#MY MORALS LEFT TO DECAY

[fentanyl-fantasies]

I NEED… NNghhhnrnthhh… TO MAKE… ARGGHHH… A JOHN ART PIECE.. AAAAAAA.. WITH NIN LYRICS!!!! (terrible lie specifically)

[moeblob]

Nytis, my loser demon cleric, about to lose it.

[pawberri]

The key problem with "proship vs anti" discourse is that the most extreme versions of each side, the ones who actually bother to identify with these labels, accepted each others worst takes as arguments they had to debate. "Fiction =/= reality" is, in practice, an absurdly reductionist, anti-intellectual, thought-terminating-cliche that dictates we can learn nothing about a person via art and that their fiction reflects no political or moral messaging worthy of critique. In response to this, the "puriteens" who are too young to possibly hope to articulate their discomfort, to untangle their position from what is often real trauma experienced online, simply argue "yes, fiction influences and reflects reality in a 1 to 1 capacity." They, and people who want to use the groundwork they laid to make bad-faith callouts, make bad arguments about how the action of engaging in problematic fiction is on equal ground to real life abuse, or is a clear indicator of interest in real life abuse. Both of these arguments are terrible, but each side seems to radicalize the other further and further into their own brands of anti-intellectual reactionary belief. "Proshippers" become libertarian absolutists about free speech and view all transgression as righteous and alternative and therefore leftist. They gain a reactionary nostalgia for the past, desiring a time when people didn't seem to care about the implications of art. "Antis" become authoritarian and hypervigilant for signs of moral decay, at their worst, willing to align themselves with government bodies that offer carceral solutions to the debate. They are willing to use harassment as a tool of punishment, which then leads to false accusations and a fear of openness that puts people at risk of being triggered via obfuscation. (That said, proshippers also take part in plenty of harassment.)

I will say that I believe both of these movements are equally sensitive to co-opting by right-wing forces. We see the authoritarian tendencies of anti culture in harassment campaigns and even the way Republican law makers co-opt "grooming." The proship/fic crowd has such extreme nostalgia for the past that I often see people align themselves with the cultures of 4chan or other happily right-wing websites. They so heavily reject the idea that a drawn sexual depiction of a child could reflect any desire that they are disinterested in analyzing what the motivation behind the depiction is. i.e If we track the history of lolicon in Japan we do find that is, yes, countercultural, but that counter culture is right wing, very misogynistic, and defensive of patriarchial Japanese culture as it is and was including its culture around rape and abuse. Plenty of fictional content works as radicalization material, and radicalization material needs to be ambiguous. There is a valid reason to be hesitant to trust people who consume this content, even if I do not believe most of them will ever be dangerous towards children. The mere presence of sexuality is not enough to make a movement left wing. This kind of thing can again be seen in right-wing libertarian movements in the US. (And even leftist movements can be bigoted and even "pro-pedophilia" or otherwise disinterested in social reform around abuse.)

Is all content with elements of age-play this way? No. But to me, that is why kink media deserves to be treated as art and analyzed, critiqued, treated seriously. It doesn't have to do anything to anyone to be worthy of a moral critique. Said moral critique just doesn't warrant harassment and cruelty and reactionary exaggerations of the person consuming said content.

Anyway, what's my point in saying all this? I don't know. I'm just begging you to tag your God damn content with specific tags instead of random and nebulous shit like "dead dove" or "dark content", and also begging you to stop harassing people who do tag their content so I don't have to guess what "dead dove" and "dark content" mean. No one will erase incest kink fics or people who feel sickened by the idea of them off this earth because we aren't god, but we could at least all be responsible about tagging, flagging, and age-gating our stuff.

[phyrestartr]

Divine Favour | Sukuna x Kitsune!Reader (Pt.1)

W/C: 3.5k #full is NSFW, mild yuuji/reader, yuuji and gang are v early 20s, heian sukuna, male reader, typical kitsune shapeshifting, mentions of abuse, canon typical violence, morally grey reader, sukuna has FEELINGS but is BAD AT FEELINGS, unhealthy relationships, power imbalance, dubcon elements, soz if anything is clunky asdkjf; i can only reread the same fic so many times for editing sadge

A/N: Decided to separate this into parts since I'm dying to post some of it lol I've held it in a chokehold in the shadows of my WIPs for too long, some of it has to come out before I explode o(--( there is more to come!

tag: @nyanwko @kamote-kuneho @better-imagination-9

The scripture was incomplete, worn away by age.

…herein lays the God...imprisoned...by...Disgraced One…

Yet the society felt this, the coffin uncovered decades ago, could be an invaluable asset. The vessel was decrepit and ancient, yet still stood strong against the test of time and the wear of nature. Seal papers, no doubt left by a monk of sorts, covered the entirety of its surface, hiding away rotting wood and rusted bands of metal from modern sorcerer's curious eyes.

Few knew why the higher ups kept the vessel under lock and key. Fewer knew why they kept it at all; however, those few understood the importance of such a relic. They'd been the ones to seek it out, to steal it away before malicious forces took it for themselves, warping the supposed deity inside for their own, malevolent purpose, whatever that may be.

And with Ryoumen Sukuna's fingers being found one by one, they could not allow anyone to possess humanity's failsafe: you. A great being imprisoned by the devil.

“Anything?” Gojo trilled, patting Yuuji’s shoulders frantically as he stood behind him and beheld the wooden tub covered in sigils. 

“Uh…” Yuuji tried to focus on Sukuna’s presence inside of him. He didn’t seem intrigued or frightened, nor did he seem too bothered with the idea of them trying to smite him down with a sealed god–he was, however, annoyed that Yuuji continued to poke and prod at him. 

Piss off, runt. 

“Yep. Nope. Sukuna doesn't care,” Yuuji sighed. “He's getting all pissy now that I'm bothering him, though.” 

Gojo laughed and patted Yuuji's shoulders a few more times before all but twirling towards the bound box. “Well, that's a pretty good sign that he's not the one that did this, then! In that case,” he started, walking up to the seal papers keeping everything locked down, “let's pop ‘er open.” 

Before Yuuji could even wonder if that was a good idea, the white-haired witch used an overzealous amount of cursed energy and disintegrated every scrap of seal paper. 

Yuuji braced for impact. Surely something terrible like a bankai or a spirit bomb would send them flying once the coffin came undone. Surely they'd pay for this, for unleashing whatever godly spirit laid locked up for far too long, only to release it back into the modern age and–

“Huh. Weird.”

Yuuji cracked open an eye and saw the dull shine of tattered onyx fur, and his control slipped with a blitz of vertigo. 

Markings flared across his skin as he stormed toward the coffin, heart howling with thoughts and memories crashing through a shared mind; a face he didn't know but knew so well bloomed at the forefront of it all, eyes framed in pointed scarlet, skin bathed in ancient, dappled sunlight.

They reached the edge of the coffin and gripped the edges, splintering the wood as they took in the sight; crimson and curse decay pooled around a figure, curled up and half-submerged. Several black, tattered tails spilled free from the tub, no longer crushed from the force of the lid sealing them inside, but they were bent awkwardly and matted with whatever tincture lay at the bottom.

Then there was the so-called god in the middle of it all–you. Still. Quiet. Curled up in a haori far too big for you. Eyes closed. Almost peaceful.

Confusion tore at Sukuna while nausea ripped through Yuuji; he couldn't bear to look at such a morose scene.

So, Sukuna pushed him aside.

[Heian Era]

You were never supposed to be anything more than a trinket. 

You were a gift from some family trying to show off for Sukuna, so much so that they offered him a delicacy, something he surely didn't have yet–a yokai. A kitsune, to be more exact. One with peculiar black tails. 

Sukuna found it interesting, and similarly desperate, to be brought such a creature as tribute. Certainly, it was meant to be seen as a high honour, yet somehow it felt…off. Why would humans give up something so powerful? 

Unexpectedly, it'd be you who told him. 

They submit me for the sake of convenience and mockery, your withering voice whispered where no one else could hear. You sounded weak. Tired. Maybe afraid, yet brave enough to reach towards the king and unveil the intentions of the men who brought you before him. 

Sukuna's eyes flicked to you, his feigned interest in what the sorcerers said falling straight into dismissal. You were much more intriguing. 

“Oh?” Sukuna asked, a smile creeping onto his face. The speakers ceased their jabbering and stared at your back with fierce intensity. Sukuna grinned wider. Oh, how he loved the way fear twisted mortal faces. 

You didn't shift or crumple into yourself under the eyes of so many, however. You pushed on with what little energy and life you had, so intent on dragging that clan through the mud. 

What I say is true, you assured simply. I expect to die today–

“Speak so everyone hears you, fox,” Sukuna commanded.

“--so I–I–” you coughed and cleared your throat, trying to rid your voice of the scratchy, weakness it struggled through. “I wish to not die with regrets.

"They have rendered me ill and unable to produce children, they see the black of my tails and regard me as an ill omen; yet they bring me to you, daring to spin sweet tales about the value of such an offering. But they lie,” You hissed. Your eyes glinted with molten malice, and Sukuna fell captivated.

“They throw me to you as they would diseased meat to dogs.” 

The courtyard fell silent, and Sukuna basked in it. You really were such a little troublemaker. A quietly chaotic force of nature. 

The king stood, rolling his shoulders as he did, and his pride flared as you dropped to your knees before him in respect. He walked to you and patted your head as one might a child's before appraising the sorcerers stood before him. 

“What a disappointment,” Sukuna sighed, raising another hand. The couple took up position, pooling their cursed energy in hopes of fending off the monster standing before them. The effort was quite cute. “Here I thought your clan might actually earn my mercy.” His hand dropped as the two lunged. Then, the two clansmen fell, too, both in neat, vertical halves. Quite overkill, yes, but he had a point to make. 

Where he expected a reaction from you, he got nothing. Only panting and poorly-stifled coughs came from you, racking through the entirety of your skin and bones frame. Sukuna could see it up close now, the way your body trembled from fatigue, the sickly greying of your skin, the scent of disease clinging to you. 

That wouldn't do. Sukuna liked his things to be in good shape. 

“Uraume,” Sukuna droned as he stared down at you, “fix this.”

It took some time, but you managed to recover. It was an unnerving experience, with the way Uraume tended to you with sincerity. Perhaps it was genuinity born from their devotion to Ryoumen Sukuna, but you greedily soaked it in, filling your stomach with the care they offered you. 

Sukuna didn't bother much with you, not that you really minded; you were much more content to be fed and forgotten than hunted down by the creature that supposedly took ownership of you without enforcing it. If he didn't cause harm or good, if he simply existed somewhere else and forgot you breathed the same air as him, you'd still be at peace. 

But he was more intrigued than you gave him credit for. 

“Ho? So this is where you scamper off to,” Sukuna hummed, leaning over you as you dozed in the nice little spot you'd made for yourself in the garden, right under the crimson cover of a maple tree. You jumped the slightest bit, your daydreams and sunbathing interrupted by the brute’s silhouette eclipsing the sun, but you settled again quickly. The beast of a man wasn't a cause for panic in your little world, after all. 

“Does it displease you?” You inquired, fixing your hair and straightening out your robes. 

Sukuna held onto an overhead branch of the tree as he looked down at you. “Pets are supposed to play in the yard, aren't they?” He smirked as you pursed your lips and flicked your tail before calming it with hasty pets. “What, you don't like being my pet?” 

“I would not refer to myself as a pet,” you countered as the man sat down with you and leaned against the tree. The king's presence calmed you. With him, you knew you were invincible. 

“Pft. Then pray tell what your damn role is around here.” One set of arms folded behind his head while the other set crossed over his chest. “Pets are freeloaders. Pretty sure that's exactly what you are.”

You huffed. “Freeloader. Tch. How rude.” 

“Lookit that. You're copping an attitude now that you're fat and fed. Used to be so much more polite.” 

“Fat and–I am not fat.” You headbutted his side lightly, something that would make more sense had you been in your fox form. You grinding your forehead against him suggested this was more of a human move, however. “I am perfectly normal now. I was brittle and nonexistent prior to now. This is a grand improvement.”

Sukuna scoffed a laugh and looked down at your head pressed up against his side. “Thanks to me,” he boasted. 

“Yes,” you agreed. You held onto his haori and looked up at him, placid and intense. “It is thanks to you. I would not be here if not for your mercy and intervention.” 

Sukuna raised a brow as he regarded you. “Hm. And what will you do to repay me?” 

“My very presence grants you luck, good fortune and fertility.” You tilted your head. “I already repay you by being here.”

Tch. But the gardens and surrounding lands did look more lush and lively since your arrival, he couldn't deny that fact. But he was a king; he could always ask for more and expect to get it. 

“What more?” He prodded.

Your tail flicked as you thought. “What would you ask of me?” 

“Something you haven't given another,” Sukuna replied. Ugh, your flowery, poetry-y, bullshit speak was rubbing off on him. 

You stared at him, gemstone eyes glinting with earthen hues and shards of gold in the yawning afternoon sun. The leaves bristled just perfectly, letting in dapples of citrus sunlight as if trying to make this moment something special, as if to burn your ethereal presence into history for all eternity. All this, just while you thought of what to give him. Perhaps a riddle is what you wanted. Perhaps purple prose suited your fancy. Perhaps it was something else. 

You sat up, carefully raising yourself onto your knees before leaning up towards the hulking king. He turned his face to you in interest, feeling a sort of natural energy begin to pool around the both of you, reaching from the far depths of the earth and the wide stretch of the sky to converge on your existence as you framed his face with gentle hands, and placed a chaste kiss on the corner of his mouth. 

It lasted only a second. But a second was long enough to catch the scent of petrichor and petals on your skin, to indulge in the heat of wildfires raging in your soul, to feel the blasphemy of you against him; then, you parted. 

“For now,” you murmured, and Sukuna swore he saw your single tail fan out into nine, “I give you my divine favor, Ryoumen Sukuna.”

You wondered if your favor was enough. He'd been gone some time, off to accept a duel from the snotty shitheads Sukuna had received you from. Apparently, having two of the eldest boys murdered rubbed them the wrong way. Sukuna was glad for it, you knew–the man lived and breathed for a fight. 

Of course, you stayed put. Uraume assured you'd be fine on your own, and Sukuna reminded his staff they'd all be eaten alive by the king himself if anything uncouth were to take place in his absence. It was more so that Sukuna didn't like the idea of idiots touching his stuff than it was the notion you were important to him, from your understanding. 

Regardless, the time alone left you restless. That king made you invincible. Without him, you were nothing more than the scared kit locked away in darkness, never to emerge lest your stubbornness trick them. But things were different here. Everyday was filled with unknowns and uncertainties when the two you'd forged fragile bonds with fell absent. 

So, you thought of how to repay Sukuna. Your divine favor would only do so much, after all–you didn't think a man like that really needed the extra luck, but he seemed more than intrigued by the manner of delivering the blessing; you remembered how he looked at you, eyes half-lidded, shielding you from the inferno burning out of control. He grumbled something low in his chest, just loud enough that you heard: 

You better be here when I get back.

“Ah–” The thrill those catastrophic words gave you nearly led to stabbing yourself with the needle. You tutted and regained focus, continuing to carefully embroider the sleeves of one of Sukuna's many plain black haori.

You learned how to sew and embroider from watching an elder from that clan work her magic on old, tattered clothes. She never spoke to you nor regarded you, but she never turned you away the rare times you watched her fix garments; you thought it was beautiful–the art of turning something mundane into something meaningful.

Though you wondered if Ryoumen Sukuna, the most powerful sorcerer, the most feared man alive, had a desire for anything useless and meaningful. 

The answer came quickly. You'd found yourself void of confidence when the monarch returned to his palace after (obviously) winning whatever duel he'd agreed to; you weren't sure if you were to congratulate him, celebrate him or something more. On top of that, he'd eventually find that haori you'd slaved over for days, and you weren't sure you could take the heartbreak of dismissal. 

However, those fears were quashed when, from a new little secret garden hovel, you spied the man donning the very haori you slaved over; it wasn't a flashy piece, you didn't want to subtract from the marvel that was the king of curses, so you opted for using black, shimmery thread to weave intricate twisting trees and blackened blooms along the sleeve. Only if the design caught the light would one be able to notice it. 

But that was enough for you. Knowing he accepted such a meaningless gift was reassuring of your place in his world. 

So, you finally let Uraume convince you to stay in the room they'd prepared for you. 

“No need to be nervous,” you hummed, that undying urge inside you to take care of something helping you soothe the young woman's nerves. You fixed her hair, your deft fingers carefully slipping strands into place before sliding a decorative pin in to hold it all together. You took a step back to appraise her, Sukuna's latest concubine. 

“I–thank you.” Sachiko blushed fiercely and bowed the slightest bit, not risking a deep bow for the fear of her hair falling loose. “I can see why all the girls love you.” 

You laughed, low and warm. “Well, it's hard not to love someone who takes care of you, no?” Gently, you tilted her chin up and leaned in, carefully examining the red lacquer staining her lips. The colour matched her kimono and the gems in that exquisite hairpin keeping dark locks at bay. “But I'm glad. I know it's difficult to find respite in these times.” 

Sachiko held her breath as she looked over the natural paint of crimson adorning your eyes. “I-I, um–yes, I do agree.” 

You hummed and carefully fixed the smallest smudge on the corner of her mouth. “Mh. So I hope you do your best to please him.” 

“I will!” Sachiko promised. “But–I wish to–may I give you something?” 

“Of course.” 

She gathered her kimono up in her hands and leaned up toward you. You leaned down, expecting a secret or hushed words, but perfect red lips pressed against your skin instead. And you were dumbfounded; you'd never been kissed before. You'd never had a lady show that interest in you. 

Sachiko got down from her tiptoes and hid her mouth with her sleeve. “Just for good luck!” She squeaked before bowing and hastily running through the doors where Sukuna would no doubt be waiting for his woman for the evening’s events. 

You looked at the doors sliding closed and caught a glimpse of Sukuna stood before the young woman, his frame swallowing hers as you looked on. And you caught a glimpse of his eyes, his stare of shock and utter vexation–clearly, he'd seen the short woman give you a kiss for good luck. 

You turned away, choosing to abandon the girl to her demise as your fingers ghosted against your lips in wonder. 

He showed up in your chambers later that night. You were still awake, quietly embroidering another haori; this time, it was for Uraume. They insisted they didn't want to burden you, but they crumbled under your more insistent insistence, and accepted the offer on the condition it looked subtle and muted. 

Sukuna padded toward you, hardly bothering to announce himself or ask to join you (ugh, how annoying) before plopping himself onto the futon beside you, sighing as he laid down. 

“I see you finished early,” you commented, jumping the littlest bit when large hands caught your flickering tails. He didn't hurt you, no; he was simply an overgrown toddler with a penchant for examining whatever wiggled before him. 

“That woman kissed you,” Sukuna answered, unhelpful. “Ruined it.” 

“Ah. Well. I didn't expect it either.” You cleared your throat, feeling an unexpected bubble of embarrassment rise in your chest. “I have…I've never been given a kiss before. Not from what I can recall, at the very least.” 

“The hell are you talking about?” Sukuna grouched. “You planted one on me in the gardens.” 

“Giving is not receiving,” you corrected, flicking your tail so as to hit his face. “I've never given a kiss on another's lips, regardless. Though I find myself wondering why I–” 

You yowled when he yanked your tail like he meant to rip the thing off, and you whirled on him, eyes drawn into slits and chunky fangs bared as you dug your nails into his wrist in an effort to make him let go.

Yet the king looked unfazed. He sat up and  tugged you closer by your tail, yank after yank, ripping an impressive collection of vexed noises from you until his broad hand caught you by the throat. You clawed at his wrist and forearm, scrambling to find purchase, idly wondering if he'd finally had enough of you and sought to put you down after dirtying one of his concubines–

But he kissed you instead. His lips were warm and dry, not quite soft yet not unwelcoming. Sukuna knew what he was doing, too; his tongue licked at your bottom lip before pushing inside to finally taste you and taint you from within just a little bit. 

Your grip on him laxed the slightest bit, and you even eased into his hold as he, too, refused to harm you further. If you weren't aware of his malevolent spirit, you might've thought him gentle in that long, simple moment–a special brand of “gentle” that was wholly Sukuna's. Kind, but jagged around the edges. 

He started pulling back, though, and you followed after his touch like a bewitched maiden chasing after the lips of a lover. You nipped at the air like that'd do something for you, but soon settled on leaning into the hand holding you still, even if your throat scratched and ached because of it. 

You found Sukuna's calm stare watching you when you opened your eyes a crack. For once, you thought he looked content; the cruel, mocking lines of his face had smoothed and relaxed, and that annoying, cocky smirk he'd been born sporting had been replaced with a placid, normal lilt. Even the inferno blazing in crimson depths eased into pools of yawning embers–warm and spirited, yet contained. 

The sight relaxed you despite the confusion it brought to your rationale. 

“That,” Sukuna said, so odd and quiet, but powerful and judicial. “Is your first.” His thumb stroked against the side of your neck, pausing to feel the pitter patter of your heart thrumming under his mercy. “It'd serve you to remember that.” 

You nodded shallowly. “Of course.” 

Pleased, he let go of your quite breakable neck and moved like he was about to get up. You grabbed at his hand and pressed his palm to the side of your face like he was cupping your cheek. Your insistence on touching gave the beast pause, but he settled again, content to let you keep him hostage for as long as you wanted.

And you indulged in the simple favour. You nuzzled into his palm with a very fox-like chitter as a bassy, quiet trill of a purr lazily rolled through your chest, eventually reaching Sukuna himself. It somehow had him feeling content. Relaxed. Like he was basking in the warmth of the sun. 

“I request another,” you chirped, and Sukuna quirked a brow. 

“Another?” 

“Kiss.” 

Sukuna twitched a smirk. “It'll cost ya.” 

“Oh?” 

“Give me another blessing.”

And you agreed.

[mya-valentine]

Headcanons for how the League Of Villains act when drunk?.. and Would they do stupid things while drunk? P.S: I love your writing

Headcanon: How The League of Villains Act When Drunk

A/N: Thank you☺️ I'm so glad you enjoy my work. Sorry if this took long, I've been very busy

Tomura Shigaraki

Shigaraki would be the moody type when drunk. He’d probably go from brooding in a corner, muttering about heroes, to suddenly ranting loudly about his disdain for All Might or Deku.

His usual “don’t touch me” attitude would flip. He might get oddly clingy, pulling people into bear hugs, much to everyone’s confusion and discomfort.

Shigaraki’s coordination would be all over the place, and his decay quirk would activate accidentally, leaving things crumbling everywhere—tables, chairs, even door handles, all turning to dust without him meaning to.

Dabi

Dabi would get even more sarcastic than usual, throwing snarky comments left and right. He’d probably flirt with everyone in the room, completely deadpan, even with people who have no interest. “Oh, Toga, you look so sharp today. Literally.”

In his drunken state, he’d accidentally set small things on fire—couches, curtains, even the occasional bottle of alcohol in his hand—just because he’s too distracted or careless to control his quirk properly.

He’d probably start stupid dares, like challenging Shigaraki to see who can destroy more things or asking Toga to "cut shapes" into walls with her knife.

Himiko Toga

Toga would become super giggly and affectionate, trying to hug and nuzzle everyone, especially the people she has a crush on. She might even start poking fun at people for how “cute” their blood would taste.

She’d playfully challenge others to knife games, laughing hysterically when she almost cuts herself or others, not caring about the danger.

She’d drink some blood, attempt to transform into someone else, and then forget halfway through who she was supposed to be. This would lead to hilarious transformations where she’s stuck as a weird mix of multiple people.

Twice

Twice would become even more chaotic when drunk, with his split personality going haywire. He’d swing from being super confident and boastful to panicking about trivial things like, "What if I’ve already drunk too much and cloned myself and don’t even know it!?"

In his confusion, he’d start cloning himself uncontrollably, leading to dozens of Twice clones running around, all with different levels of drunkenness and confusion, some trying to clean up while others make even more of a mess.

He’d constantly get into weird, loud arguments with his clones, debating who’s the “real” Twice, which would escalate into drunken wrestling matches with himself.

Toga and Twice would absolutely team up in their drunken state, pulling pranks on everyone. Twice would clone himself to create distractions while Toga sneaks up behind others, surprising them with her knives or transforming into random League members just to freak everyone out.

Spinner

Spinner would get very philosophical when drunk, going on long rants about Stain’s ideology, questioning the morality of their actions, and asking deep questions like, "Are we truly villains, or just misunderstood heroes?"

He’d probably unsheath his sword and start swinging it around clumsily, knocking things over, and hitting furniture while trying to show off his "heroic" skills, only to trip over his tail.

At some point, he’d drunkenly start insisting everyone play an old video game with him, like Tetris or Street Fighter, getting overly competitive and emotional about it.

Mr. Compress

Mr. Compress would turn into an exaggerated version of himself when drunk, speaking in grand, dramatic gestures, like he’s performing a show. He’d likely challenge others to card tricks or sleight-of-hand games, only to drop the cards everywhere.

He’d start compressing random items in the room—bottles, plates, even Twice’s clones—without much thought, laughing about the chaos it causes.

He’d try to tell elaborate, fantastical stories about his past or the League’s adventures, getting increasingly nonsensical and confusing as he rambles on, leaving everyone unsure of what he’s talking about.

Kurogiri

Kurogiri would try to stay responsible at first, keeping an eye on the others and making sure no one gets hurt. But after a few drinks, even he’d loosen up a bit, though he’d never fully lose his calm demeanor.

As he gets drunk, Kurogiri might accidentally start teleporting people or objects to random places, sending Dabi across the room or making Twice reappear in the kitchen without meaning to.

He’d start talking in circles about the importance of balance and order, even as he drunkenly sends half the room into his portals, much to everyone’s frustration.

.

.

.

Masterlist

[kingkatsuki]

Hihihi hello! More Dragon King Bakugou thoughts

Dragon King Bakugou drags you kicking and screaming. A brute display of strength as he wraps a bloodied, muscular arm around your waist and hauls you towards his dragon.

It’s the only way he can remove you from the devastation and destruction that he caused, your village— your home, now nothing more than charred ash and embers. You’ll die if you stay here, and maybe it’s a warped sense of morality that has him bringing you with him. A spared pardon that will allow the gods above to judge him less when it comes to judgement day; if there even is a god when all this life seems to give is destruction.

His castle is dank and cold, nothing like the warm grass that settled beneath your feet in your village. The saccharine of wildflowers that blessed your senses each morning as you made your way to collect fresh water from the flowing river. You have nothing inside these four walls but time, aimlessly wandering through the bleak halls as though it’s some kind of reward for being alive. For being pitied.

The first night he brought you here you tell him that he should’ve killed you. Of all the people that night, you wondered why he’d chosen to pity you.

It’s the better part of a week before he forces you to bathe. The cinders and blood from that fateful night are still seared into your skin, a constant reminder of the anguish of watching everything you’d ever known burn. You had nothing else— and this was yet another thing the Dragon King was trying to take from you.

This was the first time you’d left your village since you were a child— your first look at the big wide world outside and all you wanted was to go back home.

And yet here you were standing in front of the man that stole everything from you. The ruthless King that had seemingly taken everything was still trying to take more. The numerous attempts from Mina to help you bathe had been in vain as you refused to remove the tattered cloth that you wore that fateful day, the stench of death and decay was even starting to bother you as you tried to fight the desire to purge yourself of the toxins. But the desire to disobey Bakugou was stronger—

“Get in,” He snarled pure venom, “Or I’m throwing you in the lake.”

You fought the urge to spit back ‘make me’ knowing that he most definitely would. His crimson eyes focused on you, challenging you to disobey him now.

“You’re stinkin’ out the castle,” He sneered, “Even my dragon smells better than you.”

“Let me get in then.” You challenged, hoping he’d leave the room so you could lock the door again.

“You can try that shit with Mina, but it won’t work on me, fuckin’ brat.”

It felt like stalemate, as you both bore into each other. The intensity of his gaze made you want to look away, but you had to hold what little fight you had left— before you broke yourself completely.

“Lake it is.” Bakugou took a step towards you, booted feet clomping against the cold stone floor as your hands balled into fists in the fabric of your dress. Holding the cloth in your hands as you begun to bunch it up your body, focusing on the way Bakugou seemed to stumble— catching himself before he paused.

You lifted the dress up and over your head as you let the soiled, bloodied cloth fall to the floor beside your bare feet. Leaving you completely exposed to him as he tried to stop his hungry eyes from feasting over your bare skin, left eye twitching as he fought the hardest war he was yet to face to maintain eye contact.

The air silent as you stepped forward, raising a leg to dip your toes into the forged metal tub. Exhailing when you felt the warmth engulf you as you stepped in, trying to ignore your heart hammering against your ribcage at how exposed and vulnerable you were right now as Bakugou allowed himself a moment to admire your round breasts and plush hips as you dipped into the bath.

Bakugou could feel his pants tighten at the sight, a multitude of sordid thoughts racing through his mind as his cock pulsed in response. Making no attempt to leave the room as you sunk lower into the bath, letting the dirt and grime mingle with the water as you breathed a sigh of relief. The warmth helping to soothe the aching muscles that you hadn’t allowed a proper chance to relax since that day— maybe you had needed this.

You hid your smirk beneath the murky water as you noticed the way the tips of his ears tinged vibrant red at the sight of you, successful enough to rile him up or piss him off you weren’t sure. But it was enough to be called a small victory as you let the warm water calm you, the first time you’d felt at ease since that night.

“That wasn’t so hard was it, brat?” Bakugou growled before turning to leave the room. Thankful his cloak was long enough to hide the bulging tent between his thighs as he took swift, long strides down the hall towards his quarters. Pressing a palm to his crotch to try and elliviate the tension as he tried to commit the sight of your naked body to memory. The door barely closing before he had a large palm fisting his cock—

[visenyaism]

Sorry if you’ve been asked this but what do you think of all the rot in asoiaf? Obv some of it is related to the problems with monarchy but I feel like a lot of it isn’t and it just leaves me curious. Like cold hands or people killed by the others idk what that symbolizes there. Jon is in a land in which rot is in stasis from the cold and it’s creepy as shit. And then there’s stuff that could have multiple interpretations like dany by proxy of selmy experiencing bio warfare with the corpses like I know some people see it as the fall of old ghis but I wondered if maybe it was a sign to dany about breaking the wheel and doing as her ancestors did. Idk I know it’s a nasty series and sometimes grrm is just doing stuff so that it’s gross but I feel like rot comes up SO much and I people are usually talking online about like Tywin when it comes to rot.

Oh one of my favorite things about the asoiaf series is how heavy-handed george rr martin is with the rot symbolism. and (at the risk of sounding like an mfa vomited on my keyboard) the way that the political, pestilential, societal, and climatological aspects of the rot symbolism all interconnect.

In a society founded on so many feudal evils that has perpetuated for centuries, something has to give. It is a recurring theme in these books that violations of human decency under feudalism cause cataclysmic societal collapse represented through literal and metaphorical pestilence.

There’s the sociopolitical collapse in the riverlands caused by war of human decency and norms like guest right and prohibitions on kinslaying or cannibalism just dedicating away as times get hard. broken men. bodies left to rot in the sun for the crows to feast on. There’s the fermenting wildfire under every major street in Kings Landing. There’s the familial/relational decay of incest especially the targaryens and the lannisters. The people who hold power and that society rot, despite everyone’s best efforts at keeping up appearances: Robert Baratheon the “war hero” dies of a very nasty festering stomach wound he got in a drunken hunting accident, Tywin gets shot on the privy and his corpse putefies in the sept.

The climate stuff is also very salient. The series starts during late summer and as things get worse and worse in the world declines into the autumn where the summer fruit and all of the abundance is literally rotting through the hands of the characters. (see: renly’s peach vs doran’s blood oranges!) The cold up at the wall keeps the rot at bay for a while, but it does not entirely stop it. Coldhands’ hands are still blackening. Things are still unraveling at the hinges of the world. that’s pretty representative of the way that the violence of the border wall and the penal colony stationed there to patrol it are not sustainable. The decline of the night’s watch from a once proud order to a penal colony full of cruel and often impoverished convicts dropped off there by circumstance is a symptom of the society that sends people up there. But something still has to give. The wall will fall down and the existential crisis will come, it’s just slowed.

Critically, there is also the forgotten parable of Old Valyria: a society founded on extreme cruelty and slavery which eventually experiences cataclysm coming up from the very tunnels they send the enslaved into to die for the empire. A lot of what Daenerys experiences in Essos is an extension of that commentary on slave societies to me. Like. as the slavers try and reconquer places dany has liberated, people fleeing the violence, bring disease like the bloody flux with them. The rot creeps back. (important: disease and rot in the series is not always something people get for being morally bad. it often happens to people who just have no choice but to live in these places.)

But that’s why I think the way Volantis is described really ties a lot of those elements of the rot symbolism together. This is a society that has founded itself up from out of the corpse of old valyria. The city maintains some veneer of old glory, but the fountains are dry and the paint is chipping. The people there eat food that is so sweet it literally causes your teeth to rot out if you were to consume it every day. In terms of climate, I think it’s relevant that it is described as extremely, almost disgustingly, humid, and everything is excessively perfumed to cover up a tangible smell of decay.The air is quite literally cloying and difficult to breathe. You feel dirty after walking through it. The evil of slavery is rotting the city to its core in the same way that the evil of feudalism and the wars for the iron throne is affecting the city of king’s landing.

To wrap allllll this up. Rot is a signal that obviously societal collapse is coming, but it’s also transitional: the empire of old ghis brought about its downfall, and then valyria found itself on the same principles which brought about its own downfall, and then the Targaryen went to westeros and engineered their collapse in Kings Landing while the freehold did the same essos. I think the climatological and disease aspects of it are really heavy-handed symbolism that something has to give in the societies and we’re at the point in the series where that’s about to happen.

I think the ultimate arc of the series ends in some form of significant societal collapse, but instead of building upon a rotten foundation again people are going to have try and hope for something new and gather the courage to build that.,quite literally dreaming of the spring.

[hederasgarden]

The Price of Survival

Summary: Rescued by a stranger from a dangerous situation, you quickly find yourself thrust into an even more perilous one, forced to depend on him for protection in a world where survival means trusting no one. Pairing: Lucius Verus x F!Reader Word Count: 2.6K Rating: 18+ only, mature themes. Modern zombie AU, references to attempted SA, brief descriptions of violence and murder, and overall dark/gritty themes. Lucius is a little morally grey (perhaps soft dark?) in this story but he is not a bad guy.  A/N: I may turn this into a mini series if people are interested. Otherwise it can be read as a standalone fic. Thank you to @ryebecca, @writercole, @mayhem24-7forever , and @aliensupastar for their help! Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

Gladiator Masterlist ♡ Masterlist

You’re making too much noise.

But you’re no longer concerned about the undead. The mindless, decaying monsters are a distant worry now. It’s the living men who are after you — the ones chasing you, the ones who want you back. Twigs snap underfoot, and leaves crunch with every hurried step you take. Your breathing is labored in the otherwise still air.

You push yourself harder, muscles screaming in protest. The scents of pine and damp earth fill your nostrils as the cold air burns your lungs. The zip ties around your wrists cut into your skin, tightening with each frantic movement, biting deeper the more you struggle. The blood beneath them stings, the friction leaving raw marks on your flesh. Still, you don’t stop. You can’t stop.

The voices of the men reach your ears, growing more insistent. Their words aren’t fully distinguishable, but the tone is unmistakable — hungry and malicious. They're closing in. You veer left, only to stumble as your foot sinks into an icy stream. Cold water rushes over your ankles, the shock of it halting your momentum for a brief, disorienting moment before you force yourself to continue.

As you run, the forest blurs around you, your heart pounding so loudly in your ears you can hardly hear anything else. You don’t see the figure emerging from the trees until it’s too late. You slam into them, the collision sending you both tumbling to the ground. A jarring pain shoots through your side where you hit the earth. You nearly miss the sharp intake of breath and grunt of surprise of the man beneath you. Though you’ve landed half on top of him, in the blink of an eye, he shifts, rolling you under him.

You try to scream, but his hand shoots out, clamping down over your mouth, silencing you before the sound can escape. Panic floods you and you twist away, instinctively trying to free yourself from his grasp. He holds you still, his body a solid weight pinning you to the earth. When you look up, the first thing you notice are his eyes: dark, intense, and unyielding amid the chaos of the forest. A sliver of moonlight cuts across his face, highlighting a rugged beard and wild curls. He’s not one of the men hunting you, but he’s still a man, and that fact alone gives you pause. 

For a heartbeat, the two of you just stare at each other, the tension in the air thick. His eyes move over your face, quick and assessing, before he seems to notice the zip ties binding your wrists. He tilts his head slightly, a flash of confusion passing over his face before glancing in the direction you came from. His brows knit in concentration as he scans the woods and you both hear the footsteps of the men as they grow closer, louder. You can almost hear their voices, too, faint murmurs cutting through the stillness of the forest. The stranger’s gaze snaps back to you and he stares at you as though weighing his next move. 

His grip on you loosens, but you can feel the tension in his body, the way he stays poised, ready to move if needed.

“Why are they after you?” he asks, quietly, so only you can hear. 

His question catches you off guard. For a moment, all you can do is stare at him, the panic still rising in your chest. His eyes remain locked on yours, his gaze sharp, waiting for you to answer. The longer you stay silent, the harder his expression becomes, a subtle edge creeping into his features. You shake your head and slowly tug your hands away from his to touch the torn collar of your blouse. His eyes follow the movement. 

“They want what all men want,” you murmur.

Your eyes lock onto his, searching for some hint of understanding or sympathy. You’re looking for something that might tell you what kind of man he is, whether he’s like them or not. His jaw tightens, and for a split second, his expression darkens in a way that makes your breath catch. He nods once, sharp and decisive, as though he’s made a calculation and found his answer. Then, without another word, he pulls you up by the arm.

“We don’t have much time,” he warns. 

“Who are you?” you ask, wariness threading through your voice.

He looks at you, his gaze steady and direct. “I’m someone who’s not here to hurt you,” he says simply.

The part of you that clings to the idea of how things were wants to believe there are still good people out there, who will help you survive. But you’ve learned the hard way that the world doesn’t work that way anymore. Everything good and kind about people died a year ago when the dead rose up and cities fell. Governments crumbled and everything you knew was replaced by a brutal, unforgiving reality overnight.

You started out with hope in a small group of survivors bound together by nothing more than circumstance. At first, it was almost comforting — traveling together, sharing food, and looking out for one another through the chaos that had engulfed the world. But that hope faded, slowly, painfully. One by one, they were lost to raider attacks, the relentless and unstoppable undead, and illness. Your world shrunk and the people you once trusted slipped away like sand through your fingers. And now, the same men who had slaughtered the last of your group were hunting you. 

You swallow hard, fighting the emotion rising in your throat. Trust is a weakness, a mistake you can’t afford to make again. But before you can find your voice the stranger is pulling you deeper into the trees, a firm hand locked around your bound wrist. He’s fast, moving with an efficiency you can’t match, his boots barely making a sound on the forest floor as he drags you along. You stumble after him but he doesn’t slow down until the brush opens to reveal a small, sheltered hollow between the trees. He pushes you into it and crouches beside you as his eyes scan the darkness.

“Stay low,” he directs, his hand firm on your shoulder as he guides you down onto the cold, damp earth. “And don’t make a sound.”

You nod, barely able to breathe as you sink into the shadows of the thicket, the chill of the earth seeping into your skin. The silence of the woods is loud, almost painfully so, but it’s shattered seconds later by the sound of heavy boots crunching through the underbrush.

A twig snaps. Another voice speaks, this time clearer. "She’s gotta be close. Keep looking.”

“I want the first crack at her, " a new voice adds.

Your eyes flick toward the man when he slinks forward slowly. For the first time, you notice the hatchet strapped to his waist, its handle worn from use, the blade gleaming faintly in the moonlight. He grips it tightly, his fingers brushing over the handle with an almost unconscious familiarity. Without a glance back, he disappears into the trees, a shadow among shadows.

A quiet rustling follows with a muffled thud, like something heavy hitting the ground. Your pulse spikes. Another noise, softer this time, a grunt, a brief, sharp inhale, then...silence.

Your heart races and your eyes dart to where he disappeared, your body rigid with fear. The men are closer now, their voices sharper, more urgent. One calls out again, “Where the hell is she?”

There’s another thud, followed by a sickeningly wet sound that makes your stomach churn. You can’t see what’s happening, but you don’t need to. You press yourself lower into the earth and try to make yourself as small as possible while the struggle continues. The smell of dirt and blood mixes in the air, filling your nose until it feels like you might choke. You can't move. You can’t even breathe properly, too afraid that a single sound will give you away. 

A voice, closer this time, shouts, “What is that? Who’s there, who —”

The words are cut off by another thud and a gurgling noise. It doesn’t take long for the sounds to die down, and when they do, the silence rushes in, swallowing you whole. It’s an oppressive kind of silence, heavy and suffocating. The absence of sound is somehow worse than the chaos that preceded it. Every nerve in your body feels raw and taut with the tension of waiting for something – anything – to happen. Minutes stretch on, each one thicker than the last, until finally, the stranger emerges soundlessly. Although his clothes are streaked with dirt and blood, his posture is calm, almost detached. 

The instinct to flee hits you with such force that you scramble back, your bound hands held out in front of you like they might somehow stop him. But you know they won’t. He stops an arm’s length away, crouching down. Before you can react, he produces a small blade and grasps your elbow, tugging you forward. He slices cleanly through the zip ties around your wrists and then releases you. 

Your throat feels dry, the words caught somewhere between panic and disbelief. Finally, you manage to whisper, “You...you killed them.”

He doesn’t respond right away, but after a beat, he simply nods. Your mind swirls with a thousand questions you don’t know how to ask. One thing is clear, though. This man, for all his brutality, just saved your life.

“You need to go now,” he says, helping you stand. “Head north. That’s your best chance.”

Your mind struggles to keep up with the fast turn of events. Even though you were scared of him seconds ago, the thought of walking into the unknown, alone again, churns your stomach, and a cold wave of fear settles over you. You think of the endless days of running, of barely surviving, and for a brief moment, the idea of leaving him is terrifying. What little supplies you had were taken by the men whose camp you have no hope of finding in the darkness. 

The stranger watches you, sensing your hesitation, and steps closer. His eyes are unblinking, focused on you. "There are worse things in these woods than those men." “The undead,” you begin, but before you can finish, he cuts you off, his lip curling back in a snarl that surprises you. 

"The undead aren’t what you should be worried about." His words are sharp, and dismissive, as though they mean nothing compared to what really lies ahead. “Go. Now." he urges, his grip suddenly tightening on your arm, pulling you away from the shelter of the trees and into the open.

You stumble as he shoves you forward. 

“Maybe we can stay together. I can be useful,” you promise him, the words leaving you in a rush. “I have medical training.”

A soft, almost imperceptible look crosses his face, but it’s gone as quickly as it appeared. His jaw tightens and his expression hardens.

“Leave,” he grounds out. “Before it’s too late. Before-“

His voice cuts off and he looks away toward the dark trees, scanning the distance. Whatever he finds makes his posture go rigid and his breath leaves his lungs in a harsh exhale. You step closer to him, afraid of what you can’t sense but that seems to agitate him more. 

“My, my, Lucius, you’ve been busy. Macrinus sent you to hunt dinner, not men.”

The voice rings out from the edge of the trees where an unfamiliar man melds out of the shadows. Your rescuer, Lucius, tenses at the sound, and you can feel the shift in the air, the way the atmosphere thickens. He doesn’t respond to the man immediately. Instead, you watch his fingers move with practiced ease, slipping a slim, deadly knife from his belt. With a flick of his wrist, the blade is poised and ready.

For a brief moment you wonder if he means to kill this man too, but then, to your shock, two more figures emerge from behind the first. Lucius exhales through his nose, a quiet sound almost lost in the air between you, and you see the way he forces himself to relax. When you glance at his hand again, the knife is gone, as if it had never been there.

“Viggo,” Lucius greets curtly. “There are rabbits in the trap and a buck back by the stream. I did as he asked.”

The short but powerfully built man, Viggo, raises an eyebrow and glances at you, his grin widening. 

“You certainly did that and more. Looks like you found yourself a little something too, hmm?”

“A pretty little fawn,” another man comments with a smirk, reaching out, his hand extended like he intends to touch you.

Panic surges through you, and you instinctively take a step back, but you don’t get far before Lucius pulls you behind him. You wince as his fingertips brush over the torn skin of your wrist. 

“You know the rules,” Lucius growls, his voice low and deadly. “Take a step back if you want to keep your hand.”

Lucius’s stance doesn’t waver, still shielding you, but his expression softens for just a moment as he glances over his shoulder at you. In that fleeting look, you catch a hint of something else, regret or perhaps guilt? You blink and it’s replaced by a cold mask. You’re not sure what to make of him. Fear and appreciation tangle together as you consider his actions. You wonder what exactly he’s trying to protect you from, and why he seems so unsettled by the need to do so.

“Macrinus needs you back,” Viggo presses. "He’s waiting on the game. We can take her back to the settlement,"

“I don’t think so. I’ll bring her in,” he responds, jerking his head toward you, the motion sharp, dismissive. 

The words hang in the air, but it’s not just the command that catches your attention — it’s the hollowness in his tone. The men don’t challenge him, but they exchange a brief look before leaving. Lucius remains in front of you, standing rigidly, staring into the blackness. You get the sense you’re still not quite alone, something Lucius confirms when he turns to face you. He raises a finger to his lips and the warning is gentle but firm. Don’t speak.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers, his voice low and filled with a grief that sends a wave of unease through you. He takes a step closer and reaches for the rope hanging from his belt, uncoiling its length. 

 "What…?" you breathe, but the question trails off into the air, unfinished. 

You feel the panic rising in your chest as Lucius begins to wrap the rope around your forearms, the rough texture biting into your skin. Every muscle in your body screams to flee, to run from this situation, from him, but deep down you know that escaping would be futile. There’s nowhere to run, no one to turn to. The fear doesn’t stop you from trying, though, from taking a small step back, but Lucius’s grip on you tightens immediately, pulling you toward him again.

He doesn’t look at you as he works, lips pressed tight as he continues binding your arms, careful to avoid your torn wrists. When he finishes tying the knot, his hand lingers on the rope for just a moment, as though he’s second-guessing himself. Then Lucius shakes his head, a sharp, quick movement, almost like he’s clearing away his thoughts. His eyes flicker briefly to yours and he hooks his fingers under your new bindings, tugging you towards him. 

“You should have left when I told you,” Lucius says solemnly.

[paper-mario-wiki]

It only recently occurred to me that the Garden of Eden Creation Kits, or G.E.C.K. devices in Fallout, stand as a karmic opposite to the symbol of the nuclear bomb.

The nuclear bomb is effective as a weapon is a two stage attack. First there's the boom. An invention the size of a small car, in a flash so short you wouldn't even be able to think about it before being vaporized if you were anywhere within 2 miles of where it was, and you'd be lucky to live longer than 10 minutes if you weren't at least 10 miles away. An unstoppable, unhaltable fire that burns hot enough to vaporize anything even remotely alive instantly, and it's the size of a city before you have enough time to say "oh my god look at that". And then, after this devastating, all consuming flame goes out, the decay left over from that little drop of metal leaves the earth, the water, the sky, and all other physical domains completely uninhabitable for YEARS. It instantly creates a domain so remarkably dangerous that it becomes a global landmark. I'd say that it is only slightly hyperbolic in a cheesey poetic way that what a nuclear bomb does is create the closest thing to literal hell on earth that humans are currently capable (whether by scientific limitation, or by moral unwillingness) of creating.

On the other hand, the G.E.C.K., a sleek silver briefcase the size of a 2005 laptop, acts as a compact seed to create a stable, healthy environment, with enough power in a hyper-dense coal fusion battery to power a city. A succinct utopia in a box. In early depictions this was described as hyper resilient seeds, chemical mixtures to create viable soil, instructions for how to disassemble and reuse shelters to become extremely resilient and powerful new world places of safety, as well as vast documents on the details and assembly of advanced and highly efficient technologies like force fields. In later games, it was increased to something of a mythical item, capable of literally terraforming miles of earth down to the molecular level to be safe for habitation, as well as the ability to replicate anything you might need in terms of rations or supplies. In its own way, it is mankind's best attempt (at least in the Fallout universe) to create a massive-scale utopia in as small of a box, that creates as close to a heaven on earth, as possible. And it's even got a biblical tie-in right in the name. I think that's very fitting.

[e-nonsense]

Can I request a Dahlia with burlap and lace, where reader is a WonderGirl and part Amazon, being Wonder Woman's daughter.

Yk how there's Donna and Dick, Cassie and Tim, your the Wonder girl to Jason, after Donna and before Cassie.

Can you write about their friendship during Jason's Robin era, everybody in the Justice League and Young Justice shipped the two of you, you guys were Hella close, best friends, we're each other's dates to proms and galas...

And when he died you were super crushed and kinda stopped being Wonder Girl, which led to Cassie taking on the role.

And can you write about how even after death, and him being resurrected your still close, and start dating.

(You can ignore this part but could Amazon!Reader have long voluminous ginger curly hair? Similar to how Artemis has ginger hair, but that's what seperated them? Think the Kalogeras Sisters!)

Anyways, sorry that this is so long, I love your writing, it's so nice to read, keep doing what your doing, I look forward to everytime you post 🫶🫶🫶

sorry there’s no smut, i dont think i could find a way to make this smutty tho and i’m exhausted trying to clear out my inbox.

“you left.” he said as more of a knowing statement and not a question, his mask had been cracked from the might of your fists. you may not be wonder girl anymore but amazonian strength never wavers.

you faltered at the sight of his eyes, “you scared me.” you huff softly, pulling him to his feet.

“i could tell,” he snorted, pulling off his broken helmet. “i was wondering where you disappeared to.” his eyes landed on the grave in front of you, his grave.

there wasn’t a sight of moss, or dirt on the headstone, pretty pinkish white dahlia’s sitting beside it. “you come here often?”

“when i’m mad at you,” you mutter in response, arms crossed.

he rolled his eyes, moving to stand behind you. despite your amazonian nature you were shorter than him, not by much just shorter. “like remembering i was dead once and you forgive me?”

“stops me from choking the life out of you.” you add.

“tough crowd.”

“shut up.” you scoff, elbowing him in the ribs, he hisses in pain.

“as attractive as the fact you can throw me around is, doll. i don’t like broken ribs.”

you roll you eyes before he’s grabbing you, pulling your backside flush against his front. “i love you.”

he knew his death had changed you, the girl who used to be full of light and hope was dulled down to an amazonian princess who preferred the harsh realities of life over hope.

“i miss you.”

your gaze falters from his head stone, “i could’ve saved you.”

“no you couldn’t.” ouch. “even if you found me. i was too far gone then too.”

you stand there in silence once more, accompanied by more than just is headstone this time, this time you have him. jason admired you, your strength, your morals, your hope. whatever happened to the girl he used to look at like the sun, he’d seen you kill someone the other day.

it wasn’t the fact that someone died that shocked him, no it was the fact that you killed someone. with your bare hands, and hadn’t batted an eye when you left the body there.

you’d given up on superhero-ing, claimed there was nothing left to save in a world that would only take.

he hadn’t noticed himself moving closer to you, chin resting on your shoulder with a softly sigh, burying his face in your hair, his eyes shutting. it was a simple gesture that spoke volumes. i love you, hung in the hair, in the way he touched you, the way he loved you.

and you leaned back into him, trust.

you could trust him, only him. you weren’t a saint, not these days anyways. you were just as tainted as gotham itself—dark, broken, and scarred by the choices of those who thought they could save it, yet somehow more dangerous in its decay, where even the purest souls risked being consumed by the shadows.

you were consumed, you thought. consumed by it all.

but so was he. you could be consumed together.

[xnoctifers-eveningx]

Death Work: Animal Remains

In my practice, I use remains, mainly animal bones, to connect with spirits, connect with Death, and in magical workings. Just recently, I’ve taken 3 more animals under my wing, and I thought it would be nice to detail my process of finding, handling, and working with remains as I actually initiate that process. Beginning first with finding remains and initial contact. As a death worker, I strive to honor the deceased and aid them in their transition, as well as bond with Death and use death and decay in magical practices. I have been doing spirit work for as long as I can remember and have begun learning under a few entities how to properly assist and tend to The Dead. As such this is not a “how-to”, just me sharing my beliefs but I’m open to questions and discussion :)

Finding Remains

If setting out with the intention of finding remains, it’s important to be prepared. It’s not a fun experience finding something and not being able to take it then, only to come back and it’s gone. Nor is it a good idea to grab things barehanded. I always have a bag with me packed with disposable gloves, trash bags/old shopping bags, and a mask (death reeks!). And if you don’t end up finding anything you can pick up any trash you come across !! I also make sure to bring offerings so I can leave them where I find remains, as well as personal ritual items used in funerary rituals. A hagstone has also always seemed to bring me luck on my searches :)

Where animals live, animals will die. Forests, wooded areas, creeks, wetlands, large areas without much human activity. You typically won’t find much in areas with heavy foot traffic or human presence. It’s good to find areas with lots of game trials, typically I find remains a little bit off from them. If the area has a lot of deadfall, fallen leaves, or snow, it’ll be a lot harder to spot remains. I’ve also had a lot of luck finding small bones and fossils on the banks of rivers, ponds, and lakes. Be wary of fresh or actively decaying corpses, there is a lot of bacteria and the animal itself can be carrying diseases. Always use protective gear when handling remains until they are completely sanitized.

Code of Conduct

While everyone holds varying ethical and moral beliefs, there are a few important issues I believe people should be aware of.

It's important to try you're best to not disturb other animals while searching. Respect the living as well as the dead. Personally, I don't hunt or otherwise intentionally kill animals but I understand the use. However, I do believe that the whole animal should be put to use and not left to waste. In death work, more often finding animals dead than not, this translates as never taking things that animals/bugs could eat or that you will not use. Nothing should be thrown away in the trash, I believe it is really disrespectful to chuck something like that into a garbage bag when leaving it outside would require minimally more effort. The nutrients of every organism deserve to go back to the soil.

Laws

Many places have laws that protect certain species. For example, the remains of native birds are usually legally protected in the US. Many endangered and at-risk animals are also protected. Even retrieving roadkill is illegal in some places! However, many places fail to impose proper protections on many animals that desperately need it. Always do your research on your local laws and the status of species in your area. Do not trophy hunt irl or online!

Sourcing

I haven't ever bought remains and don't plan to any time soon. I believe that if I'm meant to find it, it'll find me one way or another. Purchasing remains can be fine and ethical, but there are many situations in which it is not. A lot of remains, especially bones and furs, are not ethically sourced. Meaning mass farming, mass trapping, poaching, and cruel killing methods. It's important to know how remains were sourced, especially if one intends to bond with the spirit. Foxes, reptiles, cats, dogs, and skulls (in general) can be easily found on sites like Etsy, The Bone Room (avoid this site!!), and many real-life oddity expos where they 100000% source remains in either illegal or highly unethical ways. If a site sells illegal or endangered animals (bats, wolves, native birds, etc), cheap animals in bulk, or human remains then it is probably best to steer clear! Some Etsy shops will even title their listings as things like “man’s best friend” to try to get around the legality of selling dog remains among other species.

Initial Contact

After first finding remains I intend to collect, I introduce myself and state my intentions. I then leave offerings and ask to relocate/remove their remains. I approach this in a sorrowful, empathetic manner until giving them a burial and cleaning the remains.

I feel it's very important to ask the spirit before doing anything with the remains. However, if it's roadkill or in a vulnerable area with lots of people, then it's more respectful to relocate it to a quieter place. After doing spirit work for a while, instead of verbally asking and then divining, it’s more of a vibe check for me. When asking a spirit to take their remains, you should state your intentions whether that be art, bonding with them, or magical workings. I do not believe that the shade of an individual is permanently attached to its remains, nor do I believe that the shade is trapped wherever its remains are. However, I also believe that every being should have the opportunity to rest undisturbed if it so pleases. If a spirit truly does not want you fucking with its remains, I believe it will let you know through nightmares, bad luck, illness, and reoccurring thoughts of guilt among other things. You should be willing to leave the decreased alone if it comes to that, but in my experience, there have been few times in which a spirit is both still “connected” to its remains and dislikes the idea of me possessing them. I reckon that animals hold little use to their physical remains after passing, dissimilar to humans who tend to still want autonomy. There have, however, been times when I’ve forgotten about remains (either waiting to be processed in bags or actively processing in a bucket) and get a wave of guilt and think “oh fuck I should pull the deer out of the tub.”

I believe it is very important to leave offerings for The Dead, especially if you are disturbing their remains. Offerings act as both an honoring act for the deceased and payment for the remains. Offerings left out in nature should always be biodegradable and should not be anything that could harm any creature that comes across it. Typically, I make small bundle-type offerings from rocks, shells, plants, and sticks. They can also be food/drink (that is commonly safe for the deceased animal you are offering to), written poetry, or drawn art (on safe paper with graphite).

In addition, I always promise The Dead a burial. A burial does not have to be a grave 6 feet deep, but in some fashion, a piece of the deceased should be given a quiet and safe resting place away from humans. Even if the shade isn’t “contained” in the remains, I hold the belief that it can act as a tether for a part of the soul (hence using remains for spirit communication), and the individual should have the option to rest in a quiet place rather than sitting on a shelf. A burial also ensures that the nutrients contained in the remains are given back to the Earth. Life is a gift that must be returned to where it came from for the cycle to continue – thou art dust and to dust thou shalt return. Along this line of thought, no part of a being should be wasted. Meaning returning unused skin, fur/feathers, bones/fragments, guts, and anything you have no use for. Even with water maceration, the nutrients in the water can be returned to the soil and eaten by bugs. The location of the burial should be somewhere in nature, away from human activity and off footpaths. They don't necessarily need to be buried, they could be placed in high grass or in thickets. Scavengers, bugs, and fungi will take it from there. Death and decay remain important aspects of nature that continue to nurture other critters and the soil itself.

Cleaning Remains

Cleaning is a devotional act really. I won’t go into the actual cleaning process here because it’s long and varied, but another time maybe (I mainly use water maceration). During cleaning, I follow several rules to ensure respect for the deceased. Most importantly, I don’t treat remains as a toy or something to gawk at. At one point, these were living individuals and my respect for them doesn’t stop as soon as their heart stops pumping. The remains are cleaned thoroughly and well taken care of to prevent damage. I make an effort to never mix bones from different individuals to maintain a level of autonomy and the practical reason of being able to keep track of who's who. With displaying, I try to give everything its own space. My twin fish are kept together in a jar (they r in luv) that serves as their spirit home, sometimes I will set offerings or candles beside it. TOO, I find it important to spend time with the remains if one aims to form a relationship with the spirits. Just a few days ago I took a few armadillo bones out with me for a walk in the rain, which may sound a little crazy to some but I can only hope that I can feel the rain and hear the thunder after I've passed.

The cleaning process is a long and hard one, it's a good time to bond with the remains. As you hold them in your hands, feel every inch of it. Feel the grooves, the textures, the weight, the temperature. Does it feel cold and hollow? Does it feel like a pit is forming in your stomach? Does it feel like a bright light is radiating off it? Do any memories, thoughts, or emotions arise? It is a good way to get to know the spirit/energy of the remains.

Working with Remains

I don't work with the spirit of every bone I find. That would be very difficult, and many don't have spirits attached to them much anymore. Remains can be used in magic, divination, offerings, and art. If I'm using remains as ritual tools, I will first bond with them, consecrate, and then continuously feed them. Just some of the ways remains can be used in death work and magic;

Connecting with Death

Connecting with the individual spirit or species archetype

Conjuring The Dead: I find that bones can be excellent wands used to call upon spirits. They can be really good tools for directing energy, especially for the earthly deceased.

Offerings to Chthonic / death associated entities: many of the bones I have, I've put on my altars for Hades, Hekate, and Lucifer. Not only because they represent death and are aesthetically fitting, but to place the deceased under the protection of those entities.

Bindings: I believe a hollow bone could be used for a good binding by placing taglocks and ritual ingredients into the hollowed center and sealing it up tight. Bones are strong and hard to break, whatever you put in them will have a hard time finding their way out. They take a very long time to decay, so if you buried it after binding someone, I reckon they'd be there for a long time. Bones are a physical representation of death so there could also be an opportunity for some nasty effects.

Spirit vessels: in a similar line of thought as bindings, bones are excellent for containing or homing spirits. Typically these are entities associated with the species the remains belong to.

Ritual tools and instruments: bone athames, wands, offering dishes, flutes, whistles, drums, containers, osteomancy sets, the list goes on.

Additionally, specific parts can represent certain things and can be useful in certain workings.

Teeth: teeth from predators/carnivores represent power, defense, and protection. They are well suited for protection talismans, wards, and asserting dominance over others.

Claws: similar to teeth, claws can be used as strong protection charms.

Skulls: I would say the skull is the defining bone of an individual. The seat of the mind, consciousness, and all perception. Skulls can be used to bond with spirits or keep away spirits, similar to how a jack-o-lantern works.

Rabbit feet: rabbit feet are popularly considered lucky charms. You can also use them to help you navigate situations quickly and bring about fertility and abundance.

Chicken feet: chicken feet are commonly turned into protective amulets. They usually have long, sharp claws perfect for scratching back at anyone who tries to harm you.

Tongues/eyes/ears/brains: these structures supply us with our sensory perception and are vital parts of most species. They can be used to draw upon psychic abilities (eyes for clairvoyance or visions, brains for claircognizance). They can also be used to dampen the senses, such as tying, binding, or pinning a tongue to shut someone up.

Heart: often used to represent emotions like love. Can be used in love spells or to hurt someone emotionally.

Liver: a common form of divination in the ancient world was to slaughter an animal and then interpret patterns and markings on its liver. This is actually something I find fascinating, look into Mesopotamian liver divination and hepatoscopy!!

Shed skin: shed skin from snakes, reptiles, and bugs can be used to represent change, renewal, enlightenment, and letting go by "shedding your old skin".

Antlers: antlers often represent strength and power as animals will use them to fight with each other and assert their dominance over their territory. Small ones could be fastened to bags and be used as protective charms. They can also be made into wands or protective pendants.

Shells: I've always associated shells with protection since that is their purpose. I often use a powder made from ground shells to pour along the edges of rooms or windowsills.

Scapula: Interestingly, used in many belief systems and cultures for divination. Scapulimancy is the divinatory use of scapulae by interpreting post-mortem markings, or markings/cracks on the bone made by holding it over a flame. Another divinatory use found in old necromantic manuals, specifically the Munich Manual, is using the scapula as a scrying mirror by anointing it with magical oils and conjuring spirits in the reflection.

Turtle plastron: used alongside scapulae in Chinese divination, the querent would paint or carve their question into the bone, drill evenly spaced holes, and then hold it over a flame and interpret the cracks or burn marks.

[noncrush]

☀︎☁︎ — MILES MILLER: druxy

(“It's winter. You ask me about love and I tell you about violence. I'm sorry. I thought that that's what love was.” — Katie Maria, ‘I used to be a hole in the ground’.)

miles miller x reader | 8k | mentions of death&guns, angst, fluff, yearning, very introspective, lots of backstory, MDNI 18+.

⤷ desc. when you get hired at the el royale, you don’t imagine you’ll be staying there long. you don’t imagine you’ll find the love of your life, either. as it turns out, you’re wrong two for two.

here is my submission for “quiet winter nights” with miles miller in @lewmagoo’s wonderful holiday celebration!!! enjoy this monster (that i blacked out for most of! this is perhaps not the best prompt fulfillment lol) tis the season of yearning everybody :)

Druxy — (adj.) something whole on the outside, but rotten inside; of timber, having decay in the heartwood.

i.

Working at the El Royale used to be easy. When you were still starry-eyed and bright, not yet overtaken by the suffocating, roiling waves of that horrid hotel.

“This job is just a stepping stone, that’s all,” you’d told Miles after your first rough week. He eyed you wearily then, knowing the grim unreality of those words—he’d done the very same, just happy to have a job at all after discharge… before quickly succumbing, a noxious fate he wouldn’t wish on a single soul. But he couldn’t warn you either, not when you started on the Californian bar: forced to deliver rounds of bronze booze and burnt sienna spirits with your piercing steel shaker until the end of the night. There were so many things Miles lost the chance to say, and later he’ll tell you he hates himself for it; later, you’ll hold him close and tell him you could never hate him for it.

You used to pray that promise beneath your breath, just a stepping stone, while staring up at the swelling water damage of your popcorn ceiling. It was a kind of foreshadowing in the tapestry of your life, telling you the longer you worked the harder it’d be to keep your head wading above water. Those early days at the hotel had you reluctantly settling into a seedy dingbat shoebox a few blocks away, the dip of your chin already beginning to sink into high tide. It’s odd to think of that part of your life in retrospect when you were first starting at the El Royale living all by your lonesome-- familiar head of tawny chestnut locks not yet lying beside your own at night. 

That hopeful, almost manifest, mantra was repeated again and again: in quiet hallways, collecting the pieces of your shattered morale off the wooden epoxy bar top, after a customer yelled at you for giving him too little ice. In a dank backroom corridor, after you caught Miles stumbling around with a heavy Vidicon tripod.

“What do you actually do here?” 

“I… I can’t tell you. N-not before you’ve been here for longer than a year. It’s standard procedure, and- and Management doesn’t trust part-timers.” 

Panicked circles paced into the carpet at your discovery, his burdened shoulders growing ever heavier; some sudden shimmer of pity overtaking your words, “Miles-- Miles, it's okay. Just a stepping stone, remember? You… don’t need to tell me, and I promise I won’t tell anyone.” 

After you parsed Miles' calendar at the clerk's desk and caught a glimpse of the date. The frustrated heel of your palm digging into the nasal bone: “It’s November, Miles, it’s been-- god, this was supposed to be a stepping stone, something temporary…” Suddenly realizing your life still hasn’t picked up the slack; stranded, your job inquiries left unreplied, buried beneath the unsavoury status of your currentemployment. 

“I have an address. I-- have an entire year's worth of paystubs. I have everything they could possibly ask for.”

“Did--did you tell them you worked here? B’cause… the El Royale’s been losing its prestige day by day, and—Management’s sayin’ we’re lucky we still get our cheques.”

Finally, letting “just a stepping stone” die on your tongue when rent was jacked up, and the thin string of normalcy in your life went frayed. You made little as a bartender at an understaffed hotel, just enough to pay the current rate, and the increase would quickly make your wallet grow ugly and barren. Suddenly, you had found yourself forced to choose between the hotel or your apartment block’s curb; meagre belongings packed up and trailing behind, head growing dizzy with smothering waves of shame clawing up your throat. 

“I’m sorry. I don’t want to ask, but I--“ Shoulders wilt. Head hung low. The hotel lobby light flickers above you; once, twice, a spark cinders. “I have nowhere to go.”

His mouth, slightly ajar. What could crawl out of there, you wonder: a laugh, an apology, an insult? “California is full, and- er, Nevada’s under renovation.” 

A rejection. Beads of sweat trickled down your trembling spine. Heart sinking into the pit of your stomach; nowhere to go, nowhere to be, nowhere to exist—

“B-but I have a room. In the back. If… if y’don’t mind sharing.” 

Kindness, in a place as consuming as this. You thought every dreg of it had long since been digested, surrendering to the dreary structure of the ogee pattern walls. The fact it existed in the heart of Miles, however minuscule, made your own flicker with light. Hope stirring, unafraid despite how brutally it was beaten down; it was always so stubborn, ceaseless, almost Sisyphean.

However, uncovering Miles’ poor living conditions while shuffling into that one untouched room in the entire hotel made your lips pull into a tight line. You were left completely aghast, as you realized he had not simply been leaving early before you could say goodbye, but had been ducking behind doors and slinking into his closet home. Esteem quickly overtook you: for that shy man, who was awkward, but just as well sensitive, gentle and compassionate to the very bone. Who offered his room up for you, sacrificing a part of his life for the hundredth time without remorse, because it was kind. 

You lay elbow to elbow with Miles that first night, not looking at each other but just speaking, letting the low timbre of tones fill the air. A figurative ball dance: persuading information out of one another and testing the boundaries–akin only to seeing how low you’d let him drag his palm against your back in that imaginary hall, how tight to ischemia he’d let your hand squeeze his own. 

Him, warning you of the worst aspects of the job; giving you an out, because taping others in the privacy of their rooms weighed like lead. “It’s a sinful thing,” said Miles, the words mumbled and scraped off the backs of his teeth, stuck to the enamel like taffy shame. “To reveal other people like this, even if they’re helpless. Even when my meddlin’ realizes the worst consequences.” Consumed with fear his soul would only grow darker by tainting your own. “Those tapes… those tapes are never pretty. Sometimes they’re downright… ugly.”

You, knowing for a fact it was dirty and invasive— but also that you were really very small and very poor, a wretch whose dreams would be out of reach for eternity. A wide-eyed housekeep and a listless bartender having to band together to maintain the El Royale’s realm of order after the other staff left sounded like the beginning of a bad joke. However, choice was a privilege you no longer possessed–you were there entirely out of necessity: “Who else will hire me? Certainly nobody in this town, nor the next one over.”

Two sets of drooping eyes drifting across his clean ceiling, so unlike the swelling, waterlogged one back in your apartment. There's something here, you thought then, something to be said about having an odd heart-to-heart with the man you’ve had less than five full conversations with in an entire year. All the while feeling an odd comfort at the faint cracks littering his ceiling tiles—like pockmarks had existed, once upon a time, but were cared for and repaired with a familiar gentle precision.

Alas, duty continued, and Management swiftly utilized you—now trusted, for you were thought to be living and breathing the El Royale just as Miles did. But being implicated in the true nature of the hotel's existence, via the increase of sordid dignitaries — fortuitous in their decision to stay at the hotel, but brusque and oddly knowing in such a way you knew the El Royales’ name was being recommended in dangerous places — made the job so very hard. You became thoroughly equipped with the all-consuming fear you could spend another lifetime being good, scrubbing yourself clean of the hotel, and still have your fingers stomped on trying to reach the pearly gates. 

As though you could spend mere hours in there and come out thinking a decade had gone by, time in that decrepit hotel served as a mere suggestion. Perhaps, that’s why moving into the hotel seemed to make so much time alone with Miles. It seemed more impossible for a connection not to foster: that quiet night sent your relationship journeying from an acquaintance, to coworker, to dear friend. Shyly circling one another’s empty orbits before growing inseparable. A lifetime of affinity condensed into years, compacted by common sin and mutual memory. A bond that grew ever proximate, stunned by having someone just like you, right there—just as tormented, just as unfulfilled. 

A friendship of comforting one another in the dark: Miles tenderly coaxing you out like a feral animal unused to attention that didn’t quickly follow with a beating, or your attentive fingers gently working the self-imposed restraint out of his muscles, unthreading traumatic memories from beneath his skin. (“You don’t have to say sorry, Miles—I know you don’t have a mean bone in your body.” “Shh, shh, just listen to the sound of my voice. The thunderstorm’s din has nothing on me.” “When you have a nightmare, tell me—I don’t mind, promise.”) Understanding the fear that gripped you at the sensitive scruff, why you woke up floundering beside him in the middle of the night like the weight of your unfulfilled life was pressing itself on the nape of your neck. Uncovering Miles' extent, and what set him off—what made him dig his fingernails into the bed of his palm or bite his sharp canine into his lower lip. Settling your head onto Miles’ left pillow at bed— your pillow, finding that you knew his heart betterthan your own. Fondly remembering the time spent winding the words out of him until your palm recognized him like it did scars marring your skin. 

Naturally, you grew protective of him. How Miles’ remained so tender is a mystery – it felt impossible to live there for so long and not come out the other end worse off; chewed up, spat out, torn into two and put back together all wrong – but that very kindness had invited you into his home, and you worked to protect it like nothing else. Only ever manning the bar when the need was immediate, more content to linger close behind Miles when he checked in customers. Learning to bare your teeth, going from, “My complete apologies for any offence I’ve caused,” to “The El Royale provides poor patience toward guests who threaten the welfare of our establishment.” 

Slowly, the thought bleeding through the air, you began to worry your love for Miles would die in this black hole. Extinguished in the very same place it was first lit, unable to survive the hotel’s suffocation. Nondescript was your relationship, blurred lines wavering between romantic and platonic at every turn—but love nonetheless. For days on end did a familiar chill wrack your spine: some primal, precognitive feeling of guilt, of dread, that something bad was going to happen and you would never be free of it. How your ears pounded, blood rushing because it felt like if you didn’t leave now you’d rot in that hotel’s hollow, refrained to the point of murder or madness. 

You desperately tried to quell that feeling, chalking it up to years spent with your guard up. Thought you’d merely turned spiked and jagged; rough around the edges, making others jerk away at the gentlest touch. The way a Venus flytrap withers and dies, because nobody is brave enough to care for something so biting. Several severe years turned you into the serrated rim of a broken carafe glass—like the chipped Blendo one Miles kept in his room for safekeeping, after you sold off all the other expensive china just to keep the hotel lights on for another exhausting day. Just… paranoid, your fear of losing Miles — and being completely alone again as a result — merely growing insistent and anxious. 

But the last straw was in December of ‘68; a frigid winter, practically turning the hotel subnivean with its wet and heavy blizzards; snowing the place in deep. A night at the El Royale and a quiet night in general, the kind with long, exhaustive hours– a shift that never seemed to end, despite the small number of customers (a group of skiers on the Nevadan side and a family on the Californian) before finally resigning away from the clerk desk at a bleak four in the morning. You’d long since shooed Miles off, “You first, or I’ll take all the blankets in my sleep,” content to man the place on his behalf. He’d gone so long without support, persevering through fatigue and illness with no choice, it was the least you could do,--and you would always rather he woke up with light eyebags. 

You were locking up, stashing the bell in the desk cavity with your neck craned low—when you felt the trained gaze of another over you. You pressed back up to meet eyes with a customer, his horn-rimmed glasses decorated with slow melting flurries: “If you would be so kind to check me out for a back-cabin along tha’ trails, that’d just about make my night, kid.”

“Unfortunately, sir, the bungalows are unserviced and unavailable in the off-season. Our frontward facing lodges, however, are wholly available—“

“You mean to tell me they’re off limits? Why, I jus’ saw someone leavin’ one of those cabins.”

A shiver traipsed down the column of your vertebrae. No door was open to let in a draft, and no winter winds hit your form; it was pure intuition making the hair on the back of your neck stand up. The week before last, Management thrust a sudden assignment onto you two— Nevada room 7, tenured professor travelling across state lines for a conference, democratic and incredibly vocal about it— and Miles’ was supposed to develop the tape yesterday, mail it off this morning. But Miles didn’t develop the tape yesterday, no, there’d been a burst pipe in the casino bar instead, and the two of you spent lunch till early dawn fixing it. 

The man shot you a discomfiting smile. Stretched wide across his plain, glib face. “Say,” and he leaned in just as your heel planted you an inch back, gesturing to the photographs of celebrities strewn around, “September ‘63. Sinatra owned this place, and let politicians mingle with Hollywood’s leading ladies. You know anythin’ ‘bout that?”

Anxiety dragged upon your skin. Where was he going with this? “I didn’t-- work here in 1963, sir. Suffice to say I didn’t know much at all about the comings and goings of the El Royale yet.”

He studied carefully; mandible still tilted into that barren smile, but eyes set and stony behind the thin frame of glasses you weren’t even sure were real. The customer set his suitcase down with one hand and his briefcase down with the other, before patting down the wrinkled fabric of his suit—intentionally, or unintentionally, flashing the hilt of a Black Eagle Ruger slung low on a belt holster. It wasn’t uncommon for customers to be sporting some kind of self-defence, especially in dark hotels such as these–but still.  “Your associate, then?” 

“What?” Your blood ran cold, freezing into thin slivers like icicles hanging from the roof outside; like the one that pricked you in the shoulder, and made Miles aid and soothe the wound. 

Miles entered through the front door of the lobby, hair silken with powder-soft snow, murmuring to himself as he dragged his work-issue loafers in. The man jutted his thumb unceremoniously toward him, a calculating sheen lighting his green eyes. 

“Hey, you—“ and he waved Miles over like he were cattle or a dog, “d’you remember any blonde Hollywood Ingenue’s rooming here in September ‘63? You’d know her—hell, she’d have you stumblin’ over so bad you couldn’t just forget her.”

The look on Miles’ face — wide-eyed and perturbed, tired steps creaking to a stuttered stop at the digestion of the man’s words — made the pit of your gut swelter: how cruel to make him flounder, for Miles was skittish. You’d learned to slow your movements and keep steady to ease him, but this would surely frighten him. “Sir? I-I don’t know what you’re…”

You swallowed thickly. “He didn’t— he didn’t work here yet either. Alright? I mean, look at him—he’d barely be out of school.”

The customer’s stubborn smile dropped into thin-lipped obscurity. “Well, it was wortha’ try. Made a bet with some of my buds who heard I was stayin’ here– those sonsabitches thought some kinda tape existed.” He regarded you suddenly with a plain look: acknowledging, bored, seeking your professionalism rather than your conversation.

His look sobered you, making the tremouring buzz of your thoughts (get miles get out of here something bad is going to happen) go quiet. You snapped back into smooth, managerial tones, swiftly checking the man in and handing him the logbook. He hoisted his luggage and left just as suddenly as he’d arrived, leaving you in possession of one odd Laramie Seymour Sullivan signature in cursive. There was something… off about that salesman—be it the thin, almost prescription-less distortion of his lenses, or his odd accented twang of no particular origin—and you hoped his stay in the Nevada room was short-lived.

“Miles?” your gaze snapped up from the logbook you were inspecting to find Miles gone. Fortunately, not out into the thick pillowy avenues of snow from which he came, but forwards: his thin loafers tracking wet stains onto the floor. You set a mental reminder to mop that melt before morning, but Miles’ panic took precedence. He had the habit of scampering away in the face of danger, like a rabbit through dry autumn leaves–and you would never let him deal with it alone.

Finally, you traced your dear friend's prints to the maintenance room you shared; slightly ajar, warm lamp light filling the room, his soaked shoes haphazardly strewn by the doorway. There, you saw him crumpled upon the threadbare cot: on his knees lying down, almost in prayer with his silver rosary wrapped tight around the dry skin of his knuckles. It shone like the glimmer of the sun under that incandescent bulb, and you could hear a panicked recital of scripture along his tongue.

“Hey, hey,” you slide past the door gently, descending onto all fours so as not to box him in or raise the height of his fight-or-flight response. “C’mere, hold my hand,” you crawled over and laced his free fingers into yours, settling into a criss-cross apple-sauce position; knee bumping into the ankle that never healed right after he sprained it gardening last summer.

“Just listen to my voice, okay? Remember what we were doing last winter? Remember when every customer had left two evenings before to make it home in time for Christmas? We were sitting here, reading a book together. You told me the print company made a mistake after you saw a thread pop out of the inner hinge’s book bind. I was massaging your crown, then… I miss your long hair sometimes. The radio was playing, too–an auditory rerun of that musical you like so much. “A Christmas Carol” for "Shower of Stars", was it…”

You were fully equipped to spend the rest of the night coaxing Miles’ out of his panic, soothing tones drowning out the tantamount alarm running circles in his mind–but then, he lifted his head from the clothed caps of his knees and brought your intertwined fingers up to his warm cheek. “That man.. the-the- tape, he was talking about a ta-tape with- with…”

Your hand squeezed his in time with the patterned buzz of his pulse, pressed along your own wrist; thump-squeeze, thump-thump-squeeze… “It’s just you and me, Miles. Take your time.”

A shaky breath. Then another; better, easier. “The tape he’s talking about. It’s, it-t’s real. B-but nobody was ever-- supposed’t know it exists-- how did he know about it, how?”

“Miles… a tape? He knows about what you sent to management?”

“No, no, I never sent it! I never did, I kept it… I kept it because he was kind, and-- and…” And Miles is letting go of your palm, instead wrapping his lanky arms around the circumference of your waist, collapsing in your lap. He’s murmuring still, mere vibrations lost to the human capacity of Hertz, as your mind spun: once upon a time, Miles confessed to you a certain 60s starlet coupled up in Nevada 5 with one of the most influential and married politicians of that decade, before their deaths in– 

That was the tape?

Your heart hammered in your ears. Miles’ sobs simmered down into stammering breaths; his ever-softening palms gripping the fabric of your shirt between his fingers in some sort of self-soothing measure. Has your heart swapped with your brain? Is that why you’re so suddenly remembering how cruel it'd been for Miles: how he’d been at the El Royale so much longer than you, been beaten down so much smaller, was much closer to the edge? That Miles was crumpling atop you now with the rumblings of great, inescapable despair because the weight of these corrupt secrets was toppling him over?

It was then that you pet him, the man your heart swelled far past capacity for, fingernails tracing over the splattering of freckles along his neck–and then, that your survival instincts overtook.

“Miles, Miles, it’s okay. Don’t say sorry, s’not a problem. We can… well, we can… leave. Take the tape with us; burn it, destroy it, whatever you want. But we leave.” Deciding at last that enough was enough because you could either leave now or suffocate in silence forevermore. Curl into yourselves, like far neglected flora, until one of you dies and the other quickly follows.

In the hours before dawn, you’d suddenly pieced together a jilted, desperate plan of escape. You’d head an innocuous journey from the El Royale to Reno, wandering eccentrically so as not to leave a tangible trail. In that tawdry tourist town, you’d gather yourselves and map another path out again: to a smaller, quieter place, like Waterford, or Dunsmuir, where you could build yourselves a life anew. It would be hard, and frightening, and cold, and unkind—but above all it would be worth it.

Above all, this chapter would draw a close, and you could have the rest of the pages in your life to be selfish. The thought made your stomach flutter and clench with the foggiest of dreams, fluffy fox-tailed feelings beginning to run through the dim corridors of your heart: ideas of being free, of coming into your own, of maintaining a gentle realm together without the enduring pressure of the hotel. Of being able to sleep in and graze over the bony ridges of Miles' spine like you were allowed to—like you were supposed to, and would never be struck down for it.

That glassy night in late December of ‘68 was your final one in the hotel. You barely remember it: just the important stuff, the why and the how and the coaxing of two lonely souls who occupied the El Royale like ghosts from out of the shadows. You can’t remember the few days after very well either, not with the fear still so deeply imprinted on your souls– and certainly not with the anxious hush that fell over you: a silly vow of silence, to keep yourselves from revealing too much to potentially dangerous strangers. Words were chalk in the mouth then; you barely got them out before you were coughing, gasping, heaving for soothed breath-- then quieting, swallowing, holding back your voice in the crevice of your cords.

You did, however, remember the generous days that came after the fleeing and the hiding… and, understandably so: why allow your memory to remain preoccupied with the same dread you’d digested for years when you could keep space for the rest of your life to arrive? 

You sat atop that beat mattress in Miles’ drab room with him in your arms, halfway through dreaming up the rest of your life away from the hotel… and soon, sooner than you could’ve ever thought, you blinked and opened your eyes to find yourself living that merciful existence. Like the colour television channels Miles’ would always call you over to watch: you got a sparse glimpse once a year, the kind of magic you always swore you’d catch up to, but were always so busy with the bar (and the gardening and the kitchen and the–) to see. The hotel had the all-consuming quality to draw you away from any fulfilling aspects of life: friends, a better career, happiness, and like some sick inside joke, colour television.

Now, you were living the sweet life NTSC colour system shows portrayed—and were able to watch colour television whenever your heart damn well pleased. 

No longer did you let the days twist and swell around you without recognition, no– you allowed yourself the selfish possibility of listening to the day's whistle by, drinking in every peaking pitch: the dull flutter of Miles’ steps along your oak floor, your kitchen laminate, your soft bathroom rugs. The wispy rustle of crinkled grocery lists, checking through them in your kitchen on an early Sunday—shopping right when the supermarket opened, because the both of you cringed at the sight of busy aisles and overworked lanes. (The raspy, sniffled laughter of the elderly lady who ran the store, remarking, “Still in the honeymoon phase, huh?” as she checked you out. The squeak in Miles’ throat when you played along, pressing a peck to his cheek in mock confirmation.)

The stream of water from the creaky yard hose, sometimes pressurized to the point of injuring Miles’ poor petunias, and other times so frail you had to lug out his otter-shaped turret sprinkler to keep them healthy instead. The howling wind against your house walls on autumn nights, bouncing along the window sills as though ghosts roamed your halls. (Having to build a fort in the living room with Miles, after a “ghost” had spooked him on his nightly tread for a glass of water. He refused to brave the hallway to your bedroom again, and you refused to leave him there.)

The gentle snip-snap of scissors along Miles’ delicate head, telling him, “I’m not going as short as last time, even if you ask me to, ‘cause you’ll get cold and snag my earmuffs again.”  The sleepy purr of Miles’ in the morning, wrapping a lithe arm around your waist and greedily tugging you back to bed; grown spoiled with the days that go by so sweetly, used to having you all to himself. 

Drinking in these little moments, appreciating the mundanity of it all. How you simper, when doing laundry with Miles, sorting whites from colours as you regale him on the time you mixed in a blue sock by accident; is that why my button-up turned blue? When gardening side by side in the spring, Miles cooing to perennial flora as he packs down healthy fertilizer nearby; grazing a gentle finger over an unfurling petal and promising, you’ll grow up nice and strong when m’done with you. When sitting on the counter and watching Miles bustle about, trying to perfect his Tunnel of Fudge in time for the holidays and handing you the battered whisk; honey, you know I don’t care that there’s raw egg. 

Going through the motions of this post-hotel life, practically epilogic, with the relationship’s lines of platonic and romantic ever wavering. Ever thinning. Warbled by the merciful existences you reap: why focus on the status of your relationship when you could focus on the love itself, focus on your now-uninhibited freedom to love? 

But a rubber band snaps eventually. The lack of labels stretched wide and narrow around your intimate forms; never relieved, never named—never agreed upon, therefore just as well never reciprocated. Years after the hotel faded into a mere memory, just a faint speckle among the colourful mosaic of your existence, you wake with a pit drowning in your gut. Love burns in the bottom of your belly: no longer that comfortable love that rested so sweetly in the smiling swell of your cheeks, but more so a love that swallowed you whole—sudden, voracious, terrifying. You loved Miles, and you had for years… but just now did you realize you were in love with him. 

The distinction makes your heart hammer against its cage, starving for any kind of answer. The two of you never acknowledged it, but that didn’t mean it wasn’t there—it was always there, always lingering, providing the very allowance to be so intimate, be so loving. You’ve slept in one another’s bed for more than half a decade, for Christ's sake: tenderness is all you’ve ever known of each other. A deathly nerve deep within your gut strikes, begging for either reciprocation or rejection, not this limbo you’ve been living in. Imploring a tangible answer, an exacting label you can build the rest of your life upon.

Because the thought of staying trapped like this forever? Never fully friends and never fully lovers? That mortified you. It could all fall between the gaps of your fingers, even after decades, because none of it had ever been said aloud. 

The realization of being in love, and not just loving was kept under tightly wound wraps as best as you could. But Miles notices the little things over time: how you draw away easier, hugs growing brisk and polite rather than long and hearty. The tension in your shoulders, and how you no longer accept his tender offers to massage familiar knots out—even when you both know he can map out your problem areas just like that. Brushing off touchier advances, resolve greatly disturbed by Miles’ ever-constant need to hold hands, cling to your hip, hang onto you at all. He’s funny about that kind of thing: somewhere along the way, between the farm he grew up on, Vietnam, and the El Royale, to now, he picked up the miraculous ability to tune into moods at the drop of a hat. 

It gets worse as the week goes on, however. Not that you’d been very inconspicuous about your gloom—you sat up the fourth day quietly strained, trudging to the bathroom like a wet t-shirt that’d been wrung out and hung to dry in all the wrong ways. Misshapen, wrinkled, too burdened for the clothesline to hold up; the briefest of winter winds trickles past the window Miles forgot to close last night, and makes you shiver as you step in. But he doesn’t get the chance to intervene, not when you were heading off to work (there were so many things Miles lost the chance to say, and later he’ll tell you he hates himself for it–), and the two of you only see each other again when you’re back home. 

His first instinct when he sees you, mumbling your arrival in the frostbitten doorway, is to take your coat and set it on the wooden hanger; shuffle your fur-lined boots onto the shoe rack beside his own tassel loafers; dust the flurries off your clothes. Clean and take care of you, because that’s what he knows best. You half expect him to extend his arm out and point down either side of the hall, “Warmth and sunshine to the west, or hope and opportunity to the east,” on the tip of his tongue.

“Hi,” mumbles Miles, lip quivering as some semblance of a nervous smile inches across his face. “Um, welcome home.” 

That man is far too sweet for his own good. His greeting is the product of an offhand comment all those years ago, “It’s always the sweetest thing when the husband comes home and his wife welcomes him back.” Winter nights in the hotel when there were so few customers, management would skimp on paying the bills, and you’d huddle chest to chest with Miles to conserve heat. Breath visible, palms splayed beneath one another’s shirts to extinguish the chill racking through you. A random channel on his old RCA Victor Sportable playing a Brigitte Bardot special, if just to distract yourself from the very real, very harrowing possibility that you could fall asleep and never wake up.

“Miles,” out comes a dull whisper, scratchy and unreal in your own throat. You’ve tried all week to make a habit out of biting back too-sweet words, letting your blatant adoration die in your lungs. Speaking to him should be an activity gone stale, lest you forget yourself and allow you two to fall back headfirst into that exhausting will-they-won’t-they purgatory. 

But then you notice his clothes–an old cream cable knit and dress trousers, his Sunday best for weekly visits and the obligatory holiday ones–and his hair, neatly coiffed along the smooth crown of his head. You raise a brow–it’s incredibly unlike the pajamas and chestnut bedhead he usually sports; mussed and ruffled with the telltale stylistic edge of blankets and cotton pillowcases. Had he gone out, or is he going out now? 

That thought makes your heart thump and clench in its cavity: of Miles being swept off his feet by someone other than yourself and having to accept it with a choked nod, because you’re dancing around asking him “What are we?”, in paralyzing fear that you are the only one truly head over heels. You resign yourself to asking, “Going somewhere?” whilst gesturing to his unusually formal state of dress.

His rounded cheeks flush. Cobalts widen in tune with the sandy brows along his forehead rising. Your gaze hasn’t made it there yet, but you can bet his lips have slid ajar into a tiny “O” shape-- and there it is. His delicate expression of surprise is the same as it has been for years (and you fear how easily you predict it. You know him too well, and it’s never the one who knows another too well whose heart remains unbroken. But then again: between Miles’ delicate heart and your own… you’d rather you devastated.)

“Yes, well-- I’m going out with someone.”

“You’re going on a—“ How interesting. “…O-kay.”

Your offset okay has the tips of Miles’ lips twinging upward into a tiny, knowing smile. Smug, almost, if you pretended it wasn’t how Miles simply looked when content. It makes you frown instead. “Oh,” you mumbled, wincing as you brushed past him, hearing just how monotone; crestfallen; stupid you sounded. “Have fun, then.”

Your own cheeks burn, your harried footsteps clattering against hallway hickory wood: he was taking someone out? Miles’ had been venturing out on his own more often — your heart preened prideful praise at this, as he’d downright avoided public outings like the plague since his discharge all those years ago — so you knew it wasn’t at all unlikely he’d caught someone’s wandering eye. Miles was rather handsome, too (even downright pretty, which he rarely let you say aloud, since it made steam practically fume out of his ears) with the gentle brush of his blond lashes, framing the brilliant sheen of blue eyes, and that captivating curve of his nose, sloping high and elegant. 

But for however proud you were, the hurt still made your throat swell in its tender column. Suddenly, you realize it’s never going to be you who accompanies Miles in that way: because you are slow and cowardly. You are the decay that would make Miles’ heartwood go druxy– and for his sake, it cannot be you that accompanies him. Like understanding a language but never being taught to speak it, you can spot love easily even when it’s unspoken and barely there, but you cannot replicate it aloud. I love you is an unintelligible language twisted wryly on your tongue; you miss accents and mess up grammar, and before you know it those words as old as myth have gone sour. 

You’ll hurt him worse than rejection hurts you. But rejection, any kind of it, is still a quiet, burning thing that overtakes you like the wash of high tide. Digging its claws into the rapid flesh of your palpitating heart, you can’t help but desperately seek isolation. The balls of your feet practically jump over the threshold where the hall and your shared room meet… but he’s quick to follow.

Miles’ sock-swaddled thumping is slow at first, before speeding up and careening to a stop at the door of the bedroom. His fingers (originally rough with domestic work but grown soft in the simple life you’ve built around each other) cling shyly to the side jamb: “Are…” and his words warble at a pitchy high, like they’re curling around a pitiful lump balling up in his throat, “are you mad at me?”

“Of course not,” your reassurance is fast, uttered quicker than you can think or blink or even turn. But because your back still faces him, he asks again, are you mad at me? Murmurs, I’m sorry, a moment later, polyester-padded steps inching over the sill. Miles continues closer, appearing in the background of your mirror while you shed your outside clothes off; practically undergoing chrysalis into your pyjamas.

His words are childish, almost, and you have half a mind to shoo him out of the room for privacy–but you know Miles. Though his words are uttered gingerly, the nervous apology of a scolded child, he isn’t any less desperate, any less earnest; he’s genuine, and that genuinity has no bounds. 

The bed creaks behind you, and your mind buries the consuming temptation to look. Desire calls out your name, supplying imaginary images of cranberry Christmas sheets straining beneath Miles’ pretty, slow crawl. And the apology is part way through stumbling out of Miles’ mouth yet again when you finally turn to meet him: slim torso folded along the long edge of the bed, knees planted on the hardwood. Looking up at you with an impossible expression that pleads, I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Are you mad at me? Please. I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m– 

His sweet head buries itself into the clothed cushion, and you can hear him sniffle; holding back a worried sob, are you mad at me? filling the ridges of his tongue. It’s so hard to seek solitude, to want to soothe yourself at all, when Miles is falling apart in front of you; fingers curling possessively into the sheets like he usually would your clothes. 

The tear that escapes the corner of Miles' eye dribbles into your bed. It makes your obstinacy waver. And then, you’re descending onto the bed too, scooping his weeping form into your arms, gently soothing him with shapes drawn into his cheek. Coaxing the tears away with a low hum cooed into the shell of his ear, shh, shh. M’not mad, just surprised. Just tired. 

Cries that finally dwindle into stuttered sniffles and tiny pecks along your inner wrist. The drag of his bottom lip on the ulna bone makes a ribbon of warmth run through you, and you cringe—you should be normal about this kind of thing because he’s perpetually starved for touch. This intimacy is nothing special, and you just happen to always be there. But it starts to feel less than normal: kisses growing hungry and adventurous, desperate to litter your skin with his presence… eventually reaching up to the top of your shoulder, just so gaining the confidence to sink his canines into your skin…

“Miles!” You yelp, squeezing at the nape of his neck and peeling his rebellious teeth from your side like you would a puppy. You bring him face to face, grip sliding to the mandible; his eyes half-lidded, lips wet with a doggish, slobbery sheen of saliva, brows knitted tensely in the middle. You meant to comfort him, rid the alarm from muscles that held memory so tightly. Instead, an entirely different neediness is roused out of him: he’s crawled halfway up your body, rigid knees subconsciously brushing between your thighs, pressing you to the mattress with the thick weight of his utterly relaxed lower body. 

He begins to slowly blink, as if coming out of a feverish daze, going ever-scarlet in realization. “Sorry, I– didn’t mean to…ah, just missed you so much, that’s all—” squirming to hide and bury his face into the pillows again, whining when you stop him with another squeeze of his cherubic cheeks.  

“What,” You’re breathless, and you reckon your pulse is beating as fast as Miles' is beneath your fingertips: rapid, floundering, like a marathon has been run four times over. “What was that, sweetheart?”

The nickname makes Miles shiver atop you; his head swivelling low to rest upon you, his everything pinning you down. Your huff of gentle (confused, frustrated, coy) air breezes along his brow bone, and he looks up to peer puppyish up at you. 

“Wanted to make you feel better,” he supplies, head tilting to rest the side of his face upon your skin too. “You-- you've been t-tense—and don’t lie, I can tell. So, so I was tryin’ to ask you on a date in the doorway… but then y-you stormed off on me! I thought you— I thought, maybe you don’t want thatkinda relief, so… so…”

“Oh, Miles.” you melt, hand cradling his face gently, thumb brushing against his lower lip, crooking the bed of your palm closer when he turns in to provide a chaste kiss. “I… didn’t realize you were trying to ask me on a date,” and your gaze darts away shyly, voice dropping to a ginger murmur, “in all honesty, I thought you were going out on one.”

“Me?” he asks, head tilting again in pure confusion. Cobalt blue eyes glistening with a disbelieving curiosity–like he couldn’t entertain the prospect logically in his mind long enough for it to make sense. “Who would I be going on a date with but you?”

Who would he be going on a date with but you? 

The silence of the room rings swirls in the junction of your ear. You think you hear a pin drop, but it might very well be your heart; trudging up the shaky interior of your ribcage, softly parsing through the meaning of his words… and finding it to be completely genuine. No sarcasm, and nothing of rhetoric: a true, confused question, uttered from those gentle lips. Who would I be going on a date with but you?as if the very notion was impossible. Like you just told him you’d reached up and plucked the sun for his garden. Like you just said, I miss the hotel.

For some odd, unknown reason, that is what makes your heart roar to life again. Makes your stomach churn with the familiar achings of hope. Those simple words, that glaring confusion, twist your entireviewpoint. How blatantly he says it: that there's nobody on this planet Miles’ would rather be with but you. This may not be very clear right now, but the path to it is, and one thing remains certain: you’ll be loving each other, no matter which way.

A small laugh tumbles out of your mouth, transforming your solemn features into something of silly belief. How foolish were you to think otherwise? That this gentle man, who offered his tiny room to you all those years ago, would suddenly let you slip out from his fingers at the prospect of someone else? Just as there's never been anyone else for you, there's never been anyone else at all for him but you.

How slow your realization was, too: you had been shying from Miles for days, worrying deep in your gut that he’d eventually disappear at the drop of the hat. Whereas, he had been entertaining big dreams of spending the rest of his life curled into your corner; cheering you on for all the world to see. Completely understanding that nobody better could be found; could be loved, could be known than you. 

Your laugh seems to make Miles’ smile twitch up too, and you can’t help but snicker a little louder when you catch his murmur: what are we laughing about now? Because that’s the kind of man Miles is, and always has been: a gentle lover, but fiercely loyal, tender to the very bone; happy to ask the silly, stupid questions when you don’t want to. 

“Nothing,” you shush him, letting your cold, fresh-from-work feet dip beneath the edge of Miles’ soft trousers, toe trailing along his bare Achilles and making him wince. 

“Y’cold,” he whines but doesn’t push you away. Miles doesn’t think he could ever push you away; even through a bout of worrying, self-imposed distance that made panic rise in his heart this week, because Miles’ knows you better than that. You know one another far better than that—and one thing you taught him, bits and pieces of philosophical advice littered into your early conversations, rings true now. Never stop trying. You never stopped trying to fulfill yourself at that trepid, consuming hotel– and you came out the other side with the love of your life tucked gently into your side. So Miles learned never to stop trying for anything at all– and certainly not for you. 

“Sorry,” you whisper. But you’re not for very long, especially when he sidles up real close to you, ducking his head right into your Plender gap and breathing you in.

You don’t know where the years went, but love peeled the layers back from Miles so quickly: paring away his skittish demeanour from back then, when he’d been afraid to leave any mess at all, afraid to give into his mild intrigue of you, to even stir the air with the gentlest inhale of his breath. Continuing to unravel him, until he was the greedy man caging you in now, unabashedly needy and unafraid to stake claim on what’s his. Wanting you by his side has never changed, and never will. 

Slowly, the two of you shift, roll, twitch and tug until the sheets are furrowed, comforter wrapped oddly around your legs-- but also until you’re comfortably in one another's arms, foreheads grazing every time one of you breathes. It gives you the most explicit look of his face, into those cobalt blues, through the brush of lashes you so admiringly yawp about when he puts lotion on his face — to the point Miles has to shut the bathroom door on you in the bedroom, just to continue his bedtime routine without melting out into a stammering pile of goop — and of the faint dustings of freckles you noted all that time ago.

Barely noticing the window Miles’ has the terribly endearing habit of keeping open—even on this quiet winter night—because in the summer it coaxed you to sleep and you thanked him for it the next morning. Eyes resting as you focused on the comforting murmur of Miles’ familiar breathing pattern, wrapped in silence so thick it was almost palpable—making you two feel like the only real things in the entire world.

You may have thought your love was nondescript and barely there — imperceptible if not for the top notes of intimacy and adoration lingering on the pulse points of your skin like perfumed oil — but it’s always been noticeable. Always been rich and heady, forever dabbled on the dip of your neck where he lies his head; a fervent scent of pure love blooming, caught on the hem of yourself like you sprayed a pump too much. And nothing, not even Miles’ cries or your own misunderstanding, would ever change that. 

[gallifreyanhotfive]

Random Doctor Who Facts You Might Not Know, Part 72: More Academy and Pre-Leaving Gallifrey Stuff Because Why Not

Sorry I'm in too my pain to come up with a better title right now lmaooo. Mostly about the Doctor because they occupy the mind.

As a small child, Theta Sigma had an imaginary friend named Binker. (Audio: The Abandoned)

Later, the Sixth Doctor claimed that while most people had imaginary friends, he had had an imaginary enemy in Mandrake the Lizard King, which was really a dead lizard pinned to old engine parts that he would battle with his deadly stick. This phrasing suggests that the Sixth Doctor does not acknowledge any imaginary friends his childhood self might have had. (Audio: The Widow's Assassin)

The Rani claimed that sentimentality was the reason the Doctor graduated with "just a Double Gamma." (Audio: The Rani Elite)

According to Sardon, the Doctor is no common criminal because by the latter years of his first incarnation was a distinguished member of the High Council and was widely regarded as a potential President. He was difficult and rebellious, however, and went too far when he quarreled with his colleagues over something obscure over principle. He then stole an old Type 40 TARDIS and fled. (Novel: World Game)

The Seventh Doctor claimed that he had always believed evil to be a genuine force. This had given his young self quite a name on Gallifrey as most of his contemporaries considered the ideas of "good" and "evil" to be archaic and out-dated. They thought his preoccupation with that morality was incomprehensible. (Novel: Strange England)

Before leaving Gallifrey, the Doctor had successfully campaigned for the ban of a special chemical. This chemical was a weapon sometimes called a disruptor agent that acts as a catalyst to convert vertebrate blood into acid. The formula for the chemical stuck in his brain well enough that the Second Doctor was able to later recreate it. (Short story: The Ages of Ambition)

The Doctor had made powerful enemies on Gallifrey on account of his controversial views on the non-interference policy. (Audio: The Beginning)

The Doctor was told stories about the Kin when he was a small boy on Gallifrey. The Time Lords imprisoned the Kin in a complex of small rooms out of temporal phase with the rest of the universe. So long as the Time Lords existed, the Kin would be in their prison. When the Kin got out, there was still a Time Lord left in the universe - the Eleventh Doctor. (Short story: Nothing O'Clock)

In his youth, the Doctor feared that Grandfather Paradox was hiding under his bed or underneath the table in the refectory or making noises he could hear outside at night. (Novel: The Gallifrey Chronicles)

As a young man, the Doctor read about an infection on Gallifrey that had happened over one thousand years before his birth. The Spore - which was actually the von Neumann seeding probe - killed several hundred thousand Time Lords before it was dealt with. The Time Lords engineered an inherited immunity into their genes, so they would never be vulnerable again. Everything organic seemed to be necrotic and decaying to a black gunk. (Please skip to next bullet point if you are squeamish about descriptions of bodies.) When the Eighth Doctor investigated an outbreak, he found a body wearing boots, jeans, and a checkered shirt. Inside the clothes was a mess of bones barely held together by a few pieces of remaining flesh. The skull had a few pieces of white hair, but the scalp and other pieces of soft organic matter were gone as black slime ran out of the cuffs. (Short story: Spore)

The Doctor used to sit by the sea a lot in their childhood, watching and listening to it. He used to think that that was where the dead went, that they were all out there in the sea, and that you could hear them whispering in the waves. (Novel: Matrix)

Three students at the Academy who often conducted rebellious and anti-hierarchical activities include: the Master, whose title was earned from his constant bullying of others, a good cosmic theoretician but but not very good in practice; the Doctor, who often carried out silly chemical experiments with a friend called Drax; and the Rani, who "was brilliant at everything, and chemistry in particular." (Short story: The Legacy of Gallifrey)

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[impossiblesuitcase]

Progeny

Dr. Erland does not die of Letumosis. When the dust of the revolution settles, he must navigate his relationship with Cress and learn how to be—not just her father—but her friend.

Dr. Dimitri Erland was not Dimitri Erland at all. He was a husk of man; his sanity ravaged, memory, sense, morality all lost to the decaying recesses of his mind. 

The mind of a brilliant scientist. The mind of a senile old man.

He remembered Logan Tanner, the head doctor at the Artemisian Medical Centre. Ever sharp, always well-spoken. Never that chummy with any of the other prominent doctors. Eyes perpetually set on galaxies far beyond their rock. He remembered seizing Logan by his collar, slamming him against the wall of an alleyway and demanding the location of Princess Selene. That man hadn’t been Logan at all. A limp rag doll lost to Lunar sickness, the creature inhabiting his body something inhuman.

Dimitri had never imagined himself becoming that way, but as he wrestled against restraints in a bed in the hospital wing of the Lunar palace, he began to understand why Logan took his own life.

He had managed to keep the visions at bay for years. But when he heard that his Crescent Moon had been stabbed, was half dead, all threads of sanity snapped.

He couldn’t forgive himself. He should die, not her. He hadn’t even mustered up the courage to tell her the truth. To tell her how much he loved her.

Dimitri existed in a daze. Emperor Kai visited him once, silent, hair unruly and eyes circled by the deep purple bags. His queen visited later, clutching her wound with a grimace, casting a worried gaze over his form. She told him that they were developing a prototype of Linh Garan’s device and that he would be one of the first recipients. We can fix you, she assured him.

Weeks or months or millenniums passed before he was informed by a chipper nurse that he would receive the device that afternoon.

Not long after she had left, the door cracked open. He wanted to ask for water, but these days any attempt at speech usually came out as a drunken slur, rambled and incoherent even to his own ears. 

It was not the nurse. Cress came to his bedside, hovering at a distance. Her brow was creased. She looked pale, a little gaunt. But she was alive.

Seeing him conscious, she gulped. “Sorry,” she whispered. “I didn’t mean to disturb you. I…I heard you were unwell.”

Dimitri’s fingers twitched, desperate to reach for her but unable. Restrained by the bonds, and his own conscience.

Cress produced a flower from her coat pocket. It was a soft pink. He had no idea of its name. “These made me feel better when I was recovering. I thought it might help you too.” 

She set the flower on his bedside table, gazing at it, and for the first time in weeks, he truly spoke. 

“...Why?”

She jumped, startled eyes landing on him. “Wh–why what?”

“Why would you bring me this? Why do you care?” His voice was gravelly, barely comprehensible, as though wolfen soldiers had run their claws down his throat.

Her head tilted to the side as she thought. “I’m not sure. I know you did a lot of bad things, but I also know it took you a lot of courage to help Cinder. I think…you are a good man, with all you did for her.”

I didn’t do it for her, I did it for you.

She allowed a small smile. “She told me that you had a daughter, a shell, like me. And that you wanted to save her but couldn’t. I always dreamed that my parents missed me. I don’t think that anymore but…it’s nice to know that some people did care about us shells.”

Gratitude coloured her sky-blue eyes. With a final nod, she turned and began walking back to the door.

“Everything I did,” he wheezed, “was for you.”

She froze, glancing over her shoulder. “Uh—yes,” was her uncertain reply. “For us shells. Thank you.”

“No. Not for the shells. For you. My girl. My Crescent Moon.”

Cress bristled, something harsh invading her soft features. “How do you know my full name?”

All breath left his lungs. “Because I named you.”

———

It was confounding—not realising how blind you have been until your sight has been returned to you. As the device took fast effect, Dimitri now understood that he had been mad for many years. With this fresh clarity of mind he could recognise the gravity of what he had done.

Cress wouldn’t look him in the eyes. Cinder insisted that she was merely in shock and simply needed time to come to terms with this revelation. To expedite that process, she assigned him to join the Rampion Crew in distributing the Letumosis antidote to the American Republic. His medical expertise and knowledge of the disease would be crucial to eradicating it as soon as practicable. Being in close quarters with his reluctant daughter was simply an unfortunate side effect.

The first few weeks on board were awkward to say the least. Dimitri kept himself cooped up in his room most of the time, researching and writing, sharing his findings with the heads of Letumosis research across Earth—most of them old friends. They were understandably hesitant, knowing now of his deception all these years. But they needed his help and they didn’t have the luxury to not accept it.

Cress busied herself spending time with Miss Benoit, Mr Kesley, and of course, her boyfriend. For all his disdain for the young cad, Dimitri acknowledged that he was the captain of the ship, and in that, he would not question his lead.

As a beau to his daughter, his opinion had not changed.

Meals were the worst. Friendly comradery, joking and smiles. At some point, a gaze would unintentionally fall onto him, having forgotten that he was there to begin with, and their smiles would falter.

He began eating in his room. It was during one such meal that he heard a knock on his door. 

“Can I come in?”

Dimitri said nothing, yet Carswell Thorne entered all the same. “Hey Doc. Finished eating?”

“No, but does it matter?” grumbled Dimitri, already nettled by the boy’s overly casual address.

Carswell was undeterred. “I have a request for you for the next antidote run.”

He raised an eyebrow. Dimitri was the researcher. He hadn’t yet done much else.

“We’ve got to deliver the antidote by 10:00. But we’re also slated to pick up supplies for the ship at the same time. We need someone to go receive the order. Scarlet, Wolf and I are probably better suited to hauling antidote crates off the ship, so I was hoping you two would be willing to meet with the vendor for us.”

“Us two?”

“You and Cress.”

Dimitri sat up in his chair. “What? Have you told her this?”

He scoffed. “Obviously. Aces, do you think I go around forcing Cress into things without her permission? I’m not that bad of a boyfriend.”

Dimitri dropped his knife onto his plate with a clang. “If she agreed to it…”

Carswell sighed, crossing his arms over his chest. “Listen, Doctor, I have to respect you. You haven’t put pressure on Cress. I appreciate that. But one of you has got to fill this awful chasm between you. You both seem to deal with confrontation in the exact same way: avoiding it entirely.” He chuckled. “Must be a genetic trait.”

For Cress to be anything like him was a simultaneous bloom of hope and a dagger to his chest.

“The way I see it, if you don’t start trying to patch things up now, you’ll never have a relationship. You don’t want that, do you?”

“I want her to be happy.”

“So do I. But Cress seems to interpret the space you’re giving her as rejection, regardless of how I reason with her.” He huffed, but there was fondness laced through it. “She always wanted parents who cared about her. Show her that you do, and then she might start to believe it.”

Dimitri scrutinised the Captain, searching for complacency or condescension on his face. He could only detect sincerity.

“You love my daughter, don’t you?”

“I do.”

He knew it was true. Whenever Cress complained of pain around her stab wound, a stormy expression clouded Carswell’s face. Dimitri may not entirely trust the boy, but this he knew was fact.

He sighed. “I’ll go with her. But I won’t push her.”

“I don’t want you to.”

“Then what do you want me to do?”

Carswell moved away from the doorframe, shrugging. “Try to be her friend.”

He sauntered away, appearing so confident he seemed eons older than Dimitri. For the first time, the doctor felt a flicker of begrudging respect for him.

If the Captain had succeeded in winning his daughter’s heart, perhaps Dimitri could learn something from him.

———

Dimitri had no idea what to say to Cress as they met with the vendor. Fortunately, she seemed to have endless questions prepared for him.

“Where did you grow up?” “Who were your parents?” “Did you have any siblings?” These were simple, safe questions, but as she broached into “Who is my mother?” and “What work did you do for the queen?” his responses veered into shameful territory.

Noting his hesitation, she said, “You don’t have to tell me.”

“No. There should be no secrets between us. Your mother is also a scientist. I believe she’s still alive.”

Her gaze was thoughtful as she approached the next storage crate. With their limited stature they both had to lean on their toes to peer inside. “Should we tell her that we’re both alive?”

Dimitri sighed, scratching his brow. “I don’t believe that would be wise, Crescent. She…she didn’t want you. The moment she discovered you were a shell she…” his mouth grew heavy with salvia, “she wanted you dead.”

Cress began to nod slowly. “Will you go back to her?”

“No. After you were born, I could never look at her the same way again. Every time she smiled at me, all I could see was her revulsion when she handed you over to Sybil.” He exhaled shakily. “I did love her, but I could have never loved her more than you.”

Cress was silent, busy marking items off the list, but her hands were trembling around the portscreen. “It’s okay. When I was in the dormitories, I contacted the parents of one of the shells with me, a boy named Julian. But they didn’t want him back. I suppose I’m lucky that I had at least one parent that wanted me.” 

When she smiled at him, his heart pounded.

It was once they had approved the order and begun the walk back to the Rampion that he ventured to ask his first question. “How did you grow up? You must tell me, please, what Sybil did to you.”

Cress did. She told him of her childhood, how she discovered her talent with electronics, her years in the satellite and her trek through the desert. Her eyes sparkled as she recounted falling in love with Carswell. She shamefully admitted her role in fueling Levana’s power.

“That was not your fault, Crescent.”

“I was her programmer,” Cress resisted. “I could have pretended that it wasn’t possible to spy on Earth. She would have never had the upper hand.”

“Yes, she would have,” he corrected. “Cress, I knew her. Nothing would have stopped her. All you did, you did to survive.”

She shook her head, eyes glassy. “So many lives were lost, and I was a part of the equation.”

Dimitri knew he should do something, say something assuring, but words would not reach through her guilt. And then, without second-guessing it, he gingerly laid a hand on her shoulder.

She blinked at him but did not pull away. 

“I created the mutant Lunar soldiers. I understand what you’re feeling.”

He admitted to her all his wrongdoing and she listened. His deeds of horror didn’t draw her away from him, rather, she asked more and more questions, all the way until they reached the Rampion’s docking hatch. She of course became distracted by Carswell and the others, and before they knew it, lunch and unpacking and dinner had passed and all parties were off in their rooms preparing for bed without the pair having ever formally finished their conversation.

It was a start, a great start. Dimitri repeated this as he trudged down the hallway to the bathroom.

“He’s done a lot of bad things,” he heard Cress say. His feet stalled beneath him. “But he has a good heart.”

The voice slipped through the crack of Miss Benoit’s door. “Well that’s good. Bad things can be made up for, but it’s difficult to fix a rotten heart,” said Scarlet.

Cress sniffled. “I know. It’s just—it’s still strange to have a father.”

He heard the rustle of bedsheets and imagined Scarlet taking Cress into her arms. “Trust me, Cress—there’s far worse fathers to have.”

———

Now, instead of tiptoeing around each other, Dimitri and Cress reached a comfortable understanding. Their conversations—although still sparse—grew more frequent by the day. Dimitri noticed a general improvement in his mood, a gentler lean of his speech. Even the other members of the crew had begun to fold him into their moments of revelry.

It was in one such moment that these bonds were tested.

Cress lay her hand of cards on the table. “And I win.”

All at the table groaned as Cress bested them for the fourth time. 

“How?!” Scarlet whined. “You have disproportionate luck.”

“I have the luck,” Carswell grumbled, dejectedly resting his head on his forearm. “I think she stole it.”

Cress giggled.

Dimitri straightened his cards into a uniform stack. He hadn’t won, though he was in the running for it if he had used some of his old tricks. Then he’d seen the glint in Cress’s eyes and knew with certainty that she was playing them all.

When Carswell delivered her a particularly petulant scowl, Cress held up her hands in surrender. “Okay, I won’t play the next round. Give your luck a shot.”

Carswell stuck out his tongue at her and gathered up everyone’s cards. The round proceeded as usual; Carswell’s smack talk, Scarlet’s serious look of concentration, Wolf barely paying attention, too busy idly twisting his fingers around her curls. Dimitri had an average hand, nothing special, but it was the perfect candidate for one of those old bluffs he had learnt back in his days on Luna. He and some of his fellow doctors used to play poker or blackjack; some would even bet using the money they earned from performing plastic surgeries for thaumaturges and Artemisian hopefuls.

Cress caught his eye. His mouth turned up on one side. She smirked.

When Dimitri won the round, the groans were even louder.

“Are you both cheating? I’m pretty sure you’re cheating,” Scarlet complained.

“It’s not cheating, it’s strategy,” Dimitri and Cress said in unison. Their gazes flickered together with some surprise.

Scarlet thrust her cards away from her. “Oh who cares, anyway?”

“I do!” Carswell cried.

Cress rested her head against his arm, smiling up at him. “Captain, you know you’re still better than me at poker. But statistically, I have to win sometimes.”

He pouted. “You’re already a genius. This was one thing I could claim! Now what do I have to offer you?”

“Your love and affection?”

Wolf, Scarlet and Dimitri all stood at once as if sensing the tender moment and wanting to get out before things got gushy. 

“I’ll start on dinner,” she announced. “Wolf, you’re on chopping duty.”

Wolf trailed after her like a loyal puppy. Knowing that following them would lead to another equally romantic and uncomfortable situation, Dimitri rerouted to the hallway, catching the last tendrils of Cress and the Captain’s conversation as he went.

“It’s not just you. The Doctor beat me too! It’s like you’ve both got something against me.”

With a laugh, Cress said, “I guess it must be the family curse.”

———

“Is that all that’s left?” Wolf asked as he began hauling a crate of antidote up the ramp of the ship.

Cress checked her portscreen. “Looks like it. Only eleven crates were assigned to us.”

Scarlet, who was shifting the crates into a neat row, frowned. “That’s a lot less than our normal pickup. Are they running out of antidote?”

Carswell charged onboard, rubbing his hands together. “That’s Cinder’s problem. Let’s bounce, people. We gotta get a move-on if we want to make it to the Cali’s New Year’s fireworks tomorrow.”

Dimitri, scanning over the figures on the antidote allotment order, was not so quick to shrug off this irregularity. It was less stock than normal, and judging by the scheduled deliveries over the next month, they would only just manage to have enough.

He commed his queen that evening.

Cinder sighed over the link. “We’re running out. There’s still so much demand for it on Earth and Luna, and with the synthetic version still only in the developmental stage, our supply is dwindling.”

“Can you not enlist more shells to supply the ingredients for the standard antidote in the meantime?” Dimitri suggested.

“We have. Some of them have agreed, but most of the shells aren’t willing to donate. Most of them are only kids, you know.”

He clucked his tongue. “Then perhaps they are too young to understand what’s at stake.”

Cinder asked him to think over some alternative solutions and to get back to her with a response. Over the next weeks, Dimitri made this his sole topic of study.

They were about to land in Miami when Cress peered into the empty crates with worry. “I hope we’ll have enough left.”

Dimitri was alone with her in the dock, fishing through a new shipment of medical supplies. He looked up. “Enough for today, yes. For our entire planned run? Difficult to say.”

Cress twiddled her thumbs. “I can’t stand the thought of leaving without curing everyone.”

He sighed. “Until we fix the supply issue—”

“What supply issue?”

He blinked. He supposed he hadn’t made the others privy to his research. “Luna is running out of the antidote.”

She leant her back on a crate. “I thought they were manufacturing the synthetic antidote now.”

“It’s still only in the developmental stage. All we have is what was manufactured under Levana’s reign. Cinder has asked me to come up with a strategy to manage the limited supply.”

Cress smiled at him hopefully. “So…what have you got?”

He swallowed, pulling a diagnostic monitor from the box. It was a thin bracelet that could determine oxygen levels, blood pressure and heart rate. He slipped it around his wrist. “Well unfortunately it seems the only way we could manufacture more antidote right now is if we extracted samples from ungifted Lunars.”

Her smile fell. “Oh. Are there not enough volunteers?”

“Virtually none. Most shells are unwilling to donate samples.” 

“Of course. We’ve been test subjects our whole lives. It’s hard to trust that they wouldn’t just lock us away again.” 

He pursed his lips.

She lifted off the crate and sighed. “Well, I’m sure you’ll come up with something.”

As she left the bay, the monitor beeped. He checked the reading. Heart rate 91bpm—higher than normal. He wondered if that was why he felt bizarrely nervous.

———

“Doctor, could I borrow your port? The overseer wants the antidote clearance code and Thorne took my port to comm Scarlet.”

“Of course, Cress,” said Dimitri, unclipping it from his belt and handing it over. Usually their job was to deliver the antidote crates and let the local authorities administer it. But the breakout here was so severe that the victims were waiting by the ship. The line spanned half the block, people coughing, crying, some slumped on the ground in a heap. Carswell had given Wolf and Scarlet the day off to explore Miami, but with the unexpected workload, he was trying to hail them back.

Dimitri took four vials and approached a young sickly boy in the front of the line.

“Hello there. I have something for you.”

He held out the vial to the boy, but when he was too weak to grasp it, Dimitri placed the vial at his lips and coaxed it down. The boy began choking on the liquid. Though Dimitri tried to force him to swallow it, the boy shoved away from him.

“You need to drink all of it, son,” he advised.

The boy shook resistantly, whipping his head away each time Dimitri steered the vial back to him.

After several minutes of struggling, he sighed and discarded the vial. “I can only hope that was sufficient.”

He proceeded down the line over the next hour. Carswell and Cress unpacked the antidote and passed it to him as he went. Scarlet and Wolf reappeared by the end and helped with the final stragglers.

Finally, they boarded their ship, near ready to drop dead into sleep. Dimitri only managed to prop himself up in a chair before he felt his eyelids flutter shut.

“Doctor.”

He peeled his eyes open. Cress was standing in front of him. Her hands were locked around his port.

“Ah, thank you,” he murmured, reaching a hand out to retrieve it.

Her expression was enigmatic but eclipsed with iciness. “What is this?”

She flicked on the screen and showed it to him. Once his eyes adjusted to the glare of the light, he read the title and paused.

“Well?”

“It’s, um”—he coughed—“it’s my findings in the project her Majesty requested me to research.”

“I read it.”

His face darkened. “It wasn’t yours to read.”

“I thought there were no secrets between us,” she said coldly.

She snatched the port back to herself, scrolling up and reading aloud a phrase, “I advise that the only means possible of maintaining a sufficient antidote supply is to legally enforce the retrieval of samples from ungifted Lunars, irrespective of their personal feelings and consent.”

Her voice spoke the words with a greater vitriol than he’d ever heard from her.

“Yes—well—”

“You want to steal their blood? Force them to volunteer?”

Her glare was poison. His lungs twitched.

“Crescent, I understand the ethical ambiguity—”

“Ambiguity? What’s not clear?” She thrust the port towards him. “That was perfectly clear to me. You just want to use us shells as lab rats.”

Dimitri pushed back into the chair. “Crescent. I can appreciate your apprehension. But they are mere children. They do not comprehend the gravity of the matter. Millions could die if we do not obtain enough antidote.”

“They were stolen from their families! Forced into suspension tanks. They had their whole lives stolen from them! And you think they’re being unreasonable?”

His breath hitched. “...Their momentary discomfort is an unfortunate sacrifice to made for the greater good.”

She scoffed, dropping the port in his lap. “Of course you’d see it that way. Taking the Lunar boys and turning them into soldiers. Killing cyborgs so you could find your princess. Did you ever think of their feelings?”

“I have hated every sacrifice I have had to make, but in the long term—”

“What about me?” Her eyes were glassy, her voice frantic. “Should I expect a comm saying I’m being shipped back to Luna next week to be harvested too?”

“No, of course not, you—”

She fisted her hands on her hips. “Oh, I get an exemption because you care about me, unlike the other shells?”

“Cress, I—”

“I told you how I felt about this,” she said, voice quivering. “You say you care about me but you don’t.”

He shot up. “Crescent, you know I care about you.”

She bit her lip, shaking her head slowly. “No. I thought you were better than this. But you’re still the same thief from Farafrah that bought me like I was livestock.”

Before his trembling lips could form a reply, she left.

Dimitri’s heart was tearing out of his ribcage, threatening to burst through his skin. Every sneer, every accusation replayed in his wretched mind on an endless loop. Still, his own indignation eclipsed the feeling.

He hated how he had made his daughter feel. And yet his mind was still not swayed. He hadn’t even had the opportunity to revise his assessment, yet he sent it to Cinder immediately. 

If he had learnt anything in his lifetime, it was that sacrifices had to be made.

Cinder sent back a response mere minutes later. No, I’m not going to force shells to donate their samples against their will. Are you crazy?!

———

It had been tolerable when the Rampion Crew ignored him. Now they avoided him and it was excruciating.

Cress had obviously told them of their argument, and it was clear whose side they were on. Wolf, who never spoke to Dimitri anyway, maintained his silence. Scarlet cast him severe looks. Carswell was the only one still to speak to him, but always curtly. Worse, he seemed disappointed in him.

And then there was Cress. Each time they crossed paths hurt and resentment flashed in her eyes.

It was beginning to dawn on him how gravely he had misstepped. The chasm Carswell had mentioned had split down the middle, torn apart by tectonic plates so deep that any hope of salvaging their relationship was burnt in the fire of Earth’s core.

Cinder imposed upon him the responsibility of finding an acceptable solution to the antidote crisis. His mind was so swarmed with the ramifications of his own crisis that nothing fruitful had been produced.

The ship landed in Des Moines, Iowa between antidote runs. The young ones were going to a shopping mall, intending for a ‘double date’—as they called it. Dimitri had the misfortune of requiring a new processing unit for his genetic testing module, and the only outlet with such supplies nearby was in that very same mall.

He practically melted into the seat of the hover as they pointedly ignored his presence.

Once inside the mall, they split ways. He overheard Scarlet saying something about attempting to find clothes to fit Wolf’s oversized chest and Cress instructing Carswell to go obtain snacks for the cinema.

Dimitri huffed as he followed the trail on his portscreen to the medical supplies outlet. If they were planning to watch a film it would be several hours before they intended to leave. Perhaps he could hail a hover to return him to the Rampion.

The part took no time to secure and purchase. He was already on his way to the entrance when suddenly Cress flew out of a store, her back to him.

He slowed dramatically, unwilling to overtake her and be noticed. She stalled in the middle of the busy walkway as Carswell approached her.

“Ready?” he asked, chewing through a mouthful. He didn’t notice Dimitri either.

“Yep,” she replied excitedly. “Scarlet said they would meet us out front in a few minutes. Whatcha eating?”

“Skittles,” he answered, poking out his multicoloured tongue.

She gasped. “Oh! I’ve always seen those in netdramas! Can I try some?”

He produced the bag from his pocket. She took it and glanced inside. Offence covered her face. “You barely left me any.”

He shrugged insouciantly. “No, I left the right amount.”

“What?”

He smirked. “Well you’re about a third of my size, so proportionately you would therefore be entitled to a third of what I ate.”

Indignation flared on her face. “What on Luna are you talking about?”

He braced his hands. “Hey, calm down, I’m just looking out for you—all that sugar isn’t good for your health, you know.”

Dimitri felt his own rage rise up to his temples. How dare he speak so crudely to Cress? To insult her so crassly? Oh, he’d always known that Carswell boy was a cad. He would break between the two of them and lambast the scoundrel until—

Carswell laughed heartily. “I’m messing with you, babe. Here—” He presented a second bag from his pocket. “This one’s yours.”

Dimitri’s hackles fell, adrenaline suddenly quashed.

Cress gaped at him. Then, regaining her senses, she smacked him on the arm. “Carswell!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he choked. “But you should’ve seen the look on your face.”

She rolled her eyes, but the ire had faded. “Well, you’re not getting any of this.”

“Of course not. It’s yours. Along with these.” He opened a shopping bag that was hanging from his belt, pulling out a bottled drink, a tray of doughnuts and a chocolate bar.

Cress blushed. “I’m not going to eat all of that.”

Carswell flicked her nose, slung an arm around her shoulders and led them forward. Dimitri, cemented in place, heard his fading, “Well maybe I was onto something with those portions, huh?” 

———

The next weeks were the most he’d every worked in his life. He poured every waking moment into his research, to writing and estimating and testing. With each antidote run he spent hours documenting the reactions of each patient, compiling as much data as possible into his arsenal.

Once he deemed it acceptable, he sent his new proposal to Cinder. It was underdeveloped to be sure, but he couldn’t face Cress until he’d done it.

Exhaling a sigh of relief, inhaling a breath of anxiety, he entered the cockpit bay.

She was sitting on a chair by the window, hand cupping her chin as she gazed off into the endless sea of blackness and stars. Hearing him enter, her gaze flickered towards him, and that perpetual hardness returned in full.

“May I speak to you?” he asked softly.

A beat. She nodded.

He approached her cautiously, unable to maintain eye contact. He looked at his feet. “I want to apologise to you.”

She stayed silent.

“Crescent, I know that what I did was incredibly wrong. I destroyed the faith you had in me. In truth, you never should have had that faith to begin with.” Inhale, exhale. “I have never done anything to repent for my sins of the past. I thought I was better now. I fear that I am worse. I’m so truly sorry.”

She folded her hands in her lap, face stricken.

“I do not expect you to forgive me,” he continued, “but I hope I can at least make you believe that I recognise my need to change.”

“I don’t know,” she said finally. “Maybe you’ll change once your law is passed and I get shipped back to Luna to be their blood supplier.

“There’s no law,” he rushed to say, “No shells will be forced to donate. It was wrong of me to ever consider that. I have submitted a different proposal; actually, it was inspired by your boyfriend.”

She quirked an eyebrow.

Over the past weeks, Dimitri had begun experimenting with apportioning the antidote to victims based on their age, height, gender and weight. His test groups proved that children and teenagers needed less of the antidote than adults to make a full recovery; women needed less than men; those who weighed more and were taller needed the full dose. Once he had enough evidence, he readjusted the metrics for each group and applied this to the number of remaining antidote vials. Instantly, their supply would last three months longer than initially projected.

Cress watched him carefully as he explained this. Eventually, she said, “That makes sense.”

He clutched his hands together behind his back. “I know it cannot make amends for what I did to you—”

“It’s a start,” she interrupted, sounding genuine.

Exhale. “I know I have acted wrongly my whole life. Truthfully Cress, I don’t quite understand the parameters of right and wrong. But—if you’re willing to again accept my company—would you please teach me?”

Her eyes returned to the window. Earth was edging into the corner of the glass, filling up the room with its swimming blue brightness.

“Okay. But you have to promise me something.”

A former Dimitri—the doctor, the mentor, the wise man—would have hesitated, but he was now a student. He would be teachable.

“Anything.”

Glimmers of a smile, the first directed to him in so long, crept up to her lips. “Promise to stop viewing me as the baby you lost sixteen years ago, and start viewing me as a person.”

Inhale. “I will.”

———

It took time for their interactions to evolve from nonexistent to tense, from manageable to cordial. The more and more Dimitri learnt about Cress, the more he mourned not knowing. He mourned not having the opportunity to raise her, to hold her hand as she walked for the first time, to drop her off and pick her up from school every day. But Cress had made him promise not to dwell on that. So for the first time, he took her in as the person she’d become.

Without his or anybody’s help, Crescent had raised herself to be a remarkable young woman.

Every new thing he learnt about her was greater than any scientific discovery he could have made. She was a genius, which was no surprise given her pedigree. But she had taught herself everything. To read. To write. To hack. She was an optimist and a daydreamer. She was a loyal friend. She had her share of weaknesses too, but they were only those common to mankind.

When he stumbled upon her in the galley, he learnt that she could sing.

No, not sing. Her voice soared, sweet as honeysuckle and clear as a trickling fountain. His little songbird.

She was standing by the bench, assembling a sandwich—to her an ordinarily mundane task. To him, it was a moment of reverence.

The words slipped out unprompted. “Your voice is beautiful.” 

Cress peered over her shoulder, and for once, she didn’t seem startled to see him. “Thank you.” And then, after a pause, “Did I get that from you?”

He barked out a laugh. “Certainly not.” Then his memory stirred. “But my sister had a voice like yours. She’s still alive. She has children—your cousins—and some of them have children around your age. I could…I could take you to meet them all one day if you’d like.”

Her smile was beatific.

Being a student of Cress was more challenging than all his years of medical school. Stripping back years of his own thinking and reasoning on matters was more than difficult—near impossible. He resented the thought he harboured deep inside that he could never change. But even worse was the niggling sentiment lurking in his chest, asserting that he was older, wiser and shouldn’t listen to a mere child.

With the unofficial ban on associating with him lifted, the crew tentatively reintroduced him to their activities. He regained trust to the point that when he assured them that he could handle a small antidote delivery on his own, they believed him and jetted off in the podships to the mountains for the weekend. 

The outbreak in Seattle was the worst he’d ever seen. Where in most places the line of victims was able to stand, these victims were all sprawled on the floor, shivering and drooling, with more blisters than actual skin.

“Why haven’t they been brought the antidote sooner?” Dimitri asked the overseer, aghast.

“We had been promised the leftovers from the outbreak in Tacoma. Then they had a surprise wave and used up all their supply. That’s when we called on you.”

Dimitri administered the antidote to as many people as he could, the rest distributed by the Seattle team. It was gratifying to see the light returning in the eyes of the victims. It was not enough to shake the sense of failure when two men—one in his thirties, one elderly—didn’t make it.

With a grim nod to the overseer, he stepped into a hover and programmed the address of the Rampion to the guiding system.

He checked his portscreen. Cress had sent him a photo of the four of them overlooking a sheer cliff.  They were all smiling, sweaty with exertion.

Half an hour into his trip, his port pinged with a comm from the Seattle overseer.

We’ve had 40 more Letumosis victims brought to the quarantines. Can you come back with additional antidote?

Dimitri reread the comm at least five times.

He was due in Portland in only a few hours time for a large delivery. The number of victims there was reported to have risen exponentially in only the last two days alone. But that was only this morning’s estimate. He had approximately 300 vials of antidote left. The victims there had been sicker for longer than these forty new cases. There wasn’t enough time for both.

His initial reply halted on his fingertips as the image of the light leaving the eyes of those two, withered men flashed across his vision.

Dimitri set up a voice comm to Cress. It bounced back. This portscreen is currently out of range.

He didn’t know how to trust his judgement anymore. But right now, he had no one else but himself.

He commanded the hover to stop. He thought and thought and thought for a good fifteen minutes. Then he sent his comm and directed the hover to his destination.

———

He met the others back at the ship. They returned glowing red and panting but exhilarated.

“It was amazing,” Scarlet sighed. “I wish we could’ve stayed for longer.”

“Not when we got a delivery in an hour,” Carswell said with an affected responsibility in his voice. “Unless we teach the doctor to fly and get him to do all the runs for us.”

Wolf was the only one who seemed impervious to the exhaustion of the hike. He read Dimitri’s face with concern. “What’s wrong?”

Cress, flanking Carswell and sipping from a water bottle, glanced at him curiously.

Dimitri rubbed his brow. “After I left Seattle, they commed saying additional victims had arrived and needed the antidote. I did not believe that we would have enough for them as well as for our upcoming delivery.”

“What did you do?” Cress asked quietly.

Dimitri took a seat, shrinking down. Voicing aloud his decision was nearly as hard as it had been to make it. “I…I knew we would need the antidote for Portland. We already have limited supply and we have no idea what state they’re in. So I—I rejected their request.”

“So what?” Scarlet accused, “You’re going to leave them until we get more antidote in a month’s time and those people are already dead?”

“I sent another supplier a comm requesting assistance. They promised to travel there by Monday.”

Scarlet softened. “Oh.”

“I can only hope the supplies make it there soon. They already had two people die this morning.”

Carswell shook his head, frustrated with himself. “We should’ve stayed and helped you.”

“No,” he dismissed, “there was already no hope for them.”

The silence in the bay was dense and heavy on his shoulders. The corpses still felt fresh on his fingertips. “I know it may not have been right. I tried to contact you, but I couldn’t. I had to make a decision.”

The others nodded assent and soon all were preparing for takeoff, the happy morning coloured sombre. Dimitri felt responsible for it.

And then as the ship was rising shakily into the air he felt a hand on his shoulder. Glancing back, he saw Cress standing behind him.

“I’m sorry,” he said. She was here to tell him what she would have done in this scenario, he guessed. Flashes of their previous argument clung to him; her anger, her disappointment. To have disappointed her again was a blow worse than insanity. 

But instead, she spoke, voice even and clear, “No. You made the right decision.”

———

Cinder commed him occasionally, asking him for advice and updating him on the gradual improvements to Luna. One day, she sent him a different comm.

He had a new assignment—to study the wolfen soldiers he himself had created and see if he could reverse the transformation.

It was optimistic at best, completely impossible in all probability. But he knew that he must dedicate the rest of his life to atoning for this sin.

It also meant that his tenure on the Rampion would soon expire. Being separated from Cress was a bitter taste on his tongue. So he prolonged his stay, asking Mr Kesley if he would be a temporary participant in his research. Wolf was initially hesitant but—eager to be fully human again—he agreed.

Months of research and experiments proved fruitless. Dimitri kept trying.

He pulled out his port again, thumbing it adamantly as the screen flickered and protested. He harrumphed. Setting it down on the table, he took a moment to stretch out his complaining limbs with a groan. It was late in the afternoon, though time was tricky when a glance out the window illuminated the perpetual blackness of space.

“Are you okay?”

Cress hovered by the doorway, her hands tucked behind her back.

“I’m all right,” Dimitri replied. “Just old.”

His port chimed. He picked it up, hoping for success, but it was merely a ping for a software update. He grumbled under his breath.

“Something wrong with your port?”

“I’m trying to transfer some of my notes from old files on Luna to my current files. I believe there’s a compatibility issue, given the original files are at least thirteen years old.”

Cress tossed from one foot to another. “I could help you, if you’d like.”

“Please.”

Cress came over and hooked up her port to his, running through the analytics as the system diagnosed the problem. When the file name Human-Lupine Mutation Trial #11 appeared on her screen, she hesitated.

“Do you really think you can fix them?”

Dimitri gazed at his feet. “I don’t know. But I will keep trying. I did this to them. I must try to undo it.”

She was silent for a beat, then in a low voice: “I’m glad you’re trying.”

Her port pinged as it completed its diagnosis and she got to work. It was amazing watching her fingers work, only just able to keep up with her mind. Her face was brilliantly scrunched in concentration.

“Okay,” she chirped, detaching the plug. “It will take a while for the files to load onto your port, but now at least they will won’t fry your RAM.

He took the port as she offered it back, eyes widening as he saw the notification on the screen. Override disabled from user: Crescent Darnel.

“Darnel?” he voiced softly.

She tucked hair behind her ear. “Yeah, I, uh, updated my records. I never knew my last name. I quite like it, actually.”

“Crescent Moon Darnel.”

Cress smiled. “Crescent Moon Darnel,” she repeated.

She looked at her own port, frowned, and showed it to him. Red text on the screen read: Connection disabled from user: Sage Darnel.

“Why don’t you use your name?”

“Pardon?”

“Well, we all just call you Doctor. But Cinder calls you Dr. Erland. That was your fake name, wasn’t it?” She listed her head. “Wouldn’t you prefer to be called…Sage?”

He took off his glasses and rubbed them on the end of his shirt. “Wouldn’t your wolfen friend prefer to be called Ze’ev rather than Wolf?”

She chewed her lip.

He switched off his port. “To be honest, Cress, I don’t think I am Sage Darnel anymore. Or Dimitri Erland. I am somewhat of an amalgamation.”

Cress thought this over. “Can I call you Sage?”

“If you want to.”

Her eyes twinkled. “I do. After all, we should share a last name, right?”

Sage felt a flicker in his chest, growing warmer by the second. “Yes, yes we should.”

———

Sage ambled down the Rampion’s hallway, idly browsing through the data on his portscreen. The report came from the Health Board of Minnesota—where they had delivered the antidote last month. The distribution of the antidote had put a significant dent in the fatality rate, but the disease was still spreading prolifically. We would greatly appreciate your expert opinion, wrote the chairperson. 

The options were limited. A statewide lockdown—the logical solution, but an economic reluctance. Or to immunise the greater population—presently infeasible with the limited supply. It would be months more before such a solution could be implemented, and the question remained: could they justify the continued loss of life?

New York had already completed a lockdown period, whereas Virginia had trialled immunisation in a small pocket of the state. Sage would have to compare the data before drafting his response. He headed to the cockpit bay. As they had been in transit between Earth and Luna, the connection had been too tenuous to send directly to his port. He would have to connect his port to the Rampion's mainframe to establish the link.

The ship was quiet. Mr Kesley and Miss Benoit were watching a net drama and last he’d heard, his daughter and the captain were doing a stocktake of the shipping containers. Sage found the door to the cockpit already open and the lights off. He crossed the threshold, switching his port off and glancing up.

His feet solidified beneath him. Carswell was in the pilot’s seat with Cress tucked into his lap, his arms around her waist as the two engaged in a languid kiss. Sage held his breath, very aware that he should leave immediately and in a way that he would not be detected. The couple seemed sufficiently distracted. 

Sage stepped back. They continued to kiss. Another step. His shoe squeaked against the floor.

The couple tore apart from each other, gaping at the figure at the door.

“Uh, sorry there kids.”

Cress sprung away from Carswell. “Dad!” she shrieked. “Uh—Sage! I—we…”

Cress was positively red. Carswell was blushing a little too, but he mostly just looked amused.

Sage nodded at them and backtracked further. “I'll leave you be.”

He hastened down the hallway, allowing a cringe to cover his face. Cress’s embarrassed groans followed him, along with Carswell’s booming laughter. 

Sage couldn’t help a smile. Not at the antics of the young couple—he had only just begun to tolerate his daughter’s relationship with the ex-convict, and interrupting them mid-makeout was really testing that boundary.

He didn’t care about that. Let his daughter be giddy and romantic all she wanted. He cared more about what she had called him unintentionally, a slip of her inner thoughts.

Dad.

———

Sage returned to Luna after eight months onboard. Part of him was devastated at the thought of again being separated from his little girl, but he knew that she needed to grow on her own. On her own—with her boyfriend.

Scarlet and Wolf had already returned to their farm last week. Sage needed to return to Luna to support his queen and fulfil his assignment.

His return to Luna was also planned as an opportunity for an antidote restock, so his farewell was not overstated. They hauled the shipments onboard, shared laughs and lunch with Her Majesty, and then filed into the docking bay. 

Cinder released Cress from a hug. “Are you sure you can’t stay longer?”

Cress squeezed her hands. “I wish. The captain is a hard taskmaster.”

Carswell nodded proudly. “Yep. This shipment is due in 16 hours. No time for dilly-dallying.”

Cinder rolled her eyes and pulled him into a hug. “When did you get so responsible?”

“Cress keeps me in line.”

The three turned to Sage. Carswell approached him first. “All the best, doctor.”

Sage extended his hand. “Captain.”

They shook firmly. Sage buried his desire to warn Carswell about his conduct around Crescent. Carswell would treat her well. Sage trusted him in that.

When Carswell stepped back to Cress’s side, she tapped his arm and leaned up on her toes. He craned his neck towards her. Sage read “Give me a minute with him,” on her lips.

Carswell gave him a final nod, Cinder a wink and a playful jab to the side and sauntered up the Rampion’s dock, whistling as he went. 

Cress said nothing, eyes darting down at her feet. In his peripheral vision he saw Cinder discreetly stepping away.

Sage cleared his throat. “Take care, Cress. Stay safe.”

“You too.” She stepped forward. “Will you visit us? When we come back to pick up the antidote?”

He smiled. “Of course. I already look forward to it. I will…I will miss you greatly.”

It was the kind of statement Sage had avoided making, never wanting to pressure her or set a sense of obligation. But Cress nodded.

“I—I’ll miss you too.” She finally looked up at him, something of shame in her eyes.

“I wanted to apologise before we go. For being…hesitant. For treating you like a stranger instead of…instead of my father.”

Sage shook his head quickly. “No, Crescent, you didn’t know me. I can’t ever fault you for being distant. If anything, it’s my fault.” He shuddered. “I should have fought Sybil. I should have escaped to Earth with you the moment I discovered you were a shell.”

“I don’t think it would be that easy,” she replied, and he sighed, knowing she was right.

“But please, Cress, you are my daughter. I love you. But I will never, ever expect you to reciprocate that. All I ask”—his breath hitched—“is that we could be friends.”

Cress sniffled, eyes glistening. Suddenly she threw her arms around him, causing him to stumble off balance. “We are friends,” she whispered. “And I would like to be your daughter one day. I’d like you to be my dad one day.”

Tears sprung to his eyes. He chuckled shakily. “Thank you, my girl. Thank you.”

They separated with shared feelings and matching smiles. Because she had inherited it from him, he realised. 

Carswell slung an arm around her shoulders when she reached him on the ramp. They waved until the hatch folded up.

Cinder came up behind Sage and rested her metal hand on his shoulder. “I’m happy for you, Doctor. And I’m happy Cress has you.”

“I am too, Miss Linh.”

The Rampion roared to life and stumbled out of the dock under the Captain’s unsteady hand. Sage’s heart clenched, already aching to be away from Cress. They watched until the Rampion was no more than a distant star in the infinite black sky and the aching was supplanted with relief.

His songbird had been freed and no one could ever trap her again.

Notes

Was anyone asking for a Dr Erland fic? Not a soul. But a writer cannot deny the howls of a tale unsung.

@cindersassasin @hayleblackburn @spherical-empirical @salt-warrior @just2bubbly @gingerale2017 @slmkaider @luna-maximoff-22 @kaixiety @snozkat @mirrorballsss @skinwitch18 @bakergirl13 @wassupnye @linh-cindy @therealkaidertrash21

[xenosagaepisodeone]

supersize me is incredible in how potently hateful it is. it's as if the pop culture wasteland of the 2000s suffocated spurlock's brain to the point where whatever synapses that hadn't shriveled up were only left capable of firing off the same demand to keep punching down at all costs that every halfwit with access to cable news and a desire to 'tell it how it is' seemed to have been afflicted with. everyone knows the methodology in this doc is bunk, but what's missing from the conversation is how this film is another artifact of antagonizing incurious dipshit libertarian smarming about how the sheepish masses cannot just simply get with the program and be better. "americans are fat fat fat fat so fucking fat and they love it so much that they'll let their kids eat the same slop that they serve in prison" "wait, back up. the same apparatus that provides elementary school lunches also supplies prison food? and you're saying the cost of healthier food isn't all that much more? is there anything here worth looking into further?" "no. but have this clip of this random guy talking about how we should heckle fat people like how we heckle smokers". what made this film notable for its time was how it was less focused on how being fat makes you look (which isn't to say that isn't still a huge component of it. because it is. and spurlock has endless shots of strangers with their faces blurred out to emphasize this), but the alleged deterioration of lifestyle, values and vitality that comes with the depletion of one's physical health. that is to say, the film is arguing that failing to live a regimented lifestyle causes one to fall into a state of moral decay. this is the buried lede, because ultimately this film is actually-actually about an alcoholic externalizing the complex he has towards his own lack of self control onto fat people.

it is no wonder why elementary school health teachers in the aughts were quick to deploy it in classrooms at the same rate they did photos of STIs in place of actual sex ed. the imagery of this greasy motherfucker throwing up in his car is meant to serve the same purpose in telling kids that this is what happens when they can't control themselves. when a corporation is blamed for something, it's only inasmuch as it enables people to be dumb and fat. spurlock points out how mcdonald's predatory advertising normalizes it's products in places it should not be (hospitals in particular), which you think would warrant further discussion- but in line with pushing responsibility onto the role of the individual, this is framed as merely mcdonalds tricking customers instead of actively encroaching on their way of life via invading media and legislature. no, the real villains are cafeteria lunch ladies, who are not instilling discipline in your children unlike National Weight Loss Hero Jared Fogle, who educates children around the world. one can only imagine that spurlock's libertarian values compel him to feel a sense of kinship.

the funniest part of this film was the one doctor who seemed to know that he was bullshitting about not having any drinking habits but doesn't want to be up front about confronting him. at first he comments on how how spurlock's liver resembles one belonging to someone engaged in long term alcohol abuse, and then later in the film he gives some generic lip service in response to spurlock's report like 'well, i wouldn't think that fast food and liver health are connected, but your report seems to indicate otherwise' before cutting straight to "whatever you're doing, stop pickling your liver". also at another point spurlock goes "lunch time" and there's a hard cut to some fat mcdonalds employees and he's trying so hard to evoke disgust with all of these shots but my response to these baddies is just "zamn looks like they got dinner and dessert too 🥵🥵💦💦💦💦💦💦💦"

but anyway

[snows-2am-thoughts]

PM and ADA deal Theory

Hey guys, friendly reminder that Mori is likely still gonna ask for someone from the ADA to join the PM. It honestly hurts my soul to think that the ADA will lose someone this soon after all the shit in this arc went down but Mori isn’t one to care about that kind of stuff. 

SEASON FIVE SPOILERS

This is about 1.7k words so be warned

I know a lot of people are sold on the theory that it’ll probably be Tanizaki since Asagiri is big on foreshadowing and Tanizaki does have a homicidal side but I don’t think he’d let himself be put in a position to where his sister might be in danger or get a target on her back. He’d probably run away or kill the people in question before that happened. Not to mention since his run in with Akutagawa and the black lizard that he sort of hates most if not all of the mafia members. He was so ready to go to war with the PM to defend the agency and someone like this would be super hard to control, deal with the ADA or not.

Mori isn’t stupid, in fact he’s very calculating and very cunning and who are his biggest obsessions? He’s always so focused on Dazai and Yosano but both of these are off limits in his eyes. Yosano is off limits because of the terms of the deal with Fukuzawa and Dazai is off because Mori wants him to come back on his own. Now we have Kyouka, Atsushi, Kenji, Ranpo  and Kunikida left to choose from. 

Kunikida is off the table I think because he’s a child bombing away from just completely breaking. There is a part of me that believes Mori could pick Kunikida solely to break him and watch Fukuzawa and Dazai suffer but Mori is also the type of boss that doesn’t want to waste powerful allies if he doesn’t need to. I mean, he’s literally letting Tachihara choose his loyalties, he’ll probably still get punished severely but Mori isn’t one to just waste men unless it’s for good reason or worth the risks. Also Kunikida is Fukuzawa’s successor and something tells me that Mori doesn’t wanna deal with the strict moral types. 

Ranpo is definitely off the table. Fukuzawa would go batshit if Mori picked him. He just lost his childhood best friend. Do you think he’s gonna let Mori take his son next? No he will not. Also Ranpo would blatantly refuse to work with him. He’s smart enough to survive but Ranpo is disinterested in most things and Fukuzawa is really the only one who can make him do something. I don’t think Mori would want to deal with that either. 

Now we have Atsushi, Kenji and Kyouka. Mori usually chooses children to take under his wing because they’re easy to manipulate and easy to mold into his ideal subordinates. However Kyouka was already in the mafia once and Kouyou even used up her slight favor with Mori to let her leave the mafia with no consequences. I don’t think he’d want to deal with the hassle of internal conflict since Kouyou would be pissed if he took Kyouka away from the light that she enjoys so much. However much Kouyou wants to deny that she can’t help Kyouka anymore, she’s only human and she’s very much attached to the Kyouka who shares a similar past and ability. 

Kenji’s situation is kind of hard to determine. As stated, Mori does prefer to mold and manipulate children rather than adults but Kenji is kind of an oddity among humans. Not because of his ability but because of his personality. He’s very much a “you fuck around and find out” type of guy is willing to believe the best in people despite what they may do or have done. I don’t see many reasons why Mori wouldn’t choose him other than there are better options than Kenji. Sure Kenji is super powerful with a very useful gift but there are other members that would fit his goals better. 

Now Atsushi, he’s the biggest contender for the mafia recruit in my mind for a few reasons. Now we saw in the series that there were gonna be three main villains (The Guild, the Decay of Angels and the Order of the Clock Tower) and now we have finished out with two of them. This means that we’re possibly getting into the last major arc or two of the main plot of the story and there are still so many unanswered questions about Atsushi. 

Atsushi was deemed the envy of all ability users by Fyodor which was why Shibusawa originally held an interest in him. My question is why Fyodor was interested enough in Atsushi to know of him and what is their connection that Fyodor was even able to know of him. Fyodor is a genius but the orphanage headmaster said that he was a randomly dumped toddler and he lived most of his life in a cage in the orphanage. This in itself is fishy but I’ll get to that in a second. Moreover, Atsushi’s ability seems like it just resists almost all other abilities with the ability to cut through space itself and high regeneration abilities that causes most wounds to go away instantly when he’s in his full tiger form, most other abilities don’t affect him when he’s fully a tiger. 

Who is called the most powerful ability user? Natsume is, and he is able to turn into a cat. Seeing the pattern here? When did the headmaster die? When he was trying to find Atsushi and talk to him again. It’s very suspicious timing and I wholeheartedly believe that he was silenced by someone who didn’t want Atsushi knowing something important about himself. And then we have the seven billion bounty that was put on his head because of his ability. I don’t think that it’s a coincidence that Fitzgerald, who wanted to find The Book, wanted the tiger so badly that he was willing to spend that much. 

Asagiri is a beast at foreshadowing and he doesn’t do anything for kicks, all of his moves are deliberate. There is something about Atsushi that we’re missing and I’m willing to bet that Mori, who was going to accept the bounty, wants to know what it is as much as we do. Atsushi’s strange ability, the holes in his past from before the orphanage, Fyodor and Shibusawa’s interest in him, his correlation to Natsume, his probable connections to locating the book and the fact that Dazai was coincidentally there to save him when he came to Yokohama? Yeah, there’s definitely something up with Atsushi and the poor kid doesn’t even realize it. 

So yes, I do think that Mori either a) wants to figure out Atsushi’s situation in relation to everything or b) he knows something and wants to exploit it out of him. My second point is that Mori wants to break Dazai down and build him up as the perfect PM boss. Mori is someone who manipulates and breaks from the sidelines then watches conflict and in the aftermath, glues the pieces of what once was back together in a collage of his own liking. He knows he can’t beat Dazai but he can make him suffer. Who is Dazai the closest to at the agency? Atsushi. 

Dazai always says, “Atsushi and the others” while making sure Atsushi makes it out alive in any situation that he is in. Dazai has a big soft spot for Atsushi, the kid he took in as a mentor and the kid who wholeheartedly believes without any hesitation that he is a good person. He brought his own chair and made a home in Dazai’s heart without his permission. Atsushi knows he was in the PM, knows he’s the reason for a lot of Akutagwa’s issues, knows about some of the atrocities he’s committed but still smiles genuinely at him. Of course he doesn’t know everything but Atsushi is probably Dazai’s biggest apologist (It’s not Akutagawa but that's for a different post). Atsushi is the personification of Oda’s last wish to Dazai and Mori definitely knows that he can hurt Dazai by hurting his beloved mentee.

Mori is also very aware of the new generation of soukoku. If he’s able to wrangle and manage Akutagawa (he’s alive shut up) a little more because Atsushi is his partner then all the more reason to choose him. Atsushi covers all the bases, a mysterious power that could make his organization that much more untouchable, mess with Dazai, mess with the agency and manage his own employees better. It doesn’t help that Atsushi’s mental state isn’t the best. He’s not a kid but he’s traumatized and doesn’t have the same development other 18 year olds do, and that can be just as easily to manipulate as a child. It would be difficult because Atsushi genuinely believes in Dazai with everything he is but every person is able to break and Mori is especially good at that. 

I know that Fukuzawa’s ability is the reason we don’t see any more late night weretiger situations but Atsushi has so much more control now than when he did at the beginning of the series. It’s also very much possible that Mori is looking for a degree of uncontrollable tiger to help him with his goals. It’s also been confirmed that pain can manage his transformations as seen with his collar in BSD BEAST. 

It also doesn’t help that Asagiri tends to go through the trauma route to have his characters develop and experiencing the “darkside” of Yokohama just may be what he thinks Atsushi needs to develop more. 

So yeah, I think Mori may choose Atsushi as the new PM member but don’t quote me on this if I’m wrong, it’ll be embarrassing. They also may just throw this plotline out the window since both sides suffered this past arc, they may find it illogical to go through with the deal when the truce between the PM and ADA is still sensitive but I doubt it. Mori isn’t one to care for those things.