#I understand this might not be entirely accurate for those with DID

[antianakin]

I recognize that these are very questionable things for Padme to have done, and I call it out when I talk about her quite often, so I don't deny that these choices on Padme's part CAN be interpreted as Padme being... somewhat darker.

And I do personally believe that Padme's choice to be with Anakin despite the obvious red flags in AOTC was intended to be seen as a selfish choice on her part, that her feelings for him (or, perhaps more accurately, for what he REPRESENTED to her) overrode her morals. So it's not like I think the narrative doesn't represent her with flaws ENTIRELY, but I don't know that I'd say that the narrative itself represents her as DARK.

Padme spends a lot of her time being nice, being sweet and kind, and when she's not doing that, she's often off making big impassioned speeches about how they shouldn't go to war or about justice and things like that. She is very much represented as, generally, morally GOOD, and morally BETTER than many of the people around her.

In TCW, she often got turned into an action Barbie of sorts, either fighting the good fight in the Senate or fighting the good fight in the streets somewhere. She's the one who goes to try to get the Separatists to talk about peace, she's one of the Senators involved in whatever summit is happening on Mandalore with the Separatists, she's the one who insists that Ahsoka should learn more about politics, so on and so forth.

So while you do not personally care for some of the decisions she makes regarding Anakin and the way she chooses to ignore or brush aside some of his behaviors (and I don't think you're WRONG to dislike them, I obviously also personally dislike them and I think that the narrative does in some ways question her decision and expects the audience to do so as well), I don't think it is accurate to claim that Padme is DARK and certainly not that the narrative expects you to see her as dark.

Padme makes some questionable decisions, yes, she makes some SELFISH decisions, yes, and those decisions do ultimately lead Anakin to find ways to excuse away his actions, but I also don't believe Padme intends for that to be the outcome of her choices. When she tells Anakin "To be angry is to be human" she's hoping that he'll calm down and figure himself out and that this will be a one-off event. Natalie Portman claimed that she played that scene as Padme sort-of feeling like she wants to SAVE him with her love, that she RECOGNIZES his anger has led him to do dangerous things, but that she believes she can fix him with kindness. While you can question that belief, it's clearly coming from a good place and a desire to help Anakin be BETTER rather than an intentional disregard for Tusken lives.

You can likely apply a similar thought process to why Padme reacts the way she does to Order 66. She can barely believe that Anakin WOULD do something like that (with the Tuskens, she sees how the Larses speak about the Tuskens and so she can understand that there's a clear hostility between the Tuskens and the human settlers that Anakin likely experienced himself, and the Tuskens DID capture an innocent unarmed woman and tortured her to death, so they've clearly done something pretty heinous that provoked Anakin's ire; but with the Jedi, NEITHER of those things are true since Anakin SHOULD be on good terms with the Jedi and they haven't done anything to specifically earn this kind of treatment from Anakin). She goes to Mustafar just to try to clear things up, knowing that Anakin is capable of ruthlessness, but hoping he isn't capable of this kind of BETRAYAL, and clearly recognizing that she might have to do some damage control again. You can see her switch from just asking him to deny what he did to trying to "save him" with love and kindness again, hence the option of just running away. It's only once Anakin refuses that kind of comfort that she starts to back away saying he's going down a path she can't follow. But even that line has been argued to be more of a WARNING than a THREAT, another entreaty for Anakin to come back to her rather than an ultimatum.

And you can tell that Padme IS horrified by what he did to the Jedi, it DOES bother her on a moral level, but she has invested so much of herself into this relationship that she can't really let go of it any more than Anakin can in some ways. She is not without her flaws. But I don't see Padme committing her OWN genocide to save Anakin. The closest she gets is in TCW when she chooses to trade Grievous for Anakin, but this is a choice that's backed up by both Jar Jar and the Gungan leader (more accurately, they literally convince her INTO IT when Padme hesitates over making the trade).

Padme isn't dark in canon. She is flawed. There's a difference.

What I WANT when I say I'd like Padme to have gone dark is to see Padme be CORRUPT. One of the ways I think the Anidala relationship storyline in AOTC could've been helped was if we saw more of Padme being politically corrupt so that her choice to be selfish with Anakin felt more in line with her stated morals. Perhaps she's not necessarily out there murdering people, but she's not above, say, taking bribes or things like that. She's not a perfectly pure politician who always fights for what's right. This would perhaps make her a simpler character, less complex and nuanced, but I also don't find that there was enough time or space for Padme's complexity and nuances to be explored in a way that really made a lot of sense, so instead of being complex she's just sort-of contradictory. You find her "sociopathic" because her morals and motives seem to vacillate wildly depending on what the scene requires of her, rather than being more clear and coherent from one scene to the next.

So, yeah, I think Padme can get a LOT darker. I think you could really look at whether Padme would've ultimately gone along with what Anakin would've asked of her if she'd survived Mustafar or if she'd never GONE to Mustafar. What would she have done if Anakin had made her an Empress? How much would she have allowed and how desensitized might she become to certain atrocities over time? Would she ever get to a point where she didn't just allow murder, but actually ASKED for it? Could she be pushed to feel like it was necessary for one reason or another? If Anakin made her feel like this was her perfect dream, or that her family was being threatened, would she be willing to defend it with oppression and murder? Would she start to maybe enjoy the power she'd been granted as an Empress, would it start to change her to someone very different from who she'd been before she married Anakin? Would her parents and her sister and her nieces even recognize her when they saw her in broadcasts anymore?

Come on, we can get more creative than just... what's in the films. Making her darker and more morally corrupt is a way to make her more likable and more coherent. Maybe she's not quite as against dictatorships as she thought she was, maybe her frustrations with the Senate and the Corporate Alliance are starting to tear down the passionate young Queen that fought for her people's freedom. Maybe she feels like she IS fighting for people's freedoms still, but she's willing to do a heck of a lot more to get it. Maybe she's far more sympathetic to the Separatist side of things than she is in canon and nearly lets them win a few times because... what if. What if they DID just burn it all down and start again? Would it truly be so bad?

THAT'S what I mean when I say I want her darker. I don't just want a young romantic woman getting swept up in what she thinks is an epic romance that she's willing to believe that her love can fix a dangerous man just because he says things to her like "I'm haunted by the kiss you should never have given me." I want someone who is attracted to this dangerous man because she's not truly all that different from him and she's already slipping down her own slope towards darkness. I want a Padme who's already made some moral concessions in the name of justice or freedom and figured out how to sleep at night still. I want a Padme who is willing to achieve a victory at nearly any cost. I want a Padme who is perhaps not all that devastated by her handmaiden's death because, well, that's what she's for isn't it? I want a Padme already becoming desensitized to things that would've appalled her ten years ago and Anakin's shaking simmering rage about the state of the world echoes her own.

Characters that would be improved if they were darker, more evil, or morally corrupt:

Ahsoka Tano

Satine Kryze

Padme Amidala

Characters that would NOT be improved if they were darker, more evil, or morally corrupt:

Obi-Wan Kenobi

Leia Organa

Mace Windu

Yoda

Luke Skywalker

[icycoldninja]

Loving a psycho (Raiden x Reader)

You were nearly startled out of your skin when the doorbell rang at 4:00 A.M. You threw the covers off, slipped on a jacket, and headed towards the door, tired, cranky, and wondering just who the hell would dare to disturb you at this hour. Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you swung the door open and gaped at the person standing before you.

"Raiden?!"

The cyborg in question stood on your doorstep, though there was something off about him. His normally grayish eyes were a bright red, gleaming with a sort of malice you'd only ever seen when Jack, his alter ego, escaped. Wait...if that was true...then...

Your eyes widened as you regarded the man before you, watching how his expression shifted from passive nonchalance to an amused smirk.

"Ain't ya gonna invite me in, Y/N?" He asked, in a playful manner unfamiliar to you.

"Yeah...sure." You yawned, excused yourself, then held open the door for him. Raiden stomped through the door, metal heels clicking against your floor.

"Nice place," He remarked, as if he'd never seen it before. "Real nice. You live here alone?" You nodded groggily, following him as he wandered around your house.

"That's good," He nodded, noting some pictures of you and him that had been propped up on a table nearby. "Real good." He chuckled, then spun around to look at you. "I'm gonna stay the night, you mind?" You shook your head slowly; there wasn't all that much you could do about it. If he wanted to stay, he would stay, regardless of whether you approved or not.

"Good answer," He grinned, reaching forwards and mussing up your hair with his metal hand. Sleepily, you directed him to the bathroom and told him to freshen up however he needed to while you made some coffee. Surprisingly compliant, he agreed, and closed the door on you with a smile.

Several minutes later, Raiden rejoined you in the kitchen for a hot cup of coffee (he drank his with a straw). The two of you sat at the kitchen table in silence, drinking your beverages with quiet respect for one another, but nothing more.

Truth be told, you were afraid and uneasy. This side of Raiden was unpredictable; dealing with such a devil was dangerous. Your rational side told you to be careful, to mind what you say and control how you act. On the other hand, you loved Raiden, and wanted to care for him--all of him, including his lunatic side. These conflicting thoughts swirled around your head, honestly making you doubt your own sanity. Should you regard Jack The Ripper as a suspicious individual? Or should you treat him the way you treat Raiden, considering they are technically the same person? You sighed, forgetting for a moment that Raiden had been watching you this whole time, and that he could sense your feelings.

"Look, I'm not gonna hurt you." He ventured, setting his cup down and reaching across the table for your hand.

"I know," You responded, taking his clawed appendage in yours before bringing it up to your lips and planting a kiss on it. "I just...sometimes I wonder if...well...I can trust you."

Raiden let out a small, uncharacteristic sigh, his red eye lowering to the ground somewhat guiltily.

"When I wanna rip, I'll rip--I'll rip em all. But not you." His gaze flitted back up to yours, a small smile on his face. "I won't rip you. I...I'm gonna keep ya safe."

"Why?"

"Cause...I love ya."

For a moment, the cold gleam in his eyes vanished, revealing the admiration, respect, and love he had for you. All suspicions you previously held vanished; you stood up, crossed over to him, and threw your arms around his neck, clinging to him tightly.

"I love you, Jack--all of you." You weren't entirely sure whether or not you were actually talking to Jack at the moment, but it didn't matter. Raiden chuckled, though not in that menacing manner he often did while in this state. He was truly happy, holding you in his arms; happy that you loved him despite his many problems. The redness in his eyes disappeared and the Raiden you were more familiar with returned. You pulled away from the hug and pressed a kiss to his metal jaw.

"I love you so much," You repeated, resting your head on his shoulder. Raiden nodded, running a hand through your hair.

"I love you too, Y/N--and thank you. Thank you for loving a psycho like me."

[dan-crimes]

airy for the Bingo 👀👀

I know my opinions are prolly wrong and controversial but I do not care anymore since the show has been over for a good while

So let me just tap into my old knowledge of how I feel about the show and Airy as a character

Alright so yeah I'm on the more extreme side of things of just like Airy didn't do anything wrong ever, this isn't even me being like oh favourite character or anything it's just kinda like I just genuinely do not think he was ever thinking about anything he was doing ever

Obviously he still did bad things but like the thing is, when you DIE you don't really DIE so death kinda loses its meaning and there isn't really that impact anymore of Airy killing people and he had to also die multiple times likely in order to get where he is

So UNDERSTANDABLY there is a lack of connection there, a lack urgency in death @ the Plane once Airy understands how to bring people back

Obviously there is still a LOT of fucked up shit if you REALLY think about it and really connect with the characters and try and feel what they must be feeling BUT to think Airy is this fucked up cold and unfeeling villain aware of his actions is just not it

He just isn't. There. He's not there lmao it doesn't really feel like there is a way to get it through to him that what he's doing is causing problems bcuz it's like a sandbox game for him he doesn't understand that things happen without him that those are PEOPLE existing in his little world that they have lives and are effected by his actions

He only has a connection when he sees Liam in person and like there were other times he showed care and concern but it's a lot more apparent when someone is physically there with you, you can see and feel them and they have an impact on you

Plus he did feel bad about what he had done in the past but there's not really a way for you to properly process that so understandably he just doesn't, like it obviously bothers him but he also doesn't want to be alone and I understand how boredom is a killer

Plus I think he's prolly always been a bit messed up but it really comes out when you've been thru things ur never gonna be able to fully understand or process so you simply don't and just accept things and do things a certain way bcuz you just gotta

[netegf]

Hate It When You Leave

pairing: f!reader x rafe cameron

plot: you are trying to cope with the fact that you're hopelessly in love with your best friend. he's trying to cope with the fact that you don't go after the things you want... including him.

warnings: 18+, best friends to lovers trope, use of Y/N, mentions of alcohol and past drug use, non-graphic references to violence, some angst & jealousy, fluff and smut (public sex, teasing, oral female receiving)

word count: 6.5 k

There are parts about wearing your heart on your sleeve that no one ever talks about.

For instance, that it's hard to fix your face when the threads keeping that heart together feel like they're getting tugged, cut, and re-bunched into an ugly knot. 

The water bottle you're holding hardly has any life left. Even Kelce comments as much when he rounds his kitchen island, limbs swinging and loose thanks to the red Solo cup in his hand. He takes one look at the tight smile on your lips and tilts his head to the side, fingers twitching upward to your chin as he turns your head to face him. 

"What's going on in that pretty head of yours?" He asks, voice a little slurred, but thick with concern.

That was Kelce. Polarizingly good at getting to what someone was hiding underneath. 

But appearances went a long way for him. And he was so agreeable, it made him easy to lie to. Especially when he and Topper had practically begged you to come to this party, his first one since graduating college. Everyone would be there, he'd said.

And he was right, they were. 

"Nothing, Kels, it's just my stomach being a little funny." You tell him with a renewed sense of enthusiasm. You gaze at him warmly and quirk a brow, smiling genuinely. "How do you always know?"

"We've known each other our whole lives!" He barks in a laugh. "There's nothing I don't know about you."

You feel your heart squeeze again, like there's a too-tight belt around it. But you humour him with a sweet giggle and convinced nod, and it's all Kelce needs before he's walking away to mingle with another. 

How shocked he'd be to know that there was something you were hiding. 

You keep the water bottle you're holding close to your body as if it would fall straight out of your hands otherwise. When you watch the brunette seated next to Rafe on the couch squeeze his bicep again, you think it might just fall anyway. 

Some things don't change. 

The sun goes up and down. The moon makes a nightly appearance. Kelce never dresses for the weather. Topper claims everyone else is cheating when he loses. 

You love Rafe Cameron.

"Fucking sucks, doesn't it?" A voice rings next to you.

You slowly turn your head from where you're sitting on the kitchen island to see a familiar face lounging on one of the high-chairs. 

Topper, apparently, had always had an inkling. 

"I don't know what you're talking about, Top." You grumble, casting your eyes away from the blonde protagonist of most of your dreams. Some of your nightmares, too. 

You watch as Topper rolls his eyes without so much as glancing at you, a small scoff escaping his lips. He takes a hearty sip from his cup of brown liquid. Tracking his eye-line, you're unsurprised to find that he's staring wistfully at the very same blonde's sister. 

Sarah Cameron is dancing in the corner of the room with John B., her boyfriend. 

A Pogue at a Kook party... the thought still makes you skeptical.

Not because you didn't like John B., or more accurately, like him for Sarah. But because a few short years ago, all this seemed entirely impossible.

Nonetheless, Sarah was important to all of you. 

And, like she'd said, Rafe listened to you better than he did anyone else.

When you explained to him how smitten his sister was with the boy, and considering how their relationship had endured far past those murmurings of 'young love' to, what was at this point, years together, he'd begun to understand that John B. wasn't going anywhere. 

Much to Topper's devastation. 

He promised he was over her, and he dated like it, too. But there were those moments where he had a few drinks in him and it made you think otherwise. 

"Oh, okay. My fault." Topper replies sarcastically, downing what's left in his cup and finally turning away from the couple he's burning holes through. "I thought we were being honest."

"I am being honest."

He glances at you sharply. 

"Uh huh. Hey, don't freak out, but, your nose is like, growing really long. Never seen anything like it before. It's like in that movie! What's it called, again? Puppet boy? No, that can't be right..."

"Very funny, Topper." You say dryly, but the hint of a smile on your lips sells you out and he chuckles next to you. 

"I was thinking Pinocchio." He fake recalls, nudging your elbow. 

This time, you laugh with your chest, and when you lift your head up to take it all in again, your eyes meet familiar blue ones from across Kelce's living room.

By now, you know how to mediate the warmth that blooms at the base of your spine and consumes you completely. 

There's a comfortable silence between the two of you before Topper starts speaking again. 

"You know he would do anything for you, right?" 

You chew on your bottom lip, still holding eye contact with Rafe who gives you a crooked smile. The girl next to him leans in to whisper something in his ear. He keeps looking at you. 

"Yeah, I know." You mumble half-heartedly. "I just feel like I might need to cut my losses at this point." 

Topper frowns for a moment, then stands up from his seat. 

"Well, you suit yourself." He pinches your cheek affectionately. "Because I, for one, want to crash and burn."

You snort at Topper's words and just as quickly watch him round the kitchen counter to grab another drink. 

Preoccupied with the way he extends that gesture to you, fixing some gross concoction of different sodas for you to sip on, a shiver rolls over your skin when it feels like Rafe's smouldering eyes are still lighting a fire on your face. 

Aron Andersen is a douche, but he means well. 

At least, that's the excuse you aways placate Rafe with when Aron inevitably runs his mouth, the blonde's fists tightening nearly every time in conjunction.

Typically, you opt for the pacifist approach because blood is a bitch to clean, Rafe whines when you clean him up with saline, and frankly, Aron isn't worth it.

But tonight, he seems to enjoy testing your threshold for patience like no one else before him. 

You suppose he's not entirely to blame. Kelce makes his drinks strong, and half of Figure 8 is sucking up all the oxygen in the room.

Maybe that was why Rafe had almost swung on John B. only a few minutes prior, claiming the younger man was feeding his sister lies about him. Perhaps it was just one of those nights. 

Still, you sigh when Aron drunkenly makes his way over to your new spot in the backyard, and press your lips tight together when he shoves a beer in your direction.  

"I'm not drinking tonight, Aron." You tell him plainly. 

Aron haphazardly plops down into the lounge chair next to you with his glossy, red eyes narrowing.

He grudgingly pulls the beer back from you and takes a sip that pools around the sides of his mouth, then drains down his throat slow and loud. 

"That sucks. You're more fun when you do." He scoffs.

Your mouth falls open as the words leave his lips, head spinning to meet his annoyed gaze. The faraway look in his eyes makes you gulp.

In no particular mood to be berated, you have half a mind to scoff back and get up to leave. But there's something about the way he speaks completely unadulterated that keeps your body locked in place.

Like you're dying to know what someone really thinks of you.

"Why not?" He presses, gesturing with his finger accusingly. 

"I'm driving."

He continues to stare at you blankly.

"I'm driving." You reiterate, irritation seeping into your tone. "And drunk driving is illegal, Aron. You do know that, right?"

Unintentionally, your eyes flicker to a slightly rowdy and staggering Topper across the room. Aron zeroes in on that and rolls his eyes emphatically. 

"Now it makes sense. You're taking your boyfriends home." He pitches the word in a scornful taunt, squinting over your shoulder. "Where is Cameron, anyway?"

You feel your heartbeat rage in your chest, tongue numb and mind in disarray. 

"Don't be a dick, Aron. They're my friends." You bristle. But he seems unfazed, lazily quirking an eyebrow. 

"Please don't tell me you're that stupid, Y/N. Friends?" He laughs obnoxiously. "I get you're in love with the guy, but you run around for them like a maid. You ask me, the least you should be getting out of it is a good fuck."

Your fingers twitch at your side as you shoot up from your seat, really and truly considering that pouring his beer over his head might be the best option.

Given that Aron routinely takes up two parking spots to park his Range Rover and cheats on his girlfriends, you think it might be a long time coming. 

His words hurt for more than one reason. Of course, because he'd sooner die than recognize that you very much could maintain a healthy, platonic, and meaningful relationship with your friends of over a decade.

But also because, when it came to Rafe, he was goading you with a kind of intimacy you knew you'd never be able to access. At least not in the way you wanted. 

When a firm hand grips Aron's shoulder strongly and whips his body around, you soon realize you don't have to resort to such a physical display. 

While it was true that Rafe's face didn't make him look particularly kind, he'd only been seriously pissed off, to the point that his stomach felt like caving in on itself, a few times. Like in those months right after he'd graduated high school and felt like a big question mark. Every time his dad looked at him disapprovingly, it affirmed that sinking feeling in him, and he learned that he sometimes articulated his sadness in anger.

These days when he's mad, he mulls the feeling over a few times in the interest of scraping for another feeling underneath. 

Now, though, all Rafe feels when he meets Aron's arrogance with an intensity of his own, is unbridled rage. 

"What the fuck did you just say?"

Rafe speaks at a low register that makes your breath quicken. His movements are a little clumsy, blue eyes slightly glazed over, and his dirty blonde hair kisses his forehead that's speckled with sweat. Cheeks dusted red in that way that you love, more prominent when he's inebriated.

His fingers are still pressing harshly into Aron's shoulder, pressure concentrated and steady if the way he winces is any indication. For a second, his eyes flit over to you and the frown on your face, and they begin to soften. But then Aron is sputtering and stealing his attention and he hates him all over again for it. 

"My bad, bro." Aron offers lamely, hands jutting upward in surrender. He attempts to step away, but Rafe keeps him locked there. 

"Yeah, it's your fucking bad, bro." Rafe sneers.

He roughly shoves Aron backwards as he lets go of him and the man quickly scurries away knowing that if he sticks around, Rafe will probably force him through clenched teeth to apologize to you.

You feel your heart hammering in your chest for a different reason.

Your mind is trapped in a loop, repeating every word you said to Aron over and over again, wondering how incriminating they were, and debating how much exactly Rafe had heard.

And if he had, if he was coherent enough to either dismiss or believe the accusation that you loved him. No, not love, you shudder... in love. Aron had said, verbatim, that you were in love with him. 

"I would've handled it." You mumble with your arms crossed over your chest.

Rafe sighs as he turns his body to face you, rubbing a hand over his jaw, now partially relieved of the tension it was holding. He chews on his bottom lip cautiously, like it'll help break the fall of the words bound to spill out of his mouth, a little too unrestrained in his drunk state for his liking. 

"I know that." He nods slowly. "I just wanted to help to help you... handle it."

He stumbles a little as he moves toward you and you instinctively wrap an arm behind his torso, holding him against your body as a human splint. 

"Plus, I kinda have a reputation going for me. No one's losing their shit if I fight a guy."

"Or two." You say pointedly, thinking about his almost altercation with John B. earlier in the night. 

Rafe buries his head into your shoulder, groaning loudly into the bare skin as it heats up and vibrates. 

"Fuck, not you, too."

He lifts his head up to continue, and you lug his body towards the living room where you spot Topper talking with Kelce and some others. Without speaking, Topper seems to understand what you're saying, nodding then pointing to himself followed by the stairs. 

He'd driven you to Kelce's and you promised to stay sober and drive him back home. But now, it seemed like the plan was going to shift.

Topper would stay the night at Kelce's and take his car back in the morning. You would take Rafe's truck back to his place and walk the rest of the way. You were practically neighbours, anyway. 

"If she wants to talk shit about me to her boyfriend, that's one thing. But him, talking shit about me, to her? What's he trying to do? Turn my own sister against me?" 

"I get it, Rafe. I really do." You nod, an amused smile on your lips as you tug him out of the front door and towards his truck. "But you promised Sarah you'd be nice, remember?"

"I am being nice." He protests with his hands tapping at his chest. "I didn't even fucking touch him."

You scoff lightly as you strap Rafe in his passenger seat, noting the way his eyes begin to flutter shut. Humming softly, you poke a cold finger at his cheek and watch as they blink open again. 

"I'm taking you home, okay?" You murmur gently. 

"No!" He objects, large hand circling your wrist. He rubs his forehead with the other one, trying to remember something. "Got a meeting in the morning. Ward is gonna flip if he thinks I've been out all night fucking around."

You look at him uncertainly, waiting for the thing that you don’t want him to say, but know he will.

"Your house? Please?"

There was a time when sleepovers with Rafe were a common practice. Sometimes, after parties like this, with Kelce and Topper.

Other times when you convinced the boys to binge a new movie or TV series, usually ending with at least two of them falling asleep. Rafe made a habit of grumbling his critiques of the things he watched, but always stayed up with you. 

For a while, when he hit an especially rough patch with his dad and spent more nights than he would've liked getting high out of his mind.

As much as he'd tried not to pull anybody else into it, he found himself seeking comfort in the warmth of your bed. It helped that you always received him with open arms, even when his early morning phone calls were disorienting and he cried silently into your shirt in the hours after. 

Those nights felt so distant, and yet, like you could touch them if you reached out just far enough.

Rafe had girlfriends on and off, and sometimes that version of him felt like a stranger. You felt a strange pity for yourself when you realized that it might've been a good thing. That he was getting better and without falling back on a crutch, even if that crutch was you. Suddenly, him sleeping at your house felt weird and misplaced more than anything else. 

"I don't know, Rafe...," you begin to trail off, but the blue desperation in his eyes makes you reconsider. He's still holding tenderly at your wrist. "Fine. But if you puke on my sheets, you're done. Do you hear me?" 

Whether or not Rafe hears you is unclear, but you take the delirious smile forming on his lips as a non-verbal affirmation. He huffs out a long breath as if he can feel himself finally relaxing. His eyes start to close again, too, as you start his truck and drive the short way to your house. 

"Don't even think about falling asleep on me, Cameron. I am not lugging you up the stairs."

"You're strong." He reasons smoothly, lids still shut as he smirks. "You were about to deck the shit out of Aron Andersen when I found you."

Getting Rafe up to your bedroom goes better than you'd imagined, now with a few years of experience under your belt. 

You get him to sit down on your bed, and he fiddles with the items on your nightstand while you rummage through your armoire for an old pair of his pajamas. He complains when you throw him a pair of sweatpants and a sports t-shirt he used to wear in junior high, claiming that it'd be too tight over his arms and chest.

Plus, he'd added, it was far too hot to be wearing a shirt, anyway. 

"I love these." 

Changing into sweats of your own, you exit the bathroom to find Rafe sitting up in your bed, part of his bare torso obscured by your white sheets. His attention is fixed on a small group of rings on your bedside table, silver and gold hues reflecting under the dull rays of your lamp.

He slowly picks one up.

"Yeah, I'd hope so." You snort, tentatively slipping into bed next to him and painfully aware of the sorry excuse for space between you. "You got them all for me... kook."

Rafe cracks a sleepy smile, rolling his eyes playfully.

"You wouldn't tell me which one you wanted." He shrugs like it's the simplest thing in the world. 

He sets the ring back on the table and switches off your lamp, blanketing the room in a stroke of darkness. Rafe lies on his back and you opt to turn to your side, facing the wall.

Looking at his face only a few inches away from yours, when he's about to sleep in your bed, feels like it will be too much. 

"Asking for what you want is weird, Rafe. Nobody likes it."

You chew on your bottom lip in the dark.

"I do." He says in a scoff that turns into a yawn. "How else is anyone gonna know? People don't usually stop you and beg to find out."

You swallow roughly. That was true enough, they didn't.

But Rafe did. He always did. You revered him for it.

There's a long silence between you and all that echoes against the wood framing of your bed are the heavy and sometimes irregular sounds of your and Rafe's breathing.

Against your better judgement, you think he might've fallen asleep and almost turn around to check. 

"Is it me?" He asks quietly, voice scratchy with exhaustion. "... what you want?"

You feel your shaky breath hitch in your throat. 

"Because if it is... you don't have to ask."

His words linger in the air for as long as it takes your wildly beating hard to calm down.

By the time your body regains some feeling, the sound of Rafe's soft snores pierce the oddly crisp air clouding your room, and the choice to unpack what he said right now, or in the morning, is made for you. 

A shiver runs down from the nape of your neck to the tips of yours toes. 

Rafe is gone by the time you wake up.

The harsh but comforting sound of rain clangs against your roof, and you stretch your limbs to the thought of a cloudy and obscure summer day. 

It's better this way, you think. The absence of Rafe's warmth next to you would feel worse if the sun was shining, teasing. 

Your fingers play underneath your comforter to locate your phone. Scrolling through your notifications, you frown seeing that none of them are from Rafe.

In his defense, it was only about 9AM now, and he'd probably just had enough time to take a quick shower, get himself the smallest bit presentable, and still barely make it to his meeting with a client.

The used bathroom towel in your hamper and flannel pajama pants hastily thrown on his side of the bed are compelling indicators. 

In his defense, he was drunk, and there was no telling if he remembered anything about last night. 

Drowsy proclamations of desire and confession, included. 

You wrestle with the idea of calling him and letting it all spill out.

Kissing him on your front lawn, in the rain, with dewy blades of grass nipping at your feet. Hands threading through his wet hair and tugging, hungrily, because you're starving and happy, and these are liberties you can afford in imagination.  

But you settle on seeing him later tonight, in person. It's your dad's charity after all. 

"I just wish you would have told me earlier." Your disappointed words hang in the air for a few moments as you play with the hem of your silky baby blue dress.

Your father had mentioned to you once before that his new business partner had a son about your age, newly graduated from UC Irvine. 

He hadn't mentioned, though, that this mystery guy would be attending the charity tonight, and he'd offered you up as his own personal tour guide.

Your father hadn't used the word date explicitly, but that's what it felt like when you were handed an odd-smelling bouquet of flowers, standing awkwardly next to the brunette who you were apparently to keep the company of all night, though he might as well have been a stranger. 

Daniel was nice enough.

He complimented your dress and your makeup, smiled and pulled out your chair before you sat down at your assigned table.

But it felt weird accepting praise and chivalry from him when your heart was busy beating erratically at the simple thought that your dress matched Rafe's eyes.  

The venue is extravagant like it always is, what with it's elaborate crystal chandeliers, ice sculptures, and floral center pieces larger than your head. 

At your table, you note your and Daniel's name cards labeling your seats. Next to them, are Topper, Kelce, and Rafe's. There's a sixth seat that has no label and you tilt your head to the side thoughtfully, considering that Topper or Kelce must be bringing a date. 

"This place is incredible. Your dad is so impressive." Daniel says in awe from the seat next to you. His eyes trail around the room, wide in amazement, reflecting back all the vibrant lights in the brown of his pupils.

You smile weakly at him, tucking a strand of loose hair behind your ear that always seems to take flight despite your attention to detail.

"Yeah, he's really something. Likes to orchestrate a big show. You should see him at the winter ball. Live doves, and everything." 

Daniel nods, moving on to say something that starts to sound unintelligible when something else piques your interest. Someone else. Multiple someones, entering the banquet hall. 

Craning your neck, you make out Topper and Rafe. And a girl. 

No. Topper... and Rafe and a girl. She has her arm tucked around Rafe's as he escorts her in the direction of your table. He's wearing the grey tux you like, the one he wore to Rose's sister's wedding with the ornate thread detailing. His smile makes the two halves of your heart squeeze together. 

"Hey, you okay? You're squeezing that wine glass pretty tight there."

Daniel likely means well, eyeing the way your fist clenches around the stem of the glass you've yet to take a sip from. You shoot him an embarrassed smile and release your straining fingers.

An emotional support water bottle sounds like it would be really nice right now. 

"Yeah, I'm fine. Just a little nervous... my dad always gives a speech at these things." You explain.

As the trio begins to approach, you realize it's Shelley Thompson gripping Rafe's arm, a sweet girl you knew from the Kook Academy.

Even now, she always waves when you run into her at the Island Club, and she has a swing on the golf course like no other.

She's a good match for Rafe. You hate to admit it, but it's true.

When Daniel speaks again, you can barely hear him.

"I'm sure you have nothing to worry about." Daniel chuckles. "I have a hard time imagining that your dad would be bad at anything..."

Topper, having heard the tail-end of your conversation, plunks himself down in the chair across from yours and rubs his forehead tiredly. You shudder at the way he smiles empathetically at you. Like there's something to be consoled about. 

"Hangover?" You ask, shoving the shaky feeling down and shooting him a teasing smirk.

He groans loudly and buries his face in his hands.

"That's the understatement of the year. Feels like I'm getting my skull bashed in." He mutters through the skin, then he peels his head away and grimaces at the screechy music being played. If there was one thing your dad was bad it, it was decent music taste. Topper laughs heartily, shaking his head. "Then again, maybe I am." 

The lightheartedness is interrupted for a moment as Rafe and Shelley pull up to the table, taking their seats accordingly. Rafe rakes his eyes over Daniel for a few seconds, but otherwise stays silent and it makes you frown. You look at him, desperately trying to uncover if he remembers any details from last night, but his expression is unreadable.

Shelley, on the other hand, grins at you enthusiastically and starts to chat with you about the time she interned at your dad's company. 

You find yourself glancing at Rafe every so often, each time catching him staring blankly ahead or at his lap, and always fidgeting with his fingers. 

"Who's this?" He asks suddenly, nodding his head at the man next to you. 

"Oh." You swallow. "This is Daniel."

Finding that insufficient, Daniel takes it as an opportunity to formally introduce himself. 

"That's me." Daniel waves sheepishly, gently squeezing your shoulder with his other hand. "Y/N's been showing me around. Well, her and her dad. I really love what Mr. Y/L/N's been doing with his company. He does some incredible work out here. It's not often that you see-,"

Topper snickers when he cuts him off. 

"Maybe he should've been your date."

Daniel laughs it off, blushing slightly and concealing it in a short cough. But you kick Topper under the table in retaliation, ignoring the way he holds his shin and groans out a soft "Ow!". 

After that, Shelley, Topper, and Daniel divulge into conversation, shifting from topic to topic and at some points, sharing boisterous laughs together.

Rafe keeps his lips pressed together and his words concise. While you fiddle with your utensils, you feel his eyes on you, igniting heat under your skin. 

He stares at you hard, like he's waiting for you to say something. Begging, even, with the way his forehead tenses and his brow stays quirked.

But you didn't know what to say.

Or maybe you didn't know how to say it. Especially not here. Especially not when he had a date. 

Rafe rolls his eyes and chews on the inside of his cheek, standing from the table abruptly, the movement making the cutlery tremble.

"Hey, I have an idea." He says while tugging on Shelley's hand. "Let's dance."

You watch as Shelley squeals with excitement, jumping from her seat to follow Rafe towards the center of the large room where the music is playing. 

"Couldn't pay me to get closer to that band." Topper mumbles offhandedly. You're sure he's trying to make it sting less, but some pains don't have a perfect antidote. 

Daniel sends you a look, silently asking if you want to join them. 

"Maybe later." You reply quietly. 

Watching Rafe wrap his arm around Shelley's waist, you feel your heart sink slowly into your stomach.

In the middle of Daniel's rambling and Topper's occasional acknowledging hums, you rise from your seat and stumble into the courtyard for some fresh air.

Surely, your heart would keep sinking if you saw any more, and your heels were too tight to fit anything else. 

The courtyard is a beautiful mix of greenery, fairy lights, and concrete statues, but it does little to ease the ache in your chest. You sit on a stone bench and try to control your breathing with your head between your knees. 

Though it's turbulent and shallow at best.

"What's wrong?"

You know it's Rafe without looking up. Sighing into the palms of your hand, you slide them down from your face and lift your head up. Surely, your makeup is smudged, and the thought makes you more miserable.

"Nothing." You say more sharply than you intended. "Nothing's wrong. Just go away, Rafe."

He looks at you completely scandalized. 

"Are you... mad at me?"

You let out a deep breathe, averting your gaze to the ground as you collect yourself. "No, I'm not mad. Why would I be mad?"

Rafe scoffs, entirely unconvinced. He rakes a hand through his hair in frustration. 

"Well, fuck, if this is 'not mad', then I don't want to see what mad looks like." 

"Can you just drop it? Please, Rafe? Drop it?" You beg, sniffling slightly as you stand. You hadn't noticed when your cheeks started to get wet. Likely too much in denial.

Despite the way it's honoured you in the past, crying was offering no release at this point. It's not like any of this was Rafe's fault. Even if he had gotten your hopes up last night, he wasn't obligated to act on drunken pillow talk. Maybe he hadn't meant it in the first place and was only trying to make you feel better.

"You won't talk to me." He says sadly.

You bite down on every explanation you want to give him. Chest pain heavy and unrelenting.

"Just... go back to Shelley, Rafe. She's probably waiting for you."

Rafe looks puzzled when the words fall weakly out of your mouth.

Then, he nods, like something finally clicks for him. He meets your eyes with fervor as he presses his lips together.

"So, this is about Shelley?" He asks.

Your head hangs and silence intensifies between you. It speaks for itself.

"The same Shelley that's been fucking Kelce on and off for the past two years?"

He watches your mouth fall open and eyebrows furrow, continuing as you stare at him.

"Kelce promised to take her out on a real date, but then he got caught up at work... asked me to keep Shelley company until he showed up. We didn't come here together, together, Y/N. I thought you knew that." 

Your mind buzzes as he speaks, bottom lip wedged under your teeth.

So, he wasn't here with Shelley. And he probably did remember both what he heard and said last night if he could recognize that you were jealous.

Jealous. It makes you squeeze your eyes shut. The feeling was always two-fold. A person would feel jealous, then humiliated that they had. You don't know which one is worse.

You peak an eye open, chewing through your words. "Why couldn't Topper do it?" 

"Have you met Topper?"

That was a good point. 

Still reeling from the new information, you look down at your lap pensively.

"But you did." Rafe begins after a few beats of silence. When you frown in confusion, he clarifies. "... come here with someone."

You crane your neck up to look at him. There's something you can't place in his eyes, but it's cloudy and all-consuming. His hair is a mess from the way he's been ruffling through it, and his cheeks are flushed and tight.

"What, Daniel? Are you kidding me? I only brought him because my dad ask-," you begin to explain, but Rafe cuts you off. 

"I don’t care why he thinks he can touch you. I just want him to stop.”

Despite the small gust of wind that blows past you both, you feel a warmth at the base of your neck... in the palms of your hands. Maybe it was the beams of light overhead, illuminating your bodies amidst the greenery.

Or, maybe it was just Rafe's words.

The intensity of his gaze. The way he steps towards you as he speaks them, warm hand eventually reaching out to graze over your cheek in a way that makes you gasp in a mixture of shock and excitement. 

For a moment, you think about yourself and the many soul-crushing nights spent watching Rafe talk to and touch and kiss other people, the overlapping visuals making you queasy. 

"I know the feeling." You say quietly, hot breath fanning over his face.

Rafe frowns a little, soaking up the meaning of your words. He nudges his face closer to yours, until your noses are touching and his lips just barely graze over the pair he desperately wants to taste. He draws back suddenly, suspending all the air in your lungs. 

He eyes you cautiously, challenging silently as he licks his lips.

"Not gonna do anything unless you ask." 

You nearly cry out in response. "Rafe, please. I... I want you." Ignoring the way your desperation makes your skin feel tingly and your head spin, you shut your eyes tightly, realizing that only really skimmed the surface. You try again, gulping. "I've always wanted you."

"Fuck." He breathes out, eyes fluttering shut. "Never stop saying that." 

Stifling the sound of another whine from your lips, Rafe kisses you feverishly.

He moves his soft lips in tandem with yours, swallowing each of your breathy moans. One of his hands traces over the swell of your jaw while the other stretches tenderly around your throat. "Know what I wanted to do when I saw you sitting there next to him?" 

You nearly scream in protest when Rafe pulls his lips off yours, but fall silent when he trails kisses down from your jaw to your neck and collarbones, sloppily sucking the skin then laving his tongue over the afflicted areas. Unsatisfied until your pushing his head away from the sensitivity. 

"Wanted to knock his fucking teeth out." He murmurs with his head buried in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent and leaving searing kisses. "But I don't do that shit anymore. So I'll ruin his night a different way."

Rafe moves your body with his until the backs of your knees hit the concrete bench. Your mouth falls open as he sits you down on it, kneeling in front of you. He presses a ticklish kiss to your knee and his bright blue eyes peer up at you through his lashes. When you nod, he parts your thighs and pulls your panties down in a single unbroken movement, committing every second to memory.

He stares longer than he should, groaning at the way your wetness collects on his finger when he traces a finger over your slit, spreading you apart. 

"Can't believe," he moans into your mound, running the flat of his tongue over your center again and again. "... you kept me from this pussy for so long." 

You throw your head back at the sensation, finding nothing but air and Rafe to support you as pulls you closer to his mouth.

"That," you say in a broken moan at the feeling of Rafe's tongue inside you. "That's your fault, remember? I was always here — shit! Waiting for you.”

Rafe hums against your pussy at that, neither agreeing or disagreeing. His nose nudges your clit as he tastes you greedily. You tug at his hair to dissipate some of the energy building inside your core, but it only makes Rafe work harder. 

"Didn't think I deserved you." He admits, pink lips mesmerizing and wet with your slick and his spit. Rafe takes your clit into his mouth and sucks obscenely, the slurping sound sending a flash of heat through you. "Doesn't matter now. I'm good at making up for lost time..."

Your thighs clamp around Rafe's head as he fucks you with his tongue. It's only now, as gasps and high-pitched sounds fall wantonly from your lips that you come to the reality that you're letting Rafe eat you out in the courtyard, and anybody from the party could come here and find you. Still, you moan less controlled than you would have hoped when he suckles at your clit again, drinking at your sopping pussy.

"Hey, have some common decency, huh? There's some very nice people in there trying to enjoy a party." 

Rafe smirks when you pull at his hair even harder, mostly at the thought that you think it could be reprimanding when he likes it so much. His teasing does more to turn you on than you'd care to admit and he can tell with the way you gush around him.

"One of em's your date." He adds, laughing slightly as he curls his tongue inside you. Entranced at the way it makes you whimper and writhe like putty under him. He starts rubbing your clit with his thumb at the same time, chasing the crest of your orgasm. "C'mon, baby. Give it to me. Come all over my tongue." 

Your release makes your back rise off of the slab of cement you're seated on, thighs slotted over Rafe's shoulders as he licks you through your climax.

The pleasure is insurmountable, your mouth falling open and your eyes screwing shut as that familiar feeling completely overwhelms your senses, the burn of your elbows against the cement keeping you anchored to the ground. 

Rafe smiles when you pull him by the belt of his dress pants to capture his mouth in a long and sweet kiss. It helps clean up the residual wetness. 

By the time Kelce makes it your father's charity event, he sighs tiredly into the crown of Shelley's head, pressing a wet kiss there in greeting. On his way in, he got trapped in a conversation with your father and some guy he'd never seen before named Daniel who was more inclined to kiss your dad's ass than he was to breathe.

Finally taking his seat next to a very drunk Topper, he squints his eyes at the sight before him. You and Rafe, unable to keep your hands off each other, giggling at nothing in particular. And when not giggling, kissing.

"Are you seeing this shit?" Kelce asks Topper, gesturing towards his two closest friends shoving their tongues down each other's throats. Shamelessly, at that.

"Dude." Topper groans, sighing like this was no surprise to him. "Where the fuck have you been?"

a/n: thank you for reading! comments/reblogs appreciated!!

[randombush3]

(extremely talented, creative) stalker

alexia putellas x reader

based on this and a poem from when i was little. i chose alexia because she fit the character more and i rushed this immensely because i was being pestered for attention by multiple creatures. oh and i went for something decently light-hearted bc these hozier fics have been affecting my soul and ruining my spotify daylists.

happy monday people x

p.s. not proof-read because it's lunchtime and i'm hungry (edit: i just did my proof-read now and i've realised that it was in fact not lunchtime??? it was past lunchtime and i was just zoned out!)

Alexia doesn’t care much for art. Sure, she admires the effort, the time such talent sits behind a canvas and marks something that was once blank until others begin to value it. She agrees with the masses about the beauty of quaint watercolour paintings of the coast, and she lets Mapi rave about charcoal and graphite and oils as if she understands what is so special about the varying media. 

She knows she is only here today because the art is about sports. The gallery seems almost reluctant to allow the athletes in, worried they have brought with them their football boots and cones to dribble around, but it would be bad practice to prohibit the muses from the collection. She isn’t an idiot, though, and she knows that no amount of forced reading about the artist and other sophisticated matters will slip her seamlessly into the crowd. 

There are lots of people; people she has never heard of, but make it clear they are far superior to her by the way in which their eyes politely drop to the tattoos inked onto her calloused hands. Their skin is soft, accustomed to the stems of crystal champagne flutes, and the drawings that hold so much personal meaning to the footballer are scrutinised to the point of silent… offence.  

So much for appreciators of art, she thinks to herself, counting down the minutes until it is acceptable for her to leave. 

With a huff and a vow to never – no matter how much she earns – forget where she has come from, Alexia staggers, uncomfortable in these particular heels, towards the painting she deems easiest to understand. 

It is the largest in the room: deep, crimson reds on top of familiar greens, streaks of gold falling out of a ponytail. 

Call Alexia egotistical, but anyone would be drawn to a painting of themselves. 

The artist has done a good job, she guesses, not entirely sure if there is a deeper meaning behind the grass stains on her socks or the crumpled shading of her Spain jersey. It is a little creepy that someone she does not know has captured her likeness so expertly, so practised. 

“The nose isn’t quite right,” a voice says beside her. 

Alexia turns in surprise, amused enough by the stranger’s observation to examine her painted face, eyes not drawn from how majestic her image is beginning to seem. She sees no obvious issue, and so she replies, “I think it’s fine.” 

“Just fine?” 

She is still staring at herself, now impressed by the grandeur of the painting; its size, its quality. “Well, I am unsure how someone painted me so accurately when I was never called in for a… I don’t know, a consultation? And it seems a little weird to me that my hair is loose, because I tend to slick it back so it doesn’t fall out of my ponytail, and, you know, I always have something written on my boots, but otherwise, it’s fine. I doubt anyone here has ever watched a football match, so none of this will matter to them.” 

“It doesn’t bother you that someone might pay millions for a painting that you have deemed not-quite-right?” 

The voice is somewhat too interested, and suddenly Alexia swivels around to face its owner properly, worried she has spoken her mind to a journalist. 

“Those millions go to a charity that will improve women’s sports every–” 

You are definitely not a journalist, although once, when art really wasn’t paying, you had off-handedly typed out a few articles for one of the bigger galleries. 

Alexia knows you are not a journalist because you are dressed to be in front of the cameras, not behind them. 

Your hands hang by your sides, but in a rather unnatural manner as though you are itching to do something else, and she is briefly overcome by the horror that you seem elegant enough to be a potential buyer. Has she put you off? 

“Oh,” you interrupt, “don’t be so profound. Sometimes you footballers sound like change-making machines.” 

“There is change to be made,” she responds indignantly. 

“Hence the exhibition,” you allow with a little smirk, nodding towards the rest of the room. Although the biggest of the collection, you had asked for your painting to be displayed in the corner; a filter, in a sense, to ensure no one throws money at the largest thing in the room just because they can. “It creeps you out to be painted?” 

The question is curious, but Alexia no longer feels like she has been caged in an interrogation room. 

She thinks about her answer for a moment, torn between returning to gaze at the expanse of the scene in front of her or staring at you, wondering if you count as one of the works of art on display. 

“I have never met the artist,” she explains neutrally. You laugh, and it sounds infused with champagne and nervousness. “What? It’s like having a stalker. An extremely talented, creative stalker, but someone who studies me in secret nonetheless.” 

“No, I understand. She must have researched you until the ends of the Earth.” 

“The artist is a woman?” She isn’t sure she is surprised, but she asks you anyway, wanting to anchor you to the spot. 

“Alexia, this is an exhibition for women’s sports.” Your point is valid, but you have said her name and she is far more intrigued by the way that had sounded to praise you for your intelligence. You let out an airy breath and click your tongue. “I’d even say, given by the way she has painted you from the back, that the artist fancies you.”

“It’s the squats,” she easily replies with a giggle. “Who is the artist?” 

You take a step towards her, the sharp points of your heels clacking against the concrete floor. She follows your index finger to the white plaque beside the canvas, reading the name written in small, black letters. 

“I haven’t heard of her.” 

Alexia sounds so thoughtful that you have to hide your smile behind your palm, coughing to provide an excuse for the action. 

“Because you’ve heard of quite a few artists, haven’t you?” 

“I know the main four.” 

“The Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles?” 

“No.” 

Again, you laugh, and it is melodious and rich and Alexia wants to hear it for the rest of her life. Which is not normal, she tells herself, because you are some loaded stranger and she is only here for another hour before she can escape back to the pitch and her teammates who like her tattoos and admire her and respect her hard work without seeing her as some tacky social-climber who scrounged an invite to an area of society where she is institutionally unwanted. 

“Picasso,” she then offers, rather petulantly, looking at you with a childish frown. In her head, she estimates the distance between your bodies, noticing how you have not returned to your original position. 

“Ah, well done. He’s quite niche.” She doesn’t appreciate the teasing, and so she steps sideways to… put a stop to it somehow. Obviously, the plan had never truly been formulated, and it comes across as a half-lunge to push you away, but then you are swinging your arms as though the conversation is boring you and she desperately wishes you’d stay put. 

“What do you think about the painting?” she fires into the shortened space between you, the question wrapping around you like a rope that ties you to the spot. 

“It’s boring.” She scoffs, because after all, it is a painting of her. “The poor artist must have been tortured by the task, having to force her eyes to stay open while watching football matches.” 

And if Alexia were not so distracted by the way your swinging hand has begun to brush against her own, she would probably catch you out there and then. 

(But your touch is electric and she is otherwise engaged.) 

“Like, come on, can’t the sports photographers just get their pictures blown up? No one needs such an outrageously huge portrait of Alexia Putellas in their home, or stadium, or whatever. I reckon the artist is now regretting the angle she painted from, anyway, in case some pervert with more money than sense bids for it and hangs it up in his bedroom.” 

“Bedroom?”

The tips of Alexia’s ears go red, a stark contrast to the expensive silver hoops she sports, and you stop your fidgeting, hand resting on top of hers – perhaps unintentionally – as her misunderstanding wedges an awkward pause into the middle of your rant. 

“Sorry,” you apologise, “that was probably not the best thing to say, considering it’s a painting of you.” 

Alexia runs through what you have said, hoping her subconscious has caught it while her mind was preoccupied with what your sexual orientation might be. “Why have you come here if you are so against the principle of it?” 

“I was required to,” you explain, through half-gritted teeth and a jaw that tenses with leftover annoyance from a conversation you had with the coordinator. 

Seizing the opportunity to get a humorous punch back, Alexia quickly fumbles out a, “someone’s important.” 

She’d celebrate her victory over you, the way you blush in embarrassment, if you hadn’t started anxiously playing with her fingers. Suddenly, the air that bridges the gap between you is set alight and Alexia stares at where you are connected. 

You hastily pull away. “Sorry,” you say for a second time. “I have to sell this, and I’m nervous.” 

“Sell wh– The painting?” 

“No, Alexia, I’ve been sent by Real Madrid to hold you hostage so I have to sell this act.” Briefly, fear washes over the footballer’s face, tanned skin paling at the idea that you have a weapon concealed in the satin folds of your dress. Then, your hand makes a decisive movement and your fingers are intertwining with hers before she can run to safety. “I thought it was best to lure you in by flirting with you.” 

“You’ve been… flirting with me?” 

“God, imagine if I actually were here to kidnap you.” You hold up your joined hands so that she can see for herself. “Is your weakness women who bully you?” 

She blushes again, unsure how to handle what you have insinuated. 

Alexia grasps onto what little dignity remains and straightens herself, shoulders rolling back as she emulates the confidence she has been painted with. “Only pretty women,” she drawls. 

She is about to use whichever line appears in her mind first, completely unashamed by it because she has guessed you would tease her no matter what leaves her mouth, but some evil, cruel person clinks a small fork against their glass, clearing their throat, and your hands quickly return to your body, your attention drawn away from the conversation. 

“Thank you all for coming,” announces the event coordinator, clearly gearing up for a speech. “There will be time for more chatting later, but I cannot resist showing off our most talented artist any longer.” 

You roll your eyes. The expression is directed at Alexia, who chuckles privately, sunshine blooming in her chest that you have spared a silent comment just for her. 

“Y/n, darling, where are you?” 

An authoritative gaze searches through the crowd and lands on you.

The dots connect, Alexia begins to feel like an idiot, and you are sashaying away before she can ask you to stay.

[yesimwriting]

Pulling Away

A/n did i write smut for once? yeah. also timeline wise is this perfectly accurate? it’s iffy,, but this fic isn’t about the plot too much so it’s okay

Summary: You’re not the only one that’s feeling a little territorial thanks to the influx of people you’re around in Jackson. 

warnings: 18+, implied age gap, no condom, a tiny bit manipulative if you squint, brief mention of losing virginity.

----

He’s not a force of nature, no matter how hard he might pretend to be for the sake of those around him. Joel can’t actually change anything. So the shift in temperature you feel as Joel stills has to be a byproduct of what’s in your head. 

The kind of burning cold that better fits a fever runs through you and you hate yourself for it. This isn’t the first time you’ve been delusional when it comes to him. 

You’re working off of a quarter of his face against low lighting. It doesn’t make sense for you to be able to feel so much from the little of him that you can see. It’s not anger. Or at least, not just that. There’s definitely a subdued rage radiating from him, but it’s undercut by something that punches you straight in the gut. 

Maybe you’re being a little unfair, but you have a right to it at this point. You can’t follow him around blindly like some kind of puppy forever. Especially now that you’re both settled enough to be able to think of things outside of pure survival.

“Ellie’s asleep.” A flat observation that you can’t explain. Maybe it’s the need to break the silence, or maybe it’s a genuine attempt at making things feel normal. You two should still be able to talk. You never wanted that to end. “Swore she wasn’t tired, but passed out as soon as her head touched the mattress.” 

Joel lets out a small sound from the back of his throat. It’s a spike in the atmosphere. “Think I’m gonna go to bed, too.” You don’t understand your awkwardness or the urge to create distance. It’s not like Joel would hurt you, but then again, the buzz of adrenaline doesn’t seem to be coming from a place of fear. It’s an uneasy burning that worsens when you raise your eyes enough to meet his. “Night.” 

The one word is a little better and somehow so much worse. Not aggressive or trying to make things better. It’s just there. Civil. 

When he says nothing, you take it as your sign to call it a night. Tomorrow could be better. Sure, your rocky dynamic might be going through growing pains while you set boundaries that should have been established long ago, but you’ll likely survive this. You’re all staying together in the same house in Jackson for the time being and you both care too much about Ellie to separate over something small. 

Even if Joel won’t directly admit to it, the part of your relationship that feels like co-parenting is sacred. That’s part of the reason why the feelings you’ve been fighting with yourself to dismantle are so complicated. He cares about Ellie more than he wants to admit and the last thing you need right now is to tear away the little stability she’s finally been given. Not over a few awkward conversations and stiff moments. 

The weird irony that vaguely reflects the issues of the world before isn’t lost on you. If someone were to squint at the situation, you’d seem like a wife trapped in a marriage for the sake of her children. Maybe if it was happening to someone else you’d have enough energy to find it funny. 

You turn carefully, like a too loud squeak of your shoes could be what snaps the thinning thread tying you two to a hint of casualness. You don’t need to pass him to get to where you’re sleeping. The three of you had been set up in a space that allowed for each person to have their own room. It’s like that in theory, but in practice it’s more like Ellie’s room, Joel’s room, and the spare. 

A comfortable enough bedroom that you’ve maybe spent the entire night alone in twice in the weeks you’ve been here. You can’t even pretend that you keep the few things you own in there either. Joel’s an even lighter traveler than you, so slowly your items made their way into the drawers in his room. Now, your room is basically just where you go to change into and out of sleepwear.

You’ll get used to it, used to the draft that originally led to you giving up on rocky sleep the first night you ended up sleeping next to Joel. Your dreams kept you up even more than the cold, but when Joel’s drowsy voice called out to you in the dark, asking why you were awake, you blamed the night’s chill. That’s how it first happened. 

It was a mistake you should have never let turn into habit. You’re correcting it now. Setting boundaries to prevent heartbreak. It’s only a matter of time considering the way the women here look at him.

“Since when do you sleep in there?”

His voice is so gruff it instinctually freezes you. Any sarcastic comment at the back of your throat vanishes immediately. The both of you are fully aware of how you end up each night, but it’s a boundary in itself not to mention it. You’re not sure if it’s more him or you, but what happens at night and early in the morning is never mentioned.

It’s a dip into another reality. A space where Joel’s a little lighter, almost more open. Sometimes he’ll drag your arm with him when he moves onto his side, a silent way of asking you to stay close. On the best nights, he’ll joke about it, letting your limbs meld together under a blanket and swear he’s just trying to keep you warm out of the kindness of his heart. 

His humor is the worst. The kind that some might justify as a result of years of it being at a stalemate for years considering the tragic state of the world, but you know better. They’re the kind of jokes that take a second to settle because of his general exterior, but are meant to be so dumb they force out a smile. In another life, the little comments are dad jokes.

The peace bleeds into the mornings now, he’ll keep the closeness and remind you that you don’t have to get up immediately by mumbling something about Ellie still being asleep. Like she’s the only thing significant enough to get you two to return to reality. 

You’re convinced that these moments exist because neither of you mention them. He’s crossing a line you didn’t realize meant so much to you and he’s being dramatic it, too. It’s not the rarest thing for you to ‘attempt’ to sleep in your own bed. Sure, you’re more likely to lay in that room for a few hours on nights where Ellie stays up a little later, but this isn’t the strangest thing you’ve done. 

He’s ripping any chance of returning to that separate world away from you. It stings more than it should. “Thought I’d give it a try,” you voice is too low, too defensive, “It’s not a big deal.” 

The defense sounds so weak in your own ears, you don’t even want to imagine what he took from it. “Bullshit.”

His voice comes out in such a low huff you feel it more than hear it. If the sound had felt any less dangerous, you would have pretended to mistake it for another wordless grunt. Your lips part slowly as your mind struggles to create any kind of logical response. 

Pretending is clearly getting you nowhere. The only reason you ever pretended it would was pure delusion. Joel has always been able to see through you, through any shift in mood. Even when your lies are better, his ability to sense them is uncanny. 

He turns with no warning. Joel crosses the space between you before you can even fully register his steps. Your body tenses as heat rushes to your face in result of an oddly charged parody of fight or flight. You almost step back, one heel shifting back, but then you meet his gaze and the determined glint behind his eye is enough to melt you into place. 

There’s something else there, too. A focus that pins you into place even further. Holds you there better than the barrel of a pistol could. 

The absurdity of the warmth rooted in your chest should be enough to make the feeling go away. It doesn’t, so you force your lips to part again. You need to say something. Anything. “Joel?” Not that. Not just his name in a voice that feels violently small. 

“You’re pullin’ away.” 

The accusation in his voice leaves no room for argument. You try anyways, “No.” The rest of your thoughts can’t come out while you’re looking at him at the same time. There’s shame in dropping your gaze to focus on your shoes and the little space between you. “It’s not like that.” 

Joel lets out a low sound. The creak of the floor as he steps forward again snaps you out of your trance. You step back in a desperate attempt to keep the space between the two of you equal. Your back hits the wall before you can come close to achieving your goal. It’s a knee jerk reaction that leaves your face feeling even warmer than before. A part of you expects Joel to laugh at the sound or at least comment on it. He doesn’t. He continues forward until his mouth is so close to your ear the warmth of his breath lingers when he exhales. 

He takes a second there, relishing in your stillness. “Don’t lie to me.” Joel pulls away just enough to look you in the eye. “You don’t want to talk to me, you’re talkin’ about leavin’.” The southern drawl of his voice is increasing with his frustration. It’s distracting in a way that feels too convenient. Like he’s doing this on purpose. 

You swallow once. “You found your brother. I have a sister out there, I’d--I think now that things are more settled with Ellie it wouldn’t be the worst thing for me to look for her.” 

“And you don’t want us goin’ with you, but you’re more than willing to let the guy that’s always lookin’ at you--” 

“Oh my god, is that what this is about?” You are insane. Of course his issue is who mentioned it. John knows travel, leaves Jackson and comes back in one piece when he needs to. He wouldn’t be the worst person to have with you if you did want to start a rudimentary search for your sister. “I didn’t make any plans with John, it just came up.” 

“You don’t want us goin’ with you.” 

Your throat feels dry. The thought of it makes you feel cold. You haven’t seen your sister in a few years and so much has changed. You’re no longer in the QZ and your sister has no way of knowing that. She can’t reach out if there’s trouble or good news and she has no reason to assume that you’re safe. You know where she lives, and if she’s not there, you know a few of her usual spots. She doesn’t typically stray too far from her bubble. It wouldn’t be a long trip, just long enough. 

Long enough to give you some space. Long enough to remember what it’s like to not be around Joel all the time. Long enough to feel less about him. 

And you’d come back. You wouldn’t just walk out of his life and Ellie’s forever. The little bit of space you’re trying to get would make it easier for you to stick around in the long run because it’s the only way you can think to get rid of the feelings that are trying to ruin everything. 

“We haven’t been here that long and Ellie’s finally starting to feel settled. I don’t want to drag her out of that yet and make her feel like her entire life is just going to be her being dragged around the country.” 

Your words are a jumble, rushed together in a way that makes the honesty of them less effective. It’s a good point. Ellie just called her room hers the other day and even asked about moving the bed against a different wall.

Joel lets out a low breath, eyes hardening. “You’re right. She’s settlin’ and she needs you.” He knows he’s hit his mark when you don’t respond. “How do you think she’s gonna take the news that you’re leaving?” 

“Leaving to visit my sister.” You struggle to swallow. “Temporarily. It’ll take less than two weeks.” 

His lips pull into a frown as his eyebrows together. Moody and brooding. The look you’ve openly referred to as his old man scowl. “With John.” 

Ugh. This again. Why does it matter? Yes, John will be there, but it’s not like it’s just you and John. Your sister isn’t that far and she has access to supplies that aren’t common, she has an understanding with people that have easy access to medical supplies. 

But even if it was just you and John, it doesn’t matter. There are a lot of areas in which you factor in Joel’s opinion, but this is definitely not one of them. You two aren’t together and with the way he does nothing to show any discontent when the girls here start to look at him, he definitely doesn’t need you keeping his bed warm at night. 

“If I go, he wouldn’t be the only one there.” The fact that you’re trying to justify John’s presence leaves a bitter taste in your mouth. You’re a grown woman, free to associate with whoever you want. You might jokingly call him your old man from time to time, but he has no right. “And if even if he was, what does it matter?” 

His jaw locks and the downwards tilt of his chin erases the little bit of confidence you’ve managed to build. “You’ve seen the way that boy looks at you.”

You have to bite your tongue to avoid from blurting out that he’s also seen the way majority of the women you see on a daily basis look at him. Joel’s also exaggerating. John does not have any feelings for you, and if he did, it wouldn’t matter. It’s not like you see John as anything more than a friend. But even if you did--it is not his business. At all. 

“He doesn’t.” There’s little point in saying that, Joel’s not one to have his mind so easily swayed and he’s been wary of John since the beginning. Sometimes it even feels like the more you insist that he’s a good friend, the more Joel seems to dislike him. “And if he did, it doesn’t matter.” 

Your words feel like a retreat they shouldn’t need to be. Small, the meaning of the sentence compacted and straining against the limited syllables. A part of you expects Joel to understand what you do mean. That it doesn’t matter because it takes two interested parties to form any kind of relationship. That your mind isn’t even there in terms of feeling safe...that the only person who has ever made you feel safe enough to imagine anything beyond friendship is right in front of you. 

For the first time, Joel doesn’t pick up on the relevance of what isn’t said. You can feel his lack of understanding in the way he moves, placing one hand on the wall, near your head. You blink, trying in vain to explain the motion, explain his proximity. He’s caging you in. 

The heat of his body is practically inescapable, amplified by the way he smells. Joel showered a little earlier, his natural scent combining pleasantly with that of plain soap. After so many nights next to him, you would think you would have developed a tolerance. You haven’t. And even if you did, you doubt it’d matter...this is different. Dizzying. 

“Doesn’t matter?” 

He’s somehow even closer and somehow not touching you. The realization that that’s the worst part of this leaves your stomach fluttering. You need the feeling gone, so you force out the first words that come to mind, “It matters as much as all the girls that look at you like that.” 

It feels more bitter than it comes out, leaving a metallic taste on your tongue. You need out. You need space. You need sleep. Joel’s silence feels like opportunity, so as subtly as you can you try to shift away from the wall. Your back is off the wall for less than a second before you’re pushed back against it. 

Your body hits the wall before you can realize that Joel’s hand is on your hip. There’s too much surprise for that fact to settle, so you look up at him almost bewildered. You expect him to let go or at least look somewhat apologetic. He does the opposite, moving the hand on the wall under your jaw and closing the distance between you in a motion so quick you can barely register it. 

His mouth is on yours before your mind can catch up. It makes no difference to him. He’s rabid in his patience, taking what he wants without forcing your lips to part. His hand squeezes your hip and all at once it connects. You gasp and Joel pins you to the wall even more securely, deepening the kiss with an expert’s ease. 

It lasts until you can’t breathe and ends with his teeth grazing against your bottom lip as he pulls away. “All of this,” the words are exhaled lowly, “’Cause you’re jealous.” 

The kiss left you so light headed your first instinct is to just agree. To not think and do or say whatever you need to in order to get him that close again. But his tone is too sure, too teasing, and the implication isn’t something he can just get away with. “Jealous?” His smugness is hard to take with him holding you against the wall like this. It’s too vulnerable, like this might be some kind of game to him. It makes you feel transparent. Hollow. “Fuck whoever you want, I don’t care.” 

It’s like you’ve said nothing until Joel has the audacity to squeeze your hip. “Whoever I want?” His hand shifts up your hip, your shirt moving with him. “Hm.” His hum settles beneath your skin, effectively silencing you as his eyes take their time raking over your face and down your body. “Those were some big words from you.” 

Heat rushes to your face. It’s ridiculous--you curse more than that on a regular basis. He’s playing into context, too aware of what he’s doing. The urge to push burns twice as hard as buzzing in your chest. “They’re true. We’re not--we’re not anything, so if I want to go with--” 

“I’m not losin’ you.” There’s a desperation in there that comes out so hard it circles back to vulnerable. “You wanna go see your sister, we go see your sister. That’s how we got through everything else.” The hand on your hip moves down, his fingers dipping beneath the elastic waistband of your shorts. You hate yourself a little for the way your breath audibly catches. “Understand?” 

His hand lowers even further, long fingers pressing against the fabric of your underwear. You’re not breathing right and you can’t bring yourself to care. The only thing you can think of is closer. “Y-yes.” 

“’Yes’ what?” No sympathy in his voice or anything that would give away that he has a hand shoed down your pants. 

His touch picks up pace, rubbing against you until a whimper escapes your lips. “Yes, sir.”

Joel moves his hand away with no warning. The whine that escapes your lips doesn’t feel like your own. He’s barely touched you and you’re already like this. “Barely touched you and you’re already listening.” He hooks two fingers in between the band of your underwear. “Should’ve done this awhile again, then.” 

You’re burning all over, the only thing you can manage is a quick, “Shut up.” It lacks any bite. 

He pulls at the band of our underwear, letting it snap back into place. If you didn’t know any better, you’d consider the flash of something softer across his face as amusement. “If you want me to stop, you’ve gotta tell me.” 

Your nod feels desperate. Your entire body feels desperate. For the way he kissed you, the way he touched you. “I-I’ll tell you.” He’s still not moving, not doing anything. It’s some sort of punishment. It has to be. “Joel...” 

“You going to say ‘please’?” 

You have half a mind to tell him to fuck off, but then his fingers hook around your underwear again. A promise. “Please, Joel.” This is all unfamiliar but you trust Joel to get what you want, what you need. “Need you.” 

With no warning, he yanks down your shorts and underwear. They fall down your legs and you blindly kick them to the side. “Need me?” He tilts his head down, pressing an open mouthed kiss against your cheek, then two to your jaw. “Need me where, sweetheart?” 

God. Anywhere. Everywhere. Your desperation reminds you of how incredibly unfair it is that you’re already down to just our t-shirt and Joel’s still fully dressed. You move your hand slowly, carefully tugging at whatever piece of clothing on him you can reach. 

He’s unimpressed. “C’mon, use your big girl words.” His hand is in between your thighs, his fingers teasing at your entrance in a way that makes it impossible to focus on anything else. “You were usin’ them just fine a second ago.” 

“Joel,” he kisses your jaw again, forcing away all train of thought. It has to be intentional. “Joel,” again, too soft. 

“I know,” he exhales the words against your neck, “I know, sweetheart. Need me to take care of you.” Joel doesn’t wait for a reaction, just pushes his fingers fully into you. You gasp too loudly, Joel moves his free hand over your mouth. “Be a good girl and be quiet. Can’t wake up Ellie.” 

Shit. How did you not think of that? “You’ll be good and quiet for me? Let me stretch you out a bit first?” There’s a knot in your stomach that’s slowly taking over all of your senses. As long as Joel keeps working at it, you could promise him anything. You nod against the palm of his hand. 

You bite your tongue to keep from whimpering too loudly. “Need you to relax,” he presses into you even more firmly, “Get you ready for me.” 

He slowly eases his hand off of your face. “Joel, please.” You’re not even sure what you’re asking for, you just know you need more. You want him to consume you entirely. Feel him until he’s all there is.

You hear the sound of a belt buckle and his jeans shifting. Instinctually, you move a hand towards him, wanting to help, wanting to feel him. “There’ll be time for that, right now it’s about you.” You’re about to argue when he skillfully adds another finger. Fuck. “You’re tight,” he breathes, “No one’s ever touched you here?” 

His fingers curl inside of you and you have to burry your face into the fabric of his shirt to keep from crying out. “Only you.” 

“Look who’s found her manners.” He’s picking up the pace and smoothing down your hair as you squirm against him. “Should’ve done this sooner.” Just as the coil in your lower stomach tightens, Joel takes his hand back. 

You push yourself off of him, staring at him with an expression you know he’ll consider pouting. “Why’d you--” 

“Because I want you to remember this.” He pushes you back to the wall, pressing his body against you. The head of his cock brushes against your entrance. With no warning, he pushes into you. Your sharp gasp overlaps with Joel’s low groan. “Y’need a man to fuck the attitude out of you.” He moves slowly, the friction unbelievably overwhelming and somehow not enough. “That boy wouldn’t know what to do with you.” 

Joel presses you further into the wall, sinking into you as deep as possible before pulling out just to sink back in. His pace is even until his breathing picks up. You’re a mess against him, hiding your face in his chest when he starts fucking you with full force.

“You’re squeezing me so good.” Joel practically pants the words into your skin. “Fuck, ‘m going to--you gonna finish with me, sweetheart?” 

Your mind is mush, you can barely nod against him as his thrusts start to lose their focus. You’re pushed over the edge as Joel’s teeth graze against your neck. He pulls at your orgasm, dragging it along until your legs are jelly and he’s pulling out in order to not finish inside you. 

The two of you stay holding onto each other for what feels like a long time and not enough. “You’re not goin’ anywhere, okay?”

You pull your head off of him enough to look him in the eye. “Not without you.” 

He smiles, lines that you can imagine kissing forever etching themselves into his skin. “That’s my girl.” Joel runs a hand up and down your back fondly. “Let’s go to bed,” he presses a kiss against your jaw, “Give me the space to properly appreciate you.”

The thought makes your body burn all over again. “You sure you aren’t tired out, old man?” 

Joel huffs out what’s almost a laugh, “We’ll see who’s tiring who out, sweetheart.” 

[dunmeshistash]

Hiii sorry for asking since I know you don't care much for Toshiro, but I'm trying to find out if his dad was of any specified nobility, or if it was just implied? I figured if you, the archivist of the DM manga didn't know then it's probably safe to dream up a noncanon answer 🤔 Thanks for your time!

I might be ambivalent about Toshiro but I love the retainers so I end up reading a lot about him LOL

From what I understand they're a ninja clan that serves a local lord

So while not nobility themselves they're from an important family

Some other mentions about it

Ninjas and espionage is constantly mentioned even tho right now Toshiro is more of a Samurai? Did Samurais also do espionage?

Edit: Adding what Heattth said in the replies

heattth The most famous ninja, Hattori Hanzo, was a samurai. So, yeah, some samurais did in fact do espionage or otherwise lead ninjas. My understanding is that the whole concept of "ninja clan" is entirely fictícios. What did exist was samurai clans with a fame for employing/training good people with those skills. (In fact, most of the image of a 'ninja' was invented whole cloth for literature or theater.) Of course, Dungeon Meshi is not trying to be historically accurate, so it uses much of pop ninja. But the idea of ninjas being mostly part of a samurai household is closer than much pop history.

[frownyalfred]

Can I get clarification on your pro shipping post? The example you gave was a 20 year old with a 40 year old, and that's "problematic" (not really), but not really what I think of when I hear "pro shipping". Usually it's the shipping of minor/adult or incestuous relationships that I see getting defended. Does being against fictional works/ships that depict pedophilic or incestuous relationships as normal/romantic count as puritanism to you? Do you see the ship of Bruce Wayne/Damian Wayne as a personal preference with no moral implications?

I think there's a huge difference between being personally against something, and wanting to shame others or ban others from reading or writing something. The Puritanism comes from wanting to limit and ostracize others who don't share your beliefs. It comes from believing that your perspective is the only morally right one.

I think there will always be people who want to write or read about ships like that, yeah -- incest, pseudo-incest, everything in between. By moral implications, do you mean for the person interested in the ship? Or do you mean for others? Because I see that concern a lot on here -- this idea that somehow, by wanting to read/write about something, people are either 1) harming others by spreading this morally wrong ship or 2) harming themselves by normalizing the ship, and therefore making it more likely that they'll pursue similar relationships in their real lives.

We don't have much evidence for either of those claims. People have been clutching their pearls and wringing their hands over "morally wrong" books for ages -- and yet, Game of Thrones is still available in every bookstore. Am I a bad or woefully misguided person for having read Lolita in high school? Is a 16 year old reading a Bruce/Damian fic likely to turn around, shrug, and say "guess fucking my Dad is okay now"? Did an entire generation of fans shipping Wincest somehow have lasting, moral effects? I really don't think so. Not at the scale anti-shippers online seem to think, at least.

I think we need to separate how we moralize people from the content that they consume. And acknowledge that shaming and excluding people for wanting to read something doesn't exactly do much to prevent "moral implications." There's also a huge difference between reading a book, and endorsing the ideas/events inside of it. Same things with fics.

Anti-shipping is very appealing to people because it purports to protect people from harm. Until you look a little closer, and you realize that that protection comes at the expense of free expression, creative license, and agency to choose what we personally do and do not consume. And that that protection isn't really airtight out of your anti-shipping discord or tumblr community.

I think the best we can do is let people write and read what they want -- whatever they want, with limited warnings/etc like ao3 employs -- and ensure that those pieces of content are tagged, warned, and displayed accurately. We need to understand that the only control we have is over ourselves, and what we choose personally to consume or not consume.

I don't generally read those fics you mentioned, but I'm not saying they should be banned from ao3. Just because I might possibly think they're wrong or gross doesn't mean I think the person who wrote them is wrong or gross, either. The more we go down that moral slip and slide, like I said in my previous post, the worse off we will all become.

[slater-baby]

Hello! I made a post asking about how to write military terminology in a Call of Duty fanfic! I wanted to follow up on how someone could go about writing scenes about detailed missions and how to get inspiration for those? I have a very specific type of scene that I want to write with an already established villain in the Ghost comics

Sorry if I’m not making sense, I can be bad at explaining myself 😭

Hey!! thank you so much for stopping by!!! Hopefully the guide was of some help 🙏❤️

(Without further ado)

Slater’s Impromptu List of Military Reference Material

This is definitely a great question. I wanna start this off by saying that I've been interested in the military and police my entire life, and that my dream career involves military contracting, so in my own writing, I oftentimes just "wing it" with the things I already know, so to speak aildlajdf But there are definitely some great places to draw inspiration for realistic military missions!!

Let's talk about the kind of training that soldiers do!! In order to understand the realistic capabilities of your characters, you should definitely think about their physical prowess and training. For Simon (a highly trained spec ops soldier), I would research the requirements to become a member of the SAS. Things like, what physical tests would he have to pass? What kind of specialized training did he go through? Most Spec ops soldiers will have to go through a training exercise that teaches them how to resist interrogation and torture techniques as well. This probably isn't super inspiring, but it's a great way to ground yourself in the reality of it. Get to know the mundanity of the work, as well as the darker realities of it.

2. Simon's an officer, and so are the others! Oftentimes in the game, we just see the four of them, but in reality, they would actually be in charge of large groups of people. Sergeants can be in charge of leading and training 10-15 soldiers. Simon, who oversees the sergeants, would be in charge of 20-30. Price, however, would be in charge of 40-50. If small group tactical operations seem challenging (which they can be), you can always write about a full out war with the 141 involved!

3. Video games!! The great thing about writing is that it doesn't need to be entirely realistic aldljkadflj Movies and TV, especially if you're not concerned about being completely historically accurate, are a great place to draw inspiration!! Arguably the best place for inspiration for COD fanfic itself, in my opinion, are the COD campaigns (particularly MW2019, MW2 (2022), and the *opening sequence* of MW3 2023). If you haven't already, I would recommend watching a gameplay walkthrough on YouTube and thinking about the choices the characters *physically* make. If you're going to enter a room, why should you first throw a flash bang? What kind of clothes are they wearing? If the enemy is facing towards them, how would they walk, and what would they avoid doing? How do they speak to each other on the radio and directly? What kind of weapons are they carrying and how is it relevant to their environment? If they're really far away, they might be using rifles, but if they're close, they might be using pistols. My all time favorite moment (which I've written about too) is the MW2019 opening with Gaz at Picadilly circus. You can reuse tropes from the campaigns just with different flares and changes!! Here are some examples: trying to locate a bomb and a group of civilians. Clearing and searching houses or buildings for a suspect (like Hasan). Assassinating certain targets in broad daylight. Securing and occupying a building against enemy targets (ie. secure the Burger Town).

4. TV AND MOVIES!!! This is a GREAT one!! Now, when I say this, this also comes with the obligatory "it doesn't have to be realistic" tag lol. However, this one is arguably what was most helpful to me. I am a *SERIAL* documentary enjoyer, and I oftentimes draw from real life crime events and other things when writing scenes! For example, my recent work Indigo: the main enemy was purely inspired by David Koresh and the shoot out between the American ATF and his followers in Waco, Texas. Crime documentaries are super helpful when considering the logistics of crime without making your search history look like the scene of a murder lol. My favorite documents and military movies?

Waco: American Apocalypse (On Netflix)

American Manhunt: The Boston Marathon Bombing (This one has a very thoughtful examination of Islamophobia in the post-9/11 era, On Netflix)

Night Stalker (on Netflix)

The Anthrax attacks: in the shadow of 9/11 (On Netflix)

Turning Point: 9/11 and the War on Terror (On Netflix)

Winter on Fire: Ukraine's fight for freedom (On Netflix)

Evil Genius: the True Story of America's Most Diabolical Bank Heist (this one is incredibly entertaining, on Netflix)

Terrorism Close Calls (this one can be super helpful, because it gives you an idea of things that people actually tried to do, how they did it, and how the police/military stopped them specifically, on Netflix)

Hostages (good at showing the planning of a military operation, on Max)

For fictional movies and TV shows, here are my favorites that can help show you some dramatized military, politics, and history!!

Zero Dark Thirty (arguably, I think this one is really good for showing you specifically the special forces, as well as the realities of CIA darkness)

Black Hawk Down

1917

Dunkirk

All Quiet on The Western Front (this is a hard watch, but it shows you the nature of war)

Inglorious Basterds (for a comedic spin on Battle Buddies and other military tropes)

Triple Frontier (for small group operations)

Narcos (all seasons)

As for books, I really only have a couple. Literally anything by Tom Clancy will give you some pretty realistic military facts. I also really enjoyed Silence of the Lambs by Thomas Harris because it shows how human the people investigating these crimes are.

As for academic writing, one of the best pieces I can recommend you is The Road to Abu Graib, which is about torture by the CIA. Here's the link to it. Another great book that talks about the logistics of counter terrorism and surveillance is "In the Camps: China's High-Tech Penal Colony" by Darren Byler. This one explores Islamophobia, the war on terror, surveillance logistics, as well as the use and development of technology.

asdfljiaf OKAY I AM SO SORRY FOR WRITING THIS MUCH ALKDFALJ you just so happened to ask me the question that I've been DYING to talk about. I have a degree in International Relations, so being able to give you some good recs of my favorite media is pretttyyyyy fun

.........though I am SO SO SORRY FOR OVERWHELMING YOU WITH INFORMATION 😭 hopefully there are at least some movies and documentaries that sound interesting to you!!

As for writing, one thing that I want you to think about is this:

MILITARY WORK IS OFTENTIMES JUST WORK. Like, it can be an office job a lot of the time, especially for high ranking officers and CIA officers. Military work is also inherently human. Many of the things that military operators do are a product of natural human instinct, honestly. I wholeheartedly believe that the world is less complicated than what people believe it is. Military operators are just regular people at the end of the day. They're no different from the rest of us.

Anyway!! Thank you Anon so much for stopping by!! I hope you succeed in writing your dream scene and I would LOVE to know more about it if you ever decide to drop back into my DMs or Ask Box!! Hope you’re doing well!! ❤️❤️

[howtofightwrite]

Was reading through your torture tag and noticed a lot of stuff that was being said seemed to contradict things that were said on the scripttorture blog... do you have any suggestions on how to clear things up? Im not sure which things to trust

And you're asking us, because they've posted once in the last two years?

I'll admit, I have a fairly low opinion of them, and that's not directly their fault. For years, one of their fans, would regularly send some pretty incendiary asks our way. In fact, some of the less hostile ones were answered, and may be the posts you were looking at. Understandably, the ones simply accusing us of being torture apologists, demanding we redirect all our asks to their blog, or insisted that we should sit down and shut up, did not make the cut. With that in mind, please understand, I'm not going to go digging through their blog to refresh my memory, so some of this might be slightly skewed by the aforementioned deranged fan.

Look for the blog that does not constantly contradict or misrepresent their authoritative sources. Which is to say, if you actually pay attention to Shane O'Mara's work, it's basically what we've been saying all along.

If you're unfamiliar, O'Mara is a Neurologist who was (last I time I checked) working at Trinity College Dublin. He published a, frankly fascinating piece, called, Why Torture Doesn't Work, in which, he set about trying to answer why torture is an ineffective tool for intelligence gathering. O'Mara also had the misfortune of being the only expert who said anything close to the perspective Scripttorture wanted on torture.

An open secret about torture is that it is completely worthless for getting accurate information. This has been widely understood for centuries, if not millennia. O'Mara's question was, “why?”

It turns out, that the neurochemical trauma associated with torture, seriously interferes with your ability to accurately access information. For example: If you're being tortured, you can't tell your torturer where you planted the ticking bomb, because your brain literally can't access those memories.

Torture is evil. Yeah. No shit.

And, this is where ScriptTorture stops. “Torture is bad,” and Jack Bauer is an incredibly unrealistic fantasy, end of story.

Except, this is not the end of this.

Now, generally speaking, I don't blame anyone who wants to get off the ride here. Torture is an unpleasant subject, and wanting to stop at, “oh, it's evil,” is entirely reasonable... unless you want to write on the subject, or if you do political analysis and need to understand why people break out the torture implements.

More than that, this is where my academic background in political science actually comes into play. I'm not saying this as an Eagle Scout who had a couple overly enthusiastic hand to hand instructors when I was a kid. This is (part of) what I studied in college, and I have kept an eye on it since then.

If torture didn't work, you wouldn't see state-sponsored torture pop up repeatedly throughout history. It would not be one of the favorite tools of dictators and despots. However, because it does, and it is, simply saying, “it doesn't work,” isn't instructive or meaningful because it's clearly untrue. Someone is finding value in this, so it becomes important to understand what they are doing, and why they are doing it.

When you torture someone, the information they provide is basically madlibs of whatever leaked through their brain. They want the pain and stress to stop, and they'll say anything they can to make that happen. That often takes the form of what they think their torturer wants to hear. O'Mara's research does explain why they don't simply cough up the truth.

So, why do it?

Torture is a very labor intensive process. You (as an individual) can't, realistically, torture multiple victims at a time, and it is a very drawn out process. Some elements can be automated, your torturer doesn't need to be present at every moment, but they're going to spend hours, if not days, working on one victim. Worse, this is actually a technical profession. It's not like you can just pull in anyone off the street and get the results you want. (Though, technically, this doesn't seem to be as true, however, amateurs do have a shocking capacity to screw up torture. So, the point remains valid.)

The value of torture has almost nothing to do with the victim. It's about the message it sends to everyone else.

Torture is about mass coercion of the population. When you are the state (meaning, the government), and you torture someone, you are telling your citizens that you are willing to do the same to them, if they oppose you.

State-sponsored torture is specifically a tool to suppress political engagement. It is, quite literally, state-sponsored, domestic terrorism.

This even holds true in cases where the state employs torture to extract confessions from criminal suspects. The message sent into the general population is that dissent of any kind will not be tolerated, and that the state has the willingness and power to turn these tools on you if you draw their ire.

I get that this is outside of ScriptTorture's area of expertise, and in fairness, I probably would not have studied this with any intensity, if I hadn't taken multiple classes on revolutionary theory.

Torture from private organizations (which is to say, organized crime, and religious institutions, though cults and some other groups might fit this description as well), follows roughly similar patterns. These tend to do the same things, discouraging dissent, and establishing the organization as having power over the population (or community.) (The technical term would be to “establish capacity.” Which is to say, the organization's capacity to enforce its will. The same term applies to states, though in those cases, the state's capacity is often overestimated by its population. It's only when it starts to falter, for example through military defeats or serious civil unrest, that they really need the capacity boosting part of this equation.)

Zealotry or stupidity can create situations where you have a torturer (or, more likely, someone in a position of power ordering the torture) who believes that it is effectively compelling the truth from the victim. This (or amateurs) can easily lead into a distinct problem, which is that all of this has diminishing returns. Torture one person, and you send a loud, clear message. Torture ten, and all you've added to it is that you're willing to keep going. However, as you start stacking up the victims, you do start sending a new message to your enemies, that being, you're going to get to them sooner or later so it's in their best interest to respond now, mobilize and retaliate proactively, before you get to them. This means that a state which leans heavily on torture can easily instigate the civil unrest that exposes their limited capacity leading to a political death spiral. Alternately, if the state does have the capacity to put down the resulting unrest, it further reinforces their position (which does happen with depressing frequency in the real world.)

You're also going to create new enemies in the friends, family, and loved ones, of the people you tortured. This means that any organization that relies on extensive use of torture will, eventually, start tying a noose around its own neck. (Granted, there are a lot of social dynamics that I'm skimming over here, so it's not exactly as simple as “if the state tortures lots of people, it will result in increasing unrest.”)

If you want a partial citation for the above, you can (ironically) find it in a podcast interview with Shane O'Mara, when he explained why torture has been employed repeatedly through history. (Specifically I think it was episode 15 of Your Welcome, by Michael Malice. Though, I'm not 100% sure off hand.) Though that doesn't cover some of the more in depth elements I just discussed. Some of this is coming from a textbook on revolutionary theory I can't locate (it disappeared in a move a few years back.) Though that was more interested in the general structure of a state destabilizing into internecine conflict. Ironically, my preferred citation on torture, Fear up Harsh by Tony Lagouranis is mostly uninformative in this case, because his experiences were on the ground, rather than from a structural understanding of what his job was really doing. However, he does illustrate my comment about amateurs making even more of a mess, both through personal experiences with a few, and also through the eventual trajectory of the invasion and occupation of Iraq.

But of course, torture is evil... again, no shit. Was that really a question? And, I'm apparently a torture apologist for having a structural understanding of why evil people do evil things. Cool. Evil people don't do evil things because they're evil, they do them because they gain some tangible benefit from those acts, and they do not care about the consequences to anyone else. If you ask someone, “why do people do this?” and their answer is, “it's simple; they're evil,” that person is lying. They may be lying to themselves, but they are lying to you.

Why do people use torture? It's a lot more complicated, and unpleasant, than you'd expect at a simple overview.

-Starke

This blog is supported through Patreon. Patrons get access to new posts three days early, and direct access to us through Discord. If you’re already a Patron, thank you. If you’d like to support us, please consider becoming a Patron.

[crazy-pages]

First step to being a rationalist.

Acknowledge it might not work.

Let me take a step back for a moment. The single most important principle of science, in my opinion, is acknowledging the possibility of failure, that something might be beyond you. People often think of science as how you discover the truth, but I think it is more accurately and importantly described by how it lets us determine what we do not know.

For most of human history, we not only did not know what the sun was made out of, the question was fundamentally beyond our grasp. There was nothing any amount of scientific principle could do that would let you know what the sun was for most of human history. To be a scientist about it, to apply the scientific method to understanding the sun, is not just being able to know nuclear physics. You have to teach yourself to know when to say 'I don't know'.

For most of human history the sun has been fundamentally beyond our capacity to understand. And yet it is one of the most enduring and common subjects of false explanations. To internalize the scientific method, truly in a way that changes your thinking relative to what it was before you learned it, you have to become someone who, if you were living in those times, would be able to say "I don't know" even when everyone around you has an answer.

So let's talk about rationalism.

Rationalism is not just the idea that we can understand human biases. It's not just the idea that we can be more thoughtful or knowledgeable people by understanding these biases. No, rationalism is specifically the idea that by learning enough about human biases and by leaning on hard enough on data, we can reliably make correct and optimal moral choices. It is the belief that by performing enough rationalist study and training, and applying enough information science to a problem, one can proceed on the assumption they have come to the correct conclusion.

And those are very different things. It is the difference between saying "by understanding wood better, we can construct better foot bridges" and "by understanding wood better, we can span the San Francisco Bay with it".

Because here's the thing, better is not the same thing as reliable. Even if we grant the assumption that learning about biases makes one less likely to fall prey to them, and that is an assumption, an 80% chance of making mistake is also less than a 90% chance of making a mistake. It's valuable, that's a good thing, but it is not sufficient to say "hey so I used this method to come to my conclusions, therefore I'm sure I didn't make a mistake".

If you want to be a rationalist, the first rational principle you need to apply is that of the scientific principle looking at the sun. You need to be able to say "There may be nothing I can do, with the resources I have access to, to be sure I am actually free of bias and mistakes in logic. This may be fully beyond me, for the entire span of my life." And not just in the sense that nobody is perfect, but in the very real sense that you cannot depend on the train of logic in your own head to lead you to a correct place.

And the reason this is important is for the same reason it's important in science. The moment that you presume something is in fact knowable in science, it just becomes a tool of accrediting whatever conclusion you come to. It stops being an actual tool of discovery and becomes a rubber stamp of validation. It becomes something which makes you feel better about the conclusion you came to, not something which actually helps you in any way.

The moment you say to yourself, "because I am a rationalist, I am confident enough in A, B, and C to take actions X, Y, and Z" you've failed to be a rationalist. (Unless you provide a double blind study of a large well-controlled population, one of which was given rationalist training and the other which wasn't, upon the end of which it was determined that the rationalist trained population did indeed perform to an improved standard meeting a high minimum on certain metrics (upon which you must limit your assumption of rationalist improvement to those specific metrics). And then this study has been in the corpus of literature long enough to be peer-reviewed and criticized and had duplicate research and further investigation and a good long while for the scientific community to dissect it. A thing which has definitely not happened yet.)

The most important thing you can learn from rationalism is not an understanding of a specific set of biases. It's not the particular ways human cognition is messed up and it's not any type of information science. It is the fact that humans are flawed.

The most important thing you can learn from rationalism is humility, not hubris.

To do otherwise is for rationalism to just become another tool of confirmation bias, something making you think you are more correct than you actually are.

The humility you have to learn from rationalism is that you must plan and behave on the assumption that no matter how rationalist you think you are, you might still be behaving in biased ways. That there might be no way to fix this. And so all you can do try to behave in ways where even if you're wrong, you're going to minimize the harm you do to others.

This is where futurist philosophies derived from rationalism, the idea that the unimaginable number of humans in the future are so much more than the ones now that it justifies worker exploitation and present harms to make the far future better, falls apart. This is where AI doomerism/utopianism, the idea that general AI is definitely the biggest threat and potential boon facing humanity so we have to put all of our resources into safe AI research at the expense of everything else, falls apart. This is where effective altruism, the idea that we can quantify the outcomes of charity thoroughly enough that it makes sense to hand over direction of all charity to a small group of experts, falls apart.

Because the answer to "what if you're wrong about these philosophies?" is that a lot of people get very hurt. We are flawed. Fundamentally so, and I don't know that anyone has ever proved a way we can get around this. The only thing I know that we can do about this, is to try to behave in ways that minimize harms while trying to make the world better, rather than trying to maximize a hail mary to find the holy grail.

To which I can already hear the rationalists saying that this might not be enough to save the world, that anything but convulsive directed effort focused on is already doomed, so we have to pick one of them.

To which I say. First off, how are you sure of that? How is this a thing that you know for certain?

But more importantly. Yeah. You're right. There's no way of knowing for sure what course of action will make the world a better place. There's no way of knowing that anything short of futurists sacrificing the workers of the present to build a brighter future will be enough.

But if you are actually a rationalist, well. That is what you have to live with. You've got to be the scientist looking up at the sun and saying, "I don't know."

And then you should go and do things to make the world better without being sure of your prognostication of the future.

[ideas-on-paper]

On Carlo and Romeo's relationship & homosexuality in Victorian schools

In my quest to find out more about Carlo and Romeo's lives at Monad Charity House, I have once again resorted to my tried and tested method of historical research, this time with a primary focus on Victorian boarding schools.

Along the way, I stumbled upon Lord Alfred Douglas, aka "Bosie" Douglas, the lover of Oscar Wilde. As people familiar with them may know, their gay romance caused quite a stir in 1895 due to the (in)famous trials of Wilde for “gross indecency”, the tragic result of which was that the latter was convicted to two years of hard labor that ruined his health.

Both already had their fair share of gay affairs beforehand though - Bosie specifically was very popular among his peers during his time at Oxford University, being excellent at sports, artistically gifted and incredibly handsome, so it's not too surprising he hooked up with some of his fellow students. What absolutely had me rolling on the floor was this statement, however (quoted from this page):

"[...] we argue that the English public schools in the last part of the nineteenth century tolerated, if they did not actually encourage the development of strong homoerotic friendships between students."

Apparently, homosexuality in boarding schools was so common people made off-hand jokes about it. In the novel Rites of Passage by William Golding, the protagonist finds a fellow traveler engaged in oral sex with a sailor, thinking of it as "that silly schoolboy prank". Admittedly, Golding wrote his novel in the 20th century, so we don’t know for sure if the 19th-century attitudes portrayed in it are accurate, but this might imply that sexual interaction between schoolboys was fairly common.

In the first edition of Tom Brown's School Days by Thomas Hughes, published in 1857, there was even a passage of the protagonist insulting two boys who were clearly in a sexual relationship with senior boys, with the author commenting that "everyone who studied at Rugby would understand why this passage was necessary". (Hughes himself was Christian and condemned homosexual relationships; the concerning passage was cut out in later versions).

This does not mean, however, that all the boys attending boarding schools were gay - rather, because boarding schools were restricted by gender, they had their first sexual experiences in this male-only environment. Many of them would try the exact same thing out with a girl later and find they enjoyed it much more. However, there were also those who never felt any desire to try it out with a girl - and given how close Carlo and Romeo were, I would honestly be more surprised if there wasn’t anything romantic going on between them.

I mean, it’s not like the entire LoP community isn’t already shipping Carlo and Romeo, but in case there was ever any doubt about it, take it from me: I’m positive these boys were gay.

And in case anyone feels like pointing out that “well, actually, the setting of Lies of P is based on France”: Homosexuality was already decriminalized in France as early as 1791 by the National Constituent Assembly, making France the first Western European country to do so - or rather, the penal code drafted with the intention to only punish "real crimes" made no mention of homosexual acts in private. Still, it was a major step for gay rights.

[animentality]

Wishing Gortash hadn’t massacred a room full of people couldn’t be me because the environmental storytelling of it is SO GOOD. You leave the great big coronation hall packed and lively, everyone cheering for their new archduke. You get back out into the city, track down Orin, get your hands on her netherstone. You return to the coronation hall, the room loads in, and wham. The entire hall strewn with blood and corpses. Dead silent. Cultists in full Banite regalia milling around openly, unconcerned. You realise that not a single one of those nobles left the hall after the coronation, after you did, because every single one is lying slaughtered where they were. And it is very very obvious that this is the work of the new archduke who you allied yourself with. For me, it was a moment of oh god, this guy is serious.

And like. You can find TONS and tons and tons of damning evidence for how horrible and corrupt and evil Gortash is all over the city, there is not a single corner of it untouched by him in some way. You have the families of an enslaved labour force imprisoned and tortured. You have that same enslaved labour force dressed up in shock collars! You have a scheme to distribute teddy bears stuffed with explosives, targeting refugee children, just for the sake of instilling more and more fear in the public. And you do get to understand pretty well that these things are all being done not by someone who just delights in violence and chaos the way Orin does, but as the utterly dispassionate, pragmatic ventures of a guy who genuinely does not see people as people (and rather as objects, tools, currency - shapes that might walk and talk but ultimately mean nothing).

But for me personally, even on top of ALL of that, no display of Gortash’s villainy made more of an impact than walking into that room as his ally.

Not because I give a shit about any of the actual nobles themselves, or think it’s technically worse than say giving explosive toys to refugee children, etc. But the slaughter of the patriars has such an impact for me because it’s not talked about. You can’t find a million clues about it or stop it from happening. Talk to any of the Banite guards and they simply tell you point blank what happened. It’s not abstract. It’s not preventable. It happens, and it’s a cold whack in the face for the unwitting player who may have earnestly allied with him. It’s the game saying “this is your ally, by the way, in case you weren’t aware. Even if you foiled his other little plots - found the undetonated teddy bears, freed the Gondians, etc - don’t think that was enough, because this is who he is.”

(And because we don’t SEE it happen, just the aftermath? You get to wonder. Did Gortash step out before this happened? Or did he stand back and watch? Did he find it messy, or did he smile as he watched his steel watchers rip people in half? Did it make him feel powerful? We can probably guess the answers to these questions.)

Anyway Gortash is SUCH a good character and I love him. And if Durge had all their faculties walking into that room and seeing all the murdered people would have brought a tear to their eye, they’d be so proud of him lol

OOOOOooooh absolutely brutally accurate description of Gortash, and YES.

That is the beauty of Gortash's evil. His pragmatism.

The way he tries to pretend he's different than you and Orin, but you can call him out, and say, you're just as bad as us.

And I would LOVE to know if he was there when he killed the patriars too.

He acts like he's so "above it all." Like he's not a Bhaalspawn, killing for pleasure...but sweetie, you are not any different just because you have a Steel Watcher crush a child rather than dissect one.

The people you try to save when you're at the Steel Watch Foundry? Those poor old people and children and families?

All of them are pretty fucking brutal. The Steel Watch are fucking awful. They're not benign robots. They are cruel and cold and emotionless, and they aren't there to protect, only subjugate.

And they're a lot like Gortash himself.

Frigid, with a black and white understanding of right and wrong, only it's flipped, and submitting to authority is the only "right" and any resistance is "wrong" and needs to be destroyed.

And just to go back to him believing he's so "above" the Chosens of Bhaal, or even everyone in general...even with Karlach, when she's enraged, and hurt, over being sold and enslaved, he says, well it was for your own good, my dear girl, let bygones be bygones - stop lying, Gort!

stop pretending you're so above everyone else, that you're this calm, logical man, whose endeavors are heroic, even noble.

They aren't.

You're getting back at a world that abandoned you.

Your entire life revolves around revenge, sadism, and wanton cruelty.

You are not saving anyone. You are dooming those who made you this way.

And that's why I like him.

He is just so...kickable. And evil.

And disgusting.

And I adore him.

He is built wrong, and I like it.

[lindentea]

Analysis re: Full Moon and conflict resolution (or not)... spoilers ahead.

The fact that we got an episode showing a healthy, supportive, and-- most importantly-- communicative relationship (Fizz and Ozzie), immediately followed by an episode showing a very unhealthy and very non-communicative relationship (Blitzø and Stolas)... yeahhhh that really stood out to me.

(Sidenote: It absolutely warms my heart that Fizz is so much happier and healthier now!! And he and Blitz have a warm and affectionate friendship again!!! aaaaaaaa!!!)

I'm wondering if Apology Tour will start with Blitz talking to Fizz and/or Moxxie, since Blitz has actually opened up to both of them and apologized to/reconciled with them (he explicitly apologizes to Fizz in Oops and indirectly apologizes to Moxxie in Truth Seekers). I also find it interesting that both of those above apologies/reconciliations started with a fight or conflict.

In Moxxie's case, the truth gas initiates their conflict. They spill their guts to each other in person first, then their insecurities are pulled right out in the open for them in their individual hallucinations. When they come to, they have a quiet heart-to-heart.

In Fizz's case, it starts first at Ozzie's as a verbal conflict, and then in Oops it continues with taunts that escalate into a physical fight (when they are captured by Striker). What I particularly noted about their argument during the later shootout is that even though they start out yelling at each other in anger, they gradually clarify facts and express their perspectives and feelings, until the climax of "I DID CARE!!" (...which always makes me cry btw). And then Blitz actually says the words "I'm sorry." And although he admits/explains that it was an accident, he doesn't try to make any excuses or lay the blame anywhere else. That is huge for him!!

Back to Full Moon... When Blitz starts yelling and angrily shouts his feelings (however rational or irrational they are, however hurtfully they are phrased), he is trying to gain any kind of control over the conversation. He is trying to have a conversation at all. And fighting about it (whether physically or verbally) might be the only way he knows how to initiate that. Someone else on here noted that fighting seems to be a sort of default(...? not sure how to phrase that) way of resolving conflict in imp culture-- as we see with Millie and Sallie May in their short.

And, quite obviously, but very importantly.... Stolas is not an imp. He isn't familiar with that form of conflict resolution, nor that form of communication. At all. All he knows is Stella screaming at him and insulting him.

Stolas shuts down at the end of Full Moon because Blitz's screaming and insults trigger him after of all those years of Stella's abuse (Stolas' response to which is entirely valid and understandable). Both Stolas and Blitz perceive the other's response as a rejection, both of them are triggered by the other's response. It was depicted in an intensely realistic way-- hurt people hurt people-- people speaking completely different languages with their very different traumas and trauma responses, tbh. Neither of them is more wrong than the other. It's a heart-wrenchingly accurate display of traumatized people who care about each other, yet unintentionally hurt each other... buhhhhhhhhh FEELINGS.

[olderthannetfic]

https://www.tumblr.com/olderthannetfic/766905425760337920/olderthannetfic-i-used-the-data-people-gave-me

https://dl.acm.org/doi/abs/10.1145/3025453.3025720

if you (or any of this blog's followers who likes statistics) have the time to go into detail, how can i find and/or make charts similar to those? i'm curious to see more recent numbers for the stats in the research but i don't know how to search for them. looking up terms like 'ao3 statistics' only brings up results for personal works like hits, views, and kudos.

--

*dying*

Anon... my charts are just numbers I grabbed by hand from AO3.

Cecelia Aragon runs a data science lab at a university where they downloaded all of FFN and then wrote programs to try to assign metadata and crunch numbers.

--

The first step to any stats project is to figure out what question you're asking and what kind of data would actually answer it.

Then you look at your target site (or whatever) and see where that data might be stored or how it could be determined in a relatively objective way. This requires a lot of understanding of the site in question.

For example, I wanted shipping stats for Wattpad. It doesn't offer AO3-style tags for that, so I needed to randomly sample, then hand-classify. Destination Toast ran an analysis like that and outsourced the classification to others with the instruction to mark something as "gen" if it was too hard to tell if there was a ship. Knowing what Wattpad is like—very, very het and very, very incoherent—I thought this was a poor choice. When I did my analysis, I erred on the side of assuming something was het rather than gen. I think that makes my numbers more accurate, but more is not entirely. Since I did my hand-classification myself, it will be more consistent... but also potentially more inaccurate in some particular direction. Outsourcing reduces the chance of one person's takes biasing the whole dataset but introduces other potential problems.

Being aware of these drawbacks in various methods of looking at data is important. You can't really fix them, but you can at least note them in your writeup.

For example, looking at AO3 as AO3 is relatively easy, but using AO3 to generalize about fanfic is a terrible idea. Many fandom stats people don't realize this or don't realize why this is so.

--

Which stats are you after in particular? Shipping? Join dates? Kudos ratios?

[wearyeyebrow]

Worthy In Blue

Summary: You’ve been working on a little surprise project for Lucifer involving navy blue rope and a mahogany chair. You know Lucifer has a penchant for ropework, so what if you gave him an evening to put those skills, and your own, to good use?

Tags under the cut.

Tags: submissive lucifer, dominant MC, rope, restraints, MC is in rope, Lucifer is restrained, pegging, cunnilingus, gn MC, afab MC, mutual possessiveness, romance, established relationship, pre-nightbringer

-

Tonight is the long awaited Grimte Banquet where all the noble houses gather. Relationships are maintained, new ones started, and it’s all Lucifer can do to keep his brothers in line. Luckily, he has you to keep Mammon by your side and Beel full of food.

The night drones on spent managing many noble advances. He spares you a weary glance and you wink at him from across the hall. He can’t help the quirk of his mouth, a slight smile amidst everything. You’re impossibly charming.

A few moments later and he hears your voice in his ear. “Meet me in the coat room, I have something to show you.”

You slip away and disappear somewhere in the crowd. Eventually he manages a moment alone, horribly curious as he finds his way to you.

You close the door behind him, nearly hidden amidst coats of all sizes. “Hi gorgeous,” you wrap your arms around his waist.

"A coat closet?" He muses.

“I won’t keep you. Pretty sure Beel is looking for me too… Here.” You hold up your phone, “What do you think?”

You’re showing him a picture of… rope? “This is what you wanted to show me?”

“I could hardly send it to your phone right now, what with the entire royal court surrounding you. Plus, I’d rather explain its implications in person.”

“Implications?”

“Mm. Are you free next Friday night? Around 10pm?”

“I…” he allows himself a small smile, “I might be able to spare you some time.”

“Oh might you?” You smirk, “Well, if you’re too busy I completely understand. I’m capable of appreciating my own hard work.”

He acts affronted, grabbing you by the waist and kissing your hand. “Would a willing participant not please you more?”

“Isn’t that why I asked you in the first place?” He’s captivated by the crinkle of your nose, by the warmth of your smile.

“You’ve caught me,” he chuckles, “I’m all yours.”

“Then it’s a date. Do you like the color?”

You show him your phone again and he hums appreciatively. "Did you get it from Cloven Boutique? I didn’t think they stocked colored rope."

“They don’t, I dyed it myself."

“Truly?” He looks closer, in want of his glasses. “It looks like a professional job."

"Well, I had to get the color just right - I love the look of you in blue."

"Oh?" His tone softens.

“Mhm…” You appreciatively sweep your eyes up his body, lingering the gold peacock tie-clip you got him last month. You reach out and adjust his collar, “I love seeing you in things I’ve bought.”

“You have good taste.”

“Do you really think so?”

He frowns. “I wouldn’t wear something if it didn’t suit me.”

You laugh, “I know, I just wanted to hear you say it.”

“You’re horrible.”

“I’m charming.”

He fondly rolls his eyes. “I suppose both descriptors are accurate. I will look forward to it all week.”

“I think it’ll be worth the wait.” You lean up and brush your lips against his, “Don’t dance with too many nobles now.”

“Haven’t you noticed? All eyes are on you tonight. It’s taken everything in me not to whisk you away.”

“Likewise, darling.” You wink at him again and his heart certainly doesn’t flutter.

-

Lucifer knocks on your closed door, waiting for you to beckon him inside.

The first thing he notices is an old mahogany chair in the middle of your room, stolen from the hallway. It sits odd against your comfortable furniture.

You make a show of locking your door, brushing against his shoulder as you pass by. Then you cast a noise canceling spell - nothing but an emergency could disturb you now.

When you meet his eyes you're delighted by his wanting expression, unguarded and open in his desire. "I wonder…" you walk over to him, "how much you've thought about this night, curious about what I've planned?" You straighten his tie, close enough to see him swallow.

"It has been on my mind." He takes your hand in his own and kisses your knuckles, looking every part adoring.

You chuckle fondly, "Especially in the evenings, when you think of me?"

His cheeks heat up but his gaze is steady. “I won’t deny it."

“Honesty suits you." He goes in for a kiss just as you pull away. "I want to show you something."

He makes a curious sound and you leave him to open your dresser drawer. "Now, you knew I'd be using rope tonight, but for what exactly I didn't tell you." You gather the rope in your arms, "It might not seem like much of a deviation."

"Oh?" He eyes the rope you've picked.

"You still like it?"

He turns the rope over in his hands, "It’s richer than I remember. How did you do it?"

"Blue mangled beetles - kind of like carmine, but the process is simpler. When dried and crushed they make a beautiful dark navy dye that doesn’t bleed."

"You did your research."

You chuckle and take the rope from his hands. "Only the best for you. Gloves off."

He slips off his right leather glove, finger by finger - wait. “Blue?” You look at him inquisitively. His nails are a rich navy blue, perfectly manicured and glossy.

His eyes flicker behind you, cheeks dusting pink. “I painted them a few days ago.”

You're confused for a minute, then it hits you. “Wait - because of me?”

His voice drops, “You - you mentioned-" He clears his throat, "I thought you might like them.”

"I love them, Lucifer…" You kiss his knuckles, his palm, his wrist, before pulling him in for a proper kiss. His hand cups your jaw and he makes a small, plaintive sound. He really had been thinking about your words all this time.

You pull away with reluctance. "It's time I tell you what we’ll be doing tonight. Shall we start the scene?"

He clears his throat again and sweeps his own magic over your door. "Let us begin."

"Any titles are allowed tonight, you can address me however you’d like. Red to stop the act, yellow to pause, and green for all good. Fire if you want to stop the scene entirely."

"Understood.”

“Then…" the glint in your eyes makes him a little weak in the knees. "I know you have a penchant for ropework. And I know how much you enjoy earning my praise. So, I had a thought - tonight I’d like you to use your ropework skills and tie me up, but I want full range of motion, you know, a design strictly for aesthetics.” You pull the rope taught in your hands, “And then, if you do a good enough job, I may reward you with some rope of my own. What do you say?” You hold out the rope to him.

You smile and oblige, settling into the cold wooden seat. He eyes you and then the rope, contemplative, before loosening his tie and rolling up his sleeves. He circles you, and you admire the focused, pointed look on his face as he carefully plans an intricate design in his mind’s eye. He’s completely in his element and you love to watch him work.

“What an intriguing idea...” He takes the rope from your hands with soft reverence, feeling the rough texture between his fingers. “You really got such a nice shine to it,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. He breathes out slowly and gestures to the mahogany chair, “Please dear, relax.”

“Ah,’ you suddenly realize, “This might help.” You lift up your shirt and drop it next to the chair before shimmying out of your bottoms, leaving you bare before him.

“Yes…” he murmurs as his eyes roam your skin.

You feel a pleasant tingle up your spine when he brushes his fingers through your hair, gently gathering until he can put it up properly above your neckline. Your body relaxes under his touch.

The first knot is an anchor tie just below your bust, he uses four strands and divides them into two, slipping each half over your shoulders and back down to meet your back. The rough texture warms you from the outside in but his careful touch is cool against your skin.

You watch him as he works, loving the interplay of shadow that falls across his sharp features. He catches you staring.

“Am I pleasing to look at, Madam?”

“Yes, very much so.”

Your pact mark sings and you chuckle, bemused at the sensation. “You like it when I compliment you, don’t you, my little black bird?”

His cheeks heat up and his eyebrows furrow, as he’s put off by the pet name, but the humming in your chest only continues. “I can feel it, you know? Honesty really does suit you best - your face is much prettier wearing it.”

The tips of his ears turn pink but he circles you, wrapping his arms around your midsection to finish fixing a knot in place. Suddenly his warm lips press into the crook of your shoulder. The deep undertones of his voice make you shiver as he whispers in your ear. “You will be the death of me.”

You turn to meet his eyes, coy mischief in your own. “I think you’ll survive.” He chuckles and you kiss him once, twice, just to make him simmer. He almost goes back in for a third but you brush your thumb over his bottom lip. “Not yet.”

“Yes, Ma’am.” He kisses your shoulder once more.

Time passes in a lovely, hazy sort of way. Lucifer relaxes into the process as you'd hoped he would. It’s a gentle sort of focus where his mind is set on something, a place where nothing else can bother him or tear away his careful attention. He loves taking your direction, easing him out of his mind, constantly wound too tight.

Finally he kneels to finish the job, gingerly maneuvering one of your legs up and over his shoulder to wrap a strand around the back of your thigh. His eyes wander this time, following the line of your body until he lingers between your legs. As if he can’t help himself he kisses your skin, leaving a delicate trail up the inside of your thigh.

You cup his jaw in one hand and he kisses your palm, eyeing between your legs. “After you finish,” you murmur, “You’ll have to earn what you get tonight.” His eyes flicker to yours and he continues moving, finishing the tie he started.

“I believe I’m finished, will you stand?”

You do so, feeling the bend and flex of rope. Nothing feels too tight, everything is snug, hugging the curves of your body. You admire what lacing you can see, particularly the delicate design around your hands and wrists. He truly had taken his time, a glance at the clock proves that an hour has passed.

Finally you turn around and examine his work in the mirror. Your eyes light up at his intricate ropework. You’re beautiful, elegant, fully mobile and yet covered in faux restraints. You admire yourself, making a show of your appreciation. His chest puffs out and the pact mark on your chest rumbles. You gently circle your clit with one finger and enjoy how he shifts uncomfortably behind you.

You want more from him. Your body aches from an hour of foreplay.

You cup his jaw with one hand. “Kneel.”

“Yes Sir,” he murmurs, almost breathless.

His willing, almost eager demonstration of your power over him, of his own lack of control, further spurns you on, and you know he can hold your weight.

"Show me, then, devotion to your work." You prop one leg up on the hard mahogany seat, exposing yourself for him. Rope hugs your thighs, indenting and highlighting what he wants most.

His eyes flicker between your face and your clit. He licks his lips. "Thank you, Sir."

You run a hand through his hair and brace the other on the back of the chair. As soon as his tongue touches your clit you gasp, unable to help yourself. You’ve been on edge for so long now, throbbing at every new rope and delicate detail. You savor his mouth, rocking your hips into his face gently. "Yes…" he sucks and licks as you drip onto his tongue and he moans softly at the gentle tug of your hand in his hair.

You'll come quickly and you know it - you rock against him faster now and he wraps his fingers through the ropes on the back of your thigh before squeezing your ass and petting between your legs.

You look down at him, at his disheveled appearance, tousled hair, and too-tight pants. “Lucifer, darling, you - ah - you don’t have to say anything, no thoughts, no control, just take what I give you."

He groans and claws at the backs of your thighs, pulling you forward against his mouth.

You tilt your head back. "Good man, good job-" he whines and flicks his tongue with renewed vigor, "fffuck, right there…"

You fuck his face, shivering and shaking, chasing your orgasm. He holds you upright and supports your body, grasping at his own ropework. You moan and twitch. A glance at the mirror brings you closer still, “Look baby, look at you, making me feel so fucking good… shit-” Your grip on his hair tightens as you twist your hand, pulling him forward. He moans, high and breathy, harshly breathing through his nose.

His right hand supports your waist while his left squeezes your ass. Just a minute more, a second more, finally, finally his palpable desire sends you over the edge, and god how it fills the air. He takes it all and you don't fall, even as your legs lock and your grip falters. You shake and shiver in his tight grasp, palms holding tight to his shoulders. He keeps licking, just enough to keep you there until tension dissipates and you’re overstimulated. Only then does his grip loosen, following your body as you stand on your own, knees shaking.

There's an unspoken tenderness in his eyes - your baby takes pride in service.

You step away from him when you can, fixing his hair and cleaning your cum from his lips. "Sit on the chair, darling."

His knees crack when he gets up, stiff from his place on the hardwood floor. He sits, bulge straining against his trousers, watching you with rapt attention.

"I think…" you turn around, "You've more than earned your reward - as if there was any doubt in my mind."

“Oh?” He practically glows at your praise.

"And…” you walk over to your nightstand once more, "I'm not done with this yet." He swallows, gaze fixated on the rope in your hands. You smirk, "You like that idea?"

He shifts again. "Yes I - very much."

You reach into your nightstand and pull out a matte black silicone dildo, smaller, elegant even. You hold it up. “What about this? Are you up for it tonight?”

“Yes,” he nods, “I prepared myself for the possibility.”

“Perfect,“ you breathe, already excited. “Then…” your smile is nearly wicked as you regard him and his cock throbs in earnest. “Clothes off. Hands behind your back - hold your forearms.”

He acquiesces, knowing exactly what you want.

Soon he’s sitting naked on the chair, hands held behind his back, willingly at your mercy. Your ties aren’t nearly as elegant, but they restrict his movement and hug his body. You restrain his arms behind his back with a chest harness, carefully distributing the weight of the rope, adding just a touch of flourish. Even in such a simple design he looks lovely. Blue really is his color, you think, admiring him. He catches your eye.

“I was right,” you say, tilting his chin up for a chaste peck on the lips, “You look lovely in blue.” He groans and chases your lips this time. You let him, just once, and deepen the kiss yourself, before grabbing him by the hair, wrenching his head up. “Not yet, darling.”

“As you wish.” He’s breathless and kiss bitten.

You leave him and stack two large pillows on top of each other. You motion for him to stand before grabbing him by the restraints. “I will help you get into position,” you chuckle darkly, “I want you face down.”

His cheeks feel hot but he nods, “Yes Sir.”

“Good man. Lie down.”

It takes a moment since he can’t move his arms but you finally have him exactly where you want him, chest pushed into the bed, hips and ass raised by the pillows beneath him.

He tilts his head to look at you with one eye, eyebrow raised as you appear with more rope.

‘Can’t have you squirming too much, now can I?” He groans into the pillow beneath him and nods.

“Tell me if you’re ever uncomfortable or need to readjust, this position might get tiring after awhile.”

“I’m sure I can take it.”

“I’m sure you can, but I’m not asking. Tell me.”

He shivers. “Yes Ma’am.”

“Good.”

You uncap the lube on your nightstand and snap a glove on. He shivers at the cold feeling of your lubed finger rubbing against him, but as your hand warms so does his body and he slowly starts to meet your gentle thrusts as you enter him. You love this part. It’s incredibly intimate, almost more so that the ensuing sex, because anyone else would have been thrown out long ago - he has only ever done this with you.

Once you’re up to two fingers comfortably you withdraw your hand and replace it with your lubed up strap. “Ready?”

“I’ve been ready.” You smack his ass and he gasps.

“What was that?”

“I apologize, yes I - I’m ready.”

“That’s better. One more remark like that,” you murmur, pressing in slowly, “And I’ll rethink your reward.”

He hisses, wiggling his hips, “A-Apologies - it won’t happen again.”

‘I know it won’t,” you smile, “because you love this too much.” Finally, finally you move your hips, slow at first, until finding a gentle rhythm. You use his bound legs as leverage, pushing deep inside of him as his low, desperate moans fill the air.

As his body strains against the rope it holds tight, digging into his skin - this heat, this pleasure, your power over him is dizzying. For a few blissful moments he can’t think, all he can do is feel you surround him and hear your haunting voice in his ear.

It is easy to admire him, Lucifer Morningstar splayed out before you, rocking his ass into your hips, wanting more, more. You grab the rope holding his forearms tight against his back and pull, arching his back against the sheets. He cries out, and you lean down, pushing all your weight on top of him.

“That feel good, baby? Heh, you love it don’t you?” Your hips are slow and deep, grinding on his favorite spot, “You love being fucked like this. Wrapped in my rope, under my hand-” He moans, long and debauched. “I’m the only one who gets to fuck you like this, you belong to me, don’t you?”

“Yes-!”

You’re breathless above him. “We belong to each other, right, love?”

His eyes open and he gazes at you in the adjacent mirror, “Yes…” You dip and kiss the back of his neck, soft and sweet, "Hnn…" he takes in a shuddering breath and lets his head fall forward.

“That's right, no one else deserves to touch you, no one else is good enough, worthy enough.” You whisper in his ear.

He gasps your name and pushes his ass against your hips, pathetically fucking himself on your strap. Every slap of your skin sears welts into his body. You grab his hair and jerk his body up.

“Eyes open, look at yourself.” He didn’t think he could get any redder, but the sight of you behind him, fucking his ass with slow purposeful thrusts, restraining him while tied in his own ropework, it's too much, he can’t - he’ll -

You wrench his head up, “Keep looking,” you pant, “look at the face you make when you come for me.”

He can’t help it, he comes fast and hot, hips stuttering, mouth open and gasping. You slow but you don’t stop. He whimpers but dutifully stays, taking it all.

“Good man,” you praise him, “So. Fucking. Good-” you punctuate your words by digging your nails into his back. You slowly drag them downward and tiny specks of blood bubble to the surface. He hisses but his cock jumps beneath him. “You like a little pain, don’t you?” You slap his ass with an open palm. “Answer me.”

“Yes, yes Ma’am -”

“Yes what?”

"Fuck - more, please-!”

“Filthy.” You bite, before indulging him with another slap on the ass.

You run your nails gently over the welts and he sighs in bliss. In this moment of calm you use all your strength to hoist him upward again, until his back is flush against your chest. You wrap a hand around his throat and start to bounce him on your cock. His eyes roll back and he groans, reaching around to grab your hip as he rocks back into you.

“When I cut you loose,” you pant, “I want you to lie down on your back, legs spread, waiting and ready for me again. Do you understand me?”

He swallows breathlessly and nods.

You lean him forward and gently pull out. You untie his legs, and then his arms before dropping the rope next to the bed. His body is tinged red with slight rope burn, just how he likes.

He rolls over onto his back, finally making eye contact with you. You smile at him, gentle, and his pupils pin. “Spread your legs for me.”

Lucifer grabs his own knees, and spreads his legs while you refuse to let him lose eye contact. His red flush is delicious, and so is his twitching cock, clearly enjoying this.

You grab more lube from the nightstand and quickly reapply before holding one of his legs to your chest and slipping back inside. He groans and rocks his hips forward, savoring the feeling.

You slowly snap your hips forward, reaching deep inside him, you keep repositioning until he gasps and then you hold there. Little thrusts of your hips grinding against his ass. He gasps low, moaning sweetly in his deep voice as sweat trickles down his temple.

“Kiss me-” he croaks, reaching for you. You melt into him and grind against him as his hands roam your body. He doesn’t realize he’s whimpering and shuddering, or if he does he doesn’t care.

You continue like this for a while, enjoying his gasping deep moans in your ear, his lips and teeth on your neck. Finally, at your mercy, you gently trace your fingers over the head of his cock. The noise he makes is agonizing, and you have half a mind to continue neglecting him. But he has your heart as you keep up that gentle, light contact, and he doesn’t ask for more. His head is spinning, filled with thoughts of you, you, just you.

You speed up your hand as your hips get tired and he grips your back, rocking into you. Finally you feel him tense, feel his blunt nails dig into your back.

“There you go, my pretty bird,”

He gasps, light and beautiful, shuddering as he comes, keening as each slow, deep thrust of your hips milks another dribble of cum out of him.

You kiss again and again, covered in sweat, cum, and specks of blood, ignoring the passage of time.

-

Darkness blankets your bedroom, barely lit in deep navy shadow. Your fingernails fall up and down rhythmically over the rope burn on Lucifer’s back.

“I heard you were approached last week.” He murmurs.

“At the Banquet…? Oh, did Asmo say something?”

Lucifer chuckles, "He said something akin to "Everyone here is itching for their chance, don't let them out of your sight."

You feign exasperation. "And what did you do, you let me out of your sight. Now I'm in bed with a demon."

Lucifer snorts, "The very same demon you propositioned in a coat closet."

"What can I say? I know who I want," you kiss his temple.

Lucifer leans into you further, draped across your body. "Don't you have plans early tomorrow morning?"

“You yawn again, “Solomon said he has something important to talk to me about. What exactly, I’m not sure… he can wait until I've had breakfast.”

“That sorcerer…”

“He wants you so bad,” you chuckle, “I mean, it isn’t up to me, but I enjoy acting as if it is.”

“Rest assured,” he kisses your shoulder, “he’ll never have me, not like you do.”

Your smile is gentle. “I love you, Luci.”

“And I you.”

Lucifer closes his eyes and relaxes his sore body, satisfied and calm. He resolves to make you breakfast in the morning before seeing you off to Solomon.

Truly, he thinks, there's nothing he can’t face as long as you’re there when he wakes.