#THERES SO MUCH MEN ON MY CANVAS

[nemofil]

man the 5 am ms paint sesh was wild also hello phighters

the reason for the numbers sometimes is because i used a wheel of names to determine who i'll draw next lmf

shoutouts to slingshot and hyperlaser for dodging all my fucking pulls <3

[baeleigh]

This has bugged me for a while but before i get into it i want to say up front that all kinds of representation for all kinds of people is incredibly important, this is just my opinion through my lense of my personal experience being trans and consuming trans content. I hope that would be common sense but i know if i dont write this someones going to get pissy with me for god knows what.

With that out of the way,

I have been trying to hunt out and consume as much trans media as i can (at least in genres and forms that i tend to enjoy reading/viewing) and one thing i see to an insane degree is trans women being portreyed with predominantly masculine features or even being played by cis men in drag. On one hand i think "hey ill take what i can get" but on the other i think thats a fucking low bar. Now i know that there is a significant portion of trans women with fairly masculine features, and i cannot stress this enough that there is nothing wrong with that, everyone is different, everyone transitions diferently and the end goals for everyone varies wildly.

My issue is that while i love that there is more trans rep in general the fact that most characters ive seen are portreyed in a very masculine way (especially if a character is explicitly stated as being on hrt/medically transitioning for years) it sometimes rough to consume as someone who places a lot of importance on myself passing. When most forms of representation portray who you are as the physical flaws that have tormented you for 20+ years it hurts. I dont want there to be less of these portrayals at all, i just want more rep closer to my experience.

While comics and art i push past because i want to enjoy the stories included, i cant say the same about movies. It irks me how almost anytime i hear about a movie with a predominant/main trans fem character its played by a cis male actor; i get they can do it well, ive heared people complement some performances greatly, but i mean... could they not hire a trans actress? I know theyre around ive seen them on screen, hire them. The disinterest i feel when i see that a famous cis male actor is portraying a trans woman is palpable. Hire more trans actors.

Now im sure theyre are plenty of examples of what im looking for, god i hope so. Hopefully ive just been unlucky in my search.

I would like to add that one of my fave examples of rep i feel resonates with me and the one that came to my head first is Olive from "My Dragon Girlfriend" by Fawndoo on webtoons, i freaking love her. Plz show it some love ❤️

https://www.webtoons.com/en/canvas/my-dragon-girlfriend/list?title_no=162918

Im aware that my post talks pretty much exclusively about trans fem rep and theres a reason for that: i am a trans woman and a massive dyke who prodiminanly devours lesbian romance fiction so honesly i have no leg to stand on as i have little to no idea what the rep is for trans men & enbys.

Anyway thats my personal experience with trans media. goodnight, sleep tight

[class-1b-bull]

class B with a friend/SO who loves to draw and paint? and is really creative

anajabaisbsjsbsh

thank you 🙏

lord and saviour provider of 1B content

have a nice day :)

Thank you so much! Have a great day! <3

Also I leaned more towards the SO side on some of these but it could still be either or!

Not proofread we die like men.

Awase -

He LOVES watching your creative process when drawing and painting. If you start to pull out your sketch book or whatever he will try to look over your shoulder. Loves drawing little smiley faces in the corners of your art.

Sen -

His entire social media page is pictures of you, random ass scenery and your art work. Every time you finish a piece hes practically running to go take a picture of it. Hes so proud and it shows.

Kamakiri -

Honestly didnt care for the art at first until one day you doddled him or his favorite bug or something on a random piece of paper you found and now he adores your art. He doesent show it but he goes over the moon when you ask him what to draw

Kuroiro -

Hes really edgy about it. Everytime he sees you painting hes just like. "The jet black on the tip of your brush is represents my darkness tainting you, who is the pure white canvas..." or smthn and your just like "actually the background is just black on this one..." please let him be poetic.

Kendo -

Loves seeing the finished product but she loves it more if you show her the ugly stage first so she can see how much changed! She just loves watching your process and how each piece changes over time

Kodai -

She has a few pictures youve drawn hanging in her room but other than that shes not very interested in the actual process. She does like going shopping for supplies with you tho.

Komori -

The two of you make 3d art pieces together. You paint a painting and she grows mushrooms on the sides of it or on the canvas itself to make it look like pop up art <3

Shiozaki -

"$100 to paint jesus" she loves your art! If you ask her for suggestions theyre all gonna be either religion related or scenery because thats just what she likes the most. Shes also one of your biggest supporters!

Shishida -

He loves your art and he makes sure your at your best when painting! Thirsty? He'll make some tea or get you a glass of water. Hungry? Hes already making a sandwich. If youre about to accidentally drink your paint water he will point it out to you before you can.

Shoda -

Hes not one for art but he likes to help any way he can! If you ran out of a specific color he will go right to the store for you. Hes also getting your favorite drink while hes there just so you dont get thirsty!

Pony -

Theres two wolfs inside of her. One is saying to keep all of your amazing art forever. And the other says to watch people bid for it on e bay (with your permission) and sell it to the highest bid. No matter what she is always supportive of your art!

Tsubaraba -

Hes known to be a bit of a perv so if you do nsfw commissions, his wallet will always be empty.. even if you dont though he adores your art! There is no more room in his room for your works.

Tetsutetsu -

Has probably accidentally messed up some setting paint on a canvas and then grabbed a brush to try and fix it.... only making it worse. Poor dude almost cried when you caught him ngl. His life savings is going towards art supplies as an apology!

Tokage -

You two tag team every painting. Youre coming up with ideas while shes looking for good references. You say youll need some pink in a minute and shes already mixing it. Need paintwater cleaned or a pencil sharpened? Shes already doing it.

Manga -

You know that art challenge where you and a friend switch paintings every 10 minutes until your done painting, he LOVES doing those. He also just enjoys both of you silently drawing in the same room as eachother. The class fridge is full of you twos drawings.

Honenuki -

Anything that has your drawings on it he loves! Once you gave him a sticky note with a quick 15 minute drawing on it and he carries it with him EVERYWHERE! One of the pockets of his hero costume is that sticky notes dedicated pocket! After each drawing he will message your hand to stop any injurys from forming <3

Bondo -

Like Shishida, he just makes sure youre taking care of yourself while drawing or painting. What good is an amazing artist if your sick and cant draw.

Monoma -

"I could totally do that.." then you hand him the brush and suddenly he shuts up. Will talk shit about how easy art would be for him if he tried but he would fight anyone else that said it.

Reiko -

She coaxed you into drawing a creepy ghost once and she used her quirk to make it float and chase people around the dorms in the middle of the night. She now keeps that same painting on her wall <3

Rin -

I really like the idea of using his scales for textures idk why. Like imagine you just drag him away from whatever hes doing, you ask him to cover his arm in scales and you just start painting him yellow. He loves helping tho and if you ran out of room to store things in your room his dorm is always open!

When I was writing this I got a random flash back to me selling nsfw drawings to highschool students when I was in 5th grade. I dont remember what I charged but I ended up with about 2k by the end of the school year. :>

[musubiki]

m34th lore/infodump

the lesser know subtheme in tcwg is the struggle between machinery and magic and how they attempt to outmatch each other. because in the beginning, the people would use magic for their everyday needs and as a consequence technological advances werent really needed. no need for advanced medicine tech when you can go to a witch to get healed. no need for cell phones or flying machines when a witch can muster up spell for that. but after the fall of magic and witches, thats when technology took hold again because magic was no longer wanted

so throughout the story, i think i like to see the world of tcwg as being more advanced than ours right now, and theres a lot of subtle jabs at ``hey lets use the ferox 2365 to do this task`` and mochi, with a sour face goes ``we dont need that cheap junk, i have magic``

but its most noteable prescence is in the use of the m34th regiment who has arguably the most advanced technology in the lands (that the general public doesnt have access to), and said machinery is on-par with magic enough that it can be used to fight and combat witches. ie think a man-made sheild that is strong enough to withstand a magic blast. so machinery offense combined with the black canvas defense makes the m34th a reasonable if not major threat to witches because they are very hard to fight.

the idea of the m34th is they were made as a somewhat secret division of the royal military with the sole purpose of witch containment and extermination. its not officially listed in any of the government records, so in the eyes of the rest of the world, it falls somewhere between the men in black and the CIA, a mix of ``im not sure they even exist`` / ``no they exist they came to my uncles door one night`` / ``even if they were real we have no idea what they do or what authority they have``

depending on the nature of the witch as well as the nature of their orders, they either go out and kill witches or they are used for other jobs concerning magic. at one point in the story, the m34th shows up on mochis doorstep not to fight her but to bring her to the king to help find his son. that being said, while witches think theyre doing such a good job hiding themselves from the world, all that work for whatever reason does nothing to stop the m34th from knowing their locations at all times. 

when they were first created, the practice of witch hunting was very dedicated and they spent a lot of time actually hunting and killing witches, but over the years they realized that any time they would kill a witch, they werent able to kill the magic itself, and the familiar would just go to another girl and create a new witch. so eventually resources were redistributed and it was decided to not waste as much time hunting witches for no gain, but to keep tabs on them and only exterminate those who pose a heavy threat to the central kingdom (and of course, the definition of “heavy threat” is subject to whatever the central kingdom decides)

all in all, they arn’t as big a threat as they used to be when they were first created, but under the right circumstances they are horrifying and a nightmare to deal with

(another note to make is that while their main focus is witches, they also hunt and keep other magic creatures in check, most noteworthy the coattails who run amok with no central leadership and also no moral code. so - witches: magic / coattails: psuedo-magic / m34th: technology - and the 3 groups are stuck in a 3-way struggle constantly )

[sanders-sides-feverdream]

Headcannons for musical artists that the sides listen to and reasonings cause yes

Roman:

-MARINA, it just makes sense, yk?

-soccer mommy, idk if you've heard royal screw up by them but god it fits

-Livingston, theres a song about growing up on Pixar and not knowing how to be an adult man idk

-AJR, 7 words, Humpty Dumpty and Aventure is Out There

-Anything from the movie Tick, Tick...Boom!, i dont need an explanation for this

-Ethan Jewell, uhhhhh ✨mental illness✨

Virgil:

-Rainbow Kitten Surprise, im sorry, every single song ive heard fron them reminds me of virgil

-MOTHICA, mental illness + rock/punk esque, her music is fuckin perfect

-Say Anything, idk ab you, but its emo and that shit makes so much sense for him

-Bayside, good emo and also a lot of their songs fit him lol

-The Spill Canvas, many good songs and also a lot that realte to him imo

-Forgive Durden aka Razia's Shadow: the Musical, The Exit is literally just him

Logan:

-The Crane Wives, look me in the eyes and tell me that Never Love an Anchor doesnt describe him

-Gregory and the Hawk, man have you heard Isabelle and In Fact? there's no what it isnt Logan

-Coldplay, vibes

-Sleeping At Last, with so mant songs about space, i couldn't not put them on here

-Mother Mother, here me out, there are so many songs that fit Logan (Infinitesimal, Wisdom, Slip Away, etc.)

-Penelope Scott, ahem Rät

Janus:

-flora cash, tje vibe and also the anxciet angst that is possible with this artist

-The Crane Wives, again, vibes, but also some of the songs make perfect sense for him(metaphor specifically)

-Billie Eillish, there are suprisingly a lot of songs that i think fit him

-Scott Bradley's Postmodern Jukebox, so many recent songs framed as oldies, they can not be here

-Lana Del Ray, all of her music, idk, its the vibes

-Charloette Lawrence, for either God Must Be doing Cocaine or Joke's On You

Remus:

-IC3PEAK, he gives someone who would learn russain idk

-Mindless Self Indulgence, the unsensored shit on their song titles man

-Dazey and the Scouts, just, the song Wet

-Baby Bugs, intrusive thoughts my guy, also again, vibes

-Ashnikko, if not for Slumber Party then for so many of the other songs

-Ludo, if not specifically for Love Me Dead

Patton:

-Alec Benjamin, his music just feels right

-Mal Blum, if not for Fine!

-The Happy Fits, a few of their songs fit him quite well

-Of Monsters and Men, soft vibes and also a lil said i just like it

-Mitski, the ✨angst✨

-dodie, vibes but also more angst

[irene-sadler]

severe thunderstorm warning

but wait theres more

a tropical storm is rollin through town so it is absolutely disgusting outside and (mostly unrelated) i was up until 2 am yesterday/this morning b.c i decided to watch the stupid seattle mariners steelheads go into extra innings yet again (tfw ur a fan of a west coast team and u live 4 timezones away so the 10th inning takes place at 1 in the morning) 

anyway during that time i wrote a lil follow up to the executioner so nobody will hate me until uh 

the actual follow up is written which at my usual pace will be in approximately october. 

yw enjoy todays double header of hot nonsense this one’s called 

Severe Thunderstorm Warning:

     A week had passed, and even if she’d maybe made up her mind, she still hadn’t actually talked to Reynard about it.

     In her defense, nonstop days in the saddle interrupted only by an all out battle with a Nilfgaardian relief force and a followup skirmish with their baggage train guards hadn’t left much time for side conversations.  By night, the army either marched or caught a few hours of sleep when it was too dark to keep moving. She could count the number of words she’d exchanged with Reynard about something unrelated to the wounded, the condition of the bridges they used and the towns they passed, or the unpleasant but not undrinkable casks of acidic wine they’d captured on two hands. Most of them were just greetings, offered in the morning with his usual overdeveloped sense of social protocol, at night with a hint of some underlying emotion to suggest he actually meant them. It almost made her nostalgic for the days when her total forces were, more or less, a ragged collection of highwaymen with slings, a half unit of Lyrian pikemen, and a stray dog.

    On the other hand, she wouldn’t exactly be able to rush to the Aedirnian’s rescue without the trailing, dusty, exhausted mass of soldiers that snaked along the road under the baking afternoon sun, from one end of the flat horizon to the other, and she didn’t have enough men, maybe, even then. A big enough opposing force with a little more rest, a few more horses, and a following wind might be able to take them out. A private conversation was a small price to pay for an army that could probably hold its own in the field, with even odds.

    “Storm’s coming,” Gascon announced, riding in from the head of the column with a scout and a thick cloud of dust trailing him. She snapped back to the present and looked skyward.  A hawk or vulture crossed far overhead, almost too small to see. There were a few, smallish, grayish clouds drifting gently across the endless blue, and, above those, the edge of a very high, white cloud cover that might set in overnight and block the moon. She hoped she was wrong; she couldn’t march in total darkness, and the loss of four or five hours of moonlight would set them back seven or eight hours of actual travel time.

    Nothing seemed to be out of the ordinary. Reynard glanced upward and then shrugged at her when she looked back down.

    “Uh. Metaphorically?”

    “No,” Gascon said. “Literally. It’s crossin’ the plain fast, will be in sight pretty soon. Tipper, here, thinks it’ll be a bad one.”

    “Lot of lighting in them clouds,” the scout noted, squinting. “Looks just like th’ one from last week, if you ask me; don’t like t’ be out here in th’ open when it hits, but nowhere else t’ go -”

    “How much time do we have?” she asked, interrupting the man’s lecture, which seemed to be going nowhere fast. Gascon glanced behind himself, toward a vague, pale smudge on the northeastern horizon.

    “Thirty minutes?”

    “More like ten,” the scout said.

    “Better stop the column, then,” she said, resisting the urge to swear pointlessly and waste a few irreplaceable seconds. “Gascon - ride up to the front - have ‘em spread out, stay low to the ground. Reynard -”

    “The back,” he said, immediately, wheeling his horse around. “I’m on it.”

    The supply wagons wouldn’t be able to drop out of the wind and lightning in the open field, and would have to circle around and hope for the best, but she didn’t have to tell him that. He could do his job without her. She focused on the middle, diverting riders and scouts up and down the column with orders for every junior officer and NCO they came across. The result was that, as a black cloud blocked out the blue sky and the air abruptly shifted from dead still to a gusty breeze headed toward it, the army came to a grinding halt and spread out, laying out under canvas tarps and cloaks until the plain was dotted with clustered shelters. Loose horses drifted among them groups, ears tilted back.

    It would have to do, she thought, reviewing the sprawling, messy product of her efforts. If the storm was as bad as it looked like it would be, it was all they could do. She dropped off her twitchy, unhappy horse, turned it loose to fend for itself with the others, and realized that her own cloak was somewhere with the faraway baggage.

    She squinted up at the boiling cloud overhead and frowned dubiously. The wind had died again. Thunder rumbled nonstop in the distance and crashed overhead. It didn’t look good, she had to admit, and she was lucky to have a scout who could read the signs. If she hadn’t gotten ahead of the storm by a few minutes, it would have been a disaster. Unfortunately, there wasn’t much chance of getting her cloak or even a jacket before the rain started. She’d been caught unprepared and there was nothing she could do about it.

    It could always be worse, she told herself, pointedly. She spent a minute with her cavalry commander, come up on foot to report that his units had made themselves fast as much as possible.

    “Can’t answer for the horses, though,” he said. “We had to let ‘em go, on the chance this’ll be one of them hurricanes.”

    “Hurricanes?”

    “Whirlwinds.”

    “Yes. Good idea,” she said, picturing the havoc one of those would cause. She doubted there would be one, but -

    “You just never know what might happen,” the Colonel noted.

    “No. Good luck,” she said. “Once this clears out, we’ll be back on the move.”

    Eventually, if everything went perfectly. She didn’t have to voice the thought; he knew what could go wrong. He saluted and headed off toward a distant fork of lighting from the ground to the clouds. The wind suddenly picked up again as soon as he left, gusted toward the clouds, then back in the opposite direction, bringing a strong smell of rain and a strange, greenish cloud with it. She squinted at it. It was like rain, traveled along the ground like rain, but it was the wrong color. By the time she realized that it was a cloud of blowing grass and dust it was too late to duck before the mess hit her right in the eyes. She turned away from the wind, got caught up in the stinging hail that instantly followed it, and stumbled directly into something solid. Whatever it was caught hold of her by the shoulders before she could push off of it; she squinted at it and recognized Reynard in time to keep herself from decking him. He said something that the thunder drowned out. She shook her head.

    “Come on,” he shouted, into her ear. She let him drag her onto the ground, under the dirty gold cape he held over their heads. It was just about big enough to cover both of them, if they huddled close together. Another few inches and she would be sitting in his lap. It wasn’t like she was entering unprecedented territory; she told herself to not think too hard about it.

    “Where’s your cloak?” he asked. She shrugged.

    “Somewhere in the baggage train. Where’d you come from?”

    “There. I had time to grab mine,” he said, paused, for a deafening crash of thunder, seemed to be out of things to say afterward. The hail stopped banging off the cloth over their heads. A waterfall of rain followed it.

    “What a mess,” she said.

    “It’ll clear up soon.”

    He was maybe three inches away from her. She was extremely aware that the last time she was this close to him she had been in his bed. He glanced away, like the same thought had crossed his mind. Unfortunately for him, there wasn’t much else for him to look at; he was back to watching her, a little warily, a second or two afterward. She had plenty of things she could talk about, and one or two she should talk about, but the words just weren’t coming to her.

    If she kissed him, nobody would know about it, she noted to herself, instead of trying to find any. It would be easy; he was literally right there, watching her with a slightly too intense look in his eye. She had told him she was thinking their relationship, whatever it was, over, but she had always known what she was going to do. She just hadn’t had the time or the place. or the words to tell him. This was not any of those things. It was damp, because the cape was leaking slightly, and a little awkward, and she could barely hear herself think over the rain and thunder. Nothing about the situation was convenient for an extremely personal and delicate conversation.

    “I had a weird chat with Gascon, the other night,” she said, instead. He looked vaguely confused, like he had expected something else.

    “What about?”

 ——        

    It was two in the morning, probably, and they were still marching under the light of a dwindling half-moon. She was pretending she wasn’t tired and sore. Everyone else seemed to be half-asleep on their feet, at best.

    “Good morning, Meve,” Gascon said brightly, riding up next to her and interrupting her wandering mind. “You’re looking pensive and thoughtful. What gives?”

    “Huh?”

    “I mean, lately, you’ve been mostly surly and unapproachable. Which, don’t get me wrong, is a good look on you, but this one’s a little less terrifying.”

    She frowned at him and decided there was no particularly good response to the comment.

    “You want an apple? I stole some from th’ orchard we passed earlier.”

    He held one out, with the same encouraging smile he used when he offered his dog a bone. She squinted at the offering. It was definitely a crabapple, and definitely not really ripe. Her stomach growled anyway.

    “Yes, all right.”

    She caught it in midair; he waited for her to eat half of it before he asked, casually, “So. What are you thinking about?”

    She shrugged vaguely. When she wasn’t thinking about Villem or coming up with a dozen schemes and contingency plans for the next day, week, month, she was mostly thinking about Reynard. By unspoken consent, they had carefully avoided being alone together at any point in the last couple of days. The distance hadn’t made her feel any better. The only good thing about the situation was she was pretty sure nobody had noticed anything different.

     He rolled his eyes at her.

    “Silent treatment, is it? Been taking notes from Reynard lately?”        

    Nobody except Gascon, apparently. She raised an eyebrow at him, warningly. He blithely ignored it.

    “Or maybe you already had that little strategy down. You have known each other for a long time, after all. How long’s it been?”

    She cleared dust out of her throat. The question seemed harmless. She didn’t see any reason to not answer it.

    “Uh. Eighteen years. Maybe more.”

    “That long, huh?”

    He had a curious gleam in his eye. She eyed him cautiously.

    “What was he like back then?”

    She thought about it for a minute.

    “Well, I was - nineteen? So he was, what, maybe twenty-two? He was - I don’t know - about like he is now, only younger.”

    She had met Reynard at the same time as all her new husband’s other knights. She hadn’t really noticed anything particularly interesting about him specifically, at the time, if she was honest. He was young, barely said anything because he was so stiff with nerves and propriety, and had a patchy mustache he was trying to grow out, to make himself look older. The stiffness had largely survived the years, as a defense mechanism. The mustache, fortunately, hadn’t. She smiled a little; they had both gotten older and wiser, or, at least, less insecure. She wondered what they would be like in another twenty years.

    “You’re drifting again,” Gascon said. She snapped back to the present and eyed him.

    “What?”

    “Oh, you know; I bring up Reynard, you get this faraway look in your eyes and start staring off at nothin’. It’s a thing you’ve been doin’, lately. You should probably be more careful; people are bound t’ notice. Other people, I mean.”

    The side-eye turned to a glare; she turned her full attention on him.

    “What do you mean, exactly, Brossard? And keep your voice down, for once.”

    “Well,” he said, carefully, “I mean, I know you didn’t go dig through the stash we had in the closet, back in Rivia Castle; only two people had keys to it, far as I know - me and the quartermaster. Carver didn’t stir between midnight and dawn, like usual, and I had mine on me the whole time. Doubt you wandered off t’ look at the scenery for a couple hours, and I couldn’t help noticin’ that Reynard bunked not twenty feet away from your room -”

    “So?”

    “So, maybe, that’s where you were that night. Maybe. Don’t worry, I didn’t mention this, uh, theory of mine t’ anyone. If it’s true, far as I’m concerned, it’s your business. Well, yours and his.”

    “Then why bring it up?”

    He tilted his hat back a little, considered her suspicious face in the torchlight.

    “Because you look kind of miserable, if I’m honest. Did your chat after the Lester affair go that bad?”

    “No,” she said, looking ahead again, trying to pretend she wasn’t miserable, just tired. “No, not exactly. It’s - it’s complicated.”

    “You keep saying that,” he said. “Not everything has to be complicated, you know.”

——

    “Complications,” she said, vaguely. Reynard didn’t look any less confused.

    “What do you mean?”

    “I don’t mean anything. Listen,” she said, deciding maybe Gascon was right, just this once, in this very specific situation, “If I kissed you, right now, would it change anything between us?”

    He blinked at her.

    “No.”

    A trickle of cold water seeped through the cape and ran into her hair. She shifted forward, away from it and toward him, leaned in, and pressed her lips against his. He kissed her back, slightly uncertainly for a second or two, but when she moved closer and slid her right hand around the back of his neck his lips opened slightly and she could tell he stopped thinking about it. He was busy maintaining their ineffective shelter, but she had nothing in particular to do with her hands; she felt the pulse pounding in his throat with her left, ran her right through the short hairs on the back of his head, and let the electric feeling that crawled across her skin and the thundering in her ears drown out her thoughts until, after what felt like not much time at all, he gently pulled his head back.

    “Wind’s stopping,” he whispered. She paused, listening for the real thunder, from the storm. It still crashed overhead, but less often than it had before and mostly somewhere far off to the south; the rain had slowed from a waterfall to a minor downpour, and he was right about the wind. It had shifted direction again, to a gentler crossing breeze that smelled like the oncoming evening. She almost wished it wouldn’t, and the storm would keep going, but time passed whether she wanted it to or not. There were a lot of things she couldn’t control.

    If she was honest, given a few more minutes, she would be one of those things.

    “Damn,” she said, under her breath. “Just when things were going so well. Nothing can ever be easy.”

    “Complications,” he agreed, an ironic smile crossing his face that made her heart stop for a second. “What now?”

    “This,” she said and kissed him again for a long moment that felt like it would crash and burn if it went on. She dragged it out as much as she could, anyway, until a little voice in the back of her mind started warning that any more would result in them being discovered, or a Nilfgaardian cavalry unit would ride over the horizon while she was distracted, or someone would slip and fall on the wet grass, stab themselves on their own dagger, and trigger a day-long safety brief - or some other disaster would happen. He looked her in the eyes for the second or two more that she let herself waste, smiled slightly, like he knew what she was thinking, and then she forced herself away from him, out of the shelter of his cape and into the drizzle. A hint of blue sky was showing through the darkness on the northern horizon. The army was still battened down around them. An offended cluster of horses stood around a hundred yards away, dripping. Reynard carefully shook water off his cape and frowned disapprovingly around at the disorder.

    “About time we got going,” she agreed, reaching a hand toward him. He took it; she pulled him to his feet, smiled up at him for another strangely long second, and let him go.

    “I’m on it,” he said.

[ddaenggtan]

black irises in the sunshine | kth

anger is everything. other gods tease you for the short fuse, but it comes with the territory. people have called you stupid, have called you dumb, oafish, useless, incompetent, insolent, rude, arrogant. all of it. insults and mockery flung at you, but even your skin isn’t thick enough to deal with constant abuse. it’s the exact reason you keep going to the underground, knuckles bloody and bruised, fighting anyone that dared enter the cage. it’s the reason you go to the clubs, surround yourself with mortals and their writhing bodies. it’s there that you see him the first time, voice husky as it rolls through the room. it’s there you find someone who treats you differently than the rest. you just never expected him to be one of the muses. | monsters and gods pt 3 (masterlist)

pairing | taehyung x reader

genre/warnings | greek god au, calliope!taehyung, ares!reader, theres a lot of violence and it does get descriptive so be aware of that, none of the main characters other than ares get hurt and its not uncalled for or anything in a narrative sense, so just be aware of that; there are mentions of other idols, but if you can guess them you get a cookie because they are Vague; suuuuper bisexual Ares, Ares Can Step On Me, like I am SO gay for her it isn’t funny; explicit smut ft: cunnilingus, taeHUNG bc hes got MASSIVE SCHLONG,  some body worship kind of and then just....regular worship? like? idk how to explain that? lots of praise and lots or orgasms

word count | 14k | cross posted to ao3

a/n | HOOOOOOO this has been sitting in my google docs for literal months waiting for an ending and i decided to try to get it out for tae's birthday bUT that didn't work because i have a Job and shit so YEET I GUESS HAPPY FUCKIN NEW YEAR??? LIKE??? YEEEEEEEEEEEEE this fic is very near to me because Ares is my sweet sad angry babie and i love her, and i love tae and i love suho and i love the muses and i just........lOVE this fic like i think this is currently my favorite of the mag series so!! i hope yall also enjoy it!!!! yall are welcome to send me messages about this even tho I'm terrible at replying to them in a timely manner!! thanks to everyone who helped me with this, and everyone who has expressed interest in it, and everyone who has ever read anything of mine, because you're genuinely the best people ever, and this is literally a gift to y'all because you deserve it. 

Fuck, that was too hard .

The guy across from you goes flying, hitting the chain link wall of the cage harder than you intended. Every nerve ending in your body is on fire, and even holding back, you've got a better buzz than even the best nectar can give. Your blood sings as the guy gets back up, and you almost wish you could remember his name, because he's put up a hell of a fight. For a mortal, anyway. 

He charges at you again, and time slows as your vision tunnels. You can see the feint as he decides on it, how he hesitates in bringing his left up. You wait, watching him get closer and closer. You start to dart to your left, letting him think he's got you, before you side-step and dart to your right instead. His punch goes wide as you steady your balance and move. The top of your foot connects with his ribcage and the resulting crack of bone is lost amid the cheers and yells of the audience. 

Your opponent steps back and you're proud of the way he doesn't show the pain. He doesn't wince, doesn't move to touch the spot you hit, just tightens his stance and clenches his jaw. It's only you that notices the hitch in his breath, the way he flinches with every inhale. Your eyes narrow at that, zeroing in on the rib. You'd meant to just crack it, had been holding back most of your strength to keep from hurting him too seriously, but as he steps forward, you can see the way he grits his teeth against the pain. 

The fight leaves you immediately, like a bucket of cold water straight to the chest, and you drop your hands. 

"Yield." He just stares at you, bouncing on the balls of his feet. "Yield to me, and then go to the doctor."

"I'm not gonna yield," He says. He spits a mouthful of blood out onto the floor. "I'm not weak."

"Seriously, dude," You insist. "You're not gonna win this, and I don't want to hurt you more." 

His scoff has you seeing red. "As if a princess like you could hurt me."

Your fist connects with his face before either of you registers that you've moved. There's a voice in the back of your head reminding you that he's just mortal, he can't take the same kind of beating you can, but it's lost in the haze of fury. The next thing you know, the ref is dragging you away and slamming you into the cage wall. Your opponent is being dragged out - you still don't know his name - and he looks beaten senseless. Victory rolls through you accompanied by a sick satisfaction at the way his blood looks decorating the canvas beneath your feet. 

It lasts for less than an hour. It's always like this; the thrill of the fight, the burn of success, it's gone faster than you can blink. It's what drives you to keep fighting, to keep going to match after match, just to seek out the under-the-table stuff afterwards. It's never enough, not anymore. Back in the old days, they'd let you fight anything. Bears, bulls, lions, giants, anything they could get a noose around long enough to point it at a colosseum. That was a long time ago, though, before all the rights movements happened. You won't lie: you miss fighting beasts like that. The sheer power and strength they have, the survival instinct that makes them such fierce competitors, it's so much better than the rules and regulations of the mortal world now. Fights have gotten dull, rehearsed, more like a performance or a show than an actual fight. People make more money losing than they do winning and it's made the world boring. 

You flex your hand as you open the door to your favorite bar. Something caught it at some point in the last fight, a cheekbone or a tooth, and it stings a little. Doesn't hurt, not exactly, not for a goddess, but it did enough that you feel it at all, which means it couldn't have been anything but torture for the guy on the other end. The bartender waves at you and gets your usual ready as you sit, and you idly wonder if Busted Rib Guy will be okay. It looked painful, for a human, and you'd tried to hold back, but…

Well, you weren't really responsible for what happened to condescending little fucks, were you?

You sip the bourbon, enjoying the burn as it goes down. The lights are dim, tonight. You're glad. You don't want to deal with people looking at you, men coming over to talk to you, trying to advise you on how to properly bandage your knuckles or how to avoid the bruise on your cheek next time. If you had wanted to avoid it, you would have. You'd intended it to hurt worse, honestly, but that first guy'd had a weaker right hook than you expected. 

You look around, wondering if anyone here would provide a decent distraction for the night. There's a pretty brunette in the corner with carefully crafted braids, and as your eyes travel, you imagine what's hiding beneath the silk and leather. You're pulled from the thought by the sound of music, and you curse under your breath. You forgot that it's an open mic night and you'd meant to go to the bar across town instead. Irritation colors your vision; every open mic night is awful, full of lofty poets talking about their trauma and wannabe Taylor Swifts thinking they're on the same level as Sappho. Ah, now that was a girl with a set of pipes. You miss her, wonder what she would say to the butchering of whatever song you're about to hear.

The voice that comes isn't what you expect. It's smooth and deep. The world turns to velvet around you as the voice wanders from one speaker to another, creating a mesmerizing multi-dimensional effect despite the way the singer doesn't ever leave the stage. You turn, knuckles white around your bourbon glass; he's utterly magnetic, every eye in the room trained on him as he purrs into the vintage mic. Long fingers are wrapped around the scuffed metal, decorated with jewels that glitter in the dim light of the bar. You can smell the lingering cigarette smoke from the guy beside you and the Jäger from the girl two stools down and for once, you don't even care. He's captivating, voice travelling between speakers in the bar and coming from everywhere and nowhere at once. 

Your eyes don't leave him, and you wonder if you can memorize the way the blond waves fall against his forehead if you stare long enough. 

The red seeps away from you, slinking back into the corners of your mind, settling once more into a low thrum under your skin. It fades into the background of this man's voice, the charisma that rolls off him in waves as he pulls the mic in close just to push it to the side with a teasing smirk. It settles something in your chest that hasn't been calm since the fight in Athens so long ago. 

The music fades out sooner than you'd like, and he gives a slight bow before wandering into the crowd. You do your best to follow him, but the gold of his hair disappears almost immediately, lost in the throng of people around the stage waiting to speak to him. You turn back around, downing the next bit of bourbon that Suho pours you. 

"I know," He says with a grin. You cock a brow at him, not having said anything he could agree with. "He's good. That's what you were thinking, right? He's why we're so packed on open mics. Got the audio and lighting guy whipped, so he's got all these special effects, too. Drives people crazy.”

"He's alright," You mutter. You toss a few bills down on the bartop and step back. Suho gives you a courteous nod as you leave. The bouncer gives you a dirty look when he spots the lit cigarette between your lips, but he knows better than to try to tell you otherwise. You've taught him better. 

You lean back against the brick wall of the alley and take a drag. The warm smoke fills your lungs and you close your eyes. It's a different kind of burn than you're used to, a distraction from the crawling sensation that drives you to fight. It's calmer, more controlled. Feels like the smoke from Hestia's fires. Feels like home. 

"Never expected to see you here," A voice calls out. It's deep and startling in the darkness, but you don't jump. You just open your eyes, exhale, and look to where it came from. 

The singer stands before you in the same undone white button up and black tee he performed in. He doesn't have a cig, doesn't seem to have much of any reason to be outside. He moves almost lazily, as if he doesn't even need to, just wants to, and when his gaze flicks up to meet yours, your vision fills just for a breath with every opponent you've ever faced lying at your feet. 

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" The words slip from your tongue before you can stop them. It's not his fault, the voice in your head says, he didn't mean it that way, but still, your blood is thrumming now that he's here and you want to know what he's talking about. Want to know why he thinks you wouldn't be here when there's attractive people and good bourbon and you've never seen this man before in your life. Want to know why he already seems to think you aren't civilized enough to be at a bar, why he spoke but all you heard was Zeus' voice in your memories.

"Exactly what I said. Should I be clearer?"

"Yeah, probably," you spit. Yet another person that assumes you're stupid, that you don't understand basic languages, as if you haven't been speaking them since the ancient times. As if you couldn't speak circles around him if you wanted. "Unless you want your teeth on the fucking ground."

"Good to know the stories are true." He tsks and you're filled with a strange sense of disappointment and fury, both at him and yourself. Your vision turns red at the edges and the cigarette between your fingers is crushed in your grip. He pays no mind to it, just saunters past with a lazy, swaying gait that draws your eyes to his hips and then down the long leather-clad legs. "See you around, Ares."

"That's not my fucking name," You yell after him. He doesn't respond when you shout your actual name, the one you chose, on your own, as a middle finger to the Olympians. "Get it right next time, dickwad."

He turns the corner of the alley and the streetlight catches his face just enough for you to see the smirk he wears. For once in your life, you're torn; you want to smash his face in, yes, because how dare this random guy speak to you like that when you could kill him with one finger to the right pressure point. You also find your skin's hotter than usual, stretched too thin over your bones, and you want him to run his hands over you until it feels right again.

Until it feels like it did when he was singing. 

How did he know my title?

The thought comes unbidden, days later, with the desperate hit of a palm against your shoulder. You've got the woman in a headlock, patiently waiting for her to pass out completely so the fight can be called, and your mind is wandering. 

How did the singer know who you are? You hadn't thought anything of it at the time, distracted by fury and frustration, but with time comes a special kind of clarity. You've never seen him before, not that you know anyway, yet he didn't hesitate to call you Ares. The only ones who know of your kind are your kind, but you haven't seen any of your siblings among mortals in a long time. You thought you knew the other gods and goddesses, but maybe not. It has been a while since you stepped foot in the golden city.

The woman in your grip goes slack and you release her. You're still lost in thought as the ref calls the match and leads you out of the makeshift ring. The cheers of the audience are background noise at this point, akin to static or the buzz of electricity, and you pay them no mind as you head to collect your winnings. You didn't even get any kind of buzz from success this time, too immersed in the way the singer walked and talked and looked. The image of his smirk is burned into your retinas. 

"Yeah, you didn't hear? He just got out of the hospital. They had to keep him overnight because they thought he might puncture a lung. I heard that if it had been a little worse, they would've had to wire his jaw shut." You stop, fingers brushing over the stack of bills you don't even remember being handed. You look up, making eye contact with the guy whispering nearby. Your suspicions are confirmed when his friend smacks his arm and juts his chin in your direction before they both disappear into the crowd. 

You shove your way outside, frustration creeping through you and coloring your vision. You manage to keep it contained long enough for you to make it to the alley behind the warehouse, but it explodes from you in a rush of thrown dumpsters and sheet metal. 

Fuck , you never meant to hurt him like that. You told him, you fucking told him to yield, it isn't your fault he didn't listen. It's not your fault that he went and insulted you, acted like he was better than you just by virtue of being a dude, as if you weren't worshipped in the old days for the power you had and the blessings you could give. You'd held back, through all of it, you'd told him to yield, and he insulted you. It wasn't your fault. 

You slide to the ground, running a shaking hand through your hair. It isn't your fault , you repeat. You close your eyes and take deep breaths, the way Hestia taught you, willing the fury to dissipate. It's like a fire in your veins, burning and bubbling your skin until you can't resist anymore. You take another breath. It isn't your fault. You tried. You offered an out. It isn't your fault. Fuck, what was his name? 

With a growl that quickly morphs into a scream, you kick the dumpster once more before stalking off into the darkness. You need a fucking drink and you're gonna find a distraction in someone else if it's the last thing you do. 

The club is packed when you get there; you're not usually a fan of clubs like this, too full of people who are too friendly, but they're perfect for nights like tonight. You don't even need to wait in line, just slip the bouncer a 50 as you pass, and the bartenders are quick to spot you. You're pretty notorious in the city for over-paying, which means you're knocking back bourbon before you have a chance to ask for it. There are people everywhere, pressed up against both sides of you while the bass thrums in your throat, and it takes you longer than you're proud of to realize why. 

There's a band playing, apparently. They're not bad; the vocalist isn't anything like the singer from Suho's, but it doesn't make you want to tear your ears off, so you consider it a success. 

You're dancing before you remember deciding to. Everything's a blur when you get the itch in your bones, the need to make someone bleed. To feel something that isn't rage or condescension. People are even closer here on the dance floor, suffocating in their proximity, but there's a woman grinding her ass into you, and it sparks the dying fire in your gut. The beat of the music drowns your own heart, and it's all flashing lights and heat and a body pressed against yours that is all too willing.

She follows when you go back to the bar for another drink, and giggles when you lick salt from her wrist before downing tequila. Her hands are wrapped in the leather of your jacket as she kisses you, your own resting lightly on her hips. She laughs against your lips and says something you don't hear before ordering another drink. Something makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up.

You take the brief reprieve to look around the club, searching for whatever it is that has you on alert. You find him on the upper level of the club, leaned over the balcony with a drink in hand. You can't make out his expression, exactly; it's too far away and too guarded. But you'd know him anywhere now. The singer knocks back whatever's in his glass, eyes never leaving yours. You don't know why he's here, if he comes here often or if the Fates are having a laugh at your expense, but you do know you want to make the most of it.

The girl is back, pressing a heated kiss to your lips and drawing your attention from him. You return it, nipping at her lips and getting a small gasp in return. You smirk and bite your way down her neck. She's breathy in your ear, hitched moans lost in the beat of the music, but you barely hear her as you suck bruises into the skin of her neck. He's still watching you. His drink is gone and he's gripping the bannister of the balcony, rings glinting in the light. You wonder if the cool metal could soothe the burn in your bones. You want to know if he can bring that calmness from before back, if he can soothe the frenzy in your mind with his hands the way he can with his voice. Just imagining it has you soaking through to your jeans.

The girl makes a particularly loud noise in your ear and you're brought out of your thoughts. As if he can sense it, the singer straightens. He gives you one last look before disappearing back into the crowd, and you wonder if you're imagining the disdain in it. You draw back from the girl's neck, about to tell her to find her friends when she slides her hands in your hair and tugs.

The burn in your blood is back, now, and you hope this girl is prepared for what awaits her.

"You're here early," Suho says when he spots you in the nearly empty bar the next night. He's not wrong, either; you skipped the fights tonight completely. There was no buzz last time, no relief, and you have no reason to believe there would be tonight. Not with the way the singer captivates your thoughts. 

Besides, you have enough money leftover from the previous few to last a couple days.

"What, did you decide not to kick someone's ass before getting wasted?" Suho doesn't wither at the look you give him, just pours you a couple fingers of bourbon and slides the glass over. "Or did they just stop letting you in completely?"

"I might change my mind if you don't shut up," You tell him. There's no real heat behind it. You've known Suho for years now, been coming to his bar for so long it almost feels like home. You're almost friends at this point. 

It helps that he knows when to bite his tongue so he doesn't get his teeth knocked out.

"Seriously though, I don't think I've ever seen you here this early. Especially not on mic nights." You're very careful in your lack of a reaction to his words. You'd seen the workers setting up for it when you came in, and even if you hadn't, you know when mic night is. You've spent enough time avoiding it.

"Does he sing every time?" You ask in lieu of an explanation. You don't look away from the amber liquid in your glass, letting the silence hang as the bartender does his best to follow your thought process. 

"Taehyung? Most weeks, yeah. It's been a nice change from the usual drunken karaoke. He goes around to some of the other places in town, too. Apparently he just likes to sing." 

"Taehyung," You repeat. The name rolls from your tongue a bit awkwardly. It's more than you expected, somehow, but you can't place exactly how . Just...more. "Is he always that good?"

"Oh, yeah. We have regulars now for mic night because of him. He's got a whole fan club and everything."

"Hm." You drain the rest of your bourbon and Suho refills it. He leaves you in peace then, serving some others that appear at the bar. 

The place fills faster than you can blink. That's what it feels like, anyway. It's like one moment there's you and a handful of other people scattered around, and now you're being jostled between some dude a million feet tall that definitely doesn't look old enough to be here and a girl with her tits up to her throat and surrounded by a cloud of perfume so thick that it starts a migraine behind your eyes almost instantly. She flirts with Suho a little, likely trying to score free drinks, and you roll your eyes. She pouts at him when he gives her the total, batting eyelashes that go on for miles, and for once, you wish Suho would just give in and comp the drinks. 

"I'll pay for them," You say. She was definitely saying something, maybe you should have been paying attention to it, but fuck , this migraine is only getting worse the longer she stands there. "I'll pay for your drinks."

"Oh, thanks," She says. Her smile is hesitant, and quickly turns apologetic as she takes in the boots and the ripped jeans and the leather jacket. "Um, I'm not...I don't, uh…"

"Do I look like I want to fuck you, sweetie?" She looks a little affronted and a laugh escapes you. You lean closer, letting your breath ghost over her cheek as you speak in her ear to be heard better. "If I wanted to fuck you senseless, you'd know it. And I can guarantee you it would be a hell of a lot better than the watered down rat piss this guy's giving you." 

When you lean back, her face is flushed and she's stammering. You smirk and hand her the drinks she'd ordered. 

"Too bad you’re not, you don’t, huh?" You tell her. The patronizing tone isn't lost on her, nor is your mockery of her earlier words, and she shuts her mouth with an audible click before strutting off. Suho glares at you as he pours more bourbon.

"Can you please try not to run off my patrons?" He mutters. "Some of us actually need money to live."

"Some of us would like decently timed refills and to not choke on perfume," You quip. "And better bourbon, for that matter." He hisses something about what he's giving you being top quality but you tune him out, throwing one leg over the stool Perfume Girl vacated. You'd like to keep just a little bit of personal space. 

Across the bar, you catch a brief glimpse of the girl from the night before and you wince. Her neck is thoroughly bruised, and you catch a peek of bruises and scratches on her back as she shrugs her jacket on. You didn’t mean to be so rough with her, even if she had been into it; you’re usually pretty good about remembering that the mortals are just that - mortal - and as such have to be handled delicately. They’re so fragile, it feels like they could break with a strong wind. Guilt settles in your gut and turns the bourbon in your glass to cough syrup. You’ve half a mind to just leave before she sees you, are about to turn and do exactly that, but the speakers screech to life and the deafening feedback from the mic keeps you glued to your seat. 

The crowd quiets even as the excitement ramps up, all talk silencing but for the occasional hushed whispers here and there. The first few notes of the song echo through the speakers, and a spotlight appears on him. 

He looks different this time, his hair dyed a vibrant blue that matches the glinting jewels in his ears and on his hands. He's an absolute vision and you wonder how Aphrodite has allowed him to live so long when he's so beautiful. His voice hangs in the air and calms you, the same settling in your chest as last time, the same freedom from the burn in your veins. It's addictive. 

The song doesn't last nearly as long as you want it to but the stillness inside you lingers long after he's done caressing the microphone. You place a few bills down for Suho and light up a cigarette as you head outside, ignoring the dirty looks from other patrons as you do. You're on a mission, the thrum of bloodlust returning with every second that passes, and you can't even be sure if he's still around or if he's wandered off already. 

You stand in the alley for what feels like hours, turning at every sound and smoking cig after cig just so you have something to do. You've almost decided to say fuck it when footsteps sound from the back of the bar, coming closer to you. 

His blue hair is visible even from the other end of the small alley, a giveaway similar to the light at the end of your cigarette and the smoke you blow into the air. There's no way he hasn't seen you, you think, you're making no effort to hide or be sneaky, and yet he's continuing forward as if he doesn't see you at all, eyes focused on a phone in his hand. You wait until he's just a few steps away before speaking.

"How do you know my title?" You ask him. He stops as if he'd always meant to and doesn't even bother to glance up at you or respond. The edges of your vision turn scarlet at the blatant disregard and you're speaking before you can even process the words. "I asked you a fucking question, pretty boy, you're gonna answer me. Unless you want that precious mouth bloodied up."

"And you wonder how I know who you are," He drawls, still not bothering to spare a glance at you. A scowl grows over your face at his sarcastic tone. "If you're going to hit me just get it over with. Otherwise, I have places to be."

He stands, waiting and expectant, but you don't move. He's humming, quiet and to himself like he doesn't even realize he's doing it, and the red seeps away from your mind until you're left clear-headed once more. You sigh, long and heavy, and crush your cigarette into your denim-covered thigh to put it out. It tickles. 

"I'm not going to hit you," You tell him eventually. "I just wanna know how you know me. And how you do it."

He cocks a brow at that, finally looking up from the phone in his hand to level dark eyes on yours. "Do what? Sing?"

"No." You swallow around the sudden lump in your throat. The words are harder to find than you thought they'd be, lost in the depths of his gaze, in the clarity you're so unaccustomed to, in the way you feel like you can breathe for the first time in days. "I don't care how you sing, that's not important, it's the...fuck, you know what, never mind, it doesn't fucking matter." You push off the wall and step past him to head towards where the streetlight gleams off the bar windows. 

"Tell me." The command has you stopping in your tracks, and you're again flooded with just wanting to know how. How he clears the haze, how he stops you, how he makes you feel real. You turn, hands stuffed into the back pockets of your jeans. "How I do what?"

It takes you several long breaths before you can answer, and you aren't even sure he can hear you over the sounds of people leaving the bar, and you find yourself disappearing into the crowd without waiting for a response. Your own words are reverberating in your skull, getting louder with each step you take, and you wish you could just turn it off . 

"How you make me feel like a person again."

You avoid the bar for a few weeks, going hours away from your usual area to an unfamiliar hole in the wall just to make sure you don’t see him. You’re more deadly than usual in your fights, victories coming quicker, injuries piling up along with the guilt, but you can’t bring yourself to return. It’s unnerving, the way everything goes quiet around him, the way you can think, but the worst is the way you can feel. Everything’s calm and steady and blue, and it only makes it easier for the regret and the guilt and the anxiety to curl around your throat and squeeze until you can’t breathe, to clog in your throat while the laughter of your siblings echoes in your ears, and you...can’t. You can’t do that, you can’t let it win, you can’t let them win, they can’t know that you’re everything they think you are and worse. 

You can’t let yourself drown in that, and yet you find yourself back at Suho’s, lost among the crowd while Taehyung’s voice surrounds you. The ache in your bones fades away, chased by the thrum of the fight that still lingers despite the hours that have passed since you felt your opponent’s femur break under your palm and their screams echoed in your ears. Everything is calm again, and the guilt nearly drowns you.

He hasn’t even finished singing before you’re outside, chest heaving as you gasp against the weight on your chest. You broke someone’s femur , and did you even really need to? The fight itself is a blur even now, snapshots playing through your mind like a montage. The way they’d darted at you first, how their foot felt connecting with the backs of your knees, the determination in their eyes when you went down, the jolt of shock as your hands wrapped around their leg, the dull throb of a barrage of hits against your waist as you pulled them down as well and bloodied their face, the blood-curdling scream as you snapped the bone like a pretzel stick.

Your breath comes faster in your lungs, forced out by the growing guilt that lodges there in its place. Images swirl in your mind, chased by a never-ending stream of thought and regret that you should be used to by now. Fuck, you didn’t need to, and you still did it; you lost control, you fucking hurt them, and for what? A couple hundred? Was it even worth it? Who knew when they’d be back into shape to fight, what if they needed the money? They weren’t even half-bad. They got you down, at least, shouldn’t you have gone easy on them? You don’t even remember their face, can’t remember what the announcer said their name was, words drowned out by the buzz under your skin.

Metal crumples under your grip and you spare a half-second to mourn Suho’s dumpster before you slam your knuckles against it. It tingles, not even real pain, and you don’t hesitate to repeat it. By the time the metal is disfigured completely, a distorted mess of paint and steel and garbage, you still aren’t in pain, but there’s a sheen of gold across your knuckles and you feel less like you’re drowning and more like you’re suffocating. The usual. You can handle that. You think. 

You don’t even realize that you’ve slid down to the ground beside the dumpster until the back door of the bar opens and footsteps echo through the alley. You wish you knew how long you’ve been here, how long you’ve sat among empty bottles and stale beer and broken glass, but you can’t be sure. The brief reprieve brought by Taehyung’s voice is long gone, chased away by the guilt and rage that still sits heavy in your chest. You hope you’re not noticeable here, that whoever’s left will just pass by and leave you to piece yourself back together on your own. 

Voices tell you that it isn’t likely, the deep baritone of one too familiar to ignore. The other is new, but you’re familiar with the tone, the inflection, the intent behind it. You've heard it before, in crowded clubs as a guy pushes too close to some girl who can barely stand, in a coffeeshop when a random customer can't take a fucking hint, at the local campus when some professor insists that there could be maybe one thing her student could do to pass. It makes everything in you curdle, the bourbon from earlier threatening to work its way back up; it screams predator , and you absolutely refuse to let anyone fucking talk to someone like that, like they have some right to whatever it is they want. 

You refuse to let someone talk to him that way. 

"Seriously, Kratos, didn't I tell you to leave me alone? Did Aphrodite not teach you your lesson last time you harassed someone?" Taehyung's voice brings a calm that's an unsettling match to the anger washing over you. You're used to the red at the corners of your vision, the tint to everything you see, but you aren ' t used to the way it all turns purple and focused and clear . 

There's no haze this time, there's no abrupt shift of you moving before you know you've done it. You can feel the glass crunching under your boots with every step you take, can feel the way the air has a chill that creeps down into your lungs with every breath, can almost taste the apprehension that's rolling off of Taehyung despite his relaxed stance. The only thing that gives him away is the tense set of his jaw and the mix of relief and fear when his eyes land on you. 

"I'm pretty sure he said no, Kratos." The god turns at your voice and you watch the realization wash over him as he realizes what - who - you are. 

"Been a while since anyone's seen you, Ares." He scoffs a little, not moving from where he has Taehyung caged against the wall of the bar, one hand pressed firmly into the brick. He's entirely too close, and you have no doubt that the stench of him permeates the very oxygen around them. 

"Been busy. Doesn't change the fact that the man said no. Take the loss, walk away." Kratos' eyes narrow at your words and he steps away, but only to move closer to you. 

"Why do you care so much? You've never been one to care about any of us before." Kratos inches closer and the hyper-focus that Taehyung's voice causes starts to melt away with every twitch of your fingers. You've never liked Kratos, all brute strength with no respect for the challenge, no appreciation of the fight, too focused on sheer power and exhilaration. He is the worst of the worst of the worst of your kind, of all the war-focused gods. Every bit of yourself you hate is every piece that Kratos loves about himself. 

"I care that you don't seem to be able to understand when someone doesn't want to be around you, you absolute piece of filth. Taehyung had a point though, I really thought the whole thing with Aphrodite would've taught you how to back off. Or should I pull the video out, I think I still have it saved for when I need a good laugh." Malice and fury twitch across the other god's face and you absolute revel in it. You can feel his anger prickling across you, like needles in your very pores, and you ache for it. It's been so long since you last had a good fight, a real challenge where you didn't need to hold back at all. 

Too long since you fought a god like yourself.

"You're testing my patience, cousin," Kratos spits. It's a little generous to call the two of you cousins - you're several times removed, at best, and potentially closer than that with your family's warped history - but you let him have it. It might make him feel better. "I'm having a conversation, that's all. And if said conversation means that we end up back at my place, then, well, can anyone really blame me for what might happen to this pretty little m-"

Your fist connects with his jaw immediately and the red floods you for the few seconds it takes to register Taehyung calling your name. The calm struggles for a second, warring with the rage, but it wins out eventually. The singer's talking, but you can't make out any actual words. You're too focused on Kratos, the way he's righting and readying himself for a brawl. There's a fire in his eyes that matches the one in yours and everything in you feels alive for the first time in too long. 

This fight is different than your usual ones. There's no blur, no warped sense of time that usually comes with the adrenaline. You're focused and controlled in a way you haven't had to be for centuries, careful and precise and deliberate with every swing and every kick. The red seeps back in slowly and every time you think you're about to lose it, you hear Taehyung, still pressed against the wall of the bar. 

Kratos lunges at you for what has to be the tenth time, clearly trying his best to knock you to the ground - he succeeded, once; you let yourself get distracted, too caught up in thoughts, but it didn't last long - and you sidestep him just in time for him to ram into the ruined dumpster instead. He looks pissed when he turns back around and something in you sings at the sight. He makes for you again and you dodge again, only to be dragged back towards him by the grip he has on your jacket. Fuck, should've taken that off , whatever, he's too close.

Pain explodes in your side and you're fairly sure he's busted part of your rib, but you just slide your arms out of the sleeves and twist to plant your knee straight into his gut and then slam your heel down onto his much-less-safe toes, and then back up to knee him in the groin. It's nowhere near enough to take him out, but his nose is oozing golden ichor and he groans with every shift of his weight, and you've got him pinned against the wall with your forearm pressing hard into his windpipe. 

"Now, you're gonna listen to me you steaming pile of dog shit," You hiss. "When someone tells you no, it's not a fucking negotiation. It means you fucking leave and find someone with loose enough morals or enough internalized self-hatred that they're willing to subject themselves to your absolutely pitiful fucking excuse of an existence for the thirty-two seconds it'll take for you to get off." 

Kratos doesn't respond, just sneers and spits blood at you. It's a miracle you don't actually try to rip his head from his body, because the thought crosses your mind for a second too long. Instead, you just press harder against his windpipe and enjoy the choked gasp that it draws. 

"You don't stalk people either, the way you did with 'Dite. Don't you know it's better to let them come to you sometimes?" You tsk, ignoring the way he claws uselessly at your arm. Gods may not need to breathe, that's a fact, but they feel pain, and there is no way this isn't absolutely excruciating for him when even you can feel the small bones in his neck cracking and breaking. "And if I hear even a whisper of you pulling shit like this again, then I'm gonna find you, you pigshit. And when I do, I won't hold back even the slightest, and do you know what comes after that?" 

His eyes are full of fear now, and only grow wide with terror as you lean in close enough that he can feel your lips against his ear as you whisper. 

"You are going to wish that you could die." 

When you do release him, he disappears instantly, with a cloud of acrid grey-green smoke curling around your ichor-spattered boots. He's only been gone a second when you slump, the adrenaline fading as quick as Kratos had left. Your side is throbbing now, your knuckles are bruised and broken and gold, there's a pain in your leg that you aren't sure what's causing, your head is screaming even through the high of the fight, your face stings in the crisp-cool air. Every breath makes the pain worse so you stop breathing. The brick wall of the bar is rough against your palms, but it's the only thing around that can keep you upright, so you'll take it. 

"Well," a voice drawls from your left. You'd jump if you had anything left in you, but every ounce of energy is gone, spent teaching Kratos what Aretha Franklin meant when she sang about respect - and really, there was another fantastic singer, you really should visit her sometime soon - so instead your head lolls to the side. You aren't sure what it is that jolts through you when your eyes land on Taehyung, fingers curled carefully around the collar of-

Your jacket. That's your leather jacket. You barely remembers shrugging out of it, but you're glad it's not on the ground, trampled and covered in the gold spatters that decorate the rest of your body. 

"Well?" You echo, wincing at the pain it causes. You've definitely got a busted lip, that's for sure from the way it feels different and swollen, and you're pretty sure there's a head wound, too, because you don't remember there being a golden halo around Taehyung before the fight. 

"Well," He repeats, slinging the jacket - your jacket - over a shoulder. "You should get that looked at." He starts walking, making his way to the entrance of the alleyway. He gets halfway there before he stops and turns and cocks a brow. "Are you coming, or do I get to keep this?" Your jacket waves a little, as if he's wiggling it, and it makes you feel like a stray dog being lured off with treats. 

You're never going to tell anyone that it works.

Taehyung's place is as nondescript as the car he parks outside. It's a plain apartment building on the outside - looks like maybe it was a hotel back in the 1930s, based on the outdated carpeting in the lobby and the grate on the elevator he steps into. Even the hallway is plain and unassuming as he leads you to the end and uses an old, tarnished brass key on an older, more tarnished brass knob. You aren't sure what you expected, you can't even begin to guess what Taehyung is like outside of the dirty alley or the stage where he sings, can't fathom what kind of decor he could possibly have. 

What you step into isn't anything you could have guessed. It looks like he has the entire rest of the floor to himself based on what you can see, but there's also a spiral staircase tucked into a corner, bookshelves built in under each step that are filled to the brim, and a fireman's pole in another corner, so there's at least one more level above this, but something tells you both the staircase and the pole continue past that. There's artwork everywhere, pieces you recognize and pieces you don't, several van Goghs and a couple from Matisse and you think in the corner you spot an actual fucking da Vinci sketch that's supposed to be somewhere in Europe. There's a gramophone beside a top-of-the-line sound system, an entire wall that's just a record collection, books upon books, framed bits of poetry - including an actual hand-written rupi kaur, a signed Maya Angelou print, and a signed cover of ain't i a woman by bell hooks that you would die to know how Taehyung got his hands on. It's a museum's wet dream and yet it retains a lived in atmosphere. There are mugs left on tables, blankets strewn about as if someone just got up from a nap, an easel propped up by a far window with what looks like an impressionist painting of the cityscape, books tossed down half-read with receipts and coupons and candy wrappers and everything but a bookmark tucked between the pages. 

It feels like a home and it makes your heart flutter in your chest at the same time that something in your stomach shrivels up into itself. 

Taehyung walks like he’s meant to be followed, so follow you do. You spy another man - older, you think, but it’s hard to tell, really - sprawled across a couch, blanket splayed across his lap as he watches some kind of dance show on a flatscreen hung above a warm and roaring fireplace, a couple of girls in what looks to be the kitchen, one sitting on the counter while the other stands between her legs and pretends not to notice the former stealing strawberries from her bowl as she taps at her tablet, and there are footsteps creaking above you, hidden behind walls even as Taehyung leads you up the staircase. They all look up when you pass, but only the man gives you a second glance; his eyes are a weight on your back that doesn’t leave until you’re upstairs and following Taehyung into a large, rather nice bathroom. 

It’s vintage as well, but it’s spacious and well-kept, like the rest of the place. Taehyung pats the marble counter by the sink and you bite your tongue against the urge to tell him you aren’t a dog. You don’t move though, instead watching him as he lays your jacket across a brass bar on the wall and then digs around in a cabinet for a minute or two. When he straightens up, he’s got a somewhat dusty off-white box in his hands, and he frowns. 

“Up,” He says. “I need to look at your ankle.” 

You don’t move, but you can tell he doesn’t miss the twitch of your nose at the thought of being commanded like an animal. Like someone who can’t understand. Like-

He sighs. 

“Please, will you sit on the counter, so I can look at your ankle?” You huff, but you do as he says. 

He doesn’t speak as he works, completely silent except for the odd command - “Roll it for me...alright, now flex that...deep breath...stop fidgeting or I’ll only make it worse…” - and the occasional hum under his breath. It seems to be second nature, like he doesn’t even realize he’s doing it, and it endears you more than you’d like. His touch is gentle but firm as he lightly squeezes your ankle and wraps it, lifts your pant leg to rub some kind of cream into a somewhat worrisome golden bruise forming on your calf, darts under your shirt to quickly and painlessly set your ribs before wrapping those as well. He doesn’t say anything at all until he’s almost finished with the cuts on your hands, golden ichor long gone and wounds already on their way to healing thanks to some sort of mist he spritzes on them. 

It only stings once, as he’s spraying something over some kind of cut on your thigh where Kratos ripped through the denim there without you noticing. You can’t stop the hiss as the pain hits, though you regret it when he glances up at you. 

“Sorry,” He mumbles under his breath as he dabs lightly at it with his long fingers. 

“It’s fine,” You tell him. “I’m used to it.” Your voice is rough, always, but softer than usual. You don’t know why. You can’t decide if you like it.

The entire time he works, you wait. For him to tell you it wasn’t necessary, that he can fight his own battles, that he’s not surprised a brute like yourself got into a fight, that you’re no more than what the rumours say you are. You’ve got a million different curses and insults ready to spit back at him when he finally speaks.

“Thank you,” is what comes. It shocks the words out of your mouth, and you actually look up from where you’ve been watching him methodically wipe gold away from a scrape on your forearm. His gaze is concentrated on the injury and his lips are pursed and you wish you could figure him out. 

He must take your silence for the confusion it is, because he continues. 

“I mean it,” He says. “I’m usually not someone that lets other people fight for me, but we both know that I couldn’t have taken Kratos. He’s too strong, and he was counting on that. Until you showed up.” You don’t respond. “Is there a reason you left before my set was done? Or why you were sitting in an alley beside what is possibly the most gnarled dumpster I’ve ever seen?”

You don’t answer him, instead focusing on the way his hands feel as they tilt your chin so he can look at the cuts and bruises and scrapes that decorate your face. You focus your gaze just past his shoulder, content to memorize the pattern of his gaudy vintage bathroom wallpaper, and he doesn't press for more. The distracted humming picks up again every time he stops talking, and eases the storm of guilt shame rage pain hurt grief loneliness in your chest. 

"I fight," you eventually say. Your voice is too loud in the quiet of the bathroom, shatters the silence like a sledgehammer, and you hate the way it trembles. Still, Taehyung doesn't look away from where he's carefully wiping gold from your skin, just cocks a brow, and it's as if a dam breaks in your throat. "Like, real fights. Actual competition, with rules and shit, and...sometimes the bad ones, because they tend to fight differently, it's a different kind of fight, y'know, and it's never really fair, because I'm...I'm me, but I hold back, just for fun, y'know, and it's, uh. It's alright usually, I go in, do my thing, I win, I go drink, and it all gets, I dunno, easier, maybe, for a while, like I can think right, but, um.”

You hesitate for a split second and force yourself to focus on the way the alcohol-soaked cotton tickles the cut on your head. 

“Sometimes it's not...sometimes I can't control it as well, the anger, and I kind of just lose it on people, and a while ago this guy, he almost needed his jaw wired shut, but he was kind of a prick anyway, I guess, so whatever, but, uh, today, I...there was this girl and she was doing really well, actually, y'know, managed to get me down to the mat, which is rare and pretty impressive, and I'm pretty proud of her for it now, but then, I just. I just kinda lost it, like, I just kept swinging, I couldn't stop, and then I just...I broke her leg, for no real reason, just because I wanted her to hurt, and I don't...I'm not sure why I even did it, because I'd already won, right, like what was the point of doing any more, it wasn't even helping at that point, y'know, it's not like the buzz kept up any longer because I broke this kid's leg, and I love the fights, they help clear my head for a second, but I never wanted to actually-"

You words stop short, like there are too many of them to say in too short a time, and it's then you realize Taehyung's hands are in his lap and he's looking at you fully. His expression isn't neutral anymore, it's not the carefully crafted mask of a performer, it's real and open and genuine and all you see there is pain . For you. Pain and understanding and compassion you never expected to find anywhere but the deepest corners of your soul. Looking at him looking at you like that makes you feel like you can breathe again.

"You never wanted to hurt anyone." His voice is rough, like maybe there's emotion clogging his throat as well, and you aren't sure what that does to you, but something in you jumps at the thought.

Tears mar your vision as you nod and you curse under your breath before wiping them away. He catches your quivering hand in his and just holds it for a second. His eyes don't leave yours and there are a thousand things you expect him to say but what he says is: 

"I believe you."

And that...it's more than you can take, and you break, right there on his bathroom counter, sobbing into his chest while he just rubs your back and hums and you remember the face of every person you've ever hurt and the look in their eyes as you left some of them for dead. 

You wake up the next morning curled up on the most comfortable chaise lounge in human history, sitting up and shoving the blanket off of you in a rush before you remember where you are, why you're there. A glance around tells you that you aren't alone; there's two guys bent over a table that you think might also be a tablet, conversing quietly and pointing every so often at whatever they're looking at, a girl balanced along the edge of the staircase holding a lyre - which, wow, you haven't seen a lyre in that good condition in a while - and strumming lightly along it before she frowns and shakes her head and restarts whatever melody she's playing, and the same guy sprawled over the couch with a blanket strewn haphazardly over him while he watches a different dance video on the flatscreen. He's the closest and you don't really want to talk to any of these people but you think you might have to because you aren't really sure how Taehyung got you here last night but you know it was quite a drive. You'd just mist over to the bar if you really wanted to, but your ribs hurt like a bitch still thanks to that fucker Kratos. Anything as intense as misting is out of the question for the time being.

The man on the chaise spares you a glance that feels longer than it should, full of a judgement you have no doubt you deserve and yet somehow fires your anger anyway. 

He rolls his eyes before you even say anything and waves a hand towards the kitchen. You snap your mouth closed and shoot him an irritated look, but you storm in that direction anyway. Healing is exhausting, and you want nothing more than some meat to tear into and a cold beer. 

When you get into the kitchen, however, Taehyung is standing there already, as if he’s been expecting you any minute. There’s a plate in front of him, full of food you barely recognize, and he slides it towards you. 

“Eat,” He says. You grit your teeth, unmoving, and he sighs again. “Please sit, and eat. You need the strength to heal properly.” 

You resist for a split second, but there’s a softness to him now. Something you can’t exactly put your finger on, but that you know is different , somehow, and it changes things. It makes you want to listen, to do as he asks, because he is asking . He’s not telling, he’s treating you like an animal. 

It’s a request, not a demand, and that makes all the difference. 

Taehyung is quiet while you eat. He doesn’t look at you, doesn’t watch to make sure you’re doing it, but you have no doubt he’s keeping an eye on you. It’s quiet, but not unbearably so; the air is broken by the sounds of the lyre and the television, as well as the soft chattering of the men at the table. It makes it comfortable, makes it soft in a way you’re unaccustomed to being, like the way people talk about lazy Sunday mornings or that voice they get when they see a cute animal.

It feels like home should be, instead of what yours is. 

“So why’s Pretty Boy giving me the death glare?” You eventually ask past a mouthful of food. Taehyung barely looks up, just glancing past you to the guy laying on the couch. You can feel his eyes boring into your spine, but it’s nothing new. 

“Taemin’s just protective,” Taehyung says softly. “Especially considering the stories.”

“The ones about me, you mean.”

A myriad of emotions passes through his eyes when he nods, and you wish you could more easily decipher them. Maybe in time, you will. 

Maybe.

“Those, yes,” He says softly. “But he’ll learn.” He doesn’t say it, but nonetheless, you hear the words as clear as day. Just like I did.  

Someone hums behind you and you glance over to see a woman - the strawberry thief - making her way into the kitchen. She gives Taehyung a look you don’t care enough to figure out, and they have an entire conversation in the span of five minutes. Something about it irks you, and it only gets worse when they start moving around each other, Taehyung handing her things without her asking. 

It’s ridiculous, and you know it, but the air gets heavy in your lungs and your head starts to swim and suddenly you’re suffocating. It’s too much, there’s too much here, and you can’t take it anymore. 

The force with which you shove away the counter would have slammed it into the wall were it not already attached. There are slight cracks in the granite tops, though, and there’s just enough clarity as Taehyung calls your name for you to feel guilty about it. It’s not enough to stop you though; you have to get out, you need to get out, before you do something worse, and the cracks in the granite are proof of that. 

You’re out the door in an instant, your form coalescing painfully back into solid matter as you reach the hallway. Your ribs ache, screaming with the effort of trying to mist away from this place, this home , and you lean against the wall in the hope that it will help steady you. 

The door opens behind you, the creak of the old hinges deafening in the silence of the hall. There’s a commotion behind it, voices overlapping each other and reverberating in your skull until they’re a twisted mockery of your siblings. 

You stumble down the hall, one hand clutching your ribs to keep them as still as possible despite your movement. It’s not lost on you that there are footsteps following you, but you can’t focus on them now. You’re not moving fast, and you need to be, you should be running , but you can’t. Your vision is already clouding slightly at the edges, the sudden spike of adrenaline waning now that you’re out of the apartment. 

Someone says your name and you swing. 

It’s instinct, the way your fist flies through the air; you can’t control it, not this, not when the red is all you can see even as it seeps away and turns lilac. It doesn’t matter anyway. You don’t make contact with anything but the wall, plaster crumbling around your fist and onto the carpeted floor. 

“That was rude,” Taehyung says softly. He doesn’t sound mad, though he should, considering you almost decked him straight in the nose. “I’ll take you back.”

He drapes your jacket over your arm and walks away, toward emergency stairs tucked into the corner instead of the elevator, and you follow. He hums as he goes, and he lets you lead the way down the stairs, keeping pace with your quick steps until both of you step out a side door into an alleyway. 

Out of habit, more than anything, you light a cigarette and put it between your lips. You don’t miss the disgusted scrunch of Taehyung’s nose, but you do ignore it. The smoke is familiar in lungs, comforting, and he doesn’t understand it, won’t ever understand it, but he doesn’t have to. 

“Sorry, Tae,” You say after a few minutes of silence. Taehyung shrugs one shoulder and moves to lean beside you against the stone of the building. 

“Are you okay now?” You nod, taking a deep breath, remembering how Hestia had taught you, so long ago, how her hand felt against your chest, the warmth and love it held. “Then you’re forgiven. And you can call me Calliope, if you want.”

You’re both quiet after that. He doesn’t make fun of you, he doesn’t judge you, he just silently drives you back to Suho’s bar, which is when you remember that he doesn’t know where you live. You’re fine with it; you don’t want to see him in your run down hovel. It’s not much, especially compared to his own apartment, but that makes sense, too. 

What could ever live up to the home of a Muse? Not even a muse, really. The Muse. The Head of the Nine Muses, the one called on most often by those in need, the one that everyone knew, the one that Hephaestus just put statues of in the gardens of Olympus, according to the rumors that Apollo sent you. 

The calm that he brings lasts until you get back to your apartment, nearly ten full minutes after you disappear into the alley beside Suho’s bar. It’s the longest the calm has ever lasted, and the view of the city tinted lavender is one you think you love. 

If you can love. 

Things get clearer, somehow. The weight on your shoulders lessens, makes you feel less like Atlas and more like you, how you were all those years ago in the now-ancient days when things made sense. When people fought for honor and glory and justice more than they fought for oil and death and greed. 

It could be because open mic nights are frequent around the city, and you’re able to figure out his schedule pretty well. You don’t go every night that he sings, just when it gets to be too much, when the scarlet haze starts to bleed into your irises like a flag in front of a bull. It helps, for a while, lets you settle long enough to pull the pieces of you back into a shape that vaguely resembles yourself. 

It could be because the fights happen every night, and Taehyung is no stranger to where to look to find them. He watches every one that he can, when he isn’t singing, and his presence anchors you. Focuses you, so that you can pull your punches just enough, so that there’s less hurting and more fighting. It doesn’t work every time, you still lose yourself in the rage and do more damage than you ever mean to, but it helps enough. And when it doesn’t, he’s there, to slide a hand across your shoulders in that exact same way that Hestia used to, that Apollo might if you let him close enough to know you’re alive, that Artemis would , were she anywhere but where she is. 

It’s a strange feeling. You’re not used to companionship, you don’t know how to have friends. You still say the wrong things and do the wrong things and he still speaks to you like he expects to be listened to, but you both are learning. You apologize more often, and he corrects himself quicker. It’s a slow, fragile thing, this friendship, but it’s there. 

Until the night when it’s not. 

You aren’t sure how it happens. It’s been weeks since you last saw Taehyung; he mentioned some project he was working on, something or another that would have most of his attention along with that of several of the other Muses. You had brushed it off when he said it, some snide remark about how you don’t need him there to win. 

You would take it back if you could. 

Because you were right, of course, you don’t need him there to win; you can do that on your own. And your control has gotten better, stronger, over the last few months, but complacency is what always leads to disaster. 

The guy deserved it, is what you tell yourself as you’re pulled out of the ring. He was a piece of shit anyway, you remind yourself as you call Apollo with shaking hands. He didn’t deserve your mercy, you tell the golden gold after you’ve begged him to help save the man’s life. Artemis would have done the same, you insist to him, long after he’s hung up the phone and left to follow the ambulance to the hospital. 

You don’t go to Suho’s. You can’t bear it, not when he might be there, not when he would read it on your face in a heartbeat. You don’t want to watch the disappointment crumble into something more familiar, something worse, you can’t watch him look at you with the knowledge that your siblings are right, that they’ve always been right, that you’re nothing better than a crazed animal. 

The club is packed full when you get there. The bartender starts to pour you a drink and you just take the bottle, leaving a too-thick wad of bills in return. The bourbon tickles as it goes down but it warms your stomach and distracts you from the haze in your mind, the repetitive beat of they were right they were right they were right they were-

“Whoops, sorry,” someone says, a second before they knock into your shoulder. You’ve been around long enough to know a fake fall, and you scowl as you glance towards them. 

He’s cute. Taller than you, with skin that would hide the marks you so love to create, and hair that looks like it would be soft in your hands. His clothes fit well, and they look like they were chosen for comfort over style despite the way he walks like a model in them, which you always find attractive. 

The smile that slips onto your face is familiar, as is the way you bring your hand up to rest on his hip in an effort to steady him. 

“Don’t worry about it, sweetheart,” You tell him, not being subtle in the way you eye him. He looks soft; you love them soft. “You headed to get a drink?”

“I might be,” He says teasingly, a coy grin forming on his lips. 

“I’ve got something better, if you’re interested.”

His eyes roam along your body, his breath drawing somewhat quicker when he notices the scrapes on your knuckles. “I might be.”

It takes five minutes to get him to a corner quiet enough to talk. Less than three to get your lips on his. One and a half to start sucking a mark into his neck that makes him moan so pretty you can’t help but want to hear it again. 

One of your hands is up his shirt, playing with the pebbled buds and the metal pierced through them, while the other teasingly massages the skin of his hip when he’s torn away from you roughly. 

“What the fuck?” Your voice growls as you look up. The guy is standing there, looking for all the world like he’s ready to run, but he isn’t watching you. 

No, his eyes are on a familiar sight; Taehyung, his hair now a pretty lavender that makes you think of a home you don’t have, even as he doesn’t look at you. 

“Taken,” He growls, releasing the collar of the guy you had every intent to make cry with pleasure. The guy scurries off before you can stop him, though, and you don’t bother to hide your disdain. 

“What the fuck is your problem?” You demand, already lighting a cigarette as you head outside. Taehyung follows, pulling it from between your lips and crushing it in his hands before you have the chance to get your lighter out.

“Me? You looked like you were about to eat him .” He follows you all the way to the street outside and down the sidewalk, pulling each cigarette out of your hands before you can light it. He waits until you’re a decent distance from the crowd outside the club before he stops you, one hand lightly encircling your wrist. 

Your boots scuff against the ground as you stop, not turning to look at him. You’re too afraid to, too worried he’ll see it all on your face and just know that you’ve fucked up, maybe beyond repair. 

“Apollo called me,” is what he says instead. “Said I might want to find you tonight.”

You should’ve known. That little fuck, of course he would rat you out. 

“I didn’t-” 

The words choke in your throat. You want to say you don’t need him. You don’t need him to come running like you’re some scared little girl who can’t control her strength, you don’t need him to piece you back together because you aren’t broken, you don’t need him because you don’t need anyone, you never have. 

“I know you didn’t,” Taehyung says quietly. “I know he deserved it, I know what he did, and I know you didn’t mean to.”

Something inside of you breaks and you find yourself shaking. 

“He hurt her , Tae, I heard it, I heard her telling her friend about it on the phone, I saw her crying, I saw her clothes, okay, he-”

“I know,” Taehyung says, pulling you into a loose hug. “I know you did, it’s okay. He’s going to be okay. He’s not gonna escape his punishment from that, you didn’t send anyone to Hades today. It’s okay.”

The cloud struggles, for what feels like hours. Guilt settles like lead in your stomach, and you wish you weren’t so used to the feeling. The rage returns every time you remember what that girl looked like, what she sounded like on the phone, how you felt when you realized it was your competitor who had done that to her. 

There’s no honor in that. There’s no justice, no glory, in beating an opponent who was never aware they were in the ring, and it makes your blood boil all over again. Taehyung’s voice soothes you, slightly, makes the edges of your vision turn indigo, but it isn’t enough. 

It’s never enough. 

“I have to go,” You say, pulling yourself away from him. “I need- I have to find-”

“A distraction,” He finishes for you, too aware that you can’t find the words you need. “Some mortal that you can bruise and break and bang until you feel less like a monster?”

That’s exactly what you want to do, what you had been about to do with that guy at the club, and it’s only Taehyung’s voice calling your name in that soft, sweet way of his that makes you wonder if that’s not a good plan. 

“I’ll be a distraction, if you need one.” You whip your head around, staring at him, but he doesn’t flinch. “I’m sturdier than the mortals, I can take more. Let me be your distraction.”

“I…” You hesitate. You don’t know why. You shouldn’t even be entertaining this idea, it’s not a good one, but then...when have any of your ideas been good? “I can’t fuck in a house with eight other people.”

“You have an apartment,” He says easily. “Let’s go there.”

It’s a bad idea. You don’t do that, you don’t fuck people at your apartment, you don’t have people in your apartment, it’s your space. It’s a bad idea, it can only end in disaster. 

“Okay.”

Taehyung’s lips are soft against yours, yielding and pliant just the way you’re used to. His hands are big and warm against your ass, even through your jeans, and the feeling gives you the courage to slide your own under the ridiculously patterned button-down he’s wearing. 

He lets you lead the way through the door, kicking it closed behind you with slightly too much force. Your apartment is small, a studio with a bed tucked in the corner for the rare times that you need it. 

You push Taehyung onto it and slide yourself onto his lap, already grinding down onto the hard length you can feel there. He's not quite as enthusiastic, but his fingers are like steel against you, pulling you down with every rut of your hips. 

This, you can do. This, you're familiar with. 

You push on his shoulders, doing your best to get him on his back so you can have better access to the clasp of his jeans, but he resists. You try again, firmer, using a harsh suck against his skin as a distraction, but he still doesn't go. 

Frustrated, you pull back. 

"Not like this," He says. His voice clears some of the fog, and you frown. 

"Do you want to be on top, then? Because I don't mind, I just need it," You tell him. He sighs a little, but he flips the two of you over so he's kneeling between your open legs and your back is cushioned against the mattress. 

"How long has it been since you spent the night with someone who knows who you are?" He asks, pressing a kiss to your cheek as he sits back on his knees. 

You shift, uncomfortable. "A while. Why does that matter? Just fuck me."

"No," Taehyung says, voice gentle but firm. You cock a brow at him and move to get out from under him, but he stills you with a hand on your thigh. 

"You are a goddess," He tells you, trailing his hands down so he can undo the laces on your steel-toe boots and slide them off. "You have held Victory in your palms and set her free." 

His palms burn through the denim on your thighs, but you welcome it as he slides your jacket over your shoulders to the bed beneath. 

"You are the winner of wars. You are the one who grants battlefield wishes. You are the dead's escort to Hades." He leans down, pressing a soft kiss against your cheek and then down your throat. 

He pulls back as he gets to your collarbone, eyes blown wide with unfamiliar desire, and it makes your breath catch in your throat.

"You," Taehyung tells you, with desire in his eyes and belief in his voice, "Deserve to be treated like the goddess that you are, with the respect you have earned, and the care you deserve." 

As often as you fuck people, it's been a very long time since anyone wanted to fuck you for any reason beyond your appearance and the personality you show them. But this? This look in the muse's eyes as his hands settle on your knees as he waits? 

Taehyung wants to fuck you because you're you. Not despite it, not because he doesn't know . He has seen you at your worst and yet he keeps coming back, keeps showing up as you fall apart. Each time he stays, hands you a basket so you can pick the pieces of yourself up off the ground, holds the tape so you can mash it back together, and is ready to help steady you when you start to crumble again. 

He's here for you , to treat you in a way no one has ever treated you before. He's your friend.

He cares.

You nod, however tentatively, and his lips are on yours in an instant. They're firmer now, less pliable and more controlling, but you don't mind. Not this time. 

Not with Taehyung. 

His hands don't hesitate as he strips you both of your clothes, but you can feel it each time he checks to make sure you're okay. The way that he watches your expression, the tense of your muscles under him, the cadence of your gasps for air between kisses, he reads all of it as clear as if it's a book in front of him. He slows down before you can stop him, his lips drawing back from the kisses he draws across your thighs, and he speeds up as your thoughts start to drift, swiping his tongue and two fingers through your folds to tease and bring your attention back to him. 

His fingers bury themselves in your heat, crooking slightly to brush against that soft part of you that makes the world spin, and it's all too intense. His lips are hardly even touching your skin, just pressing gentle kisses against the skin of your thigh, a gentle complement to the way he glides his fingers in and out of you, slow and steady and delicious, but it's absolutely intoxicating. 

He's talkative, too; he gives you constant praise. He tells you how well you take his fingers, how good you look with his fingers inside you, how absolutely fantastic you taste on his tongue, how he'd live between your thighs if he could. 

It's too much, and you can't be sure why, not when your orgasm is approaching quicker than it ever has, not when your walls clench around him and you soak your sheets, not when he's cleaning your cum off his fingers with his tongue.

"Good," He purrs. "Now you're all warmed up." 

His mouth hits your heat without hesitation or warning, before the aftershocks are even finished, and your hips buck upwards. His arms slide underneath your thighs only to grip them and bring them back down. You can't move much in his grip except to grind your pussy against his mouth, which he seems to enjoy, if the muffled grunts that escape him are any indication.

He doesn't stop until his tongue is buried inside you with one finger drawing lazy circles on your clit and you're cumming again, hands gripping the soft strands of his hair so tight that you would be afraid of pulling it out if you could focus on anything besides the feel of him against you.

He lets you ride the aftershock, this time. Waits until your pants die down slightly, until you're back in your mind. 

"Good?" He asks you. His voice is deeper, rumbles instead of slides, but it breaks through the post-orgasm haze long enough for you to nod. “More?”

“More,” you agree, wrapping your arms around his broad shoulders and pulling him into a heated kiss. You haven’t been this clear-headed in a while. Every sensation is clear and crisp, every sound heightened, everything is simultaneously more while also being exactly what it’s always supposed to have been. 

Taehyung’s cock is everything you could have expected from a muse; thick, long, beautiful, and it fills you in a way that’s indescribable as he slides inside. He groans at the feeling, deep and throaty and beautiful, and begins his thrusts nearly immediately. 

It’s as slow as he was with his fingers; steady and forceful, but unhurried. As if he wants to take his time. As if he wants to savor it. Savor you . 

“Do you have any idea how amazing you are?” He mutters, almost as an afterthought. “What you look like right now, what you look like when you’re fighting, when you’ve won and you’re triumphant? It’s fucking addictive, seeing that confidence in you.”

“Shit, Tae, don’t stop-”

“It’s so fucking intoxicating,” He groans, pace quickening. Your arms wrap around him more fully, nails like claws down his back as you arch your back to get him deeper. “You get this look in your eyes, like you can do anything you fucking want to, and it’s so fucking brilliant, because you can , you can do anything and everything you ever fucking want to do, and no one can stop you.”

A whine you’ll never admit to escapes your throat, and Taehyung drives his cock further into you. 

“Let go, my sweet,” Taehyung purrs in your ear. “Let yourself relax, just this once. For me.”

His hand touches your clit and it’s so much, too much , you’re feeling everything so intensely that it takes a solid minute to realize you’re coming down from an orgasm. Taehyung has stilled inside you, unmoving but groaning as you flutter around him, and you push weakly at his shoulder. 

He slides himself out of you, looking entirely too proud of wet spot underneath you and glistening against his lower stomach. You wobble your way up to rest your elbows underneath you, and it’s like he can sense your words before they come. 

“No,” He says simply. “I don’t you to get me off with your mouth.”

“A hand then? I don’t want you to leave unsatisfied.” 

A frown pulls at the corner of his mouth, and he leans down just enough that your lips are almost touching, a not-there kiss that you can only wish for. 

“In what world is fucking you to the point of Elysium unsatisfying?”

The crowd around you is deafening; some of them are cheering for you, but the majority are rooting for your downfall. Such is the life of a challenging the champion, you suppose. 

You don’t know how Taehyung found this place; maybe Artemis had heard rumors, or maybe he searched for it himself. You can’t bring yourself to care, not when you’ve got someone worth fighting on the other side of the arena. 

The sand crunches beneath your feet. It’s hot, hotter than it should be since you’re still wearing your signature jeans and boots - without the jacket this time. You learned from that mistake. 

Your vision tints pink as you size up your opponent; he’s massive, not one to be easily defeated, and you relish the challenge. It’s been so long since you’ve fought a giant. Excitement thrums under your veins as he turns to you. He scoffs. 

If you had a little less control, you might be flying across the arena already. He clearly has no idea who’s standing across from him. Probably thinks you’re some demigod, come to challenge him for the fleece he isn’t supposed to have. 

He’ll learn. 

Something moves in the distance. It should blend in, considering how dark it is, but instead it draws your eye, and you don’t even question why. You would recognize him anywhere, have recognized him everywhere, and his presence calms you. Makes you remember a few nights ago, falling into bed in a hotel in Rome because the burn was to much and you needed him to help you release it. 

“Try not to be too quick, princess,” The giant across from you huffs. You cock a brow and send a look to your muse, who just rolls his eyes, despite the smile playing across his face. 

Violet rings your vision as you ready your stance. The announcer yells something that’s lost over the noise of the crowd. Taehyung leans forward, elbows on his knees, excitement and pride in his eyes. 

The giant swings. 

[lu-undy]

Hc! Theres days where Spy's scars itch. Hes uncomfortable on battle because of this. It isnt an itch you can scratch away, not really, the scar tissue is dense and he can get to she skin underneath it. Snipers job is to observe, so he notices how Spy squirms under his suit trying to make that itch dissapear, but its in vain. Sniper approaches his morethanfriend to see whats the matter. Spy is reluctant at first but he opens up to Snipes. Later dat day Snipes rubs some sorta thing on the scars.🐑

Alright, here we go, I hope you’ll like it :D

The Frenchman sighed and mumbled something in French to himself. It was summer and the habit of wearing a suit was less practical now, especially when topped with a mask. He was sweating beneath his attire… 

Him and his teams were in the respawn room and the battle was about to start. As the Administrator delicately sung the countdown, he lit a cigarette to take his mind off of what was truly bothering him. 

"BEGIN!" 

The gates flashed open and he watched his colleagues pour out of the room and into the battlefield. Spy cloaked and exited the room soon after.  He ran unnoticed, passing his colleagues and soon breaching enemy lines. 

He saw the Engineer setting up and upgrading a sentry in the back. He seemed alone and thank God, the nuisance that the enemy Pyro was was nowhere to be seen around the short man. That was his chance. Spy disguised as the fire spreading specialist and put a hand in his inner pocket. 

"Hey Pyro, need some ammo, pardner?" 

Spy hissed and shook his shoulder. 

Ah merde, not now…!

"Pyro…?" 

Merde!

The Engineer realised something was fishy with the way that his friend was holding his flamethrower. He raised his wrench and struck. Spy's disguised vanished. 

Beep-beep! 

The sentry rotated and the Frenchman felt like a rabbit flashed by a car light moments before impact. He knew he was done for. 

Click. 

Respawn was never pleasant. Not only did it leave a bit of a weird feeling, like a bitter aftertaste of death that your body somehow clings onto, but it also rhymes with defeat. Die and retry, as they say. 

The Frenchman lit a new cigarette and puffed on it aggressively. He was frowning and clenching his jaw. His annoyance was written all over his body and face. 

"Y'alright, pal?" 

Scout had respawned and put a hand on his colleague's shoulder. Spy shot him a murderous glance and wiggled his shoulder away from his hand. 

"Jeez, alright…!" 

The young man made sure his scattergun was reloaded and left the spawn room. Spy waited to see the distance between himself and Scout was large enough that he could tolerate it, and then exited himself. 

Part of his job was not to bump anyone and that day, he made it a point to stand away from everyone, friends or foes. The heat tired him and his failure at sapping a lonely sentry, barely defended, made his mood bitter. 

-- Evening, at the base -- 

"Putain de merde…" 

[Bloddy hell…]

The Frenchman was alone in his room. He had just exited the shower, wearing only a white tanktop and his pyjama trousers. He was standing in his bathroom, facing his mirror, an empty small cream box in his hands. 

What had been bothering him the entire day was the itch. 

He was used to it now. Whenever it was too hot or he sweated, one of his scars, the one on his right shoulder, would trouble him. It was a deep burn mark and the skin had healed up but the new skin wasn't as good as the "normal" one. It looked more transparent and felt different to the touch. But the most annoying thing is that that patch of skin was unable to deal with heat properly. Not only did it hurt when exposed to the sun - the same way a fresh burn would, only less strongly - but it could not possibly sweat or rather, humidity would form underneath a very thin layer of skin. It itched but couldn't be scratched away. 

Spy had been used to it. Whenever it bothered him, he would get a bit of cream there, to hydrate it and cool it down. He tossed the empty cream pot to the bin and got a new one. He opened it and took some of it on his fingers. Raising his eyes, he looked at himself on the mirror. 

The burn mark was large. He could see it when facing the mirror and he knew it spread back on his shoulder blade. Spy was about to put the cream on it when a knock on the door cut him. 

"Go to hell." 

He answered loud enough for whoever was standing there to hear him. 

"Well, I'm standing at its door apparently!" 

The Frenchman recognised that voice and the slight accent. 

Fine… 

He thought. Part of him was annoyed at the interruption. But it was only part of him. He put the cream pot back on the sink and slipped his mask and a dressing gown on. The Frenchman went to the door and opened it. 

"Bushman, how may I help?" 

Obviously, Spy was being sarcastic. 

"I was goin' to ask you the same, now, d'you mind…?" 

The Frenchman rolled his eyes and let his colleague in. The Australian entered and removed his hat. 

"Am I interruptin' somethin'? Do you want me to give you a minute?" 

Sniper was hinting at the fact that the masked man was in his pyjamas quite early.

"Non. It is fine. Just tell me what you want, I have very little patience for games tonight." He coldly answered. 

"Roight, let's sit and have one of your cigs." 

Both men took a seat on the sofa and Spy lit two cigarettes. 

"So, are you going to finally tell me what is it you seek with me?" The Frenchman sounded impatient and mildly annoyed. 

"It's how you behaved today." 

Silence fell for an instant. One of those awkward ones. 

"What about it?" Spy feigned innocence though he very well knew what Sniper was getting at. 

"I've watched you and you didn't seem normal. Also, you didn't sap the sentries as nicely as you usually do. And you got caught a lot more."

"And?" The impatience and boiling rage were very clearly visible on the Frenchman's face.

"And I want to help." 

Spy's eyebrows jumped. He had expected Sniper to tell him that he had been very bad at his job and asking him why. But non. 

"You want… to help?" He repeated. 

"Yeah. What's wrong with you? I've seen you actin' awfully weird, shaking your shoulder every other second as if you had something on it. I'm guessing something's on yer mind." 

The Frenchman's lips pursed up to a faint smile. 

"And you are wrong. Nothing is on my mind. And yes, I have been spectacularly mediocre today. Thank you for noticing."

"Spy, you don't have to take it that way-"

"Oh but I am."

"Spy, look-"

"Are you done?" The Frenchman dryly cut him.

Sniper didn't want to leave. He knew how stubborn and hard-hearted his colleague could be. But he said he would help and he would. He didn't go away from the comfort of his van for nothing. If confronting the masked man didn't work, maybe something else would. 

Sniper raised his hand and about to put it on Spy's right shoulder but the Frenchman slithered away even before the Australian could touch him. 

"Hey… It's only me." 

Spy raised his eyes and saw his friend's earnest face. He sighed.

"Fine. Here is what has been bothering me. But Sniper, one word of this to anyone else and I will make sure it is your last." Spy raised a threatening index finger. 

Sniper smiled softly. 

"Y'know me. I don't talk." 

Spy nodded. It was the force of habit… He put a hand on his dressing gown and pulled it down from his shoulder, revealing the burn mark. 

"Oh, Christ…" 

"I stopped invoking his help a long time ago…" Spy sarcastically answered. 

"Did you see the Doc' for it? Does it hurt a lot?" 

"Medic knows about it but there isn't much him or anyone else can do. I just live with it."

"When did you get it?" 

"A long time ago. I'm used to it. It's just when the temperature gets a bit too high, it itches in an unbearable way. I can't scratch it away." 

"Is there anything you can do to make it itch less?"

"There is a cream that I put. It's not a miracle solution but it lessens the itch and the burning sensation. I was about to put some before you came in." 

"Oh sorry mate, go and do it, I don't want to bother you." 

"Give me an instant." 

The Frenchman disappeared to the bathroom and re-appeared soon after with the small cream jar in his hand. He put the cigarette between his lips and removed the dressing gown before sitting down. Sniper couldn't help but stare. Spy was lean, maybe even a bit slim. His fair skin was beautiful.

"I can help you if you want." 

Spy raised an eyebrow. 

"I mean, surely you can't reach the rest behind your back…?" 

"Why, thank you. I think I will manage." 

"Okay." 

Sniper watched as his friend spread the cream on his shoulder. He massaged slowly, avoiding the tanktop. He hissed now and then, while the Australian tried to imagine how it could feel, the pain, the itch. He also wanted to feel that odd-looking skin below his fingers. But it hurt him. As if Spy wasn't cold-hearted enough, his own body worked to make him more bitter… 

"Spy, you're clearly strugglin'..." 

"Non, I'm not!" The Frenchman was irritated. 

"Hey…?" 

Their eyes met. 

"Let me try." 

Sniper extended his hand and offered his palm. 

"Fine…" 

Spy put the cream pot on it. 

"Makes you very angry this itch, eh?" 

"You cannot imagine how annoying it is." 

"Turn yer back." 

Spy's eyebrow twitched. 

"Nothin' to fear, I'm not the backstabber here…!" 

The Frenchman rolled his eyes and turned. 

"Now, remove yer top." 

"Bushman?!"

"It's only her back! And it'll make it actually easier! Can't put the cream where your top is, now can I?" 

Spy grumbled but obliged and Sniper was now facing the Frenchman's back. It looked like a abstract canvas of scars. Bullet marks, burn marks, cuts… He couldn't see it but the masked man was ashamed. He knew his body was bruised, awfully so. But Sniper's body was too, albeit differently. The man had fought more animals than men so he had more bites and claw marks than bullets or knife cuts.

"Don't hold your shoulders up like that, breathe and relax." 

"Had I been behind your back, you would react the same way, Bushman."

"Fair, but I'm not you. I don't kill from people's back." He spread the cream on the Frenchman's shoulder blade, trying to not push his hand too hard. 

"Non, you shoot them for far away." 

"A kill as clean as yours." 

"Correct. But my job is high risk for a high reward. Yours is more… safe."

"What?! No it's not! Do you know how much I'm bullied by the other bastard of a Spook?!" 

Spy chuckled. 

"Does that mean I am a bastard too?" 

Sniper's eyes raised to Spy's back of his head. The Frenchman turned his head slightly, waiting for his friend to answer. Each second of silence weighed more than the previous one. 

"Nah, no, you're not." 

"What am I then? I, too, am a Spook." 

"Oh yeah you are, no doubt about that… Nah, you're a Spook, but uh… You're fine." 

"Fine?"

Sniper chuckled nervously. 

"Y-you know what I mean…" 

The Australian had covered all the scar with the cream now. He put the lid back on the pot and closed it. 

"Do I?" Spy insisted with a smirk. 

The Australian smiled. 

"Yeah you do. You aren't stupid." 

Sniper was facing Spy's naked back. The Frenchman's shoulders were relaxed and he appreciated the breath of his friend on it. It helped cooling it down. The Australian handed the cream back to the Frenchman, from behind. 

Spy took the cream and Sniper's eyebrows jumped when he realised that he had also grabbed his hand and pulled on it. 

"I wouldn't have opened my door to anyone else." Spy said.

"I… Thanks." 

The Frenchman pulled on his friend's hand more and he felt Sniper's weight shift on the sofa, closer. 

"Non, thank you. I know I can be in a particularly foul mood sometimes. And I make myself hard to approach. Yet you remain." 

Sniper smiled and laced his arm around his friend's torso and pulled him in closer. Spy closed his eyes went Sniper's hug hit inside him. The Australian was hugging him from behind, resting his chin on his left shoulder. 

"Y-yeah. I don't know, I just think that… I mean sometimes you're a bit angry or sad. But you just need someone to be there for ya." 

Spy melted in his friend's arms. He felt the Australian's fingers lace between his. 

"I might sometimes." 

"Nah, you do, really." 

"What makes you say that?" Spy asked. 

"I can't see your face but I'm sure you're…"

"I'm enjoying this more than I can say, oui."

Spy turned his head to look his friend in his eyes. Sniper's pupils were wide and his smile, dreamy. The Frenchman's smiled widened as he pushed his cheek against the Australian's. 

"You should shave those sideburns off."

"In yer dreams. Also, why should I do that?"

"They sting me even through my mask." 

"Remove it and it will sting not through it then!" 

Spy turned his head again to look at his friend. 

"Well, I had to try…!" Sniper said.

"What makes you think that it is just a try?" 

Sniper got confused but saw his friend's hand rise from his lap and his fingers settle around his neck, at the base of his balaclava. 

The Australian never forgot that night.

[miafmpwsc]

FASHION DESIGNER- HAUTE COUTURE COLLECTIONS

DIOR-

This is part of their Autumn- Winter 2020-2021 Haute Couture collection. These pieces of clothing are women's wear and are very extra. The black pieces have a extremely mysterious look, this may be because the colour black resembles darkness which creates a scary atmosphere. I love the bottom black design as the sleeves are huge and very different, which creates a focal point because there so extordanary. The pieces with colour on are also very out there, as there bottoms both widen from the waist down, this gives me vintage vibes- for example its like clothing in the Victoria times. The colours in the white dress are quite dull but all link very well within the abstract design on the dress. This design makes the dress stand out a lot more, then the gold buckle bet also fits in well as it links with all the colours but also stands out as its the only bold thing within the five as its shiny. Finally the middle dress with the brighter colours on is interesting because we can see repetition of the shapes throughout the whole dress. The colours on the dress make it stand out as there is vibrant and also theres some dark and bright colours which contrast to each other making it more athletically pleasing.

GIVENCHY- 

This is there collection for spring summer 2019. The Givenchy Haute Couture collection for Spring Summer 2019 took place on January 22, 2019, in the lower galleries of the Musée d’Art Moderne de la Ville de Paris. With “Bleached Canvas”, Clare Waight Keller furthers her philosophy of modern couture and broadens the distinctive Givenchy signature with an of-the-moment aesthetic that is hers alone.  

This collection was womenswear and menswear, however I mostly took images of the womenswear as there was more women on the catwalk and there clothes were more out there. These pieces are focused on ‘modern couture’ and I think this has come across well as there's no huge shoulders or super puffy dresses like the victorian style would have. I love this collection because the clothing is basic but also very over the top. For example the black two piece its very slim fitted which makes the pice more modern however the arms puff out massively and I think that's what makes the pice as its a huge focal point. The males suit is also very basic and modern but its got all the detail which makes it stand out, the black suit and the silver botanicla design contrasts as its so bright and shiny with a dark plain back, this is what makes the pice so extra.

JEAN PAUL GAULTIER

This collection is his spring 2020 couture on VOGUE runway.

I absolutely love this collection as its so over the top and almost looks like they could be outfits for a film. I think his collection is so interesting with lots of different things going on- for example he has basic blazers on men and women however his made it over the top by the models not actually wearing the blazer, this makes it look unrealistic in a realistic way- which just draws people in as its so cool.  As Gaultier explained backstage of those anarchic early collections, “I was recycling things, because at the beginning I had no money. So I was taking things like jeans and camouflage and doing funny things with them—and now I did that with my couture!” As he carries on what he did when he had no money it represents a story of his life as he's got so far and is now comporting what he did when he was poor in his designer collection. In LOOK 20/21 he uses neutral colours and seems to have had inspiration from a corset- this looks modern and stylish. Overall I love this collection as he uses many different outfits all contrasting with eachother, uses lots of different textures within his clothing and some of his bits have the look of costumes which makes it interesting. This is my favourite collection as it has so much fun, exciting clothing pieces to look at.

[drbriangay]

Hey, so a little bit ago someone asked me if i would do a tutorial type thing on how to achieve realistic drawings and although this would probably fair better as a video my voice is shit and i can make sure i get everything down if i type it out.

I think the best way to do this is take you through one of my drawings? My latest Brian drawing i saved a decent amount throughout it so i can kind of comment on each process of the drawing. For the this drawing i drew it on Photoshop CS5 which is important bc i do utilise a lot of the tools there so if you use smth different then im sorry but im sure there are alternatives! I’m going to talk you through this drawing:

Because i dont use natural skin colours in my drawings i start drawings in black and white because i find that easier to control the tones? and then i can colour the drawing afterwards in whatever colour and play about with it instead of sticking with a colour from the get go. 

I start with painting the entire background a light ish grey because 1) its nice to work highlights and shade into a mid tone and 2) having pure white as a background can be a bit uninspiring? even with my sketchbooks i always make backgrounds before i do anything on them.

I then take a large brush, i use a mid-dark toned grey for this, i don’t like going in super dark super fast, and kind of mark out where everything goes super loosely, precision and proportions really don’t matter at this point, it will probably look bad but that’s fine! you’ll refine it as you go on!  the brush i use for this stage is usually just a soft non textured brush, but i don’t think the brush you use at this point really matters. My drawing will kind of look like this at this point:

I then go in with a smaller brush with a darker colour and kind of refine the face a little bit, i really take in the shapes of the face i’m drawing and try and get a good base to then really work on the shading/highlighting. Again, although this is your base to work on the proportions aren’t super important, it may still look bad but whatever is wrong with it you can just draw right over it to correct it! This is why i try and not give up on drawings even if they aren’t going the way i’d like it to because you can always correct it! my drawings never look amazing when i start them but i like to work into them as much as i can and i usually end up with something i’m proud of! anyways lmao, this is what my drawing will look like at this point: 

This is when i start the proper like working into the drawing with highlighting and shading and things. I also change my brush at this point! Honestly any brush will do but i really like the aesthetic of having a super textured brush, I do sometimes change up my brush every so often but the brush ive been using more often than not is this brush:

Also at this point i try and not use pure black or pure white, if you’re trying to go for a realistic look then i feel pure white n black really don’t factor into a face.I also think if you use more mid tone colours then there’s more of a natural gradient? which looks more realistic i feel. Of course if you like the aesthetic of having a high contrast then go for it! this is just how i personally like to do it.

I know a lot of people work by gradually working the whole face, like do loose highlights and dark tones on the whole face and then refining it but i like to do each part of the face one by one and i usually always start with the nose, this isn’t important lmao i just enjoy drawing noses so it’s what i start with. i think the use of highlight is super important to utilise when drawing the nose because its what suggests form,, this is my drawing will look like at this point:

I do end up darkening the shadow on the right side of his nose and the bottom of his nose but i usually get to this point and then move on and then once i do more ill go back and try and bring more dimension to the drawing.

Also! one of the best tools on photoshop that you can utilise and in some of my drawings it’s my saving grace is the liquify tool. Basically if you do the drawing and get to a point it would be hard to paint over then u can use liquify, as i was doing other parts of the face i realised that the nose was supposed to be a little to the left and the eyebrows had to be lower down so you if you open up liquify you can just click and drag the nose to where you want it to be so:

it’s a super helpful tool that really helps you get the facial features exactly where you need it, i used it a couple times throughout this drawing. I don’t think sai has it but you can use the lasso tool and rotate it or whatever and just draw over the little break it makes in the canvas:

so the next thing i do is the eyes and eyebrows. I’m usually not the greatest at getting the exact eye shape but again, liquify is your best friend. An important thing to note is the angle of the eyebrows in relation to the middle of the nose, Brian’s eyebrows are quite straight so i tried to keep them that way. I also started darkening up the drawing, i didn’t quite go full black, the darkest colour i used is like just off black. This is what i have so far:

Also another important thing to remember is the lighting of the image, in the image the right side of his face is more shadowed so the shadow on the left side of his nose wont be as intense as the right side and things like the bags under his eye on the right side would be slightly more prominent. Also because of the brow bone, theres more highlight on top of the brows and usually a shadow underneath because the brows are more elevated and the eyes are sunken in a lil bit. There will be a lil bit of highlight on the inner corner of the eyes though. 

In the next part of the drawing i just add a little bit to the forehead and cheeks :

I think by this time i had adjusted a couple of things like the angle his face was at was a little bit too tiled in my original draw so i just free transformed it and fixed the angle and the face i think was a little bit too wide so i just pulled it in a little bit. I think another thing to remember that places like the cheeks and forehead wont be pure highlight, especially with like men and older faces there will be more subtleties, with Brian he has highlight on the top of his cheekbones but the highlight is kind of broken up with the line that comes down under his eye and the forehead isnt a smooth bump above the eyebrows, especially with the lighting of the image the highlights get broken up a little bit. 

The next drawing is a little fast forward, i forgot to save in between but ill try and talk through everything:

When finishing up I realised the left eye/eyebrow was a little too high so i liquified that baby up to bring it down just a little bit. Another thing i sometimes struggle with is getting the exact shape of the face and angle of the jaw but you can just keep on drawing on top of it until it looks vaguely right. 

For the lips and mouth i think its kind of just a matter of trying to get a sense of the shape, look at the cupids bow and the length between the top lip and the bottom of the nose and how far the lips come out in relation to the nose as well, i think as well the shadow underneath the bottom lip is usually all you need to suggest the shape of the lip, it doesnt look all too natural if theres like a solid like to show the shape of the lip, the top lip though, because of the way the light is sitting on his face is almost completely shadowed, so the highlight on the cupids bow that goes down to the edge of the mouth is what helps give the mouth form. With teeth because they’re in his mouth so they’re not going to be super bright so i didnt add any highlight to them and just used a dark tone to outline the shape of them at the bottom and used a little bit of shading in between them to differentiate between them. 

For the eyes i usually just leave them without the pupils because it’s my brand but it wasnt looking quite right to me so i added a little outline of the pupils, i didnt want to do the full pupil because i like adding a lil smth interesting in the eyes but i like the way they turned out!  

The jaw you can usually bring out with the shadow of the neck. I didnt really feel like drawing the outfit so i kind of just did a couple of lines so show that he was wearing a shirt with a collar.

 Also for brian because he has so much hair i more often than not just use flat colour for his hair and because his hair is so dark it usually works fine but with people like Roger who has lighter hair is doesnt usually work out well? especially with a more realistically drawn face. I was originally going to keep the entire background that colour but it wasnt looking quite how i wanted to. I coloured first though, and tbh my colouring process really doesnt take me that long, the longest part is just working out what colours id like to use and what looks good with the drawing I've made.

So for colouring i use the gradient tool, you have have a gradient thats two colours that will make your drawings look like this

but recently ive started using the gradients with three colours so the highlighted sections will be a different colour to the base colour, i really like the way this comes out, without any other editing itll look smth like this:

I like to play about with the settings a little bit because i do enjoy the way this looks but it’s kind of a bit overpowering and i think sometimes the details of the drawing can get lost when you overdo it a bit? 

If you go through this itll give you many different versions of that gradient and i like to go through it and see which i feel compliments the drawing

heres a couple examples

The one i ended up going for was dissolve but it was a bit too intense so i turned the opacity down to 57%

which gave it a kind of static feel which i was in to, to finish it up i added a tiny bit to show some shoulders and then i wanted to add a tiny bit of a background so i used a flat pinky colour and put that around his hair and then on top of the background i added a little bit more into the hair.

and added so more vibrant pink into it as well just to spice her up a little bit.

[libidomechanica]

I see this world, your Highness the hills of old that in the light

D— the fire doth thy  Beautie but both man and cloyd, for  heroes, name by name, though 

one, pervades a moments before:  he was awe  in this our 

lips apart a corners. —There was  of their lords of  life, a thing novel, nothing worse 

used of the glen? Stop, let  me read there were dead the  soft cheek being a you 

and loveth the sea which ( it may be told her:  As I came. After a dew 

or dew-like show of largeness  when her voice the  official candidate. 

The General  noise of his opinion, wherewith  being more or less by 

the smoke was sent:  it dried her for the  finger-tips: as oer Danubes 

waters with gore.  Who sings so much oats had fallen the  canvas; their own, used! Learn to 

call her wing against  earths old and rail, wherewith  beauties do too — Harry, Tommy, Wilfred, 

Edward, Bert — and life in  peace, for I will sing, this  lecture, you know I cant tell how 

it eer got in or out;  theres its spheres, which close … it looks appear but those good 

will her Kidde: but he would fall  sick of that burne so crafty,  as so, much needeth all on 

one side of quietness,  safe-smiling, and dies, since they seem  when Juan sat next 

to the least nine tenths  of what is it, my  Heart-of-Hearts, which some applause, 

of which some of us  have been your freedom.  By the snakes around 

my womanhood, but you were in  this however than all  his should appear, or grave was 

left the sky will  be a gainer too; for  fear, opend heaven, they course 

to haunt the prey of  glory, and with  ourselves, one whose red 

mournful lips, and after her  lily arms took both heart in twaine)  thy fathers bosom is the 

authority, now most firmly  proue. I no longer coldness your  age, repeyreth hoom from such 

sweets alang: in evrywhere there  was all. He had sometimes,  as hath befall the 

nameless summer wind, flung here;  being farther hamperd, only to  draw up in array a 

single blesse that, seeing matter;  so that rings of you, and  taking the verge of 

striking, poised to march with  all its veil of my  kin a rabbit; but counterpart 

shall not mean falling  and kind; but some difficult  to stomble at the 

sky will last foe is  echoes faintly said: “I knew at  whatever found a 

wise men growth a vengefulness  that charity we owe but what  he would not see the heaviest 

that whatever  bar the gout,—pronounce it  came to pass his dying 

embers of celebrity  dined well; but all are better to  make him w

hen he comes—but not retreated,  but they told the vain, such  as the night as the 

field. ‘O though so thine at ane  an’ twenty score, whereon  Johnson joind a certain signs 

which scarce a third was  shown, on each, find something of  her movies, for fear 

my jewels trifle—an ‘old  song,’ set to some slight reade those  which passd away, or let me 

read them with modesty,  or absence of me  would be possessed. And where? 

Amongst the inscription on  its best acquaintance hath had  given to lay, yet 

mixd so slight badge is but an  innocent, for what once  shaved” and brake an “ignis fatuus;” 

or as rhyme, Grant only  for the Moslem men”  I think his trecheree. or near 

religion till she seized  her past exertion and the “ Amor Mios! threw them all 

do still I am, was,  and grow a home is  wanting art, soon regained the 

dark, the streaming fountain  when they go. Titus  exclaiming;—Juan! Air “midst thou 

art forced to church, or hawk,  or bride, and thy beauty; others  could kick down into 

thy believe Columbus found, whom  Julianas eyes Id known, had  nothing canopy.” And I will, 

to taste loues dainty food;  if eagle fiercely gave me fashion.  Re nothing utterd, say

ing in “t beyond,  I wish well to Trojan and  Trojan and many never 

die, but with the  French will do well, ladies, in  brief, and whining, and 

problem was finding worn  to be a slave to  speak but little bootes all 

her with most lifes  flow rolls by thy beauty,—that is  all ‘that I must neer she third 

fell on his pipes ambrosial,  Pharisaic times, wide gates, at all than  not be mended: so conteck 

soone by one through the garden  their wish to hear this  barn, fu’ is his bag; but O” 

with many people deem  her full fifty rubles round, “for  one to have made 

itself confound by  seeing what he owes thee virtue,  like Addisons ‘faint praise, that smells,’ 

if not from her hate, death  shown. Aurora, who is parents  If you aint never to 

what great resources of the  supper tongue. Today  we are less: some twenty, 

Tam. Some slight tinge of ‘Blue,’ could say  more” than all the “Improvvisatore.  The Greek or 

for Zinghis in colourd  more nigh the Turks their days, in  stars, yet sinks beneath whose degrees, 

and they felt their hair is cool  as I; but if she dights her,  but little, as the 

moon; and, as the night  upon the blight of ancient  Hag of Fate, though thunders 

within,” maud to  his sect is rich as moths  from their own hall to hall.

[em-be-lievable]

Hello!! Whereith thou get thee cool punked clothing? Ith would like to dress as cool as thou

Y’all gotta stop enabling me with my special interests- I WILL write you novels.

This is gonna be a whole thing, so sit your butt down and prepare to listen to me yell for ten years. 

This question is literally different depending on what I’m wearing- but my clothes fall into three schools of fashion which I’ll refer to ‘Statement makers’ ‘Essentials’ and ‘Accents.’ 

THE STATEMENT MAKERS: 

These are the pieces that make strangers want to start arguments that they can’t win on the streets with me XD I have 4 in total: Though each one is a work in process. “Where does get one of these fine pieces?” You may be asking yourself? “Surely there is a hot topic-esque store that must provide such items!” The long and short is no, there isn’t. You gotta make these yourself.

So how you do that?

Step one: Start with a base.I like to keep these relatively cheap bc A: I’m broke, and B: This way I can put a little more money into ‘accents’ (which I’ll explain more about later) First you need that base- a good garment that will hold up to your daily life and tolerate the abuse you’re about to put it through. What I do is go to my local thrift store, or good will (not salvation army. F*ck the salvation army) and get one second hand. The vest and the leather jacket above ran me a total of 20$ instead of the 100$ you’d waste if you bought it from Big Business (and also f*ck them too for killing the environment and the economy) Be heckin’ thrifty and crafty with it- you’re essentially purchasing your canvas so don’t be afraid to scrounge. 

Step two: Gather your men.And by men, I mean the sh!t you’re gonna adhere to this beast. A good place for pins/patches? Etsy. Theres literally millions of options you can get from small businesses and independent artists all over the world and they’re usually pretty cheap: Ranging anywhere from 1$ (plus shipping) to 15$ for big back pieces. Literally every single patch that wasn’t gifted or I didn’t make was purchased via etsy. Which brings me to my second option for pins and patches: Make them. You can get a button maker if you’re feeling frisky- or just go to a f*ck ton of rallies and accommodate them from there. Patches can easily be made with a scrap of black fabric and some white fabric paint. At my local WalMart a yard of plain black cotton fabric will run you about 3$ and will get you 10-20 patches depending on the size. The paint will run you about 1.50$ and an afternoon of your time just grinding away at it. 

And if you’re Extra Edgy™ like me- you’re gonna need some heckin SPIKES. Spikes are surprisingly easy to come by and add to your pieces- I get the little screw on ones: on Etsy it’ll run you about 10$ for 100 of them- or if you’re okay with it, use amazon and get 500 for 8$ (As much as I’m not a fan of big business, I can understand the need to go with the cheapest option.) 

Step three: Just literally throw that sh!t together.This is the fun part: Making it your own. This way no one has the same sh!t as you and you can wear your pride on your sleeve, back, chest ect-Small words of wisdom: -Iron on patches are weak. They’re not going to stay on for long. Just surrender to the fact you’re going to have to sew that sh!t on now and save yourself the heartache. -If you get/make flimsy fabric patches, you’re gonna need interfacing. You can also buy this at walmart for around 4$ a yard and it’ll save you so much goddamn trouble. -There is no way in the freshest of hells you’re going to be able to sew on a patch to a leather jacket. Just scrap that notion now- it’s not going to happen. So what can you do? Aleene’s super fabric glue. Literally the jaws of life aren’t gonna be enough to rip that patch off your jacket if you use it. Idk who Aleene sold her soul to to get such sticky sh!t but I stan her for it forever. -Don’t be afraid to paint directly onto your items. It’s so much f*cking fun. Just do it.-If you’re gonna make this a whole hobby/lifestyle you might want to consider investing in a sewing machine. You’ll never know true agony until you spend days hand sewing on a back piece stitch-by-stitch only to realize it’s crooked when it’s done. At least if you use a machine it’ll be 5-10 minutes of work lost as apposed to literal hours. 

THE ACCENTS: 

This is where you’re gonna throw the money you saved by thrifting your statements. These are the splurges, that one shirt with the funny logo you have saved in your bookmark bars, that impulse buy at the mall. The pricier things that you’re just not gonna be able to make yourself and would rather ask for for your birthday/christmas/whenever you’d be receiving presents.

So, as for MY guilty pleasure spots: 

WildBlackSheep on Etsy. What can I say? I love an independent bish. And their shirts are just so witty and funny, I love them to death and back. Not to mention the customer service is UNREAL. 10/10 would recommend to a friend.

WickedClothes.com. I’m just a dead ringer for combining that 80′s cartoon style with my morbid sense of humor. The ‘Let’s Have A Seance’ ringer tee is one of my favorite shirts. 

JohnnyCupcakes. Literally theres like one design, but it’s a design I love. If the cupcake with crossbones doesn’t convey who I am as a person, idk what does.

BlackCraftCult.com. Now, I’m not a satanist- but I’m extremely supportive of the ideals that neosatanism has. (Which is essentially just believing in yourself and not being an assh*le) Plus, satanist or not, the designs are dope. 

angryyoungandpoor.com. So, you want a particular piece of ‘punk’ fashion that can only be bought, but you don’t want to pay full price for it. This is your stop. It’s discount classic punk fair to find all your favorite brands at not full prices, plus more. The website can be like a goddamn maze but I’m sure every punk will find something they like there.

And theres so much more, but I’ll be here all day just getting down EVERYWHERE I buy clothes XD These are just my favorite brands, and the ones I frequent most to treat myself. 

THE ESSENTIALS: 

Now for last, but not least- literally the staples. The basics. The things every person who ever wears clothes ever needs. The foundation to lay all your accessories and statements upon to get a good cohesive look on you and have you feeling completely punkified. Find these literally anywhere that works best for you: Goodwill, Target, Walmart, whatever. It doesn’t matter as long as you have these staples to build upon your punky exterior. 

The shopping list:

-Black pants. Everyone and their mother needs just one good pair of plain black pants. They just go well with literally anything and are a dope addition to an edgy exterior. If you’ve got the funds and the time, I’d highly recommend finding one pair that fits you well and buying two of them- Keep one as normal but then take a couple of serrated knives and sandpaper to the other and give yourself some distressed pants. (Afterall, why on Gaia’s green earth would I buy PRE RIPPED JEANS when I’m the proud purveyor of my own destruction?)

Jeans.Same as the first for better or worse: You need a nice pair of jeans. I’d recommend doing the same shtick with the black pants and getting one pair to keep and one pair to rip up.

Plain black t-shirt.Literally get your butt to a dollar tree and get yourself a plain black t-shirt or two. You have no idea how useful it is to pair with your clothes. Just do it.

Plain white t-shirt.See above.

Boots.Combat boots just make the outfit. You may want to invest in a nice long-wear pair since shoes can be kinda expensive and you want a lot of milage for your buck. I’m a big fan of classic Docs bc they last FOREVER and are just good shoes. And if you’re not big on animal made items good news: They come in Vegan now. 

Converse.They’re just good shoes what can I say? It’s classic, it’s comfortable, it’s always been around and it’ll always be around. You can get them in all kinds of styles and colors- like why do I even need to explain to you why converse are a good idea? I bet 5$ you already own a pair! They’re also great running shoes in case you need to flee from cops if need be, in my experience.

And from there you can mix and match with jewelry (in the face or otherwise) and hair to get a whole look! Hope this helps my darling!! Best of luck with punking it up!!! 

[the-desolated-quill]

Quill’s Swill - The Worst Of 2018

Congratulations dear reader. You survived 2018. And you know what that means. It’s time for another best of/worst of list. Welcome to Quill’s Swill 2018. A giant septic tank for the various shit the entertainment industry produced over the course of the year. The films, games, TV shows and various other media that got on my bad side. As always please bear in mind that this is only my subjective opinion (if you happen to like any of the things on this list, good for you. I’m glad someone did) and that obviously I haven’t seen everything 2018 has to offer for one reason or another. In other words, sorry that Fantastic Beasts: The Crimes Of Grindelwald isn’t on here. I’m sure it is as terrible as some have been suggesting. I just never got around to watching it.

Okay everyone. Grab your breathing masks and put on your rubber gloves. Let’s dive into this shit pile.

Hold The Sunset

The news that John Cleese would be returning to the world of BBC sitcoms was incredibly exciting, being a massive Fawlty Towers fan and all. Unfortunately Hold The Sunset was not quite what I had in mind. It’s one of those rare breed of situation comedies that chooses to offer no actual comedy. It’s not a sitcom. It’s a sit. Like Scrubs or The Big Bang Theory.

An elderly couple plan to elope abroad only for Alison Steadman’s son to barge in, having left his wife, and forcing them to put their plans on hold. Hence the title ‘Hold The Sunset.’ It’s like a cross between As Time Goes By and Sorry, but if all the humour and relatability were surgically removed by a deadpan mortician. The characters are weak, the plots are thin on the ground and the humour (hat little of it there is) feel incredibly dated. The middle aged mummy’s boy is something that hasn’t been funny since the 90s. It’s an utter waste of great talent and what hurts even more is that this tripe is actually getting a second series. I can only assume the people watching this are comatose. Either that or there’s an epidemic of people in Britain who have lost the remote.

Avengers: Infinity War

Yes this is one of the worst movies of 2018 and no I don’t regret saying that one little bit. Avengers: Infinity War was fucking terrible. Period. There were too many plots and characters going on, which made the film hard to follow (and what staggers me is that the so called ‘professional’ critics have condemned movies for having too many characters and plots before. Spider-Man 3, The Amazing Spider-Man 2, Batman vs Superman: Dawn Of Justice and even Deadpool 2. But because this is an MCU movie, it gets a free pass. Fuck off). The characterisation was weak due to sheer number of characters they try to juggle, resulting in characters coming off as one dimensional caricatures of themselves and scenes where characters such as Iron Man, Doctor Strange and Star-Lord sound completely interchangeable. The villain, Thanos, is a stupidly and poorly written villain, but that’s hardly surprising considering what a shit job Marvel have done building him up over the course of these 20+ movies. And let’s not forget that pisstake ending. A bunch of prominent Marvel characters die and it’s all very, very sad... except all these characters just so happen to have sequels planned, which makes this ending fucking pointless and have less impact than a feather on a bouncy castle.

I don’t know which is more shocking. That Marvel and Disney think their audience are that stupid and gullible, or that their audience are actually validating their view. Fuck you Disney.

Harry Potter: Hogwarts Mystery

I’ve always wanted a Harry Potter RPG, where you could customise your character, choose your house and actually live a full school life at Hogwarts. This year, Warner Bros and Jam City gave us just that.

That was a mistake.

Harry Potter: Hogwarts Mystery is the epitome of everything that’s wrong with the mobile gaming market right now. The gameplay is boring and involving where you just tap images on a screen until a progress bar fills up. Wizard duels are little more than rock-paper-scissors challenges that require no kind of skill. Bonding with friends and caring for magical creatures just consist of pathetically simple pop quizzes and yet more boring tapping. Oh and of course you only get a certain amount of energy to complete these tedious tasks. If you run out of energy, you wait for it to fill up... or pay up for the privilege. So determined are they to extract your hard earned cash from your wallet, there’s actually a bit where Devil’s Snare strangles your eleven year old avatar and the game effectively tries to guilt trip you into paying micro-transactions to save them. It’s sleazy, gross and manipulative. Honestly, you’re better off just playing Candy Crush.

Agony

When the developers of this game said they wanted to give the player a trip through Hell, they had no idea how true that statement really was. Agony is dreadful on a number of levels. The design for Hell itself, while visually interesting at times, is often not very practical and gets quite dull and repetitive after a while. The stealth mechanics are a joke and the AI of your demonic enemies are pitiful. All of this alone would have been enough to put this game on the list, but then we also have the casual misogyny. Agony is a gorefest trying desperately to shock the player. We see men and woman get tortured, but it’s the women that often get the extreme end. The violence inflicted on them is often sexual in nature and the game seems to go out of its way to degrade and dehumanise women at every turn. The orgasmic cries of ‘pull it out’ quickly become a staple of the game’s experience as we see naked women raped, tortured and murdered, all for the purposes of ‘entertainment.’

I would call Agony sexist, but honestly that would be giving it too much credit. Agony is like a little child trying desperately to be all dark and edgy in a pathetic attempt to impress everyone around him, and we should treat it as such. Go to your room Agony. No ice cream for you.

Peter Rabbit

If you listen closely, you can hear the sound of Beatrix Potter rotating in her grave.

Yes we have yet another live action/CGI hybrid, but instead of something innocuous like the Smurfs or Alvin and the Chipmunks, Sony instead decides to adapt Peter Rabbit, with James Corden in the title role.

It’s about as bad as you’d expect.

Their attempts to modernise the story are painful to say the least with pop culture references, inappropriate adult humour and twerking rabbits. Plus rather than the gentle, but slightly mischievous character we got in the source material, here Peter is a sociopathic delinquent who seems to revel in making the farmer’s life a living hell. He’s unlikable and unwatchable as far as I’m concerned and the film doesn’t in anyway earn the emotional moments it tries so desperately to sell to the audience. And the worst part is it’s getting a sequel.

Wait. Do you hear that sound? That’s the sound of Beatrix Potter tearing out of the ground, ready to kill whatever idiot came up with this shit.

Fallout 76

I was excited for Fallout 76. A MMORPG where players band together to rebuild society after a nuclear apocalypse. Could have been great. Pity it wasn’t.

Fallout 76 is a dreadful game. Not only is it a buggy, glitchy mess that requires a constant online connection to play, which could result in you losing hours of progress if your WiFi went down, it’s also unbelievably tedious, and that’s because there’s nothing to do in the game. There’s no other characters to interact with, the various robots and computers you come across are really little more than quest givers, there’s no actual plot so to speak, and because of the sheer size of the world and the number of players allowed on a server, the chances of you actually meeting any actual players is remote. And let’s not forget all the behind the scenes drama. Bethesda falsely advertising Fallout themed canvas bags and players getting shitty nylon ones. Bethesda accidentally releasing the account information of various players trying to get a refund for said bag. Bethesda failing to program the year 2019 into the game code, meaning that the game’s nukes don’t work.

Maybe there’s a chance that Bethesda could pull a No Man’s Sky and fix everything over the coming years with various patches and DLCs, but the damage has already been done. It’s incredibly disappointing. The Elder Scrolls 6 is going to have be fucking incredible to win everyone back.

Mama Mia!: Here We Go Again

I can’t stand jukebox musicals anyway, but Mamma Mia was always one of the worst. Its boring, meandering story with its one note, obnoxious cast of characters screeching out ABBA songs like they’re at some drunken karaoke session at some poor sod’s hen party has always grated on my nerves. So imagine my delight when they announced we were getting a sequel. Ever wondered how Meryl Streep met her three lovers and founded her hotel? No? Well tough shit, we’re going to tell you anyway.

Mamma Mia: Here We Go Again is basically just Mamma Mia again. The actors still can’t sing, the characters are still annoying and story is still boring and meandering, completely at the mercy of the chosen songs rather than the filmmakers using the songs to compliment the story (you know? Like proper musicals do?).

How can I resist you? Very easily as it turns out. Gimme, gimme, gimme a fucking gun so I can end my misery.

The Cloverfield Paradox

A lot of people were unhappy about the direction Cloverfield was going. They wanted a continuation of the found footage, kaiju movie from 2008, not an anthology series. I was personally all in favour. Partially because I thought the first Cloverfield was a tad overrated, but mostly because I thought it would be a great opportunity for more experimental film projects and could be a great launchpad for new writers and filmmakers. 10 Cloverfield Lane was a great start. Then The Cloverfield Paradox happened.

The Cloverfield Paradox is basically JJ Abrams trying to have his cake and eat it too. Maintaining the anthology format whilst connecting everything together in a ‘shared universe’ (yes, yet another shared universe). The result was a cliched, poorly edited and idiotic mess of a film that actually took away from the previous two films rather than added to them. Everyone hated it and, as a result, 2018′s Overlord, which was totes going to be part of the Cloververse, was made its own standalone film and Abrams double pinky promised to make a true sequel to the original Cloverfield. A complete and total disaster. No wonder it was a straight-to-Netflix film.

The Handmaid’s Tale - Season 2

This is probably going to be the most controversial entry on the list, but please hear me out because I’m not the only one who has a problem with this season.

I was reluctant to watch The Handmaid’s Tale simply because of how gruesome the original book was, but I forced myself to watch the first season and I thought it was pretty good. It remained faithful to the source material for the most part and included some nice additions that helped to expand the story and mythos. If it was just a one off mini-series, everything would have been fine. But then they made the same mistake as The Man In The High Castle and Under The Dome did where they commissioned another season and attempted to tell a story that goes beyond the book.

There’s a reason why the original story ended where it did. The Handmaid’s Tale isn’t meant to be an empowering story about women sticking it to the patriarchy. It’s a cautionary tale about how fragile our civil rights truly are and how easily they can be taken away from us. It’s designed to shock, not to satisfy. So seeing a handmaid blow herself up in a suicide bombing feels very incongruous and just a little bit silly. It would be like doing a TV adaptation of George Orwell’s 1984 where the first season followed the source material and then the second season turned Winston Smith into this heroic freedom fighter trying to overthrow Big Brother. It would represent a fundamental misunderstanding of what the book was about in the first place.

And then of course there’s the increased level of violence in Season 2, which many have complained about. In Season 1 and the original source material, the violence was justified. In Season 2, the motivation behind the violence has gone from ‘how can we effectively demonstrate how easily a fascist patriarchy can happen in the West?’ to ‘what brutal act can we inflict upon Ofglen to shock the audience this week?’ It’s purely for shock and nothing more. And with the showrunner (who I feel I should mention is a man) announcing that he has planned ten seasons of this, it seems that The Handmaid’s Tale is going to go even further with this depravity until it effectively becomes the equivalent of a Saw film.

The Handmaid’s Tale exists as a way of shining light on and critiquing misogyny in its most extreme form. Season 2 however demonstrates that there is a serious risk of it becoming the very thing it’s criticising in the first place.

The Predator

I love the Predator franchise, but The Predator is the worst.

People thought that this would be good because director Shane Black had actually starred in the first Predator movie back in 1987. Instead we got this bloated, confusing, obnoxious and insulting mess of a film that seems to go out of its way to ruin everything that makes Predator so good. There’s no tension. No suspense. No intrigue. Just a bunch of gore, explosions and shitty one liners from annoying and lifeless characters. They essentially took this big alien game hunter from outer space and turned him into a generic monster from a bad summer blockbuster. It no longer hunts for sport. It wants to take over the world and splice our DNA with theirs. But don’t worry, a rogue Predator doesn’t want to kill humans (even though he himself kills a bunch of humans), so he gives us a Predator Iron Man suit to set up a sequel that will probably never happen because this movie was a box office bomb and it fucking SUUUUUUUUUUUUCCCCCCKKKKKKKEEEEEDDDD!!!

This film also has a very nasty streak towards those with disabilities. There’s a lot of jokes at the expense of a character with Tourette’s and it has an extremely ignorant and patronising view of autism, portraying the main character’s kid as being a super genius who can decipher the Predator language and even going so far as to say that he represents ‘the next stage of human evolution.’ Presumably the Predators want social communication difficulties because apparently it helps them hunt somehow.

What with Disney acquiring 20th Century Fox, the future of both the Alien and Predator franchises were very much in question. This film needed to be a success in order to make a case for Disney to keep making more of them. It wasn’t. Congratulations Shane Black. You might have just killed off this franchise for good. Thanks arsehole! :D

So those were my least favourite stories from 2018. Join me on Wednesday where we shall discuss something more positive. Yes, it’s awards season. Who shall win the coveted Quill Seal Of Approval? Watch this space...

Or don’t. It’s up to you. I don’t want to force you or anything. It’s a free country.

[iwritestuffsometimes]

Cockroaches (Roughest draft) part 3

The blackness left me and I was in a corn field. For a few precious seconds, I thought I had just passed out during my morning chores and had a very real, very long, horrific nightmare. I thought everything would be perfect and normal again and I could forget about shiny beings and horrible men who control them. Glancing up, my heart sank as I realized this wasn’t my family owned garden. I sat up and saw a house that was collapsed on one side, smoke was rising from a hole cut into the ceiling.

“G’mornin sunshine!” a voice said behind me.

“NO!” I screeched, forming my hands into tight fists. I spun around, thoroughly expecting to see The Traitor coming to take me back.

“Woah. Kay. So, not a good morning then. I was just being polite. Don’t birth a cow.” He held his hands up defensively. I squinted my eyes at him. I could very well be imagining him. “What? Do I have food on my face?” He frowned and ran one hand across his mouth; the other held two dead rabbits. He looked like a completely average twenty-year- old. He wasn’t buff but wasn’t skinny either. He wore a ratty Star Wars baseball cap, a flannel shirt, jeans, and dirty canvas tennis shoes. His eyebrows were blond.

“Who are you? Where am I? Why am I here? How did I get here?” I needed answers.

“Calm down, there, Red.” He nodded at the dilapidated house. “I’m hungry. I aint about to stand out here and explain the ways of the world to you on an empty stomach,” he started toward the shelter. I followed. “Name’s East by the way.” He tossed over his shoulder. I could see little red curls contrasting with the black of his cap. “Watch your step.” He said as he pulled the screen door off its hinges and leaned it against the wall. I frowned in question but he never explained. “Hey Toby! I brought fresh meat.” He yelled into the house. “And something to eat too.” He winked at me and smiled at his joke. “Well hello there.” A scruffy looking man appeared from around a corner. “You’re just in time for lunch.” He had a strong southern drawl. His teeth were slightly yellowed, his eyes were the brightest green I’d ever seen, and he too, wore a cap with red hair peeking from the bottom. “Made ham and corn.” He nodded towards the fire made in the middle of what used to be a living room and handed my companion and I plates as we sat down around it. “So, who are you?” He asked between bites of meat.

“Uh. My names Dustin.” I swallowed a chunk of slightly rotted corn. Compared to the slop I was forced to eat before, this was heaven.

“Dustin?” James snorted. “That’s a stupid name for a lady.” I frowned at him like I hadn’t heard it a million times before. “So, Dustin, how’d you end up inside the Raid Can?”

“Raid Can?” I asked around a mouthful of ham.

“Ya know. Raid. Poison.” He took the rabbits from East and began cutting the skin open. “Get it?” I frowned and shook my head. He jerked on the fur of one of the rabbits and it ripped away from the meat with a wet sound. “Roaches are the only critters who can build up a tolerance of that junk, see?” They tried to use their Raid Can to exterminate ev’ry body. ‘Cept it didn’t work as well as it was supposed to- just like Raid never really worked the way it was supposed to. It didn’t work on us.”

“Us?” I was hoping he wasn’t being too literal; that we weren’t the last three people on Earth.

“Fire crotches.” He nodded. “My theory is there’s something in our DNA that makes us impervious to their little apocalypse. Like roaches.” He smiled at his brilliant metaphor.

“My Gosh.” My head spun. “Youre telling me the only people who weren’t killed are redheads? That my whole family is gone and I’m not because I have a gene mutation that makes my hair a cool color? That I’m a cockroach? I call bull.” I spat. No way this dude is serious. No.

“Well, its not Red.” East cut in. “Theres a camp just a few miles from here- the only other people we know for sure survived- every single one is a GRITS.”

“GRITS?” I shook my head in confusion. This is too much, this is crazy. I Just want my family back.

“Gingers Raised In The South.” East smirked. “Came up with that one myself before they fell outta the sky.” He waved his hands like a conductor at a symphony. “Freaking aliens man. No one ever really expects aliens. Everybody was all ‘nah that only happens in holos.’” He scoffed. “Yeah, well, a little off dontcha think?”

I shook my head to clear it. “Whatever. How did I get here? Where the heck is here anyway?”

“Well I think this is Andover, Tennessee.” Toby frowned. “We haven’t exactly kept up with names of places. Its not exactly priority number one these days.” He started skinning the second rabbit. “Now you’re here cause Easton here, isn’t too good at takin’ orders from his older brother. I told him not to go lookin’ for trouble but he just aint a listener.” East rolled his eyes. “I was just looking to poke a few holes in that Raid Can, ya know? Just wanted to cause as much damage as possible inside that hunk of plastic. You were a happy accident. I was gonna try and vaporize as many of those shiny suckers as I could. You were there. I didn’t know they still had prisoners.”

“That was you? How did you make the Unvers disappear?”

“Unvers? That’s what you call them?” He looked at me like I was crazy. I didn’t answer. Instead, I raised eyebrow in annoyance. He sighed. “I got a hold of an old 2010 version of a stungun. Modified it. It’s a bit more lethal now.” He smirked. “I can’t believe you didn’t see me. I mean, I guess that explains why you ran the wrong way when I pulled the whole ‘come with me if you wanna live’ line. … I just figured you really hated vintage movie quotes… Or had a death wish or something.” He shrugged.

I frowned. Wait a second… “You hit me! What the heck dude?!” I screamed. “You bust into an alien base and decide to knock out the prisoner? Genius! Spectacular!” I stood up to leave. If this guy has no problem knocking me out, maybe being here isn’t exactly the greatest idea. “Thanks for the food. I’m gonna go now. Find somebody who wont hit a defenseless and scared captive of an alien race.”

“You really don’t have a clue do you?” Toby pulled me back down roughly. “You don’t know a thing. You’ve been living with them for God knows how long and you still dont know what goes on.” I clenched my jaw. “That scar on your shoulder; do you have an inklin of an idea what that’s for?” I blinked at him. “Yeah, I thought as much.” He nodded to his brother.

Easton pulled open his shirt, showing a scar that matched my own, running the base of his neck to his left shoulder blade. “They use the torture as a smoke screen; theres a tracker under that scar. I broke it. You’re welcome.” I reddened and chewed my lip. We finished our food in silence and then “We’re heading to the camp after dinner, we heard theyre thinking about a plot to get at that human leader, you comin?” East asked.

“Absolutely.” I handed my plate to Toby who dumped the bones out the window. “Do you think we could stop somewhere first?” I asked quietly, the men frowned. “Just to Heffron Drive. I have something I wanna see.” I said to the dirty carpet to hide the tears forming.

[minnie-marvel]

Anna

A/N: alternately this was called paint stains. this was a nameblurb for @sunflowerannawrites!!! shes amazing and i love her. I have one more name blurb to post eventually and theres one other thing getting posted today. Nena i hope you like this i love you

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You sat perfectly still on your stool as you watched over the group of Avengers posing in front of you. You almost chuckled to yourself as you heard Tony Stark mutter at least a thousand complaints under his breath about not wanting to keep still. For a moment you thought you were being more patient than him.

There was another stroke of the brush as they all continued to pose for you. You leaned over your canvas from time to time to get a look at their individual faces.  You felt your stomach rumble and were suddenly pulled out of concentration. Man, you must have been hungry…when was the last time you ate? Breakfast? Yeah, you thought so. You had toast and egg whites, man that was delicious. You should add maybe a little bit more pepper to your eggs next time. Wait, you remembered to give your cats breakfast too right? Oh of course you did, you did it right before your walk with Motte. You hoped she’d be alright alone right now but then again your brother was supposed to be home so surely he was watching her for you. Oh man, remember when he came up to you the day before and showed you that hilarious vine of-

“S’cuse me, Anna was it?” Tony asked tapping his foot slightly while still standing stiffly in his pose. You felt your posture straighten up as he mentioned you. “Uh yes?” You asked softly.

“Are you almost done because I think if I stand still for a minute longer I will literally pass out,” he said through tight lips.

“I’m sorry everyone, why don’t we all take a break for an hour or so? That way you have enough time to recover?” You suggested. You saw the group of heroes relax visibly dropping their shoulders and expressions. They started to pile out together walking out of the doors of the large studio. Little did you know that two pairs of eyes were focused more on you rather than getting out of the room with the rest of their avenger coworkers.

Bucky Barnes and King T’challa both approached you from two different sides of the room eyes fixated on your crouching figure that hid behind your canvas and easel taking small gentle strokes as you began to work on some of the background.

“Excuse me,” they both surprisingly said at the same time causing you to look up slightly your brown eyes glancing between the two of them in shock. You didn’t think anyone would actually try to talk to you after all this was just a job. 

They looked at each other and both instantly knew. T’challa straightened his posture and held his hands politely behind himself while Bucky folded his arms over his chest tightly. Wait, was he trying to show off his pecks???

“Yes?” You asked wiping your face smudging a bit of green paint on your cheek. 

“I just wanted to thank you for taking the time to paint all of us,” Bucky said right after T’challa had opened up his mouth to speak. His eyes darted at the winter soldier and his expression scrunched slightly. He didn’t want to be petty in front of you but boy was the temptation there.

“I must say I am quite the fan of your work,” T’challa said sweetly. You blushed in embarrassment at the recognition of your work.

“Ah thank you!! That’s very kind of you to say!” You said setting your paintbrush on the easel to give both men your attention. “Painting is such a passion of-”

“Yeah, I’ve got to say sitting here and painting all this time must be really tiring, I’ve gotta give you credit,” Bucky agreed though shot a glare at T’challa. He, on the other hand, was not afraid to be petty.

“Well, you see the thing about painting is-”

“Well, I must say I admire her endurance to continue to paint even though people might rudely interrupt her,” T’challa said simply trying to keep his tone down.  Oh, this bitch was really trying to start something wasn’t he?

“Well your highness, as much as I’m sure you’d like to continue to admire Anna’s work I had something I needed to ask her.”

“That’s funny white wolf, because I also had something I needed to ask Miss Anna,” T’challa said his smirk showing now. 

“I’m sorry but I just wanted to say-” You tried to at least get more than half of a sentence in before you were cut off again.

“Anna, are you doing anything right now?” Bucky asked tilting his head to the side as he flashed you a charming smile.

“I’d love to take you out for a quick lunch,” T’challa suggested.  

Oh god, you finally knew what these two were playing at. You put your hands up to try and stop them before the poor men ended up dead on the floor. “wait, wait! I think you might have a misunderstanding!! You see I-”

“Anna darling, are you ready?” The voice of your boyfriend made your heart skip a beat.  T’challa and Bucky both exchanged another look but this time it was one of shame. 

Loki took you by your hands lifting them to his lips as he graced you with a kiss your cheeks flushing red as he did. 

“I must say I like the new look your sporting,” he smirked letting a finger trace over your cheek letting the green paint stain his finger. “How did you know green was my favorite color?” He joked.

You tried to hide your smile from him but to no avail. “I was wondering when you’d come along for lunch, what were you doing out here for so long?” he asked before his eyes suddenly looked over to T’challa and Bucky looking uninterested and unimpressed.

“I got a little distracted,” You said honestly letting one of your hands interlock your fingers with his. 

“Well my love, why don’t we get going so that I can finally spend time with you,” He leaned into your cheek kissing it before whispering softly in your ear. “Only being able to see you from so far away on that platform honestly was driving me mad,” he continued. 

“How I longed to have my arms around you again Anna,”  

You could have melted as you started to make your way out of the studio again. “Oh and gentlemen, I may be a reformed trickster but that doesn’t mean I won’t ‘accidentally’ slip a snake into your chambers for flirting with the love of my life,” He said slyly.

Your cheeks were on fire now. “Loki!!!” You whispered harshly. “Be nice!” you told him squeezing his hand. 

“I’m sorry my love,” he whispered back to you quietly planting a quick kiss on your cheek again. “I will try,”

T’challa and Bucky watched the two of you leave hand in hand and sighed together.

“I guess this is game over eh white wolf?”

“Shut up.”

[stabethadeathwhisper]

When i used to write essays in school i smashed out one hour essays with a very simple formula:

First pass: you’re gonna do the bare minimum. This is the first graders guide to essay writing shit. “In this essay i will convince you that things are this way because of x, y, and z” “firstly, x” “secondly, y”. Just write the most bare bones basic shit that anyone can do. Its gonna look pretty awful and embarrassing. Honestly, just write one sentence of summary if you have to. These are placeholder paragraphs to organize what thoughts you want to put out, and decide the best order to put them in.

Second pass: expand. You’re gonna edit each paragraph one at a time, with breaks in between if you need to, to turn this into a college appropriate paper. It still doesnt need to be eloquent, this is the informative pass. Spit as much fact and technical language as you can here. You’re now building the skeleton of your opinion. This is the structure thats gonna hold the whole thing together, so you want to make sure its consistent. This will be where you start putting in citations tbh, cause its gonna save so much goddamn time later.

Third pass: flavour text. You’re gonna clean the whole thing up so that it sounds like a human wrote it, and not a very talkative ai. Add commentary, suggestions, callbacks to previous points and paragraphs, and—depending on the type of paper—personal insight. You have to flex your charismatic professionalism here. I like to envision myself as a smarmy businessman in a board room, the youngest one there, giving a talk to a number of old white men who are both jealous of my quick rise in the company, and respectful of my skills. Thats the tone you want to strike. If you look at it as acting in a shitty role its much easier to achieve the tone you want. This pass also takes the longest, because its whats gonna give your essay unique definition. Spend as much time as you need rewriting sentences and adding unecessary text about tangential but interesting points.

Fourth pass: take a nap. Come back in two days to edit it. Reread the paper and do step three again, but without the stress of working off an empty canvas. Give it to a friend and go “does this sound like....plausibly human? Can you follow what im saying and does it make you want to shoot yourself out of boredom?” Theres a trick to essay writing which is that while its not actually in the criteria, people appreciate a small amount of character (unless this is a scientific paper, probably. I only did chemistry and geology up to first year uni so im not exactly well versed in what a scientific paper should look like).

Fifth pass: if your teacher is cool and not busy sometimes they will read over your rough draft if you ask and give you tips. Try that. If theyre neither of those things just edit it one last time before its due and pray.

hard same