence. How he does this, though, is unlike pretty much everybody else.

Take Inception. After a decade spent going from hotshot new talent to household name (thanks to directing the two highest-grossing Batman movies ever made, as well as the first superhero movie to earn an Oscar for acting), he had the credit line to make something big and flashy that was also weird and personal. So we got an action movie that, when first announced in the Hollywood trades, was described as being set within “the architecture of the mind.” Although this at first seemed to be a phrase that only a publicist could love, it turned out to be the best way to describe the film. This is a film, after all, about a group of elite agents who use special technology to enter someone’s subconscious dream-state and then manipulate that person’s memories and emotions. The second half of the film sees team leader Dom Cobb (Leonardo DiCaprio) and the rest of the squad actually descend through multiple nested subconsciouses to achieve their goal, even as they’re chased every step of the way by representations of Mal (Marion Cotillard), Dom’s late wife, who committed suicide after spending too much time in another’s subconscious and lost the ability to discern whether she was really alive or still in the dream-world.

I say “representations” because that’s what they are: Mal is long dead, but Dom still feels enormous guilt over his complicity in her actions, and that guilt shows up looking like Mal, whose villainous actions (the representation’s actions, that is) are just more signs of Dom not being able to come to grips with his own past. It’s his own brain making these things up and attacking itself, and it chases his entire crew down three successive layers of dream worlds. You get caught up in the movie’s world as a viewer, and you go along because Nolan is pretty good at making exciting movies that feel like theme-park rides. You accept that Dom and everybody else refer to Mal as Mal and not, say, Dom. Dom even addresses her (“her”) when her projection shows up, speaking to her as if she’s a separate being with her own will and desires and not a puppet that he’s pretending not to know he’s controlling. It’s only later that you realize that the movie is in some ways just a big-budget rendition of what it would look like to really, really want to avoid therapy.

Which is what makes Nolan different from other filmmakers:

None of this is actually happening.

Again, yes, it’s happening in the sense that we see things on screen—explosions, chases, a fight scene in a rotating hallway that’s still some of the best practical-effects work in modern action movies—but within the universe of the film, none of what’s going on is taking place in the real world. It’s all unfolding in the subconsciouses of Dom’s teammates. In the movie’s real world, they’re all asleep on a luxury jet. They’re “doing” things that have an outcome on the plot, but Nolan sets more than half the movie inside dreams. It’s a movie about reality where we spend less time in reality than in fantasy. Half the movie is pretend.

For Nolan, filmmaking is about using a dazzling array of techniques to create a visual spectacle that distracts the viewer from the fact that the real and true story is happening somewhere else: in the fringes we can’t quite see, in the things we forget to remember, or even in the realm of pure speculation.

3.

Memento arrived like (and with) a gunshot. It seemed to come out of nowhere and leave people struggling to describe it, and they usually wound up saying something like “it goes backward, but also forward at the same time, except some parts are actually really backward, like in reverse, so it’s maybe a circle?” Written by Christopher Nolan from an idea originally shared with him by his brother, Jonathan (who eventually turned it into a very different short story titled “Memento Mori”), the film follows a man named Leonard (Guy Pearce) who has anterograde amnesia and can’t form new memories, so every few minutes he sort of just resets and has to figure out where he is, what he’s doing there, and so on. He’s on the hunt for the man who attacked him and his wife, leaving his wife dead and Leonard in his present condition, which you can imagine does not make the gathering and synthesis of clues easy.

What’s more, Nolan puts the viewer in Leonard’s shoes by breaking the film’s linear timeline into two halves—call them A and B—and then alternating between them, with the added disorientation coming from the fact that one of those timeline halves plays out backward, with each successive scene showing what happened before the one you previously saw. So, if you numbered all the scenes in each timeline in chronological order, they’d look something like this when arranged in the final film: Scene A1, Scene B22, Scene A2, Scene B21, Scene A3, Scene B20, etc. You get why it messed with people’s heads.

As a result, we spend most of the movie pretty confused, just like Leonard, whose suppositions about what might or might not take place next begin to substitute for our own understanding of the film. It’s not until the end that we find out the shoe already dropped, and that Leonard killed the original attacker some time ago and has since been led on a series of goose chases by his cop friend, Teddy (Joe Pantoliano), who’s planting fake clues to get Leonard to take out other criminals. In other words, we realize that the story we thought was happening was pretend, and the real story was happening all around us, in the margins, memories, and imaginations of the characters. The most honest moment in the movie is the scene where Leonard hires a sex worker to wait several minutes in the bathroom while he gets in bed, then make a noise with the door to wake him, at which point his amnesia has kicked in again and he briefly thinks that the noise is being made by his wife. He’s wrong, of course, but this is the only time in the movie that we actually know he’s wrong. It’s the only time we truly know what’s real and what isn’t.

Yet you can’t talk about Memento without talking about Following, Nolan’s first feature. Although the film’s production was so extremely low-budget you’d think they were lying—the cast and crew all had day jobs and could only film on the weekends, so the thing took a year to make—Nolan’s willingness to dwell completely in a make-believe world that the viewer never knows about is already evident. It’s about a bored young writer who starts following strangers through the city for kicks, only for one of those strangers to catch him in the act and confront him. The stranger introduces himself as Cobb—I kindly submit here that it is not a coincidence that this is also Leonardo DiCaprio’s character’s name in Inception, but you already knew that—and reveals himself to be a burglar, spooked by the tail but willing to take on an apprentice. Cobb trains the writer to be a burglar, only for the situation to ultimately wind up implicating the writer himself in a complex blackmail plot. You see, the writer didn’t latch onto Cobb in a crowd; Cobb lured him in. The whole movie has been Cobb’s story all along, with the writer as a patsy who doesn’t understand the truth until the final frame. None of what we saw mattered, and everything that actually happened happened off-screen just before or just after we came in on a given scene. It’s like realizing the movie you’re watching turned out to be just deleted scenes from something else. You can’t say Nolan didn’t show his hand from the start.

4.

That same general concept—that the movie we’re watching is actually the knock-on effect of a movie we’ll only glimpse, or maybe never even see—underpins Nolan’s latest movies, Interstellar and Tenet, too. Interstellar has some concepts that are iffy even for Nolan (it makes total sense for someone to do something for another out of love, but somewhat less sense that that love somehow reshapes the physical universe), but it’s still a big, bold approach to exploring how time and perception shape our actions. As the film follows its core group of astronauts while they search for potentially habitable new worlds, they encounter strange visions and experiences that turn out to be their handiwork from the future reflected back at them. Sure, it raises the paradoxical question of whether they had a first mission before this that failed, so now their future selves are intervening to make the second one (which feels like the first one to the astronauts the whole time) successful, and all sorts of other stuff that your sophomore-year roommate would like to talk with you about in great detail. But so much of what we see isn’t the stuff that happens, or that winds up being important. There’s the great scene where the astronauts land on a planet near a black hole, which is wreaking havoc on how time passes on the planet. A minor disaster delays their departure for the main ship still in orbit, but when the landing team returns, they find that more than 20 years have “passed” since they left, with the one remaining team member on the ship having spent more than two decades waiting for them to return. It’s a moment of genuine horror, and it underscores the fact that what we thought was the one true reality was just the perspective of a handful of characters we happened to follow for a few minutes. There were whole things happening that changed the plot and story and direction of everything that would follow, and we never saw them; we didn’t even know we’d missed them.

Tenet is, of course, the latest and most recursive exploration yet of Nolan’s obsession with showing us a story that turns out to be mostly fake. It is almost perversely hard to even begin to explain the film (Google “Tenet timeline infographic” and have fun). One way to think about it is to imagine if the two timeline halves from Memento somehow existed at the same time, with people moving both forward and backward through time while inhabiting the same location. Basically, some scientists figured out how to “invert” the basic entropy of objects, so that they exist backward: you hold out your hand and the ball on the ground leaps up into it, because you’ve dropped it in the future, so now you can pick it up, etc. … Look, it doesn’t get easier to understand.

The upshot is, though, that we spend the film following the Protagonist (that’s his name), a CIA agent played by John David Washington, as he’s tasked with tracking down the source of the inverted stuff to figure out what’s unfolding in the future and why it’s suddenly started to make itself known in the present. He gets marginally closer to understanding the truth by the end of the film, but because this is a Nolan film that is maybe more expressly about the nature of reality than anything he’s ever done, his journey doesn’t so much take him forward as it does in a large circle. Because, and stop me if you’ve heard this, the true story of Tenet is taking place outside the Protagonist’s actions and knowledge, alongside him but invisible, often steered by people who themselves are moving “backward” through time and thus have already met the Protagonist in the future and are old friends with him by the time he meets them in his youth. Even more brain-liquefying, some of these people have been working under the orders of the Protagonist himself—the future version, that is—because his past self has already achieved the victories that allowed him to send the future people backward through time to meet his younger self so they’d achieve the victories that allow him to etc., etc., etc.

With Tenet, Nolan didn’t just make a movie that challenged perception, like Memento, or that dwelt in fiction, like Inception. He made a movie that can only be understood (to whatever degree true understanding is possible) by rewatching the movie itself, over and over, as the multiple timelines and harrowingly complex bits of cause and effect come into some kind of focus. The whole movie itself isn’t happening, in a sense, but is just the ramifications of something else, the echoes of a shout whose origin we’re straining to pinpoint. It both is and isn’t.

5.

Christopher Nolan is a talented director of action-driven suspense thrillers. He’s canny at controlling the audience’s emotions, and he knows how to put on a dazzling show. Plus he’s fantastic at picking when to deploy non-computer-generated effects for maximum impact. But you could say that about a lot of other directors, too. What sets Nolan apart from the rest, and what makes him a director to keep watching and returning to, is the teasing way his movies wind up being just deceptive enough to fool you into thinking that you know what’s going on, then just harsh enough to disabuse you of that notion. Looking at what seems to drive him, I don’t think Tenet is his best movie-movie, but it’s his most-Nolan movie. It’s almost a culmination of his continuing efforts to tell stories where what you see and what actually happens are two different things. It’s not that he makes puzzles to solve. There is no solving these movies. Rather, it’s that he sculpts these delicate artifacts that only let you see two dimensions at a time, never all three, no matter how you twist your head. Craning back and forth, you can almost see the whole thing, but not quite. Some part of it will always have to exist in your memory. And that’s where Christopher Nolan likes to be.

[littlelovelyspiderling]

Legacy

haha oops again, anon request was too good to pass up

After a string of losses, Zuko is acting uncharacteristically dejected. Iroh employs one of Ursa’s old methods to reanimate his despondent nephew.

word count: 3,006

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Zuko hadn’t been right for over three days now. After losing his entire naval crew, then being betrayed by Azula, then letting the avatar escape him in the outskirts of the Earth Kingdom, the young prince had transformed from his usual fiery, driven self into a spiritless husk. It didn’t help that they were basically living as refugees, scrounging for food and shelter in the woods surrounding a collection of tiny Earth Kingdom villages. 

It wasn’t like his nephew to get discouraged. And in the few instances he had, it had never lasted this long. Even when met with the bleakest odds, Zuko always found a way to power through, to hold out hope, sometimes to an unhealthy degree. 

Now, Iroh was amazed to find himself actually missing his nephew’s rage-fueled rants and outbursts. He had years of practice navigating Zuko’s temper: an angry Zuko was something he could handle. Plus, in expressing his frustrations, Zuko was at least being passionate about something. 

But a hopeless Zuko? An idle, dejected, not-eating-or-moving-for-days Zuko? That was not Iroh’s area of expertise. When he ducked into their cave hideout to find his nephew lying in the exact same position he’d left him in over two hours ago, Iroh sighed.

“Prince Zuko,” he said, placing his foraging findings beside the teen’s head. “You are worrying me.”

Zuko didn’t respond other than a slight shift in his shoulders. Iroh sat next to him and leaned against the wall of the cave, the rock cool against his back.

“I know times are difficult for us right now—more than they have ever been. But you cannot give into despair. Your destiny is in your own hands now. Whether you choose to continue searching for the avatar or to pursue a different path, I will do whatever I can to support you.”

When Zuko still didn’t answer, Iroh laid his hand on his shoulder. The teen tensed beneath his touch.

“Why should I even try anymore?” he said, voice small. Iroh ran his thumb along his back in comforting circles.

“What do you mean?” he pried, encouraged by the fact that he was at least speaking.

Zuko hunched his shoulders. “I’ll never capture the avatar. Not like this. It’s over. I’m going to live out the rest of my life as a banished failure hated by my entire country.” A shudder ran through him. “I’m never going home. I’ll never win Father’s love back.” 

Iroh knew this wasn’t the time to boast of his brother’s cruel nature and confirm Zuko’s greatest fears. He placed his hand on his nephew’s head. His hair was thin but soft; it was finally beginning to grow back after he’d cut it. Zuko hadn’t had a full head of hair since his father had scorched his face, burning off much of his hairline with it. The area around his scar was still patchy in places, but not in a way that was too noticeable. His new look was quite becoming of him. Under different circumstances, Zuko could easily win the hearts of an entire town of pining adolescents, maybe even find someone to settle down with. But that seemed to be the last thing on his mind.

“That’s not true,” Iroh insisted. “None of it is. You can still find the avatar and reclaim your honor.”

Zuko sat up suddenly, turning on him with desolation in his eyes. “How, Uncle? Look at us! No ship, no crew, no transport of any kind.” He swatted the pile of berries across the room. “Scavenging for food like animals. We’re enemies of every nation at this point. There’s nowhere for us to go where we won’t be imprisoned or executed. How can we hope to find the avatar like this, let alone capture him?”

Before Iroh could attempt to summon a reply, Zuko dropped his face into his hands, shaking his head. “It’s pointless, Uncle. I can’t do it anymore.”

Iroh gazed upon his nephew with a deep ache in his chest. It cut him up inside to see the boy he loved as his own look so miserable. He wished he had the words to make everything better, but none existed. He leaned forward and gripped both of Zuko’s forearms.

 “And you don’t have to, if that is your choice. But don’t choose this path because you are giving up, Prince Zuko. Choose it because you want to carve out a new destiny for yourself. A fresh start in life.”

Zuko released his face and stared at the ground, eyes foggy with defeat. He wrenched out of his uncle’s hold and laid back on the floor, curling his knees to his chest, balling his hands under his head. Iroh exhaled despondently, stroking his beard as he probed his mind for a solution to this predicament. 

While he observed Zuko’s pouty silhouette, a memory resurfaced in the back of his mind. A grassy hillside on Ember Island, young Lu Ten by his side, griping about some fight he’d had with another boy at school. Iroh scooping his son into his arms and tickling his belly until everything that was troubling him had washed away in a flood of happy laughter. 

Then another memory, this one after Lu Ten had left to fight in the war, with Iroh soon to follow him. It was his last day in the Fire Nation before shipping out to Ba Sing Se. As he was taking in the royal courtyard one last time, he spotted Zuko and Ursa sitting together by the turtle duck pond. Zuko was young, probably about eight or nine, and looked upset about something. Iroh considered going over to try to cheer him up, but Ursa had it under control. After talking gently to him for a few more moments, she dragged Zuko into her lap and pulled up his shirt, blowing a giant raspberry into his tummy before he could even register what was happening. His shrieky, hysterical laughter had warmed his heart, making him eager to be at his own son’s side again. 

How he longed to return to those days. How he longed for Zuko to experience that kind of happiness again. 

Iroh blinked and found himself back in the cave. Back with the berries and the darkness and his now older, grumpier nephew. The warmth in his heart shriveled away. How could that joyful little kid and the broken teenager in front of him be one and the same? He couldn’t recall the last time Zuko had laughed authentically. He couldn’t even remember what his laugh sounded like.

I wonder if that tactic still works on him. The thought was bittersweet, but also incredibly endearing. It wasn’t entirely out of the question, he realized. Maybe he’d never grown out of it. 

Iroh found himself smiling at the idea—half out of curiosity, and half out of mischief. It wasn’t like he had any other means of lifting his spirits at the moment. Why not give it a try?

“I’m afraid I do not have a way to fix your situation, Prince Zuko,” Iroh said, scooting closer to his side. “But I may be able to temporarily brighten your mood.”

Zuko huffed. “I don’t want any tea, Uncle.”

“Not tea,” Iroh chuckled. His nephew knew him too well. “Not right now, at least.”

He felt unsure suddenly, like he was about to breach some unspoken social contract. But the possibility of cheering up his downtrodden nephew was too tempting to dismiss. By now, he was desperate to get his old Zuko back. 

So Iroh reached out and gave Zuko’s side a few experimental squeezes. The response was immediate and frenzied. The teen jolted and yelped, jerking away from Iroh’s touch and whirling on him with bulging eyes.

“Hey! W-what are you doing?” Zuko stammered. A hint of pink bloomed in the apples of his cheeks.

Delight sparkled across his uncle’s expression. “Ah! So it does still work!” Grinning fiendishly, he curled his hands into claws and pounced on the young prince, making him gasp in surprise.

“Uncle! What’re you trying to—wha!” To his disbelief, Iroh wrapped his hands around his torso and started tickling his belly, pinching at his sides and kneading underneath his ribs. The sensation was so unexpected, a smile sprawled across Zuko’s face faster than he could stop it, followed by an enormous wall of laughter. It bubbled up his throat and poured from his lips, shrill and squeaky and uncontrollable, making his blush deepen.

“Ahahack! Whaha—s-stohahap! Iroh!” He grappled with his wrists and kicked his legs, but his uncle wasn’t messing around. He loomed over his nephew, using his superior weight to keep the lanky teen trapped underneath him—and helpless to defend himself against the surprise tickle attack. Although Iroh’s technique was diabolical, his expression was warm and cheerful as Zuko’s laughter filled the cave. 

“Aw! Look at you, Prince Zuko! I can’t remember the last time you were this happy!”

Zuko thrashed and squirmed, giggling hysterically, smiling from ear to ear. “Quihihit it!” he cackled, tugging on his arms. “Thihis isn’t—I’m nahat—ehahaha—h-hahappy!”

“Are you sure about that? You look pretty happy to me!” He switched to targeting his ribs, recalling them to be a particularly sensitive area on the young prince. His memory held true as Zuko threw his head back, pealing into loud, high-pitched belly laughs. 

“Ahahahuhuncle!” he squealed, wrestling uselessly against his hold. His adorable giggling coupled with the gigantic smile on his bright pink face formed a combo too cute for words. Watching him in that moment reminded Iroh just how young the banished prince truly was. It was easy to forget that the scarred, powerful fire bender he called his nephew was still only a kid. He wondered why he hadn’t tested this out on him sooner. 

“I never expected tickling to be so effective on you, Prince Zuko,” Iroh observed amusedly. “You better hope no one else finds out. Someone could use it against you!”

At that point, Zuko was beyond flustered. Embarrassment radiated off him in sizzling waves. He, Prince Zuko, royal heir of the Fire Nation and son of the Fire Lord, was collapsed on the ground in a giggly heap, being tickled to tears by his uncle like a helpless little child. Even worse, Uncle was teasing him about it! And there was nothing he could do to stop him. Zuko’s fire was fueled by constant rage and steady breathing, neither of which he could maintain in his current state of hysterical laughing. His brain didn’t seem capable of recalling any aspects of his many years of martial arts training while occupied by the feeling of Iroh’s fingers drilling into his rib cage. Plus, it wasn’t like he wanted to actually hurt his uncle. Just get him off so he could escape this unbelievably mortifying situation.

Zuko arched his spine, desperately trying to buck Uncle’s weight off so he could slip out from underneath him, but it was no use. To his horror, Iroh’s hands shot under Zuko’s arms and began wiggling against the hollows, making him yelp and sputter. His laughter jumped to an octave that surprised both of them. 

“GAHA—nohohahaha!” Zuko bellowed. He knocked Iroh’s hands aside and managed to roll onto his stomach, but Iroh caught him by the waist and dragged him into his lap, wrecking his tummy with tickles. Try as he might, Zuko couldn’t wriggle free or pry away the fingers endlessly needling his belly. 

“Where do you think you’re going?” Iroh asked playfully, his hands darting all over his midsection, ticking every inch of his sensitive torso. “I’m not done with you! You haven’t smiled this much in years! I haven’t gotten my fill yet!”

Iroh seized one of Zuko’s wrists and held it above his head, then used his free arm to pin him down and tickle the entirety of his now defenseless left side. His fingers scuttled along his rib cage and burrowed deep into his exposed armpit, sending shocks through Zuko’s entire nervous system and making him cackle. It was a cruel trick Uncle used to pull against him as a child that, unfortunately for him, proved just as effective today as it did then. The harder he fought to escape, the crueler Iroh’s tickle tactics became. 

“Ahahagh! Stahahahap!” Zuko laughed, his frenzied squirming only driving him further into Iroh’s lap. “Uhuncle! Pleehease! Hahahahahaaa!”

By now, poor Zuko was falling to giggly pieces. Hiccups began punctuating his happy laughter. He’d never been tickled this viciously for this long, and therefore had never realized the severity of his sensitivity until now. How was it that he could suffer through burns and battle wounds and fatigue with steely perseverance, but barely handle two minutes of tickling? He doubted he would ever live this day down. 

Who knew his uncle could be so silly and so merciless at the same time?

Iroh smiled at his nephew’s flustered pleas. If he was actually resorting to asking politely, he must’ve been desperate for the torture to end. “I’ll only stop if you promise to start taking care of yourself again,” Iroh said. He dug his thumb into Zuko’s hip bone, causing him to buck and flounder. “And don’t just say it—mean it, and act on it.”

“Ohokahay!” Zuko giggled, yanking at the hand spidering across his tummy. “Ihi prahamise!”

Iroh soaked in his nephew’s bright laughter and radiant smile for a few more precious seconds. Then, with evil glee, he pulled up his shirt and leaned over his stomach, blowing a gigantic raspberry directly into his bare belly. 

The sound that jumped from Zuko’s throat was less like a laugh and more like a shriek. He thrashed out of Iroh’s lap and rolled onto the ground, scrambling backwards until his back hit the wall, panting heavily.

Iroh chuckled at his nephew’s frantic response, clutching his large belly. “I’m happy to see Ursa’s secret weapon still works on you. Even at sixteen.”

Zuko hugged himself around the middle, blushing from head to toe, knees tucked against his chest, eyes wide. “W-what on earth was that for?” he stammered bewilderedly, voice shrill. “You can’t just—just do that to me!”

“Why not?” Iroh inquired.

“Because—” Zuko bristled. “Because I’m the prince! And I—I forbid it!”

“You forbid me from tickling you?” Iroh snorted. “All right. Good luck enforcing that.”

Zuko scowled at his feet. “I’m not a child anymore. You can’t treat me like one.”

“Then don’t act like one,” Iroh retorted, standing upright. “You’ve pouted in the dark long enough, Prince Zuko. Now it’s time to face your destiny and show the world the beautiful person you’ve become.”

When Zuko didn’t reply, Iroh gave his side a quick jab, making him recoil with a sharp giggle. 

“Hehey!” Zuko protested. 

“Besides, I’m a prince too, you know. And I say I get to tickle you whenever I please, especially when you’re needlessly beating yourself down. And since you believe you’re going to be a refugee for the rest of your life, not a prince, my word supersedes yours.”

Zuko burned inside and out. His skin still tingled all over, buzzing with phantom sensations of Iroh’s wiggly fingertips. He was too humiliated by the entire situation to figure out how to deal with it. 

Uncle could sense the teen’s bashfulness and grinned sympathetically. “Come now, Prince Zuko. There’s no need to be embarrassed. Your laughter is quite adorable.”

Heat rushed up his neck and into his ears. He grimaced shyly, avoiding his gaze.

“You’re telling me that your mood isn’t the slightest bit improved after all that smiling and laughing?”

“No,” Zuko growled. Never in a million years would he admit that being tickled by his dumb, goofy uncle cheered him up in any way. He’d never let himself or anyone else believe for one second that it felt kinda nice to laugh authentically for the first time in what seemed like decades. It definitely didn’t remind him of his mother’s warm, uplifting presence, or solidify the fact that Uncle Iroh loved him as his own and wanted to see him happy. It was a stupid, childish thing he never wanted to acknowledge ever again.

Iroh grinned wryly, stepping closer. “Really? Not even a little bit?”

He reached toward him suddenly, making Zuko flinch and giggle reflexively. His hands stopped a few inches back without making contact, his fingers simply wiggling in his nephew’s direction, but that was more than enough to set off Zuko’s nerves and make him squirm with anticipation. 

“Stohop it!” Zuko demanded, shrinking into himself and laughing sheepishly. 

“Stop what? I’m not even touching you!” Iroh couldn’t get enough of it—seeing his historically grouchy nephew so smiley and giggly. He would most definitely be exploiting Zuko’s ticklishness again in the future. At that moment, he spotted a vulnerability in Zuko’s defenses and made quick work of it, tasering his side with his index finger. Zuko yelped and flailed and flew to his feet. 

“Ehenough, Uncle!” he shouted, biting back another wave of giggles. He stomped toward the mouth of the cave, hands balled into fists. “I’m going to find us some real food—not some stupid berries that are probably poisonous.” 

Iroh smiled at the sight of his nephew on his feet again. The fire had finally returned to his eyes. The truth was obvious, even if neither of them ever said it out loud: Iroh’s mischievous plan had worked. 

“Wonderful!” Uncle exclaimed, fishing a kettle out of his bag. “I’ll make us some lovely ginseng tea to share once you are back.”

Zuko huffed and stalked into the forest, blush continuously burning in his cheeks. No matter how humiliating all this was, at least he knew if he was ever reduced to a hopeless wreck again, Iroh had a way to snap him out of it. At least he’d learned he wasn’t completely incapable of laughter and happiness, even after everything he’d gone through—a realization that had taken him thoroughly by surprise. Mom would’ve been happy to know Iroh was here, carrying on her playful legacy. 

[syntheticpoetry]

Kintsugi

Summary: Kurt and Blaine have a mature heart to heart involving Blaine's insecurities. 

Tested reaction fic where I just really gratuitously expanded on the dialogue and included the missing smut scene that very obviously must have occurred off camera.

AO3 Link || FFN Link

Author’s Note: So during our Tumblr Gleewatch group viewing I was left wanting so much more out of this scene and it kinda just spiralled from there.  There's some smut, but a lot of dialogue driven conversation following the canon dialogue where I felt like the conversation should have continued rather than end with their little heartfelt hug.  The way Blaine just shattered and started crying and Kurt just held him with a straight face.... yeah.  There was definitely more that happened there.  So here you go. See more notes on the end explaining the title.  Huge thanks to @blog-carmex​ for beta reading for me and offering her invaluable input :D 

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It has been three hours since class ended.  Three long hours since Blaine watched Kurt stride right past him without so much as another word after they changed out of their fencing gear.  After their sparring match they had retreated to opposite ends of the classroom, huffing in silence and shooting daggers at one another.  The mutual refusal to speak to each other had persisted all the way into the locker room where Kurt then proceeded to peel off his shirt in front of everyone.  Blaine had slipped into a bathroom stall to change, a mix of embarrassment and guilt beginning to wash over the anger as he shimmied out of the white pants plastered against his sweaty skin.  By the time he had emerged again Kurt had shouldered past him, tight lipped with eyes fixed in the distance, leaving Blaine to stand alone, his mouth hanging open and staring dumbly after him. 

“I just find it funny that we haven’t been intimate in like a week and maybe this is why.”

“No, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“I got up early and forgot to text you.”

“You know what, Blaine? Sometimes I think we talk too much.”

After class Blaine had retreated to Kurt’s apartment in the hopes of another attempt at conversation, but has been melding himself into the couch for the last two hours with nothing but the silence and Kurt’s words to bounce around his skull as he waits for him to return.  It feels like such a stupid fight.  All of their previous discussions about just going to one another to air out their grievances, to talk about when things are bothering them feel like a distant memory.  Blaine tried to talk to him.  He tried to take the steps that they had outlined.  But Kurt just shut him down.  Kurt didn’t want to talk, didn’t want to let Blaine try to explain himself.  Instead they were left to physically act out their aggressions in combat class of all places.  Okay, so maybe Blaine wasn’t being completely open about the extent of his insecurities, but Kurt’s instant decision for distance and his ability to become an ice prince once Blaine had actually tried to initiate a conversation reminded him why it has always been so difficult to speak his mind.  

Blaine is terrified.  Terrified of rejection, terrified of Kurt finally peeling away his loosely fastened mask of confidence and seeing him for what he truly is— a coward.  He had never felt brave until the day Kurt stared at him from across that table in Dalton like he was this wise old sage so full of advice and wisdom.  It had been so easy to slip into the disguise, to feign the persona of a boy who had suffered and prevailed.  Who was he kidding? Prevailed.  What a joke.  Blaine knows that whatever semblance of true bravery he ever possessed in the first place to compel him to bring a boy to a school dance in Ohio had been beaten away all those years ago in that parking lot.  He told Kurt that he ran from his bullies and regretted it, but the truth is he knows he is still running.  That he has never stopped.  

Not like Kurt.  Kurt, who had suffered in silence for months at the mercy of his own bullies and still emerged with his head held up high.  Kurt, who had experienced his own hate driven assault, and had learned to become stronger and stand his ground so much quicker than Blaine could even begin to wrap his head around.  Kurt, who is so much braver and resilient than Blaine can ever imagine himself being.  Kurt, who does not actually need Blaine to guard him and guide him the way that he once used to. 

And it terrifies Blaine to feel this insignificant again.  To become a shadow of doubt beneath a rising sun.  

The door to the apartment slides open and Kurt strolls in, phone pressed to his ear, instantly catching sight of Blaine on the couch.  Blaine hunches over, arms resting against his knees, and braces himself for the explosion.  All afternoon he has been waiting for Kurt to return, but now that he is actually here his instincts are screaming to just get up and run.  Keep running.  Don’t stop. 

“Yeah, he’s here.  Okay.  Okay, bye,” Kurt slings his bag onto a chair at the kitchen table and turns to Blaine.  “That was Rachel, she was just confirming us for her opening night.”

“What’d you tell her?” Blaine asks.  

“I said, ‘Yeah, if we don’t kill each other in combat class, count us in,’” Kurt replies, eyes trained carefully on Blaine.  Blaine does not want to return the focus though, choosing instead to tip a can of ginger ale into his mouth to douse the desert in his throat.  Little distractions for idle hands and a restless mind.

“What happened in there?” 

Here it comes— the avalanche.  There’s a sudden tightness in his chest as he avoids meeting Kurt’s eyes.  “You were really coming at me like— like… as if you had something to prove. What, I’m not sure.”

“That I’m as strong as you are,” Blaine says.  The words sound surprisingly more bitter and resentful than he had initially intended them to.  He remembers his place— don’t lose control — and tries to reign in some of the tension, just bottle it back up again.  

“Okay,” Kurt says and strides towards him.  Blaine takes note of the distance he keeps between them, the minuscule gap that feels like the Grand Canyon.  Is it intentional? “But it’s not a contest.”

“Isn’t it though?” Blaine responds with the same bitterness again.  “On some level? Cause for the first time in my life, I really feel like I’m losing.”  

He can feel the loss of the control, the steady spiral into the depths of despair and uncertainty that he has trapped himself in for months.  The knot in his stomach twists itself tighter, yet he cannot help himself.  Once the train derails, there really is not much else to do but let the collision run its course.  “I’ve felt that way ever since I got to New York.  I feel like,” Blaine sets the can down and waves his hand between them, “We’re in this race together and you are just so much farther than I am. Like, it just feels like the whole balance has shifted.”

“What balance?” Kurt’s eyes narrow.  He takes a seat in an armchair, keeps his distance. 

Now he really has gotten himself in too deep.  

“I guess it started when we first met,” Blaine shrinks back against the couch, avoiding Kurt’s piercing gaze.  “And you came to Dalton because you were trying to get away from Karofsky, and I wanted to help you through that.”

“And you did,” Kurt says quietly.

“And I loved the way that felt.  I loved it,” Blaine swallows and leans his head back against the couch, speaking to the ceiling.  “I loved being able to protect you, but now I look at your life and…”

And now it hurts.  Now it feels like I don’t fit into any part of it.  Now it feels like I have never been, nor will I ever be enough for you because you don’t need me anymore.  Nobody needs me the way that I need you.  Why is this so hard?

“It’s completely different,” Blaine finishes and finally settles his eyes onto Kurt.  “You’re a star at school, you have all these cool new friends, you started this band and I just,” Say it.  Stop hiding.  Say it.  Tell him. “I feel like you don’t need me anymore, to protect or anything.”

There is a glint in Kurt’s eyes that sends Blaine’s heart careening down into his stomach.  This has been a mistake.  Saying anything at all, letting his guard down— it has all been a mistake.  He springs up suddenly, anxious to disappear.  “I mean, you asked me to move out, for God’s sake,” He murmurs bitterly as he walks past Kurt.

“We made that decision together,” Kurt replies, tone heavy and unimpressed, as he spins around in the chair to face him.  “So is that what all this stuff is about that’s going on? I mean, you trying to get me to eat more?”

You are missing everything.  You are missing the entire point.  Do you even see me when we’re together? Can’t you tell?

“I don’t like the way I feel about myself anymore, Kurt! Okay?” Blaine’s raised voice takes them both by surprise.  Through the open window, the sound of sirens permeates the post-confession silence.  Blaine closes his eyes, already feeling the tears clinging to his lashes.  He knows opening his mouth again is going to be yet another mistake, but so far he has been a glutton for punishment and self pity tonight, so what more is there to lose? 

“And you have this amazing new body— do you know why we haven’t been intimate? It’s because I feel insecure around you.  I feel insecure around my own fiancé, and Fratboiphysicals.com isn’t gonna judge me!” 

Somehow this feels worse than keeping everything bottled up.  The terror of Kurt’s reaction leaves him feeling dizzy and sick as he finally opens his eyes to absorb the blow.  Somehow Kurt’s eyes exude a softness beneath the two smoldering flames.  A sort of fierce protectiveness that only leaves Blaine feeling more pathetic than he did in the first place. 

“Neither will I.  Ever ,” Kurt responds and stands up to approach him.  “But I am not going to apologize for not being some delicate flower that needs his boyfriend to protect him.”

“Kurt, I—”

“And you know what? Maybe you’re right.  Maybe it is a contest.  Maybe that’s the way it has to be with two guys.  But I would much rather be running this race with you than against you.”

Blaine knows what it is to be lectured.  Understands all too well that familiar feeling of being put in his place, his actions chalked up to overdramatics and oversensitivity.  Looking up at Kurt towering over him, he feels even smaller now.  Whatever certainty he possessed, whatever feigned strength he must have siphoned off of Kurt when he entered the apartment to stagger his way through his confession has evaporated completely, leaving behind a hollow shell.  His words come out apologetic and frightened, tiny and remorseful. 

“Me too, I just—”

“As equals ,” Kurt says sternly.

Equals.  Something about the word flips a hidden switch.  Equals.  He has never felt a kinship with that word before, never understood what it felt like to stand beside someone and hold each other up, sharing the weight.  He has always struggled to be the pillar for someone else, to mask the cracks in his own foundation.  Something about the way Kurt says it makes him feel ashamed.

“I know, I know,” He presses both palms over his eyes, keeps pressing until spots of crimson and white appear scattered across the darkness behind his eyelids like bursts of fireworks.  “I-I know.  I know that , I’m so sorry.  I’m just…”

I am not worth this.  I am not worth your time.

“I’m just so scared that you’re gonna...” 

His throat constricts because he can already envision it.  He drops his hands, shaking his head, and focuses on the door just past Kurt, pictures him walking right through it like it is the easiest decision he has ever had to make.  Kurt holds all of the power in this relationship, and Blaine knows that.  Knows that whatever semblance of equality Kurt is preaching about right now is only a mirage.  Blaine ruined their perfect balance the night he let his demons take control of his emotions and lead him to that weak moment of infidelity.  One more wrong move and they are bound to break again.  But Kurt does not walk away, he stands before him and continues to wait patiently.  

“I’m just so scared that you’re gonna keep changing, and you’re gonna keep getting stronger, then one day you’re gonna wake up and realize, ‘I don’t love him anymore.’” Blaine shrugs his shoulders, tears glistening, and smiles in resignation to the paranoid confession as fact.  Even children discard their favourite toys once they are broken beyond repair.  So why would this be any different?

“Never,” Kurt replies, his gaze unwavering on Blaine.  The quiet intensity of his determination makes Blaine’s stomach lurch again, anxiety twisting tighter and tighter.  “I’m always gonna love you.  And I don’t want you to be insecure or ashamed around me.”

It’s only when Blaine exhales that he realizes he had been holding his breath, clinging to the tension in every centimeter of his muscles.  

“Next time you’re going through something like this you— you have to be honest with me.”

Blaine can feel himself nodding without any actual control, like it is a trained reflex in place to diffuse the rest of the uneasiness and settle the confrontation.  Anything to make this stop.  His lips go numb, eyes still fixed on the door as the next word comes out on autopilot, drained and defeated, “Okay.” 

Kurt’s arms around him spark the calamity laying dormant though, pull him away from the resignation and suddenly he is grasping at every inch of Kurt that he possibly can, sinking into the embrace as though clinging tightly enough will fill the gaping hole in his chest.  The ebbing shame becomes a tidal wave, crashes over and over again and threatens to drag him beneath the riptide as Kurt’s thumb brushes over his shoulder blade.  He feels so undeserving of such kindness and patience.

“Blaine, I think maybe we should have a conversation about where all of this comes from,” Kurt presses his lips to the thick layer of gelled hair atop Blaine’s head.  “Don’t you think?”

“What more is there to say? Can’t we just cuddle on the couch for the rest of the night?” Blaine mumbles against his neck.

“Don’t deflect, I think this is the most honest you’ve ever been with me about yourself and I want you to keep talking to me,” Kurt pulls away, hands on Blaine’s arms to push him back enough to look at him.  “I want you to feel like you can talk to me because you know I’m not gonna judge you.  I love every piece of you, no come on, don’t look away,” Kurt’s hand is immediately beneath Blaine’s chin, tilting his head back to center.  There has always been a sadness buried beneath the constant glimmer in Blaine’s eyes, usually well hidden and mostly undetectable.  In these rare moments of vulnerability, that sadness is always directly on display. “I love everything about you, even the pieces you try to hide away from me, especially those.”

“Kurt,” Blaine whispers urgently, his face contorting as he struggles against the grief, and tries to keep the controlled tears from transforming into full on ugly crying.  But Kurt does not let him go.  Kurt does not let him look or run away.  

“How many times have you seen me cry? There’s no shame in letting go sometimes, Blaine.”

“I don’t want to do this,” Blaine breathes out.  He tries to take a step back, but Kurt does not drop his arms.  They remain firmly wrapped around him, rooting him to the spot.  “I don’t want—”

“I’ve got you, and I am not letting you go,” Kurt says.  “You remember what you told me the first time we met?”

“I said a lot of things,” Blaine closes his eyes and feels the warm streaking of tears down his cheeks.  He has cried in front of Kurt before, but he’s never cried in front of him.  The breakdowns have been reserved for solitude, behind locked doors, hidden away from the world.  

“You told me that you ran away when things got tough, and that you regretted it ever since.  Don’t run from me too, Blaine— stay.”

The perfect catalyst.

“I’m sorry,” Blaine chokes out.  “I’m sor—sorry, I’m sorry,” He continues murmuring, the words becoming an incoherent jumble of consonants decorating the layer of heaving sobs and gasps for air in between.  With eyes shut tight, he nestles his face back into Kurt’s neck, body trembling against his steady arms, and continues mumbling the only two words his brain seems capable of conjuring. 

“Blaine, honey,” Kurt strokes his back and presses kisses to the top of his head.  “Blaine, why are you apologizing?”

“I don’t know,” Blaine shakes his head, forehead against Kurt’s shoulder.  “I don’t know.” 

Now that it’s begun, it feels like it will never end.  Control feels like a foreign language as he continues to shake and cling to any part of Kurt he can get his hands on.  

“Come on, come here,” Kurt commands soothingly, leading them over to the couch.  He drops down, pulling Blaine onto his lap.  Blaine snakes his arms around Kurt’s neck, burying his face into his own arm.  “I’ve got you, it’s okay, I’ve got you.”

The reassuring words seem to be having the complete opposite effect on Blaine and only draw out more tears.  Crying feels like an effort rather than a cathartic release.  The mask has finally been ripped away, leaving him feeling exposed, dissected.  He feels weak.  Ashamed and self-conscious.  How could he lose control like this? What’s worse, how can he be so incapable of reigning it back in?

“Sweetheart, talk to me,” Kurt won’t stop pressing kisses to any area of skin he can reach.  His lips are warm and wet against Blaine’s temple.  Something tangible he can tether himself to.  “Please?”

How do you condense years of pent up doubts and microaggressions of self-sabotage into a logical explanation?  Where do you even begin? 

“You know,” Kurt runs his fingers over the protective layer of gel, wriggling them in between to break up some of the strands.  Blaine bites down on the inside corners of his bottom lip and allows Kurt to continue burrowing his fingers past the barrier.  He had caked on so much of it after class it is a wonder Kurt is even able to break up any of it at all.  Yet his dexterous fingers reach beneath and he massages Blaine’s scalp.  It’s another calming, tangible gesture Blaine can tether himself to. “I have that keyboard in my bedroom.  I can get that if you would rather sing something first right now.  Usually helps you open up.”

The more Kurt’s fingers tangle and twist his hair, the calmer he feels.  Once the tears have ceased enough he trusts himself to speak.  “Okay,” Blaine has to mouth the word first before clearing his throat and rasping it out.  He shuffles off of Kurt’s lap and spends the literal seconds of his absence wrenching his fingers together, both legs bouncing hurriedly against the wood floor.  Kurt returns, keyboard secured underneath his arm, and sets it up on the coffee table in front of the couch before taking a seat beside Blaine.  Before turning it on Blaine runs his fingers over the plastic keys.  Will it ever get any easier to channel his emotions without a crutch? Kurt simply sits and watches, palm draped over the small of his back.  Blaine exhales, the breath shuddering with the weight of all he tries to expel to lend his voice the strength to begin.  He slides the switch up to turn it on and positions his fingers on the keys, gently tapping out a somber melody. 

“ When you come home I feel the earth start to change, I am alive, I am alive, I am in love with this place. I love it most how you whisper my name And so I catch it in a bottle for my lonelier days.”

He never has to think when it comes to music.  His fingers always seem to know just what notes to play.  And the words always come easier when they are borrowed from someone else.  He shifts closer to the keyboard, hands steady and certain as he continues with the melody.  Kurt understands him so well, knows just the right things to say and do to coax him through the storms. 

“The moment slows inside the palm of your hand, Oh I could stay like this forever or as long as we can. And in the morning I pour a warm cup of tea And hope you'll stay a little longer, stay a lifetime with me.”

He straightens his back, puts more vigor into the tempo as he pushes past the fear and lets his voice crescendo into the next verse.  The one that means the most.  The one he wishes he could say without having to hide behind the safety blanket of song.  Maybe someday he can learn.  But for now it is easier to parrot the words that bare a glimpse into his heart. 

“Cause when you go, like summer gives to the rain, I am uncertain, but I'm certain I am losing my way. When you let go, I don't see straight anymore— I am unwinding, I am broken, I am losing my core.”

His voice breaks on the last line, raspy and watery with the weight of tears once again.  He closes his eyes, languidly drags his fingers over the keys, lulling back the gentle melody as Kurt slides his hand up to his mid-back.  He continues with the interlude, repeats it, drawing out the time to build up the courage to continue again.  Kurt shifts closer beside him, wraps an arm around him and rests his chin on his shoulder.  Tangible.  Comforting.  Reassuring.  

“There is a door that opens at the sight of your face, I feel it all, I feel the warmth of every long summer day. And like an angel, you circle back with a kiss, You are the one I'm dreaming of, you are the one, you are the one. You lift me up with every step that I take, You are the reason, you're the answer when I'm drifting away. And through it all, when I start making a mess, You are forgiving, everlasting. You're my everything.”

The warmth of Kurt’s breath raises the hairs on the back of his neck.  When Kurt’s lips press into the crook where his neck meets his shoulder the notes start to get sloppy, crescendoing and decrescendoing when a wave of goosebumps runs its course throughout his entire body.  He abandons the keys, voice so low that some of the sound cuts out as he half-whispers a fragmented collection of the remaining lyrics.

“You are the one who holds my heart. When you come home I feel the earth start to change, I am alive, I am alive— there is a reason to stay.”

They sit in the stillness for a while, Kurt’s arms fastened loosely around Blaine’s waist, with only the distant muffled sounds of the city coming to life in the early hours of a Friday night to keep them company.  Unlike the bustling renegades of New York City, there is no sense of urgency or obligation between them tonight.  Blaine sinks back against Kurt’s chest, sluggish and exhausted, but he knows the night is nowhere near its finale.  The song was merely an introduction, a segue into the next section of the grand orchestral piece.  

“I remember telling you once that I’m not good at romance,” Blaine breaks the silence.  “That I have no idea what I’m doing when it comes to this.”

“Probably the biggest lie you’ve ever told,” Kurt responds affably.  Blaine can hear the tentativeness as he tries to keep the conversation light and playful and knows he is trying to work out just where he is headed with this train of thought.  

“Is it though?” 

“Blaine, you are probably the most romantic person I know.  I used to think I was the hopeless romantic in this relationship, but you definitely have me beat.” 

“I hate that phrase,” Blaine says indignantly, trying to shrink back against him more, but there is nowhere else to go.  Kurt deciphers his body language and embraces him tighter. “Hopeless romantic— why does it have to be a hopeless romantic?” 

“It’s just a phrase.  Of course you aren’t hopeless,” Kurt begins pressing kisses to wherever he can reach again.  Blaine closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the couch cushion.  Maybe Kurt was right.  Maybe a week without intimacy really was far too long.  The soft desperate whine that falls from his lips as Kurt continues to litter his neck with delicate kisses definitely suggests as much. 

“Kurt, can we—”

“Soon,” Kurt says.  “We aren’t done talking yet.”  He sucks the skin at the base of Blaine’s neck between his teeth and gnaws gently and Blaine can feel the slight upturn of his lips against his skin as he lets a sharp, breathless exhale slip out. 

“Well, I don’t know how well I’ll be able to concentrate if you keep—” Kurt moves his head away, only centimeters but he may as well have relocated himself across the room.  Blaine scoots closer, practically sitting on his lap again now and whines, “No, no, no! Come back!”

“How about we play a game?” Kurt replaces his lips on Blaine’s neck and runs his tongue over the reddened bite mark. 

“What kind of game?” Blaine rasps out, shivering as a new wave of goosebumps breaks out. 

“A game of trust and honesty,” Kurt raises his head to whisper against Blaine’s ear.  Blaine turns ever so slightly to face him, their noses touching, vision blurred and unfocused at such a close distance.  

“Sounds like truth or truth instead of truth or dare.  What are the rules?” He asks apprehensively.

“I’ll ask a question, you give me an honest answer.  You don’t have to answer if you don’t want to, but if you do you can tell me what to do next,” Kurt replies.  At Blaine’s continued exhibition of hesitation he adds, “We can even take turns, if it makes you more comfortable.  You can ask me anything you want.” 

Blaine tilts forward, resting his forehead against Kurt’s and hesitates before he nods a fraction of an inch.  “Okay.  Who goes first?” 

“I’ll ask first,” He leans back and Blaine falters in the absence of his support before adjusting, back straight against the couch cushion.  Kurt twists sideways, shoulder against the couch back and places one hand over Blaine’s.  “Why did you pick that song?” 

Blaine furrows his brows, tilts his head slightly, caught off guard.  The song choice seemed self-explanatory.  “Because it makes me think of you.” 

Kurt doesn’t ask, he says, “Elaborate.”

Blaine squirms, doesn’t understand.  Didn’t he listen to the lyrics? What more is there to say? Kurt merely smiles back at him, interlocks their fingers, and waits. 

“Well, I guess because that’s how I feel with you.  You make me feel safe.  You remind me what it is to truly be alive and without you I feel,” He stops, throat suddenly tight.  

Lost.  I feel so lost without you sometimes.

“Feel what, honey?” Kurt prompts softly. 

“Lost.” The word sounds small and fragile when he says it and yet it feels so heavy now that it is out in the open.  But Kurt shows no indication of surprise at the confession.  On the contrary, he seems pleased, as though this is exactly what he was hoping to hear. 

“Why?” He rubs his thumb into the back of Blaine’s hand.

“Because,” Blaine starts and stops again.  Talking used to feel so effortless between them before he had created this rift.  Ever since their breakup every word has come carefully selected with the fear that it will be the absolute wrong thing to say.  Just because Kurt has agreed to marry him, that does not mean he cannot still change his mind. And what if he does? Blaine cannot even bear to think about that.  “Because you make me feel like I am really worth something when I can’t remember why.  You gave me— us, you gave us another chance and I am so afraid of fucking it up all over again because you are the best thing to ever happen to me and I can’t… lose you again.  I can’t go back to being alone and just pretending to be brave because everyone expects it of me.” 

He feels winded by the end of it.  One question in and already the endeavour feels draining.  Kurt’s expression is unreadable when Blaine summons the courage to look him in the eyes.  Is that… fear? He lifts one leg, drapes it over Blaine’s lap and leans forward to kiss him.  Blaine kisses back hungrily, desperately.  

“Tell me what you want and then it’s your turn to ask,” Kurt whispers against his lips.  Blaine swallows, already half-hard from the simple act of kissing.  With the weight of an entire day of silent brooding being lifted, his body cannot help but remind him just how desperately he needs to be touched.  Needs to be needed.  How many questions will they have to get through first though? 

“Bite my neck again, harder this time though,” He requests.  And Kurt obliges.  He allows himself to be swept in it for the moment, palm riding over Kurt’s thigh as he feels the gentle brush of teeth and tongue over his skin before he sucks and bites and fuck that feels good.  Too soon though, he stops and Blaine wants to whine and protest but remembers what he is waiting for.  Right.  A question. Something he is afraid to ask, but wants to anyways.  That look in his eyes… Okay.  Truth time.  He can do this.  

“Does that scare you? What I just said.”

“A little bit,” Kurt does not even hesitate, which does nothing to quell Blaine’s nerves.  It feels like a slap in the face, affirming all of his fears to be true after all.  A strange swooping sensation in the pit of his stomach leaves him looking crestfallen, but Kurt slides a hand up to caress his cheek and continues.  “I think you use me to define yourself and measure your worth a lot of the time, and that’s the part that scares me sometimes.  I don’t want you to need me to tell you that you are enough, I want you to feel it because you know it.  And I have a funny feeling that this is something you’ve been doing long before we ever met.” 

Kurt holds his face there, eyes soft and intense.  Blaine’s lip quivers, eyes darting wildly as he searches Kurt’s face.  Searches for what? He is not wrong.  Deep down, he knows he is absolutely right.  For as long as he can remember he has tethered himself to the attention of others, weighing his worth in compliments and just being noticed at all.  Kurt had just been the first one to take it a step further, to love him in all the ways a human being could be loved, to make him feel seen and needed and wanted .  He does not know how to verbalise this though, so instead he asks, “What do you want me to do?” 

“Take off your sweater and your shirt.” 

“Shouldn’t we move to—”

“Rachel has rehearsal all night, she won’t be back for a while.”

Blaine’s eyes automatically dart to the door but he nods stiffly and works the sweater over his head.  He moves his hands to the base of his shirt, pauses and swallows.  Yes, Kurt does not want him to feel insecure around him.  But one conversation is not going to fix that.  With the way they’re sitting on the couch, with the lights completely on— Blaine is completely aware of how he will look once that shirt comes off.  Kurt presses a kiss to his cheek and slides his hands over Blaine’s, murmuring, “This too, my beautiful boy.”  Pink in the face, Blaine licks his lips and allows Kurt to help him lift the shirt over his head.  He tries to sit up straighter, keeping his eyes on Kurt to distract from the way his stomach protrudes and hangs over the edge of his pants.  

“Your turn,” Blaine says, throat taut, so the words come strained and thick. 

Kurt languidly drags his fingertips over his bare chest, just drinking him in for a moment.  He rests his palm over Blaine’s heart before he asks, soft and loving and gentle as he possibly can, “Why do you think I would just get up and leave you? Where does that come from?”

It’s immediately evident why Kurt has positioned his hand over his chest when Blaine instinctively tries to sit forward, ready to stand and pace and will himself to vanish because, remind him again— why do they have to be doing this right now? Why can they not just be naked and sweaty and rutting against each other, drowning out the need for words and difficult conversations between desperate kisses and breathless moans in the dark? 

You were right, we talk too much. 

Kurt’s hand moves deftly over his chest, warm and reassuring, and his voice comes as eloquently and unwavering as it has all night, “Remember, you can skip, but I hope that you don’t.” 

How is he supposed to just shut him down after that now? It is a request, not an obligation, but Blaine wants to please him, wants to make him proud.  Because what does their relationship even mean if he is too afraid to speak to his own husband-to-be about the horrible things he has only whispered within his own head for years and years and years? 

We’re getting married.  He wants to marry you.  The hard part is over.  He said yes.  Just let him in.

“Because,” He inhales sharply, exhales it into a long trembling breath and holds his hand over Kurt’s, pressing harder against his chest.  Kurt nudges himself closer, wraps his other arm around his shoulders and draws him in.  “Because everyone else does, so it feels like it’s only a matter of time before you do too.” 

“This has to do with your family, doesn’t it?” 

And of course Kurt knows already.  Of course he has just been waiting for Blaine, stupid Blaine, to come forward and finally say it.  How can he possibly have been this clueless? Despite the recent miscommunications and misunderstandings, the missteps in their natural abilities to decipher each other’s body language with nothing more than a glance of understanding, how could he ever think that Kurt would not know how to trace the root of all of it with such precision that he may as well just write the instruction manual on how to operate Blaine Devon Anderson? 

“How stereotypical, right?” Blaine asks, partly because he does not know how else to respond, but mostly because he is soberly aware of the fact that he is sitting here, shirtless and defenseless, ready to cry for what feels like the thousandth time in the past week and just wants to maintain the shattered art of deflection.  Sardonic and dizzy and bitter and angry with himself for bottling it up for so long when it was always in plain sight to begin with, he can’t help but think—  So much time wasted.  And for what?  

“Stop that,” Kurt says quietly, tone so serious it feels like a kick straight to the ribs.  Kurt was usually the one to crack a joke, humour cynical and so biting that he could take the edge off of anything.  But then again, that was usually reserved for his own tragedies.  Today has not been about laughing away the pain and self-deprecation, he has tried to make it something more.  “Don’t make it less than it is.  It’s something that matters to you, don’t make it a joke.” 

“Sorry,” Blaine says, a pre-programmed response that makes Kurt’s brows furrow in what can only be perceived as disapproval.  He simply shakes his head though, runs both hands over Blaine’s bare chest and varies his gaze, eyes darting back and forth between Blaine’s lips and eyes. 

“You barely talk about them.  I don’t know if you even still talk to them.” 

Blaine moves to fold his arms over his chest, another defensive play that Kurt refuses to yield to.  He moves his leg off of Blaine, drops it to the floor and then he’s tugging and coaxing and murmuring affections until Blaine is situated on his lap, their torsos pressed firm.  The material from his sweater is scratchy and rough against Blaine’s bare skin and he thinks, desperately, Please just take that off and fuck me until I forget. 

“Do you?” Kurt asks delicately. 

Blaine swallows and the words come out thick as molasses, “Coop, sometimes, if I call him.  My parents,” He licks his lips, shimmies down against Kurt’s lap so he can hide his face into the crook of his neck.  With arms firmly around his waist, he presses fingertips into his back, that damn scratchy sweater, he just wants to rip it off of him and beg and beg and beg— make me forget, just make me forget. “My mom texted me when I first moved to New York to ask if I made it, I haven’t heard from her since.” 

“And your dad?” Kurt probes cautiously.  

A pause.  Blaine spends the next few seconds just breathing against his neck and presses his fingertips down harder.  “Fuck my dad,” He finally says, quiet and fragile.  It is a wonder the words don’t crack and slice his throat right open on the way up.  

He feels Kurt’s arms, so strong and protective, close tighter around him and maybe it is the silence that follows— because when does Kurt Hummel ever become speechless?— or the way Kurt keeps pulling and squeezing, trying to weld them together as one or the sudden influx of scattered kisses he presses to his forehead, but something in him shatters .  His entire body shudders with the riptide of the sob that courses through him, but Kurt just holds him steady, rocks and whispers his little mantra, “I’ve got you, I love you, I’ve got you.” 

“Hate him, I hate him— He’s just— And I’ve never been able to— He hates me, he's always—”

Blaine hiccups and babbles and gasps and cries, unable to pluck one coherent thought from the rush of water now that the dam has finally broken wide open.  Kurt presses his lips to his forehead, whispers affections and instructions against his skin, and strokes his hair, his arms, his back— every possible inch of him that exists, Kurt is sliding his hands over, fingertips grazing and pulsing.  Drained and dazed from the weight of everything the insane idea enters Blaine’s head— if you’re looking for the ‘off switch’ I have no idea where it is either.

One shuddering breath collides into the next with no space in between until Kurt is lifting his head, cupping his face between both hands.  He tries to twist away, but Kurt’s thumbs stroke his cheeks, hold him steady and Blaine is just so tired he has no strength to fight him.

Please don’t look at me, I can’t stand it. 

“Sweetheart, you’re hyperventilating.  You’re gonna pass out if you keep going like this.  Just let me help,” Kurt’s thumbs brush over his cheek bones, already red-raw and stinging.  Blaine burrows his fingers deep into his back again and barely notices the feel of the sweater he has been scornfully regarding as he nods a few times between Kurt’s hands. 

“O-o-o-k-kay,” He sputters, gasps and cries some more, wishing, again, to just simply disappear. 

“Purse your lips together, I’m gonna count while you breathe,” Kurt kisses his forehead.  He closes his eyes, tries to focus on the feel of soft, wet lips against his skin and nods again.  He makes it to three on the trembling exhale before breathing in, sharp and quick.  Thumbs against skin, lips against forehead, they reset.  Kurt continues kissing his way across his face between murmured instructions, lips planting invisible X-marks-the-spots all over the raw geography of familiar terrain like it still needs to be thoroughly explored and mapped out.  Blaine has been so focused on following his voice, desperate to latch onto each whispered command, he does not realise his breathing has slowed until their lips are finally touching.  He lets Kurt take control, allows himself to be cared for and coddled and carefully handled like he is actually a broken sheet of glass filled with cracks, bound to shatter at the slightest hint of pressure. 

Lips still pressed together, he whispers into Kurt’s mouth, “I feel like such a mess.”

“My beautiful boy,” Kurt breathes back and it is a conscious effort on his part not to just start crying again because fuck , he feels anything but beautiful right now.  “We can stop for now, if you want.  I know that was a lot.” 

“No, I want to tell you.  I–I know that I just… shut down sometimes, but I want you to know.  It’s just,” Blaine leans backwards enough to look him in the eyes.  “It’s hard for me to talk about these things.” 

“I know,” Kurt’s thumb brushes his cheek again and Blaine leans into the touch.  “Take your time.” 

“I feel like I don’t even know him, you know?” 

Kurt just watches him, one hand still caressing his face and the other rubbing gentle circles into his back.  Kurt doesn’t know.  Kurt will never know.  Blaine releases a shaky exhale before continuing. 

“He was never home, always working.  And when he was home it’s like we were living on two different planes of existence, I felt invisible around him.  He hasn’t been able to see me for a very long time.  And my mom has just been so checked out— honestly, she’s been a mess for as long as I can remember.  It was just— It wasn’t a happy home, Kurt.  Cooper got out the second that he could, and I can’t really blame him for it.  Even though we didn’t always get along and he was constantly trying to show me up, it was really lonely without him.  I didn’t have a lot of friends at school, there was no Glee club— no safe space for anyone who was gay.  It was just me and one other kid who were publicly out.”

“The one you went to the dance with?” Kurt asks quietly.

“Yeah,” Blaine nuzzles his neck and breathes in deep.  “Afterwards he told his parents going to the dance together was my idea, and it was, and that was it.  They didn’t want us being friends anymore, they blamed me for what happened and he just… walked away.  Well, I think they moved, but he just stopped talking to me.”

“I’m sorry.  That must have been— I’m sorry,” Kurt kisses the top of his head. 

“My parents shipped me off to Dalton after that.  I didn’t even want to go at first, if you can believe that.”

“Really?”

“Really.  A boarding school with a dress code and a bunch of snobby rich kids? I was dreading it.  But it became home.  They didn’t care that I was gay, they accepted me right away.  Then joining the Warblers? There were so many times I was convinced I was just in a coma and dreaming the entire thing up.  We were treated like rockstars, it was the first time I felt good about myself in a long time.”

“Now I feel bad for making all those snarky remarks about everyone just being back-up singers to you,” Kurt says, earning a quiet laugh from Blaine. 

“Well, you weren’t wrong.  You were right to call it out.  The whole reason I fell in love with being a Warbler was because everyone had an equal say, I just got so swept up in finally being noticed that I lost sight of the fact that there were probably some other guys that wanted to be noticed too.  You kept my ego from overinflating.”

“You seemed like the most confident person in the world to me when we first met,” Kurt says.  “I never would have guessed you struggled with any self-esteem issues.”

Blaine shrugs nonchalantly and presses a kiss to his neck.  “You didn’t know because I didn’t want anyone to know.  We didn’t… talk about feelings at my house.  You started bringing that out in me, making me believe I didn’t always have to hide and pretend.  But I lose sight of that sometimes, I guess.  It’s easier to just shut down and bottle it up, but you’re right… I have to be able to come to you, we have to be able to come to each other.  I’m— I’ll be better, I promise I will.”

“Thank you for sharing all of that with me.  I’ve been able to guess at some of it for a while now, but hearing you finally say it— I’m proud of you.  I always want you to feel safe with me, so I hope that you do talk to me more about things like this that are bothering you.”

Blaine nods against his shoulder, eyes stinging and blurring.  He does not know why he expected anything other than absolute understanding and compassion from him, why it was so difficult to force the words out in the first place.  

“Do you want to keep talking?” 

Make me forget.  Love me and don’t let me go and just make me forget everything else. 

“I think I need a break from talking.  I just need you, I—”

And then Kurt is kissing him and Blaine is kissing back like it is the first time all over again.  He catches Kurt’s lips with his teeth, sloppy and hungry and desperate to be as close to him as possible because the great gaping canyon in his chest demands to be filled.  Please! Please! Please! His heart thumps away the greedy melody and when Kurt pulls away, widening that endless cavern, he actually whines .  But Kurt is tugging at the sleeves of his sweater— normally a crime , you always pull from the collar, he constantly tells Blaine— and Blaine’s hands hurry forward to help him strip it away.  

Blaine has watched him while he works out, has witnessed firsthand the care and consistency and the effort behind those hardened muscles in his arms and chest and oh god those abs .  He is like a living statue and Blaine is the only one privy to the private viewing of his full display of perfection.  How could he let his stupid insecurities keep him from this? 

“You’re staring.”

Without even looking Blaine can tell he’s smirking.  “Can you blame me?” 

He looks up to see another playful smirk, and that Kurt is staring right back at him, lower lip ever so slightly tucked in beneath his teeth.  Fuck .

“So,” Kurt says, voice low and husky.  “You still have to tell me what you want me to do next.”

Make me forget.  Make me forget. 

“Take control,” Blaine says softly.  When Kurt’s hand travels up his thigh to fiddle with the button of his pants, he rasps out, “I’m all yours, take control.”

The caress of lips against his jaw, the ice cool touch of smooth fingers dipping below his waist band, teasing and exploring— Blaine closes his eyes and surrenders himself to sensation.  Who needs pretty words when he has the tender touch of a lover’s fingertips to ignite bursts of starlight beneath his skin? Kurt’s hands find his and the gentle pull against them forces his eyes open where he finds Kurt ushering him off of his lap.  He shifts off and allows himself to be lifted as Kurt stands, eyes alight with curiosity and wonder until Kurt’s mouth is on his again and he is lost, lost, lost once more.  

Kissing Kurt is everything.  Early November and his lips are slightly chapped, leaving only the faintest hint of his current favourite chapstick.  It reminds Blaine of their nights nestled up by the fireplace in Dalton, coffees from the school cafeteria in hand and stealing vanilla and mocha flavoured kisses in between every break in conversation.  He forgets that they are standing in the middle of Kurt’s living room, forgets that they are drifting through borrowed space as Rachel or even Santana, devious in her ways of sneaking around, could waltz in at any minute despite Kurt’s insistence that they won’t.  As Kurt hooks his thumbs into belt loops and draws him closer, both of their bodies desperate for the heat and friction, he forgets about his insecurities and doubts.  There is only the handsome man before him and nothing else in the world matters. 

Lips locked, Kurt navigates them towards his bedroom.  Neither of them wants to disentangle from each other long enough to lead, Blaine just has to trust him not to let him trip.  His knees hit the edge of the bed and buckle, but Kurt grips his hips, digs his fingernails in and grinds their bodies together until they’re both moaning into the kiss.  His pants feel unmanageably tight at this point now. 

“Kurt—” 

“Working on it,” Kurt kisses his way down to his neck, teeth gnawing sweetly until first the button, then the zipper and Blaine’s suddenly being pushed backwards onto the bed.  He hastily props himself up on his elbows, panting softly, eyes lust blown and following Kurt’s every move.  He’s kneeling down in front of the bed, yanking Blaine’s pants off from around his ankles now and every second feels like it is being stretched too long.  Finally free though, his cock bounces against his stomach, throbbing and aching by the time Kurt settles between his legs.  Blaine’s eyes dart to the bedside table, hand just starting to reach out when Kurt bends over and curls his fingers around his cock, flicking his tongue over the head before sucking hard.  He pulls his mouth off with a faint pop! and brushes his thumb over the underside of the head.

“F-Fuck,” Blaine trembles, arm outstretched, its purpose completely forgotten.  “You’re right, a week was too long.”

“Glad we’re on the same page,” Kurt says and takes him completely into his mouth, palm cupping his balls.

“Jesus— Fuck!” Blaine instantly bucks his hips and fills the spaces between his fingers with Kurt’s hair, breathless as he quickly adds, “Sorry, are you—”

Kurt hums his response and hollows his cheeks, breathes in through his nose and takes him further down.  They have just barely gotten started and already Blaine feels himself coming undone.  He struggles to keep his hips steady, but Kurt is moving torturously slow through all of this until he just stops moving his head altogether, mouth very much still full of Blaine’s cock and he could honestly scream because how dare he just stop like that—

Oh. 

Blaine knows what he wants. 

“Please,” The word comes hungry, breathless and on the verge of a whine.  “Please, I need you, please—”

And Kurt’s head moves backwards, sucking as he goes until he reaches the tip of Blaine’s cock, where he flicks his tongue over it playfully.  Blaine balls up the sheets of the mattress in his other fist and tugs on that instead of Kurt’s hair, the quiet desperate moans falling out of him like whispered secrets in the night.  Kurt pulls his mouth off of him again, turns his head and kisses the inside of his thigh, before biting down and sucking.  Blaine hisses in a breath, knuckles turning white, and lets Kurt mark him.

Yours, I’m yours, and no one else’s.

There is a moment when Kurt pulls away to rummage through the nightstand when Blaine cannot help but to stare again.  How far they have come from the shy teenager who could not even look him directly in the eyes when discussing pornography.  He remembers so vividly the day Kurt lamented he would never see himself as sexy , the word whispered with such discomfort like it was dirty and inconceivable.  It was the day they were practicing in the mirror, Kurt had been trying so hard to get the look right but ultimately kept shying away, embarrassed and self-conscious with the effort, saying Blaine just made it look so easy.  Neither of them had a clue what they were doing, but disguises had always come easy for Blaine.  Now, Kurt looks up at him, dark-eyed, mouth slightly parted before that devilish smirk takes over again, and Blaine is weak and breathless beneath his gaze.  How the times do certainly change.  

Kurt’s fingers are already coated in lube when he starts kissing Blaine’s thigh again and circles one finger around the tight ring of muscles.  Blaine wants to rush ahead, squirms his hips down and Kurt tuts disapprovingly, leaving him to lie still once again and wait patiently at his mercy.  He really can be such a goddamn tease sometimes.  But he does not make him wait long before sliding one finger in, stroking and twisting, until Blaine pants, “More, please, more.”

He takes his time, adds another finger and scissors and stretches him as Blaine squirms and begs beneath his touch.  Only two fingers in and Blaine is beginning to completely unravel, hips involuntarily jerking up as Kurt strokes and twists and kisses and bites, leaving tiny reddened marks all along his thighs.  It never takes Kurt long to find that sweet spot, and sure enough Blaine is arching his back and panting as his fingers continue to brush over and massage his prostate.  Slowly, he withdraws his fingers and when he pats the side of Blaine's leg and tells him to sit up he cannot help but whine loudly in protest. 

“So impatient,” Kurt says, eyes twinkling with amusement as he settles himself against the headboard and tugs until Blaine is positioned above his lap.  Kurt’s in control, but he knows this is Blaine’s favourite position.

“Condom?” Blaine’s thighs are already shaking as he holds himself up.

“I trust you,” Kurt replies, bringing his hands up to cup his face, voice so low and sultry it is a wonder Blaine doesn’t just stagger into his orgasm right on the spot.  “And I want you to feel it.”

What did I do to deserve you?

Blaine groans into the kiss as Kurt strokes himself, coating his cock with lube before he holds it firm for him to lower himself down onto.  The sweet heat and friction already feels like it is almost too much to bear.  There is no way he is going to last like this, and they both know it.  He positions his hands on Kurt’s chest, sinks all the way down and pants loudly against his mouth, pausing to let himself adjust before rising up again.  Kurt relocates his hands to his hips, fingernails digging in and helping him rise and fall, their rhythm slow and synchronized.  It doesn’t take long before it becomes more sporadic and urgent, Kurt’s hips bucking up as Blaine’s thighs tremble and burn to match his rhythm until he’s hitting just that right spot again.  He yelps his moan, fingernails burrowing into Kurt’s skin.

“There, there, there— right there!” Blaine exhales quickly, winded and sweaty as he clenches and shakes.  With the way Kurt’s gripping his hips he knows there are going to bruises where the thumbs sink in.  The thought of it alone sends a rush of heat up his spine that erupts as another breathless gasp.

“You’re fucking gorgeous,” Kurt groans out.  “ So fucking gorgeous.”

Blaine’s laugh comes out half-strangled as he gyrates his hips faster, thighs trembling violently as he slams one palm against the headboard to keep himself balanced.  “So are you, fuck, so are you.  So—” Kurt slides his hands down, cups his ass and quickens his thrusts, throwing the rest of Blaine’s thoughts to the wind as he all but crashes his head forward against the headboard and cries out.  He becomes acutely aware of Kurt’s mouth against his chest, of his tongue circling his nipple, but barely registers Kurt’s breathy laugh, “Sorry, you okay?” 

“Don’t stop,” Blaine breathes back.  “Don’t stop, don’t— fuck, you feel so good.”

Kurt sucks on his nipple as Blaine’s breath hitches, heavy and desperate.  Kurt slips one hand down and closes it around his cock, earning another loud strangled sound somewhere between an exhale and an actual word.  

“You’re perfect, you’re so perfect— Kurt, fuck I’m gonna—”

Kurt works his hand faster, hips bucking wildly as Blaine cries out again, stars exploding behind his eyes as he comes.  Kurt cups his ass again, squeezing and panting heavily against his neck as he keeps thrusting, chasing his own orgasm only seconds later.  Blaine’s legs give out, leaving Kurt’s firm grip on his ass, his hips still jerking upwards sporadically, as his only support.  Blaine keeps his eyes closed, fingers curled tightly around Kurt’s shoulders and forehead resting against the headboard, as Kurt finally slows to a stop.  He does not want to move, does not want Kurt to pull away and leave him feeling empty again.  As though reading his mind, Kurt holds him there, pressing lazy kisses to sweat soaked skin as Blaine’s body continues to tremble. 

“God, I missed you,” Kurt whispers, raising his head enough to kiss his neck.  

“I love you,” Blaine rasps out.  “So much.  More than anything.” 

Kurt feigns a dramatic gasp, lips brushing against his neck and tickling him. “Surely not more than hair gel.”

The smile on Blaine’s face almost hurts before they both break out into laughter.  

“Need some help?” Kurt squeezes his ass playfully, earning a soft, sleepy moan. 

“My legs don’t work anymore,” Blaine laughs breathlessly, limbs heavy and useless.  Their earlier conversation feels like a lifetime ago.  

“I’ve got you,” Kurt says soothingly, lips back against his neck.  

In the post-orgasm haze Blaine is barely aware of their movements as he comes to settle down beside him, limbs tangled and still desperate for touch.  Kurt wipes cum off of his stomach with a tissue— Blaine cannot help but think about the midnight trip to the laundromat they will most likely be taking to salvage the sheets— before he draws him in close, those strong arms like a promise and a safety blanket.  It is moments like these he loves the most, where the world stops spinning and they are frozen in a perfect carefree moment of mutual adoration and comfort within each other’s arms.  

“I’m sorry about your dad, about all of that,” Kurt suddenly says softly, jarring him from the temporary peace.  

“Not your fault,” Blaine mumbles, snuggling in closer to him as though melding their bodies together physically will drive away the uncomfortable feeling of emptiness starting to creep in all over again. 

“Do you actually hate him?” 

“No, of course I don’t.  I just wish,” Blaine sighs and presses a kiss to his chest, arm curling tighter around Kurt’s waist to keep himself tethered down.  “I just want him to be proud of me and it really hurts that he’s not, that I basically don’t exist to him.”

“Can I ask you something?” 

“Hmm?” Blaine asks distractedly. 

“Have you ever thought about talking to someone?” 

“What do you mean?” Blaine shifts his head, too lazy to actually lift it off of his chest, and settles his eyes on Kurt’s jaw. 

“Like a therapist,” Kurt says carefully.  Involuntarily, Blaine stiffens between his arms.  “Have you ever thought about that?”

Blaine sluggishly drags his hand over Kurt’s chest, fingers tracing invisible patterns.  Kurt tilts his head down, nose pressed to his loosely gelled hair and breathes in deep before pressing a kiss to the top of his head.  “I might have,” Blaine whispers, heart thudding violently now.  Kurt has been nothing but understanding and patient, yet the anxiety still clutches tightly and forces him to want to retreat and hide.  

“Maybe you should,” Kurt says gently.  

“Maybe,” Blaine parrots quietly.

“I’m not suggesting something is wrong with you,” Kurt adds, pressing another kiss to the top of his head. “If that’s what you’re thinking.”

How could you tell?

“It just might be good to talk to someone unbiased, don’t you think?”

Blaine continues trailing his fingers over Kurt’s chest, silent and pensive.  He had certainly contemplated the idea plenty of times in the past, never sure of where to even begin.  After the attack at the dance, when Kurt moved away, when they broke up— every time he had come remotely close to researching, shame and panic had chased the idea away.  

“Say something?” Kurt asks softly and runs his fingers through his hair, far more pliable now that the gel has been somewhat dissolved by sweat.

Blaine’s hand stills against his chest and he props himself up on his elbow to get a better look at him.  There is no judgement on his face.  Those eyes like endless oceans of concern and compassion.  Everything about his expression screams I see you, I love you and I see you.

“You’ll uh,” Blaine starts and struggles to hold his gaze, his first instinct telling him to stare at anything other than his eyes.  “Will you help me look for one?”

“Of course I will.  We’re a team, aren’t we?” 

The smile on his face makes Blaine’s heart beat just a little faster, but there is no feeling of shame behind it.  “Yes.  We’re a team.” 

He settles down in Kurt’s arms again, but silence between them never lasts long.  It is only a matter of moments before Kurt’s speaking again. “Have you ever heard of Kintsugi?”

Blaine furrows his brows and tilts his head up towards him again.  He is always full of these random little tidbits of information.  “No? What’s that?”

“It’s a phrase used in Japan.  It’s the art of mending broken pottery.”

“Okay?” Blaine trails the word out, the tickle in the back of his throat not quite a laugh just yet.  He usually has a point when he brings things like this up, but sometimes he does not.  Right now it is not obvious which side of that line he is on.

“Instead of using clear glue, they use powdered gold or silver, usually gold.  So when they put the pieces back together, they’re not trying to hide the fact that it was broken.  The process of being broken and repaired is part of its history, and they choose to highlight and display that fact by turning it into something new with these golden scars to show for it.  I think that’s beautiful, don’t you?”

“So, are you calling me broken pottery?” Blaine asks, the laugh finally breaking free.

“No,” Kurt replies, placing two fingers on his chin to tilt his head up.  “You’re a perfect work of art with a history to show for it.”

And as he leans forward, eager to press their lips together and soak up as much of him as humanly possible, Blaine thinks, And you are the artist.

________________________________________________________________

The song Blaine sings is When You Come Home by Mree, which instantly made me think of our boys when I first heard it.

I don't remember where I first learned about Kintsugi, but I became absolutely obsessed with it.  To be able to take something broken, mend it and showcase all of its imperfections as something beautiful and apart of its history... just something about that really hit close to home for me.  Here is one example. Take some time to google image search some pieces, they are absolutely breathtaking.  And I think it is a perfect metaphor for how we can come to deal with our own traumas.  

Thanks for reading! Hope you enjoyed it.

[theonetheycallhannah]

The Treatment of Capt. Syverson- Chapter Three: Therapeutic Activity

Pairing: Captain “Sy” Syverson x OFC (Shane Benton)

Summary: Tensions reach a boiling point during treatment one evening, Shane goes to her own veteran for advice, and takes the first step toward happiness…hoping beyond hope that everything doesn’t blow up in her face.

Masterlist with links to all parts HERE!

Word Count: 2.4k

Warnings: None, yet… ;) But maybe I should be putting language warnings in here…there are some bad words. And not to spoil but…there might be a bit of kissing in this one…

Author’s Note: Guys, I cannot stress to you enough how much I am enjoying telling this story. My goodness. To sort of combine my passions of writing and Henry with something I know so well like therapy (I’m a secretary like Heather, not a therapist), it really just makes me happy. The next chapter is already done, also, it was initially part of this chapter, but it felt too long, so I’ll be posting it separately later. I know, I’m a tease. Have Henry spank me. Lol.

Disclaimer: Unfortunately for me, Henry is not mine, le sigh, and all mention of him, his characters, any characters from his films, or his precious doggy, Kal, are strictly for transformative and recreational use. I neither ask for, nor accept payment for the work I post on Tumblr or AO3. Unbeta’d because this is for fun and escapism.

Tags:

@onlyhenrys

@cavillryarchive

@summersong69

@titty-teetee

@bloodyinspiredfuck

"This sounds…kinda dumb…" Sy expressed his thoughts on today's warm up with Shane.

"Oh, trust me, it looks even dumber than it sounds. But it works. And it's easier on your knees than doing it the right way. You ready?" he looked at the treadmill, inclined at 3% grade as if it was Everest itself, and looked back at her. "I'll start slow." she raised her eyebrows at him.

"You know just what to say to a girl." he teased as he stepped up, still gingerly, even after eight weeks of therapy. Crutches mercifully jettisoned two weeks ago. He was on his way to being his fighting fit self. With a foot on either track beside the belt, but facing away from the control panel, he waited for her to press start. He took a breath and nodded.

"Test the belt with your bad foot first, and then when you're ready, step down with it. Remember what I've told you about which foot should lead when ascending and descending stairs or hills?"

"Good go to Heaven, Bad go to Hell. So I go up with the good leg and go down with the bad leg."

"A+ student. Okay, when you're ready…any time…Sy, this is an hour session…I have to kick you out in 55 minutes…chop chop." she cajoled him, but he wasn't budging.

"It feels…weird going this way, Shane." If she had been a less kind person, she would have called it whining…she called it nothing, instead.

"I know. Do you need to walk backwards around the clinic a little more to get you used to that sensation?"

"Hell yeah. If that means you're gonna spot me like you did before…felt kinda like dancin'." it was a perfectly legitimate and above-board treatment strategy. They stood back to back, Shane guiding Sy as he practiced walking backward and pushing off with the extensor muscle group, which had been weak. Sy had suggested holding hands, but Shane had compromised with the idea to link arms. Not that she wasn't dying to hold his hand…she was. But that had not been the time. The time was still weeks away. At least.

"I was thinking I'd have you try it with Jordan. He's got a free hour right now. And I can assess your technique. How does that sound, Twinkle Toed Romeo?" Immediately he placed a tentative foot down onto the slow moving belt trying to adjust to the odd sensation of walking up a hill backward.

"Ah, so I now know that all I have to do to get you to do something silly is threaten you with Jordan. Filing that away for a rainy day."

"Come on, you're breakin' my heart, sunshine."

"Aww, don't be ridiculous. I've seen therapists do way more embarrassing things to their patients in the name of treatment."

"Tell me!"

"Sorry, but it's classified information. Protected under the Health Insurance Privacy and Portability Act. I could literally get fired for telling you, and there are way cooler things to get fired for!" She'd always said it. And she meant it. She didn't fool around when it came to HIPPA, and there was no way she was gonna lose her job over a stupid slip like that.

"Any examples of things you'd rather get fired for?"

She thought for a few minutes. She used to have a list.

"Hmm, telling off my bitch of a boss," he looked shocked at her use of a bad language word, which he'd never heard from her. She nodded. "Telling off an asshole patient," sleeping with a patient…

"What about sleeping with a patient?" It was late in the day, the only person still there was Heather in the office, and a few therapists still documenting. Nobody in the gym to hear him echo the thoughts in her head. As if he could read them as clearly as a page in a book. Large print. She looked at him in shock.

"Sorry. That was over the line."

"It was…but…"

"But?"

"But…it would not be the least cool reason to get fired."

"It wouldn't?" she shook her head, reluctantly.

"Especially if the patient was…amazing, and kind, and…fucking gorgeous…"

"Young lady, that language today, I have never!" he exclaimed clutching at his broad and beautiful chest.

"I know, but, Sy…this is all hypothetical, and theoretical, and IF I was GOING to get fired how would I CHOOSE for it to happen and WHAT policy I would go against. People don't just CHOOSE to be fired, you know?" she was nervous and rambling.

"You know what people also don't choose? Who they care about, and have feelin's for. Who they--"

"Don't finish that sentence, Sy." She couldn't hear him say the word he was going to say. She couldn't let him start that. Not when there was too much complicating their situation.

She walked off to her treatment room, needing some space.  Some time.

She didn't get that space or time. Sy hobbled in behind her, looking like a man on a mission. And she knew from his war stories that his missions tended to be successful…even the one that got him his walking papers wasn't a total loss.

"Sy, you still had like, five minutes on the tr--"

His big hands found the sweet spot where her neck met her skull. He took a big breath and closed the distance between them, his lips landing light as feathers on hers, her soft skin welcoming the roughness of his beard, though everything else about the kiss was terribly gentle. Almost chaste. Even his beard wasn't so rough that she worried about beard burn…she'd be filing that away for later, as well. Against her willpower and better judgement but in full cooperation with her desires and instincts she began kissing him back, daring to deepen it by opening their mouths a bit, and sliding her hands up the back of his red tee that sported a black skull. All of his shirts were entirely too tight, but you'd never catch her complaining. Even after several months away from active duty and really, most activity at all, his body was still so solid and powerful.

"Ain't that a daisy…Fuck, I've wanted to do that since my first appointment." he chuckled, lightly.

"Sy…"

"Don't. Don't try to argue or tell me you don't feel it. This energy between us. I've seen it in your eyes, Shane. I've felt it when you touch me. It ain't nothin, sunshine. It's a whole lotta somethin'."

"I know, but I need this job. And I WANT this job. Being a therapist is the only thing I've ever wanted to do. Helping people. People like you. Getting them better. It's what I was meant to do. And there's no place like this in the area for me to treat such a diverse clientele and build my skill set. It's not without it's problems, but it's where I'm meant to be."

"I get that. And you should do what you were called to do. You're too good at this not to do it. But Shane, isn't it worth pushing back on some policy if it could mean you get to have some personal happiness, too?"

"I'm worried they'll make me choose." Actually, it was more than that. She was worried about which choice she'd make. Giving up a ten-year career with excellent benefits despite its pitfalls, or giving up someone she could hardly stop thinking about, who made her heart pound when he smiled, and who was rapidly shaping up to be someone she could see herself sharing a life with…making either choice terrified her for very different reasons.

"You shouldn't have to choose. Any boss who'd make you deny yourself what we could have just because of some ridiculous policy…well, they ain't worth the gas that brought 'em to work today. Y'understand me?"

She nodded, smirking at his idiom, "You don't know my boss."

"Well, maybe I oughta GET to know her, if it's like that. I have a way of throwin' my weight around, case ya hadn't noticed." he shot her a smug grin.

"Ya don't say?" she retorted, brimming with sarcasm, literally still wrapped in the evidence of said weight in the form of his muscular arms, warm and thick, encircling her. Even though she felt like her life was up in the air, she had never felt more safe. "I'll try to have a chat with her about it this week. Our schedules rarely align, and usually that's how I like it, but I'll try to move some things around if nothing naturally falls into place."

"I'll be happy to lend my voice or even come talk to her, if need be." he offered, ever the gentleman.

"I appreciate that, Sy, truly. But I think it would be best not to involve you unless it becomes absolutely necessary. We have several more treatments to get through today, though. You didn't finish on the tread mill, do you think you're warmed up enough?"

"Oh, darlin', I'm plenty warm." he grinned down at her sliding a hand down her side.

"Shit, am I gonna have to start being extra careful with what I say to you until this gets sorted?"

"I really doubt it'll matter, Shane. Ain't much you can say I can't make dirty." she could tell by the satisfaction on his face that this was a point of pride for him.

"Lay down and shut up."

"Yes, MA'AM!" he complied with a little too much enthusiasm. She didn't know whether to roll her eyes with amusement or grow increasingly feral…apparently there was room for both as long as she didn't act on the latter. Yet.

~~~~~~~~

She dismissed Sy for the day, instructing him to behave himself until she gave him the all clear, and even then, if she got the green light to see him outside of therapy, sessions would still be about getting him stronger, and not flirting. Or at least mostly. They settled on a 90/10 ratio by the end. She was a weak woman.

She went into the office where one of the senior therapists, Anita, was still charting and snacking on some pretzels.

"How was your day, Nita?" she asked affectionately. Anita had been her mentor since she started with the clinic over ten years ago, and was now part time, flexing toward retirement. She'd miss her.

"Oh, long, Miss Shane. As they tend to be more and more these days. What about yours?"

"Ah…just…nothin'." she shouldn't go into it all until she talked to Susan, their boss.

"Mmm, that's no nothing nothin', that's a something nothin'. Come on, kiddo. Spill." she offered Shane one of her pretzels and kicked out the chair next to her. Again, she was a weak woman. She took a pretzel, sat, and chewed it for a moment, collecting her words.

"What do you think about…starting relationships with patients?" she searched her reaction for any snap judgement or emotion, but only a narrowing of her eyes occurred.

"Is this about that Captain Sexypants who just left?"

"I'm going to kill Heather. I'm not the one who came up with that nickname and I'm not the one who started the whole having feelings conversation. I was going to be miserable until he was discharged, at least."

"Why would you need to make yourself miserable, Shane?"

"Because the policy. About dating patients."

"Technically the policy only says you shouldn't treat family/close friends if you feel you wouldn't be able to maintain objectivity or would be uncomfortable yourself. But that you should disclose any relationship to your supervisor for review."

"See, what's Susan gonna say?"

"Who cares? The policy is the law. And the board of directors governs the policy. Not her. Tell her in an email if you can't work out a time to talk to her before you see him next. Hell, I sent my boss a memo back when I started dating Ron. And look at us now! 20 years strong."

"No way!?" Shane was flabbergasted. She had never known that Anita's husband Ron had once been her patient.

"Oh yes. I wasn't long out of PT school, my first husband had passed away and I needed an income, so I got my PT license and about a year into working here, Ron got put on my schedule. I knew from the eval, he was meant for me. So I typed up a memo, sent it to Morton, our boss at the time, and told Ron I was free on Friday after work."

"Sy just…I don't know, we have this…connection…a spark. I've never felt it with anyone else."

"Are you concerned that seeing him socially would affect how you treat him here?"

"I'm more worried keeping my feelings for him bottled up while I treat him will get so distracting I'll become less effective."

"Well, then, if you get any push back, tell Susan that." Anita said. "Just be forthright. Honest. And speak with integrity. She'll have no cause to refute it, then. And send it tonight."

"Okay. Thanks Anita. You're the best."

~~~~~~~~~

Shane spent too long, probably an hour, at least, drafting her email to Susan. It read:

To: Susan DeForrest

From: Shane Benton

Subject: Re: Treatment Policy

Susan,

I wanted to bring to your attention a situation that has presented itself with one of my patients. I have been treating him almost exclusively for several weeks now, apart from my week on PTO, and he has progressed to both of our satisfaction as well as the ordering physician. However, we have come to be quite friendly and he has expressed great interest in seeing me outside of therapy. This is something that I too would like to engage in, and I plan to accept the next time I speak with him.

From my understanding of the policy, the only thing that would prevent me from treating him as a social acquaintance would be my own comfort level and ability to remain objective. I have every confidence that my objectivity regarding his case will remain intact. I am also completely comfortable with it, and if that changes, I will transfer him to another therapist. Furthermore, I have no doubts that I will be able to maintain the highest level of professionalism throughout our treatments.

Thank you, and if you feel we need to discuss any of this further, please let me know.

~Shane Benton, DPT

And send…whew. She needed a big glass of wine tonight.

~~~~~~~~~~~

Up Next: Chapter Four- E-Stim

[miraithislife]

Miraith Part 3 <3 (little long oop)

“Did you...ever have a family...?” She asked in a soft, curious voice. Wraith had been nestled warmly by the fireplace in Mirage’s private condo. It was filled with pictures, collectibles, and posters of him, of course, along with all of his trophies and medals from the Games, fan mail, fan art, comics, and practically anything else related to him. 

“My family?” Mirage repeated in surprise, not really expecting her to ask that of him. He was in the kitchen, making them both some warm mugs of hot chocolate to treat the increasingly bitter cold from which they’d just sought refuge. “Well, yea. I have a family. I’m the youngest of four. Four boys. Had to screw around to get attention, you know.” 

Wraith scoffed, “Bet that wasn’t hard for you to do.” She brought the blanket (with a full length Mirage printed onto it) more snugly around her shoulders, having replaced Mirage’s coat, which was hung neatly in the closet by the front door. 

Mirage grinned, “Nope.” He laughed. “We were definitely a handful for our parents.”  

Wraith bit her lip embarrassedly and looked to the crackling flames when realizing she had no idea what those were. She knew everyone had them, she’d heard the term before. Something about it was vaguely familiar. She wanted to ask, but the words stopped in her throat. Would she sound weird for asking such a ridiculous thing? 

What would he think of her if she did? 

What if he thought she was joking?

What would he think when realizing she was being serious?

A pit grew in Wraith’s stomach as her anxieties grew, and she began to get a headache from overthinking. 

It’s Mirage. He’ll understand. She self-consoled. 

Wraith took a breath and asked (after conjuring up the bravery) in a voice soft as silk, “What are parents?” 

Mirage looked over at her. The look in her eyes told him she was being genuine and serious. “Uh,” he began, not wanting his surprise or delay in response to come off judgemental or make her feel bad. “Well...parents are the people who take care of you. Claim you as your own, cause, uh. They gave birth to you? Well no your mom does that part...the dad just--ahem.” He shrugged. “Yea they take care of and love you, basically. Raise ya. All that fun stuff.” He picked out two mugs from the cupboard.

Well, that wasn’t so bad. She thought.

Did she ever have parents...? She wondered.

“You have parents?” She asked.

“Well, yea.” Mirage replied, setting them on the countertop and closing the cupboard. “Everyone has parents, right?” 

Wraith solemnly averted her gaze to her hands, saying quietly. “Right.” 

Mirage winced. “I’m sorry...I didn’t mean--” 

“It’s alright.” She said, rather shortly. 

Mirage rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. “I mean, not everyone has parents.” He said in an attempt to make it better. He shrugged and said in a tone to play it off, “Besides, it’s not like having parents make you cool or anything.” He removed the pitcher from the stove once the water’d heated to the perfect temperature. 

“At least not mine, heh. I mean, what kind of parents tell you you were an accident baby and try to sell you online?” He began pouring the water into each of the mugs, “OnLINE.” He stressed. “And for FREE?” He passionately continued, still holding the steaming pitcher, waving it along with his animated hand gestures and story retelling. Wraith raised the blanket to her mouth, she couldn’t help but softly giggle at his increasing annoyance as he recalled the memory. 

Mirage was too enraged to notice her adorable little laugh. “I mean, hell. Like okay, I was an accident and you wanna sell me, but for free?” He gestured to himself. “I mean, look at me, I’m amazing! I’m handsome, I’m smart, I’ve got fans--I’ve gotta be worth a nice rack of pork chops at the very least. And I was the cutest little thing, too.” Mirage set the pitcher down, crossing his arms and leaning against the refrigerator. He shook his head, confused as to why he was so unwanted, “I had chubby cheeks...I had curls…”

“What were your parents like?” Wraith asked. “Aside from wanting to sell you, of course.” 

“My mom was the sweetest woman you’d ever meet. Beautiful. Smart. Funny. She was great.” Mirage began, the selling incident instantly leaving his mind. He stood and resumed finishing the hot chocolate, adding the cocoa powder. “She was crazy smart. My mother was an engineer. She’d make things, design things, build things, break a few things.” He laughed. “That was always funny.” He laughed again. “She makes me, well, me.” He said, raising his arms to bask in his glory. “Mirage.” 

He plopped a couple marshmallows into each of the mugs. Carefully, he carried the mugs to the living room and set them on the glass coffee table. He moved the gold and red accent pillows on his sleek dark gray couch to allow himself a seat next to Wraith. “She introduced me to illusion-creating tech. And...well, long story short I got obsessed and addicted, went to school and learned about mechanisms and doohickeys and whatchamacallits, and, well, yea, here I am.” He handed her her mug first. 

“Then we made some pretty cool stuff together. My favorites were all the holo tech, I mean come on look at this baby.” He said proudly with a smug look on his face, gesturing to his outfit. “Worked at the bar for who knows how long, heard about the Games and wanted to join, sounded pretty fun. But I didn’t want to leave my mother alone, you know, since everyone else was gone.” His face fell. 

“Until one day she came up to me after a long day of work and gave me a set of customized holo devices and told me to follow my dream.” He looked at her and smiled. “So, I did. And I promised to give her some money to help her get out of some long overdue debts and out of the slums and dirt we’d always lived in. I can finally say I’ve helped make her happy, now. I make sure she’s taken care of before going off to compete, cause you know, never know if that’s my last time seeing her.”

Wraith failed to suppress the warmth that washed over heart. “She sounds amazing.” She took the mug graciously. “Thank you.” 

Mirage smiled, “Yea, she really is. Everything I do now in the Games is for her.”

Wraith couldn’t help but feel her heart warm her chest. She’d always seen Mirage as silly and rather self-centered, but it turned out, to her pleasant surprise, that there were things that truly mattered to him more than just women, fans, or having the spotlight on him. “She’s lucky to have such a great son like you. I’m sure you two have always been really close.” 

Mirage blushed at her compliment, “Thank you.” He wrinkled his nose and shrugged, “Nah, not always. We didn’t really get along that well at first (which was entirely my fault), and we kinda just bonded after my three older brothers died in the Frontier War, so all she had was me by default.” He laughed wryly. “But honestly with the engineering thing, it helped make it work. Now I can’t imagine life without her.” He took a sip from his hot chocolate, only then realizing Wraith hadn’t. 

“Don’t like hot chocolate?” He asked.

“Oh, no, that’s not it.” she replied. “I’ve just never had it.” Her eyes didn’t move from the chocolate tainted white blobs floating in her mug. “What are those?”

Mirage scoffed, “What are those? Only the best things ever!” 

Wraith smiled, “What are they?”

“Marshmallows. Soft, squishy, sweet thingamajigs...I don’t really know what they are, but they make everything a million times better. Especially in hot chocolate.” Mirage replied. “Try it.” 

Wraith looked at him, then back to her mug. Slowly, she curled her full, rounded lips, silently blowing away the steam that arose from the mug, watching it dissipate into the air. She closed her eyes and inhaled the heavenly, chocolatey aroma, exhaling a soft hum of content. Mirage, adorably, watched her place the mug’s rim to her mouth, but couldn’t keep his eyes off her beautifully shaped lips. Keeping her eyes closed, she took a sip. She sighed through her nose in content as the soothing warmth made its way down her throat and through her body, reveling in the cocoa’s richness and the marshmallow’s delicately sweet touch. 

“Mmm.” She opened her eyes and met his. Her heart skipped a beat. The look in his eyes scared her. But...in a good way. There was no doubt he was in total awe and completely enamored of her existence. Mirage couldn’t hide anything from her even if he wanted to, and the throbbing in his chest that burned so fiercely out of love, longing, and desire began to grow to a point at which he couldn’t control or suppress for much longer. 

Her heart raced. 

There was so much she wanted to tell him. 

So much he needed to know. 

So much she wished she had the strength to tell him.

So much she wanted to share with him...in every way possible. 

A blush touching her cheeks, she smiled warmly. “It’s delicious.” 

Mirage beamed. “I’m glad you think so. And that looks good on you, by the way.”

Wraith slightly furrowed her brow, “What does?”

Mirage replied dreamily, “That smile.”

Wraith quickly averted her gaze as her blush deepened, she cleared her throat in attempt to change the subject, “What about your fath--” 

Mirage’s mood changed quickly. “My dad was an absolute scumbag. Was never there. Hit and cheated on my mom. Abused and overworked us boys. Cursed us out. Destroyed the house. Kept us poor and put us down. Drank his life away and took his problems out on us. List goes on and on.” He said with a wave of his hand. 

“Disappeared one day and never came back. Left us dirt poor and starving and took everything my mom owned to sell for money but you know, it was prolla-prabob-parlabol--” He threw his hands up in frustration. “WORDS.” He hastily stood up and made his way to the wall, punching it vehemently. He grabbed his wrist and gasped sharply in pain. He kicked the wall in frustration and sat on the side of his bed, facing the wall. “His leaving was the best thing that ever happened to us.” He ended in spite, fiddling with the straps on his glove. 

Wraith didn’t know what to think.

She had never seen him like this before.

The saddened and angry little boy inside of him was waking up, and she knew that feeling all too well. To feel trapped. To have emotions suppressed and not worked through. To feel resentment and revenge. To want answers. To want to just know why. 

Without a sound, she arose from the cushions and to his side, the bed bouncing a little as she sat. Mirage’s body swayed a little from the movement, his head hung low. Wraith reassuringly laid a hand on his shoulder. “I’m sorry, Mirage. I know that must’ve been very hard for you...to not have someone there when you needed them most, let alone cause so much pain...and to not understand why.” 

Her hand gently turned his face to hers, and the look on his face nearly broke her heart. His face fell, his head hung low, and his eyes were full of sorrow and pain. Angry tears pricked his eyes, and several had begun to make their way down his cheeks. 

Wraith continued, gently cupping his face with her hands and using her thumbs to wipe away his tears, “To have things happen out of your control and suffer from it. Whether it’s you or loved ones. Then you question what you did wrong and what you should’ve done right, as if it’s your fault...taking on that burden.” She lifted his face so their eyes met, and with a gentle motion, she brushed his hair from his face and behind his ear, then caressing his cheek in the same manner he had to her earlier. “But that doesn’t make you wrong in how you feel. Your emotions are valid. It’s okay to cry. It’s okay to be sad. It’s okay to feel hurt. It’s okay to be angry. Just don’t let them define or change who you are.” She smiled. 

Mirage stared at her, speechless.

How did she know what to say? And how to say it? So elegantly and well put?

“That’s...exactly how I feel, Wraith.” Mirage said. He never doubted her past experiences, but the level to which they could relate was so touching it made his heart feel so much lighter. He now knew, finally, at 30 years old, that he wasn’t alone.

Wraith scoffed through a soft laugh. “Well, I know a thing or two about loss and pain.” 

Mirage gently took her hands from his face and cherished them in his, pressing his lips to her knuckles several times, not breaking eye contact. “Well, you’re not alone anymore.”

[promiscuous-jalapeno]

Ledge

{Dimitri x F!Byleth}

Genre: N//SFW / Angst / Comfort Word Count: 1,984 Summary: Dimitri’s jealousy and tense grapple with his feelings towards Byleth come to a head. This is feral ass Dimitri post-timeskip being jealous and confused and possessive of Byleth. A/N: Happy Happy Happiest Birthday’s to @flatsuke ! I tried to get this done by yesterday but I failed im sry!! Thank you for being such an amazing friend to me, thank you for all of the laughs and late-night talks and headcanon sessions. Thank you for always being so kind and giving to everyone you meet. I really hope you like this and I hope this next year brings you so much joy ILY happy birthday <3 !  Additional Content Warnings: Blood mention, Fingering, First Time

     He cared not that it was raining. The pungent smell of soil had somehow taken on an acridity to him now; only serving to remind him of the years he wandered alone, early morning sun beating down where he lay on the warm earth, the whispers from his mind begging it to reclaim him and complete the damned circle.

     Another sleepless night, but at least the cloak of darkness offered him some form of respite from the waking nightmare. Her. Everywhere he went, she was. The ghost of her smile from all those years ago haunted him to this day, even when he close his eyes.

     Part of him hated her. No—no, he could never hate her. Not truly. Jealous. He was jealous of her. How she seemed unfazed by the last few years. Preserved and untouched by the brutal, gripping hands of time. Still delicate and brilliant and mysterious; intricate as stained glass.

     Whereas he...

     Dimitri’s hands wrung themselves. Time had captured him in its unforgiving jowls. Left him bitter. Gnarled and ugly. Slicing him with its jagged teeth before it spat him out like the poisonous thing he is. His soul was not one for consumption.

    Had he known what was to become of him, he might have asked her to dance all those years ago. Unburdened by the fear of appearing with all the grace of a newborn colt, the swinish steps or the sweat brought to his palms by the reality of their distance—or lack there of. And how the way she smelled would surely linger even in his dreams for weeks to come. He would have asked her to dance...

     His way had been the cowards' way, back then. But, he supposed, perhaps that much hadn’t changed. If he could muster a laugh, it would be self-deprecating. Even now he felt unworthy of her touch, more so than ever before. He had no right to ask anything of her. He could barely stand the sight of his own soiled hands.

     And yet, the sickening weight in his stomach and the tenseness in his jaw when he saw her whispering with a smirking Sylvain…or the way he clenched fists until his knuckles turned white when he spied her going over maps a little too closely with anyone else, suggested that as much as he like to deny it, he wanted her for himself. Even if just to bring him a remnant glimmer of the man he used to be.

     Perhaps that’s what fueled his angry display earlier that afternoon, when he caught her sparring with Felix in the training grounds.

     Felix behind her, hands on her hips to square her stance. His face close to hers, lips that could just as easily kiss her speaking instructions. The way his touch lingered on her sculpted arms as they swung her sword and cut the air thick with tension. 

     Both of them sweating, parrying each other much to Felix’s clear delight. How he could stand there drowning in his own torment whilst the two of them were seemingly lost in their own private world…as if they had not known hardship and loss…his blood was boiling by the time they even noticed he was there.

     Felix jut his chin in Dimitri’s direction, scoffing between labored pants and haughtily swiping his gloved fingers through his damp hair. “Gotten yourself another craving for blood, have you, boar?” Felix spat, condescending.

     Dimitri didn’t reply to the clear challenge, only gripped the training sword so tightly he was sure it might snap under the pressure. He didn’t wait for Felix to ready himself, either. His sword swung down so fiercely it whistled in the air, vibrating his bones the minute Felix countered.

     “You—“ Felix grit. He had no time to question between the onslaught of blows from Dimitri. 

     Crack—crack, Crack. Felix met him at every turn, albeit with only fractions of a second saving his skin. Unable to rebuttal the full power, all he could do was displace the momentum of the swings, his feet digging into the loose soil at every step to keep himself from staggering.

     Dimitri could see it so clearly now. How he had changed. Felix was an excellent swordsman, but his technique was a little too perfect. Too technical. Too tight. Time had made Dimitri an opportunist, even if the trade-off meant he was less than noble in order to best. He found an opening, the wooden hilt like a hammer driving into Felix’s ribs, whilst Dimitri’s elbow made contact with his jaw, sending Felix flying back and into the dirt.

     “Dimitri...”

     Byleth’s voice calling his name finally came into his consciousness. The sound reeked of disappointment. Had she been speaking the entire time? He had almost forgotten where he was. The training sword fell from his hand with a plunk and it’s echo seemed the loudest sound he’d ever heard.

     Felix spat blood, wiping his weeping lip with his sleeved arm, piercing eyes seemingly looking straight through Dimitri. “So...he shows his true self once more. Welcome back, vile beast. Glad to see your fighting style is brutish as ever.”

     Dimitri’s heart raced, hands shaking at his sides. But what scared him was the fact that they shook not out of fear or repentance for what he’d just done, but out of anger, and the withheld desire to go further still. He watched Byleth extend her hand to Felix before he ran from the place without a word.

     He walked until it began to rain. He walked until it became dark, and then he walked some more. He wasn’t sure where he had been, but somehow his feet brought him back to the cathedral.

     His muddy steps reverberated in the empty space until he reached the heart of the room where he stood and closed his eyes, palms open and unable to discern between drops of rain falling from his mangled hair and the tears he’s sure were there.

     In between the stifling silence and the cascading drips of water on marble came that voice again. His name. “Dimitri.” Quietly spoken behind him. How had he not heard her approach?

     “...Dimitri,” she said again.

     “Leave me,” he warned.

      No. He didn’t want to see her face. Her eyes and words dripping with understanding, or worse—pity. The very sight of her served as a reminder for how much he had changed. How lost he had become, perhaps never to be found. And worst of all, he was afraid of what he would do to her if he faced her.

     “I’m not leaving you.” She repeated like a prayer, each time softer than the last, desperate to drill the message into his heart like a wedge into a block of ice.

     Slowly, she coaxed him toward her, and much to his relief he saw not pity nor understanding in her eyes. Nothing, save for a blank expression, waiting—reading him. She was soaking wet, too. Had she been out looking for him all this time?

      Their breathing synced in the silence. Her cold wet fingers reached for the clasp at his chest, unlatching buckles that sent his heavy, rain-sodden cloak to the marble floor. The sudden weight off of his shoulders cathartic. Then she reached to his face. Dimitri felt the pleasant sharpness of her nails against his forehead as she swept his dripping bangs to the side tenderly. Cold like ice.

     He gripped her wrist in his large hand right as she pulled away from his face. She must have known what he was feeling. Must have seen the heat in his stare, or sensed the danger palpable in the air between them. He gave her a moment to run from him, then. Please, please run, he begged with every shred of restraint he had left. But she sucked in a sharp breath, took a step closer instead, and Dimitri pulled her into him by the wrist and kissed her deeply.

     He had never kissed anyone before. He wasn’t even sure he had been doing it properly until she moaned against his lips, and he felt her melt a bit in his arms. That sound...and the feeling of her relaxing into him, had his sanity and self-control blurring a blinding white.

     He moved with purpose unknown to himself. He was removed, entirely, from his desires. Hands he surely knew as his own were tearing and yanking at clothing before he had a chance to think his actions through. And she was pawing at him, in return.

     He had touched all the places he had only dreamed of, before. Her soft breasts and pert nipples he invited into his mouth. Her thighs; the thighs of a mercenary, thick and strong and lovely. And between them, a heavenly warmth he knew he may be undeserving of, what with his thick, calloused fingers that had been tainted by the blood of those he’d slaughtered, but he plunged inside of anyway.

     She let out an adorable, sexy sigh. Pleading for him to continue. “Ahh, yes...”

     Clinging to his broad shoulders she let him work her until her legs began to give. And when he withdrew his hand and placed the fingers in his mouth. He had never cursed himself so vehemently for his inability to taste.

     Lifting her until she straddled his hips, he lowered her onto his cock with little regard for anything but the determination to feel himself inside of her. The moment he was fully sheathed, a boyish whimper rippled from his throat, followed by a desperate growl.

     With feverish rapidity he bounced her up and down on his cock, guiding her hips and elating in the way he forced a moan from her lungs with every rough slam. Their skin, still slick from rain and now slicker still with sweat, sticking together in all the places they melded.

     This was better than he had ever fantasized, even all those years ago as he tossed in his dorm, dancing between the state of sleep and wakefulness, visualizing her glowing celestial in the doorway or in his bed, slender fingers slipping into bedclothes. She was real. Here—now. Accepting him inside of her despite everything he was. Clinging to him and meeting the thrusts just as urgently as he.

     He slammed her back against a wall of rubble, using that leverage to fuck her as hard as he could, as deeply as he could go. Pushing everything he was and felt, every emotion and sorrow, inside of her. Tiny pebbles tumbling down among tufts of dust but neither caring. She didn’t wince or flinch, not for a moment. Of course, she didn’t...she was the strongest person he’d ever known. How had he not seen it before? She could take anything he had to give, perhaps she was the only one.

     He kissed her again as his hips quickened pace, driving them both to The Divine. Each heated dive inside of her echoed an Amen in the catacombs of his mind. He had never felt a oneness akin to this. Not even shedding blood with a comrade on the battlefield. He wanted to own her, to keep her this close for all time he had left. But he knew that wasn’t possible, so instead, he settled for spilling himself inside of her.

     Dimitri felt sharp teeth close around his bottom lip as he twirled his cock to feel her every inch, but he didn’t care if she made him bleed. He was committing her to memory. He had left her with His Warmth. A fraction of the warmth she had so kindly bestowed upon him in the time they’ve known each other. But a warmth, nonetheless. And though he knew he had done nothing to deserve it, perhaps by some grace of the Goddess he’d be given time enough to continue his repayment.

[yastaghr]

Projects (Fresh’s DDFL Oneshot)

Pairing: Kedgeup

Characters: Underfell Papyrus, Undertale Sans

Warnings: None (this is fluff)

Summary: Classic is working on a project in a snowstorm. Edge takes care of him. For @freshouttaparsnips

Link: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23029627

A skeleton walked through the blowing, cold wind of the mountain winter. His boots were tall and red. His pants were tight and black, riding low on his pelvis. His uncharacteristic sweater was thick and warm, a cashmere wool number in a light orange borrowed from a friend. His teeth were sharp and three lines bisected his left eye socket.

Edge stepped into the basement. He closed the door and knocked the snow off his caked boots, then tramped down the stairs as loudly as he could so he wouldn’t startle his datemate. When he got to the bottom of the stairs he sighed. Classic was still hunched over his project. Edge had no idea what it was. At the moment it looked a bit like a steampunk teapot, but earlier today it had looked like a projector box, so that didn’t mean much. Edge didn’t really care what it was. All he knew was that his datemate was absorbed in fiddling with it to the point of being totally unaware of such paltry details as what time it was and whether he should eat. So Edge had decided to fill that role himself.

The tall skeleton slipped a plate of food into the space between Classic and his project. It held a hummus and tomato sandwich with baba ganoush and tzatziki sauce on it, just the way Classic liked it. There was also a piece of baklava off to one side.

Classic made a startled noise when the food inserted itself into his world. He turned to see who had brought it. Edge took the opportunity to steal a kiss from his datemate.

“IT’S TIME TO EAT, MY LOVE. YOU’VE BEEN WORKING AT THIS FOR FOUR HOURS NOW. YOU NEED TO TAKE A BREAK AND FUEL YOUR BODY AND MIND BEFORE THEY GIVE OUT ON YOU. PLEASE, TAKE THIS.”

Classic reluctantly grabbed a triangle of the sandwich and peered at it. “hummus and tomato?”

“ALONG WITH YOUR SECOND AND THIRD FAVORITE CONDIMENTS. A NICE, HEALTHY MEAL,” Edge confirmed quietly.

Classic let out a startled moan when he bit into the sandwich. He stared at it with wide eye lights before turning his brilliant smile on Edge. “thanks, edge. i really appreciate it,” he added with a genuine twinkle in his eye, “especially the baklava. you know a good piece of that sweet honey goodness makes me go absolutely nuts.”

Edge put on his best disapproving face to hide the startled laughter in his soul. He secretly loved his datemate’s puns, but he knew Classic absolutely loved it when he played the straight man to his comedian.

“I DON’T SEE YOU BOUNCING OFF THE WALLS JUST YET. PLEASE REFRAIN FROM DOING SO. I’M NOT SURE THE CORKBOARD COULD HANDLE IT.”

Classic chuckled. “sure thing, babe. but seriously, thanks for the food. i must be starving if i’ve been working that long. it has to be…” He pulled out his phone and checked the time, “...5 o’clock? sheesh, that’s late. how was your shift?”

Edge smiled mysteriously. “OH, YOU KNOW. A BIT OF THIS AND THAT. THE ELEPHANT CERTAINLY WAS ENTERTAINING.”

Classic narrowed his eye sockets. “what elephant? i thought you worked in an antique shop.”

Edge’s smile widened into a grin. “YOU WOULD BE CORRECT. AN OLD HUMAN LADY WITH PINK HAIR BROUGHT IN A NOVELTY LAMP THAT HER NEPHEW HAD BOUGHT HER. IT WAS ONE OF THOSE VINTAGE ART DECO DEALS. YOU WOULD HAVE LIKED IT.”

“i bet,” Classic said around a mouthful of food. Edge knew he only did it to get his goat, but it worked. Edge glared into the smiling face of the monster he loved.

He sighed. “JUST EAT YOUR SANDWICH. I’LL COME BACK FOR THE PLATE LATER.”

Classic waved to him as he left the basement. “bye! don’t stomp too hard on the stairs. you might break through!”

Edge’s only response was to slam the door on the way out.

=====

An hour later Edge returned to the basement to fetch the plate. Classic had set it off to his left and had cleared it. Edge smiled. He was always happy when Classic loved his food. He might not be a professional chef, but he still took pride in his cooking. It was eclectic and simple. Classic seemed to love it.

Speaking of Classic, he was bent over his project with a pair of tweezers and a bunch of wires. The project now looked like one of those rides you see at fairs that have a bunch of chairs suspended by wires that spin around and out at an angle. Edge had no idea what it was.

“HELLO, LOVE. HOW IS YOUR PROJECT GOING?” Edge asked quietly, not wanting to startle Classic and mess something up.

Classic set down the tweezers and swiveled in his chair to face Edge. He had a smile on his face, and his eyes were twinkling. “well, wire you asking? tweeze projects of mine don’t usually interest you this much.”

Edge scoffed, secretly impressed that Classic had managed to come up with two puns that fast. It never ceased to amaze him how gifted his datemate was in the pun department. Edge could appreciate a good pun when he heard one, but he was absolute garbage at coming up with them himself. His coworkers at the antique shop seemed to send them flying back and forth all day long, but Edge’s best attempts always fell flat. He’d given up on coming up with any, leaving that to those who had the skill, like Classic. His puns were better than their puns, anyway. Edge wasn’t biased. Not at all.

“JUST CURIOUS. IT’S BEEN A WHILE SINCE YOU’VE BEEN THIS DEDICATED TO A PROJECT. NORMALLY YOU’RE BETTER AT REMEMBERING TO EAT AND TAKE BREAKS. I KNOW IT’S BEEN A WHILE SINCE YOU ACTED LIKE THIS.”

Classic grinned. “aw, edgelord, that’s sweet. too bad i can’t tell you. it’s going to be a surprise~!”

Edge narrowed his eye sockets at his datemate. That was such a typical Sans move. Well, two could play at that game. “WELL, THAT’S GOOD. I HAPPEN TO HAVE A SURPRISE OF MY OWN WAITING FOR YOU UPSTAIRS, SO DON’T STAY DOWN HERE TOO LONG.”

With that, Edge grabbed the plate and sashayed his way up the stairs and back out into the deepening snow.

=====

It was late at night when Classic trudged up the stairs and through the snowstorm to the main house. He still wasn’t entirely convinced that he should be stopping. The interdimensional phone didn’t have nearly the clarity of tone that he wanted, but he really couldn’t fiddle with it any longer. When he was younger, maybe, but now his eyes gave out much sooner than they used to. It was better to take a break and sleep off the shivers than to push himself.

He felt absolutely caked in snow by the time he opened the front door. He couldn’t even see through the snow plastered to his face. Knowing that his brother was likely staying over with his datemate, Classic immediately started stripping off his ice-cold layers before he got chilled to the bone and soaked through.

It wasn’t until Classic was down to his t-shirt and shorts, after he had used a clear patch of his hoodie to wipe off his face, that he could see the room in front of him. It was… not what he had been expecting. If he’d been expecting anything, it was that the room would look as it usually did; the new couch that they had gotten when they reached the Surface, the old tv that worked better than it used to thanks to a little tinkering on Classic’s part, the joke/quantum physics book on the table in the corner, and the pet rock on the dining table. Most of those things were probably still there. Probably. It was hard to see them around the giant blanket nest that took up the majority of the room. Edge must have put in every blanket, pillow, and cushion in the house!

Classic grinned and crawled over the mounds of fuzzy fleece and warm wool that grew into a giant mountain of comfort. Sitting on top of (and slightly within) the pile was Edge. He had a self-satisfied expression on his face, like a dog with a big stick or a cat with a “dead” string. He had a large bowl of popcorn in one hand and the tv’s remote controller in the other.

“SO. DO YOU LIKE MY SURPRISE?” Edge asked his datemate.

Classic chuckled. “it certainly is surp-rising. how long did it take you to build this thing? i can see you used the pool noodles to maintain the pile’s structural integrity without sacrificing softness.”

Edge preened under the compliment to his engineering even as he glared at the pun. Classic knew he would. Edge loved it when his datemate praised him, and he was especially proud of his skills as a puzzle engineer. This might not be a puzzle, but the same principles applied.

“IT IS A RATHER INGENIOUS IDEA, ONE TRULY WORTHY OF THE GREAT AND TERRIBLE EDGE,” his datemate said as he set down the remote, freeing up one hand to help Classic over the last few feet of pillows and into the little divot in the covers that Edge was sitting in. “I HAD THOUGHT OF USING THE THROW PILLOWS, BUT THEY DID NOT HAVE THE LENGTH I NEEDED FOR THIS WORK. THE POOL NOODLES SEEMED AN OBVIOUS NEXT CHOICE.”

Classic smiled. “you don’t give yourself enough credit. i know i never would have thought to use them. i probably would have given up on the mountain-like design and just made a pillow fort.”

“OH,” Edge blinked, stunned. “THAT WOULD CERTAINLY HAVE BEEN EASIER THAN STICKING WITH MY ORIGINAL DESIGN. THE IDEA OF A PILLOW FORT NEVER OCCURRED TO ME.”

Classic chuckled as he settled into the curve of his datemate’s arms. He loved how nicely he seemed to fit in the other’s grasp, like both of them were designed perfectly to fit one another. His legs could curl up right next to Edge’s while his skull rested on the other’s ribs, and when he did so Edge could rest his skull comfortably on top of Classic’s. His brother had called it perfectly, sickeningly sweet, like eating a whole bag of pure sugar. He’d meant it in a good way, though.

“that’s okay, edge. if we all thought the same way then the world would be a really boring place, no bones about it. now, what did your insightful brain come up with for us to watch?”

Edge’s face went from a small frown at the pun that didn’t reach his eye lights to a brilliant smile. “WELL, I WAS THINKING OF STARTING UP…”

=====

Edge had no idea what time it was when the credits started rolling. It was dark outside still, but with the way the snow was falling it could be high noon and still be dark out. He didn’t have his watch available to check. That wasn’t because he didn’t have it on. No, he couldn’t check the time because Classic had fallen asleep while wrapped around that arm like a little koala bear. It was absolutely adorable.

Edge set aside the empty popcorn bowl and grabbed the remote controller with his free hand. He switched off the tv and relaxed into the mound of pillows, content to lay here with his datemate forever.

The sound of the snow hitting the windows and the lullaby of Classic’s snores quickly lulled Edge into a doze. His eyelids drooped. He fought the sleep, wanting to stay awake, but it was a futile effort. He gently drifted into sleep while curled happily around his datemate in a mound of blankets while a snowstorm raged outside.

[wirewitchviolet]

A Little Fact Checking Primer on Trans People

As a trans woman, I literally can’t go a day without encountering at least a dozen horrible bigots shouting disgusting things directly at me, which I’ve come to accept, but I notice every time it happens there’s this whole crowd of confused people who don’t have that sort of burning hatred for trans people, but do think they raise a couple good points. And people think this because nobody has ever taught them enough basic facts about trans people to recognize the most obvious lies. So let’s work on that a bit.

Trans women are men who wear dresses. - FALSE

This is THE most common lie that gets floated around. Before I even begin to address it, let me just hit you with a few photos of actual trans women to hopefully show just how far off the mark this is.

It should be pretty clear from looking at these photos that these are all plainly women, and as a bonus. I also wouldn’t describe any of these outfits as “a dress.”

So, how is this lie as popular as it is? Well, for a number of reasons I’m going to get into in more detail, it is very rare for the average person to see a trans person and realize that person they are looking at is trans (would you have guessed any of the women above were if I hadn’t said so?) and nearly every time you see a trans person depicted in the media, rather than hire or accurately draw/describe a real trans person, they just take some man and put him in a dress, or take some woman and put her in a suit. Since such portrayals are basically all you ever see when being told you’re looking at a trans person, that’s what you grow up thinking. But, no. Trans women are women, who just look like any other woman, and trans men are men who look like any other man.

Trans women are men who got a bunch of plastic surgery to look like women - FALSE

The photo set used above came from me doing a quick search for trans models, because it’s a lot easier to disprove the “costume” lie if I can show you women wearing clothes skimpy enough to show they aren’t stuffing their bras or concealing big burly hairy arms or anything like that, and I didn’t do any background checks beyond verifying that every woman pictured is in fact trans, so it’s possible some of these women may have had nose jobs or other minor cosmetic surgeries to achieve more idealized faces, but the “bunch of plastic surgery” referred to in this lie refers to some sort of comic book fantasy where you can somehow take someone who looks like Sylvester Stallone or something, bust out a scalpel, and somehow carve away flesh and bone to leave behind some sort of idealized specimen of womanhood like these. That just isn’t how it works. Such surgeries do not exist, and bodies like these women have are all quite attainable without any kind of surgery at all. Just be a woman, eat the right diet get the right sort of exercise and be lucky enough to have a pleasantly symmetrical face, and tada.

I’ve totally seen “before and after” photos of trans women which pretty damn well look like a man and a woman side by side - TRUE

Here’s a truly mind-blowing example from a friend of mine, in fact.

So what’s going on here? Well, the short version is, trans people are people who are actually of one gender, but for some reason, usually a hormone production imbalance or insensitivity, look like another gender until getting that treated.

The effects of this can be pretty damn impressive and dramatic, and some tend to be observable immediately from birth, so what typically happens is our parents attempt to just go off appearances, give us names based on how we look, and do their best to just raise us as that gender, stubbornly ignoring every sign, no matter how obvious the signs that they’re forcing the wrong identity on their child at best, and trying to force us to be what they want in some really messed up ways.

This screws with our heads badly enough that a lot of us go along with it for decades, just being utterly miserable and feeling like fake people for reasons we can’t necessarily articulate. It certainly doesn’t help that society’s overall ignorance about this keeps us from learning all we have to do is take some combination of cheap supplements/blockers for a couple years and everything will just fix itself. Even after hearing that this sort of hormone replacement is possible, and just from off-label usage of extremely well tested and common drugs, normally used for birth control, menopause, and acne treatment, most of us refuse to believe how effective this can be. Which is why I once again have to thank my friend Kiva for permitting me to link that amazing pair of photos showing just how dramatic the effects of fixing this sort of imbalance can be.

Trans people basically walk around in disguise and can make themselves look like men or women at will. - FALSE

I think I already covered this in the first of these, but just to reiterate the point, let me pull another photo off the stack.

Put a woman like this in a man’s suit and you just have what’s clearly a woman in a man’s suit. There’s no weird Cinderella/werewolf thing going on. Trans women look like women (because that’s what we are) all the time. Actually let me do one better. I have a trans woman in a suit right here.

Trans women have penises - SOMETIMES SORT OF TRUE

This is a tricky one to talk about because I try to keep this blog safe for work, and it’s hard to get this across without some sort of visual aid.

Here is a NSFW image in the form of a black and white sketch of human gonadal structure, as far removed and abstracted from looking at someone naked as I can find, but again, hedging my bets, click at your own peril.

You’ll notice, if you click, that this is the same exact structure. So, one of those things that the above-mentioned hormone imbalances tend to do is inflate this structure in women, and shrink it in men, making it appear that most trans women have penises and trans men clitorides (a few other things in that region are affected in similar fashion). This is the main thing that leads to us being miscategorized as babies. And the functionality can even match the size while the hormone issues responsible are untreated.

This too is treatable though. The same hormone replacement leading to Kiva’s shocking before and after photos have a pretty major impact, to the extent that having been on such for years now, if I were to attempt to indulge in self-pleasuring techniques in the fashion a man would, it just plain would not work Structurally, mechanically, texturally, it’s just not on the table. Grabbing a woman’s sex toy and using that accordingly though would work just fine. Now, if I posted a very intimate photo, things would look a bit weird (not manly really, it’s sort of a unique oddity down there), but there’s a surgery that can restructure everything and get it back to the standard factory settings most women have going on, with the exact proper appearance and functionality. It’s expensive, and there’s only like a dozen or two surgeons in the world who perform it (I actually have a full list on my desk somewhere). So some of us can’t do that because we don’t have the money or insurance that will cover it, or surgery is too dangerous, or we can’t reach those couple dozen surgeons, or we can and we’re stuck on waiting lists for years, and some of us don’t care about about standardizing our anatomy enough to want to bother with all that.

The idea that we’re effectively men from the waist down though is a sensationalist exaggeration though, and the notion that those of us who have things corrected have anything “chopped off” is a grotesque lie.

Trans women are fetishists and likely sex offenders - FALSE

I mean, t’s way more common than average for us to be lesbians or bisexual (I think the straight/bi/lesbian ratio is something like 30/40/30), which might qualify as some sort of “sexual deviance” if you’re some weird homophobe from the 1950s or something, but the idea that we get some kind of thrill out of the way we look or the clothes we wear is a total myth. I have a closet full of women’s clothes because I’m a woman. Those are the clothes that fit me best and look good on me. If I tried to put on a pair of men’s jeans or something it’d be really uncomfortable because like most women I carry most of my extra weight on my thighs and butt, and personally I have a good bit of that. If I put a bra on it’s because I need the support and/or don’t want creepy dudes trying to make out the outline of my nipples through my shirt. Nothing particularly sexy about any of that.

And on the predatory front, any stories about trans women being sexually aggressive pretty much just come from hatemongers. This is something they’ve even publicly admitted to. Statistically, trans people are way less likely than anyone else to commit any sort of sex-related criminal offenses, and even in consensual relationships we tend to be real real timid about approaching anyone. A lot of that is because in addition to being orders of magnitude more likely than others to be the VICTIMS of sexual assault, there’s this really horrifying state of affairs where if you aren’t in one of the yellow states, it’s a valid legal defense to murder a trans woman after having sex with her if you decide you aren’t comfortable with that. Or even if you just feel like one of us might be hitting on you.

An overwhelming majority of us just avoid the risk entirely by dating other trans people exclusively.

Trans women have to trick people into dating them - FALSE

This is a basic supply and demand issue really. We are super rare. Depending who you ask, the trans population is somewhere between 1 in 300 people and 1 in 50 people. We tend to look damn good, because years of being mistaken for the wrong gender tends to encourage putting a major effort into presentation to keep it from happening, and again, most of us just hook up with each other because people who decide we’re really exotic and want to hook up have a scary habit of fipping out after the fact (or during, or just before), or have their egos bruised when people bring in the baggage of all the lies covered above an picture them hooking up with men in dresses) and murder us to be sure we don’t tell anyone. And again, like the map above says, the court system buys into us being scary predators enough to give them a pass for that.

So the brave few trans women who put themselves on the market in non-trans dating circles never lack for willing partners.

Men can just self-identify as trans women and barge into women’s restrooms and changing rooms and exploit programs to hire more women - FALSE

Self-identification is a term thrown around in British law regarding trans people in the specific context that trans people are seeking the basic right they have in more enlightened countries to just tell therapists and doctors that they’re trans, and start down the long red-tape filled road towards proper medical treatment and legal recognition, as opposed to going to one specific singular clinic, the only one in the country, and prove that they are trans to the staff thereof. Which in addition to being a decidedly arbitrary barrier. People who aren’t trans don’t have an interest in altering their hormone balance to radically alter their bodies, and even if they did, the effect on their brain chemistry would mess them up severely (meanwhile, one of the most immediate benefits of HRT for trans people is fixing brain chemistry issues that allow us to think more clearly, feel emotions properly, and otherwise end years of feeling like some kind of broken fraudulent zombies, because our brains aren’t getting enough/getting too much of certain chemicals).

It also can’t be stressed enough how this is just the first step of a very long process, with tons of red tape. Here’s the 110 page international manual doctors and lawmakers all over the world follow.for this stuff, when they aren’t adding even more arbitrary hoops on top of this. Before getting that little F on my ID, I had to spend two years “living as a woman” at least a year on HRT, and have multiple medical professionals sign off, who all had their own months or years long requirements to deal with. And that’s in a country where self-identification is the law of the land.

A lot of people also use the term to make disgusting jokes like “I identify as an attack helicopter” or “I identify as black,” in an effort to compare trans people to con artists like Rachel Dolezai or generally paint us as absurd. So, that’s fun.

Trans women completely dominate in sports - FALSE

OK, just pick a sport. Look at the top level competitors and champions in it. None of them are trans. “OK but didn’t I hear about some trans woman running track and just crushing everyone?” No, you didn’t. You’re thinking of Caster Semenya. She isn’t trans. Bigots spread rumors that she is because there’s a long disgusting tradition of racists claiming black women “look like men,” especially black lesbians, and in particular, this one whiny little white supremacist started whining like crazy about how unfair it was that she finished every race behind a bunch of black women, and has been campaigning to have them all kicked out of the sport so she can finish 3rd instead of 6th.

It’s also worth noting that the BS ruling proposed to force Semenya out of her favored event wouldn’t actually affect any trans athletes, as legally qualifying as women already requires us to address hormone balance issues in a way that, if the effects of high testosterone levels weren’t decidedly exaggerated, would put all of us at a severe disadvantage to everyone else in a given sport.

There are actually a good number of trans people involved in various professional sports, none of whom really excel as an additional data point here. The closest thing to an exception is the story of a trans boy on a high school wrestling team who, thanks to poorly thought out rules put in place to preemptively keep trans girls from playing on girls’ teams by ignoring everything but birth certificates, was forced against his will to join the girl’s wrestling team. Something absolutely no one involved, least of all him is happy about.

There are a whole ton of new laws trans women are pushing for that would suddenly mean they were treated as women for purposes of walking into bathrooms and locker rooms and all sorts of other things - FALSE

The existing status quo already has us in such places, as it should, because, again, trans women are women and don’t actually appear to be anything else, and this standard has existed for decades. You’ve been in public restrooms and locker rooms at some point in your life with at least one trans person being present unless you actively avoid ever entering such. You didn’t notice, and there was no reason you should have cared. Because, again, what is there to be upset about exactly?

There’s a scary new trend of diagnosing young children as trans and giving them irreversible surgeries and hormone treatments - FALSE

If you haven’t picked up on it, nobody is proposing any sort of new legislation anywhere to expand the rights of trans people, outside of the aforementoned self-ID thing in England, which is just getting up to speed to where the rest of the world has been for decades.

And again, as previously covered, nobody gets “diagnosed as trans.” Bigots constantly talk up these hypothetical situation where parents who, for some baffling reason, want their children to be trans, take them to specialists for some sort of examination potentially giving them a label as such. Parents like that don’t exist. Specialists like that don’t exist. There’s no trans test. It’s just something you innately know about yourself and have to start twisting arms to get medical help with. And if there were such a test, I’m still not sure how running it on people would be a bad thing. It only makes sense if we’re acknowledging these children really are trans, but want to avoid any sort of official labeling or treatment in the hopes it can somehow be tortured out of them through conversion therapy (which for the record is proven not t work for anything but making those subjected to it suicidal);

Furthermore, we’ve already addressed that radical full body reconstructive surgery is not an actual thing, but even if it were, outside of immediate emergency treatments for failing organs, we generally don’t perform any sort of surgeries on minors. The WPATH standards I linked earlier are pretty clear on all of this as well.

Hormone replacement is also completely off the table for minors. Personally I don’t agree with that, and feel that if a child has worked out that they’re trans before starting puberty, the thing to do would be to start fixing their hormone balance at that age, so they properly develop alongside all their peers, but I’m not out there making a push for it, nor is anyone else I’m aware of.

Instead, the standard we have for such children is to put them on puberty blockers, otherwise typically prescribed for cases of precocious puberty, where children start puberty when they’re like 6 years old and there are potential health risks. These drugs don’t cause any sort of permanent changes. In fact, the entire point is to delay any changes that would otherwise be made by increased hormone levels during puberty, either putting it off until the appropriate age, in the case of the more traditional use, or in the case of trans children, preventing the hormone imbalance rendering them trans in the first place to flood their bodies with the wrong mix, which again, causes really horrible problems with brain chemistry and really undesirable effects like breast/hair growth etc. I lived through it. It was hell. And of course in the hypothetical event that a child was put on puberty blockers until they were 18 who wasn’t trans, the only effect it would have would be them not starting puberty until 18. Really not the end of the world, particularly since no child gets put on such unless they personally request it.

Otherwise the only thing done for trans children is encouraging those around them to use the correct pronouns and not be weird about policing what they wear, so they don’t have to deal with years of abuse, torment, and confusion when they age up to a point to get medical treatment, and get to live a totally normal life, without all their childhood friends having the wrong idea about what gender they were growing up.

Trans people are getting way more common all of the sudden, or only just came into existence recently - FALSE

Trans people have been around literally forever (and this is documented in historical sources should you be curious enough to look), and while, again, different studies disagree on exactly how rare we are, it’s because we’re rare enough that it’s hard to get an accurate count. We make up the same small percentage of the population world wide, with even distribution. We’re not contagious. There’s no “trans gene.” People don’t decide to become trans.

AWARENESS that trans people exist has been on the rise, but that’s just because horrific bigotry towards trans people has been on the rise. And that’s simply because all the people who spent the last couple of decades flipping the hell out over gay marriage have generally conceded defeat on that front, and on the front of keeping gay characters out of the media, preventing gay couples from adopting children, and otherwise keeping gay people out of public life. They felt they needed a new wedge issue to drive down support for LGBT+ people, and figured the total dearth of public awareness about trans people meant they could spread all kinds of scaremongering crap without anyone calling it out as hateful BS, and... yeah they’ve been pretty successful in doing that. Otherwise I’d have had no reason to write up this primer. It also helps that they’ve been so successful in painting a bunch of far-right religious extremists as scholarly left-leaning feminists, so it isn’t as obvious that it’s the same hateful crap coming from the same hateful sources.

But again, BS is what it all is. Hopefully I’ve linked enough reputable sources to make that clear here, and answered at least the bulk of questions you may have had about trans people. There’s one more though.

There are only two genders and the singular they is grammatically incorrect - FALSE

I’ve kept the vast majority of this focused on trans women, because the vast majority of hate and disinformation is focused on women specifically, but not all trans people are women. Trans men also exist. As I did above, I can easily show you a bunch of attractive models who are undeniably men.

I can give you another of those amazing before and after photos too.

And in addition to there being trans men and women, there are people out there who realize that being labeled as boy or a girl when they were wrong was clearly a mistake, but switching to the other label also doesn’t feel right, so they find another option to go with. The English language doesn’t really have any sort of terminology to cover that concept, and for whatever reason, Christian missionaries really did their darnedest to stamp out every culture that has the appropriate language and concepts. Again though, historical records on this go back forever.

Because English sucks for discussing such people, we generally throw them under the catch-all label of “non-binary” (since they don’t fit in with the binary choice of being either a man or a woman, see) and either need to work out new pronouns, or just refer to them as, well, them.

A lot of people who get prickly about this since, well, they’re big ol’ bigots, attempt to rationalize their discomfort with claims that this isn’t grammatically correct, but, it is. The English language has used “they” as a singular pronoun for longer than it’s used “you” as a singular pronoun.

In fact, even the people who raise such objections pretty constantly make use of the very thing they’re complaining about. It is hilariously commonplace for some bigot to get into this big huge speech about how they refuse to use the singular they, get into disparaging a hypothetical person using it, and start rambling about how they were taught to always say ‘he or she’ in such situations, and that they couldn’t possibly adapt, using the word, in that context, about as many times as I just did in this paragraph. It’s so natural nobody ever even realizes they’re doing it unless they’re actively trying to be a jerk about it.

I might edit this if there’s anything big I forgot, but tada. You are now less woefully ignorant about trans people.

[horseyfuture]

Lockdown Horrorscopes

Welcome, horrendous mortal, to your mind-rending Lockdown Horrorscopes. It has been some time since you last graced my tent with your questioning buttocks. No, do not cross my palm with silver, we use contactless now. Just press it on that bit of the window there. Excellent. Your payment has been accepted. Let us discover what the universe needs you to hear...

---

Aries: After many weeks of lockdown, you are beginning to have conversations with inanimate objects around the house. In the middle of a one-sided argument with the toaster, a small, flint-hard piece of green-tinged pitta bread joins the debate, taking the toaster’s side and calling you a “scruffy tossbag”. You may be hallucinating, though also, that pitta bread has been there QUITE A WHILE. The pitta is chewy, but stops talking after a while. A little time later the room becomes a little sloshy, like gravy in a bowl. The fruit bowl pipes up as you walk past. It calls you a wanker.

Taurus: To fend off the tedium, you decide to play a joyful round of “how many chairs can you put on a chair”, to which the answer turns out to be “six, before getting a face full of chair”. While bleeding gently onto a chair, you consider that future sources of entertainment might be more wisely centred around (say) pillows, or kittens, or candyfloss. You do not own any of these things, sadly, as you sold what you did have to get more chairs, very much failing to anticipate the sorts of items commonly found to be of use in a lockdown. Oh well. You sigh resignedly and begin to put a chair precariously on top of some other chairs.

Gemini: Having had more Skype calls with family than anybody can healthily defend, you decide to take a long, relaxing bath. Unfortunately, you are running low on soap. Also, you forgot to stock up on bubblebath last time you went to the shop. And water. Additionally, you do not own any towels. Or a bath. Or the room for a bath. A bathroom, if you will. Still, not to be held back by trifling inconveniences, you diligently strip off and scrub yourself vigorously all over, while sat naked on the kitchen floor. Eventually, the people who own the house return and a Series of Exciting Conversations follow.

Cancer: Because you are so wildly creative and unique, you decide that among your already proven range of wondrous skills, such as writing crap poetry, making crap fan art for mawkish period dramas and attaching small pieces of technical lego to a crap hat, you will blow the minds of your friends by becoming... a baker! Yes. This will mark you out as a trend setter. You carefully go to the shop, observing social distancing except when you aren’t which is always and buy ALLLLL the ingredients for bread making. Literally all of them. So nobody else can make bread. Returning home, you valiantly point your wild intellect at the problem and, with a little help from a BBC recipe guide: YOU MAKE BREAD. It is crap.

Leo: You receive an unexpected parcel. The parcel contains mostly lizards. As well as the lizards, there is a bright red jewel which sparkles enticingly. You discover that the jewel allows you to control the lizards. And also, to see through their eyes. You, furthermore, hear their lizardy thoughts, although to be fair, their minds are fairly quiet and their thoughts are mostly “Woohaar! I’m a lizard!” With your newfound powers, you decide you will finally be freed from your virus-laden lockdown. No longer will you be caged by a mere four walls. You send your lizard army forth to bring you new sights, sounds and experiences. Unfortunately, almost everything is shut and the outside world is pretty dull. After a bit, one of the lizards politely asks if they might have their minds back, to which you accede. They agree to pop round on Thursdays. They’re good lizards.

Virgo: The Gods smile upon you today. The Gods wink at you, also. The Gods send you a direct message asking you how you’re doing today and mention that you’re looking great in that recent profile photo. The Gods say they’re doing alright, you know, but feeling kinda lonely since Karen left, so hey, did you ever get back together with Steve? No? That’s a real shame, you were a sweet couple. The Gods ask if that means you’re still single, then? You are? Oh, baby, there ain’t no justice. What you need’s a real man. You sure do. You deserve one. Or maybe even better. The Gods wonder if you’ve ever made it with a deity. The Gods wonder how come you went so quiet. The Gods say aw, come on, don’t be like that. The Gods themselves go quiet for a while. The Gods send you unsolicited photographs of their genitalia. You block the Gods.

Libra: As you open your kitchen cupboard, a wizard appears before you and tells you that of the two remaining cans of soup, one of them contains not just soup but truly endless riches: the meaning of the universe and an infinite lifespan granted to the opener, with which to explore and enjoy the myriad beauties to be found in a boundless cosmos. In the other can: SUFFERING. Problematically, though, one of the cans is tomato soup from a fairly reputable brand and the other is leek and celeriac, which your weird aunt sent you about four years ago and seems to have been manufactured by ancient Welsh hippies. You go to open the tomato and the wizard winces and whistles through his teeth. You reach toward the leek and celeriac. The wizard smiles and waggles his eyebrows. Bugger this, you open the tomato, the wizard disappears and your arse immediately falls off. You have no regrets and the soup’s pretty good.

Scorpio: You are the twat that took all the toilet roll. Helpful. Aren’t you a good little pandemic pixie? Getting up at shithead o’clock in the morning and nicking all the stuff that your neighbours might have wanted. They suspect you. They saw you carrying your many, many bags past their windows and into your flat. But what they don’t know is that you’re not using it the way they imagine. You haven’t done a poo in over five weeks now. Not since you superglued your bum together. They’d think you were crazy, but you had to. To save the toilet roll for Greater Things. The pains come again, as your tummy heaves and you try to poop through a blocked up bum, but you breathe deeply and in time this passes. Now you are free to return to your great work. Your 20ft high pornographic sculpture of the Queen, made entirely from papier mache. Your Majesty looks down on you in erotic approval.

Sagittarius: Carnival tiiiiime! It’s carnival time! CARNIVAL TIME! Oh boy, oh boy, you can’t wait! You LOVE carnival time! You’ve been waiting so long, and they said you weren’t going to have carnival time because of the virus, but you weren’t gonna miss out! CARNIVAL TIIIME! There’s a strange knocking sound. That’s not usually part of carnival time. You follow the sound to the door, which you open gingerly. Who? Ah. OK. Right you are. I see. Yup. Yup. I will. No, you’re right. I’ll do that. I will. I’ll put it back. I thought you wouldn’t mind. It’s not a real one, it’s just a, no, OK, I’ll get rid of it. And the fish. I got it online. I’ll look after. OK, no, I understand. I know. I will. I’ll wipe it off. Yep. I will. Right away. Sorry. OK. Bye mom. So. Uhhh. Yep. Yeeeep yep. It is definitely not carnival time.

Capricorn: You begin to suspect that there is something going on with your neighbours next door. There are animal sounds late at night and you’re certain they have no pets. Sometimes you hear a tapping, it seems rhythmical. Almost like Morse code. How you wish you’d remembered the symbols they taught you for that when you were at school. One morning, you wake up and sit bolt upright as the sounds of a plaintive, strangled scream are quickly drowned out by a guttural groan of ecstasy, as if something huge and ancient had been satisfied in a way that only demons would commend. Sullen red illumination fades from the windows and all becomes silent once more. You resolve to ask the vicar if he’d consider wearing headphones on his Zoom calls in future.

Aquarius: You decide that you will spend the week not wearing a bra. Why not? Why shouldn’t you at least enjoy some of the more free and easy aspects of long term self-isolation. After the week, though, you sort of miss the bra, so you start wearing it again for a few days. Yeah, actually, this is kind of better. And if this is better, how good would two bras be? You try it out. Feels amazing. Why didn’t you try this before? How could you not have realised that the problem wasn’t tight bras or ill-fitting bras, or always having to wear a bra, the problem was: Not ENOUGH bras. You immediately add a third bra. Holy crap, this is the life. Five or six bras in, you’re starting to slow down a bit, not least because of the underwiring, but you feel incredible, and the SUPPORT is off the chart! The door bell rings. You clatter to answer it, now a somewhat difficult proposition given all the bras. Delivery guy leaves a large parcel on the floor to maintain social distancing, which makes picking it up a little tricky. Again. All the bras. You hobble inside and manage to pop open the parcel. Ah yes. More bras. Perfect.

Pisces: Day 37. You miss your partner. It’s been weeks now and while the occasional saucy video call has kept some semblance of intimacy together, you have needs and an itch you cannot truly scratch. Your hamster runs noisily in its catch, the wheel squeaking. The hamster gets more exercise than you these days. If only you hadn’t sold that treadmill. You feel a kinship to the hamster, tinged with guilt. Now you yourself are confined in your house, you feel bad for locking up little Hammy. In fact, you decide to let Hammy out. You share a strange kinship with Hammy now, fellow prisoners in life’s lonely cage. So lonely. Just you and Hammy. All alone. Nobody else around. Poor little Hammy. All alone, just like you. Day 38. You look at Hammy. Hammy looks at you. Tired, but loving, Hammy’s eyes seem to say a lot of things to you and you feel a different kind of guilt now, looking into them, albeit mixed with gratitude. You put an extra helping of food in the cage, fill up the water bottle and think about where you find yourself in these strange times. You glance back up at the cage and think. “They’re going to make me marry that hamster”.

---

YES! The vision is complete. The skies briefly whirl, the oceans dance then subside and the stars cease their jagged oscillations abruptly and settle down with some snacks to watch Netflix. You have heard the universe’s dark narrative and your brain structures are indelibly marked with what must come. Now go. And tell nobody you visited me today. The police regretfully do not consider this to be classed as an essential journey.

[drarryruinedme7]

Don't air your dirty laundry in public

This is completely wild @rockmarina 😂I wrote it for you, inspired by real-life event (?? ahahah I hope you’ll like it! ❤️

Betad by amazing @keyflight790 !!! ❤️

Rating: Explicit | Word count: 1.8K | Tags: Domestic Drarry, Draco Malfoy is Clueless about Muggle Things, a lil bit of angsty feelings flavoured with smut and fluffiness | READ IT ON AO3.

Harry went back home to a unique sight.

Draco Malfoy was crouched in front of a… was that a washing machine?

Harry sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose, sliding his glasses up his head, in the mess of his hair. He exhaled slowly. “Dray, love, what exactly are you doing?”

Draco replied without moving his eyes from the porthole of the washing machine. “I…don’t know. This seems evil to me.”

Harry drew in a breath and closed his eyes. Not again.

“Draco, we’ve discussed this. Muggle things are not evil, they work through electricity and–”

“I know! I know! You’ve told me many times and I’ve bought possibly every single electronic Muggle device by now. Enough to know how they work. It’s just…” Draco pushed the ON button and the washing machine started vibrating, the basket rotating.

He resumed. “I’ve lost the last two hours trying to understand how this works. It seems harder than other devices.” He clutched the information leaflet in his hands, knuckles turning white.

Harry reached him and crouched down. Draco still didn’t move his eyes from the porthole. Harry raised a hand and slowly tucked a strand of blond hair behind his ear. He lingered a moment on his earlobe, stroking it lightly.

“Dray, I’m proud of you. It’s not easy to understand how these things work if you never grew up with them.”

Two tears broke free from Draco’s lashes to fall down his cheeks. His voice came out broken. “You shouldn’t be p-proud of me. I’m – I’m only doing this to ease my feeling of guilt. I c-can’t understand, Harry.” He angrily wiped the tears with the back of his hand.

Harry placed a kiss on his temple. “What can’t you understand, love?”

“Why! Why my parents hated M-Muggles so much! I – I was an idiot! And believed everything they told me. I was convinced, Harry, I was so convinced Muggles deserved to be hated! Because I couldn’t understand a fucking thing about their world.” Draco’s eyes snapped now towards Harry’s, bloodshot and shiny.

Harry smiled. “Is this why our house is packed with Muggle devices lately? Do you want to understand them?”

Draco blushed a delicate rose and bit his bottom lip. “Y-yes? Am I crazy, Harry?”

Harry snorted and pulled Draco close, claiming his lips in a sweet kiss. “Merlin, you’re the craziest, Dray. But still, I love you and I think it’s cute you want to understand them. Don’t be harsh with yourself, you’ve made some mistakes, but you’ve changed now.”

Draco looked crossed at Harry and pouted. “Hey, you’re supposed to say things like, No honey you’re not crazy.”

Harry brought the back of his right hand in front of Draco’s face. “But I can’t lie, honey. You see, it’s written right here.”

Draco batted off Harry’s hand, rolling his eyes. “Always a show-off. How can you love me, Harry?”

Harry stood up, bringing Draco with him. He didn’t know how to answer to that, so he silently brought him in their bedroom, positioned him on their bed and started wandering through their stuff.

He took out a photo album, a shirt, two identical jumpers, one with a D, the other with an H, a snitch. He placed them on the bed, next to Draco and started talking. “Dray, I love you because you always care for me, you are affectionate and sweet, you remember every anniversary, every birthday, everything I say. The day after I told you I liked this shirt, you bought it for me. It wasn’t even a special occasion. You just did it and you do it all the time.”

Harry sat next to Draco and took the photo album. He opened it, searching for… “Ah! Here! It was Teddy’s birthday and he was so upset because he had a fight with his best friend and didn’t want to celebrate anymore. You just went to pick his friend up at his house and took the two of them to a day trip in the woods. You built a wooden playhouse that day and Teddy was so happy, he kept saying he was the luckiest kid in the world, having an uncle like you. And you know what I thought? That the truly lucky one was me, having you as a husband. You look stunning in this pic with them, the sun makes your hair shine.”

Draco smiled fondly at the memory, brushing his fingers on the pic. “I do look stunning.”

Harry winked and then pointed to the jumpers. Draco giggled and closed his eyes, whispering, “Oh no, please.”

Harry laughed and with a jump, he reached for Draco and put the jumper on top of his head. “Oh yes, please! You hate this jumper, but still, every Christmas you wear it to make Molly happy and I know you do it for me too. You are the cutest with it.”

Draco came out of the head hole with his hair tousled and a frown on his face. “I’m not cute!”

Harry raised an eyebrow and grabbed the snitch. He threw it at Draco, who caught it easily. He was a Seeker, after all. “Objection, Your Honor! The snitch is our last smoking gun!”

Draco rolled his eyes but couldn’t help laughing. “You’re an idiot, Potter.”

Harry’s cheeks burnt and he felt his blood rushing instantly to his cock. His throat was suddenly dry. “D-Draco – c’mon, you know that – don’t call me that! It’s not the right moment.” He scooped a hand in his pants and readjusted his stiffening cock. After all these years, Draco’s tone when he said “Potter” could still drive him totally crazy.

Draco smirked and he brushed his lips over Harry’s neck. He purred, “It’s always the right moment, Potter.”

Harry closed his eyes and his hands flew to Draco’s head, clutching his hair. Draco pushed him down into the mattress and Harry opened his legs, to make room for him between them. He rocked his hips and hissed at the sensation: Draco was already hard as much as himself. He trailed his fingers through Draco’s hair, kissing his chin.

“At least, make me finish.” His voice was low and husky.

Grinding against Harry, Draco replied, “I’ll give you five minutes.” He licked Harry’s ear and then trailed down, nudging the soft spot under his earlobe, kissing Harry’s collarbone, grazing his fingers on Harry’s sides.

Harry’s breath hitched and he slipped his hands under Draco’s jumper, stroking his back. “This is unfair. I’ll never be able to concentrate like this.”

Draco lifted Harry’s jersey and placed a wet, open-mouthed kiss on his left hip-bone. He breathed, “Three minutes.”

That sent shivers running through Harry’s body, but he managed to swallow around the lump in his throat to answer, “Okay, okay, so. That day, four years ago. That day we played one of our Seeker-to-Seeker games and you won. All three sets. And I was so upset because I’m not used to losing three times in a row. You see, I’m silly too. And, aaah, fuck, damn Draco, aaah, let me finish.”

Draco had unbuttoned his trousers and was leaving hot kisses all along Harry’s shaft through the fabric of his pants. It was arousing. It was distracting.

Draco flicked his eyes up. “One minute, Potter.” He grasped Harry’s waistband and freed his cock that popped out, red and leaking. Draco licked his lips and brushed them on the tip of Harry’s cock, moaning and kissing off the wetness gathered there.

Harry gasped and searched for his last strand of self-control. “Damn, Malfoy. That d-day, when we went back home, you gave me the snitch you f-fucking won, telling me you didn’t need it because…because…”

Draco was now sucking gently Harry’s balls. He gave one last lick. Looked up. “Because I already won the most important thing in my life. Your love. And then I asked you to marry me.” He smiled, that warm smile that made dimples appear in his cheeks and his eyes crinkle with joy.

Harry smiled back. “Told you, you’re the cutest shit. Now, care to take my cock in your mouth?”

Draco raised an eyebrow, but grinned. “If you ask like that…”

He finally slid the tip of Harry’s cock inside his mouth and Harry groaned, a low guttural sound coming straight from his groin. Draco’s teasing always made him achingly hard and he already felt close.

Draco started bobbing his head up and down on his shaft; two strokes and he angled himself to swallow the entire length until the tip of Harry’s cock hit his throat, and his nose nudged Harry’s groin hairs, gagging a little. He hollowed his cheeks and sucked, coming back up.

Harry’s hand grasped Draco’s hair and pushed his head down again. With a violent shudder, Harry jerked his hips off the mattress, and he coated Draco’s tongue with his hot semen, crying, “Fuck, yes, Dray, yes.”

Draco swallowed around his cock and swirled his tongue around its sensitive head, making Harry’s toes curl and his stomach clench.

“Aah-ah, Dray, umh, stop please.” Harry was half laughing, the tranquillity of the after orgasm sweeping through him.

Draco sighed and sat back on his heels, pouting. “Mmh, but I want more. I could blow you for eternity, you know. You taste so sweet.”

Harry propped up on his elbows, a cheeky smile on his lips, eyelids half-closed. He was about to reply when they heard a loud bang coming from the bathroom.

Alarmed, they ran to it, to find a disaster. The porthole of the washing machine was wide open, water mixed with detergent spilled everywhere, an indefinite mass falling down from it, soaking in the mess on the floor.

Harry quickly tucked his cock in his trousers and looked sideways at Draco. “If you ruined one of my jumpers, I swear – ”

“Ah, is this for clothes?” Draco was scratching the back of his neck. “I thought… it is a washing machine and I washed… I thought it could wash everything, you know.”

Harry narrowed his eyes at him. “What did you put in it, Draco?”

He reached the bathroom and crouched to see scattered wooden pieces all over, sponges half destroyed, something that were probably leather gloves completely ruined. Cold sweats formed on Harry’s forehead. “Draco, did you put our broomsticks and our polishing kits in the washing machine?” He turned, glaring at him.

Draco stuttered. “I – um, I could have shrunk our broomsticks and put them to wash with our polishing kits. I m-mean, erm, the kit is for cleaning but, but then, who clean the polishing kit? So, I…”

Harry had thought he would be angry by now, but he could only laugh, tears at his eyes. “You’re amazingly idiot, Dray. How could you think detergent would be good with leather gloves or wood, I don’t know. You’re a special kind.”

Draco blushed deeply, muttering, “You’re not angry with me?”

Harry got up and hugged him tight, soothing him. “I would never. You’re trying, that’s what matters. I love you, Draco.”

Draco looked into his eyes and kissed Harry. “I love you too, Harry.”

[artificialqueens]

Overpowered Part 2(Branjie)- athena2

Chapter 2 is here and the angst train is getting rolling. I want to thank all of you for the amazing feedback on the first chapter. Your comments really made my happy and I appreciate each one of them. It would be great if you could leave some for this chapter too! ***This chapter does have mentions of anxiety, mild violence, and mentions of self-destructive behavior. Please be cautious.***

“Hold up! What the hell you mean I was dead?”

“Vanessa,” Silk warns.

“Don’t ‘Vanessa’ me! You want to just have a meeting after Professor fucking Trelawney here told me I’m gonna die!?”

She slams her fist on the table and faintly registers Brooke jumping at the noise–she makes a note to apologize later–and turns to Yvie. “What. Did. You. See?” She forces out through clenched teeth.

Yvie pales. “I saw a clock tower by a cemetery.”

“That fucking fits,” Vanessa snarls, her nose almost touching Yvie’s.

“The clock was cracked. It was stuck at 11:03. There was snow on the ground. Your hair was up–that’s why I didn’t realize it was you at first. Brooke’s face was bleeding and she was holding you. That’s all I saw.”

“How’d you know I was dead?”

“I can’t explain it, but I know. It’s a feeling I get.”

“You can’t see more?” Vanessa demands.

“It doesn’t work like that,” Yvie retreats with a sigh. “I get them randomly, I can’t control it. Usually I don’t even know what I’m seeing.”

Her hands curl into fists, heat pulsing in her fingertips.

“Can we avoid it?” Silk cuts in. “Or is it inevitable?”

“Well, they always happen, but sometimes not how I expect. Like, one time I saw a guy bleeding, but he was attacking someone. He was the bad guy. They’re not always what they seem. Maybe we can save you, or-”

“Me being dead seems like me being dead!”

“If you’re done yelling, you might want to take care of your girlfriend,” Scarlet interrupts coolly.

She suddenly notices the unmistakable sound of someone throwing up. Brooke is hunched over the garbage while A’Keria rubs her back. She straightens up and walks out, whole body shaking.

Shit.

“I-I’m sorry,” she says to Yvie, rubbing her eyes. “Gimme a minute.”

She sprints into the hall and is greeted by a hole in the wall flecked with red. Brooke’s head is in her hands, the knuckles on her right hand already light purple and bleeding.

“Brooke,” she whispers. Brooke looks up and Vanessa’s heart breaks at her red eyes and the tears spilling down her cheeks. Her breaths are quick and shallow.

“Baby,” she breathes, wiping Brooke’s tears with her thumb.

“I don’t want you to die!” Brooke sobs, sounding like a wounded animal.

“Hey, shh, it’s okay. Breathe, Brooke.” She puts on her brave voice, not sure who it’s for. “You heard Yvie. There might be a way around this. I ain’t going down without a fight. It’ll take more than that to get rid of me. I’m like a damn cockroach.”

Brooke smiles weakly but the tears are still flowing, and Vanessa holds her and pets her hair. Her own tears well up but don’t fall.

She whispers that it’s okay as Brooke’s trembling eases and her ragged breathing steadies.

If only she believed it. —

They get Brooke’s hand bandaged and Vanessa almost wishes she could wrap herself in a bandage, like a cocoon, and never come out.

“Do you need anything?” Brooke asks once they’re home. Vanessa truly can’t figure out what she needs.

“I’m going for a walk,” she says.

Brooke nods wearily. Vanessa hears a choked scream and something shattering after she leaves.

The sky is gray. She can feel the rain coming but keeps walking, leaves crunching as she stomps down the sidewalk, feet carrying her to her mother’s grave. Not that there had been anything to bury after the fire.

There’d be snow on the ground. The snow was usually gone around March. Did she really have less than six months? Did she really survive the fire, survive everything the past few years, to be denied seeing spring flowers poke through the ground?

No. Her throat is tight and she refuses to think about it. She’s cheated death once. She can do it again.

Thunder cracks like the sky has split in two. Raindrops pound against the earth, everything awash in gray.

Pouring rain while she cries in a cemetery. What a fucking cliché. Within seconds she’s soaked, but she doesn’t move. She stands there until her clothes are heavy and dripping and she can’t tell if the wetness on her face is from tears or raindrops.

She has no idea how much time passes, rain chilling her bones, teeth chattering, when suddenly a too-big coat is draped around her shoulders. She looks up and sees Brooke, T-shirt clinging to her shivering skin, hair drenched. Her eyes are redder than before and Vanessa figures she must have cried the entire time she was gone. Vanessa can just discern Bertha parked behind her.

“You drove here? Brooke, you’re afraid to drive.”

“I had to come get you.”

Vanessa slams her face against Brooke’s chest and cries as the rain beats down, her life one cliché after another. Brooke’s arms are so strong and secure it feels like Yvie’s vision isn’t a possibility. Like nothing could ever hurt her.

Brooke drives her home, white-knuckled grip on the wheel, worry shining in her eyes. Vanessa won’t let go of Brooke’s coat; not as she shuffles past tiny beads of broken glass from whatever Brooke smashed on the floor, not as Brooke puts her into warm pajamas and tucks her into bed. The lavender scent fills her as she drifts off. —

Two days later Vanessa wakes up thinking Yvie’s vision might be better than her stuffy head and burning nose.

Brooke rolls over and coughs harshly. “Ness, I think something’s wrong with me,” she says fearfully.

Vanessa feels a tiny stab of guilt, but at least there’s someone to be sick and miserable with her.

“We’re sick, Brooke,” she rasps, throat desert-dry. “That’s the last time I dramatically cry in the rain.”

She hears a key clicking in the lock, muffled cursing as something clatters against the door.

“Do you think someone’s coming to kill us?” Brooke sneezes twice and fumbles for tissues on the nightstand.

“If they are I might let them,” Vanessa groans, burying her face in the pillow to smother her pounding headache.

“Your savior has arrived,” A’Keria chirps in the doorway, bags hanging off her arm. “I knew you two were getting sick.”

A’Keria unloads a pharmacy’s worth of tissues, orange juice, and pills. She gives them cold medicine and steaming bowls of chicken soup. Brooke seems shocked to have someone taking care of her when she’s sick, and Vanessa tries not to think about that, not sure her body can hold any more anger toward the lab.

They huddle in bed and watch Schitt’s Creek, and Brooke falls asleep with her head on Vanessa’s shoulder, and aside from feeling like shit, it’s kind of nice.

Vanessa hopes the nice days aren’t numbered. —

Despite the ticking clock above her head, the next few weeks just…pass by. Like nothing is wrong. It’s mostly because Vanessa won’t acknowledge it. She has plenty of practice burying problems. (They have until it snows. It’s fine. She’s fine).

She’s never backed down from a fight. She liked the thrill, the energy. The problem is, there’s nothing to fight. There’s no villain, no secret lab. She can’t fight her way out, and that might be the scariest part.

She patches things up with Yvie and Scarlet. (If you blow this I will kick you to the curb, Silk had threatened). Luckily they weren’t upset after the meeting, and, inspired by A’Keria’s 5-star “Bitch can bake” review of Brooke’s cooking, they’re part of the Sunday brunch crew.

And Brooke. She sees Nina constantly. She apologizes over and over for the glasses she broke that first day, throws herself into training with Scarlet and Yvie. She nods off during their mostly-uneaten dinner twice in one week.

Vanessa’s not doing much better, despite the lies she tells. It’s like she’s fracturing into different Vanessas, slowly losing the real one. Practical Vanessa does research with Silk and Yvie, reviewing the vision, brainstorming plans. Avoidant Vanessa wants to hole up in bed and never leave. Normal Vanessa doesn’t quite work, as she finds herself desperately clinging to each kiss, each laugh, even each Trader Joe’s run, wondering if it’s the last.

And the Vanessa that’s slowly overpowering the others. Reckless Vanessa, the Vanessa that has decided she’s basically immortal until the snow flies, that destroys speed limits without her seatbelt and takes on dangerous criminals without backup or ear comm. The Vanessa that is daring Yvie’s vision to be wrong by acting in ways she knows full well can get her killed.

She should talk to Nina, talk to someone. But she can’t. She can’t watch Nina’s overly-kind face say her feelings are valid and it’s expected for her to act out but she should cope in a healthier way. (Her coping methods could be worse. She hasn’t even touched her liquor cabinet, though she gazed longingly yesterday). Besides, right now, she can pretend it’s not real. It’s just an image that’s months away. But if she talks about it, it’s a real problem. A problem she has to admit she is helpless against.

“We can talk about it if you want,” Brooke offers one night.

She refuses. —-

“I’m going on patrol,” Vanjie states firmly.

“But Scarlet and Yvie are out-“

“I’m going.”

“I’ll come with you-“

“No. You should stay. Get some sleep, you look exhausted. Don’t wait up or anything.”

Cold winds hits her face. She uses her police scanner and sticks to the streets, and for 4 hours she is in total control, each punch, kick, and smack letting her fight the fact that she can’t fight what’s coming.

She gets home at 3am and finds Brooke half-asleep on the couch, baking show on TV and mug of hot chocolate on the coffee table long since turned cold.

She can’t help but feel that a crack is forming between them.

And she’s holding the chisel. —

“I’ve been thinking…”

“Yeah?” Vanessa cuts her chicken so it looks like she’s eaten.

“I might ask Nina about the anxiety meds.”

“That’s a big step for you,” she says gently.

“Yeah. It’s just…I feel…I feel like I’m always waiting for something bad to happen. And I’m so tired but my brain can’t quiet down, and the flashbacks and panic attacks are getting worse and I just…it’s a lot,” she finishes quietly, head down, and Vanessa sees how deep the bags under her eyes are.

Guilt floods her. She’s noticed Brooke’s body tight like a coiled spring lately, but she’s been too wrapped up in everything to see it was getting that bad, that Brooke was suffering so much. “I’m sorry, baby. I should have known you haven’t been doing so well.”

“Don’t apologize. You have to focus on yourself too.”

“Still,” Vanessa insists. “So, meds, huh? You know there’s no shame in asking for help,” she says, sensing Brooke’s apprehension.

“I know. But I…I’m still kinda scared to take them. The lab never–it was bad to take anything besides what they gave me, and I’m afraid the meds will make me feel like theirs did…”

Sometimes Vanessa doesn’t think she can hate the lab more than she does. Then she hears this and wishes she could have personally ended everyone that worked there. “Brooke, you’re not bad for taking them, okay? The meds won’t be like the lab’s. They’ll make you feel better.”

“Okay.”

She still hasn’t brought the prescription home. —

They have their first group patrol, Scarlet in a deep red suit with gold piping and a gold double-S and Yvie in bright green with a purple eyeball, all of them with reinforced ear comms to protect against Scarlet’s screams. They follow Silk’s call to a street cracked down the center, pavement warped and crumbled like a giant stomped on the road.

“It’s like an earthquake,” Vanjie mutters.

“Does anyone hear crying?” Scarlet asks.

Vanjie hears faint wailing down the street, where a black car is upside down. “Shit, there’s a kid.”

The parents are unconscious and Vanjie doesn’t want to risk moving them. The girl is maybe four, screaming her little lungs out.

“Third Eye-”

“Yvie!”

“Whatever, call an ambulance,” Vanjie commands. “Frost, Scarlet, hold the car steady.”

She rips the door off and chucks it on the sidewalk. The girl’s cries pierce her ears. “I’m gonna help you,” she whispers as she undoes the car seat buckle and catches the girl.

“You’re alright.” Vanjie sets her down. She reaches for the emergency candy in her belt and hands her a chocolate bar, which she munches happily.

“She’s bleeding,” Frost notes, pointing to a cut on her forehead.

“Paramedics are coming. A doctor can check her,” Yvie tells them.

The girl squirms in fear. Vanjie scrapes her brain for any remnants of her brief and unsuccessful babysitting career as a 16-year-old. She’s prepared to comfort her like she comforts Brooke, minus the kisses, when the girl cries for her mommy and Vanjie freezes. How can she compare to a mom? What if she makes things worse?

Another small voice, one she ignores, rings in her head: I want my mom too.

Frost drops down on one knee. “Doctors can be scary, huh?” She asks softly.

The girl nods passionately.

“I get scared of them too.”

“But you’re a superhero!” She exclaims in surprise, tears slowing.

“I know. Even superheroes get scared. But you know what? Whenever I go to the doctor, my friend Vanjie stays with me, and it’s not so scary. And I-I’ll stay with you now, and it won’t be scary. Okay?”

The girl nods as the ambulance pulls up. Frost stands beside the stretcher while the EMT’s bandage her forehead, tells her she’s so brave, and Vanjie melts at the exchange. She finds herself dreaming of a future for them–a future with a cozy little house and the animals at their feet, without secret labs and death visions looming over their heads.

“I think this was someone with powers. There’s no damage anywhere else,” Silk reasons in her ear, cutting through the fantasy. “There’s a break-in at a warehouse two blocks over. Could be the same person.”

“Ready?” Yvie asks.

“Ready,” Vanjie answers, and they take off, meeting an old industrial warehouse, windows boarded up, paint peeling and grimy.

“It looks abandoned,” Frost observes. “Why would someone break in?”

“Guess we’ll find out.” Vanjie leads them through the rusty door.

The inside is clearly not abandoned. There’s shiny lab tables covered with vials and chemicals, armchairs against one wall, and a fridge in the corner.

They’ve barely entered when the door slams shut. Vanjie pulls with all her strength, but it doesn’t budge.

Her fire, Frost’s ice, and Scarlet’s sonic-screams all bounce off harmlessly. They try to reach Silk and receive crackling static.

“We’re stuck,” Yvie states plainly.

“No shit, Sherlock!” Vanjie snaps. “Funny you couldn’t see us getting stuck but you got no trouble seeing me die!”

“For the thousandth time, it doesn’t work like that!”

“How long before Silk realizes something’s up and comes to get us?” Vanjie shifts gears.

“Time is a construct.”

“Fuck off, Yvie!” Vanjie and Scarlet bark together.

“This was a trap,” Yvie replies calmly.

“Again, no shit.”

“No, think about it. Comms blocked? The walls being fire and ice and Scarlet-proof? They wanted us specifically.”

“Who, though?” Vanjie softens. “And why us?”

There’s light tapping on her shoulder. She spins around to see Frost, sweat beading on her forehead. “Windows,” she says quietly.

“Windows!” She exclaims in realization. “Alright,” Vanjie waves the others over. “The windows are boarded up. We can break through, we just need a way up.”

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” a voice says suddenly.

Two men appear out of the shadows, one in bright yellow, one in muddy brown.

“Who the hell are you?” Vanjie demands. “You got some ugly-ass costumes. You look like a damn banana.”

“Call me Shockwave,” the man in yellow says.

“Quake,” replies the man in brown.

“Am I supposed to know you and your cheesy as hell names?” If she distracts them long enough, the others can escape.

“You don’t, but she does,” Quake jabs at Frost.

Vanjie does not like where this is going.

Frost’s head snaps up. “Wh-what do you mean?”

“Well, maybe I misspoke. Precious little Frost wasn’t allowed to see us.”

“I’m surprised you’re still functioning,” Shockwave taunts. “I thought your brain would be mush by now. That’s what happened to the one before you. The General put her out of her misery. But I think we’ll have some fun with you,” he sneers. He rushes at Frost, whipping out a knife and holding it against her throat as she quivers.

“If you hurt her…if you even touch her, I swear to God I’ll kill you,” Vanjie feels the heat rising, hands erupting into flame.

“Anybody moves, your girlfriend gets it,” Shockwave threatens. The flames die out.

“I-I don’t-” Frost starts.

“You don’t know us, but we know you,” Quake says. “We made the drugs that made you. We spent years on them. Then the General stole our ideas and used them on you and his other pets. We never got any credit. It all went to you. And you didn’t even deserve it.”

It hits Vanjie like a truck. Two scientists that made drugs at the lab. Two missing employees from last month. But it can’t be. They’re dead, Silk had proof–

“But guess what?” Shockwave tosses the knife away and shoves Frost to the ground. “You’re not the only one with powers now.”

Circuits of lightning buzz around his hands. He forms the crackling tendrils into a ball and aims it at Frost, who hasn’t moved. She has that blank, far-away look in her eyes that still scares Vanjie no matter how many times she sees it. She’s trapped in her mind, and Vanjie can’t get her out.

She won’t even know it’s coming.

Shockwave rears his arm back and she launches a fireball. It distracts him enough for Yvie to lunge at him and Scarlet to go after Quake, the noises faint and distant as Vanjie rushes toward Frost.

There is no recognition or awareness in the green eyes. All she can do is wait for Frost—Brooke, really—to come back to her. She moves Frost into her lap and takes her hand, ice-cold and clammy, forcing down the fear as the seconds tick by and the fight rages on.

Frost bolts up, head whipping around wildly.

“You’re okay,” Vanjie soothes quickly. “I’m here.” She helps Frost control her breathing. She squeezes her hand tighter, feels her pulse slow.

“They escaped through the back and we lost them,” Scarlet mutters, appearing from a corner of the warehouse. Her lip is bleeding but she’s fussing over Yvie, who looks unharmed and swats her worried hands away.

Their concerned gazes burn into her, and she shifts to cover Frost better. They don’t know what happened to her and Vanjie plans to keep it that way.

The door flies open with a clang. Silk stands in the doorway, bolt-cutters in hand.

“Get in the car,” she barks.

Vanjie helps Frost into the car, allowing herself a sigh of relief once they’re speeding away. But she knows the relief won’t last.

A storm is coming. —

It’s a quiet night. They’ve hardly said two words since Silk’s call that Shockwave and Quake match the descriptions of the two supposedly dead employees, and Brooke’s voice is hoarse when it tickles Vanessa’s ear.

“Vanessa?”

“Yeah?”

“I think I’m ready to read my file.”

[ty-talks-comics]

Best of DC: Week of August 7th, 2019

Best of this Week: DCeased #4 - Tom Taylor, Trevor Hairsine, Stefano Gaudiano, Rain Beredo and Saida Temofonte

This book went out with a bang and it’s only been four issues of the six!

Captain Atom is one of the strongest heroes of the DC Universe. He’s right on par with Superman and under the reigns of the government, he’s an asset that they have complete authority over. The Atom, likely Ray Palmer, has dived into the body of an infected girl to see if there were a way to solve the crisis before it gets any worse, but then he goes dark. Captain Atom tells Amanda Waller to just way for The Atom to chime back in, but she orders him to go outside and clean the mess up. 

He does so, but soon realizes that something is horribly wrong. The next thing we see is The Atom tearing his way through Captain Atom's body, infecting him with the Anti-Life Virus.

We cut to the aftermath of the last issue with Clark bringing Martha Kent to the Daily Planet, crying about Jonathan as the entire Kent Family embraces each other over the loss. One of the big themes of this issue is the loss of family as there will he two big examples later on, each feeling more devastating than the last. 

Soon after Superman returns, he's ready to go back out there and rescue more people, but Dinah reminds him of the danger everyone could be in if he were to become infected. He counters that with the fact that he's been using x-ray vision to counter the effects of the virus as it's transmitted through screens. Lois makes a transmission to any hero or villain still alive and tells them to all come to the Daily Planet building. 

It's one of the few bits of hope that we get in this issue as we see that some people have boarded up their homes, some of the Titans are still alive and even Lex Luthor is listening in. Best of all, the transmission makes it to Themyscira and Wonder Woman makes her presence felt as she tells her mother and an arriving Mera that she's going to Metropolis. 

In Keystone City, Superman and Green Lantern Canary find Flash and Kid Flash who are doing their best to stay down as them becoming infected would be a nightmare for the world. In Gotham, Harley is being rescued by Ivy, who kills the infected versions of Catwoman, Huntress, Batwoman and Batgirl. I really liked this because, on top of finally getting one over on the Joker, Harley is saved by the true love of her life, albeit in a gory and bloody manner that I'd hoped I'd never have to see for some of my other favorite characters. But they do make for a really adorable couple. 

Back in Metropolis, however, things have taken a horrible turn for the worse. Hairsine struts his stuff in an amazing double page spread that shows an infected Giganta tearing her way through the city like a Kaiju. She looks absolutely monstrous with a giant scar running down her face, eyes and clothes caked with the blood of untold tens or hundreds of people that she's likely killed or eaten. With only Black Lightning, his daughters, Green Arrow, Robin and Superboy to defend the Planet, things look incredibly dire.

That is, until a surprise Batwing appears and distracts her… only to get knocked out of the sky, but saved by a returning Canary, Superman and the two Flashes. Wonder Woman also appears and prepares to cut the head off of the infected Giganta as she is knocked over by Superman. However, he stops her, pleading that there may still be something left there.

The little bit of hope that he may have had is crushed as Cyborg reappears and blows a hole straight through her head, explaining that none of them are alive anymore. While it's a mostly clean shot, the few bits and blood that do fall out feel gnarly as hell and her dead eyed expression is enough to send chills down the spine. 

While the other heroes are talking, the Batwing's hatch opens and Damian somehow expects it to be Batman only to be met by Alfred. He hugs his grandson and tells him Bruce's last words before his untimely passing and we're brought back to another tearful embrace.

*HEAVY SPOILERS AHEAD*

But this somber moment doesn't last as Hawkgirl appears, crashing down into Diana's arms, telling everyone that Captain Atom is infected and that he's about to explode. Superman and Wonder Woman do their best to contain it, but the sheer power of Captain Atom proves too much as his eruption destroyed Washington DC, then Baltimore and eventually...Metropolis where Black Lightning tells his daughters to close their eyes as he embraces them, the bright light engulfing them all.

*SPOILERS OVER: PRESS ON*

DCeased has gone way beyond the gimmick that a lot of us thought it might have been. Exploring themes like the loss of family, love and hope versus hopelessness, we see these characters placed in a new light where they have to adapt to a harrowing situation that no one was prepared for. Black Canary taking over as Green Lantern after Hal gets infected is a new and fresh take for her and she absolutely fits the role like a glove. Superman having to dissociate in order to keep himself focused on saving people gives him more depth as it clashes with who he is as a hero. Diana is far more willing to cut the head off of Giganta where normally she would try to talk her down or knock her out, she’s ready for the high stake over the situation. Also seeing Damian actually show his feelings, crying as Alfred hands him the briefcase of Batman’s gear, gives a lot more humanity as he’s been showing a lot of it because this is legit one of the first times he’s been truly afraid and didn’t have a plan. 

Trevor Hairsine’s art by itself is enough to sell the book on. It has a flavor of horror that hearkens back to some of DCs Vertigo stories, but also has the color and flair of normal superhero stories. The feelings of despair are very clearly shown and the gore, for how little there is in this issue is still unsettling to see. It’s all very high quality and appropriate for the story. Unlike most Marvel Zombies books, I’m actually scared for everyone here and I love it. High recommend. 

---------------------------------------------------

Jarro is the best new member of the Justice League and I will not be persuaded of the otherwise. 

Runner Up: Justice League #29 - Scott Snyder, James Tynion IV, Bruno Redondo, Hi-Fi and Tom Napolitano

Since the events of No Justice (2018), the Universe has been without Starro, the sentient and powerful telepathic starfish that served as the Justice League's first ever villain. In an uncharacteristic act of heroism, the conqueror sacrificed his life in an effort to save the universe from being destroyed. All that was left a small part of him that was kept in a jar and maintained his sense of heroism, becoming Batman's newest son, Jarro.

Jarro is the epitome of "doing his best" as this book involves him single handedly taking on the Legion of Doom. 

Lurking in the shadows of the Hall of Doom, listening to their top secret plans, lies Jarro dressed as Robin! He waits for the perfect moment and strikes at Lex and the others! They're all stunned that someone had the knowledge of their location and the gall to attack them. They all think that they can overpower him, but forget that Jarro still has all of the memories of his former self and creates an energy weapon that knocks them all back, including Sinestro and his constructs.

Though things take a turn, even after Jarro manages to take control of Braniac for a moment, and Lex gains the upper hand, pinning Jarro to a wall. As he's about to lay the final blow, the Justice League arrives to save their companion!

Throughout the book, however, there are numerous questionable things that makes it seem like it's just too good to be true. Jarro is referred to as Batman's favorite Robin by Sinestro. How did Jarro even find the Hall of Doom and how did the League track him? Hell, when Batman sees Jarro, he SMILES. That's a huge red flag. 

When Jarro begins to spawn more stars and takes over the minds of the Legion, Batman chides him for his actions and eventually realizes that he's had a star on his face the whole time. Jarro had been showing the good guys a vision where the League wins after deciding that control is the only path to victory after the shared vision he had with Starman in the last issue. 

It's all very reminiscent of any time that the Black Mercy plant is used and while what Jarro did was horrible, Batman manages to convince him that everything will be okay. So he releases the hold on everyone, jumps on Batman's shoulder and tells the others to prepare for war. 

What this book does best is simply allude to the idea that not everything is as it seems. It has little hints planted with things that only a could would say about themselves or their parents thoughts. Told through Jarro's perspective, it's good to see that Batman has raised him to be a being of hope and a cute one at that. Even his little Robin costume made me absolutely giddy and excited for the little guy.

Once again, it's Batman that has to save the day because he's always the most sound of mind. Though what this story does is shine a light on just how powerful Jarro could be. He managed to take over the minds of the Justice League without anyone being the wiser and shows just what an asset he is. It's even implied that he has a potential that even he can't see yet and I'm excited for his future.