#and also if the whole cast is avoiding this man maybe we should look into That a little bit more

[charlesleclerctv]

Read the book. It was terrible. And then I saw what they were doing with this movie and who they've cast and how the promo's going. Happy to be a hater of it and the author <3

(Like if you want to tell the story about escaping DV, make something up, don't adapt a book from someone who is defending their rapist son)

yes, exactly! they're All in the wrong but it bothers me how this zionist who decided to adapt the book in the first place is getting no heat whatsoever

[glacierclear]

ISN'T BITE ALSO TOUCH?

fuckboy!leon x gn!reader (maybe a few gendered terms oops)

content: hurt/no comfort, angst, arguments, passive aggression, mentions of drugs/alcohol

Your best friend is a fuckboy. He ditches you at a party. You argue. Maybe they were right about him.

[ao3 link]

They all tried to tell you. Every single one of them.

He’s bad news, don’t bother. You would scoff.

He’s nothing but a walking penis. He doesn’t care about anything. And you’d roll your eyes.

Every red flag. Every warning sign. Every flashing light. You refused to heed any of them. And you tilled, and you sowed, and you fed. And now? You were reaping.

“I don’t get what the big deal is. You’re a big kid. You don’t need a damn babysitter.” His hands remained clenched, balled up and shoved into the pouch of his hoodie. His posture was lax. Noncommittal. He stared into a wall, his expression detached and unreachable.

“When you called me up tonight to drag me to some stupid frat party, I at least expected you to like, stay with me,” you countered. “We weren’t even there for an hour before you up and ditched me. Streaking across campus like a moron.” The base of your neck throbbed, the fledgling burn of an oncoming migraine. Your clothes still reeked of burnt weed and the cloyingly pungent whiff of cotton candy vape smoke.

“You should be fucking grateful. Wouldn’t have gotten into that party without me. Shit was the best thrasher of the month.” He lifted his head, scorching you with that know-it-all smirk. It huffed the coals of your stomach. You felt like puking.

“I didn’t…oh my god, Leon. I didn’t go for the party. I thought you…I don’t know. I thought you actually wanted to hang out. Have a good night.”

Your fingers burrowed their way through the folds of your sheets and you stayed perched at the edge of your bed. Leon hovered at your doorway, barely present in the space of your dorm, his contour fuzzed with casting light.

He didn’t say anything. Your eyes pulsed and stung. “Look. I’m not mad, I just–”

“You should be.”

“What?”

It’s then that he finally dared to meet your eyes. Blue hues swallowed whole by the pitch of his pupils, seeking you past tendrils of mussed, blonde hair.

“You should be mad. Why aren’t you? Cuz’, you’re right. I fucking ditched you. Like a moron.” He flung the word back with acid and you winced away. “God forbid I have some fun, right? Forgot you’re too much of a buzzkill to actually have fun at a party.”

There’s a throttling impulse to scream at him. Tell him off for being unreasonable and kick his ass to the curb like last week’s trash. But you’ve danced to this song before. The repeating pattern and pervasive enigma of Leon’s refusal to invest himself; emotionally, or otherwise.

So, you sucked in a steadying breath, filled your lungs with patience, and spoke softly.

“It’s not just about the party,” you began, and passively, you noticed him shift. “I mean…streaking? You realize that if you got caught doing that…you wouldn’t have a scholarship anymore. Hell, maybe you’d be expelled.”

The realization settled on him like a poison and you caught his face darken. As much as he denied and disguised, Leon was a smart man. Excellent standing in his classes and a whopping GPA to match the third leg he swung in his pants. It meant a lot to him.

There’s a gap of silence before he opened his mouth again.

“...well, I wasn’t caught. And it was my choice. I don’t need you nagging me like a fucking mom, alright?” His body shrunk in on itself. Caging his softer parts from the reality he narrowly avoided. On a better day, perhaps you’d chase him. Push and fight for a break in his shell, a crevice that gave way to the man you knew he was capable of being. But, God, your head was shattering. Your nausea was worsening. You weren’t making progress.

“Right, well, sorry for caring, Leon,” you relented, turning away from him to click your phone into its charger. “I’m going to bed. Don’t bother inviting me to any more parties.”

Your gaze left him, you weren’t fully aware of his body, but in the fleeting moments following your surrender he’s on you. Lurking above you like the baleful firmament of a roaring summer storm. You hardly had the time to open your mouth before he’s speaking. No, he’s growling. Revving the engine of his fury.

“...so that’s it? You’re not putting up with me anymore?” It could be the headache talking, but you swore you heard a tremble in his voice.

“Huh? The fuck are you–”

“We’re not friends anymore. That’s what you’re doing, right?” You searched the raging sea of his eyes for a raft. But all you did was drown. “I fucked up one too many times and now I’m just another shitty dude you had to put up with.” You watched the chipped black of his nails dig into his arms, tensed up limbs shielding him from what he’s most afraid you’ll confirm.

“Leon, that’s not…we’re still friends, okay? I just don’t want to go to parties like that anymore. Just give me a few days to cool off and we can…I dunno, we’ll hit up that burger joint you love.” It’s a pretty weak bargain, but maybe he’d bite.

And he did bite. He bit and he tore and he sought out blood.

“You’ve always had shitty taste in guys.” He practically spat at you, a scornful wrinkle deepening in the bridge of his nose. “Fucking stand up for yourself. You always let people walk all over you and act surprised when they turn out to be shitheads.”

He leaned in. You smelled him. Overpriced cologne. Underpriced shampoo. Crappy beer he drank even though he hated the taste. Despite it all, you yearned to hug him.

“Leon, I–”

“...and you know what? I don’t fucking need you. I don’t need your little dates. Your pity sex. I don’t need you looking out for my damn scholarships and I especially don’t need you making me look bad when I’m trying to let loose at the party I’ve been looking forward to all goddamn month.” You wanted him to stop. You wanted to bridge the chasm and devour his violence. If only he’d let you. But all he did was bite harder. “I won’t bother inviting you out anymore. Actually, I won’t bother talking to you at all. Have fun with your fucking life, I’m done being your fucking charity. Goodni–”

At the edge of his precipice, the void he dug for solace, Leon plummets. He straightened his spine, eyes widening and jaw hanging lifelessly. You were crying. Tears bursting without prejudice. Staining your face in vulnerability you so often only used to comfort him.

He went too far. And now, you were crying.

Neither of you moved for an eternity. From the hallway of your dorm, you hear the thundering trots of drunken friends laughing and yelling. The noise swelled and faded. The only evidence of a world beyond your room.

He called your name. His voice was so much quieter, held together with twine and stinging regret. You lifted your eyes and your throat barely allowed your words to pass.

“...Great job, Leon. Now I’m mad.” In an act of self-preservation, you tore your gaze away, burning a stare into the ground below his shoes. They’re blotched with dirt and chlorophyll, still damp from his midnight misdemeanor. “I won’t bother you anymore. If you hate me that much, I…I’ll leave you alone.”

His arms unfolded, one hand reaching out, a fragmented attempt to soothe you. But it was too late.

He repeated your name.

“I didn’t…fuck, I shouldn’t have said…hey–”

“Go home, Leon.” Your voice was unwavering, and he flinched back, your ire the open flame he’s too human to touch.

And then he left. Your dorm vibrated with the slam of the door, and you buried your face in your hands. In the place of his feet, soil stained your carpet. In the place of his warmth, sandalwood smoldered the air.

In the place of your love, all you wanted was to die.

[dufferpuffer]

Dude, I need someone to simp over David Thewlis with and I have no one to go to. I have a feeling I know your opinion about David Thewlis as Remus Lupin (and I think it's a positive one? correct me if I'm wrong, I know some people don't think he did the character justice).

To be honest, I don't think the movies did his character justice, but I think David Thewlis was THE cast for him. The movies made him too soft, too gentle, too perfect. Book Remus is a lot more polarized than that. For every soft quality, he has a YIKES counterpart that is never shown in the movies. The only time we truly see this "yikes" counterpart is the Shrieking Shack scene when he smirks menacingly at Sirius and you think he's a villain. David pulled that off really good. I saw the movie before reading the book (I was a young kid at that time and PoA was too much to read for me) and I felt cheated, I suddenly didn't think I could trust him anymore.

The thing David Thewlis pulled off best, imo, is the fatherly quality of Remus. I know, Remus is a pathetic man with an avoidant personality, but we can't deny he is fatherly. And I feel that, no matter what movie I watch with David in it, the fatherly vibes just radiate from him. In a way I am glad it is like that in the movies because I use PoA as a coping mechanism in life. Stressed? PoA. Sad? PoA. Crisis? PoA. David absolutely nailed the comfy professor aura. Everything about him in PoA is inviting, it draws you in. His voice, his smile, the way he carries himself, his quiet strength. Who could've done it better? I love him.

Enjoy this young David Thewlis edit that I'm obsessed with. Cheers my tumblr friend <3

https://www.tiktok.com/@.dearlupin/video/7410813583577091334

David Threwlis is a fucking GEM and the PERFECT pick for the character in every aspect, yes. I can't think of how anyone could actually think otherwise. He looks perfect and acts perfect.

To the point where I would actually be happy if he played Remus AGAIN for the TV series or whatever - even though he looks so much older. Play up the fact he looks 'older than his age' or do some makeup, I dunno, I don't care. I would be alright with it.

I don't think any of the movies do anyone justice, TBH - ignoring the fact that of course things will have to be trimmed and simplified. I think most people agree though that the way they chose to do so was destructive and missed the point of the overarching story.

OotP and HBP were enjoyable as individual movies - but cut out so, so much that it damages the series as a whole. OotP especially should have been two movies, to REALLY get to know the Order Members, the adult world harry desperately wants to enter - revisit Lupin and Sirius, get attached to the real Moody - set up Tonks... maybe end the first one with Dumbledore leaving...?

But some actors pulled through wonderfully with the limited time they were given to portray their role, Alan Rickman of course being one - and I think David Threwlis is an underrated other. He did fucking BEAUTIFULLY and it made up for imo a half-assed performance from Gary Oldman as Sirius. He has perfect aesthetic and his fatherly moments with Harry were gorgeous... but most of the time he felt like his heart wasn't in it.

Remus, in the movies, HAD to be soft... but always carry a touch of coldness. A comfortable room but the heater isn't on. A cup of tea but you're asked to leave right after. Gentle eyes that pierce. Slightly odd expressions that feel kind, but also... off. He nailed that. Absolutely. That softness that makes you want to cozy up close, but a constant distance that makes you wonder why. Also the mustache was absolute genius. If only they gave him greys...

THIS LOOK? Underrated. SO MUCH PACKED INTO IT. Displeasure, surprise, 'oh shit im in danger' - but then forced innocence, a bit of weariness, a cheeky idea...

How he came out of the darkness, too - Snape specifically calling Lupin to show him the map was meaningful in the books, but Remus walking out of the pitch black was symbolic in the movies. It was a decent change. THIS is when I felt a 'Hm...' about Remus. (I saw it as an adult though, first time last year. I had no idea I'd love him so much.)

I LOVVEEEE going on and on about Remus being a wet tissue paper - because he is so often mischaracterized in so many different ways... but he IS good. He IS strong, compassionate, wise, clever... Fatherly. He will put himself aside to comfort someone in need. He just can't do that for himself. He will punish himself for the things he is gentle with in others.

"His voice, his smile, the way he carries himself, his quiet strength. Who could've done it better? I love him." YEAHYEAHYEAH David can pack layers of depth into every movement he makes. His little head bobbles, the ways his eyes pin on something and stare, his control of exactly how he smiles... ITS SO GOOD AHH

Normally a link to tiktok earns an instant vaporization but you get a pass aight I wont kill you God he's so wonky looking, look at him, he is delightful, I am going to spread him on toast with my vegemite

[thebibliomancer]

Essential Avengers: Avengers #320: UNDERLYING CURRENTS!

August, 1990

The Crossing Line Part 2 of Six VENGEANCE!

I don't know what Vision did that running him over with an underwater jet-ski is considered vengeance. Maybe it's not vengeance at all. Maybe it's just rude.

Also, Underlying Currents just seems like a less pithy way of saying Undercurrents.

Anyway.

The Crossing Line. Which is not the Crossing.

Last time in the Crossing Line: A Russian terrorist group called Peace Corpse (good wordplay) took over a British nuclear submarine called the Waterwind.

The British government called the US government and asked them to do something. So the US government called the Avengers and asked them to do something.

Since Namor wasn't available, what the Avengers did was contact their back-up underwater expert Stingray and fly off to find the Waterwind.

Which they did do but they found their Russian equivalent superhero group the People's Protectorate also trying to stop Peace Corpse. And instead of working together, the two groups got into a big, dumb superhero fight.

Which happened to be too close to Atlantis and aggroed the people still hanging around after it got double destroyed in Atlantis Attacks.

I like putting the cast up on the splash page. It starts strong because Captain America and Red Guardian, Vision and Vostok are pretty much counterparts.

Sersi and Fantasma don't have much in common besides being The Girl of the team.

And then Quasar ends up paired with Crimson Dynamo and Stingray with Perun which just makes you feel like the story is missing an Iron Man and a Thor.

Maybe a mistake there. Being a guy in a technological suit maybe Stingray should have been opposite Crimson Dynamo and Quasar opposite Perun?

Also, Atlanteans. They don't get a cast list on the splash. If they wanted in on that, they should have filled out the paperwork.

Crimson Dynamo: "Uhm... comrades...?" Quasar: "Now we're comrades, Dynamo? A second ago we were fighting over a stolen submarine!"

But be that as it may, Vision points out that it's in their best interest to team-up to prevent the Atlanteans from damaging the Waterwind. Which Vostok agrees to.

I guess we had the misunderstanding fight and now we can get along.

Crimson Dynamo points out that the Atlanteans might be justified since the two groups were having an exciting comic book fight scene right next to their city. But nobody listens to Crimson Dynamo.

His is the saddest lot.

Orka tries swiping at Vision and instead swipes through Vision because intangibility. But Vision also can't do his intangibility fisting trick because Orka is just too girthy.

He's a big whale man. He's got the whale power of blubber. Yes, even though he looks like a weightlifter.

Vostok uses his power over machinery to wrap Orka up in an Atlantean craft, bending and twisting the vehicle around the big, girthy whale man.

And with Orka held in place... uh, in water... Vision is able to dive intangible through his whole body to get to his heart and do the thing where he partially resolidifies and it hurts so much the person passes out.

That's what I mean when I say Vision fists people, by the way. It's his power move.

Vision: "It would seem, Vostok, that the Avengers and the People's Protectorate function more efficiently as allies than opponents!" Vostok: "Then-let-us-work-together-to-deter-the-Atlanteans--and-apprehend-the-Waterwind."

(I can just tell I'm going to avoid quoting Vostok as much as possible.)

Elsewhere in the fight, Sersi uses her matter transmutation to troll the Atlantean soldiers.

Excellent jape, Sersi.

The battle is going so immediately against the Atlanteans that U-Man decides to sneak attack Sersi. He claims that this is not in his character, to attack in a dishonorable manner.

I don't know this man but a quick glance at his marvel wiki shows that he worked with the Nazis so I dunno, man.

Either way, before he gets the chance, Perun hurls his mighty axe and strikes U-Man's underwater gun before he can fire at Sersi.

But, whoops, this causes the gun to misfire and strike the Waterwind.

The Peace Corpse group that hijacked the sub are startled, to put it mildly.

Most of them want to flee from this comic book nonsense as fast and as far as they can. Whatever their goals (still unelaborated on), fighting superheroes doesn't help them accomplish them.

A man with an intense mustache refuses to flee because he's a soldier dammit! But one of the others points out that they need to berth now due to the damage. They need the sub in well enough repair to threaten the United States for their vague plan.

Captain America and Red Guardian notice the Waterwind take damage and start to flee. And they discuss just letting the submarine flee so its out of the way of any more misaimed attacks.

But also, fighting the Atlanteans is pretty much a stupid distraction that they don't have time for.

Atlantean Soldier 1: "For our lost honor!" Atlantean Soldier 2: "For Atlantis!" Quasar: "For crying out loud!"

Stingray sees the sub amscraying and decides to get back to his plan of sneaking onboard. Remember how he was going to try that?

Well, he's going to try that again. He'd rather face a sub full of armed terrorists than bully some Atlanteans who are just protecting the ruins of their home.

Which... fair enough.

I say he'd rather but he's also not too happy about doing that either.

Stingray: "I should be able to get in through the aft torpedo tube without being detected... of course, once I get in, I have no idea what I'm going to do! I'm an oceanographer, not a super hero! I could've stayed at O.M.I.T. when Cap called... told him I had a hangnail or something... but no... If there's a problem under the ocean waves, they call Namor. If he's too busy to answer -- they call me. And noble, caring, altruistic dunce that I am, I always say yes."

It's fun that the Avengers have a superhero on their consultant list that's not a superhero. Just a normal oceanographer guy who built a suit for underwater exploration that unfortunately looks like a superhero outfit so he's constantly getting drawn into superhero stuff. The fact that he hangs out in Namor's general orbit doesn't help. The man is a drama magnet.

Despite the damage to the sub and specifically the radar, Peace Corpse manages to surface not only near land but near a port town. Somewhere in Newfoundland.

Inside the sub, Stingray finds and frees the captured crew from the room they've been locked in. But a member of Peace Corpse spots him.

Back at Atlantis, the Avengers and the People's Protectorate are still fighting Atlanteans.

Quasar starts to worry. Not about losing but that he might get so exhausted from prolonged fighting that he fails to pull his punches and kills a guy.

Ah, the worries of superheroes before the modern age.

There's just so many Atlanteans, that some are getting to the Quinjet and the PP craft and trying to smash the windshields in.

Quasar swoops in, makes a net to wrangle all the Atlanteans on the Quinjet, and then smashes the net full of guys into the guys on the PP craft. Solving that particular issue.

I'm still not sure why the Avengers and People's Proetectorate haven't withdrawn once the sub was clear. This is the very definition of a derailed plot.

But the two hero groups don't need to ever get around to acting on the realization that they don't even need to be here because the Atlanteans withdraw on their own once Perun knocks out Tyrak, the last named guy on the Atlantean side.

Such a weird writing decision for the heroes to constantly go 'wow this is a pointless fight' and then keep fighting until the other side fucks off.

The two teams return to their respective vessels (just in time for the ones who like to breathe air) and decide what to do next.

FOR SOME REASON, despite the constant refrain of how pointless it is to fight the Atlanetans, who are just protecting their ruined home, its a serious consideration whether to pursue the Atlanteans all the way to the ruins and keep kicking their asses.

I have no idea why.

Captain America even says he hates to let the Atlanteans escape but dealing with the Waterwind is more important.

IT IS but why do you hate to let the Atlanteans escape? What is your end goal there? You've already kicked their asses. Have they done anything (recently) that gives you cause to... arrest them? The writing around this plot point is so weird.

Anyway, both groups agree to pursue the Waterwind.

Stingray calls in and reports that he's on the Waterwind and where the Waterwind has surfaced. And since there are berthing and repair facilities, Stingray even narrows the possible location down to the bays of Trinity, Placentia, or Conception.

Not bad for a guy who can't even look out a window.

But the call suddenly cuts off, leading Captain America to fear that Stingray was attacked.

The Avengers and People's Protectorate agree to work together to stop the sub, especially since it is now surfaced near a populated area and has an operational nuclear arsenal.

Captain America: "Let's do it then -- together -- efficiently -- but cautiously!"

And then the narration reveals that the Waterwind is surfaced in Conception Bay in St. John's Newfoundland and that "after today, it will be known as the site of the world's worst nuclear detonation" so my condolences to Conception Bay.

Sucks that you are going to get destroyed in a fill-in arc.

Off-panel, the Peace Corpse member with the fabulous mustache, Strokov, has captured Stingray and recaptured the rest of the hostages. But he let Stingray make his call to the Avengers to force leader Illyich Prokvitch's hand.

According to Strokov, now Prokvitch has no choice but to execute the vague plan.

The Avengers and the People's Protectorate arrive but they can't move right away because of all the hostages.

Captain America tries to see if Sersi can be the Win Button but like I've said, with powers as plot breaking as hers, they can never make things too easy.

He wants her to turn all the terrorists into flies but she says she's too far from them to do it. And she doesn't know enough about how nuclear submarines work to transmute it either.

Oh, so I guess she needs to know a thing before she can transmute a thing. Very Full Metal Alchemist of her and also a logical limit on her powers.

Well written, Fabian Nicieza.

Mr. Illyich Prokvitch, leader of the Peace Corpse, gets on the bullhorn and loudly announces he demands access to St. John's maritime facilities.

Captain America says hell no, release the hostages instead.

Prokvitch says he'll start executing the hostages - starting with poor, sweet Stingray - one every five minutes until his demands are met.

So the heroes take a huddle.

Cold, calculating Vostok points out that the Waterwind can't launch its nuclear arsenal while surfaced. And if they kill all their hostages, then there's nothing to stop the heroes from punching them in the faces in abooooout five hours.

Captain America does not like the suggestion that they just let over a hundred people be murdered.

But Vision offers his own computer-brained opinion that because the hostages are so necessary to keep the heroes from punching Peace Corpse in their faces, logic dictates that Peace Corpse will hesitate to harm their hostages.

Cap decides this does seem logical, thanks computer-brained Vision, and yells at Peace Corpse that he's not going to accept their terms as given. Y'know, leaving the door open for some haggling. Some negotiation. A little diplomacy.

Instead, Prokvitch shoots Stingray in the head.

You might not have a future career as a hostage negotiator, Cap.

(I'm pretty sure Stingray is alive because I've seen him alive in later comics and also there's no blood and also he's wearing a helmet. I'm sure his ears are ringing, though.)

Quasar tries to rush in at seeing Stingray shot, held back by Cap.

Red Guardian argues that at this point they should just call it acceptable casualties and just rush over and punch Peace Corpse.

But suddenly A NEW CHALLENGER!

Guardian: "No citizens and no property will be placed in jeopardy without our say so. In case you've forgotten, you're on Canadian soil, which means jurisdiction of this little mess passes on to -- ALPHA FLIGHT"

So now we have a third superhero team in the mix.

I love it. How many more people can we get involved? A lot, I'd bet. This is a six part story.

Hopefully, someone on Alpha Flight is a better hostage negotiator than Captain America.

To sum up the issue: there's more of the issue to go. Remember that backup story thing? Where Jarvis tormented Jarvis? We're due more of that. Well, more of something like that.

CHANGING of the GUARD

Instead of Jarvis, Michael O'Brien. The Avengers chief of security. And, for some reason, chief of table acquisition.

The original table, which was probably always consistently portrayed don't even bother looking into it, was destroyed when Hydrobase sank.

So O'Brien just spent fifty thousand dollars on a new one. And instead of getting a dolly or an anti-gravity dolly (because this IS a comic book universe), he's getting two dudes to carry it by hand.

Maybe stick to security, O'Brien.

He has the table brought to the room which will become the Avengers' inner sanctum, where only Avengers will be allowed. Like a very exclusive club but instead of drinks and cigars, there will be discussions on the crisis of the month.

After sending the two table carrying guys away, O'Brien spots the flash of a light down a corridor where nobody is supposed to be.

Obviously, he goes to investigate by himself.

Where he is accosted by his dead brother, Kevin, in a set of the Guardsman armor.

There's history here which I don't know very well because I haven't read a lot of olde Iron Man comics. But apparently, Kevin got jealous of Tony's money and girlfriend. So he used the Guardsman armor Tony built him, teamed up with a dude who was trying to steal Tony Stark's stock, and attacked a protest at a Stark Industries plant.

Just going off marvel wiki here.

Tony was forced to fight him as Iron Man and accidentally blew Kevin the fuck up.

His death inspired Michael to put on the Guardsman armor and attack Iron Man but after some plot happenings, Tony was able to convince Michael that his dead brother was nuts.

Which Kevin is not thrilled to hear now.

How dare Michael believe Tony over his own kin? That and not using his brogue probably makes him a traitor to his Irish heritage!

Michael thinks that this Kevin is probably an imposter and tries to unmask him. Only to get flipped.

So he runs off to get a gun.

He finds one of the emergency guns that the Avengers Sub-Basement just has and threatens to shoot Kevin in the head.

Kevin calls his bluff and tells him to do it. What's it matter to a ghost? Turn your back on family, dick.

And Michael can't go through with it.

Michael: "I... can't, Kevin. I did -- do -- love you, no matter what you did. Do with me as you will."

So Kevin blows Michael the hell up.

Geez. Being confronted with his demons ended a lot worse for him than it did for Jarvis.

Is this part of getting rid of everything new Stern wanted to implement before he got fired? Hydrobase got sunk so are the Avengers Support Crew all going to be killed off?

Grim if true. John Jameson is one of the support peeps and he's a tertiary Spider-Man supporting cast member.

I guess I'll see next time. But we pop back over to Avengers West Coast first. There's a dumb Immortus plot to wrap up.

Follow @essential-avengers. Like and reblog. Have a good day.

[felixcloud6288]

Dungeon Meshi Chapter 4

What was it like to read this series as it came out? This chapter feels like Kui is trying to address complaints about Marcille's usefulness.

The chapter image implies Marcille and Falin went to the same magic school. I assume the book in the bottom-left corner is the one Marcille refers to on how to pluck Mandrakes.

Looking back on all the chapters so far, Marcille has spent much of the journey complaining about the whole "Eating monsters" thing and hasn't actually contributed anything to the journey. In fact, I'd say she's mostly been a detriment since she had to get saved from a slime and a man-eating plant.

(Granted, Chilchuck also hasn't done anything of value, but he also hasn't needed rescuing, required the party to rest, or been complaining about things.)

And Marcille is acutely aware that she's not been helpful at all. She is so desperate throughout this chapter to show that her magic and education can help everyone.

The elaborate and highly inefficient method for harvesting madrakes in Marcille's book vs the very simple way Senshi harvests them kind of is reminding me about something that was talked about recently in a databases class I'm currently taking.

The problem the professor went over was "We have n number of CPUs we could divide our data between to speed up processing. We can make a lookup table that decides which CPU should be given which datapoint based on a cross reference of two fields in each datapoint. How do we ensure we maximize our CPU usage?"

The professor showed us what they called the "PhD student solution" which involved an elaborate pattern algorithm that causes you to build your lookup table in a complex snaking pattern. And in the end, the method is better at the things the existing methods were bad at but worse at solving problems that existing methods were already great at.

Then the professor showed us the "15 years experience" solution which used very simple calculations and was a light modification of the existing methods which allowed it to keep the strengths of the existing method and managed to avoid most of the issues with the existing method. The solution was elegant, easy to follow and replicate, and it was scalable to higher values of n and higher dimensional tables.

Anyway, Marcille's book is a PhD student solution. It works, but it was made by someone who was looking for a flashy solution that would get people's attention. How many dogs died because of this person's methods? Laios's solution sounds dumb but it's likely far better than Marcille's. Maybe the solution could just be to magic up a silence field so the Mandrakes can't make any noise when they scream.

Meanwhile, Senshi has the practical 15 years experience solution.

And Marcille decides to go through an elaborate process to show the value of the elaborate method as one might expect a PhD student to do.

Whatever Marcille was going to cast in chapter 2, it was different from what she cast this chapter. The runes she speaks are different and I can't find anything that looks the same.

That heart-to-heart was nice. Marcille wants to be the reliable one who can resolve every issue they encounter. But Laios doesn't want to exhaust Marcille by making her handle every situation they encounter. Being the reliable one all the time is exhausting; it's good to be able to defer to others in situations you're not the most capable in.

I was equally as shocked as Marcille when Laios said this. And this explains so much about the things I thought were strange about the basilisk.

If the chicken is the tail, then it doesn't actually matter that it was a rooster. It doesn't actually determine the basilisk's role in reproduction.

Nice touch putting a name and face to the basilisk researcher. It makes this world a little more alive that there is a person we can tie this silly fact to rather than it just being an arbitrarily known thing.

I noticed but didn't call him out on it last chapter, but I'm going to call him out this time: Senshi refers to Marcille as "the Elf-girl". And he only started calling her by her name when it turned out the mandrake she plucked tasted better than the mandrakes plucked with Senshi's methods.

Senshi's method is definitely the most practical way to handle killing mandrakes but it turns out that it's not the best way to harvest them. Meanwhile Marcille's method is flashy and harvests better quality mandrakes, but is overall too complex to be useful and still worse in general than Senshi's method.

If monster cuisine becomes a mainstream concept, maybe one day someone will find an effective method to harvest better quality mandrakes (Silence field).

I could hear the "beeowoop" on that last panel.

back

[dahvampire]

I'll start this thing with the premise that I've only seen BNHA's anime, so I'm at the end of the events of season 6 and I don't know anything else from the manga. So, that's also a spoiler alert for anyone who isn't at my same point.

God I really, really despise Enji Todoroki.

Endeavor is a great hero, don't get me wrong: always on point, efficient with criminals, saves people and yada yada yada. Public interactions aren't his forte but anyone has his weaknesses, so it's fine.

But boy, boy if he's shitty. A shitty father, a shitty husband, a shitty person in general.

How can you beat your six year old son to the point of making him sick just because you're salty you're not at the same level of someone else? How can you try to erase your first son's suicide attempt that he did because you first indoctrinated him about being the n°1 hero since he was four and then discarded him at eleven because he couldn't keep up with your expectations? Enji told Touya his life was defined only by being a hero, and then he snutched the dream he put in his son's head from him when he was still a child. No wonders Touya didn't exactly take it well, his father just said he's actually worthless because of something Touya can't even control - the affinity that his body has for cold temperature.

And okay, maybe Enji wanted to keep him safe avoiding him to train, but the adult approached the situation wrongly from the start, since Touya's birth, for fuck's sake.

When Touya became useless, Enji focused his fixation on Shouto, feeding sibling rivalry to Touya and making him easily jealous of him because his younger brother became their father's focus of attention - and love, in his mind - .

Let's put the kids beside for a second.

Enji married Rei for her quirk, that's common knowledge, he even admitted it. After he finished using her for his convenience and after probably treating her just like he treated Shouto and Touya, he pushed her 'til the breaking point and then accused her of being unstable while the only reason for her unstableness has always been his presence in her life. We had a snippet of Rei before she married Enji, and she was a perfectly fine woman. Maybe reserved, but fine.

Then, Enji happened. She lost her rights on her body, the man married her just to breed a valuable heir after all. She lost her rights as a mother, because I think Enji hasn't ever allowed her to interfere with Touya and Shouto's education and lives in general, just think about how Touya treated her when she found out he was still training in secret. She lost her connections with the world, too, I guess, because I don't think she would be free to go and come at her will, considering how Enji thinks about his family members as his properties.

Then, she slowly started to lose her mind to the point of disfiguring her own child because his eye reminded her too much of the man she was forced to live with even though she clearly dreaded him, and she lost it. She crumbled under the pressure of what Enji did to her and to her children - that I guess she never actively tried to protect, maybe to save herself from the man's wrath, maybe because scared of aggravating things - and Enji took her out of the picture without even try to comprehend why she did what she did.

I'm not saying that she isn't guilty about the whole situation, I'm saying I can see her redemption arc. I can understand it. Now she's free of the shackles that held her down the whole time she was with Enji, and she wants to try and do something to make amends. I can see it, I can understand it.

What I cannot understand is the thing they're trying to do with Enji's redemption arc.

Like, are you kidding me?

He's an abuser, a manipulative man who hides himself behind a façade of ideals and stoicism, a person who looked his own kid in the eye at the age of eleven and told him he was not enough for his father and should get lost with his other two siblings, casted aside since birth because they too didn't meet his expectations.

Fuyumi is still hanging by the threads of hope that someday they will be an happy and functional family, but those threads started strangling her a long time ago, and I think she didn't even realized it yet.

And Touya.

God, Touya. He attempted suicide by the age of fourteen, being it consciously or not. Maybe he actually did it on purpose, maybe his emotions took the upper hand on him, but his mind couldn't accept the fact that his father's love was so conditional. Touya tried his best to satisfy the man, and Enji never acknowledged him beside to berate him for training without his permission. And Touya still tried, tried, tried to be seen by the man that put himself at the center of his child's universe since Touya was young enough to comprehend what heroes were.

No wonders Touya broke that night on Sekoto Peak, no wonder he died.

No wonder Dabi was born.

He's the incarnation of Touya's resentment after all, of the hate he feels towards Enji, towards the society that idolatries the hero without looking at the man, without understand that the monsters people fear aren't always the criminals and the villains on the streets, but hide themselves in plain sight, under a spotlight.

Touya was fourteen, he had all his life in front of him, and he still chose to trust the man he called father to care for him even without the incentive of his quirk, and his trust, his prayers fell on deaf ears.

I don't know yet what happened after Sekoto Peak, I guess what remained of Touya was find by someone - maybe Shigaraki's doctor himself -, put back together and brought back from the dead. And Touya didn't know what to do with the time that someone else borrowed him, so he set himself on the path of revenge to find some sort of justice for himself.

I'm not saying that Dabi's modus operandi is right. He's a murderer and his ways are almost always extreme, and his mind clearly isn't in the right place, but I can still understand him, his motives.

An hypothetical reception arc.

Before everything else he's a victim, after all, just like Rei.

Dabi wants to avenge what's remaining of Touya, of his inner child, and the only way he finds fitting is to take Enji's life to compensate the life Enji took from him.

Enji, on the other hand, doesn't deserve it.

He has seen that his ways were wrong only when everything came crushing down on him, and he cried on his hospital bed about being a terrible person after all the years he spent without questioning even one single time his actions.

How many times he made Touya cry? And Shouto? And Rei, Natsuo, Fuyumi? And his own fans, for God's sake? How many people he deluded without realising it, without even thinking it was an actual chance of him doing wrong?

Nope. Sorry, nope, I'm not fine with that. I don't think he deserves the pardon of all the victims of his actions, or surely he doesn't deserve to be forgiven so fast.

I don't approve the death of characters only because I don't like them, I know that's not how it works and it's simply stupid wanting someone dead just because, but fuck if i want him dead. Like, actually dead. Maybe it's because what he represents hit a little too close to home, maybe it's because I can't see a possible way to actually redeem him without stomping again on everyone he hurt, maybe I just can't stand him, I don't know.

I don't even know if I actually want Dabi to be still alive, at this point. I really like him, his character, his dramatics, but he's a dead man walking, literally. Maybe death would put an end to his suffering, maybe confronting Enji would be so cathartic to actually help him to recover the parts of his mind that he lost in the flames, in the walls of the house he grew up in, among the discouragements and the conditioned love he almost drown into.

The only thing I know is that I really hope Dabi lives long enough to see Enji's ashes scattering to the ground, being them the ashes of Endeavor's legacy or the ashes of his own body, cremated by Dabi himself.

[grievedifferent]

How do you feel about the dn demo musical depiction’s of Light? Specifically this song where’s the justice, just out of curiosity!

oh man, this is hard for me, and i'm definitely in the minority here. this literally could be just said yes or no but i also cannot not write 100 paragraphs:

i've kind of avoided it really addressing any LA adaption of DN (the best imo was the one that came out when i was in HS but the big deal about that was that the english cast actually did the dub for it and it was a theater release, i also wasn't looking for "good content", i was looking for more death note content in america when streaming wasn't as accessible, manga had to be illegally torrented or bought from a bookstore, etc. i come from a different time of media in a way than what a kid these days would go into. my nephew just got into death note and watched the whole thing right away, whereas i was waiting for releases of episodes and books thus having to sub in any content while i waited for the real thing.

i think childhood restrictions versus as an adult, i can stream any specific death note content i want basically at any time, makes a huge difference in how i perceived this media, thus why i'd "give the original a pass" but even that is ... i mean, it changes a lot, i don't know if light was cast correctly (though i don't really mind their L, i do like that actor so maybe that's a bias thing idk) but basically ... i don't really like any iteration that's live-action of any series that is typically animated. yes, there are exceptions, i think also that there is a divide in animated media of like "this would translate well to the screen in a live adaption format" versus "this looks goofy as hell, we can't make it realistic without diluting it but we can't stay true to the source material without pushing it into almost a goofy uncanny valley scenario that takes away central focus". take a series like ... idk, dbz. that's so hard to make live-action. now, take death note. that should be so easy, ryuk is the most complicated part of this project imo, like most of this story is just two guys' inner narratives fighting (stares into the void of the silence that is death note if you remove the narrative). yet, it always fails, or just never lands, or stays in japan only, etc. americanized versions flop or are taken off the table before they're allowed to really make it through any production. even the bioshock live-action adaptions have been promised for forever (don't get me started on this one haha).

is this to say that i think no animated material should be translated to live-action? not necessarily. but if it was supposed to be live action in the first place, why is the media of animation even necessary? some stories, to me, have to be animated in the way some stories have to be games or have to be novels or have to manga or have to be movies. adaptions are great, i get that, but like ... they usually just miss the mark. it's so rare to get a "live one".

like, ouran should have been easy to make a live-action, but so many of them have failed. arguably, the stage play is solid, which also ... ouran kind of lends itself to that, right? i'm not really considering stage plays as a whole. imo they always have better casting at least aesthetically and the props / costuming / etc is always superior. the yyh live action stage play is way more structurally sound in its aesthetics than the netflix adaption.

here is also my problem generally with other people taking properties in general and remaking them: they're always through a fan's eyes. that's great, i love fans, but also, sometimes i think it's almost better ot have someone that isn't a fan. it allows the lens of fanon to disappear, the fog of headcanon or "i think". sure, some adaptions have had the creators come back, even the original casts, but it's always awkward, isn't it? why is that? because that creator has not cared or touched that property save for some promo images maybe yearly or some callbacks or something because they have moved on. coming back? they aren't in the mindset they were writing it originally. they'll likely want to rewrite and change things. sure, it's "canon" because it's that author, but their intent is likely different now, or they just simply cannot remember the series the way they used to.

so that brings me here:

i was also never a theater person, my taste in musicals is kind of weird maybe or just small ... but getting more diverse bc of otter who lettered in theater LOL so i have more understanding of like what is theater especially compared to like ... what is movie production and tv show production, etc, then splitting into animation versus live action, so. now we're here:

the actual musical. i think that most retellings of death note really just cannot capture yagami's character be it in the acting or the intention. he is written so specifically by ohba and drawn so specifically by obata which is then translated into an animated style that's supposed to reference obata (it falls in that early 2000s thing, give it a pass rip) and basically, aside from maybe glossing up the ending a bit in a way that i think is pretty pivitol (yagami is given no pity in the manga, he's put down more honorably in the anime, which idc about i like that he barks like a dog and cries in the manga, but what i like in the anime is the scene where his dying self passes his younger self ... it's very intense to me). so, then you take mamoru's interpretation of yagami, the first one we get that isn't just text, and it's literally perfect. brad comes in second and nails it. they are arguably different yet so similar, i describe brad as accurately making yagami sound more natural in english than most can when relying on a japanese source. he just gets it, and he intentionally does emulate mamoru. i've spoken to him about this actually.

now, while i might not be a huge theater musical person, i love music. it's my main inspiration! i listen to it daily, it's a huge part of my life, and i'm not a musician at all.

lyrically, i get it. it's a little pointed, but i understand the message. it's fine as a song on its own, it's not like bad to me, but i have such a hard time seeing light as a character that sings. ironically, mamoru and brad can both sing (mamoru sings a lot in his roles, but think tamaki from ouran, while brad was in a band for a long time!). so, in a way, it's not really right or wrong for me to say one way or another that light is a bad singer or a good singer. i can see him having to go to karaoke socially, so maybe he is a good singer, or picks songs just in his range to "appear good enough" to get the pass a pretty boy.

overall, i'm not like anti musicals, nor am i anti-stage plays of anime because i think they're very pretty to look at and some (like mp100's for example) have huge creator input (and he is fresh off that project or was at the time) with like actual mob's VA (who the creator has said is mob) playing mob in the stage play with content that is considered basically exclusive but canon, like they "did something" with that whole stage play to add to the experience of mp100 and made each show different, so like, go all the way or not, right? again, kny, every anime has had a stage play, and typically you'll just see higher production in japan, but i also come from a time where i was pirating live action cutie honey and mirrored animated lucky star on youtube before it was "youtube" as we know it, so maybe my experiences are so specific that it's hard for me to adapt.

i'm so manga and anime focused that it's hard for me to sit here and say "well, i disparage these versions" but i can be at least honest and say that none have (to me) held a candle to the original property. how can you? it's old now, so it's nostalgic, and it's iconic, so it has a lot going for it.

i actually also have to somewhat contradict myself here, i think if ohba went all in maybe something could happen because we see such solid continuity in the one-shots we get every 100 years from him, so idk. this is a rare thing to have, i think. like, look at rumiko and the follow-up series to inuyasha. she's done with inuyasha, so she didn't go back. eithe way, i don't think it would have landed well regardless if she was on the project.

tl;dr: it's not necessarily "for me" but i'm not anti any DN content. i'm just manga first, then anime second for my inspo. if i wasn't, i might go insane keeping track of the details of every iteration, especially playing not only the MC but also other characters (especially BB, he changes depending on where you're sourcing him from, which is why the novel is one of the few fanon pieces i accept as canon bc they make a point to mention it in the anime when it originally listed as "that case" in the manga when L refers to naomi and he working together in the past).

i get why we want more ... but i am also a person who's like "i've seen the story told the way it was intended, it was good the way it was, i liked it as it was, and it's okay for things to end". i'm like this with remakes, too. it's rare that a remake is necessary to me. but i understand the appeal as a logical person, it doesn't not make sense to me why it's a draw in for a crowd.

[fractualized]

I totally see where you're coming from with how you like your mix of comedy and seriousness and I think I'm really similar! I can definitely tolerate a lot of cheese but I'll almost always consider it a one off situation. I recently rewatched Batman and Robin while my wife was making a cast of my body so we could make cosplay and it was just so funny and silly that like it reminded me of what one of those really campy comics would look like in real life and I respected the fact that they could commit to it that way and make an artful movie that brought that to life but there were a few elements that didn't make sense to me like Barbara being Alfred's niece that I was just like whatever man and I knew I couldn't like... use it as a foundation for my basis of characterization, like I can with other media! I really love the animated series too, I grew up with it being my first experience with Batman and I always really respected it as a medium that I could trust to be satisfying and whole. I also really really liked Batman beyond because it felt like the closest continuation of that story even though I know it's really not canon and it kind of doesn't work, I like to view it as like a semi-official what if fan fiction from the original writers lol

I completely get what you mean about the comics, cuz I kind of view official comics like fanfictions even in their own right? I mean when you think back on like Bill finger and Bob Kane like eventually every other writer is going to be writing fanfiction of their characters but it's really fun to go through all the different Batman media and see whose stories you kind of like more and then whose stories you kind of tend to avoid

and when I mentioned I knew you liked comics, I was also speaking more from the perspective that you seem to have more knowledge about them Rather than I thought you had a preference for them, because you put together that comic PDF with batjokes moments and I was really impressed with that ☺️

i love your telltale fics and the games as a beautiful breath of fresh air into the life of batman so sometimes I like to imagine the animated series would be a great way to say where is juce 10 years later, if those universes were more cohesive setting wise lmao

Yeah, Barbara randomly being Alfred's niece is definitely one of the aspects of B&R that just… I guess it breaks up the campiness? That and Ivy being in love with Freeze for no discernable reason. And teaming up with him even though he'll kill her plants. And poor Bane! And then that weird bit at the end where Freeze is sort of forgiven but Ivy can't be? And Alfred almost dies. Should taken all that stuff out and added more camp.

I really enjoyed Batman Beyond too! I didn't even realize a lot of people didn't like it until recently. Honestly it's one of those things where I don't look into the reasons too much. lol I liked it and I'm fine with having liked it, no notes!! (OK I sorta lied. That bit in JLU where they made Bruce Terry's bio dad, that was bizarre.)

I am definitely in the "anything not created by Bill Finger and Bob Kane might as well be fanfic" camp. Like, sure, if DC puts resources behind a project, it has a better chance at being worth your time, but when I get down to it, I can't put a lot of weight behind the idea that someone's official derivative story is more valid than another someone's derivative AO3 post just because there was a cash exchange with a company that owns the original "asset." People who want to lean into that idea, that's their business.

The wild thing about the batjokes spreadsheet is I know that it's only a fraction of what's out there. I have read hundreds of comics at this point and I still feel like it's not enough to totally have a handle on things. Especially knowing how little I've retained. 😅 But that's another reason for the spreadsheet!

Thank you for enjoying my fics! And for implanting the idea in my head of a Telltale universe animated series… Just hijinks and maybe a little more murder with John and Bruce, bestest buddies.

[daincrediblegg]

You asked for it babe! WORST JARED HARRIS CHARACTERS PLEASE

ASK AND I SHALL ANSWER (tho I’m sorry no gifs for this one bc like… these roles are so bad nobody has bothered to gif them which is very funny to me). And I should clarify- these are not him *acting* poorly- but rather roles that fill me with rage for one reason or another (usually that he isn’t in it MORE honestly). Like these are just roles that fucking VEX me terribly bc I know (we ALL know) he’s a good actor. And yet… and yet…

5. Septimus - Pompeii

He gets some slack on this list because like listen. Pompeii is a fucking terrible movie on every goddamn level. But Jared, king that he is, still put his whole pussy into the one trait his character has: which is loving his wife. And that kinda redeemed having to watch the rest of it just a little, but just barely (also should note I saw this IN THEATERS. I PAYED MONEY FOR IT. You’re welcome Jared).

4.Captain Anderson - To The Ends Of The Earth

Look. If Jared Harris is a sea captain in something, I will watch it. The pretty red hair and beaming smile will get me through anything. Was it worth it to suffer through bennedict cumberbatch for like 3 hours tho?? … jury’s still out but as my parents taught me (who are both lawyers) the longer they’re out the more likely it’s a guilty verdict. Benebum cuminmyass is really not worth watching I’m so sorry. But I did get my beautiful man whore in tight 19th century pants and making fun of him the whole time so thats a plus. He’s too pretty to be mad at for long.

3. Sanders - The Man from U.N.C.L.E.

You know. I really don’t know what I expected. It’s a Guy Ritchie joint. He will avoid casting JH in a prominent role like the Plague. I sat down to watch this hopeful that he had changed, but alas. My mans has maybe 5 minutes of screentime tops. And my family has made me watch it 2 more times since my initial viewing. Every time I suffer. Because he’s just Not. Fucking. THERE. Guy Ritchie give my man a decent fucking role for ONCE challenge. I’ll be waiting with a sledgehammer in the corner of your room while you sleep until you do.

2. Captain Mike - The Curious Case of Benjamin Button

Look. I love him in this. I really do. He’s such a slut. Such a beautiful whore. Cherry, what you have done with him in fic is better than what anyone could have ever done with him. Also with the exception of perhaps the most recent tarantino films I fucking hate brad pitt generally. There needed to be more of my man. Justice for better writing and better side characters. Yes? Yes. (Also how is this a David Fincher joint? How? You’re better than this dude).

1. Andy Warhol - I shot Andy Warhol

I have literally never even seen this one. But I literally don’t have to to know its terrible. Just google up JH in that and you will understand. They massacred my boy. He deserves better.

[sdyuteiaok]

All right, our Arizona sessions are in the books until November, but we had a nice final session today, as well as a sweet Florida run today, too. The Florida was great because I was actually able to talk down a Fox-fueled lady, addressing her concerns point by point where she actually started questioning her news media--if Kamala was doing all this stuff, why hasn't the news been covering it? Oh...maybe the news she watches has been avoiding covering it and she should watch some other sources...! You could see her hitting the realizing in realtime. Including her knee-jerk reaction that if Kamala wanted the news to cover her stuff, she should force them to, but then I explained the government can't do that and shouldn't be able to because that would be censorship and is forbidden by the First Amendment, and you could see her 1A programming kick in and she was totally on board that the government shouldn't be doing that, and that it's up to us to find better news sources. It was incredible. She just about called out Fox and their ilk in her own terms at her own pace, all I had to do was walk her through how whatever news she's been getting hasn't been serving her well and she could see how this was plain. She even asked for Kamala's website so she could look up her feats further. It was incredible. This is what it's all about, that's why we have these conversations and slog through not-home after not-home, to reach the people that it can truly make a difference to. Maybe she ultimately doesn't vote blue, but I sincerely hope we made her question the narrative she's been getting. She was genuinely impressed with Kamala after our conversation, it was really cool--she no longer saw her as some empty caricature, but as a human being trying to do the right thing and achieving a whole lot in the meantime, doing the quiet work of the people. Anyway, on the Magic front, I decided to pop off a Duskmourn draft and had a pretty ok aggro BW deck, complete with 4 Cheerleaders, but man, getting them activated was really not easy. Only one game or so was it easy to get it cooking, but then, even after taking to the air, they just get outclassed too easily and surely. Other times, you have to jump through hoops to get them rolling, and at that point, you're using removal or something on something you might outclass later, just to get them rolling, at which point, it's not quite worth it in the long run. There was a reanimator element, including two of the 5/5 BW pants guys that ETB and do a bunch of stuff. But these also were basically impossible to cast, and almost always defeated, often in combat. My last game was looking to be excellent, but I draw 5 Swamps in a row, no Plains aside from the one my hockey mask milled, until turn seven or so, at which point my hand was full of white cards and I was finally pooping out one white card per turn, which was fatal that late in the game. My p1p1 BW legend only ever landed once and activated just to surveil a second plains to the top. Such a sad end to a promising deck--plenty of aggro early, and some serious heat mid/late either via reanimation or casting. But everything choked on never getting a plains in time. And then my opponent was even taking forever to play stuff himself, but that's cuz he was full up on removal, so everything I cast died, and because I was only playing one thing per turn, I couldn't start stabilizing. I had three cheerleaders just rotting, forget about my 5/5 ETB guys and my WB legend and reanimation spell.

[naivety]

i really, truly, honestly hate to get Serious about the fictional fun and freaky moral ambiguity show but it is driving me crazyyyy to see people write full essays on why loustat are a mutually harmful dynamic and not an abusive one as if that isn't Exactly how real life abuse gets downplayed and misconstrued and misinterpreted until it is taken so unseriously that the abuse gets perpetuated. like you are. exactly doing The Thing. this is how it happens, because it makes sense, and people see that someone has been dishonest, or nasty, or mean, or toxic, or Insert The Illusion Of Mutual Harm Here, and it is compelling! that's how real life abuse apologia happens! people aren't just stupid or cruel, they try to think it through and still drop the ball because intimate relationships of any kind are minefields of subjective experience that cast very reasonable doubt. just because it's reasonable and half of the truth doesn't mean it isn't still harmful and something you maybe have to and actually should check yourself on. it's a tangled yarn of half truths you have to sift through with no way to verify anything because it's all based on he-said she-said information, who are ALSO working with subjective experiences of half truths that they could not escape even if they tried.

every time louis shows himself to be an unreliable narrator it is a narrative device made to cast doubt on his recollection of everything he tells daniel, instances of abuse or otherwise. yes, this is true, you are correct! this is also true for literally every single person on earth! and it is also exactly how real life people are gaslit! because they Do remember things wrong and they Are subject to their own blind spots and willful ignorance, and abusers see this and know this, and they use it to cast doubt on truths AND half truths! and abusers are also subject to this just as well, and they often have very human reasons for exploiting this fact, they aren't supervillians cackling to themselves around corners. it is a Human trait to subjectively interpret information, and it can be knowingly and even unknowingly exploited for personal gain, because we all have a device in our brains that is looking out for our own self interest, whether it's an obvious material one, or a more nebulous idea of the self; it's there, and it will gladly work with us to enact itself or work behind the scenes in our willfully ignorant blind spots to protect what it thinks is being threatened. real abuse is abusive because of the presence of an imbalance of power that cannot be willed away, even if the person with greater power wanted to. the harm they deal someone who Lacks that power can never be reciprocated in the same caliber, even if they wanted to. that's why abuse is abuse and not just harm. that's why it's called a power imbalance. it cannot be avoided or undone or erased. just because you want to pretend you don't have an advantage over someone you love doesn't mean that you Don't have that advantage. this is like basic revoking white privilege virtue signaling stuff.

the fact of the matter is that every instance in which louis harms lestat, lestat can actually physically leave, or outright physically stop louis from enacting the harm. this is just a fact. knowing what we do about lestat and vampires as a whole, it would cause him emotional harm, he would be alone, the single most horrible thing he can possibly imagine and has already experienced in all it's all epic highs and lows, etc, etc, this is also true, but it is still an escape he can make even theoretically, while louis has absolutely no material safety net to leave lestat literally ever. he was a black man turned fledgling vampire in the early 1900s in the midst of a suicidal episode, with hardly any knowledge of how he can orient himself in this new vampiric world because lestat has purposefully withheld the information due to his own fears (of louis leaving and of his own traumatic experiences in it probably), he has no family, a precarious source of income that lestat often props up with his whiteness, no community he can maintain even outside of his human family because he knows no other vampires and is physically incapable of creating and maintaining new human relationships, and even when he does finally leave, it doesn't end well for him Because of all the aforementioned reasons! it feels silly to pretend these factors are not at play in their dynamic whatsoever, let alone that they interact with and impact in big and small ways every interaction they have in season one. it is Not an equal playing field, even if lestat himself were to wish it was! that is how abuse can even happen. these are inescapable truths of the world they live in. both can harm each other and both do, yet only one is fully capable of denying the other with a semblance of material safety, while the other is absolutely not. real love can be there, but that does not mean it changes anything, or saves anyone, etc, that is often exactly why these dynamics are such a mindfuck to fully extract yourself from.

this is what an instance of power imbalance looks like guys like. that's what it is. you are walking headfirst into the point, beloved. this isn't a #cancellestat post, i am simply begging you to at least enjoy lestat in a way that doesn't include blatant abuse apologia. there are incredibly interesting discussions we could be engaging with about the source material here. you can enjoy lestat for what he is, and i honestly wish you would instead of fearing some cop in your head might cancel you if you admit a fictional character has been abusive and that you still enjoy them. but refusing to engage with the epic highs and lows of core aspects of his place in the narrative and their implications seems counterproductive and also incredibly boring lol

very weird to frame your abuse apologia as being aware that the writers intended to illustrate a mutually harmful dynamic and not an abusive one. when the writers in question also wrote the line 'once you put it out there, they [the audience] decide what it is' because nothing you ever create has any innate definition. when the writers in question decided to racebend major characters and then showcase them being harmed by white or nonblack characters in a repeatedly racialized pattern when they Did Not Have To Do That and then genuinely or disingenuously decide to dialogue about their directly or indirectly illustrated racialized dynamic of intimate partner violence within and outside the narrative. like to be quite honest it does not matter what they intended because this is what they made and this is how it Looks to a notably large amount of people. who just happen to be interpreting it wrong? according to what metric? the very metric they say Doesn't Work in their own fictional creation? ok

[whatifyoulivelikethat]

ruined, m | jjk

pairing(s): jungkook x reader

summary: Why is there a mostly shirtless man in your bedroom and why is it Kim Namjoon's, your roommate's, fault? All you want to do is play League of Legends, not be visually attacked by ridiculously attractive Jeon Jungkook as his six friends perform living room karaoke at the top of their very drunk lungs.

warnings: rated M (18+) for language; classic Namjoon ripping clothes; you don't have to know how to play LoL, I explain most of it; smut (fem reader, dirty talk, begging, scratching / marking, nipple play, edging / orgasm denial, handjob, (unintentional?) voyeurism, little bit of cum-eating, choking, cowgirl, cock warming); non-idol!BTS – purple-haired, kind-of-a-brat, sub!Jungkook x gamer, noona, dom!reader, ft OT6 being chaotic in the background XD

@yn-the-reader linked me in this and I was already writing about him. a prophet, maybe? XD

--

“WHY ARE YOU SHIRTLESS?”

You died.

Not literally, but also literally.

“Fuck!”

Now you had thirty-seven seconds of gray screen to figure out why the fuck Jeon Jungkook had busted into your bedroom on this cheerful night with his black dress shirt three-quarters of the way unbuttoned, revealing most of his – oh, sweet Satan, very muscular – pecs and the upper half of his abs. He was holding something in his hands, looking helpless and sad, while you were panic buying Liandry's Anguish and experiencing a special form of anguish yourself.

“Noona, um–”

That’s right, because you were in the middle of a League of Legends game, playing Cassiopeia, the Serpent’s Embrace, also known as half-snake lady or the lamia of the champion roster or a mean version of Monster Musume’s Miia (if you know, you know, and if you don’t, be glad you don’t). Your roommate was having friends over after going drinking. All this was fine and dandy with you, because you were going to spend all night wearing headphones and playing League of Legends, therefore ignoring the outside world, until the outside world came to bother you in the form of Kim Namjoon’s – your roommate’s – mostly shirtless friend Jeon Jungkook.

He wasn’t mostly shirtless most of the time, only right now.

“Noona, Namjoon-hyung ripped my shirt…” Jungkook whimpered hesitantly, chewing on his lip. He looked awkward and distraught despite his long dark purple hair giving him a rather fierce, bad-boy look.

Namjoon was a great roommate. He was smart, conversational, and insightful. A chat with him usually led to an enriching, open-minded perspective. He was relatively clean, considerate, communicative, nonjudgmental, fun to be around, and only set the kitchen on fire twice.

The second time was your fault.

You shouldn’t have let Namjoon in the kitchen the second time.

Also, Namjoon with his friends was a wildly chaotic time. All of his friends, especially drunk, were fucking nuts. Normally, they were probably relatively calm people (maybe not Kim Seokjin or Jung Hoseok, they were very excitable), but together they were a mess. You often wondered how they could function as a group.

Currently, however, you were trying to collect your brain cells as you had mere seconds before respawning onto the platform and were forced to play again. Timing in League of Legends was very important. Seconds can mess up wave management of minions and wave mismanagement can lead to game losses if you weren’t careful. The nuances of the game were often ignored by casual players.

You were, in short, a nerd about it.

“Fucking s-shit, what h-happened?” you sputtered out, turning back to your screen, unable to look at mostly shirtless Jungkook because he was MOSTLY SHIRTLESS. Honestly, he had quite nice pecs, and you should not be thinking about that, but it was incredibly distracting, just like how it used to be distracting when Namjoon was shirtless, but several years of living with him made you accustomed to his impressive pectoral muscles, to the point where you could joke about them with him.

But this was not Namjoon – this was his younger friend Jungkook and you had no idea Jungkook was ripped, mostly because you didn’t pay attention to Namjoon’s friends.

There were too many of them and you were too introverted for that.

“I don’t know, he just grabbed my shirt and it ripped and I managed to find all the buttons, but, but…”

Cassiopeia respawned on the platform and you couldn’t ignore the snake lady any longer. You had to play the game because four random people on your team were counting on you and you couldn’t exactly type, sorry, there’s a hot man in my room with his shirt practically off and I don’t know what to do with my life, so you had to suck it up and play the damn game.

Right-clicking and keeping your eyes only on your computer monitor.

Half-listening to that trembling, silvery voice coming up behind you, making your hairs stand on end even though all he was doing was dumping the tiny buttons on your desk.

Oh, fuck me, you thought to yourself.

“Can you repair it? Please? My mom bought me this shirt and Namjoon-hyung said you can sew, so maybe you can sew them back on? Please?”

“Yes, Jungkook, I can, just not right now, I’m in the middle of a game,” you rambled, suddenly trading damage with the enemy Viktor, trying to avoid the laser from the Machine Herald, swearing under your breath as you stutter-stepped and stunned him, poisoning him quickly enough with your abilities to avoid dying. “I will help you, I just – fucking shit, get the fuck away from me Udyr, fuck!”

“Wow, you curse a lot, noona. It’s kind of funny.”

“I – fuck– I mean, sometimes, and what are you guys doing out there? It sounds like a deranged cabaret club,” you remarked, ticking your head towards the direction of your bedroom door.

“Karaoke!” Jungkook replied brightly, still standing behind you, why was he standing behind you, it was freaking you out a little, but Ocean Dragon was being taken and a team fight was about to happen, so you had to ignore it and support your teammates in chasing down the enemy support.

Seokjin hit a high note that was so shrill that you heard it through your headphones.

“… Wow, he’s got some lungs on him.”

“Do you wanna join us, noona?”

“I can’t sing.”

“Neither can we.”

“Pretty sure all of you can sing better than I can, even Yoongi and Namjoon. I’m fucking terrible.”

“I’m not that good.”

You barely survived with thirty hit points after that debacle of a team fight, but your team had the dragon and you all were slowly on your way to victory. You pressed the ‘B’ key to return to base, but kept your eyes on the screen, lest Udyr, the Spirit Walker and serial bear stun-slapping enemy jungler, ran your ass down and killed you.

“Jungkook, your voice is absolutely heavenly. Fucking beautiful. I’m sure every human being on Earth would want to be serenaded by you.”

Silence that you didn’t notice was awkward for him because you were too busy letting out a sigh of relief and building your next item, typing quickly to your teammates. You all were about to set up for vision around Baron Nashor, a large purple worm-dragon monster that when killed provided a significant, sometimes game-ending buff.

“R… really?”

“Yeah, and you’re handsome, gorgeous, and hot as hell too, so the whole damn package,” you responded absentmindedly, realizing the enemy were trying to split-push and trade objectives so you sent some pings to your teammate to take care of that as you accompanied the main group to help clear waves of minions.

Heat.

You heard him shift beside you and suddenly his face was next to yours, watching your screen closely.

Side-step, cast your ultimate, cast your Miasma ability to ground the enemies and prevent them from dashing away, switching between auto-attacking and piercing them with Twin Fang, all in the span of a mild freak-out because why was Jungkook so FUCKING close?

“Wow, you’re so good at League.”

“I’m Diamond rank, so not that good, but definitely better than all seven of you combined.”

“Haha, true, we’re all pretty bad,” Jungkook laughed next to your ear and, oh, shit, is warm breath feathered on your neck, why weren’t you wearing a turtleneck or something and not your self-cropped oversized band t-shirt and slinky black leggings, why weren’t you cocooned in layers of clothes, because you were quickly highly aware of how attractive Namjoon’s friends were.

To top it all off, you were in the middle of a game, so you just had to tolerate it and stay calm for the sake of your teammates and your elo.

“Maybe you could teach us and we’ll teach you something in return.”

“You guys don’t even listen to each other, why would I assume you all would listen to me?”

“I’d listen to you, noona.”

Now your team was doing the Baron dance, skirting in and out of vision, daring the other team to make a move, daring each other to make a mistake so the other could capitalize on it, slowly, slowly, watch the waves, watch the minimap. Careful. You could control the situation if you were calm and not too trigger-happy. Tension in your fingers and tension in your neck because your roommate’s friend was right next to your head, observing your every move.

His violet hair brushed your shoulder.

Soft, delicate strands against your skin.

“You’re more experienced, so you would know what to do.”

Your support snap-engaged a fight and you were immediately in the zone, right clicking rapidly, cycling through your abilities, keeping track of the opponents’ spells, determined not to let any of them get away, following your teammate’s calls and not hesitating, because hesitation as death and loss, and you were so close to winning you could taste it, going after it with passionate vigor and a slow-forming grin, seeing and hearing the in-game announcer declaring, QUADRA KILL.

You didn’t kill all five of them because someone took the pentakill from you.

You might have cared about that except your ear exploded into clapping as Jungkook excitedly applauded for you, cheering you on, reminding you that a mostly shirtless man was standing right next to you.

Thanks, Namjoon, you thought sarcastically.

“Wow, you played that so well, dodging the Viktor ult and stunning three people like that–”

You felt your cheeks heat at the compliments, busying yourself with your team killing Baron. You didn’t usually have someone commenting on your games. Your eyes flickered to the small buttons on your desk.

Especially not a mostly shirtless guy.

Mostly shirtless hot guy.

Back to screen, seeing your jungler’s typed instructions, suggesting you all to destroy as many structures as you could and then prepare for the next fight for Ocean Dragon Soul and – oh? Your eyebrows raised as the screen abruptly jerked to the enemy base, the nexus inside exploding into shiny gem-like fragments that became the VICTORY banner.

“They surrendered?” you uttered with surprise, clicking on the CONTINUE button. “Why?”

Your eyes flickered to the kill score.

“Oh, thirty-two to nine… maybe that’s why….”

Your team had the nine deaths and the opponent team had thirty-two so, well, maybe that’s why they surrendered the game.

“Aw, that’s no fun,” Jungkook pouted as you clicked on the damage screen. Second most damage. Okay, you could take that. You were a little distracted.

“So, about your problem–”

You spun around to, ack, realize that, yes, Jungkook’s shirt was still flapped wide open to expose his chest like an unwrapped piece of caramel candy. He seemed to realize it too, making a surprised face and yanking the sides closed, as if you hadn’t gotten a damn eyeful already.

“I can resew the buttons back on, but you should borrow a shirt from Namjoon in the meantime,” you managed to say, clearing your throat. “Because I, ah, can’t really sew it when you’re still wearing the shirt.”

“Oh… Oh, right, yeah.”

Then he started yanking his shirt out of his slacks.

UMMMMMMM.

Usually, you didn’t care about this stuff. Men were men. They had chests. But you had things you liked too. Just like how men like tits and ass, you liked well-built pecs and forearms. Actually, you appreciated a nice ass and thighs too. And cute faces. Fuck, you loved a cute face.

“Uh, Jungkook…”

He looked up, questioningly. Big round brown eyes, his violet bangs framing his chiseled jaw, parted pink lips, the small mole underneath his lower lip looking so, so kissable, quivering slightly.

Fuck, Jungkook had a cute face.

His shirt was very open.

Fuck, his lightly tanned skin.

He was hesitating around a button, his deft fingers flexed, ink black tattoos standing out on his knuckles and the back of his hand. Your legs were slightly spread, thighs flush to your gaming chair. Half a second and Jungkook’s eyes flickered back up to your face, pretending he hadn’t been looking.

You raised your eyebrows.

“Are you really just gonna strip in my room and walk out asking Namjoon for a shirt and hope none of the six guys think anything about it?”

His eyes shifted around your room. Bed with black sheets and black velvet duvet. Television with your gaming consoles. Your collection of character figurines from various games. Your black denim jacket hanging on a hook, covered in monotone patches that you had sewn yourself, mostly occult-themed, skeletons, skulls, cats, ghosts, potions, eyeballs, that kind of thing. Back to your desk.

Your legs.

Really staring at your thighs, hips, and crotch.

Up your torso, your hands, your exposed collarbones.

Your face.

Guarding his expression, testing the waters.

“Maybe,” Jungkook said slowly. His eyes darted away and back, teeth catching his lower lip. “I really am hoping you can fix my shirt.”

You watched his face carefully, the flare of darkness in those brown orbs, a hint of naughtiness, dancing with danger. Jungkook had a mischievous streak. You could tell by the way he interacted with his hyungs, listening but talking back, helping them with things but not without a roll of his eyes or a smart remark added, probably because all his friends were older and he was the youngest. He knew he could get away with it.

In short.

Brat.

“What would you like in return, noona?” Jungkook purred, smile dancing on his lips.

Honorifics were supposed to honor you. Show a sign of respect and all that shit.

All I wanted to do was play video games, you grumbled internally. Not suddenly have a thirst fest for one of Namjoon’s best friends. You narrowed your eyes a little, seeing the smirk on that perfectly shaped mouth. He’s not stopping either.

Outside your room, something fell with a loud crash. Probably Namjoon by the depth of that startled yelp. Everyone else started laughing and a very loud, cheerful melody was blasting from the living room television. Nobody was coming to investigate you and Jungkook.

Yet.

“Turn around and ask for a shirt,” you sighed, waving a hand. “Then take off your shirt in the bathroom and then, only then, do you come back and give me your dress shirt.”

You saw Jungkook frown, not expecting that as your answer.

“Oh. Okay.”

He seemed disappointed, lowering his hands.

The silky fabric of the dress shirt slid off his right shoulder, partly revealing his tattoo sleeve and fully revealing his right collarbone and shoulder.

You sucked in a breath, eyes flickering to it. Then his face. Then back to his body. Fuck. Fuckity fuck. Fuckity fuck fuck fuck. Jungkook jumped, startled by the fallen fabric and reached over to grab the fallen collar. Your hand moved faster than you had time to think. You had good reaction time. It was the gaming obsession.

You slapped his hand down.

Jungkook squeaked, head snapping up, purple hair floating around him, gold chain on his neck glittering as he swallowed hard, Adam’s apple bobbing. Strangely, his chain resembled your sterling silver choker that you were wearing right now, except you also wore another necklace with a circular white gold pendant with your zodiac sign.

Not that anyone was ever close enough to inspect it.

“N-Noona?” he breathed, sounding strangely winded.

Shit.

You hadn’t meant to do that. Your body reacted faster than your head.

Shit.

Fuck, he had a nice body. His pecs. Even had a nice dark nipple – well, he probably had two, but you could only see one at the moment – and it all trimmed down to a slim waist and shapely hips. You could tell because of his tailored black slacks. He had been wearing a blazer earlier in the evening too. It was probably on a chair somewhere in the apartment.

Shit.

What did Jungkook need to look so damn good for?

“Where did you guys go to be dressed like that?”

Yes, you were really just going to interrogate him with his shirt dangling off like that.

Jungkook chewed on his lower lip, the tiny mole underneath bouncing up and down as he spoke. “We went to a fancy hotel rooftop bar to celebrate Yoongi-hyung’s award that he won at the music show for producing that song–”

“Ah, right, Namjoon mentioned that earlier today.” Dress code must have been black tie.

Those dark brown eyes found yours, observing you carefully.

“I would have liked to see you there, noona.”

You stopped staring at the tattoos on his bicep and made eye contact. Fuck. Those eyes. Sparkling with deviousness. Trying to see how far he could push your buttons.

“I wonder what kind of dress would you have worn?” he murmured, musing to himself. “I bet you would have looked hotter than any girl there.” Jungkook smiled, playful and boyish. He wasn’t being sleazy about it. Every word was light and honest. “A tight little black dress? Maybe bright red? Short, because you have incredible legs. It would be a crime not to show them off.” He was only complimenting you. His tone wasn’t trying to be suggestive.

Yet.

You didn’t close your legs. You had nothing to be shy about.

Instead, you leaned back in your gaming chair as if it was a throne, resting your left elbow on the armrest and your chin on two fingers, thighs wide open, and your other hand in between them, fingers curled inward to your inner thigh.

Jungkook’s pink lips curved ever higher, ever more roguish.

“Whatever you would have chosen, you would have looked so, so sexy.”

You ticked your head.

“I know.”

Because you did.

Look here, Jeon Jungkook, I’m here minding my own damn business and you’re here inserting yourself into my life, so if you can’t handle me knowing my self-worth, you can fuck right off.

He reached up and tucked a bit of his purple hair behind his right ear, grinning at you.

“You sure you don’t want anything from me?” he asked, a slight flicker of pink tongue between white teeth. “I can give first and then you can decide whether or not you want to help.”

Honestly, those sultry eyes could stop a heart.

You removed your hand from your chin, tapping the air with those two fingers in a dismissive manner.

“Hm.”

Outside, Kim Taehyung and Jung Hoseok were singing a soulful duet and Park Jimin was hooting at inappropriate moments to ruin the atmosphere as much as possible. That raspy, breathless laugh was Min Yoongi, who was probably doubled over on the floor in his expensive suit. Classic genius music producer of the year behavior right there.

Jungkook tucked his hands in his pockets, shirt sleeve falling down, revealing his blacked-out inner elbow. Mountains with a dark sky. It must have hurt, doing something like that. Still, he did it. For aesthetics?

You heard the smirk rather than seeing it, mostly because you were looking at his body.

“I would look so damn good on you, noona.”

Alright.

You closed your eyes slowly and reopened them to look directly into those dangerous, dangerous eyes.

“Lock the door.”

Not really an order. More of a statement. Jungkook could do it or not, you knew. He couldn’t be coerced to do anything. He did things because he wanted to do them. He was nice because he wanted to be nice. He was childish when he wanted to be childish.

And.

Jungkook was obedient when he wanted to be obedient.

He turned around, went to your bedroom door, and locked it.

Well then.

He came back and stood in front of you. A little closer now.

You cocked an eyebrow. “They’re going to come looking for you.”

Jungkook smiled down at you. “I’m sure they will.”

You frowned, lowering your hand to tap the end of the armrest. “They’re going to think I started this.”

“You kind of did.”

Your eyes narrowed sharply. He grinned, taking a step closer.

“Because it’s not my fault you look so good,” Jungkook breathed, voice deepening, leaning down, your expression unchanging, not pulling back but not encouraging anything either. “Not my fault your body is hotter than a summer. Not my fault your confidence is the biggest turn-on I’ve ever had in my life.”

Your thighs were still as open as his shirt.

Jungkook put his knee in between them.

His dress shirt was basically almost completely off his body now, falling off the left shoulder too and dangling off his forearms, exposed collarbones and shoulders, tan skin taut over muscle. A delicious body line, so fucking close to you that you could feel the heat. You still didn’t do anything. You weren’t going to do anything. You didn’t prompt this. You were simply minding your own business commanding a snake lady to victory, not expecting to get seduced by a mischievous bunny-like smile and a tiny black mole under a cute pout.

“I can’t help myself around you.”

You usually didn’t say more to Namjoon’s friends than a mere hello, not wanting to bother them with your presence. They were all men after all. You expected them to want bro time or whatever. Also, you were too busy being obsessed with men that didn’t exist in real life to pursue men that did exist in real life.

At least League of Legends had 3D models so no one could say you lived only the 2D lifestyle.

That didn’t mean that you didn’t partake when the dinner laid themselves out to be eaten. They often had to, because you wouldn’t pay attention otherwise.

Purple hair drifted into your vision, surrounding you in a curtain of violet and dark brown eyes, warm exhale and trembling pink lips, trapping you in Jungkook’s gaze, but you refused to relent, keeping your gaze even. Steady breaths to disguise your racing heart.

You kept your hands closed to prevent him from seeing your shaking fingers.

“Every time I see you, I want you to touch me,” he whispered, trying to hide the edge of nervousness by lowering his voice, enticing you to lean in to hear him better because someone was wiping a damn window in the living room outside your door or was that Kim Seokjin laughing?

There was no difference.

Jungkook’s forehead touched yours and you stopped thinking about Seokjin.

“I just want you to feel me up, rip my clothes off, and fuck me until I can’t think straight. Use me, abuse me, wreck me, ruin me,” he shuddered, definitely thinking about it, and one blink and you spied the obvious tent in his pants.

“Maybe I’m a lazy girl,” you finally said, touching your nose to his, inhaling his breath, a little bit of alcohol, a little bit of fruitiness, and that hint of cologne, fresh, clean, and intense. Something else too. Musk, maybe his pheromones or something like that. Whatever it was smelled fucking delicious, just like you. What did your perfume smell like? Spiced fire blended with addictive sweetness.

You shrugged casually.

“Maybe I’m a pillow princess.”

Jungkook chuckled.

“I can tell you’re not.”

You had to smirk.

Of course, you weren’t.

You closed your thighs around his knee and squeezed, raising to your tiptoes. He gasped softly, shivering at the simple touch of your soft thighs pressing around his muscular leg. It was disturbingly noisy out there, but here it was silent, pared down to your breathing and Jungkook’s breathing, mixing together, blazingly hot, closer, closer, doing the careful dance, daring each other to make the move that was so obviously going to happen.

“What are you gonna say when they ask you where you’ve been all this time?” you whispered, avoiding letting your lips brush against his.

“The truth.”

His tongue flickered out and barely touched your lips.

You didn’t make a sound.

Jungkook moaned, the sound drifting into your throat, and you could taste his desire.

“I tripped and fell into your lap.”

Your lips curved into a smirk.

He kissed you.

His hands on the armrests of your rolling chair, pushing it back into your desk, pressing his lips to yours, inhaling deeply, wanting to breathe you, wanting to taste you, wanting you, shivering as you finally touched him with your hands, but this was you, and your first touch wasn’t going to be wasted on a conventional innocent touch.

Your fingers closed in on his rock-hard erection and stroked him through his pants.

Jungkook moaned your name right in your mouth, eyes half-lidded, his violet hair encircling your face as he rolled his hips into your palm, whining deep in his chest.

“Fuck, yes, noona, play with me…”

You flitted your tongue between his lips and he chased it, begging you for more, and yet you continued to tease, light flicks between those soft pillows, nipping at them, even pushing up his lower lip so the tip of your tongue could draw a small heart around that mole, kissing it, so gentle, so delicate. His entire body shook, your hand palming his hardness through his pants, nails scraping against his balls, caressing all of it, acting like you owned it. Jungkook was certainly humping your hand like you did.

“You only want me because I didn’t want you,” you taunted, not bothering to hide your smirk and your slight disapproval.

“That’s not true,” he panted, attempting to get you to touch his chest, pushing you back into your chair, and yet you kept the fingers of your free hand on the cusp of what he wanted, heat close but no contact, causing him to whimper every time your fingernails barely nicked his skin. “I want you because you’re pretty, gorgeous, and hot as hell.”

Hm, that sounded familiar.

“I want you because I love watching you play your favorite games,” he chuckled, kissing the side of your lips, nose to nose. “I want you because I love that little smirk you make when you do something good. I want you because I love that aggressiveness that comes out and how you seem to lose your filter. Shit, it’s so fucking hot when you’re focused. Makes me wanna see your face when you’re pinning me down and having your way with me. Makes me want to obey you and disobey you at the same time, because I want you to reward me and punish me, I just can’t decide, fuck, you make life so hard for me.”

He punctuated hard by violently humping your hand, rattling your desk with his force.

Outside you heard Namjoon yelling “CANNONBALL” and throwing himself onto that giant gray furry beanbag you paid far too much for about six months ago. It was now a household party favorite, due to its massive size and fluffiness. At the moment, it sounded like a pile of six guys in semi-formal clothing was beginning and, instead of watching this heap of hot dudes being constructed, you were making out with the seventh guy’s face and grabbing his dick.

You’ll take this trade.

You felt Jungkook’s hands groping around, undoing his pants and the zipper, trying to get you to touch more, more, desperate for you to be all over him.

“P-Please… please, I don’t know when they’re going to notice…” he pleaded. “You’re so close, so close, ah, I can’t think, please…”

“Shh…” you soothed. “The door is locked.”

Your fingertips finally touched his chest, not disappointed in the slightest when you touched those delicious-looking pecs. They felt just as nice under your palm, his pounding heart and wanton moan vibrating up your arm.

“Aren’t you a needy little brat trying to distract me from my games, hm?”

Your fingertips hooked over the waistband of his boxer briefs.

“You’re going to have to face the consequences, Jungkook.”

You said his name like a delicious sweet about to be eaten, growl in your throat as you yanked down his underwear, capturing his lips, robbing him of his cries as you clawed down his chest, grasping his cock and pumping him, long, complete strokes from base to tip, curling your fingers around his balls, juggling them with your fingers teasingly as he squirmed and groaned. Your free arm shot around his back, digging your nails into his spine, not letting him get away. His black dress shirt was falling, falling to your floor, his bluish-purple hair in your face and his strong hands on your shoulders, sliding down, kneading your breasts through your clothes, whining that you were still wearing a bra – of course, you were, six dudes were coming over and they didn’t need to see your magnificent nipples on display, although clearly one of them wanted to see – and he was trying to get to the hem of your shirt, but you smacked his hands away, building the pressure and speed, pre-cum leaking between your fingers and adding slickness to lessen the dry friction.

Fuck, you could smell him and he smelled so fucking good.

“Noona, please…” Jungkook gasped, hands on the armrests of your chair, tipping his head back at the pleasure, pants at his fucking knees, chest, crotch, thighs on display. “This is… embarrassing…”

He meant him being mostly naked and you being dressed.

You shrugged, acting indifferent. “Not for me.”

He whimpered at your words, so noticeably dominant despite not using an aggressive or commanding tone. Either that or he was very invested in you jacking him off. You suspected it was a combination of the two, considering how eagerly his cock twitched when you answered.

“What should I do, Jungkook? Should I let you cum? Or should I play with you and stop, make you put your clothes back on and walk out there, desperate to be finished off?” you mused aloud, running your nails up his back, not that hard, but he leaned back into it so they sank into him, wordlessly begging you to do it harder, so you did, setting your jaw and scratching at his back, forcing him back into position. His cock throbbed in your hand, pulsating wildly.

Hm, he really loved it, huh.

“P-Please… wanna cum, please don’t be mean…” he gasped, thrusting his hips into your punishingly tight grip.

“Hm, why does it matter? You’ll just run to the bathroom and finish yourself off anyway, right?”

“Want you to do it, please,” he begged, his long hair curling around his jaw, dark purple locks framing the sharpness, lashes fluttering as you rubbed your thumb against the underside of the head, smearing pre-cum over the slit. “Your hand feels so good, so fucking good, better than I thought, please, I need you to touch me or I can’t get off, please…”

You removed your hand.

Jungkook cried out in denied despair, pitch hiking, the sinful sound clearly audible despite the debaucherously loud ruckus outside your bedroom door that included not one, but two people howling like werewolves for some unknown reason. At this point, you were mildly curious.

But you had a job to do.

He grabbed the front of your shirt, almost sobbing with need. Somehow his violet hair was a mess and you hadn’t even touched it. It cascaded over one of his eyes, an indigo curtain, the other chocolate orb shaking and pupil dilated, black prominent in the dark brown.

“Please don’t–”

You shoved two fingers from your right hand into that pleading mouth and raised your left.

He choked, gagging a little on your fingers.

You stuck your tongue out and licked your palm, slathering it with a thick layer of slick saliva.

Jungkook’s eyes widened at the dirty action and then rolled back into his head as you wrapped your hand around his aching cock once more, now covered in saliva, swiftly and fervently jacking him off, hard, fast, tight, nearly choking his cock, pushing his chin up and his chest to your hungry mouth, tongue and teeth and lips, all over those dark nipples hardening under your persistent touch, heedless to his rising moans, so very obvious now what was happening in your bedroom.

It didn’t bother you at all. Jungkook walked in here and asked you to wreck and ruin him, so you did exactly what he asked you to do, leaving harsh bite marks and slippery saliva all over his soft skin, your perfume rubbing off onto his body, coating his chest in your scent and his pulsating thick length with your spit, and he was so fucking hard that you were impressed, feeling his mouth suck on your fingers desperately and wetly, your name a messy garble above your head.

“Fuck, yes, umpf, oh fuck, I’m so close, so close, gonna cum, goona cum for you…!”

“Jungkook?”

You had no idea who called his name through your door, because the next second Jungkook was pitching forward and shooting his cum up your thigh and chest, thick white strings painting your leggings and band t-shirt, soaking into the fabric and creating a sticky mess on your skin, your head lifting in response to his movement to avoid knocking into him, your fingers sliding out of his lips, strings of saliva snapping as they left, and suddenly Jungkook’s face was in your face, his lips on yours in a passionate kiss, rutting into your hand to increase the sensitivity, shoulders and hips flinching, whimpering gratitude and ecstasy into your mouth, his hands in your hair, kissing you deeper, more ravenously, ignoring the questioning voices, lost in the pleasure of his orgasm.

You heard Namjoon say outside your door, “I think he made his move.”

You asshole, at least warn me, you thought irritably.

“You’re so good… so good, exactly what I need… I knew you would be… fuck…”

You thrust your tongue into his lips once and backed off, chuckling as he whined for more.

“Go ask for a shirt.”

Jungkook shook his head rapidly, violet hair flying everywhere. Your hand was still wrapped around his semi-hard cock, his cum dripping onto your wrist. His ears were turning red.

“I can’t… They know something is going on…” he mumbled, scooting closer to you, as if your body heat could somehow mask the fact that you just jacked him off with six of his friends standing outside your bedroom door whispering.

“Maybe you wanted them to know.”

You squeezed his ass and he trembled, clutching your shoulders.

“Easy way to tell them that you want to be owned by me, right?”

You could tell by the way his eyes were darting around rapidly that the thought crossed his mind more than once.

“Jungkook.”

You said it loud enough for a keen ear to hear it if they were really eavesdropping. You looked up at Jungkook, his eyes immediately fixating on yours because of your tone.

In control, not to be questioned.

“Get on your knees.”

Dead silence outside your bedroom.

“B… but…”

His cheeks flushed pink.

You took his chin and pulled him down to your face, murmuring to that mole under his lips, pecking it daintily, almost innocently, his wispy moan drifting over your nose. Your words were barely above a whisper, only for him.

“You made a mess. Clean it up.”

You stroked Jungkook’s chin with your thumb, your other hand tucking his long hair behind his ear.

“I’ll let you sleep in my bed tonight, so be a good boy for me right now and I’ll let you be a bad boy in bed.”

His head tilted and Jungkook whispered your name into your mouth, drenched with desire.

You smirked, stroking his jaw fondly.

He got to his knees, in between your open thighs, leaning forward, subservient eyes on your face as his pink tongue extended, licking at his own cum staining your clothes, eyes closing at your hand on the top of his head, not directing the movement, but reminding him who was in charge here, reminding him with nails in his scalp that he was going to be fucked until he couldn’t think straight.

Used, abused, wrecked, ruined.

-

“I don’t wanna.”

“We both know you do.”

“But I want to fuck you,” Jungkook protested, speaking softly because everyone was sleeping, or at least it seemed that way, not that either you or Jungkook cared, because you were forcing him to his knees on your bed, pushing his torso back, nails digging into his chest, towering over him, his naked body already covered in your bites and scratches, focused on his inner thighs and chest, none on his neck because that’s where he wanted it the most.

And you knew it.

“Noona, please…”

He said please a lot for someone who did not, in fact, want to be pleased, but tortured.

You grabbed him by the chin, cocking an eyebrow.

His hands were behind him, arms shaking as they held him up, shivering delightfully under your petrifying gaze.

“Please what? Hm? Saying please when you come crawling into my room, begging for dirty things with your friends right outside, saying please when you interrupt me and distract me, jeopardizing my chances to win my game?”

You leaned in close, you knowing you were only crafting a scene, him knowing that you didn’t actually care, but Jungkook wanted to hear the words, wanted you to put that malice in your tone to caress his ears, wanted you to cannibalize his sanity and put him in a different headspace, his cock already responding to it, bobbing in the air, purple-red and achingly hard from multiple orgasms, and he still wanted more.

“Saying please so you can say please when you’re under me, helplessly begging me to let you cum?”

You could hear his whines vibrating under your fingertips, pupils blown wide, lower lip trembling, begging you already, such a needy little thing, those lovely brown eyes full of submission, muscles tense with anticipation, every passing second spiraling him into increased frustration, because instead of doing anything, you were only smirking wider and wider, pushing his head back.

“Well? Tell me if you’re a dirty boy or not. Maybe I’ll do what you want.”

His violet hair cascaded to his shoulder blades, his low moan coursing through your fingertips and the heated air of your bedroom.

“Y… Yes, I’m a d-dirty boy…”

“Noona,” you prompted.

Just because you could.

His lips curved into an open smile, two of your fingers hooked over his lower lip, fingertips rubbing his tongue. Your thumb nail pressed into his mole.

“Noona.”

You ripped the condom open with your teeth, which was not advisable unless you were the kind of person that practiced that for hours on end, spending an obscene amount of money on unused condoms to perfect your technique, because nobody wants a broken condom or lube in their teeth. Why would you want to learn such a thing? You were a stickler for details. A perfectionist in perfecting a perfect display of raw dominance.

You spat out the torn corner onto Jungkook’s chest and he whimpered, unashamedly amazed.

Your left hand removed the condom from the package and your right slid out of his mouth and encircled his neck.

You inspected the condom, lazily turning it to the correct position, fingers pressed to the sides of his neck, leaving plenty of space for his trachea between your thumb and forefinger. You didn’t bother looking at his face. Instead, you spread your legs, poised and naked over him and his throbbing cock.

Your right hand started choking him.

Your left hand started rolling the condom down his thick, hard length.

Your name leaked out of his lips in a thin gurgle, his eyes rolling back into his head.

“Say please, Jungkook.”

A sharp, distinct order.

“P… Please…” he gasped out, chest shuddering.

Your hand tightened around his throat and your pussy clenched around his cock as you forced yourself down on him.

“Oh, fuuuuuuuck…”

You didn’t bother asking if he liked it. His vicious fisting of your sheets and trembling body, cries and cock included, told you everything you needed to know. You only watched the color of his cheeks, knowing there were limits to how long you could choke him. Therefore there was no time to be wasted, already starting your favorite pace, rough and hard, filling yourself with that delicious cock built to take your abuse, jaw set, gripping his throat, blood pounding under your fingertips, slapping hips to crotch, heat sparking though your veins, hotter, hotter, your smirk growing more and more smug, tongue tracing your lips as you witnessed Jungkook’s descent into sin, raising his head so he could watch you bounce on his cock with hazed brown orbs, mouth open, tongue lolling out, circulation thinning, purple hair wild around that cute, distressed face.

You let up the pressure on his neck, dark snicker rumbling in your chest.

“This pussy worth it, brat?”

The rush of missing blood into his brain, the suffocating pleasure of your pulsating walls wrapped around his twitching cock, your authoritative growl and merciless words tearing through him – you saw it all taking over Jungkook, forced to respond honestly from pure instinct because there was no time to compile pretty words or a smart comeback.

“Yes, noona, yes, I love it, I love it, this brat fucking loves what you do to him…”

You immediately choked him again and slapped your pussy onto his cock like you were whipping him.

His eyes rolled back and a wild moan tore out of his chest, cut off by your hand.

The bed creaked under you, bearing the weight of your roughness.

“I know you love it,” you snarled, leaning in, fucking him into your bed with vigor, straining his knees, so uncomfortable and so comfortable for him at the same time, pain and pleasure, clearly something he craved and loved from how hard he was. “You said you need me to touch you or you can’t get off.”

You knew that couldn’t be true.

Jungkook probably got off hundreds of times thinking about you, otherwise he wouldn’t be so ecstatic about you violently riding his dick right now.

His teeth sank into his swollen lower lip, staring at you through his lashes, his voice a thin whisper laced with insatiable need.

“I can’t cum without you anymore.”

You removed your hand.

Your hips stopped abruptly, fulling sheathing his cock inside you.

“No!”

His shout was so loud and desperate that you had to conceal your surprise, not expecting the frantic ferocity of his tone, nearly an agonized sob as he grabbed your upper arms in a crushing grip, his indigo locks crashing into his high cheekbones, sticking to his sweaty face and sharp jaw. It took everything in you to stay calm, everything to not give in and let him have what he wanted. Maybe it was stubbornness, maybe it was knowing the role you were playing, maybe it was the sadistic side of you, who the fuck knew, but there was only a beat of hesitation, a second of you staring into those beautiful dark brown eyes, so perfect.

Just perfect.

Perfectly wrecked, willing to do anything in this moment for you to continue.

Before he could utter a peep of a plea, you shook out of his grip and seized his head, crashing his lips onto your neck.

Jungkook bit you.

Instant, searing pain, taking out all his sexual frustration on your neck, sucking at the skin, hot tongue lapping, groaning, moaning, half-crying because you didn’t move. You just sat on his dick and forced his mouth onto your neck, gleefully savoring his despair, closing your eyes and allowing yourself to feel the pleasure, his hands and nails digging into your waist, his teeth latched to the side of your throat, his stiff cock shuddering inside you, your tight heat keeping him hard but not letting him cum, repeatedly squeezing the engorged head brutally, driving him insane.

Insane.

You could feel his lips move, but you muffled his words, pushing his head into your neck.

Please.

Deep inhale, his wonderful scent filling your nose.

Please.

Riding the high that was Jungkook’s desire for you, fingers tangled into violet strands.

Please.

He felt so, so good, spoon-feeding the dom in you with his tiny whimpers and distraught sniffles.

“P… Please…”

You pressed your lips to his hair, murmuring his name sweetly.

“Jungkook.”

No quiver to your tone, only serene calm.

“Noona…”

His hands slid up your back as your hips began to rock, slow, so painfully slow, building the frenzy layer by layer, his hardness swelling inside you, his soft lips pressed to his hickey onto your neck, even more turned on because he knew you let him mark you, he knew in this moment you were his and only his, everything he wanted and more, his hips rising to meet yours, deepening your thrusts, matching your force, burying his face into your skin and your scent, wanting nothing more than your command over his body.

You turned his head, tucking his hair behind one ear, speaking dark whispers into that curve.

“You look the best when on your knees for me, Jungkook.”

He shivered, your name falling sloppily from his lips, drunk from your power and lost in his service.

You let go of his head and grabbed his shoulders instead, putting all of your weight onto him, now letting yourself chase it, chase the orgasm that you had been building for yourself all this time, letting yourself feel Jungkook and feel the full force of the pleasure he gave you, because, yes, of course, you served him first before you, even if it didn’t seem like it.

Because when it came down to it, Jungkook came to you, opening himself petal by petal to show you his vulnerable side, testing the waters, hoping, wishing, praying that maybe, just maybe, you were the kind of person that he was expecting, wanting, needing, and you, knowing how difficult that was because, well, you had made it difficult, only focusing on games and not on those longing eyes that watched you whenever you came into his view.

Eyes that you looked into now.

Half-lidded, glazed over, fucked-out, still honest.

His large hands were still on your waist, holding you to him as you rode him with furious slaps, muscles flexed in his chest and arms, tattoos on his right arm tense and taut from holding this position for so long. He looked so good. Felt so good. Had an amazing cock.

And fuck.

Jungkook had a cute face.

You genuinely smiled.

“I’ll take care of everything,” you drawled, injecting your words with conviction and adoration.

That did it.

His lips parted, low groan emitting from his throat as his head tipped back, purple waterfalling onto his back, thrusting up into you and shooting into the condom with fierce jolts, unable to hold back any longer, his entire length flinching uncontrollably, sweet whimpers at his release, feeling sorry that he didn’t let you cum first, but that didn’t matter, because you rode through it, already there, falling, falling, your sigh like laden smoke as your orgasm slammed into you, welcoming the bolts of cruel pulses flying through you, concentrated onto your core, Jungkook’s moans hiking into pitched ecstasy at the convulsing clenches of his oversensitive, overused cock, arms embracing you tightly, hugging you for dear life, chest to chest, pounding heart against yours.

Your fingers tangled into his hair.

His hand fitted around your head.

Lips to lips and you took care of everything, claiming that mouth as yours, holding him up even though you were the one in his lap, your kiss onto that perfect mole under that pretty pout, cherishing every mumble of your name, lowering him onto your pillows, soft kisses in between. You took care of everything, lifting yourself off him, chuckling as he whined, pawing for you to come back, but you rapped his knuckles and calmed him, removing the condom and cleaning him off gently with a towel, soft kisses in between because he wanted the attention, deliberately not closing his eyes until you crawled back into the bed, tucking the covers around you and him, Jungkook immediately turning and yanking you into his chest, nose against your skin.

“Who’s the pillow princess?” you teased, ruffling his long violet locks.

His lips pressed onto your hickey, his mark on you, and he sighed in content, drifting into sleep.

-

In the morning, you found a pile of five guys in the living room sleeping in various positions on the giant gray furry beanbag and the sofa. Jungkook was in your bed, passed out. The last guy, Min Yoongi, was in Kim Namjoon’s room, sleeping on his bed, because he was a smart man and took advantage of a perfectly good bed that five drunk hooligans undoubtedly forgot about.

You chuckled and rubbed your neck as you brushed your teeth, seeing yourself and the large purple hickey Jungkook had made last night in the bathroom mirror.

You went back to your room after retrieving the sewing basket from the living room, spending the morning calmly stitching the small buttons back onto his black dress shirt as the seven guys in your apartment continued to snore away.

Then you went back to playing League of Legends.

Ah, Cassiopeia, I had an eventful evening, but I have returned to you.

-

drabble morning-after hungover breakfast

--

masterpost

[eolewyn1010]

LGBTQIA+ characters and representation in season 2 of Charité

I'm gonna talk about what's in the title, but first things first: Warnings.

Spoilers for all three seasons of "Charité". Duh.

This is all personal opinion and should not be taken for objective truth.

I'll do this by quality, not chronology, by which I mean I'll talk about season 1, season 3, then season 2, in that order.

Season 2, you know what that means: Nazis. Mentions of euthanasia, genocide, extreme homophobia, all that shit.

I'm gonna get babbly; buckle up. We'll be here for a while. I wanted to do this in one go, but that got way long, so I'm splitting it by seasons.

Let me start this off by admitting that I'm blatantly biased on this front because I'm helplessly in love with Charité's second season and its characters and, yes, the lovestory between Otto and Martin. But there are actually reasons for this - namely, season 2 avoids a lot of what makes me feel unwell about the LGBTQIA+ characters in season 1 and 3.

First and foremost, Martin and Otto both are fully-fleshed out characters who have their own agencies - and that is despite their lovestory being definitely their main arc during the season. Yes, we do see them spending time together, learning to trust each other, confessing their feelings, dealing with the daily threat of getting caught and brought to a concentration camp. But also, either of them is established in their own life experiences, their own social environments. Hell, Martin is only a side character, but we get a pretty good grip on him real soon. That he has a warm and trust-based relationship with both his bosses, that he feels he has a value, prosthetic leg be damned, that the war experience has left him choke-full of wry snark because he's too smart to be loud about his political opposition. Also interesting: He was an actual soldier, and then became a nurse, in opposition to Otto who was only ever a medic. I think you could make a pretty good point of him drawing a lot of personal consequences after his extremely traumatizing experiences.

And Otto - where do I even start? In the first episode, he's not remotely established as the character we are served later. We get this poor little uwu boy who's suffered sooo terribly from the war because you know, Nazis are people too and war is terrible for everyone involved. Otto is someone who smiles charmingly, does his patriotic duty, salutes in the right way, looks snazzy in a uniform - and he's the Aryan dream of every German girl. Tall, strong, beautiful; they didn't cast Prettyboy McCheekbones for nothing there. I get it; I like to look at his stupid grin and his baby blue eyes and everything. I just think he's neat. And so thinks Christel who blatantly stares at him when she sees him for the first time and hasn't spoken a word to him yet (and continues to have very superficial contact with him - she's the one who objectifies Otto, not Martin whom she accuses of that and whose bond with Otto relies very much on time spent together and trust built). They establish all of this - and then re-establish it in a queer context, when it's not Christel but Martin whose eyes linger for a second. And then he looks away quickly because whoops, Christel is allowed to gawk at a pretty man, but Martin isn't. It's such a tiny thing, but it does wonders for the world-building. And seeing how Otto functions in this world gets really interesting when we find out that he's in love with Martin - and with how honest he is about it and how his sister handles the whole thing, there's the implication that Otto (and maybe Anni) has known that he's gay for a while. And with that, this whole perfect German man act is just that, an act. Otto lives between perpetrators and has adapted, but he's also explicitly part of a persecuted group.

Also, within that role, they repeatedly allow him to subvert the expectations society puts on him. First time that shows up is when he tells Christel that, on the front, he's only ever served in the sickbay, and she quips: "Aw, and here we thought we'd get a real war hero." Which is a tease, the way she says it, but the implication is clear: If Otto hasn't hurt or killed anyone in war, he's not what the Nazis call a hero. No, he won't let that soldier take the fall for self-crippling without even trying to help him (it's a very stupid attempt, but his impulsiveness is something I love a lot about Otto, especially because it works out both in his favor and to his detriment at times). No, he doesn't judge someone for being married to a Jewish woman ("Can love be a sin?" - har har, I see what you did thar. Subtlety, thy name is German television). Yes, he'll yell at his sister for her passive compliance instead of minding his own business as a good Nazi should do. Yes, he'll screw masculine stereotypes and be the caretaker of a small child for half a year. For all the emphasis on the lovestory, a lot of Otto's queerness is established in how he acts and thinks, in how he accepts other people and himself in a way that doesn't value the Nazi standards of what makes a good person or a good German or whatever. His man is a cripple? He's about the strongest person alive, and also beautiful, thank you very much. His niece is mentally disabled? Well, she's the cutest baby on earth, fuck you. That woman whom he doesn't know at all who seems to be entirely out of it, emotionally and psychologically? And that makes her life less valuable why? I don't know how he has internalized this with the way he must have been socialized; maybe it is because he just can't fit the expected standard and always had to lowkey expect to become a name on a list of those who disappear into the unknown. But anyway, I love him for it.

Note also that, different than Therese in season 1, he very much gets to be proactive about his feelings - and gets a response. Not a universally positive response because Martin is scared as fuck, for a good reason, as we know. But he makes clear he reciprocates Otto's feelings, and they try to work around the daily risk of concentration camps, of castration, of degradation. Martin's arrest is only the tiniest fraction of what could have happened to him, and what happened to his first lover, and it's awful enough on its own. They both face that when they get involved, and while Martin goes from "we can never do that again" to "I'll take that risk", Otto goes from sweet-talking Christel and playing into her crush to basically telling her to go fuck herself. Despite what Christel and de Crinis and society have done to them, they actually both wind up at a point where they're not willing to be afraid anymore because they know that this whole fucked-up construct around them is not working in the slightest and will break asunder rather today than tomorrow. And they don't deny it anymore, either - Charité is rather sanitized in that regard; they're working in a hospital, not on the front or near a death camp. But at one point, Otto just plainly says it: "They're gassing people there." And that's something that, during and after the war, very few people are willing to admit, the sort and the sheer extent of the crimes committed by Germans.

So, and after all this gushing, I'll end on a note of critique: The drama. After all they have been through, when the war is already ended for them, when Berlin has fallen... Otto catches a bullet. I'm even pretty sure it's a stray bullet because they can't really have seen him up there, but we need to have one of our protagonists on the brink of death in the last few minutes. They don't go through with it, which, thank you; I wouldn't have forgiven them another Bury Your Gays after the trouble Martin and Otto had to go through to have a freaking happy relationship, but they like twisting the knife, and they couldn't resist repeating that subversion theme for Otto. *sigh* That's Charité for you. But I'm not made of stone and that scene of Martin carrying Otto downstairs kills me every time, so I'm lowkey willing to forgive them for that.

[owenthetokencishet]

I'm bored. Time to do my extremely Marvel fatigued takes on every MCU... Thing.

-Iron Man: Holy shit it's a movie! It's actually a movie!

-Captain America: The First Avenger: ROCK SOLID. Shoutout to Agent Carter for being cool enough for her own spinoff series

-Thor: there is nothing remotely Norse looking about any of this

-Iron Man 2: -10 points for Elon Musk, whole thing is freakishly libertarian, but I like Justin Hammer as a villain

-The Avengers: Look, you can hate on Joss Whedon all you like and probably be correct, but this was the gold standard of superhero movies for a good while and with good reason.

-Iron Man 3: Character development??? In MY bloated superhero movie franchise????

Captain America: The Winter Soldier: trying to be deeper than it is when really it's just Steve fighting hydra again

Thor: The Dark World: well, that sure was a movie.

Guardians of the Galaxy: James Gunn's skill with the needle drop rivals Quentin Tarantino. Not just in this film but in all of his actually

Avengers: Age of Ultron: oh god why is the ROBOT quipping please make the robot stop quipping. Oh look Quicksilver's dead.

Ant-Man: this would be really good if it was directed by a director instead of two million overworked VFX artists

Captain America: Civil War: Hey, y'know that actually fairly interesting character conflict we brought up about government regulation of superheroes? What if we pretended it never happened by act 3 and then completely ignored it for the rest of forever?

Was there another movie here or did I make that up?

Doctor Strange: I love it when rich assholes meet poetic justice and the costume design on this film was unmatched. Although I still think it should have been directed by Lana Wachowski with Michelle Yeoh playing the ancient one but that's just me

Guardians of the Galaxy Vol. 2: teaching your dipshit male protagonist that toxic masculinity isn't something to strive for and showing him how to be better? FUCK YEAH. Also found family in a shitty spaceship my beloved 💖

Spider-Man: Homecoming: this is the closest the MCU has come to an accurate portrayal of Peter Parker, it's only downhill from here. Wait, why is Ganke here?

Thor Ragnarok: It's all the humour of a Taika Waititi movie with none of the compassion. Man's gone on record to say he only makes Thor movies for the money so if this is the price we pay for Jojo Rabbit, Reservation Dogs, and Our Flag Means Death, I'm okay with that.

Black Panther: hey maybe having your villain and only your villain saying racism is bad isn't such a good idea

Avengers: Infinity War: HE CAST TOO BIG FOR HE GOTDAMN MOVIE. Time to strip all these characters down to their barest bones because we don't have the time to do anything more nuanced!

Ant-Man and the Wasp: My Favorite versions of these characters will always be from the 2010 animated series and these ones just don't compare

Captain Marvel: we made a feminist girl power movie! What's particularly feminist about it? Carol gets catcalled exactly once and that's about it!

Avengers Endgame: is it over? No? Oh no.

Spider-Man: Far From Home: Peter Parker is not the "next" Iron Man, he's Spider-Man. Just let him be Spider-Man. Also seriously this is the wrong spidered man for Ganke why is he here

WandaVision: I am completely ambivalent about WandaVision

FATWS: are we supposed to believe that Sam and Bucky are friends? Also didn't fans give Wyatt Russell the 'non white male actor in a star wars movie' treatment for some reason?

Black Widow: 😐

Loki: Started strong and wandered off into the wild blue yonder of selfcest

What if: HEY WHAT IF...? YOU PAID FOR SOME DECENT ANIMATORS INSTEAD OF WHATEVER NERDS WITH BLENDER YOU CAN UNDERPAY AND WORK TO DEATH YOU MULTIBILLION DOLLAR CHEAPSKATES

Shang-Chi And The Legend of the Ten Rings: A post-endgame Marvel Movie that ISN'T hot garbage!

Eternals: couldn't be arsed

Hawkeye: Just different enough from My Life As A Weapon to avoid giving credit to Matt Fraction and David Aja

Spider-Man: No Way Home: Lots of things have been adapted into movies over the years: classic novels, comics, TV shows, plays, even video games! This however, is the first time a comic-con panel has been adapted into a movie. Also, no Spider-Man anywhere ever would EVER say "I just want to kill you myself" get a grip. I think I've now made my point about stealing Miles' best friend and giving him to Peter

Moon Knight: that's not an exciting Easter egg, that's an essential part of the character that you completely cut out and grafted on to the end

Multiverse of Madness: Nothing nowhere all at once. Themes? Character development??? PLOT??? Are you INSANE???? A good movie is one that's nothing but cameos and references to OTHER, BETTER MOVIES!

Ms. Marvel: Y'know, Kamala being a shape-shifter was kind of important because, comedic irony, top text learns she doesn't need to change for others, bottom text is a shape-shifter, you know how it is

Thor: Love and Thunder: haven't seen it, don't really want to

She-Hulk: Attorney at law: please just... Stop.

Comics are very good though! Read some comics!

[onecanonlife]

Wilbur wakes up one morning to find white in his hair. This is—irritating, for several reasons, but that's all it is. An annoyance. A distraction.

There's nothing deeper at work here. There's nothing wrong at all.

(Or, the stresses of the presidency give Wilbur a white streak of hair earlier in canon, and somehow, this serves as the cry for help he can never bring himself to make.)

(word count: 11,592)

(first part) (second part) (third part)

--------------------

Part Four

He blinks awake, and he isn’t sure what he’s looking at.

A ceiling, to be sure, but it’s not the ceiling that it should be. It’s paler, more uniform, and the light illuminates it more evenly. His eyes drift across it, catching on a few hairline cracks near the wall, and he wonders, vaguely, if this is something he needs to be concerned about. This isn’t his room. He ought to be in his room, if he was sleeping.

And then, he comes to full awareness, because he is suddenly very cognizant that there are other people nearby. Breathing, clothes rustling, quietly conversing, even, and panic bursts in his chest. He sits bolt upright, casting about him for a weapon, anything he could use to defend himself, because he’s not going to let Dream’s men get the drop on him, not going to let him take down their revolution so easily—

He’s greeted by the sight of his friends, staring at him, visibly startled.

That’s right. The war is over. And he can relax, because none of them are likely to stab him in the back. Though that doesn’t mean he can let his guard down entirely, of course—not likely is not the same as impossible, after all, and he learned long ago that nothing is impossible, no loyalty guaranteed. And why are they here in the first place?

He scans the looks on their faces and simultaneously tries to figure out what they’re doing. They’ve got paperwork, it seems like. All of them. Is that his paperwork? Why are they doing his paperwork? And why are their expressions like that, varying between vaguely guilty to concerned to glad to—

His gaze lands on Niki. And just like that, he remembers.

Oh.

Oh, fuck.

Fuck, what has he done?

He can’t believe himself. Did he actually let himself have a full-on break down with her in the room? Did he actually say all of that to her? There’s no way he can take any of it back now, which means it’s out there. She knows. And with everybody else here, with Tommy and Tubbo and Fundy and even Jack Manifold sitting around on his office floor, he can assume that they know too. They know how much of a failure he is.

Maybe that’s why they’re all here, going through the work that’s meant to be his. They’ve realized that he’s incapable of doing it properly, so they’re going to appoint someone else to take care of it and gently ask him to step down. He has no doubt that they will be gentle. As kind as possible with the knife that hits his heart. He’ll fade into obscurity, a slow death, and dust will coat his bones, and in fifty years or so someone will visit him and find what remains.

That is the kind of thought that would have even Technoblade accusing him of melodrama. He doesn’t care enough to rein himself in at the moment.

“Hey, boss man,” Tubbo says, peering at him over a paper that he’s holding very close to his face. To get a good look at the words, he assumes. “You feeling any better?”

“Um,” he says, and curses his tired brain. He needs a minute. Alone, preferably, so that he can get his mind up and running properly, without anyone seeing him before he can manage as much. But they’re not about to grant him that, are they? “Uh, I’m good.” He shifts, trying to release some of his tension in a non-obvious manner, and fabric falls from his shoulders. He glances down at it; it’s his coat, meaning someone divested him of it when he was asleep and covered him with it. He’s not sure how he feels about that. It’s a nice gesture, on one hand, but on the other, he doesn’t like that they could do that without waking him up.

Niki is sitting closest to him, though everyone is kind of close, actually, now that he’s noticing it. They’ve pushed his desk to the side, too, as well as his chairs, leaving the floor wide open, and yet, they’re all clumped near him, papers spread out between all of them. But Niki smiles at him. No one else does. He wishes he could smile back. His heart refuses to calm, even though he’s recognized the people in here for friends rather than foes. The problem is that anyone could be a foe, and he might not know until it was too late. Not that he really thinks that about any of them, but—he can’t not think it, either.

And he’s too vulnerable. The space is too crowded. They’re all looking at him, watching him, and even though he’s slept, he doesn’t feel rested. Doesn’t feel awake. He’s going to slip up, and they’re all going to be here for it, and he didn’t know what to do about it when it was just Niki so how is he supposed to do damage control when it’s literally everyone—

“That’s good,” Niki says, drawing him out of his thoughts. “I’m glad.” She pauses, and he should say something, but his head’s too jumbled, and all the words jam up against each other before he can think to voice any of them. “It’s been about four hours.”

Oh. That’s good. He hasn’t lost too much time, then. Not that he would have accomplished much with it, probably, but there’s a reason why he forces himself out of bed, at least, even when that’s the last thing he wants to do.

“Right,” he says. “Good.” Fuck, the words just aren’t coming. He has to do better than this. “Can I ask why you’re all here?”

Silence falls, thick and oppressive. He feels like he’s breathing heavy fog, like it’s filling his lungs and then staying there. And they’re all still looking at him, too, at him and at each other, and they’re having some sort of silent conversation, and he hates it. He meets Fundy’s eyes for a second, and Fundy glances away, away and down, his ears almost flat against his head, and Wilbur—he’s not going to cry again. Not going to—but he wants to know why they’re here, and he wants to know whatever it is they’re not saying to him, and he doesn’t want his son to look at him with that expression on his face. Like he’s—he doesn’t even know, and when did he forget how to read Fundy? How long has it been since he really tried?

It’s Jack, of all people, who speaks up first.

“Niki said you could use some help,” he says with an easy shrug. “So we’re helping. And you seemed like you might need the rest.”

I don’t need help.

The sentence sticks in his throat. Because it’s a lie. It’s a lie, even though he’s tried so hard to make it into truth. It’s a lie, and perhaps he’s just tired of telling lies.

Though he doesn’t much like the alternative, either. Is there no way out of this?

“We don’t mind, if that’s what you’re worried about,” Tubbo tacks on. His tone is casual, but there is something knowing in it. Something slightly sharp. Tubbo is so very perceptive, even if he doesn’t always let that on, and normally, it’s a trait that he very much admires. Normally. When it’s not directed at him. “And besides, some of this is definitely stuff that I ought to be working on anyway. Since I’m in your cabinet and all. I’m not so busy with the space program that I can’t.”

Space—oh. Right. Did he approve that? He must have.

“Yeah, this is way too much for one guy,” Jack agrees. “No wonder you’ve been stressed out, man. But hey, you’ve got us. We’re paperwork champions, us.” He waves a paper cheerfully, grinning, and that’s a bit much for him at this second. There’s no malice in any of it, in anything that Jack is saying, but it’s still—too much, and he doesn’t quite know why, but his skin has started that uncomfortable buzzing again, the kind that it does when he’s feeling overwhelmed and doesn’t have an outlet.

“Not that I don’t appreciate the sentiment,” he tries, phrasing it as carefully as he can, “but that’s really not any of your responsibility.”

“Wil,” Niki says, and her voice cuts through the white noise in his head. He stiffens, and suddenly finds that eye contact is also too much. “We want to help. That’s all. And it’ll make us feel better too, if you let us.”

“We made you soup, too,” Fundy mutters suddenly, ears still pinned back. “Or, well, Niki did. Tommy messed it up the first time.”

“Oi, shut the fuck up,” Tommy says. He’s hunched over, curled in on himself, and eye contact is a thing that he seems to be avoiding as well, which is concerning. Tommy doesn’t tend to be avoidant when he’s angry.

In a way, though, it’s almost relieving to see clear signs that someone, at least, is upset with him.

“I did,” Niki agrees, “but Tommy tried his best. Actually, Tommy, it should be ready now, if you want to go and get it?”

Tommy lifts his head. His eyes are red-rimmed, and the sight makes Wilbur feels a bit like he’s been shot. Because he did that, surely? That’s his fault? It has to be.

“Fine,” Tommy bites out, and then he rises, and he’s out the door before Wilbur can think of what to say to him at all.

“He actually did try his best,” Tubbo says. “When Niki said we ought to make you some soup, he was all over it. He’s just not any good at cooking things. He gets distracted, and then things are burning or boiling over and it’s a whole mess.”

He knows all of this. He traveled with Tommy for a very long time. He was in charge of meals for multiple reasons, despite the fact he doesn’t have much of an affinity for food himself. What he makes is often edible, though, which was always more than he could say for Tommy’s attempts, Tommy who is too impatient and too prone to jumping on ideas and following where they lead, discarding the old ones when they no longer interest him. Not the best mindset to have when it comes to cooking.

And then, the implications catch up to him. Soup. He’s going to have to eat.

That’s a thing he should do, he knows. He just doesn’t know if he can. Especially not with everyone here, everyone looking at him, and his discomfort at that fact has not left him, no matter how silly a thing it is to get worked up over. He ought to be fine with the attention, ought to thrive on it. He used to. He used to, once, not even that long ago. A matter of months. He could drop a deft turn of phrase and have anyone eating out of his hand, and he liked it that way. He could charm strangers and court friends. He was in control.

That control has left him. Along with his dignity, apparently.

“You know, that’s not all that surprising,” Jack says. “Tommy doesn’t really seem like the type of person who knows how to cook things.”

“Well, he can, if he really sets himself to it,” Tubbo says. “Just not if there’s anything else on his mind.”

The implication being that there was. The implication being that it was Wilbur.

His cheeks are on fire. He’s powerless to fight back the flush.

Is this what it’s going to be, now? Are they going to keep discussing him, dancing around the topic while he’s still in the room? He wonders what they talked about while he was asleep. Whether Niki spilled everything, shared all the finest details of his break down, or whether she left them to guess. He doesn’t know which would be worse, but either way, nothing will be the same. At best, they will pity him, will lose their respect for his abilities, lose their faith in his leadership, and they will feel sorry for him. Will feel dismay at how far he’s fallen. Perhaps they won’t even say as much to his face. Perhaps it will all be in sideways glances and hushed silences when he enters a room and too-gentle voices when they speak to him, and he will lose them just as surely as if they hated him.

Perhaps it will be better if they hate him. Perhaps he would prefer that, no matter how it would burn him. Because at least it would burn him quickly, and the flames would not be disguised as an open palm.

“Wil?” Niki’s voice is soft, but it brings him back to the present effectively enough. “Really, are you feeling any better?”

“I’m feeling fine,” he says, almost on instinct, even though he knows very well that he’s not going to be able to slide that past her. Not now. Not after their—

But should he be trying to? After what she said to him?

But he can’t believe her. He can’t. No matter how much some part of him wants to, no matter how much there is something in his brain and in his chest and in his bones that wants nothing more than to break down again, to let them all see the truth of him. Wants to let them take care of him, if they would.

But they shouldn’t have to. Even if they would, they shouldn’t have to.

And he doesn’t want them to pity him.

“Are you?” Niki asks, holding his gaze. He can feel the flush deepening.

“No shame in not,” Jack pipes up, still infuriatingly casual. “If you’re feeling sort of shit, you can tell us that, you know?”

“I’d say it’s encouraged, actually,” Tubbo adds on.

“I’m not feeling sort of shit,” he says, and—fuck. He has to look down. He can’t stand Niki staring at him like that. He’s lying, and she knows, and he knows she knows, but he just—earlier was a fluke. He can’t—he can’t repeat it. Can’t let himself—

So why the fuck is it so tempting to just give in? Is it that he knows he’s already doomed?

“Okay,” Jack says slowly, and even he sounds a bit doubtful, “but you know, hypothetically, if you weren’t? That would hypothetically be fine, and we’d hypothetically be there for you. If you wanted to hypothetically talk to us. Get some things off your chest, as it were. Because we’re your friends.”

He opens his mouth. And closes it again.

And then, the door swings open. Tommy’s standing there, a large bowl in his hands.

“Soup,” he announces, curt and short. He’s angry. And still angry when he looks at Wilbur, for the first time since—all of this. His blue eyes are stormy, and if Wilbur had just a little less presence of mind, he might find himself shrinking back. Which would be ridiculous. He’s not afraid of Tommy.

Just of his judgment.

He blinks, and the soup is being thrust into his hands, along with a spoon. The bowl is hot, but it’s easy to handle, and he takes it before any of it can slosh over the sides. It’s mostly broth, it looks like, with a few chunks of meat. It smells nice. Fairly appetizing.

His stomach growls.

“Thanks, Tommy,” he murmurs. “And Niki, thank you.” He stirs it a couple times, trying to work up the nerve to bring the spoon to his mouth. It shouldn’t be that hard, but—he’s back to the people thing, again. Eyes on him. And it’s Fundy’s, maybe, that are most unnerving, because Fundy’s barely said anything to him at all. He doesn’t know what he’s thinking. Can’t read him whatsoever, and that in itself is upsetting.

But perhaps it’s just as well that he waits a moment, because then, Tommy speaks up.

“Why the fuck didn’t you say something?” he demands, and once again, the room falls very silent. No one moves.

His mind blanks, unravels, almost, at the accusatory note in Tommy’s voice.

“Tommy—” Niki ventures, but Tommy shakes his head.

“No,” he snaps. “I want him to say. He’s been in here, fucking, fucking starving himself apparently, because he’s been so fucking stressed, and he hasn’t said anything about it. In fact, he’s been fucking lying about it, and I want some fucking—some fucking answers, alright? Why didn’t he tell any of us what was going on?”

No words form. He doesn’t have an answer. Not when it’s Tommy asking him these things.

His chest feels hot.

No. No, not now, not again, you’re not doing this.

“Tommy,” Niki says, “I think it’s a little more complicated than that—”

“Fuck complicated,” Tommy says. “He could’ve been dying and we wouldn’t have known.”

Tommy’s voice breaks.

And it is probably a bad thing, that Wilbur’s first thought is, I think that I was.

He has enough good sense to not say that aloud, at least.

“I was hardly about to burden you with my problems,” he says, barely above a whisper. He can’t get his volume to increase any more than that. Not in the face of Tommy’s anger. Which is odd, because usually he’s quite good at combating Tommy’s stubbornness. “Especially when I ought to be able to handle them myself.”

“Well, fuck you too, then,” Tommy says, and—it is an effort not to flinch at that, to stop himself from spiraling, to prevent tears from springing to his eyes again. He can’t be that sensitive. He can’t. But then, Tommy continues, and he thinks that all his efforts might be for naught anyway. “No, really, fuck you, man. You’re not fucking—burdening us, what the shit are you on about? Are you just stupid?”

“Not that I’d phrase it that way,” Tubbo joins in, “but Tommy’s got a point, boss man. Why’d you think you couldn’t come to us with this stuff? You have to know we’re happy to help you, right?”

It’s that same question again. He can’t go through it. He can’t explain the self-loathing, the mask he wears, the front he puts up. He can’t go through it, because he doesn’t want to see the dawning realizations on their faces. He doesn’t want them to understand him, not like that, because he understands himself. He understands himself, and he hates himself for it, and he doesn’t want them to hate him as well.

But Niki doesn’t hate him. Niki heard everything that came out of his mouth, and she doesn’t hate him.

But that’s not—

He feels so fucking lost. And he hates that, too.

“I think,” Niki says suddenly, “that Wilbur’s been dealing with some things lately. And that maybe he didn’t want anybody to know about it because he’s supposed to be the leader, so that means he’s supposed to be strong all the time, and maybe that means he’s not supposed to ask for help. And that maybe he thinks we’d think less of him if he did need help.”

He stares at her.

That’s the crux of a lot of it. And she’s just laid it out. It’s in the open, now, and he didn’t have to say anything at all. He’s not sure whether to feel grateful or upset about it.

She stares back. “You don’t have to say anything,” she says. “I know it’s difficult for you. But am I right, Wil?”

It is difficult for him. That’s part of the whole problem. If it is a problem. He didn’t think that is was, thought that it was a strength, in fact, the only thing keeping him above water, the fraying stitches that maintain the facade that he so desperately needs to keep up. But if Niki is to be believed, he should have said something a long time ago. Because his leadership capabilities and his formation of this country aren’t why his friends stick with him. Apparently.

He still doesn’t know if he can believe that.

But perhaps he doesn’t have to believe it yet. Perhaps he needs to take a chance.

Slowly, he nods, and he keeps looking at her, not at anyone else, because he doesn’t want to see anyone else’s reactions, but he does see the relief in her eyes at the motion, at the admission. At the capitulation—because that’s what this is, isn’t it? It’s him giving in, accepting that there is nowhere else to hide.

“Oh,” Tommy says, and he thinks that someone else makes a noise, but he can’t tell who. “Well, that’s just some bullshit, then, innit? Everyone needs help sometimes, don’t they? Except for me, because I’m so poggers, but everyone can’t be me, you know, and there’s no shame in that. And maybe, you know, just maybe I ask for help sometimes too, just to make it fair to everyone else. But you know, asking for help, it doesn’t make you any less, um, good, and if you need help you should ask for it, I think. That’s my opinion.”

Oh fuck. He’s not going to cry. That shouldn’t even be hitting him like it is, because Tommy’s his kid brother and he’s supposed to be looking after him, not the other way around, but—

Fuck. He’s tearing up. He doesn’t want them to see him crying. But his mind’s a mess.

“I know it’s hard,” Niki says, and she scoots a little closer. “But we can start with little things, okay? And we’re here for you.” Her eyes take on a certain amount of hardness, a glint that’s just a bit like steel. “And we’re going to continue being here for you.” She reaches out, then, puts a hand on his arm, and the only reason he doesn’t flinch away and spill soup all over himself is because she choreographs the motion. “How about you eat your soup?”

He finds his voice at last.

“Okay,” he says, small and broken. They can hear it, he’s sure. But they don’t leave.

He eats the soup. It’s good.

He can only get about half of it down before he feels too full to continue, but it’s something like a start.

----

They’re true to their word, all of them.

He’s not alone nearly so often these days. It’s almost frustrating, because they’re hovering. He’s well aware of that fact. Even when he wants to isolate himself, he finds that he can’t do it, that it’s not fifteen minutes before someone comes barging in, either to take him out somewhere or to stay in with him, to work on policies or just to share stories or show him a new build or a thousand other things. His office sees more traffic in the next few weeks than it has in the past few months.

But what they don’t do, he’s starting to realize, is pity him.

He doesn’t understand it at first. But they never comment on the fact that he can’t do what he ought to be able to do, and they never hint that they find him incapable, and they don’t subtly try to say that he’s unfit for the job, even though all of these things are true and wrapped up in each other. They’re just—there. For him. Supporting him.

It’s a little bewildering. He tries not to express as much, because whenever he lets something like that slip, they look angry, if they’re Tommy, and sad if they’re anyone else. Which he doesn’t want. But it truly is as if they care about him as a person and not just what he can do for them, which is a mindset he’s never been able to hold when it comes to himself, and frankly, he’s not sure whether he can trust it at all, because he’s still not good at that. Still not good at trust. He’s not sure whether he ever will be again.

But they stay with him, and they help him, and from everything he can tell, it’s not because they pity him. It’s because they care.

Terrifying. And there have to be limits to that, surely? To even the most genuine compassion?

But he hasn’t found them yet.

The first time he thinks that perhaps there are none at all comes on what he’s taken to calling one of his grey mornings, where all the world appears lifeless, colorless, and there doesn’t seem to be a point to getting out of bed, and even if he wanted to, his limbs drag heavily, as if weighted down by anchors, and his mind refuses to emerge from the persistent fog that takes it.

Usually, on these mornings, he manages to be up and about by midday at the latest, if only because his anxiety about the tasks he needs to accomplish eventually overrides the haze, and no one is ever the wiser for it.

Today, Tommy comes barging into his private quarters at about ten in the morning.

“Wilbur!” Tommy says, loud as anything, drawing out his name in the way that he does when he wants something. He wants to press his pillow over his ears so he doesn’t have to listen, because it’s grating, the sudden noise. But he doesn’t have the energy for it, so he just lies there, in bed, covers pulled over him, watching Tommy through slit eyes as he steps into the room. “Wilbur, you’ve got to come and tell Tubbo—why’s your room so shit?”

He’s fairly certain that’s a change in subject, and not what he’s supposed to come tell Tubbo.

“No, really,” Tommy says. “There’s like, nothing in here. What the hell?”

He needs to respond to that, so he sighs.

“Haven’t gotten around to it yet,” he mutters, and even just saying that much takes far too much effort. “Just—go do something, I’ll be up in a bit.”

And he will be. He always is. But Tommy doesn’t leave, stands there frowning at him, and it’s enough to make him feel self-conscious. Not as much as it would have a few weeks ago, perhaps, but still, he doesn’t like that Tommy’s seeing him like this, all slumped over and still in bed like a sad, messy sack of potatoes.

“Rough morning then, eh?” Tommy says, and—really, there’s no point in denying it.

“I’ll be over it in a bit,” he repeats, though it’s a chore, though he’s dreading the moment he steps out of bed, because the thing about days like these is that the haze doesn’t actually leave him. He just eventually uses his neuroticism to force himself to work through it, which makes for a gut-churning combination of nerves and apathy, both rolling through him at once. It’s unpleasant, and his brain never seems to work properly. Everything that’s supposed to be important dissolves, slips from his grasp, and he can’t even manage to care properly about it, and then he gets anxious about the fact that he can’t care properly about it, and then it turns into a cycle, all of his negative energy feeding itself. And he’s powerless to make it stop.

“Okay, but if I leave, you’re just going to be in here, all sad and shit,” Tommy says. “So how about I stay here, and I tell you about the crimes that Tubbo has committed against me, and then when you’re feeling a bit better, because everyone feels better after talking to me—when you’re feeling a bit better you can get up and we can go out together, yeah?”

He’s not sure how he feels about that. But he can hardly stop Tommy at the moment, since it seems he’s already made up his mind, and Tommy’s already looking around for a chair; the only one in the room is the one at his desk, so Tommy pulls that over to the bed, making a horrid, obnoxious scraping noise against the floor. And then, he seats himself, settling down like he’s not inclined to go anywhere anytime soon. And he talks.

The thing is, it sort of works.

The way Tommy’s speaking, it’s like he doesn’t have any kind of expectations. Wilbur doesn’t need to answer, just to listen. So he does, and he lets himself drift a little bit, and it’s difficult to believe that Tommy’s not judging him for it, or for any of this, but Tommy’s not the sort of kid who hides what he’s feeling, and he can’t detect any frustration or derision in the way he’s talking. It’s like he’s content enough to just talk, to be there, even though Wilbur’s hardly making it fun for him, is hardly being an engaging conversation partner. It’s like he just wants Wilbur to feel better, without any ulterior motive at all, so he’s here doing what he thinks will accomplish that.

And Wilbur does start to feel better.

Not all the way. Not by a long shot. But eventually, he finds himself able to reply, and the words come a bit easier and thinking feels a bit less like wading through mud, and it starts to be an actual conversation rather than just Tommy jabbering at him. And after that, he manages to swing himself out of bed and get dressed, and Tommy pushes breakfast on him that he manages to eat most of, and just like that, he’s up and about his day. Not at a hundred percent, not firing on all cylinders, but more than usual, on a grey day like today.

And it’s because of Tommy. Because he was here. Because he came, and he stayed, and he thinks that perhaps, what Tubbo did or did not do was never the point of this at all.

When he asks Tommy about it, a little circumspectly, Tommy stares at him like he’s grown a second head.

“What do you mean, why?” he asks. “Why wouldn’t I? You were feeling shitty, weren’t you? So I wanted to make you feel alright again.”

It’s stated so simply. As if that really is all there is to it.

And perhaps that’s the truth.

“You make things way too complicated,” Tommy tacks on, matter-of-factly. “I dunno why you do that. You ought to stop it, I reckon.”

That wrings a laugh from him, and if it’s a bit wet, Tommy doesn’t comment on it.

“Maybe I should,” he says, and Tommy nods, satisfied.

“Of course you should,” he says. “I am always so incredibly correct. You should listen to me all the time.”

“Don’t push your luck,” he returns, and it feels, just a little bit, like the way things used to be.

----

The white hair still bothers him. His reflection as a whole still bothers him, but the white hair most of all. It’s broad and obvious and an irritating reminder of what everyone keeps insisting isn’t weakness, but rather a sign that he’s pushed himself beyond the point of what’s healthy. Which matters. Evidently.

He still doesn’t like looking at it. It makes him feel—lesser, in a way, though he’s no longer sure that makes any sense at all.

So he still does his best to hide it, even though there’s not much point anymore, even though everyone’s seen it and everyone knows exactly what it means. He tries to hide it, and he avoids looking in the mirror when he can, and he pretends he doesn’t see the way people frown at him, sometimes, whenever he refuses to do something like take off his coat or hat in one of the more casual settings they’ve taken to luring him out to.

And then, Fundy shows up at his door with a bucket and a pair of fishing rods.

“Do you want to go fishing with me,” he blurts out, all in one breath, and Wilbur blinks, because he hadn’t expected this at all. He’s come to expect something, most days, has come to expect someone arriving either to interrupt the monotony of his work or to help him with it, but Fundy doesn’t make appearances often. And never by himself. Frankly, Wilbur had come to the conclusion long ago that he’d messed up somewhere along the line, done something that forced his son to desire a separation from him. That his little champion has resolved that he’d rather not have much to do with his father.

“Fishing?” he asks.

He’d promised, a long time ago, that he’d teach his son how to fish one day. That day never arrived. He’d thought that Fundy didn’t want to anymore.

“Yeah.” Fundy shifts his weight back and forth between his feet. “Um, it was just an idea. But I thought that maybe? You’d want to? If you, um, if you have some time for it. It’s okay if you don’t.”

It’s on the tip of his tongue to say no. But he’s done that so many times, has denied his son again and again. Not just his son, but everyone, and now they’re all determined to make him see, apparently, that focusing on his work in the way he has been is not only unhealthy, but not necessary. He still doesn’t know that he believes that.

“Alright,” he says softly, and stands, and his heart breaks a little at the surprise that comes across Fundy’s face.

“Really?” he asks. “You want to?”

“I do,” he says. And he does, even if a bout of nerves rises up in him at the prospect. He does his best to quash them.

So they do. They go down to the docks. They get situated, and Wilbur shows his son how to put the bait on a hook, and how to cast his line out, and how to be patient, and they fish, and it’s a bit awkward. A bit stilted. There’s too many unspoken words between them, and one big subject that neither of them knows how to breach, especially not in this circumstance, and part of Wilbur doubts that they ever will.

But they’re both here. And he doesn’t want this to be their future. And he’s decided to try not to isolate himself like he was, so if something’s going to change, it really is up to him, so he takes a deep breath.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been there for you,” he says, and stares out at the way their bobbers float next to each other in the gentle surf.

“It’s okay,” Fundy says. “Or, well, I mean. I kind of thought that you were disappointed in me or something, so that kind of didn’t feel okay, but I’m glad you’re not.”

He jerks at the confession, which sounds pained, as though he doesn’t really want to be saying it.

“Why would I ever be disappointed in you?” he asks.

“Well, it’s—” Fundy says. “I dunno, you just never let me do anything, and then you kind of stopped spending time with me at all, so I sort of figured that maybe you thought I couldn’t do anything.”

His mouth is dry. His line is slack, which is just as well; if a fish came along now, he might let it tug his rod right from his fingers.

“I’m not disappointed in you,” he says. “I never—I never could be, Fundy, I promise. I—I thought you were disappointed in me, to be entirely honest.”

Fundy’s head snaps toward him, his eyes wide.

It is a struggle to continue. Confessions like this are not his forte, even now. But he’s trying to be more open. Trying not to lock himself away. Trying to reach out for the hands that have been offered to him, trying to believe that they will help him stand, will not abandon him to his own shoddy balance as soon as it becomes apparent that he’s made up of more trouble than worth.

And Fundy deserves this.

“I’m sorry that I made you feel that way,” he says, and that is difficult, too. Saying sorry outright like that. But he needs to. “Truly. I just figured—I mean, I know I’m not exactly the best parent. And especially lately, it’s been—”

He trails off, not sure where he’s going with this. If it were a few weeks ago, he’d be apologizing for his weakness as well, for his inability to remain strong under the pressure, but everyone around him keeps insisting that that’s not the right way to look at it, and he’s growing more and more open to letting himself be convinced.

“You’re—” Fundy starts, and then falters. His tail drags back and forth, and then stills. “Oh. Um. Okay, I probably should’ve—um.” His ears flick, and he glances away. “I’m sorry too, then. For avoiding you lately. I know, um, that’s what I’ve been doing. I didn’t realize that it—it wasn’t because I thought that you were, that you were disappointing or anything, I just didn’t—I didn’t really know how to react. Because I sort of always thought you were invincible, and now all of a sudden you’re not.”

Something in him wilts.

“I’m sorry,” he says again.

“No! Um, no, that’s not what I—you don’t have to be invincible, it’s just that I sort of needed to, to adjust to that. Because of course, no one’s invincible, right? But you’re just—you’re my dad, so I guess I always just thought that nothing could hurt you. So I wasn’t—I wasn’t really sure what I should do. Or how I should help. Or if you even wanted me to help. But I didn’t mean to—I mean, maybe I was a little upset with you but not like—it wasn’t like, for a—I don’t know. I don’t know how to explain it. I guess I was upset because I was worried.” Fundy looks back at him. “‘Cause, you know. I love you and everything.”

Oh.

He’s not quite sure what to do with all of that, but the last sentence gets caught in his chest and sticks there, warmth unfurling.

All’s not lost. His son still loves him.

“I love you too,” he says, slightly hoarse. “Always.”

He can believe this. Sitting here, listening to the lap of the waves, he can believe this, can believe that his son loves him, that no matter his mistakes, his son still cares, that his son won’t leave him. Maybe he’ll forget later, but he can be reminded. And in turn, he hopes that Fundy believes him. Because there are so many words unspoken between them, but now, there are a few less.

They keep fishing. Far longer than he thought he’d allow himself, but he finds it easier than it has been, to push his duties from his mind. And at some point, he rolls up his sleeves, and then loses the coat entirely, and the hat lands on top of it, and he’s letting his hair free, and other than a few glances, Fundy doesn’t mention it at all.

And when he catches a glimpse of himself in the water, too-thin face and too-dark eyebags and a white streak of hair that’s almost skunk-like in its prominence, he doesn’t care much for it, but he doesn’t recoil. Doesn’t feel the need to hide away, or to put on the layers again, to cover up behind the mask of professionalism.

For a moment, he can just be a man fishing with his son, and all the rest is less important.

----

“There is,” Jack Manifold says, and swallows, “a man.”

Not what he expected Jack to say when he burst in like that, but alright.

“What man?” he asks. He puts down the paper he’d been reading, and decides it goes into the ‘to-delegate-to-Tubbo’ pile. That’s a new system he’s been using. Delegation. He’s not quite comfortable with it yet, but it makes everyone else happier, so he’s doing his best to actually give it a try.

“A man,” Jack says, very helpfully. “He’s at the gates. We told him to wait to come in, and he’s doing that, but um. Wow. He’s got some vibes. Dunno how to describe them, except to be honest, he’s a bit intimidating. And he wants to see you.”

That can’t possibly bode well.

“Alright,” he says, standing and grabbing his coat. Freshly washed. He’s getting better about that. He’s had a bit more energy, lately. “Show me.”

Jack takes him down to the front entrance. He keeps pace with him, matching him stride for stride, but it’s not until they’re almost there that Jack tacks on, almost an afterthought, “Oh, yeah, plus he had wings. That’s not really a usual thing.” And his heart leaps straight into his throat.

“He what,” he says, but by then it’s too late, because there’s the entrance to his nation, and standing there, talking amicably with Tubbo, is Phil.

He looks unchanged from the last time he saw him. Even though that was—well. Not actually years ago. He’s seen him in the meantime for a couple of tournaments and the like, but he’s thinking of the day he left home. The day he decided that the world was too vast, too big to leave unexplored and unconquered, the day he decided to go in pursuit of that nebulous more that he always seemed to want, but could never put a name to. The day he slung his guitar across his back and a coat over his shoulders and gave his father one last hug goodbye and promised to write, and only looked back once to the house, to where Phil stood on the porch, smiling and waving him off, proud of him.

He looks unchanged. Same robes, same sandals. Same dumb bucket hat. Same wings arching behind him, feathers black as the void that granted them to him.

“Oh,” Jack says. “Does Tubbo know him?”

He swallows.

Why is Phil here?

“Yeah, they’ve met,” he says. “He’s—not anyone you need to be worried about.”

Probably. Almost definitely. Especially if Technoblade’s not with him, since he’s heard Technoblade has a bit of a mind toward anarchy these days, so he’s not sure how well that next meeting is going to go. But there’s no sign of his father’s best friend, only his father, whose head swivels toward him on his approach, and it’s too late to turn back now. Not that he would. This isn’t something he can run away from.

“Wilbur!” Tubbo says, as soon as he’s close enough. “You didn’t say Phil was coming.”

“I wasn’t aware Phil was coming,” he says, and tries for a smile. Phil meets his eyes, and he returns it, but there is something else there. Something more complicated than a simple reunion ought to warrant. “Phil didn’t write ahead. Though that’s not to say he isn’t welcome, but I probably would’ve done a bit of tidying up first.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” Phil says. “I don’t mean to drop by unannounced. But any letter I sent probably wouldn’t have gotten here much before I did.”

That is—concerning. What’s so pressing that he couldn’t have waited?

“We should probably let you guys catch up, huh?” Tubbo says, and then nudges Jack. “C’mon, we’ve got to go do a thing.”

“We do?”

“Yep.” And then, Tubbo’s got Jack by the arm, and both of them are walking away, Jack considerably more confused than Tubbo, and then they’re gone. And he’s left with Phil.

Should this feel as awkward as it does? There’s no reason for this tension. Not that he knows of.

“Hi,” he says. “Been a while.”

“Hi, mate,” Phil says, voice soft, expression soft. Is there a reason for the softness, more than just seeing each other again for the first time in—a while?

“Well, welcome to L’Manberg,” he says. “I mean it, you were welcome anytime. I’d love to show you what I’ve made here. What we’ve made here.” He pauses. He can’t not ask. Letting something like that slip by him isn’t in his nature. “Though, is there anything I should know about? Don’t take this the wrong way, because I am glad to see you, but I really wasn’t expecting you.” He finishes with a laugh, short and perhaps a bit nervous, and the corners of Phil’s eyes crinkle. His expression isn’t happy, though, not really.

“I got your letter,” Phil says, still soft, and Wilbur goes to ask for clarification, because he hasn’t sent a letter asking him to come. Except the next words make him freeze. “Both of them, actually.”

Phil dips a hand into a pocket in his robes, and it comes out holding two sheets of paper. Both written in his handwriting. One neat, clean. The other with lines and sentences scratched out, and then the rest of it rushed, an outpouring of emotion, something that he never, ever intended to send. And he wouldn’t have—he wouldn’t have made such a stupid mistake, would he have? Except he was so tired, and Tubbo came in and interrupted him, and couldn’t it be plausible that he’d just—scooped up both drafts, when he only meant to send the one? That he tucked both into the envelope, sent both flying off, sent them both into Phil’s hands, one a clear contradiction of the sweet lies of the other?

He’s gone numb.

“Oh,” he says weakly.

What did he write? He can’t even remember now. It was a flight of passion, a bit of self indulgence that he hoped would relieve some of the stress. It didn’t, of course. And he didn’t consider the idea that there would be consequences for it, that it would ever see the light of day. He never intended it to.

Something about being a disappointment. About failing everyone. About being hated. Something about the Final Control Room, too, which was something he never wanted Phil to learn about.

“Um,” he says.

“I figured you didn’t mean to send it,” Phil says. “But I—I could hardly not come, after reading that.”

He sounds a little bit lost. Like he doesn’t quite know what to do in this situation either. That makes two of them.

He can’t explain this away. Even if he’s been a bit better lately, even if he’s gotten a bit better at leaning on others, at asking for help, and even if he no longer quite believes that his friends will abandon him as soon as he proves to be of little use—because if they were going to do that, they would have already, surely—even with all of that, he’s still not well. In a better state of mind than he was when he penned that, but still not well. And now Phil knows, and he’s here, and he’s going to know all the rest, and whenever he thinks he’s mastered himself, has himself under control, the universe comes and spits in his face, doesn’t it?

Niki was one thing. And then all the rest of his friends, his little brother, even, that was another, but he’s been getting accustomed to it. Has been trying to trust, even though it’s so very difficult.

But Phil. He never wanted Phil to know. Not any of it.

“Right,” he says. “Um. I was—not in a very good headspace when I wrote that. I’ll admit it. But it’s not—I mean, I am okay. You don’t need to worry.”

The words taste stale before they even leave his mouth. Phil won’t believe them; he doesn’t believe them himself. No one has believed them for quite some time, and perhaps it’s better that they don’t. Hadn’t he said that he was tired of lying?

But this is Phil.

“Wilbur,” Phil says, and he almost cringes, “would it be okay if I hugged you?”

And—that is not what he was expecting.

He’s nodding before he can really consider it. A few scant weeks ago, he would have denied the request, citing something about professionalism and maintaining appearances and no longer being a child. And that urge is still there, still present to some degree. But it is overwhelmed by the realization that it has been a long time since he was hugged by his father, and whenever Phil hugs him, he always feels safe and warm and protected, and he wants that, and if everyone around him is to be believed, it’s alright for him to want that.

So Phil steps forward, and he steps forward to meet him, and he’s not sure when he got to being so much taller than Phil, but even despite that, it feels just like he remembers, arms and wings folding around him and tugging him close. He sags against him almost instantly, and Phil holds him up with little effort.

And suddenly, there’s tears in his eyes. He’s starting to make this a habit.

“I’ve been really worried,” Phil murmurs. “Wil—why didn’t you tell me? Any of this?”

“I didn’t,” he starts, and almost chokes on his own breath, “I didn’t want—”

Ah. There go the tears. He’s less ashamed of them than he would have been, not long ago, though he still doesn’t like that this is happening. Still doesn’t like that Phil’s privy to this, now, too.

Phil hushes him, rubbing circles into his back. They must be a sight, L’Manberg’s president crying into the shoulder of the Angel of Death.

“I didn’t want to disappoint you,” he finally chokes out. “I’m sorry I lied. I just didn’t want you to be disappointed.”

“Oh, Wilbur,” Phil says, his voice something like grief and something like sorrow, “you could never disappoint me.”

“I could,” he insists. “I’m very disappointing.”

“You’re not,” Phil says. “You’re not. And even if you could be, I would never, ever be disappointed in you for how you feel, or for needing help.”

Ah. Well.

That seems rather in line with the sentiments that everyone else has been expressing, of late. And there’s something in his brain that won’t let him be persuaded, not entirely, as much as he’s been trying to work past it. There’s something in his brain that insists that he is a disappointment, that he should be better at handling himself, that anyone saying otherwise is lying, trying to placate him, because if he cannot accomplish anything worthy of attention or praise then he is not worthy himself.

But Phil is not lying to him. Phil is hugging him, and in his voice, there is nothing but sincerity. And pain, perhaps. Pain born of fear, of worry. For him.

He doesn’t have a response. Not a verbal one. But he holds Phil tighter, and Phil does the same, and for a while, they just stand there, and true safety is not a thing that exists, but if it did, he imagines it would feel a little like this.

----

He uncovers the mirror.

It’s a whim, not something thought out. He barely thinks about it at all before he’s doing it, whipping the sheet off and peering at himself.

The man staring back is a stranger, in more ways than one, and yet, he is utterly familiar. There are the bags, still deep and dark. There is the thinness of his wrist, the prominence of his cheekbones, the blood shot through his eyes. And there is the hair, creeping out from under the hat. Curly, a bit longer than he usually keeps it, and streaked with white in multiple places, the most obvious of which is a broad chunk right in front.

He breathes. In and out.

He still hates it. He doubts he’ll stop any time soon. It marks him as different, as other. Gives people something to stare at whenever it’s out in the open, though his friends have stopped doing it as much. He thinks they’ve realized that it well and truly bothers him.

But at the same time—

The bags are still dark, but less so. His frame is still lean, lanky, a bit underfed, but it’s no longer so bad, no longer as bad as it was. He’s not sure he understood how bad it was, at the time, but he’s eating more regularly now, and it’s obviously made a difference. His uniform is neat, and he feels no compulsion to straighten it up further, to get rid of all the creases, to stand with a soldier’s perfect posture. There is something to be said about professionalism, of course, but the need to be perfect all the time has faded. Not disappeared, but lessened.

And the white is still present, still a sign of what happened to him. Of the conditions he placed himself under. He doesn’t like it.

But he’s not ashamed. At least, not as much as he was.

He runs his hand through his hair. Puts his hat on his head, and lets his curls hang freely underneath it, doesn’t try to shove them up under the covering.

He doesn’t love it. He’s not there yet. He doesn’t know how to love himself. Doesn’t know how to convince himself that he deserves to.

But it doesn’t look bad.

He breathes. In and out.

“Alright,” he says, and the man in the mirror mouths the words in time with him. “You’re alright.”

It’s not quite the truth, but for the first time in a long time, it’s not quite a lie, either.

----

His feet carry him to Niki’s once again.

There’s no one else there but her. Her and the warmth of the ovens, the crackle of furnaces, the bits of flour always floating on the air. He slides into his usual seat, propping his head up on his hands and just watching her for a minute, not saying anything. The prominent scent is that of baking bread, but she’s setting ingredients out for cookies. He recognizes them, recognizes the combination of flour and eggs and sugar, and chocolate chips set off to the side. She’s washing her hands, and then, she turns, and she sees him.

She smiles.

He smiles back.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hello,” she answers. She turns back to the sink and washes her hands, and then goes back to her ingredients. It’s familiar. He’s watched this so many times. She mixes the dry ingredients, and then starts adding the wet, stirring until it all solidifies into dough, adding in the chocolate chips. She’s making them the way he knows most of the kids like them best, almost more chocolate than cookie, barely holding themselves together when they’re fresh out of the oven.

He pillows his head on his arms. Lets his hat slide to the side. He’s aware of it, but he doesn’t pick it back up.

It’s so warm in here.

It’s not long before she has mounds of dough on baking sheets. Her movements are practiced, steady and sure. To his eyes, it’s almost like magic, the way it all comes together.

He’s tempted to ask for a bit of the dough. But if he does that, she’ll smack him on the head with her spoon and warn him about the dangers of eating raw eggs, an exasperated smile twitching at the corners of her mouth. And he’ll sigh and go along with it, no matter how tempting the morsel might be. Unless he sees an opportunity to sneak some, but she catches him more often than not.

So he doesn’t ask. Just watches. It’s warm, and he feels tired, but it’s not a bad kind of tired. Not a bone-deep weariness. Not the kind that makes him want to sleep and never wake up again—and that, that is something he has not quite confronted yet, that sentiment, that desire. He ought to. He has more clarity now, and he knows himself, and he knows he ought to. But not now.

He’s tired, but it’s the sort of tired that pushes him toward a nap, comfortable and safe, and that startles him for a moment, the fact that he feels safe here, with no qualifications placed on the idea at all.

He’s not in a talking sort of mood. So it surprises him when, after she’s finished putting the pans in the oven, Niki turns to him and asks, “Do you want to help with the next batch?”

He blinks.

“I thought I’d make some sugar cookies next,” she says, and then holds out her hand. “Come and help me.”

He stands, slowly, and ventures around behind the counter to where she’s standing. He takes her hand after only a moment’s hesitation, and is rewarded with another smile, one that he can’t help but return, if haltingly.

“You do know what a mess I am in the kitchen, right?” he checks.

“You are a disaster,” she agrees. “But you’ve been in here enough that you know what to do, don’t you? You can at least follow my directions.”

“I suppose,” he says, and Niki takes that as all the affirmation she needs, because in the next second, she’s stepping away from him and into a back room, and then returns in the next instant with an apron. Plain white, and definitely far too short for him, and she shoves it at him with an expression that tells him she clearly knows that it will make him look at least slightly ridiculous.

He sighs and puts it on. It barely reaches his mid-thigh.

“It suits you,” Niki says, with a determined nod. “Now, come here.”

She walks back over to the counter, clearing off all the bowls and measuring cups that she’d used for the chocolate chip cookies and pulling out new ones. She seems to have an endless supply. And then she looks at him, expectantly, so he comes over, hovering by her as she goes to get the actual ingredients. All familiar. All things he’s seen her use before, countless times. Perhaps this won’t go so badly; he could probably even get the measurements right himself, if he tried.

Niki sets a big bag of flour on the counter with a thump.

“Measure that out for me?” she says. “We’ve multiplying everything by four.”

Alright. He—thinks he knows what that means. So he takes a few measuring cups, scoots them closer to him, and begins pouring the flour, giving Niki sideways glances so as to pick up on whether he’s doing it right or not. She doesn’t stop him, but his distraction means that the flour starts kicking up in the air in earnest, and he coughs, waving a hand in front of his face. When it clears, she’s looking at him in amusement, and he shrugs, holding out one of the cups toward her.

It goes on like that. She directs him, and he does what she tells him to do, and if he gets it wrong, she corrects him, and if he gets it right, she thanks him. They stay quiet, for the most part, little conversation passing between them, but it’s not an uncomfortable lack. There’s no tension in the air, no pressure to perform. He feels as though his words have run dry again, melted away from him in the close warmth of the bakery, but for once, he doesn’t mind. He feels, for the most part, at ease.

What a novel concept.

It’s not too long before they’ve got dough, and plenty of it. Niki moves them to another counter, spreading flour out across a couple of thin boards before sliding one in front of him, and scooping some dough on top of it. She holds the rolling pin out in front of him a moment later, and he takes it. It’s fairly self-explanatory, what he’s meant to do now.

He rolls out the dough. Beside him, Niki does the same.

“We’d freeze it first, if we wanted it to hold its shape better,” she murmurs. “But I think we’ll keep these simple.”

He hums. The motion is repetitive, almost soothing, though it takes a moment to figure out how much pressure he should be applying. It takes some, but not too much. And yet, it’s simple, leaving his mind free to drift, and for the first time in a while, those drifting thoughts don’t land anywhere too dark.

“Here, that’s thin enough,” Niki says, putting a hand on his arm, and he stops. “You don’t want it to be too thin, and you don’t want to have to roll it out again. It’s never good to overwork the dough.”

“Right,” he says, and watches as she fishes around for some cookie cutters. True to her word, they’re simple, just various sizes of circles. She pushes some toward him, and he takes one, pressing it into his dough and coming up with a perfect circle. He then pauses, watching her to see how she gets hers out of the cutter; she pushes it gently with one finger, so he does the same, and it lands on one of the cookie sheets with a light thwap.

He finds a rhythm after that. And there’s something nice in the simplicity of the design. Just circles.

But after a few minutes, Niki breaks the silence.

“I’m glad you’re doing better,” she says. “It was—scary. The way you were.”

He has to chew on that for a moment. It’s still a bit odd to be thinking of it that way. He spent so long being so determined that he was doing the right thing—and not only the right thing, but the only thing, the only option available to him. Keep his head high, his face pleasant, and only let out his despair when there was no one else around to see or hear. So it’s still foreign, just slightly, to wrap his head around the fact that other people cared that he was doing that. And not because it affected his ability to fulfill his duty, but because they cared for him. Care. Present tense.

Because they’re still here. Are still with him, despite how sure he was that admitting his weakness would drive them away. That, if nothing else, is the most convincing evidence of all as to the veracity of their words.

“I think I understand that now,” he says, and cuts out another cookie. “I’m glad too.”

He’s sleeping more often. Eating more frequently. And the storm of his mind, while not gone, has calmed. It’s easier to hold his ground against the wind that batters him, and easier to recognize it for wind at all.

It’s easier to reach out for a hand to help ground him.

“I think,” he starts, almost on impulse, and then stops. How much of this is fair to say? The importance of sharing his emotions has been impressed upon him, but he doesn’t want to give anyone else a burden. Doesn’t want to—but that’s not thinking about it the right way, is it? He glances at Niki, checks to see if she is willing to listen, and she nods at him, encouragingly. That’s all he needs. She wants to hear him, wants him to speak. The only person holding him back is himself, himself and the lingering fears that anything he says will be used against him, that everyone around him is circling, waiting for a fall, that the moment he opens up they’ll pounce, tear him to shreds and then leave what remains for the crows.

But that’s not the case.

They’ve proven it to him. And more than that, they were willing to prove it, even when it was, perhaps, not fair of him to demand that of them.

“I think I got used to it,” he says, slowly, feeling out the words as he says them. “Hating myself. So used to it that I didn’t realize that I was a bit fucked up.”

“I don’t know if fucked up is quite the right word,” Niki says, matching his soft tone. “Do you still? Hate yourself?” Her voice breaks just a little bit on the last word, but when he turns his head to meet her gaze full-on, she looks back steadily.

“I don’t know,” he admits, and this honesty burns. “I really—I really don’t.”

Is he supposed to know? That’s probably a thing he’s supposed to know. A chill runs up and down his spine, but then, Niki lays her hand on his arm again.

“I think that’s progress,” she says, “isn’t it?”

“But I should know,” he says. “And—I’m aware of the fact that healthy people don’t hate themselves, Niki.”

“Well, I don’t want you to hate yourself,” she says, and her voice is a strange mix of upset and calm. “I don’t think you should hate yourself. And it’s upsetting, that you can’t see how much of a wonderful person you are, just because you’re you. Upsetting for you, I mean. Not because of you. This isn’t your fault. It’s—” Her nose scrunches. “Tommy describes people as wrong’uns. I think your brain is a bit of a wrong’un.”

He blinks. “My brain’s a wrong’un?”

She nods. “Yeah, because it’s wrong, and it—it makes you feel bad about yourself.” With the hand not on his arm, she makes a sharp gesture. “And that’s not—that’s not the whole thing, it’s more complicated than that, I think. But do you know what I’m saying? It’s your brain’s fault, but it’s not you. Am I making any sense at all?”

“I’m not sure I’m following,” he says, “but I think I understand what you mean.”

“I don’t think I quite have the words for it,” she says. “It’s just that—you’re worth so much more than you tell yourself that you are.”

He looks down at his dough. He’s pretty much cut out as many circles as he can, which means pushing the remainder together and rolling it out again. He does so, and then it’s back to making circles. Steady, rhythmic.

“I’m still having a hard time with that,” he says. “But it’s. Easier, I think. To try and accept it, than it was before.”

“And we’re with you,” Niki says. “We’re not leaving you. We’re all here with you.”

They are. Niki with her unflinching kindness, Tommy with his brashness and devotion, Tubbo with his matter-of-fact loyalty, Fundy with his awkward, honest support, Jack Manifold with his determined friendship. And lately, Phil, too, who has fit in with the rest of L’Manberg easily, smiles and laughter and a gleam in his eyes, and always a word of support when he needs one, and even when he thinks he doesn’t, always a safe haven to return to, always shelter under his wings.

They’re here. They’re with him.

They’re going to stay.

“I’m very glad,” he says, words halting, “that you all didn’t just up and decide that you’d had enough of me.”

“Wilbur,” Niki says, “we would never.”

He looks back at her. She’s smiling at him again, open and honest, concerned, but glad.

And he believes her.

“Let’s get these in the oven, shall we?” she says, and they do. They go pan by pan, one of them on each side, sliding them in to be baked. And then, they are left with no more dough and a mess of ingredients, and he’s too slow to move when a light enters Niki’s eyes, too slow to dodge when her flour-covered fingertips swipe across his cheek.

He can only retaliate from there, of course. It’s only fair. And he pays no mind to the state of his uniform as they start flicking baking ingredients at each other, pays no mind to the way his hair dangles in front of his face, pays no mind to the fact that he’s going to look a mess when he finally leaves. He’s got flour all over his clothes and sugar on his face, but Niki looks the exact same way, and when they finally have enough, when they slump against the counter side by side, a breathless laugh escapes him, and Niki looks delighted by it, so really, isn’t it all worth it?

“You look ridiculous,” he manages, and she smacks him on the shoulder.

“You look worse,” she says. “You look like you decided to wear the bakery instead of cook in it.”

“Oh?” he says. “And who started it?”

“And who decided to go along with it?” she returns, but she’s laughing, too.

And here he is, the president of L’Manberg, covered in baking ingredients, avoiding his duties so he can have a food fight with his best friend. No guilt accompanies the thought, and for the first time, he toys with the idea that perhaps, he does not need to be president forever. Maybe one day, he’ll work up the ability to set down the burden, to hand it to someone else, to let the possibilities open up before him, unconstrained by doubt and self-hatred and the cage he built for himself. Maybe his guitar will stop collecting dust.

Not yet. But maybe one day.

For now, this is enough.

So he stands in the bakery, warm as any hug, with white in his hair and the scent of cookies baking, and allows himself to feel, for the first time in a long time, that he is allowed this, and that life is worth living after all.

[rachetmath]

Favorite (Characters)

Ruby: *barges in* RatchetMath!

Me: What is it Ruby?

Ruby: You’re showing favoritism.

Me: Okay. And?

Ruby: You need to stop. Why not draw us for once?

Me: Hm, maybe because I like Jaune more. Hell I like Penny and Neo more than you or your team.

Ruby: Why?!

Me: Because your team is horrible.

Ruby: So is team JNPR!

Me: Yeah, but only because they have to follow you. They have some individuality but we don’t explore that as much. Plus, your team would be dead without them. But you know what Ruby, I would rather draw Yang, Blake or any other character except Weiss than you right now.

Ruby: What?! But I’m-

Me: The main character that barely does main character things. Woman, Salem was in Atlas! Why was she not your top priority? Why was James your problem?

Ruby: Um well…

Me: Ruby, she knows your mother! She might know what happened to her! I get Yang was some levels your mom but shouldn’t learning what happened to your actual mom be just as important? Especially after that dark memory.

Ruby: That is true.

Me: You have silver eyes but you still don’t know how to use them. There was army of grimm around Mantle and that would have been good practice. And a better solution than Ren.

Ruby: But then I be overpowered.

Me: No. Ruby your silver eyes only work on one person. If someone sneaks up on you or doesn’t care about that light you give off then, you’re dead. Maria is proof on that.

Ruby: Um..

Me: Plus, the question that everyone in the audience could have an answer to is whether your silver eyes can even work on Salem. In all honesty, it proves the writer don’t keep track of the characters and their personalities to where they fit together in story. You know what I have been making skits, trying to be funny but… the jokes died. Look guys I-I’m sorry but… let me explain.

1. Ruby and Blake should have stayed in Mantle. Why?

1. Salem is the main villian. She knows Ruby’s mother. You know the same mother who left for a mission and didn’t come back. The same mother, who Ruby knows nothing about while everyone seems to have different perspectives of her. Or has a better clue on who she is, than Ruby herself. Plus wasn’t Salem after her too? She basically would be killing two birds with one stone by kidnapping Oscar and giving Ruby a reason to see her. That way Ruby isn’t assuming what happened to her mother. Let Salem antagonize Ruby. (Question: Can silver eyes work on Salem?)

2. Perfect training for silver eyes. Let’s face it, Ren proved to us he can mask a bunch of people without Jaune’s help. All he needed was concentration. However, Ruby is more effective because silver eyes seem to be able to destroy multiple grimm on sight. And with lives on the line that gives Ruby plenty of reason to start using them.

3. Ren calling Ruby out on her issues. Look I loved how Ren was willing to tell the truth, but him revealing Jaune cheated Beacon was… weak. Reason being it relates to Jaune’s character and Ren still follows Jaune’s orders. However, Ruby, who is supposed to be a prodigy because she came to Beacon two years ahead of her class, has not proven once that she is worthy of such praise. The only reason-The ONLY reason Ruby was enrolled into Beacon was her silver eyes. Ruby even in volume one has been nothing but liability. Initiations, she almost dies from a Stinger. Stake out, she almost got run over by a truck and it ended in failure. First mission, she gets kidnapped and almost destroyed a city block. Roman, a man with no semblance or aura continues to beat her four times in a row. And it gets worse. Ruby almost got her uncle killed. She was the first to get knocked out by Emerald. Almost dies by a robot and Godzilla. And the moment she arrived in Atlas her first move was to lie to James. She didn’t even try to stop Tyrian when she saw him. She had her gun with her too. Ren is not her sister, he might as well tell her the facts so she can do better.

4.  Blake is Faunus. Mantle hates faunuses. Why not have Blake help them to prove faunuses are people too? Let Blake represent her people. I mean Velvet and Sun represent faunses more than she does her whole existence. Blake also can relate to Ren’s problem. How? Blake was a part of the White Fang, so there were expectations she had to fulfill. Especially when trying to measure up to Adam. However, she explains the longer she was in the White Fang, the more she found out how messed up and extremely bias it was. Including with Adam to the point she decided to leave. She even states she was lucky that Yang even forgave her after all the trouble she caused her. Blake challenged her bias nature, and it made her stronger for it. Blake would be basically telling Ren the more he tries to live up to someone else’s expectations, without seeing their flaws, the more he loses touch with himself and everyone around him.

5.  Oscar shouldn’t have been able break out of Salem on his own: I’m sorry but… Oscar got beat up. Took a magic beam to the chest. Had to switch between him and Ozpin and mind you he had no aura to help him. He should be tired and unable to move. (In my opinion, this kid was given too much screen time. At first I was worried about him but now I’m wondering why was I worrying at all.)

2. Jaune and Yang should have gone to Atlas.

1. Penny is basically Pyrrha in the opposite light. Penny’s special because she’s a robot with a soul, a mind of her own and an attitude to prove it. She is just as human as everyone else, but no one seems to treat her as such. James only sees her as something of a weapon. Pietro treats her like child even though she’s more mature than the rest of the female cast, except Maria. And now with maiden powers, everyone is out casting Penny even more. Jaune is perfect for her because he has experience with this kind of issue. However, he would’ve had to take different route to the situation considering his failure with Pyrrha last time they had discussion on maiden powers or responsibilities (Destiny.).

2. Jaune already has been a part of maiden business since volume three. His reason to be with Penny would be make sure she doesn’t meet the same fate as Pyrrha or Amber. Not just for himself but for others around him. Especially since Cinder was in Atlas and is willing to hunt her down for the maiden powers. And James was willing to turn Penny into a soulless machine to follow his every command. (Actually, Watts is more a fault considering he hates Pietro.). James and Cinder are also opposite to Jaune in some ways.  James earned his position and earned respect from his military. Jaune on the other hand cheated, and unlike James might not have everybody’s respect. Cinder treats her allies like tools. And with power she just consumes and gives nothing return. Jaune however treats his allies like family. And instead of just taking power he gives power to others around him. He’s the reason Cinder has maiden powers. So, him making it his personal mission to make sure Cinder doesn’t get more power only increases his resolve to protect Penny. (Especially since he already had to kill her in the canon finale.)  In other words, James and Cinder purposed a challenge to Jaune. Can he pervert history from repeating itself? Can he really protect the maiden powers? Is he truly worthy of being a huntsman? What is he willing to risk in achieving his goal? (Also let’s be clear. Hazel beat Oscar down for the password to the relic. James shot the kid and was willing to let him fall to his death. Qrow intentionally punched the kid.  I don’t care if it was for Ozpin, he still punched Oscar. Lion before even knowing Oscar was Ozpin reincarnation was already about kill him anyways. All Jaune did was push him to a wall. Yes, Jaune still would have hurt Oscar, but he didn’t. He walked away.)  

3.  A lot of the situations could’ve been avoided or mattered if Jaune was there. Don’t believe me? Well let me explain. Was Ruby the only option when sneaking pass Central Command? No, because they had Weiss, Nora and Penny. Weiss could have done a freezer burn like in her fight with Marrow. Or Nora could have thrown her grenades and Penny just shoots them before the hit the ground or damage anything. Both causing a smoke screen, so no one sees them. Plus, they were already caught by using Pietro credentials. Did Nora need to get knocked out for the team to escape? No. If she had Jaune with her they could’ve one caused an EMP wave being Jaune has gravity and Nora has lightning. Or two, if Nora still went through with it, Jaune would have healed her immediately. Penny lifting and keeping the arena in place. If Jaune and Weiss were with her then once Amity was in position, Weiss with Jaune’s assistances can keep it place so Penny can come back inside and the whole video could be played. Also, Pietro would know what was going on with his daughter and can properly explain how to fix her. (Better than Jaune healing her.)

4. Nora’s whole character is knowing who she is without Ren right? Then why not just have her lead the evacuation once she’s done with Atlas? Why not have her and Yang work together along with the happy huntress to evacuate Mantle? Especially if their friends disappeared to save Oscar. (And before ya’ll tell me they can’t do it….. Yang, blocked a punch from a mech, held off a Manticore, and has a semblance that literally lets her take damage and dish it back five times harder. Nora who literally crushed Weiss and Yang in a food fight. Knocked a giant horse down on its knee. And knocked Hazel away.  Are you seriously saying these girls are not enough to take on a few little tigers? Come on!) If the whole point of Nora’s character development was finding out more about herself then let Nora try something without Ren. Let her call the shots. Let her take charge. Give her a character. (Hell don’t stop there. Have her interact with other characters. Like Jaune. Yang. Weiss. Or anyone other character than Ren. Let them tell her what they think about her. Let Nora be a solution to a character’s struggle. Ya’ll make it sound like Nora has no friends.)

5. All Yang needed was a break from Ruby and Blake. In all honesty Yang should have been the one to see the hounds face and kill it. Why? Well Ruby is Yang’s sister and only reminder of her nonblood related mother. And Blake is her girlfriend. And if we saw the hound’s face, we know it’s not just a silver eyed person. It’s also a faunus. This will give her a reason to protect both her loved ones because by seeing the hound she knows Salem intention with Ruby and want to keep her, and Blake from meeting the same fate of being turned into monsters. Yang should’ve been the 2nd to 4th member of team RWBY to fall. Why? One, a Yang vs Neo fight. Two, Cinder and Neo both wanted Ruby dead. So why not get rid of Ruby first? The fights would have been more thrilling and seeing the character, the show is named after, presumed to be dead would have added stakes and tension to the fight. (Also let me say this. Why is it, that the only great display of the maiden powers I’ve ever seen, was from Amber and not the maidens, as of now, Winter, Raven, and Cinder? The maiden powers are basically magic right? Why isn’t Cinder using any other element than fire?)

6. Weiss was completely useless. Look, as the saying goes, “You can choose your friends, but you can’t choose your family.” And when it came to Weiss and family, she has little to no clue of what it is nor deserves it. Weiss should have been more of an inspiration for Whitley to do right. How? By simply talking to him. What reason would she have other than Mantle? Simple, he’s her brother and she started off like him. Beacon, she was a brat. She was arrogant. And more importantly a jerk. Blake ran because of her racist attitude. Ruby literally had to impress her to prove she can be leader. Even though Weiss is not leadership martial herself.  Plus, hearing May and how she and her family never resolved their issues should inspire Weiss to not repeat that mistake. And guess what, her mom, Willow, the drinker of the family, wasn’t wrong. Both her and Winter left Whitley alone. Klein wasn’t there for him either. All Whitley had was his father. So Weiss, actually acting like his sister and trying to help him allows him to feel less alone. Instead Weiss was complete Jacque through out the entire volume.  

And that’s all.  Look I know I should have seen this coming but I had to say it.  Volume 8 could’ve been good. The problem was.

1.       Characters are not placed well within the story.

2.       We lost track of who said characters are.

3.       The ships are in the way.

4.       Being dumb for the plot. (Sometimes it’s necessary.)