#also the way an officer pointed a gun at him while he was dying on the ground

[disco-cola]

omg have y’all seen the video of the us air force serviceman aaron bushnell setting himself on fire in front of the israeli embassy in washington dc and what he said before like that he no longer can be complicit in genocide and that his pain will be nothing compared to what palestinians suffer at the hand of their colonizers and that our ruling class has decided this is what will be normal and then he set himself on fire and screamed free palestine while he was literally burning alive dude that was so disturbing he died from the burns the police described him as being in mental distress but one of his closest friends came forward and described him as a gentle and silly human who genuinely cared for ways to achieve liberation for all idk i guess the guy did it to garner attention to the cause but the western media coverage is of course suspiciously rather silent about this even though the air force has confirmed he was an active member until the incident

[anakinstwinklebunny]

MAFIA!ANAKIN COMPILATION

TW: at some point it contains sexual content, so if you're sensitive to that or don't feel comfortable with it, please do not read it for your own safety and comfort.

Author's note: it's a compilation of one-shots and the order of these are off the time line. Which means it doesn't have to happen chronologically

Also what would you say about stalker!mafia!ani..

HEIST

you sprinted through the alley, adrenaline surging through your veins, your breath labored yet determined. Anakin's hand gripped yours tightly, pulling you close as the sounds of gunfire and police shouts echoed behind you. It all seemed to happen so fast - succesful heist, bags full of cash.. and then those damn cops. Time to time maul with cody twisted their bodies to shoot back but all you could actually feel was anakin's strong and firm grip before

"shit!" anakin cursed as he heard your yelp of pain, turning just in time to see the blood straining your thigh. Rage flared in his eyes and he swiftly took down the cop who shot you before his arm wrapped around your waist to support your weight "you're not getting shot twice on my watch, princess" he muttered with his voice laced with a mix of anger and concer

he guided you quickly through the maze of alleys, dodging more officers while he searched for a safe place to hide. Spotting an old, abandoned building, anakin made a beeline for it, kicking the door open before gently setting you down on the dusty floor. His hands trembled slighty and he was out of breath as he locked the door behind them

"it looks awful" you whispered, your voice weak as you tried not to focus on the pain

"hey, look at me, not the wound" he ordered softly after lifting your chin with his fingers "im going to get this out, sunshine, but it's not going to be pleasant"

he worked with precision, his fingers deftly finding the bullet and slowly pulling it free. his gaze moved to your face and his heart clenched at every wince of pain that crossed your featured "just hold on for me, dolcezza. almost there"

with the bullet out, he quickly tore the hem of his shirt into strip, binding your wound as best as he could. The sight of your blood on his hands and your pale, pained expression only fueled his anger for the already dead cop "those bastardi..i'll kill every last one of them" he growled under his breath

you looked up at him, our voice barely a whisper "i love you, you know"

"of course i know" he whispered back in more softened tone and his hands moved to cup your face "but don't say it like it's the last time. You're not dying on me, you got that?" he kissed your forehead gently "you're going to be fine, dolcezza. i'll get you out of this, and i swear i'll make them pay"

SPARKLES AND SHINES

Anakin didn’t return until late hour, the weight of the day’s demands etched in the tension of his shoulders as he walked through the front door. He kicked off his shoes, unbuttoning his shirt and then his gaze moved all around the place, searching for only one face. Usually you would be already all around him, sneaking small kisses or hugs but this time he not only didn't see you at least by the doorframe but also not even in the living room, which was completely uncommon for you

"Angel?"

His voice echoed through the empty living room. When he spotted his gun—now decorated with glitter and jewels—a look of pure disbelief crossed his face. He blinked, taking in the sight of what had once been his favorite, rugged weapon now transformed into something out of a child’s craft project.

Muttering under his breath, he made his way to the kitchen, where the mess of empty packages confirmed his suspicions. He cursed under his breath and stalked through the house, his calls for you growing sharper with a mix of irritation and concern. Concern to find you adding glitter to his other belongings. Finally, he found you in the bedroom, sitting on the bed with an innocent smile.

“Hi,” you greeted him, as if everything was perfectly normal.

He stood there, tense, his eyes flicking between you and the glitter-covered gun in his hand "Care to explain this?" he emphasized the last word by lifting his hand with the object

You glanced at the gun, then back at him with a sheepish grin. "I had extra glitter… and I thought it could use some sparkle."

"On my gun?" his voice fought to stay calm

"But it’s prettier now! Look at it, so shiny," you said, still trying to charm your way out of trouble.

Anakin huffed “It was already perfect. Before you decided to attack it with glitter.” he looked down at his now sparkly hands, muttering in frustration, “I’ll be a walking rainbow in a few hours.”

Slowly setting the gun aside, so it wouldn't leave glitter everywhere (although he somehow knew it'd), he pulled you up and guided you toward the bathroom with a firm grip. "We’re taking a shower. Now."

"But why we? You’re the one covered in glitter," you protested.

“Because it’s your fault I’m in glitter,” he replied, his tone leaving no room for argument as he pushed you, gently yet firmly, into the bathroom. When he started to undress, he added, “And you’re the one who’s going to help me get it off.”

EDGE OF DESIRE

When you and Anakin had a fight, the room was a true battlefield. Anakin had a strong personality, opposite to what you had. But when the argument began, the place was thick with animosity and unspoken words that clung to the air like a suffocating fog.

And here he was, now, standing upright. He didn’t raise his voice—he never did—yet the icy venom lacing his words cut deeper than any shout ever could. His blue eyes, usually warm and inviting (only for you), were now cold, distant, a glacial stare that sent unpleasant shivers down your spine. His jaw was clenched so tightly you could see the muscle ticking, his fists balled at his sides as he fought to keep his rage in check.

You stopped dead in your tracks at his latest biting remark, the words a poison that seeped into your veins, igniting your own fury at full shot. Your teeth ground together, and you spun on your heel, storming into the kitchen, the anger radiating off you in waves. You couldn’t even look at him, couldn’t stand to be in the same room with him for another second..

So you snapped.

Without thinking, you grabbed a knife from the counter and rushed back to him. He didn't have enough time to react before your trembling hand pressed the cold, unforgiving blade to his throat. The room seemed to freeze in that moment, the world narrowing down to the thin line of steel against his skin and the wild look in your eyes.

Anakin’s breath caught in his throat, shock rippling through him for the briefest of moments before something darker took hold. His heart pounded, not out of fear, but from the thrill of the danger, the audacity of your defiance. A slow, wicked smile curled his lips, the surprise giving way to a twisted kind of pleasure.

“Are you flirting with me, dolcezza?” His voice was low, dripping with a dark amusement, as if coaxing a wild animal to strike. His eyes glittered with a dangerous light

“Just shut up,” you snarled, but your voice trembled, betraying the storm of emotions roiling inside you. Still, you pressed the blade harder against his throat, your grip firm despite the tremor in your hand. It was somehow pleasing, to have the sharp knife you once used to cut food, now to have it pushed to his skin

“And if I don’t? What then? You’ll slit my throat, sweetheart?”

“Gladly,” you hissed, the words sharp, venomous to match his own from moments ago, and you pushed the knife closer, the blade biting into his skin. But instead of fear, what you saw in his eyes was desire—a twisted, dangerous hunger that made your heart stutter

The cold steel at his throat was nothing compared to the fire blazing through his body, a heady mix of rage and need that clouded his judgment. His eyes roamed over your face, taking in every detail—your flushed cheeks, the wild fire in your eyes he saw for the first time. It was intoxicating, seeing you like this—fierce, untamed, and so damn beautiful.

“You’re so beautiful when you’re angry, mia bella” his gaze flicked to the knife, then back to your eyes, his pupils blown wide with a dangerous mix of emotions. "Truly beautiful, sweetheart" he purred, his lips curved into a slight smirk as your eyes met his once again "Especially when you’re furious, holding a knife to my throat like that.."

“Stop,” you ordered, but your voice wavered, the tension between you so thick it was suffocating.

“Make me” he challenged, leaning into the blade, daring you to push it further

Your heart raced, a storm of emotions swirling inside you. You wanted to cut his throat open, see him bleed out in all of your negative emotions..but still..you also wanted to smash your lips with his and pour all of the anger to the life-changing love making that would make you feel free "What is wrong with you?" you frowned, the overwhelming tear running down your cheeks "I’m standing here with a damn knife to your throat, your life is in my hands, and you’re just... mocking me? You should be begging me not to cut you" His eyes softened slightly as they gazed onto yours that screamed from glossy sheen of anger and frustration. But he didn't stop. It was not like he was mocking you completely. He just..simply tried to push you to your last possibility. To see you get overwhelmed with nothing but crimson red anger "C’mon then, principessa" he murmured, his voice low, seductive "Make me beg. Make me get on my knees for you. Do that, and I swear, I’ll give you anything you want."

DISAPPOINTMENT

“No... why—why would you cut your hair?” you pouted, your fingers threading through Anakin’s freshly cropped hair

Anakin chuckled at your reaction, his grip on your hips tightening as he pulled you down onto his lap. “It was way too long,” he murmured, the warmth of his hands spreading through your clothes as he drew you closer. “Besides, I don’t want the damn cops spotting me that easily.”

“But I loved it long...could do braids and all those tiny ponytails,” your hand moving back and forth through his shorter strands, the loss somehow still stinging in your heart. Anakin's curls were to die for. You were practically obsessed with them. How messy and unruly they were most of the time, how he was so submissive to your need to just play with them. How you showed them equal love to each part of his body. But now they're gone, and the thought of it was still hard to process

“Principessa, don’t make me regret cutting it off,” his voice a mix of teasing and exasperation as he sighed. He caught your wandering hand, bringing it to his lips to kiss each finger softly, trying to soothe your disappointment.

“Who did it anyway?”

“Ahsoka,” a smirk tugging at his lips. “She’s been bugging me about it for a week.”

“Only a week? That’s surprising,” you teased, your fingers trailing over the side of his face

He snickered at that, rolling his eyes when a gentle smile softening his features. “She’s a little pest,” he joked, though there was clear affection in his tone.

“She adores you,” you said softly, shifting so your legs straddled his hips, your thumbs now moving to brush over his cheekbones.

“And I adore her, but sometimes I want to strangle her,” he replied with a smirk, his arms wrapping tighter around your waist, pulling you even closer. His face inched toward yours, the tension between you both a delicate balance of playfulness and unspoken desire.

“Well, that’s typical sibling behavior,” the teasing lilt in your voice fading into something more tender

MAKING YOU PROUD

“No, it’s—” he sighed heavily “Just, come on, again”

“Buona sera” you smiled, extending your hand for him to shake, though your Italian faltered as you spoke. It was the first time of Anakin teaching you Italian and most of the times all you did was fail. He specifically made his time to teach you his language after finding out you've tried to teach yourself using an app (which, for him, was unacceptable just because in his opinion the app was "shit")

But what he did not know, was the vocabulary book under your shared bed that you often used to learn his language. However, you always acted like you know nothing

Anakin's deep rumbled through his throat as you stumbled over the words. He took your hand and gently pulled you into his lap “You’re adorable when you fail miserably,” he teased, his tone warm but playfully mocking.

“I did not fail… I said exactly what you've told me to say,” you protested, trying to defend yourself, but there was a hint of a pout in your voice.

“Yeah, you sure did,” he smirked, pulling your legs so you straddled his lap, his hands resting on your soft thighs. “But no offense, bella, that was a horrible pronunciation.”

“Can’t I just ask someone if they speak english and when they say yes, I’ll just switch to it?” you suggested, rolling your eyes as you felt the weight of his playful criticism.

“You have a point, but I love hearing you speak Italian,” he shrugged casually, his teasing tone still evident. “Even if you suck at it,” he added, his hands sliding to your hips. “Come on, just say it again… and slower this time.”

“Buona sera” you repeated, this time more carefully.

His smile softened when you finally got it right. His hands gripped your hips gently, still massaging your skin as he leaned in closer. “See? You’re getting better at it,” he teased, pressing a soft kiss to the crook of your neck.

“That’s just a basic hello,” you murmured, trying to downplay his praise, though a small smile tugged at your lips.

He snickered, a smirk playing on his lips as he shrugged. “Doesn’t matter how basic it is. I’m just glad you didn’t butcher the pronunciation this time,” his voice low as he leaned forward and gently nipped at your earlobe. “Say something else. Another phrase.”

“Sono tutta tua” you mumbled, your voice barely above a whisper, and the moment the words left your mouth, he froze.

Anakin’s eyes widened slightly in surprise, taken aback by how perfectly you had spoken the phrase—almost without an accent. Now he was genuinely impressed.

“Where did you learn that phrase?” his smirk returning as one of his hands trailed from your thigh to your ribs, his fingers brushing lightly against your skin.

“I—I’ve been practicing” you admitted, your cheeks flushing as his large hand slipped beneath your shirt, the cool metal of his rings sending shivers down your spine.

“Oh yeah?” he inquired, his smirk deepening as his fingers teased the skin beneath your shirt, slowly lifting it higher. “You’ve been practicing in secret?”

“Yeah…” you mumbled, feeling the heat of his touch and the way his fingers explored the bare skin underneath.

“Did you practice for me?” he whispered, his breath hot against your ear, his tone dark and filled with desire.

“Well, yeah…” you confessed, your voice catching slightly as his fingers discovered the absence of a bra.

“Damn, principessa,” he breathed, his smirk widening as he realized what you had been hiding. His fingers began tracing slow, deliberate patterns over your sensitive skin, each touch making your breath hitch. “Say something more. I want to hear you speak it again,” he murmured, his nose nuzzling into the crook of your neck as his hands continued their exploration.

SHOWER SESSION

You and Anakin had a habit of using the bathroom together. Sometimes he suggested that, sometimes you did. Often in all tiredness you just wanted to cuddle to him while you lazily go through your bedtime routine. And having such fallen angel right by your side that even was ready to help you shower if you were too exhausted to do that, world seemed to bright up in colours

However, sometimes things got intense under the hot steaming water;

His touch became more urgent, his hands gripping your thighs tightly as he lifts you up against the shower wall "Wrap your legs around me, baby..." his voice hoarse with desire. "Gonna make you scream..."

"we were supposed to take a shower--" you whispered, although did what he asked for - obediently wrapping your legs and arms around his body

He buried his face in the crock of your neck, his teeth sinking into your flesh as he continues to pound into you, his arms banded around you tightly. "Should've...showered...separately..." He gasps out between thrusts, his breath hot against your skin.

The feeling of his thick member stretching you out in such beautiful way, made your already swollen lips part to free more sounds

His grip on you only tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh "oh fuck..tell me what you want..tell me and it's gonna be at your fucking feet..all yours"

"h-hamster" you panted

His expression softened before a choked laugh escaped his throat "god..you're one at kind" his hips snapped upward and a groan escaped his throat "you're gonna get a whole...damn...pet...store..." He hisses through his teeth

OWNED BY SHADOWS

Anakin had his moments a few times in a moth where he often came to the club (which had a very specific list - basically, to got here was a blessing in disguise) to play gambling. He had a lot of time to practice over the years but whenever he took you with himself, he felt a double shot of luck spiral through him

His fingers remained steady on the cards, his concentration unwavering. He leaned closer, his lips brushing softly against your exposed shoulder. You wore a beautiful red dress that he personally made sure was yours, in your closet "Would you fetch me a drink, bella?"

You nodded and stood up from his lap to make your way through the crowded room. You kept your head up, observating the whole place and scanning new faces. Men in suits chatted and played games while women in dresses mingled. The entire room buzzed with the energy of people who were used to getting what they wanted.

As you walked to the bar, you felt eyes on you. Some men looked at you with interest, while a few women shot you glances that were either curious or envious. Anakin had his time to fully reveal who you belong to and it was met (from females) with jealous glances and uninviting behavior. Yet, your boyfriend made sure the 'attacks' would never happen again

"Hi," you said to the bartender with a smile. "Could I get a whiskey with ice?"

the bartender nodded, his expression professional. "Whiskey with ice. Coming right up miss." and with that, he turned away from you to prepare the drink

However not even a minute went off, a deep voice interrupted "Whiskey? That’s a bit strong for a lady like you"

You turned to see a man with dark hair and a bit of stubble. He was dressed in a suit, his eyes sizing you up. "It’s not for me," you said, remembering how Anakin always told you not to chat too much with people here. The man didn’t seem ready to drop the conversation - he leaned in a little closer, his smile widening

"Not for you," he echoed, clearly interested. "You’re a real beauty. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before. What’s your name, sweetheart?"

"None of your business," you said with a tight smile, hoping he’d take the hint.

But he only chuckled, not backing off. Well, men are always stupid "Feisty, huh? I like that. It’s not every day a new face like yours shows up around here."

He leaned in even closer, his voice dropping to a more suggestive tone after you tried to move sway. "Don’t be so quick to brush me off. I promise, I’m not so bad—unless you want me to be" just then, the bartender handed you the drink. You took it with a quick 'thank you', eager to end the conversation.

"No, thanks," you replied firmly. "I have a boyfriend who knows how to handle things just fine."

The man’s expression darkened, a flicker of something like annoyance in his eyes. But he wasn’t giving up. "Where’s your boyfriend then, huh? If he’s so great, why’s he leaving someone like you all alone?"

"Turn around and find out" Anakin’s voice cut in, cool and steady.

The man’s face fell as he turned to see Anakin standing right behind him. Anakin’s eyes were cold, his posture tense "Let me ask you something," Anakin said, his voice low and dangerous. "Was this guy bothering you?"

"A little," you admitted, sliding an arm around Anakin’s waist.

Anakin wrapped his arm around you, pulling you closer. He didn’t take his eyes off the man. "Sounds like he needs to be reminded not to mess with what’s mine" Anakin’s muscles tightened, and his voice dropped to a near growl. "You really think you can just walk in here and talk to my girl like that? Try it again, and see what happens."

Anakin gently grabbed your chin and leaned in to kiss you; a firm, possessive kiss that left no doubt in anyone’s mind that you were his. He made sure to make an eye contact with the guy while pushing his tongue into your mouth. When he pulled back, his eyes softened a bit as he looked at you. "Let’s get out of here, yeah?"

"What about your drink? And-and the guy?" you murmured, glancing at the whiskey.

Anakin’s eyes flicked to the glass before returning to you, his expression warm and affectionate. "The drink can wait and I'll take care of him later" he said softly "Let’s get home, bella"

As you left, Anakin’s arm stayed around your waist, his grip protective. He was calm, but you could feel the anger simmering beneath the surface. That guy had made a big mistake, and you knew Anakin wasn’t going to forget it. He never does. Not when someone touches what his

Near the entrance, Anakin turned you to face him. He leaned in close, lowering his voice "I’ve got something for you," he whispered.

"For me?" you asked, puzzled

He reached into his pocket, pulling out a thick wad of cash. His eyes held warmth as he held it out to you between his two fingers "While you were getting my drink, I happened to win again." He smirked at your eye-roll. "And I believe this is yours."

His slender fingers, wrapped with a sort of subtle strength, gently slipped the money into your cleavage. As he performed this familiar gesture, his eyes remained fixated on you, filled with a hint of mischief, but also a tender adoration that he could never try hiding."

"Consider it a gift and a thank you, mia cara," he murmured, his voice rich with desire. His fingers traced the edge of your dress, sending tingles down your spine. His breath was warm against your skin as he leaned in closer. "It suits you," he teased softly.

"Cash in cleavage?" you raised an eyebrow.

Anakin smirked, his eyes twinkling with amusement "A very pleasant sight, I must say." He leaned in, his voice a low rumble "I like to keep treasures in beautiful places.."

DIRTY

After relentless love-making with anakin, he found himself not being able to stop. He couldn't stop. It was so thrilling and pleasuring to watch you in different positions, each time making different sounds he so much adored. Of course, he made sure you even want to continue, because even if he wanted to keep destroying you so badly, he refused to do it unless you agree to that But when his eyes spotted your cum on his sheets, he had enough "Look at you, making a mess..go ahead, clean it..."

"wh-what?" you ask in slight disbelief

Without much effort, He pushed you forward so your face hovered over the wet spot on the bed. "Lick it up" he commands

The demand left a slight pang of reluctance in you, though curiosity and desire to please him got the better of you and you hesitantly extended your tongue. You ran it across the material, licking your own liquids off. Anakin groaned at the sight before him, his hips stuttering "Fuck..." he growls, immediately picking up his pace

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[the-ace-with-spades]

I'll never write it because it hits a bit too close home for me to write it without mental strain (I'd read it okay tho...) but I have a very specific scenario in my head so—

Bradley gets the same type of cancer his mom died from.

I imagine it's lung or pancreas cancer because I've seen those and they can be quite aggressive or progressive depending on type. In my head, Carole was in her late thirties/early forties at the latest when she got sick and I imagine it was unexpected and quick, as it often is with young cancer.

The thing is, people deal with cancer diagnosis differently in so many ways — some are in complete denial, some try to stay optimistic for their family, and some just... give up.

Bradley's seen enough cancer and death that he can't deny it but he also can't ever believe he has any luck left in life.

He's in his late 20s. He's just been proposed as his squad's candidate for Top Gun. The DADT just got removed. He has a long-term, serious partner (Jake) who he might not be completely open about everything yet but whom he loves and plans to marry and who loves him back. They're planning on buying a house, Jake talks about having kids. Bradley met Jake's family and his life didn't blow up and they even liked him. The years after he stopped talking to Mav were tough, but he's feeling as settled and as happy with his life as he can be at the time.

He goes to his routine physical as normal, maybe his spirometry comes up short or maybe his bloods are a bit off, or maybe he's just feeling more tired than normal and the doc has a feeling.

Doc informs him about the suspicions, he gets the tests done and it turns from suspicion to reality. At no point Bradley mentions it to Jake. He's taken off flying schedule, sure, but he doesn't tell anyone why, just making something up about his eyesight getting worse or maybe about a recurring ear or sinus infection.

Even if the diagnosis wasn't that bad and the oncologist was optimistic prognosis-wise, Bradley, who has already heard the exact same words about his mom's diagnosis, wouldn't believe it at all. Maybe he wouldn't believe it at all to the point that he'd refuse treatment and just let life run its course.

He'd start planning.

Get everything sorted out while he can. Make it as painless for everyone as much as he can.

And it starts small and escalates quickly. He updates his will, he has a med leave meeting with his superiors, advocates for a transfer to an office role.

He breaks up with Jake, still not telling him a thing. Just so he doesn't have to go through it with Bradley as well — because he knows he'd. And you bet he does the break up in a way that pisses Jake off to the point he doesn't realize how suspicious everything is — the timing, the medical leave, Bradley changing from 'let's buy a house together and have kids' to 'i don't think we can really work out together' on the span of weeks. He's brash in the worst way, and obviously, it also makes their friend group wary and isolates him — which was exactly his plan.

There's one person who he knows will be forever guilty if they don't talk. So, you know, he takes a trip down to China Lake and he and Mav talk. He says all the right things he knows Mav wants to hear — that he forgives him, that he's not mad anymore, that he understands, that he still considers Mav his sort of dad and that he was pissed but he's ready to move on. Maybe Mav does the unexpected and explains to Bradley why he pulled the papers and maybe Bradley actually forgives him.

So, you know, with that Bradley is all ready to take on everything alone, never have anyone find out and just start, well, dying on his own, medical partial leave, all of his stuff sold or written into the will, potential transfer to a paper-pushing position in Point Mugu, far away from everyone who could ever care about him, any people who could ever be affected at all by his illness in the blind.

He was not counting on one thing, though — that Mav, forgiven and missing over ten years of Bradley's life, will try to be part of his life again. Calls, visits — Bradley can't really keep it hidden that he's just rolled over his life in the span of weeks, even if he doesn't not why. Bradley was young when his mom got sick but not that young — he remembers how Mav took it, he's not going to retraumatize him.

But it's really hard not to let Mav know too much when he's asking about everything, and he mentions Jake once and Mav runs wild with the information. First starts to prod Bradley, then tries to do his own investigation and finds out that Jake was stationed at the same base and that they had been together before they broke up abruptly not long ago.

He thinks he's connected the dots — Bradley's weird behavior has to be due to heartbreak, y'know — and tries to play a bit of a wingman by approaching Hangman on his own.

The two people Bradley is trying to keep in the blind meet and realize something is fishy. Jake not only gets hit with the face with Bradley's estranged dad existing but also not being estranged anymore and with that Bradley is acting freaking weird. Mav gets hit in the face because it was Bradley who did the breaking up in the nastiest way possible (and he raised him better than that and also can still see he's got the sad lovesick puppy face whenever Mav tries to bring Jake up) but also with the realization that whatever Bradley is doing, he's got them fooled.

In the end, I think it'd be Ice who figures it out (whether or not he and Mav are together in this scenario). Hears all about it from Mav and Jake and has this moment when it all kind of spins in his head, his own experiences and feelings making a callback, and just tells them, it sounds like he's preparing for a goodbye.

Needless to say, Jake is pissed, Mav is pissed. They stage an intervention and you know that Bradley coughs up (probably in some dramatic way as well... like getting sick to the point they call an ambulance for him...). They definitely freak out when they find out he's been refusing treatment this whole time.

(I don't want to go into actual details of treatment but you can bet Mav and Jake are fucking glued to him from then on and they watch him like hawks. It's not all roses and I don't believe it'd be a quick treatment, probably running long, having better and worse days. Maybe he won't even be able to fly afterwards, once he's in remission. Maybe he never goes into remission. I don't know, I don't like thinking that far...)

[coolmayordamien]

A little Darkstache songfic for @willywarfy

Song is The Midnight Crew, Eddie Morton

"Dar-dar-Darkiplier," a monotonous, glitchy voice stammered tonelessly, breaking right through the entity's concentration. Dark scowled down at the paperwork that he had finally had a second to take a stab at, took a deep breath, and then trained the scowl on the android that was loitering in the doorway to his office.

"Wilford is ha-hav-having a malfunction," Google informed him, seeming completely unconcerned. "He is in the stud-d-dy, screaming and waving a gun-"

"Is anyone else in there with him?" Dark interrupted, hurriedly organizing the papers before him as he spoke. While screaming and waving guns around were honestly pretty typical behaviors for the man with the pink mustache, if Google said that the man was having a "malfunction", that could really only mean one thing.

"No one else was with him at the time," the android answered promptly, and Dark was relieved to know that Wil probably hadn't had much of an opportunity to hurt anyone in the midst of his crisis.

"I'm going up there. Don't let anyone else near that room until I say otherwise, do you understand?"

"I un-understand," Google nodded, his suspicious gaze following the grayscale man all the while. He wondered what Dark did to stop these attacks. It was probably something so horrifically violent that the android shuddered just thinking about it.

--

Dark heard Wilford before he saw the man, heard the bangs and crashes as it sounded like the madman was going out of his way to destroy the room that contained him. Heard the agonized cries, heard him scream in fear and anger and confusion as he tried to remember things that he wasn't supposed to remember, as he called out for friends that he would never see again, and for help that would never come.

Dark was going to have to do, instead.

He cautiously opened the door, observing the damage that had already been dealt. Discarded papers drifted through the air, gently fluttering down to land on a floor that was littered with shredded books and broken glass. It seemed that Wilford had shot out at least one window in his panic, and gotten almost all of the lamps.

Wilford, who had backed himself into the corner furthest from the door at Dark's arrival (the most secure position in the room, of course) and who was watching the entity with a sharp, unhinged gaze. His hands were shaking as he pointed a gun at his friend, his breathing rapid, his voice high as he rambled.

"Wh-who…Damien?" the hopeful note in his voice would have pierced right through Dark's heart, if he'd had one. It confirmed his suspicions about what kind of breakdown they were having here, though, and while it was one of Wilford's more emotional kinds, it was also the easiest to deal with.

"No, no, no, you're not Damien," the Colonel corrected himself, his grip on the gun tightening. "He doesn't look like…he's not…what are you?! What sort of awful place is this? First the robot, now a prime example of homo necrosis! I assure you, sir, that I am well up for the privilege of putting down a walking bag of bones such as yourself!"

The wild glint in his eyes became even sharper and more disturbing as his voice lowered with the intensity of his emotions.

Dark sighed lightly, hating what he was about to have to do. Wilford had better really appreciate him for this later.

He turned his back on the gun-toting lunatic as if he were completely unphased by him, humming under his breath as he began to unbutton his suit coat, hanging it primly over the back of the most intact chair.

"What the hell are you doing?" William cried, enraged. "Keep your damn clothes on, you fool! Tell me where my friends are! Tell me what you've done to them!"

Ignoring the questions completely, Dark said loudly, "I hate a moral coward."

The silence that followed his declaration was tense with shock and confusion, and that was enough to encourage the entity to continue, spinning on his heel as he offered his old friend a big, vaudeville smile.

"One who lacks a manly spark," the entity continued, pantomiming a challenge to fisticuffs as he loudly tapped a heel against the wooden floor.

"Are you out of your mind?" Wil demanded, lowering his gun. Dark ignored the irony of that question, an act that he decided was so damn altruistic that he probably deserved a medal.

"I just detest a man afraid to go home in the dark," he said cheerfully, trying to work up a bit of a song as he slowly made his way closer to his unstable companion.

"Well…I mean, don't we all?" the gunman agreed, unaware of the fact that he was holstering his weapon as he spoke.

"I always spend my evenings where there's women, wine, and song!" Dark sang happily, inching ever closer amidst his wide, friendly gestures. He was beyond pleased to see a flash of recognition in Wilford's suspicious eyes at the familiar old tune.

"But like a man…" Wil trailed off, confusion overtaking the fear and anger that had fueled him only moments before.

Delighted, Dark threw caution to the wind, gently tossing a friendly arm around his old pal's shoulders. "But like a man, I always bring my little wife along!"

The Colonel laughed; a lovely, hearty sound as he swooped Dark into a hug, the force of which threatened to crack the entity's spine like a twig. It was a nice feeling, that hug, but it wasn't a Wilford hug.

"Damy, you silly blighter, why didn't you just tell me that it was you in the first place?" William chortled, waving a condescending finger as he lectured, "I could have shot you!"

Before Dark could respond, Wil had him in his arms again, orchestrating the pair of them both in a silly, friendly, affectionate dance that didn't fit the tune or theme of that song at all, and it never had, and it didn't matter how many times Damien had complained about the awkwardness of trying to slow dance to a vaudeville tune, it had never mattered one whit to his fun-loving friend. This sort of thing was madness, after all.

"I'm a member of the midnight crew!" William laughed, spinning Dark quickly as the entity struggled to follow along.

"I'm a night owl-"

"And a wise bird too!"

Together they sang, breathless with laughter and dancing, "Home with the milk in the morning, singing the same old song!"

Chuckling, they collapsed into each other, holding on tightly as William tripped over the mess that he had caused, dragging the pair of them down into a giggling, teary-eyed pile. The hysteria bubbled up inside of them both, dragging the moment out so long that it exhausted Wil. Dark knew the exact moment that the emotions reached a crescendo in his friend, felt the difference in the grip the mustached man had on the entity's middle, heard the difference in the way that the two sides of his friend breathed, and knew that he had done his job.

"Dark?" Wilford asked softly, breathless with laughter from a joke that he didn't even remember being a part of. "What are we doing here? Isn't it…isn't it late? I thought that you were doing paperwork. And I was supposed to…to go to bed, right?"

That was exactly the case, and Dark finally let himself wonder what exactly had occurred during that process to set Wilford off. It didn't really matter right now, though. After he finally got his old friend to bed, he'd go over every inch of this room to see if anything in there could have possibly triggered Wil's memory.

"Nah," he said casually, forcing himself to his feet. "Early to bed and you'll miss all the fun!"

Eyebrows furrowed as he allowed the entity to help him to his feet, Wilford asked, "Is that from a song or something? It sounds a little familiar, but I'm not sure…"

Dark forced himself to laugh a little, reaching for his suit coat once again. "Just something that an old friend and I used to say. Come on. Let's get you something sweet, and then it's off to bed, I think."

Dark loved Wilford, he really did. Wouldn't trade him for the world. But it had been nice to spend a little time with his old friend.

[respawned-dove]

Are you comfortable writing yandere Heavy headcanons with a male reader whos the enemy's team Medic? 🏨

Of course, anon! Enjoy some BLU Heavy content, though you can read it as RED if you wish. This is somewhat a fic and somewhat headcanons, I lost the plot somewhere apparently.

yandere! Heavy x male! Medic! Reader

[CW: obsessive thoughts/behaviour, violence, drugging, rape, NSFW scenes, alcohol/drinking]

Heavy doesn't have interest in most people. He's quiet in the corner most times, uninvolved in the action. Though he usually has an amused smile to give his own team's antics, he prefers to keep his distance. He listens and watches as both teams move around him, in battle and out. But really, all he cares to note is whether they're alive or dead, and whether it's someone he's hired to enact violence on. And he loves violence. The battlefield is his zone, the one place he feels like he can do what he was made for. And the battlefield is also where he met you.

His owns team's Medic is someone who has his respect and his friendship, and he can instantly note the same traits in you. Violence, sadism, and the ability to outsmart even bullets. He doesn't get to actually examine you much, considering he's mostly focused on killing you. He starts to get... distracted. Which is confusing for him. Killing is one of his favourite things. Why would anything be more interesting during a fight? You are, nonetheless.

He's been watching you more than he has been killing you. He went to Ms. Pauling's office on the BLU base and looked at the files on you, only a few minutes of glancing lest it be suspicious. He's the only one who even knows the other team's files are in here. All the listening pays off once in a while. You have a nice face, he thinks. The thought warms him in a way that makes him set the file back in its place and leave it behind.

Seeking you out to kill becomes a fun hobby for him. He likes the way you flail. He likes the way you fight and fail. He likes the way you call for your team and no one comes for you. He likes the way you bleed. He likes the way you die. And honestly, he wishes that respawn would leave him with a scar or two from your bonesaw.

You're doing everything you can to avoid Heavy on the battlefield. You can't understand what's made him so aggressive towards you out of nowhere. Or why he smiles like- like that when he kills you. Basically everyone on that field is a sadist, true, but it looks a little too joyous. You don't like dying, who does, but it's not... terrible to be so easily manhandled like that.

It becomes more of a mutual game between you two. Cat and mouse, really. The mouse always loses in the end, and at this point you'd be lying if you said it wasn't exciting to lose. You can't help wondering if he's excited too, ripping you apart and throwing you around. His gun is barely involved anymore, he wants to have his bare hands on you when he hurts you.

You start finding gifts for you left at your base. Simple things that could be left by anyone - your favourite book or snack, a new set of expensive scalpels - yet no one on your team will admit to giving them. They joke about a secret admirer and try to get each other to fess up with playful violence. But nothing comes of it, you just grow accustomed to them

Heavy makes photocopies of your files. He reads and rereads them, no longer able to deny how obsessed with you he’s become. The photo of you sits hidden under his bedside lamp in his room on the base. He pulls it out at night to just stare at it in silence, contemplating. He plays the memories of you in his mind in the same way. Covered in blood, grinning as you kill or heal in the distance, beaten under his hands… He feels like his head will crack open if it becomes any more full of you.

You notice even more of an uptick in him hunting you down. Compensation for how distracting you've become to him. You can’t help but revel in the almost obsessive way you’ve begun fighting each other. Neither of you are helping your team properly like you should be. His touches as he holds you down become almost gentle before they rip you apart, touching you in places that would be inappropriate at best. You come out of respawn blushing and gasping, but you can’t see it being anything other than an accident, especially in this line of work.

Heavy can’t get rid of you. His mind is overtaken by thoughts of you. He can’t focus on his books and he’s lost all interest in his own team by now. Late at night, while failing to read, he pictures a life where you aren’t contracted into this job. Where he can have you without consequences and you want him the same. If he could have you, even just for a night, he thinks it might buff out the you-shaped hole in his brain. No, it can’t be real. If he has you it would have to be coerced out of you. It would need outside help, planning. If he wants to have you, it will have to be forced.

cont.

It's a seemingly genuine coincidence when you wind up at the same bar in town. You instantly see each other, and you both instantly go on guard. You hide in your drinks and try to look uninteresting. A strong hand taps you, gently, on the shoulder. You know it's him. Your mind replays every death at his hands at once for a moment, before you manage to turn around. Silent, he just looks at you. His lips are pursed as though deep in thought. He clears his throat but doesn't speak, instead holding out a drink to you. He bought two of the same one? As you stare at it blankly, he seems to become frustrated with your silence. "For you. Is just whiskey and coke." He sets it in front of you, and then he pulls out a chair at the bar beside you. With the amount of muscle and weight on him, you wonder for a moment how that stool can hold so much man. You ignore how it makes you sweat.

He's quiet. Doesn't even look at you, just swirls his drink in his glass. You swallow, dry mouthed, and look at him. "Why would I drink something you gave me?" you ask, suspicious. He smiles slightly, eyes closed as he lets out a small rumble of a laugh, pulling his fur lined vest closer to himself with his large hands. Just barely entertained. "Doctor," he says, "I am not paid to kill you right now. I do not like poison kill, anyway." You let out a nervous chuckle, because he's right. This isn't the battlefield. He doesn't have any reason to hurt you right now. You drink with him.

Actually, you maybe drink too much with him. But he's just as wasted, it seems. You both are loose lipped and talking far more than either of you do typically. Every team secret is fair game, it's like all the typical decorum between the teams falls away. Like you're normal people, meeting at a bar. He seems almost sleepy in his distance as the night goes on, soft and nervous expressions that look odd to you compared to the usual faces you've seen him make. He doesn't look harmful at all. A heavy haze of relaxation makes it all feel so nice. It makes your guard fall completely.

Heavy is watching you, even as he also drinks. He only has to drink for so long until the first drink's secret hits you. Flunitrazepam, as his own team's Medic recommended to him. Takes a minute, but you most likely won't even remember what happens to you. His own drinking is more to quell his nerves. He knows it's not practical to have your forever, as much as he finds himself wanting that, but this drug can give him the chance to have you for at least... one night.

The bar closes, and you try to stand up to head out, slurred voice trying to say farewell. Standing up out of your chair proves too challenging, and your legs are too weak to hold you, falling from under you as you gasp and get ready to hit the floor. Heavy catches you before you can, and you're limp against him for a moment as he sets you back on your feet with support of his heavy arm. "Doctor is too drunk," he says near your ear, a hot whisper. You blink to try and focus more, able to pull yourself to standing on your own with wobbling legs. "Ahah, a- a bit t-too drunk, yeah," you say, stumbling over your words. "I need to get- get back, now. I am... I am needed tomorrow o-on our base."

Heavy puts his arm back on you, under the guise of supporting you as you sway. His expression betrays nothing of how fast his heart is pounding. He's never been this close to you without killing you. You're more soft than he imagined, yet firm, and seem like you'd typically be very strong and steady. Right now you're weak, muscle tone basically at a zero, leaning directly against him like he's never hurt you in his life. "I get motel for you. Maybe... me too. Cannot drive." He says it so matter-of-factly that you find yourself nodding along. Your hands cling at the soft lined fur at the edges of his vest as he helps you get across the street. The walk is nothing but a blur of lights in your mind, neon to warm yellow to blips in darkness until your body hits a soft bed. You sigh dizzily, closing your eyes as your body sinks into the terrible motel bed. The overhead lights stay off above you, and everything is so... relaxing.

Heavy sits on the opposite bed for now, chin in his palm, watching you intensely. You're soft against the bed, doctor's coat splayed beneath you. He stands, the bed creaking enormously as his weight leaves it. Stepping over to you, his hand cups at your cheek, feeling your skin. Your eyes blearily open as he touches you. You manage a hum of confusion, trying and failing to sit up. "Shush," he mutters, pressing you back down with one hand. He squeezes your chest while it rests there, clenching his jaw as his eyes graze over you. His large fingers grasp at the buttons of your coat. You look down at him blearily, huffing out a heavy breath. You seem to at least be processing that something sensual is happening through the confusion.

Heavy carefully undoes the buttons. Your coat is maybe the one thing he won't rip apart. He wants your dignity in battle to remain in tact even if nothing else does. You're his favourite opponent. Pulling it off your arms, he touches the red insignia on the arm of the coat, smirking to himself. Your hand weakly comes up and grasps at his arm, barely certain if he's there, if this is a dream. Your touch is so weak he barely notices it.

The rest of your clothes are not as safe from his strength. He grips at your button up shirt and tears it open at the middle, the threads ripping slowly. He just wants to see your body. Feel your body. Maybe, just maybe, even see more of your blood. Heavy disposes of your pants in a similar way, the remains of them hanging on the ends of your legs. You definitely know something is happening, grunting at him and trying to turn yourself over. His hands hold you down as he gets onto the bed with you, your weights together on the cheap bed threatening to bend it in half. "Lay still, doctor," he orders. "Lay still." You breathe out shakily in your haze, teetering on unconsciousness as he gropes at your frame. His hand travels down to your crotch, large hands surrounding your soft cock. He just feels it, for a moment, breath deepening. You harden slightly in his hand, body responding naturally as it will. It makes his throat dry and his body hot. You're so small beneath him, and you aren't even a small person, really. You groan weakly, and the sound spurs him on further.

Heavy's hand surrounds your throat. At first, he massages at the delicate skin, feeling every muscle below roll under his finger pads. Then, he's squeezing. Too hard. You're too far from your team's respawn, and he can't kill you here. As he squeezes, you begin to wheeze, and your eyes open as much as they can. You try to speak to plead somehow, but it comes out as a breathy whimper. You claw at his arm, and even though you break his skin, it doesn't make him let go. His other hand grips both of your wrists and holds them above you. His eyes bore into yours for a moment as his hand squeezes the air from you. Just as you begin to turn red, he lets go. You draw in a weak, deep breath groaning. The now un-busy hand returns to your half hard cock, fondling it as he breathes heavily.

You're almost completely hard, even as out of it as you are, and that certainly doesn't help his own hard on. The haze over your vision makes everything that's happening confusing, but fingers that big inside you are not ignorable. Your slow breath hitches and your back bends upward. Heavy watches you through half lidded eyes, lips pressed together thinly. His free hand palms at the front of his pants and he grunts hotly. "Body," he mutters. "Doctor's body is perfect." His face is red as he runs his hand over your chest and arms, down your stomach to squeeze at your cock again. You're overwhelmed, panting slightly without fully understanding what's happening. But it feels good. You know that it feels good.

You can feel something wet press against your hole, dizzily raising your head to look down. Heavy brought lube. He isn't stupid, and he doesn't want to ruin your body too much. As he presses into you, his eyes won't leave your face. He strokes your cheek, pretending for a moment that this is consensual, real. That you're normal people already in a relationship with no contract work preventing you from being together like this. Moans that definitely sound consensual keep leaving your mouth as you writhe slightly under his grip. You're starting to slip out of the world, feeling warm, thick darkness overtaking your brain. The rest of the sex is a blur untouchable by your memory, except for how tight you're held as warmth floods inside of your body.

The next morning though, all of it is untouchable by your memory. You can remember going out drinking, and your clothes are half destroyed for a reason you can't place. Getting out of bed, your legs try to give out under you, deep pain from inside you causing them to shake. You can feel wetness on your thighs. You try to remember what happened. You can't remember what happened.

You're late to the base that day, and you get chewed out by basically everyone on your team. You can't take a day off for pain in a job like this, so to battle it is. Heavy watches you from a distance, trying to mentally be in the place where you were, the faux consensual situation that lived in his head. Nevertheless, he has to kill you. He kills you anyway, with bare hands, just to feel the touch of your skin. Just to let his obsession feel less real as you bleed under his fists.

[spectrum-core]

I got so mad about the walp announcement that I made my own take of full stop ids so I wouldn't be so mad.

Explainations under the cut (it's long, also tumblr doesn't let me post all of it as text sorry :l).

I also liked the idea of having them interact gameplay wise, in such a way that encourages people to deploy them together to really drive the point that they fight better as a team, while also punishing the player by making them fight progressively worse if any of them dies with the stress gimmick (which is also a core part of them, you know, caring for each other and stuff), this has next to zero bases in their Ruina counterparts as they don't have any such a gimmick nor special dialogue like other guests do, but hey, that won't stop me. Finally, I liked the idea of them fighting akin to a standard rpg party with a main dps unit who is a little bit of a glass cannon (Tamaki), a damage sponge (Stephan) and a support who provides team wide buffs (Liwei).

Liwei Firstly, he is the unit with the lesser loss of damage output when running out of ammo as to mirror how he's the single Full-Stop fixer who can continue to fight after running out of ammo in Ruina, that part was kind of obvious. With him being The Leader, giving him the role of someone who primarily buffs the team was pretty obvious as well, as I've made my point several times that I don't think he likes power imbalances or the idea of being either the one in charge or at least the highest graded member in the office, so I think he'd try to use his capacities for good by making things more even and helping out his team when he can. He also loses the most SP with the stress mechanic due to his Leader position, kinda to convey that he blames himself for his colleagues' deaths on top of freaking out because they're dying. Ideally he'd be the unit who deals the least damage out of the gang when they sill have bullets on stock, but as I said before he can keep a consistent damage output even after running out of bullets so... there's that going on for him. His defense skill is an evade skill due to being the most "agile" member of the office (primarily a result of him carrying a lighter weapon), as well as him having an evade dice in Beyond the Shadow in Ruina, of course.

Stephan Honestly Stephan being a tank is possibly the thing with the less reasoning behind it, it was primarily based of how people usually recommend killing him last in fights due to being the least threatening Full-Stop fixer, also a bit of needing to give him a niche when i already defined dps Tamaki and support Liwei, so ¯\_(ツ)_/¯ I wanted to convey the idea of him not being a very skilled fighter but still managing to be competent because if anything he at least has the physical strength for it, so he has this kind of brutish combat style that's primarily focused on blocking incoming damage through his passive and defense skill, and dealing big retailiation damage after getting hit (also this is the reason why his defense skill is a counter). He also has the most SP management going on, as to fit with his more nervous personality (not to mention that despite hating cqc, he's doing a lot of it here or at least taking a lot of hits, I don't think he's having a good time guys), I could have given him even more SP management but I thought it'd likely be too much since he's not a negcoin id. His damage output doesn't lower as drastically as it could because I like to imagine that after running out of bullets he starts using his gun as a melee weapon or throwing punches and kicks, I will never not put emphasis on this guy being a Rusted Chains/Axe Gang/Stray Dogs brute fighter in soul depite hating having to get there. The idea of his s3 being AoE at the cost of his sanity (lol) and 3x the regular amount of ammo he'd spend with it came from a discussion about how his more "spray and pray" fighting style in Ruina gives the impression of him being a more suppressing fire focused guy which... isn't really too practical in a setting like the city but lol, lmao

Tamaki Her being a glass cannon is probably the obvious considering she is the single most threatening full stop fixer with headshot, going for bullseye and her passive, and therefore the Full-Stop fixer people usually kill first in Ruina. Unlike Stephan I think she'd lack the physical strength to keep fighting after running out of bullets (not due to being weak mind you, it's just that Tamaki is a regular person and Stephan is some kind of wild animal), I also don't think she'd have the agility to evade someone running at her to attack her, nor she'd be able to fight back at close quarters once hit, hence her defense being a block. For the same reason, I liked the idea of her entering a purely defensive mode once she ran out of bullets, turning all her skills into blocks... except that the blocks are closer to how they work in Ruina bc damage deflection is good and I miss that, but I don't want it to be broken so the deflected damage is reduced honestly I think I'd like Limbus defense skills more if they were evade, guard and deflect rather than evade, guard and counter but I digress. As of Going for Bullseye, that was originally going to be a s3, but a friend commented it'd be funnier if it was similar to kimsault's To Claim Their Bones and I went sure why not, except I decided to turn it into something somewhat riskier as she needs to take damage but the damage needs to be low enough as to not break her shield for Bullseye to trigger, with Bullseye being absurdly powerful (more than it was when it was a s3)

[oleworm]

on that post you've made - it almost like the burger place scenes are from the lens of Benson's eyes. Everything is taken to the extreme. The young couple aren't just inoffensive lovers who can't get their hands of each other, they are these inappropriate and sinister sex-crazed bullies, Kris isn't just some random jerk - there is a heavy innuendo (if not an explicit theme) to his abuse, the thirst for power and control. The girl is wearing those stereotypical "sexy" clothes (which would be inoffensive and totally fine in any other setting, but contribute to the overexposure of the moment), is all over her man and acts like his cheerleader in violence - a caricature of sorts, too. The manager is all about sex, hiding it behind propriety of a light suit. All while sex is heavily implied to be something negative in B's view - he borderline says so himself. But it's everywhere in that place, unavoidable. You can't even ignore it, stick to your routine and shut down the outside world - because it would be forced upon you by one of them through violence. The boundaries and consent are not very well respected there, to say the least.

All of this stuff happens in like, 5 min - to the point of being unrealistic and hyperbolic. The whole place has those heavy oppressing color of emergency yellow, they have burgers on their hats like targets, like they themselves are food, the secondary characters are so caricaturistic they feel like an explicit parody. It's all really surreal and bizarre, like inferno for someone with a trauma, lol. And then it all stops when the camera floats out of that place and into the wild - suddenly, people are friendly and nice, the lights are bright, the colours are normal and pretty with limited yellow highlights (thinking about the candies in the glass jar at the school's office - the colour of the sweater B wears as he is standing right next to them). It's like, when you have trauma, if something triggers your memory, normal things grow extreme, become overwhelming, a drop of red paint feels like dying, etc - then the panic ends and the world is normal again. But it's a movie so everything is taken to the extreme for drama.

You’re completely on point when you talk about these characters as caricatures, or caricaturistic. It felt that way to me too. They did not look like they were intended to look like real people to me. Jess’s loud and exaggerated screams, the gallons sprayed of blood a nod to slasher horror, which makes sense when you think that the studio that funded this film mostly makes horror movies. Then the film takes a different turn, focusing on the more mundane and real-life horrors.

It's not difficult to become disturbed when you’re faced with constant reminders of the traumatic events that shaped your life for the worse. And maybe I didn’t express myself very clearly, but that is exactly what I felt too—that Benson was focusing on these things because they are the ones that stand out to him, and that the filmmakers were intentionally bringing these elements to the fore. If you met someone like Chris in real life, you’d probably think he was an asshole. Keep to yourself, report him if he went too far. But that’s another thing that adds to the comparison of Benson’s past with his current setting. Hardy is aware of the hostile dynamics at play and doesn’t care, so if anyone actually thought to say something about it, they wouldn’t have anyone to turn to. If the boss is in on it, what do you do? Who do you tell? Does that remind you of anything?

I don’t know if I am reading too much into it. But yes, the way it was filmed, also, made me think of when a stimulus brings back a memory. It takes you out of yourself and at the same time turns you inward. When Benson walks out to his car, he is not only walking toward the gun and towards death but also walking away from the scene that so disturbed him. I think that though he might have decided that now he was really going to do it he also needed to physically remove himself from the situation because it overwhelmed him.

There’s this short clip that I liked, right after Benson and Randy take the bodies to the freezer. They’re mopping and sponging the blood off the floor, off the walls, and if it were not for the red you would think that it’s a normal workday. They’ve closed for the day but they’re heading home soon. They’re working side by side, wordlessly, in a way that I imagine them doing in better moments. But at the same time, I imagine that they’re thinking “I can’t believe I did that,” or “I can’t believe that happened.” And trying to ground themselves and keep it together.

I love what you say about the colour yellow. It makes me sick! I love it. I feel like this film took out my appendix. I need to rewatch some scenes, but now I am getting sleepy. Will answer that part (and your other messages) tomorrow.

[italianpersonwithashippersheart]

Red Peafowl - Assumptions and Theories

Now that I am semi-confident that there won't be any more important announcement for Red Peafowl until the 25th (because I think the last two mystery announcement were the Main Character and Main Love Interest) I am ready to write up my Red Peafowl assumptions/theories/wishes post.

Edit: There has been another update with the plot and some images of either the pilot trailer or the actual series link here. Once again thanks to @mysterygrl20 for putting the post with the google trnaslation here on tumbrl.

Going to use as basis for my information @blmpff post here; @mysterygrl20 individual posts tag here; and the mdl plot synopsis here; along with the synopsis I read on cast announcment articles that goes like this: The drama tells the story of Lu Yi Peng, a former police officer who decides to live with Shuai on an island, raising birds. However, he realizes that the person he once had a relationship with is a powerful mafia boss.

Also going to tag @respectthepetty for helping me narrowing down the leads (YinWar/MossBank) and for sharing my madness over this crazy ass BL already.

Going to start by saying that I think the three mystery characters are the villain, the hero and the love interest. I am also going to work under the assumption that while the last two will be revealed on the 25th (I am leaning on YinWar at the present thanks to a comment made by @amos-reviews-main [hope you don't mind the tag] under the last announcment) the third one our villain will stay a mystery.

Let's beging

ASSUMPTION N#1

Given that there seems to be a significant event in the past we are either getting two timelines (similar to kiseki dear to me but more evenly split between past and present) or the events from the past will be a mystery to the viewers to be slowly revealed using flashbacks.

Both of the plots hint at this, the character description for the hero and the fact that some of the stuff in other character description also seem to hint that they were part of what happen in the past.

If the second non mdl plot is more accurate something brings our hero back to town and into dealing with the mafia. Which leads me to

ASSUMPTION N#2

Cooheart character will be intrumental to bringing his brother our hero back into the fold. His character description hints at him being the biggest point of the contention between our main couple and that he has some kind of accident.

Another character that has an accident is Gun's character.

Also there is a doctor nurse in the cast list.

Edit: Cooheart's character accident is the past, and it has left him with a disability. I do still believe that he will get someone involved in all of this.

Either Gun's accident involves Cooheart's character (not on purpouse) in the present or Cooheart's character had an accident in the past and is now seeing a doctor regularly.

ASSUMPTION N#3

Like I mention earlier I think our third mystery character is the villain. His body dissapeared = No body no murder = he is still alive. That is just the biggest writing rule ever.

If the actor for that character doesn't get revelead it means that one of the other actor is actually that character pretending to be someone else (probably one of the cops or a character that doesn't interact with the love interest for obvious reasons). If they do have a seperate actor that probably means that at least one if not more of our big cast is secretely working for him.

ASSUMPTION N#4

There are only two genres that benift from having such a big cast and making sure they all have identifiable characteristics and fan anticipation: Mysteries or Something with a high body count.

It means that our cast of characters are either Suspects or Victims or Both.

EDIT: It's a mystery. I do still believe some of the people from the big cast are going to die.

Either way I do think that a lot of the new people will end up dying at some point during the series.

ASSUMPTION N#5

Themes. If this show has decent writing I can already ID 3 themes.

The new tendency in bl fandom to romanticize the mafia. See Lee's character being a human trafficker and our lead being potentially not that great either.

The cops, and how they are not there to protect and serve and how much the crime fight is really a sham. See Frank's character being an undercover cop (a plot line that usually has a the undercover cop come out on the other side with a semi-broken relationship to his job)

Toxic Ships (a la: Kinnporsche, Hannibal and Interview with the Vampire)

About the last one: I have a personal metric on wether or not I enjoy a toxic "problematic" ship

Do you get the sense/vibe from the writing that the creator/writers of the show knows this is fucked. And I don't mean a lampshade comment with someone saying "This is not healty" and everything resuming as normal.

Is there a point in which the dynamic becomes more equal. As in no matter which character is objectively "worse" is there a point where it feels like the characters are on equal footing, on the same side, Hannibal does this really well for example.

Some ships that don't pass the test are: Twilight, 50 Shades, R*ylo; TharnType and every ship on Love Syndrome (do not ever watch that BL I am serious)

ASSUMPTION N#6

Ships.

FrankLee are obviously our second couple. They are both super relevant to the potential themes, they are obviously trying to pair braind (this is their third BL) and they were also announced first.

Boun and the Doctor are giving me crumbs ship vibe. They are both potentially important chartacters. But I feel like with all of this their relationship might have the least ammount of dedicated screen time.

Now the last one is less of an assumption and more of a wish really.

Max-Coohearth > now listen I know that Cooheart has a love interest already, Rome one of the first new guys announced in the cast. But Listen the fact they are already dating doesn't bode well for them. Cooheart is a super important character and it makes sense that his "proper" love interest would be someone in the mafia proper.

Plus Cooheart deserves it ok. I loved both of his major roles (uwma and my only 12%), but he wasn't allowed to be a proper sexy queer guy in either of them. Have you seen his instagram feed? It's picture after picture of him in sexy outfits. Let this man be in a high heat realtionship, put in a skirt. He deserves it and so do we.

Also Max from iconic pair MaxTul pair with Cooheart will heal people. It would totally fix me. And if they give this to me I will forgive anything and everything this show does wrong seriously I will be like: I was wrong on everything and the plot is not that good, but they give me MaxCooheart so 10/10.

Also the character description for Max's character makes me think that catchphrase they mention might be something similar to the English phrase: "Who's Your Daddy?" and [this is @respectthepetty's fault, I didn't use to have such glee about a possibly daddy kink] seeing Max Nattapol uttering the phrase Who's Your Daddy and potentially having a DaddyKink relationship with Cooheart is something I didn't know I needed but now I desperately desire.

[giraffeter]

Hello!

You just posted a lovely ArmKhun fic—they’re such a fun rarepair. Do you have any dearly-held headcanons for these two?

Hello!

I'm so happy you enjoyed my Arm/Tankhun fic — they are one of my favorite KinnPorsche rarepairs and the first one to really capture my heart while I was watching the show!

I'm thrilled that you asked this because I have SO many headcanons for these two, both separately and together. In no particular order, they include:

Tankhun picked out Pol and Arm to be his bodyguards because they are the tallest bodyguard and the shortest bodyguard respectively, and he finds their height disparity amusing. The fact that their personalities meshed well with his was a complete coincidence.

I have backstory headcanons for all the bodyguards that I have imagined so vividly at this point that sometimes I forget they're not canon. My headcanon for Arm is that he was in the military for a couple years before Chan recruited him to come work for Korn. That's where he got his weapons-handling training. It also means that Arm is a trained field medic, which you can see in the way he rushes in when Porsche has been drugged and when Big [rest of sentence lost in incoherent sobbing]. He has some experience helping people manage PTSD because of this, which gives him real empathy for Tankhun and makes him essential when Tankhun's in crisis.

After Kinn announces that he's in love with Porsche, Tankhun marches directly to the equipment office and is like ARM DID YOU KNOW ABOUT THIS?? Arm, who has been catching them on the CCTV for weeks and is dying to talk about it with someone, already has a highlight reel of "Kinn and Porsche being unsubtle all over the house" edited together and ready to go (he's kept it PG-13 because he's classy like that and because he doesn't want Kinn to actually murder him). Arm and Tankhun watch the whole thing together with popcorn and much squealing in delight and horror, following which Tankhun storms up to Kinn's room like KINN! WE EAT ON THAT TABLE KINN!

Arm grew up watching lakorns with his mom and grandma and loves them. I mentioned this in Brave Enough for Everything but he's the only bodyguard who actually doesn't mind all the TV.

I also alluded to this in the fic, but Tankhun finds Arm's street clothes genuinely, painfully distressing. After they're together, they have a protracted battle about the degree to which Arm is willing to let Tankhun dress him, which results in Arm staying a lot more normcore than Tankhun would like but at least he's wearing some bright colors sometimes and his clothes fit him properly now.

Arm and Tankhun stayed up all night making the glitter-bomb robots from the finale. Tankhun thought his dad was dead and knew they were on the brink of war with the minor family, and Arm invented this Battle Craft basically on the fly to give him something to focus on and keep him from spiraling out.

Speaking of which — do you ever think about how in the finale, when Erika comes out with guns blazing, Arm and Tankhun are right there in the office behind her? They're in lockdown right behind that wall, listening to their friends and Tankhun's brother get shot at, watching on the CCTV. There's no universe where Arm isn't holding Tankhun tight for all of that.

I know there are more — I could talk about these good good boys all day — but this is getting long and those are the ones off the top of my head. What are your favorite ArmKhun headcanons?

[sapphire-weapon]

So I don't know if this is usually what you enjoy writing, because I'm a sucker for lonely angst, I'm prompting a (very short, as you said) fic (or imagine, maybe just a hc if it's easier?) about how Leon copes with his soul burning loneliness, especially when it's lit up by so many disappointments and failed expectations. He's a sad man, my poor heart, but also fuck the content is SO good, lmao. Sorry Leon, I'm giving you an actoss-the-universes hug though!

We know he drinks like a fish, but what does he actually say to himself?

Anon, have you seen my AO3? That's my favorite thing to write, actually (other than porn lmao).

Decided to set this just before Vendetta, when he first checks into his hotel in the middle of nowhere. I got the sense that, when Chris and Rebecca found him, it wasn't day one of his vacation; he was in the middle of it.

Remember that this was written mostly on my phone while at work, so it's not my best prose ever, but I hope u enjoy all the same.

-

It was raining.

It shouldn't have come as a surprise to Leon -- rain out in the middle of nowhere in Colorado -- so, maybe "surprising" wasn't the best word. Unbelievable, perhaps. Ironic in a way that was either cosmic or poetic -- he could never really remember the differences between either one. It was like something out of a bad movie, where the weather was set up to match the protagonist's mood.

Though, he knew better to think of himself as "the protagonist" anymore. Even within the context of his own life, he was hardly the main character. He hadn't been for years.

The rain reached out towards him in varying intervals -- sometimes as a quiet patter rapping on the glass of his hotel room window. Other times, a silent wind carried it over with more force. Water scattered against the pane almost horizontally, as if trying actively to cut through and break in. Leon pulled up a chair and simply watched it, a half-filled whiskey glass dangling idly from the tips of his fingers all the while.

This wasn't the first time this had happened, actually. It had been raining back then, too -- on the night he'd come as close to dying as he'd ever been.

In fact, if the CIA hadn't had his gun confiscated, he would have died.

Leon's resilience and aptitude for survival was damn near mythical among the ranks of government officials and military officers who had the clearance to know who he actually was. What they didn't know was that all of it could come undone in a matter of seconds; a villain lurked just out of sight, lying in wait as a constant threat. A villain who had almost won that night, if only he'd been armed.

There was truly no greater threat to the legend that was Leon Kennedy than himself.

"Hard to believe it's been seventeen whole years," he said aloud to no one.

He raised the glass to his lips and intended to just to just take a sip -- but he quickly thought better of it, threw his head back, and took the whole glass's worth of liquor like a giant shot.

It was the first drink of many, he already knew.

With a soft clink, he set the now-empty glass on the table beside him and turned his attention back to the window. Pale, cold light from the street lamps outside flickered beneath the oppressive downpour of rain, as though threatening to go out.

It was quiet. Aside from the rain, the world seemed almost dead just beyond these walls. There were no people about on the sidewalks, no cars in the street. The normal sights and sound of a busy city that Leon had become so completely used to in his adult life were now nowhere to be found. If he were of a mind to, it'd be easy to close his eyes and convince himself that he was the only person left alive on earth.

That had been the point, originally -- to get away from the constant movement and noise and chaos that was his life -- to find somewhere where he could be away from people, from expectation. That was what he'd wanted, and it was what he'd found here in this tiny little town.

But now that he was here and he was living it, he wasn't so sure that he wanted it after all.

"Story of my life," he murmured softly to himself -- and then immediately regretted it, loathing the sound of his own voice in this empty room.

It was a bad habit that he couldn't quite remember when he'd developed. No one ever listened to him anyway, so he made it a point to speak when no one could actually hear. In some twisted way, it made him feel less alone -- most times, at least. But not tonight.

Tonight, he didn't want to hear it from himself. He was so tired of himself -- of what he was doing, of the life he was living, of the person he'd become and of the personality that he'd developed.

He reached over and grabbed the bottle of whiskey he'd had set out on the table by the neck, screwing off the top using only his thumb and forefinger. He was careful to place it gently on the tabletop as soon as it sprang free from its rails, and he was just as quick to grab the bottle and refill the glass.

A gust of wind sent a spray of rainwater splashing hard against the window at an upwards angle. It caught Leon's attention only briefly from the corner of his eye, and he flicked his gaze in that direction for only a second before he refocused on what he was doing.

It was a hell of a thing, to be so sick and tired of himself. Tired of the way he thought about things, tired of his own interpretations of people and events, tired of the words he used and the habits he'd developed. He could remember being 20 and wondering at where he'd actually be in ten years, and it looked nothing like where he'd ended up.

At 21, he didn't expect to live long enough to see that ten-year mark hit. He didn't expect to see age 25, even. He didn't particularly want to, either.

But 25 came and went. Then 30. Then 35. And somehow, he was still here, now at 37, and nothing in his life had changed. He may as well have still been 21, if not for the fact that his cynicism had grown alongside his age, and his body had struggled to keep up with both.

Not that he was particularly helping it at all. He'd been doing well for a while -- taking care of himself, staying on top of his fitness, keeping a routine.

But a few dozen friends turned corpses made quick work of that little bit of progress, and now he was holed up in a shitty hotel in the middle of nowhere at the dead of night, using whiskey to top off (and soon exceed) his recommended caloric intake for the day.

He just didn't see the point anymore. What was the point of keeping himself in peak physical condition, if people were going to die under his watch no matter what shape he was in or how hard he fought? What was the point of trying to get close to anyone if he couldn't even stand to be around himself most days?

It was a question with no good answer, and he hated to think about it, besides. Thinking about it would start a horrible spiral of connecting thoughts regarding the transience of time and the fleeting nature of human existence, culminating in the grim reality of what was waiting for him back home once his too-short vacation was over.

Back when he was 20 and wondering where his life would end up, those were concepts he'd never even thought to consider, much less contemplate in such great detail that he fell out of time and space in the midst of a self-inflicted existential crisis.

Settling back against his seat and slouching down the slightest bit, Leon breathed out a heavy breath through his nose. Outside, he could see the faintest silhouettes of treetops scratching against the night's sky. Shadows danced across the leaves as the cold yellow light from the streetlamps got trapped between the boughs and disappeared into the void behind the bark.

Still, the world outside was quiet. Still, the area remained devoid of human life.

Leon took a sip of his drink and glanced over to the table to his left. He hadn't brought much with him. That was kind of the point. His bike's leather saddlebag sat unopened at the far end of the tabletop, leaving only two things within reach: the whiskey bottle and his gun.

It was on his gun that his attention lingered.

Slowly, absently, he pulled his whiskey glass from his lips and settled the base of it against the top of his right thigh. Somehow, he always ended up here -- in a staredown with his own weapon, acknowledging the grim reality that, one day, he was going to use it. One day, he'd do more than just look at it and feel the weight of inevitability settle down against his chest like a weighted blanket.

One day, it wouldn't even be a conscious thought in his mind; his thoughts would be blank and his body numb, and the act of shooting himself would come almost as second nature -- instinctual, even.

He knew that, because that was how he'd felt that night so, so many years ago. There was no question of "if" or "should." It was "I will" -- followed by the realization "I can't" and all of the horrible ugliness that came with feeling that he was so completely incompetent and worthless that he couldn't even kill himself properly.

The next time "I will" came to him, there'd be no one there to stop him. No one to take his weapon. And he will.

Leon took another sip of his whiskey and turned his attention back to the window. The incandescent lights in his hotel room flickered briefly, but they refused to give out beneath the force of the storm just yet -- though, it was probably just a matter of time.

And when that time came, he would welcome the darkness.

[ausetkmt]

Ryan Stokes’ mother Narene Crosby, delivers remarks on the steps of KCPD headquarters on the 10th anniversary of her son’s death.

Key Points

Mother of unarmed Black man shot by KCPD still seeking justice 10 years later

Ryan Stokes’ killing by police was ruled as ‘justified’ due to qualified immunity

The family and Real Justice Network are pushing to end qualified immunity in Missouri

On the 10-year anniversary of her son dying at the hands of a KCPD Officer, Narene Crosby stood on the steps of police headquarters still searching for justice. 

“We are here to remind the city, the state, and the country that we are still here fighting for Ryan, and we’ll keep fighting as long as it takes,” says Crosby. 

Ryan Stokes was shot in the back by a Kansas City police officer 10 years ago. Despite Stokes being unarmed, his killing was ruled as ‘justified’ by a court due to the officer “fearing for his life.” 

“He was the soul of our family, he was the glue,” says Crosby. “His loss was truly profound not just for our family, they took away a business leader, a community leader, a father and a son.”

Over the past decade the family of Ryan Stokes, including his mother and daughter, have sued in order to seek restitution. Their case seemed to have the facts on their side: Ryan Stokes was unarmed, Officer William Thompson shot him in the back within ten seconds of arriving on the scene, and the KCPD even made a false report stating that they saw Stokes with a gun. 

The case went all the way to the US Supreme Court, but the Stokes family has been denied the justice they seek.  They keep running into the same issue: qualified immunity.  

What is Qualified Immunity

The family of Ryan Stokes gathers each year to honor him, but this year they are also pushing to end police qualified immunity. 

“Qualified immunity has allowed police officers to go unchecked for far too long,” says Justice Gatson, director of the Real Justice Network.

Qualified immunity is a legal doctrine that protects government employees from being sued. In effect, qualified immunity makes it nearly impossible to hold police officers accountable. If an officer says they ‘feared for their life,’ their actions are then deemed justifiable even when unconscionable. 

The officer in the Ryan Stokes case said he believed that Stokes had a gun, that belief—even though it was inaccurate—coupled with a fear for his life was enough for qualified immunity to protect the officer from repercussions. 

The US Supreme Court decided not to hear Stokes’ case in July, which upholds the lower court’s ruling that the officer who shot Stokes was justified. Justice Sonia Sotomayor gave a blistering dissent to the court’s decision to not hear the case. 

Real Justice Network Director Justice Gatson says they are committed to ending qualified immunity.

State Level Law Changes Sought

Gatson says that after the case was rejected by the Supreme Court, the group is exploring ways to end qualified immunity at least in the state of Missouri. There are four states that have at least limited qualified immunity, and they hope to make Missouri the fifth. 

The Stokes family and Real Justice Network are pressuring the state legislature to end the practice, and to make police officers carry  insurance, so that if an officer unjustly kills a citizen, the insurance policy would cover a payout instead of public tax dollars. 

They also want officers who’ve faced discipline and been fired for cause to not be able to work as an officer in another city or as prison guards. 

While the conservative super-majority in the Missouri legislature may be a challenge, the group says they are also exploring a ballot initiative to put qualified immunity to a vote. For more information visit therealjusticenetwork.org or see the free film screening of “Who is Ryan Stokes?” at the Bluford Library at 12:30 p.m. on Saturday, Aug. 26. 

[m39]

Doom WADs’ Roulette (2006): TurboCharged ARCADE!

Let’s finish the Bronze League of 2006 with another Mockaward winner, shall we?

Br2 Br3: TurboCharged ARCADE!

Main author(s): Xaser Acheron

Release date: November 18th, 2006 (database upload)

Version played:

Required port compatibility: ZDoom

Levels: 8

As I said in my previous review, there is a second Mockaward winner from 2006. And unlike How Not To Be Seen, this is actually a proper Doom WAD... sort of.

TurboCharged ARCADE is a collection of eight experimental maps, each testing different aspects of using ZDoom features. All spiced up with some vulgar humor, fitting its times.

Now, Xaser was a guy who helped with mapping for the first ZDoom Community Map Project take along with some scripting in its second version, so why won’t take a look at what he created when he was brainstorming, huh?

Let’s start with obvious first - none of the maps look really good. Most of these look really basic, outdated even by 2006. I can, however, somewhat forgive that since these maps are (as I said earlier) experimental, so their look wasn’t a priority.

The music was fine to listen to. Nothing ear-grating.

Also most of the time, this collection is unfairly cheap. You would think that firing twice as fast and carrying 1.5 times more ammo will make it easier but here’s the problem – you are not the only one on coke! The demons are on coke too; being twice as fast along with their projectiles being twice as fast too. The only way to actually play these maps without ripping your hair out is either with God mode enabled or on the easiest difficulty setting AKA I'm too young to die. Never though such a day will come, when I’ll be forced to play on the easiest difficulty level in Doom.

Now, you might be asking: Why I didn’t talk about how you play these levels? Hell, why didn’t I show anything at all? Simple - it’s because each of these maps is so unique (even if janky) that it’s worth more to talk about these individually.

I’ll start with the fact that you can play all of these maps in any order from the menu (still Pistol-starting though). Not to mention how each one of these ends with you dying and receiving a funny intermission screen at the end.

As for the maps themselves, here is what you need to know about them:

At Home - You are in your very tiny house and your task is to exit it while walking very slowly.

Go To Hell! – You end up in Hell and you have to kill monsters in tight areas to reach a teleporter at the end.

Prison R[[SOAP DROPPING]]! – You are surrounded by devilish goats behind prison bars in a tight corridor and you have to press two switches before squashing them into the red paste.

You are Pablo Picasso – You have to paint a human by stepping on a canvas. To make it harder, there are invisible walls that force you to take a very linear path while Imps are bombarding you. Probably my favorite map of this WAD.

Here is a tip: it’s easier to do this with strafing instead of turning.

Battleshit – You are playing Battleship with a Cyberdemon (which has only one tile). After winning, you fight him with the Plasma Gun.

Go Eat Shit, Sherlock! – After killing Sherlock Holmes, you are forced to finish his latest murder case; filled with unskippable cutscenes that don’t allow you to move (at least they are somewhat funny and don’t feel like they drag out). Also at the end, you must kill 38 demons.

The Matrix Has You – You basically blow the shit up in a bastardized version of Matrix. There are two sections where you are forced to play in bullet-time and at the end you fight the Agent (which might be easier than the rest of the map). Also, there is a secret with a Super Shotgun that you can’t carry after fighting in the office building.

I'm H[[YOUTUBE]] – You are fighting Mr. Adolf [[HEMMORROIDS]] himself, now in a form of a cube. This map is also the worst one when it comes to bullshit moments; especially at the final area, where the boss heals himself at a ridiculous speed, to the point where he can end up softlocked with healing so fast that nothing stops him when he is dying.

While I still think that How Not To Be Seen is still funnier due to me having more of a blast from Monty Python rather than randomness out of the mid-2000s this collection offers, I think it was still funnier than the previous Mockaward winners.

And that’s basically all I have to say about TurboCharged ARCADE. I wouldn’t call this set of maps good, but at least it was interesting to see what could be done with ZDoom by 2006.

And since I’m done with all of the bronze WADs, it would finally be time to choose which WAD should be promoted to the Revenant Awards without all WADs winning by default.

See you next time.

Bye.

[cburambles]

The Shinras were already a family of weapon manufacturers with seemingly a buisness that was considered small & from the devs interviews, had a parent company as well. Parent-company who went against him upon his discovery on how mako can be used to make life more comfortable

So in a way, Shinra sr would have been already decently well-off to live comfortably at the time but likely not rich enough to be considered to be from the elit class. The Shinra are likely considered to be nouveau rich, with all its gaudy tastes that would be considered ditasteful for the Old money club.

In CCR, we also discover that he was openly dating Lazard's mother via the npcs roaming around the church, a woman from the slums & it's the only time he had a relationship with a woman that is described as a romantic one. Before he ended up abandonning her.

From the devs interview, we learn that he also used to be a decent man but upon being faced with opposition, he became an extremist

I think any opposition caused him to backlash intensly, which caused his ego to inflate to the point of narcissism but also pushed his need to recreate everything in Shinra's image. Impose his own standards on the world.

It's not only Shinra HQ in Midgar, his presidential office or the museum that is mostly dedicated about him ( & notice the lack of presence of a supposed wife or his son in the displays) It's also Upper Junon, a city full of luxuries, built over the remnants of a republic that he sank.

Shinra sr not only tries to place himself above everyone, he's trying to re-write history, control the narrative, reshape the world in his image.

So when Rufus comes & doesn't turn out to be just a mini-clone or extension of himself but another human being with his own thoughts & ideas, of course it's bound to clash. When the idea that a 5 y old is worried for you is an offense to your ego, your relationship is doomed from the start.

It's gonna warp Rufus's own vision of what a decent familial relationship is. Abusive relationships tend to squatch any sense of individuality. Him expressing his own is likely gonna be perceived as him being rebellious by either of them. & it's really likely the search of the Promised Land is the thing that make him feel connected to his father as he says he dream of finding it since he was a child.

I wouldn't be surprised if he developped his current fashion sense quite late & used to have a similar fashion sense as his father when he was younger until he felt that need to look different & develop his own taste. It's also likely not a coincidence that he get along with the Turks, aka the group that let a lot their individuality shine despite them all being in black suits & some of them being a bit indoctrined into thinking they can only live thru their loyalty to Shinra, from Reno's dyed hair, Rude's piercings & glasses or Elena bedazzled pink gun

& it resulted in Rufus ultimately being similar as we see they share the same goals, are scheming, have similar body language, don't want for themselves & their other family members to look weak but also grow to be different people as Rufus tend to be more accepting of his current situation, is flexible enough to negotiate with his ennemies for various purpose, is willing to be a shield for his little brother so he & his friends can get away, was willing to accept the Turks leaving him at his most vulnerable, shows empathy & compassion, is brave enough to stand & fight with his men tho to the point of recklesnesss etc...

Shinra sr is inflexible while Rufus can adapt and i'm not going to go into all the life & death, redemption & all the Phoenix imagery that is now canonically surrounding him vs his father wanting an eternal positive legacy (while committing atrocities on the side) & existence of Shinra & constant growth aka late stage capitalism/technofeudalism in a nutshell

Him being threatened by Rufus is also really likely why he probably never let Rufus gain proper experience or prop him in the eyes of the public.Added to the fact he was in the Turks basement for years which is a thing of his own doing. In rebirth, some NPCs just seem to discover that he existed.

Shinra sr also made Lazard Director of SOLDIER, which could be perceived as a way to balance power in the Board but would be seen as major threat to Rufus as his half-brother gain power ( & TKAA shows us that he was actually scared that one of his siblings could be a potential replacement for him. Knowing Shinra sr propensity to re-write history with the case of Kalm & Nibelheim, it's not far-fecthed) . & of course, Shinra sr never talked to them about Deepground, which could have been used against both of them.

You can also feel it impact the Board as Rufus doesn't control the room like his father used to. And many Board members likely knew him since he was a child, which is gonna affect how his perceived by them & may undermine his authority.

Poor Reeve who prob thought "maybe there's some hope with Rufus" to then discover that he might not be better than his father & be used by him. No wonder he turns full anti- Shinra in public post OG ( but then has to still accept him in secret because he needs the money lol)

In any case, I really like how in the story Shinra sr set up the company & his son for failure. & yet, it's legacy will keep enduring from the subsequent crisis humanity has to deal with because of Shinra's meddling but Rufus having to rebuild his company & thus the potential to reshape it in something better & maybe smaller too while he still get to have some influence on the world behind the scenes, which might suit better for someone with his personnality. I think CoS comparing him & the Turks to a gang of children who don't have a place to call home anymore & their hierarchy being blurried really fitting. It give you the sense they are re-learning life while trying to help with the best they can & seemingly building a whole new community alongside other geostigma stricken patients living with them in Healen Lodge.

But it's too bad it's not explored outside of this paragraph.

I was remembering discussing the missed opportunity of FF7 expanding on the faction of nobles/old money on Gaia with @cburambles and I had some rambly shower thoughts. I also may just be reading too many fantasy webtoons, but anyway...

I could absolutely see President Shinra feeling like he has to compete with and outdo the existing wealthy before, and while, Midgar was being built (unless he fucking lied about his background. I think it's possible). It would explain his awful and gaudy taste. The 70th floor office is something I am constantly horrified by. But the rest of the building is actually not that bad. It's like a combination of trying to be different than, better than, and the same as wealthy people with poor taste. His office is so high up, it's like he was trying to separate himself from everyone else. And perhaps, it was an effort to alleviate any insecurities when comparing himself to the established wealthy, because he doesn't have to be reminded of them.

I have considered the impact this may have had in Rufus growing up. That perhaps he tried to mould his son into something that's the same as, but also better than, these other people. An improved version, you could say. Another way to say "Shinras are better than these old snobs." By having him thoroughly educated (judging by how Rufus speaks), for example. Although, it's not clear how many of his current skills are because he was self-driven or not. It's possible that certain things were forced on him with no rational reason given (I can relate to this. Abusive parents don't explain, they just demand). But anyway, I think this would just further drive the two away from each other, because President Shinra wouldn't be able to relate to Rufus and whatever he's taken an interest in and exposed to. He seems to have an interest in fashion, judging by his clothes, for example. And it already seems like Rufus has quite a few different ideas than his father, judging by how he is in Before Crisis. It's hard to tell what is being rebellious and what is a result of being a different person.

I think President Shinra having a son he was constantly annoyed with is something he did to himself. Even if that wasn't true, these two were always going to clash. They are both driven and controlling individuals. I honestly think he felt somewhat threatened by Rufus. Why else would he bristle at Rufus questioning him during a meeting (again, in Before Crisis), while, in contrast, Reeve is thinking about what "a fine young man" Rufus grew to be. Unfortunately, Reeve is too young to be Rufus's father, even when Rufus was canonically 25 years old in FF7. :(

[cherry-pipers-blog]

Shae Landers, another thing I added this later in the other thread and wanted people to see this so I am now making a new thread on this..

She is all for this black lives matters but yet George Floyd was a five time convicted felon, held a gun to a woman's belly when she was pregnant and did other major crimes and was in prison half of his life  and did hard core drugs. at the time of his death had heavy drugs in his system to the point after he tried to pass a fake bill to get cigarettes and was asked three times to give the cigarettes back and refused, he was so wasted he could not even drive and his friend had to get out of the car and call her daughter to get home. His drug dealer was with him. When the cops showed up he was still refusing to give the cigarettes back and then began fighting with cops and would not get into the police car. 

His heavy drugs , very dangerous drugs in his system along with his health problems and panicking when being arrested with hypertension killed him, not just a knee on his neck.  The knee on the neck ALONG WITH his hypertension, enlarged heart, covid, clogged arteries (one artery was 99% clogged so imagine what hypertension did)  also with too much drugs in his system all played a factor in his dying... If all those other factors were not present the knee alone would have not killed him...... He probably would died if the cops didn’t even show up or died in the police car because he had overdosed on drugs.... He was over-dosing and foam was running out of his mouth when he was standing up and also while fighting the cops. 

Before the cops even came he was falling a sleep in his car, and she could not keep him up, his friend,  his friend even said so... she had to call her daughter to get a ride home.... .He had to go to the hosptial a few times shortly before that from over dosing, he over dosed on Fentynal and another dangerous drug that day and was yelling “I can’t breathe” before he was even on the ground and foaming at his mouth before he was even on the ground... the way he fought the cops inside and outside of the car and was yelling “I can’t breathe” before any knee was on him.... . a lot of these black men fight police and are known to kill police officers. It’s not like this guy was innocent and murdered just because he was black. So Shae is ignorant too. Many white people have died fighting cops during arrests. why isn’t anything said about that? And the blacks thought it was funny when OJ Simpson got away with killing two people..... and the blacks were cheering knowing OJ got away with murder...... they were saying “now we got to kill you whites for a change” how fucked up is that? All you have to do is research instead of playing ,like you are still 16.

What will you do when a black guy shows up breaking into your home and is going to rob and harm you and your family? Let me guess, call the police. Well, when the police are trying to do their jobs and “protect themselves and others from dangerous felons” and the felon gets hurt or dies fighting the cops, you all crying to put the cops in prison.

 Well, all cops should resign and then let all these felons just murder us. and take our cars and everything and savagely kill us..... Blue lives matter too and obviously, if people like you are in danger, police will be the ones you call..... when you are in danger from some felon just like George Floyd was....

 Sure George had a family who loved him, so does serial killers.   People like you act like he was a innocent man just sitting in his car and was targeted and murdered because he was black... not even close to the facts when it comes to George Floyd. Unfortunatly, there are innocent black people who get stopped for no reason and bothered for no reason but this was NOT the case with George Floyd. 

That  cop that is now in prison for pretty much the rest of his life was protecting and serving his community from felons like George Floyd. This is what he gets?

 All cops should resign then see how much you love felons like this guy was. When you need the cops from people just like this guy... The police should not be available to protect and serve you .  The ignorance is unbelievable.  All lives matter but now cops are suppose to let a black man kill them when they are placing them under arrests because if the felon is hurt or killed while fighting the cops and wanting to kill to prevent being arrested, the cops should just be hurt and killed because other wise they are racist? and will go to prison? So many black guys killed cops including a black guy grabbed a cops gun and shot the cop shortly after the George Floyd incident... nobody cried about that.....  while the cops were trying to arrest him....If the suspect is resisting arrest and is a possible danger the cops have a right to subdue them in anyway they have to... 

As I said , why don’t the cops all retire and let people like you fend for yourself when you need them?  Now if you are black you can kill, rape and rob and pass fake bills and not be touched or the cops racist? a lot of these felons will do anything not to be arrested especially somebody like George Floyd who was on PROBATION so any minor crime would have put him back in prison... He was asked many times to give the cigarettes back and he refused... He could have been on his way home if he just gave back the cigarettes. oh wait, he could not drive he was so wasted, why would his own friend lie? That’s why George was still just sitting in his car and not driving off after literally stealing the cigarettes and was told to give them back or the cops would be called.  Fentynal and another major drug which caused his respiratory problems before the cops even touched him. But yet he was fighting like a beast which confused the cops...

 George was in the back of the police car at one point fighting so severely the car was shifting up and down, left to right yelling"I can’t breathe “ and before he was put in the police car “I can’t breathe” and the cop said “I will put the window down.”:.. there was NO Knee on his neck and he was yelling “I can’t breathe”. while being put in the police car and while in the police car and foam was running out of his mouth... so they took him out of the car and put him on the ground because he was fighting them.. Usually people who can’t breathe don’t fight so severely the cops car was moving like there was an earth quake shaking that bad from George fighting them inside the car... this is when he got put to the ground.... but he was already saying he could not breathe but yet fighting the cops.   

 Also, the cops thought George was just trying to avoid not being arrested when he kept saying “ I can’t breathe” as suspects being placed under arrest do try to do anything to get out of it....then when the cops release the suspect from being pinned down and let them up, , they begin fighting again...Why don’t you go out there as a police officer daily with your own life at risk constantly from people just like George Floyd and then see. 

some Blacks don’t want equal rights, some want more rights then anyone or you’re a racist.  

What about the police lives and the innocent civilians lives who are in danger from felons just like George Floyd. huh?

Serial killers have families who love them too and so? George’s family loved him so do serial killers have family who love them. and?  

 George sure was fighting the cops to the point the cops’ car was shaking, so why would the cops think he was under physcial duress? Plus, regardless he was foaming at the mouth and saying he could not breathe before any knee was on him.    

I get verbally accosted by some black men and they never seen me before and don’t know me.. talking about racism and hate.  I had some really creepy problems with some black men at jobs. On top of everything else, Derek Chauvin called for EMT with in two minutes of George being pinned to the ground. The EMT took longer than normal to arrive but he was already saying he could not breathe before he was even on the ground. Earlier the first cop on the scene as George if he had taken drugs and George lied and said “no” if he was more honest cops would have been better to known he had overdosed.  Another arrest he had a year before this, he was honest with the cops and said he did take drugs and would have died that day if he was not honest.  Constant criminal acts and a danger to society and a druggie.  Blacks don’t want equal rights, they want more rights than others and to be above the law and they are racist plenty 

[ezlebe]

Tomgreg prompt: Marianne has heard one too many vague yet worrying things about Tom, so decides to come to nyc to strategize with Greg about what best to do.

9:30AM Can you like come >>

Over>>

Rn mb>>

Tom looks up from his phone to frown at the office sofa that Greg is supposed to be sitting on.

<< Are you dying? 9:32 AM

<< Is this a life alert situation?

9:33AM Maybe!!!!>>

Don’t fr call 911 tho >>

Tom takes a deep breath, rolling his eyes while grudgingly checking his calendar for meetings; he has none until 3PM, and even that’s – He feels another buzz in his hand.

Please >>

🙍🏻‍♂️>>

Oh, and now Greg is breaking out the smiley guns.

Please Tom>>

Can you come over please >>

<< If I don’t will you be out all day? 9:35AM

9:35AM Forever mb >>

<<Dramatic, much? 9:37AM

9:37AM It is like a wholly appropriate response actually >>

Tom rolls his eyes and stands up from his desk with a reach toward his coat.

<< Come let me up the elevator. 10:01AM

10:02AM Can’t >>

Use door code >>

No buzz fr >>

Tom frowns and drags Greg’s name down and presses call, only to promptly get sent to voicemail. He is tempted to turn around and just leave, but finds himself thumbing in the passcode to the lobby, anyway, curiosity piqued and more than a little annoyed. “What the fuck, Greg?”

He makes his way up and leans into the door of Greg’s apartment, tapping a pair of knuckles against the wood. His brows raise when he hears a dog bark, then a woman’s voice shushing it, and takes a breath and stands up straight just before the door swings open.

A petite, older brunette stands blocking Greg’s door, looking up with an uncomfortably familiar judgment that is uncannily Logan-adjacent, which really only can mean one thing. She shoves out her hand at the same time she kicks out a leg to keep a small Australian shepherd from breaking through the door. “Marianne Roy.”

“Tom Wambsgans,” Tom says, shaking her hand, then let’s his eyes drop, pointing with the same hand down at the shepherd. “What’s your dog’s name?”

Marianne is quiet for a beat. “Petey.”

“Hello, Petey,” Tom says, kneeling and letting him sniff the back of his hand, then smiling when Petey shoves against his palm. “Greg did not tell me he had visitors.”

“Please, it’s mid-morning on a Tuesday,” Marianne says, backing up to let Tom in, then shutting the door behind him with a marked scoff. “I know he’s texted you. He’s in his room sulking and pretending not to smoke weed, like it’s 2005. I’m surprised I haven’t already heard that Seven Nation Army song.”

“Ah,” Tom says, looking past her and into the kitchen, catching a wine glass quite present on the counter at 10AM. “I’ll just go up and see why he’s late then?”

“You do that,” Marianne says, dryly, proceeding him and picking up her wine glass before returning to an evident spot on the sofa with a tablet.

Tom hesitates for a few beats at the head of the hallway, then takes a breath, going further into the apartment and up to the second level. He hasn’t really thought much of Marianne Roy, aside for anything Greg said about her, which could be summed up in that he’s picked up taking care of her where Ewan had dropped off.

He had definitely expected her to be a lot taller.

Tom approaches Greg’s door, knocking at it with a pair of knuckles. He waits a pair of seconds, then knocks again, receiving nothing, and reaches down to the knob only to find it locked. “Greg!” he snaps, knocking as loud as he can in a sharp three raps. “Are we really doing this? You big fucking brat, let me in or I’m telling your mother you gave every girl you looked at genital herpes in Tuscany.”

“She wouldn’t believe you,” Greg says, as his voice gets closer to the door, opening it to show that he wasn’t really ignoring Tom, so much as wearing a pair of headphones the size of horse hooves around his head.

He’s also very much still in his pajamas and smelling just faintly of sweet vapor.

“Because you’re on your way to being the next big Judd Apatow film?”

Greg inhales somewhat crossly and pulls the headphones off his neck, eyes rolling, ultimately glancing to the stairs behind Tom. “So… Did you, um… make her leave?”

“Did I kick your mother out of your home, Greg?” Tom clarifies, voice pitching upward, following Greg back into the room and closing the door behind him with a low scoff. He watches Greg take a short pull off of a vape pen, pressing his lips in a line – wine downstairs, weed upstairs, coke probably in the walls, considering Kendall; what a fucking household. “No, I did not. No one’s mother deserves that sort of discourtesy, not even a Roy, especially when her youngest son is far more friendly than the eldest.”

Greg stares for a solid beat, then proceeds to do his own best sad puppy impression and slump onto his bed. “Maybe he can be Mondale’s assistant.”

Tom cracks a laugh despite himself, watching Greg’s mouth twitch, too, and shakes his head. “Alright, go on, tell me your sulk story.”

“So like, I get this buzz at like 7AM and – and I know, yeah, I’m supposed to be awake, but – You know. And then she just comes in and starts badgering me about like this stuff she’s heard, and – And it’s freaks me out, so. I came up here.”

“You know another way to avoid someone in your house?” Tom asks, raising his brows with a short lean forward and a mocking whisper. “Going to work.”

Greg rolls his eyes, reaching up and sweeping at nothing behind his ear.

“She give a reason for her impromptu visit?”

“Yeah, because like – ” Greg gestures vaguely with his vape pen, not quite in any particular direction. “I told her you’re supposedly helping me in the company even though we – or, Roys – don’t own it anymore? But like, you didn’t, you know, impress her with your hearing on C-SPAN.”

“Oh, yeah? You tell her to watch the rest of it, or just say you weren’t on it?” Tom snatches the vape pen out of Greg’s loose fingers, wagging it down at him and about done with the audacity. “So she’s being a busybody?”

“Yeah, I dunno,” Greg says, exhaling an explosive breath, then his eyes slide to the side in that way they do before he goes into the bad news. “And she’s been talking to Connor, too, I guess? They used to… hang out, before I was born.”

Tom narrows his eyes. “I vaguely remember hearing something that.”

“So. She also thinks, I – um, may be in a bit of a Bluebeard situation?” Greg says, and reaches out, plucking yet another vape pen from the bedside table. “I like don’t know what Connor said to her, but –” He inhales from the tip, vapor escaping his mouth on his final word. “Yeah.”

“A Bluebeard situation?” Tom repeats, hearing his voice pitch, glancing down at the floor and the kitchen below them. He’s half tempted to himself use the pen in his hand, but he’s never used vape and doesn’t know if it’s got some kind of super weed in it for the habitual user. “Like the story of the guy who kills all his wives, Greg?”

Greg shrugs tightly and wraps his free hand around his elbow.

“Did you tell her – ?”

Greg immediately starts shaking his head.

“How the hell does Connor know about it?”

“I don’t know, Tom!” Greg laments, covering his face and rolling over into his bedspread with a low groan.

Tom rolls his lips tight over his teeth. “Does she want you to come home?”

“No,” Greg says, his voice mostly muffled into his pillow. “You kidding? She wants to strategize getting the most out of it while it lasts.”

Tom stares for a beat at Greg’s curled up back, then pinches hard at the bridge of his nose. He slumps to sit down on the edge of the mattress, “So your whole family is like this, are they?”

“Including you,” Greg says, turning over on the bed and throwing his arms out across the width of it. He’s nudged up now against Tom’s back, knee bony and warm though his thin flannel pants. “And me, I guess.”

Tom shakes his head, as he sets the pen down among the cluttered paraphernalia and stray kitsch on the bedside table. “In four months, I’m just in the company.”

Greg hums lowly, mouth pressing in a line while he tilts his head and stretches his neck a bit too agreeably across on the pillow.

“Stop it. We’re not addressing that,” Tom snaps, a faint heat under his own jaw. “Ever.”

Greg blinks slowly and starts to pout, plainly skeptical – maybe he has a point, but he doesn’t need to be so petulant about it. A lot can happen in four months.

“Get up, Gregory,” Tom says, reaching out and somewhat indulgently smacking Greg across a narrow thigh with a brief squeeze. “Get dressed. I have a meeting at three about block chain and NFTs and I need someone to sit next to me to pretend I know what the fuck it is.”

“I don’t even… really know what it is.”

Tom stands with a straightening sweep of his blazer. “Exactly, you get ask all the stupid questions.”

Greg rolls off the beds, halfway following Tom out of the room. “What, but – ?”

He closes the door behind him, then peeks into the other bedrooms, mouth pinching when he discovers each one just as empty as the last time he was here. He exhales a long sigh, then heads down to the first level while pulling out his phone to look up Caren.

“He’s coming in to work, now,” Tom says, unable to keep himself from bending down again when Petey jumps off the sofa and greets him only a few feet down from the stairs to Greg’s room. He dearly wants to pick him up, but resists, continuing into the main room. “Are you staying with Greg while you’re in town?”

Marianne raises an eyebrow, “Planning on it.”

“Here’s a number for my decorator, Caren,” Tom says, grabbing a stray piece of paper on the dining table, turning it over to make sure it’s not a fucking legal proof, then scribbling a number on it. “She’ll get you a bed. Greg doesn’t exactly have this place set up for visitors.”

Marianne looks at the number for an odd beat too long, then back up at Tom. “Alright.”

“And,” Tom clears his throat, raising a brow with a short turn of his head. “Were you going to come into the office?”

“Why?”

Tom puts on an affable smile. “I don’t know the last time you saw the place. Here’s a number for a car – ” He has a card in his wallet for this, at least, and starts a text for Susan at the same time. “I’ll let the service know you’re here. They’re quite dog friendly.”

Marianne raises an eyebrow, plainly testing, “And the office?”

“Perfectly so,” Tom says, brightly, switching apps and starting an email to the front desk to advise them, too. He was once told in no uncertain terms that Mondale was not allowed, but that was by Shiv, and Matsson recently accommodated that weird accountant who brought in a cat.

“Maybe I will drop by,” Marianne says, unhurriedly, glancing down with some significance at Petey, as if he might have an opinion, which is a behavior Tom finds rather gratifying to see in another person.

“Of course,” Tom says, smiling brighter, satisfied when she finally smiles back at him. “We have nothing to hide.”

Marianne’s smirk gets a bit sharp. “Except for that one thing.”

Tom raises his brows back, somewhat startled, but also keeps his affable expression. “Oh, it’s certainly all in the open now.” He glances to the stove, catching the time, and turns his head up to yell at the bedroom. “Greg!”

“Tom, I’m –” Greg says, from the hallway near the stairs, which Petey runs down with a mad click of nails, followed by thumping, then a low curse that sounds directed at the dog. “I’m right here. Sto-stop it, Pete, I’m – stop it.”

Tom takes a beat to appreciate how absolutely ridiculous Greg looks stepping up next to his mother, towering over her like a hung scarecrow while he runs a hand through his hair. It certainly could not have been a comfortable birth.

“Tom’s given me free rein around the city,” Marianne says, pitching her voice up in a particular tone of inarguable kindliness that reads bizarrely similar to Connor. “Including to visit.”

“Uh, but,” Greg says, blinking a little unevenly, and plainly not having sobered up a bit despite what his nice laundered suit might present. “We have a meeting with… artists?”

Tom shrugs and lifts a hand to offer a tentative gesture. “I would really love to tell them to drown themselves up the bullshit river, so drop by whenever.”

Marianne turns back to Tom with another sharp smile. “Oh, I will.”

[visceravalentines]

okay so I adored this, obviously, because it's perfect. your ability to weave beautiful word tapestries depicting nasty gross sex acts is.......unmatched. literally literary pornography. the metaphor is his penis and your reader is my favorite reader ever. I promised u an essay response and here it is. next time it's gonna be that fic of a fic I keep talkin about bc you're just that good bby deadass real facts. so without further ado I present:

The Little Death: Sex as Self-Destruction

Meg // HOW 2005 // Professor Sam

The assertion that Bo Sinclair is a sexual deviant is hardly a new one. The same can be said for the notion that he routinely experiences bouts of suicidal ideation born of his past trauma and the bleak circumstances of his everyday life. However, the idea that these two impulses subconsciously converge within Reader as a physical vessel for the combination merits further discussion. Wrestling with the vestiges of survival instinct and haunted by the desire for a better existence, a better self, Bo cannot truly commit to ending his own life. He can, however, engage in a sort of unconscious abstinent death through his relationship with Reader wherein sex takes on the role of destruction, serving as a means of eschewing parental pressures and facilitating the loss of self he longs for.

In the piece "sawn off pump-action," Bo is balancing two disparate forces in his life: the eternal shadow of his parents, and the self-inflicted handicap of a hostage partner. He sets out to prove his independence from the oppression of his parents, particularly his father, by engaging in fellatio with Reader in Victor Sinclair's office. At the same time, he tries to maintain his absolute control over Reader by initiating the sexual act with his father's shotgun as an effigy. From the start, he is equating the thrill of sex with the risk of death and attempting to instill in Reader the same fear of dying that he feels himself. However, Reader has achieved a sense of peace with the idea of her own annihilation, and this baffles him to the point that "His mouth hangs open as he watches you take your death between your teeth, swallowing your lips around cold metal." He cannot conceptualize this level of acceptance, something he is constantly striving for without success. The inability to achieve satisfaction with his own life is what has brought him to this moment in this room in the first place. He is hellbent on proving to the memory of his parents that he has the right to survival despite the fact that "You can’t prove anything to ghosts, they’ll never listen."

When Reader is unfazed by the threat of a shell to the skull and the specter of death has proved irresistibly tantalizing, Bo moves on to the meat of the sexual act. He is using his father's weapon in his father's chair in his father's office, inflicting himself upon a woman wearing his mother's jewelry and using his mother's title, and this deep and abiding entanglement with his parents' legacy is what feeds the persistent sense of failure that brings him again and again to the point of self-destruction. By exchanging his genitals for his father's gun, he is clawing for that shred of self-actualization that swings just out of his reach.

The exchange of cock for gun also illustrates the way Bo conceives of sex: it is a taking, a stripping of identity and autonomy, the reduction of one from person to object. He is wrong, however, about who is being reduced. “You can’t hurt me, baby. You’re too soft," he says, but in this he is mistaken. Reader's softness is the blade he uses to slice himself open and relieve the hot and throbbing pressure of his ongoing existence. For a man who has experienced little besides violence and rejection, the tender acceptance Reader offers rips him open like the teeth of a combine. He knows this, feels it, but cannot articulate how or why this affection elicits such a response in himself. Even while Reader muses on the angle of the gun behind her head, she wonders about taking its place, unaware that she already has. Submitting to her ministrations represents surrender. Retreat. Expiration.

Reader points out that "Most of the time, the belonging doesn't seem to go both ways," save for the moment of completion, "when he's yours. He can't be anyone else's." The gun belongs to the man until the moment it shatters his skull and claims him as its own. In the same way, Reader is a weapon Bo aims at himself in the hopes she will claim and erase him. She is his placeholder, an escape from which he can escape. She is a defense against legacy, a sense of security in the knowledge he can cheat death on a whim. It is for this reason that no matter how much he might threaten, Bo will never carry out the ultimate act of violence against Reader unless and until he is prepared to commit this act against himself as well.

In sexual release, Bo achieves a semblance of the ultimate catharsis he is seeking. The labored breathing, arch of the spine, "him wheezing…cradled in your arms. That's what love is–watching someone die." The momentary ceasing-to-be of orgasm is what Bo chases, why he keeps Reader close like a holstered sidearm. Furthermore, to embark on this journey in his father's office, to temporarily annihilate himself only to emerge breathing and sated on the other side, represents a triumph over paternal condemnation. He dies and is reborn, a prodigal son who has surpassed the father. Even to spill his seed without intention flies in the face of fatherhood. He has came and conquered in the sanctuary, made the temple his bed and grave, and emerges from the tomb subject to his own will alone. The same cannot be said of Victor, whose death was real and irrevocable. In climax, Bo achieves multiple victory–over death, over fear, and over father.

Bo Sinclair craves life and death in near equal measure. Ever unsatisfied, always hollow with hunger, he finds himself facing the impossible problem of suffering through survival out of spite. Caught in this untenable position, his only hope of salvation can be found in the warmth of Reader's body. She is a guide and a gateway to the underworld and back, a means by which he may cheat death and dishonor the memory of his parents. As she says, "Love tastes like [sweat and gunpowder] too, sometimes." And sometimes, death tastes like spit and semen.