#and immediately cut himself off from all of them to go work for the Evil Organization even harder. his ass is NOT coping

[kookiekatz]

First request here, can you write crk x reader when y/n came back home almost dead but they still alive ?? How would their husband react ??

A man should understand he doesn't protect his wife because she's weak, he protects her because she's important-Unknown

(SMC) Whoever attacked you must be eithet stupid or dumb because they had to attack the wife of an beast cookie. Shadow milk cookie looked like his sanity snapped in half the second he saw your injuries and cracks. He wants to exactly what happened to you??? and who did it?? And how their gonna pay for what they did??? Shadow milk cookie was furious no, absolutely livid when you told him about getting attack by some common cookie perv at your job site. Of course your husband made sure you were ok but shadow milk cookie was planning murder, and when you fell asleep he did just that. He made a example of the b*stard making sure to leave his head on spike for everyone to see don't mess with his wifey.....EVER!👿

(BSC) Now your one of the toughest cookies that Burning spice's ever met, however that doesn't mean he'll let cookies hurt you. So you can imagine his face turning an interesting shade of red when you came home heavily injured, but still standing and dragging yourself home. Your husband immediately helped you with your injuries, and after that he angerly but calmly ask you what happened. You told him about being assaulted by come common cookies in the spice lands of course you crumbled a good few of them, but you barely made it home alive and that was enough to him grabbed his ax and turn them into cookie crumbs. It's not often Burning spice felt strongly about things like this, but when he does........ Watch out👿👿👿

(SSC) He immediately knew something was wrong when you took longer to come home, later then you usually do. It felt like that for hours and he was this close to going to go out and search is when you burst into your shared home, covered in injuries and jam stains. You frantically tell your stunned husband about being attacked by some common cookies that hate him, and decided to hurt you instead in tears. All Silent salt cookie did was give your first aid as he listened to your explanation and allowed you to cry in his chest. After you fell asleep silent salt cookie went off on your attacked cutting them all into pieces, making sure they never try this again👿

(PVC) Ohhhhhhhh, the look on your poor husband was heartbreaking, and he became paler then you ever seen him. Your husband rushed to take care of you and your injuries, despite the tears in his eyes. Once he calms down and gets you to bed rest he asked you what happened and when did it happen? You told him about running into some evil cookies that worked with dark enchantress cookie, and her goons but you kicked there tiny butts and escaped. Now unfortunately despite your victory your tearful hubby is now paranoid and will be following you around for the next few months, but it's kinda sweet when you more on it😊

(DCC) He's calm on the outside, enraged on the inside. He's furious at whoever tried to crumble you in such a barbaric manner but his main focus is to help you with your injuries. Dark Cacao makes sure that you get the best medical care his kingdom has to offer even calling Pure Vanilla Cookie to heal you himself, then he ask you what had happened. You told him you got into some trouble with some of dark enchantress cookie's minions, and got hurt in the process when fighting them back. This angered dark Cacao further but he'll handle them later right now he needed to make sure your safe and healing from the whole experience, but expect extra security in the late future🔒.

FEEL FREE TO REBLOG👊

[ephemeralinstance]

the ending

For my sanity, a collection of all the ways in which the Veilguard ending is a bad way to conclude Solas' arc. All of this has been said before but I think it's quite striking to put it all together.

(As a caveat, the closing scene itself is aesthetically very beautiful and clearly made with love; there's just this big disconnect between the form and the content)

1) The only way for Solas to 'atone' is for him to be released by someone who has been manipulating him his whole life and there is a very plausible interpretation of the text in which she abused him and/or owned him as a slave.

2) Not only does no one listen to Solas about how binding spirits is abusive, the game ends with us binding him, a former spirit, either by force or by manipulating him in a vulnerable moment. When he tries to say something about spirits in this scene Rook immediately cuts him off.

3) All three endings are punitive and cruel, sending a person whose greatest fear is dying alone into eternal solitary confinement, and thus conveying a very retributive approach to punishment. Maybe you can headcanon something different in the atonement case, but that is not what is presented in game: the last thing we see of him is being sent away alone. You can make it slightly better by sending Lavellan or Rook with him, but two people being trapped in prison together forever is not really a good outcome either.

4) In a game that is all about healing through community, with a character whose central flaw has always been insisting on working alone, it makes no thematic sense for his ending to be that he is sent away alone.

5) This is blood magic, one of the Big Evils of the game, and yet the fact that Rook uses blood magic is never acknowledged or commented on.

6) The same endings are available regardless of his relationship with the Inquisitor and Rook, thus rendering his whole character arc in Inquisition and all his interactions with Rook completely pointless (Solavellan is the one exception to this and I love that it exists but I don't think this should have been the only way to get an even slightly hopeful ending to his arc).

7) Solas has no agency. What happens to him is entirely decided by Rook, his own growth plays no part in it. He is just passing directly from being controlled by Mythal to being controlled by Rook.

8) It is extremely unclear how any of this is going to work, e.g. if Solas has the dagger with him couldn't he just kill himself to take the Veil down? The Trick ending in particular makes no sense at all.

Note that none of this is about thinking Solas should have a happy ending. I was personally expecting that his atonement would involve him sacrificing himself and in many ways I honestly think that would have been better.

One or two of these things might have been ok, but put them all together and this is just a very icky collection of things to endorse and a spectacularly uncomfortable note to end on. It's honestly quite puzzling to me that anyone thought this would be a good or respectful way to conclude this arc which has been so central to the series.

[hurt-comfort-lover]

The Snow White Remake Could Have Been Good

This is pretty much what I would change/what I would've done for the Snow White Remake. If you want to write a fanfiction inspired by this please send the link to me so I can read it and if you could credit that would be appreciated. Please let me know your thoughts on my interpretation <3

Have the prince and Snow white be childhood best friends

Probably like neighboring kingdoms were close and the intentions were that the prince was eventually going to marry snow white when they were adults

I still want Snow White to be shy at first, but as the prince gets to know her he sees how passionate and kind she is and he admires it.

Snow white admires how strong and confident the prince is in himself. It’s sort of a mutual respect kind of thing. 

As they got older Snow white and the prince would spar occasionally for fun, he would always win but he respected the effort she put in. She would show him books that she enjoyed etc. Like I want really cute cut-scenes of them together

I like having the dad, but I want to see more scenes with him and snow white. 

Like him mourning his wife's death, and struggling while still doing his best to care of his daughter would be so fucking cute and sad.

Also seeing him be a good king, prioritizing his people by giving out free food, or building new houses and buildings, Training with the knights, and prioritizing his employees health and wellbeing. 

Would love to see him teaching his daughter to be kind and compassionate to everyone including the servants and knights, etc.

I want a more menacing evil queen. 

I want her to first, actually be pretty, but in a menacing way. Like Ursula in the little mermaid vibes when she pretended to be human.

I would like to actually see the queen kill the king, specifically poison him, assuming she has some sort of experience with that which is why she later tries to poison Snow White. Even if it’s implied and we don’t see him physically die.

I want some banter between the mirror and the evil queen. Like maybe the mirror is sick of being stuck in the same room, and being asked the same stupid questions

Maybe she asks who’s the fairest of them all and he’s like ‘As I’ve said a million times it’s- oh.. It’s not you.’ and he’ll like smirk or hold back laughter.

And yes I said he because the mirror has a man's voice and if he has more of a personality then I will personify him.

When she becomes queen after killing off the king I want to see her doing shitty things. Like stopping the food giveaways to make the castle more extravagant. Hiring an excessive amount of servants that do everything for her. Fancy clothes and money for her private personal hobby (collecting poisons or like dark magical items) 

I want the king to die pretty early compared to where the story starts

I’d say around when Snow White is a pre-teen, doesn’t need to be exact. I prefer for the actual story to start when she’s an adult, or almost an adult so it’s more modern standards but we don’t need an exact age

When the king died the changes were sudden, the queen show’s her true colors immediately, having snow white work as a maid.

Snow White tried arguing with the queen but it resulted in her being locked in the dungeon for days. I want a scene where she crawls out of the dungeon and she looks completely defeated, somehow more pale than usual, bags under her eyes, shaking from hunger and pain. 

The maids from when the king was in charge are very protective of Snow White and still call her princess despite the changes.

Snow White works as a maid, doing her best to take care of her people from the sidelines despite her position. She helps the other servants and knights if they get hurt, and gives the little food she has away if someone is starving. 

Pretty much she’s very close to the other servants and knights. 

When the king died the prince and her lost contact. His family tried to contact Snow White’s kingdom multiple times with no response after hearing of the king's death.

The prince is conflicted because he can imagine the pain Snow White is going through but doesn’t understand why she won’t reach out for help. Why is she ignoring him? 

When the story actually starts it’ll be very similar to the original Snow White movie

The queen finds out Snow White is the fairest of them all despite working as a ‘filthy servant’

She doesn’t want to get her hands dirty again and with her plentiful resources why should she? She hires a huntsman to kill Snow White.

One of the servants overhear and warns Snow White right away, all of the servants help her by giving her a small amount of food and clothes and help her run away to the forest.

Despite getting out of the castle the huntsman still finds her anyway. She stumbles back, trying to scramble away, backed against a tree. 

He stands over her, suddenly drawing his blade and going to strike. His hands shake as he goes for the stab, only to stab the tree beside her instead, only inches away from her face.

He apologizes, saying that he can’t live with the guilt of killing her. He tells her to run away, deep into the forest where the queen can never find her. She forgives him, hugging him gratefully for sparing her life and runs off into the forest.

I don’t want to go too much in depth with her relationship with the animals. It’s not super significant to the plot itself other than maybe like the animals lead her to the Seven Dwarfs cottage. 

When she finds the random cottage deep in the woods she feels grateful but guilty for breaking into someone’s home. But she’s desperate, she needs somewhere to stay before it gets dark.

When she enters the cottage she immediately shudders at the mess, as someone who lived in a very clean castle she was immediately uncomfortable with the mess. 

She gets to work cleaning the ridiculous mess. I guess technically in the original the animals helped which I feel like doesn’t change the story significantly so it’s fine either way

The beds are made, the kitchen is clean, the sink is empty, dishes are put away, floors are swept, laundry is done, and she made soup and bread. (this is basically like the original)

Pretty much the same as the original except for it takes a little longer for the dwarfs to initially accept her, where they were pretty quick in the original. Like they are literally storing a fugitive and risking their lives. The queen is evil and everyone knows it.

Also I want the dwarfs to have separate beds, idk why but that’s important to me. 

I want lots of banter between the dwarfs, each other, and snow white. I want the dwarves to gradually enjoy Snow White’s company, and appreciate what she does.

I also want a bit of lecturing from Snow White about making sure dirty dishes go in the sink, or that dirty clothes need to go in the hamper, not on the floor.

Meanwhile: Over the years the prince and his kingdom (which neighbors Snow White’s kingdom) finds out about the conditions of her kingdom.

He’s conflicted, angry because the conditions of the kingdom are exactly the opposite of what he expected, This is not what her father would have wanted. 

At the same time he’s worried for Snow White because those who have come as a refugee to his kingdom have no idea what happened to Snow White.

Now that he’s officially an adult he decides he’s going to visit Snow White’s kingdom, to confront the queen and Snow White, to see what’s going on.

His parents were against it not wanting to cause a war, but eventually decided to let him go as more and more refugees were coming to their kingdom. Something wasn’t right.

The Evil Queen obviously finds out that Snow White is not dead.

The mirror tells her reluctantly and she orders the huntsman to be thrown in the dungeon for treason. 

The rest is like the original where she decides to do it herself. She goes through her collection finding the odorless and tasteless poison and pours it on the red apple, knowing the red apples are Snow White’s favorite. (Have a previous scene that establishes that)

Uses her magical items that she’s collected to pretend to be an old lady, comes to Snow white (the mirror tells her where Snow White is) and offers her the apple, begging her to buy something because she’s poor and old and you know the drill.

Snow White eats the apple and immediately falls asleep. The Dwarves find her and she looks dead so they are pretty pissed. Chase sequence ensues, but in this version the evil queen gets away.

I want the colors to be slightly duller than before, slightly darker.

I want a scene where they each desperately try to wake her up to no avail, it’s super fucking sad and angsty and I will eat that shit up.

The dwarves are devastated, surrounding her in flowers like the original. I think they would put her in like a wooden coffin without a lid because the glass case just doesn’t fit the vibes I’m going for but again weird unimportant detail.

I can’t figure out a good reason as to why the prince happens to run into the dwarves and dead-ish snow white. 

I guess I could say that he was coming from that direction, and that the dwarves' cottage is near the border, but it feels a bit forced because I need to move the story along so any suggestions would be great.

When the prince sees Snow White laying there lifeless he immediately draws his sword, jumping off of his horse.

He would’ve attacked the dwarves, but it was so obvious that they were depressed, barely acknowledging him. 

I want a million different emotions flashing through the prince's face, the biggest one being guilt. If he had just come sooner- maybe he could’ve saved her.

Might be creepy to the modern viewer but idc, he decides to give her a kiss to wish her bye.  

I want the colors to slowly fade back to be warm and vibrant as snow white’s eyes flutter open. 

Everyone is crying except for Snow White including the prince and so when they suddenly hear her voice, which by the way she is really confused, the tears become of joy and relief instead of sadness. 

As she sits up in the coffin the dwarves jump in excitement and cheer as the prince pulls her into an embrace immediately.

I want a really dorky scene where the prince is awkwardly like Hi and Snow white says hi back with a really sweet smile or something omg I’m kicking my feet that would be so cute.

Ok now for revenge pretty much and Evil Queen suffering

Snow White promises to return to the dwarfs as she and the prince get on his horse. (No it’s not horse abuse Snow White is light due to being malnourished)

Definitely want her clinging to the prince, wrapping her arms around his waist.

Would be so cute if he was a bit flushed ngl

They return to the castle where the queen is raging, she had been mildly hurt when she got chased by the dwarves.

The Prince and Snow White come in, the prince is pissed and threatens the Queen's life, calling her out for trying to kill Snow white. 

The Queen orders the knights to kill Snow White and the prince, she's screeching in anger, and her hair is a mess and she just looks crazy.

The knight look at the Queen and Snow White reluctantly, one takes a step forward, but still hesitates. Snow White calls him out by name, telling him she understands his position, it’s ok. He can’t do it. None of the knights can. One by one they all switch sides, standing behind the Snow White and the prince. 

Queen is even more mad, screaming and trying to use a cursed magical item she carried on her. A ring that could burn anything instantly. She slipped on her finger and tried to use it, before she could she suddenly felt burning on her skin. She desperately tries to take off the ring but is unable to. Or if you want to be child friendly she turns into dust.

I get my Happily Ever After where the Huntsman is freed, Snow White becomes Queen and marries the prince.

 Also the dwarfs get rewarded with an honorable badge for courage, bravery, or kindness something along those lines. 

We get to see the kingdom begin to heal, Snow White getting rid of the extravagant things of the Evil Queen, and giving food to the poor. 

Probably the ending scene would be the wedding of the Prince and Snow White. Maybe like all the dwarfs are the ring bearers except for Dopey who is the flower dwarf or something idk lol. The maids that helped Snow White, the huntsman, and the prince's parents would be there. Lots and lots of fluff. 

[manmuncher777]

The city lights streaked past, neon reflections gliding over the windshield as Gojo’s grip tightened on the steering wheel. His knuckles were white, his jaw locked, his breath a little too shallow for someone who was just driving.

Because you were in his lap. Or close enough.

Your hand was wrapped around the base of his cock, your mouth stretched around him, warm and wet and sinful, and he was suffering.

“Jesus—fuck,” Gojo choked, hips twitching up before he forced himself back against the seat, fingers tightening on the wheel. “You—mmh—really have no shame, huh?”

You hummed around him, sending vibrations straight through his spine, and Gojo had to slam his foot on the brake a little too hard to keep from swerving. The car jolted to a stop at a red light, giving him a chance to look down, watching as you take him so eagerly into your throat, saliva dripping down your chin with every load slurp and squelch.

“Shit,” he exhaled, chest rising and falling in uneven breaths. “You tryna get us killed?”

You pulled back just enough to let your tongue flick over the tip, slow and teasing, before pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the underside of his cock. “You’re the one driving.”

His laugh was breathless, fraying at the edges. “Oh, you’re evil.”

You just smiled, running your tongue along the length of him before taking him back into your mouth, slow at first, letting him feel every inch, savoring the way his muscles tensed beneath your hands.

Gojo sucked in a sharp breath through his teeth, fingers twitching against the leather of the steering wheel. The light turned green.

He didn’t move.

“Gojo,” you murmured, lips brushing against him, your hand working where your mouth wasn’t. “You’re holding up traffic.”

A sharp honk from behind.

Gojo groaned—pained, desperate—before forcing his foot onto the gas. The car lurched forward, and you felt his whole body tense as he tried to focus, tried to drive while your mouth was on him, while your tongue was pressing against his pink, leaking tip, while your hand was moving in slow, tight strokes—

“Fuck,” he bit out, his head tilting back against the seat for a second too long before he forced his eyes back on the road.

His free hand shot out, gripping the back of your neck—not pushing you away, but grounding himself, like if he didn’t hold onto something, he was going to lose all control.

“This—mmh—this is the worst idea you’ve ever had,” he rasped, breathless.

You pulled back slightly, licking over the tip before smirking. “Oh? Should I stop then?”

His fingers tightened immediately, a warning. “Don’t you fucking dare.”

You laughed, warm breath fanning over sensitive skin, before taking him deeper, swallowing around him just enough to make him curse under his breath.

The car swerved.

Gojo slammed the brakes.

Another honk.

He exhaled, shuddering. “Okay, okay,” he murmured, voice cracking as he ran a shaky hand through his hair, his sunglasses slipping down his nose. “I’m pulling over.”

The car veered sharply into an empty side street, tires screeching slightly as Gojo threw it into park. The second he did, his hand shot down, tugging you up with dizzying ease.

“You’re so—” His voice was rough, pupils blown wide as he stared down at you. His breath was hot against your lips, his hands firm on your jaw. His voice soon being cut off as your hand trailed down to his balls, giving them a slight squeeze as you took as much of him as you could into your throat.

And judging by the way his grip tightened, he wasnt about to complain.

Gojo was a mess.

His head was tipped back against the seat, his grip tight in your hair, his breath ragged and uneven as he tried to keep his composure—but you could feel the way he was trembling beneath your touch, muscles tensed, thighs flexing with every little movement of your mouth.

“Shit,” he hissed, voice wrecked, his fingers tightening just slightly before easing again, like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to pull you away or push you down further. “You’re—fuck, you’re so good to me sweets.”

You hummed around him, slow and teasing, feeling the way he twitched in response. You could tell he was close—his breathing had gone shallow, his hips jerking just slightly, his body struggling to stay still.

You couldn’t help but relish in making him fall apart m=beneath you, the way he was fighting hid hips from bucking up into your mouth, the way the leather of the steering wheel creaked underneath his harsh grip.

Gojo let out a shaky breath, his fingers twitching against your scalp. “Fuck— sweetheart” His laugh was breathless, strained, his free hand clenching into the seat. “Baby, slow down- please”You smirked, satisfied, before sinking back down, taking him deep, letting him feel everything—the heat, the pressure, the way your throat tightened around him as you swallowed, your fingers moving in time with your mouth.

And that—that—was what broke him.

Gojo’s whole body tensed, his breath catching in his throat. “Shit—fuck—I’m—” His words cut off into a ragged moan, his grip in your hair tightening as his hips stuttered, a shudder running through him as he spilled into your mouth.

You took it all, swallowing around him, sucking him through it, milking every last tremor from his body as he groaned, his head falling back against the seat in utter defeat.

For a long moment, the only sound in the car was his uneven breathing, the rise and fall of his chest as he tried to come back to himself.

Then, finally, Gojo let out a low, satisfied hum, his fingers stroking lazily through your hair. “Let’s get you home yeah?” he murmured, voice still rough around the edges, “after all, i need payback.”

You smirked, wiping the corner of your mouth with the back of your hand as you sat back up. “Oh? Think you can handle round two?”

Gojo turned to look at you, his blue eyes dark, predatory, still hungry. He leaned in, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispered, low and deliberate—

“Buckle up, sweetheart.”

And judging by the way his hand slid between your thighs next—

It was going to be more than just round 2.

[alltimecharlo]

It has been some trying times for me. Work is evil, I miss omega Will, I don’t have any time to read fanfic, and it has rained for the past 4 days. Your work keeps me going atm. Also thinking about omega Will being cuddly with people on the team and maybe (Leno or Gabe) and Mack getting jealous about it like he’s the only one allowed to cuddle. He does not realize he gets special cuddles and always smells like Will because Will scents him. Idk. It’s just been on my mind.

i loved this idea anon!!! hopefully it gives you some strength to push through 🩵 fic under the cut! :)

Mack doesn’t think he’s the jealous type.

He doesn’t. He never has been. He’s always figured, if something’s yours, it’ll come back. If it’s not—well. Better to let it go than waste time worrying.

But apparently that cool, reasonable part of his brain goes absolutely fucking dormant the second Will Smith, omega and menace and apparently also the team’s emotional support blanket, decides to drape himself over someone that isn’t Mack.

They’re in the lounge at the practice facility. Everyone’s wiped from a brutal morning skate. Mack has a protein shake half-finished in one hand, his legs stretched out across a beanbag chair that’s definitely too small for his frame, when he looks up and sees it:

Will, flopped sideways on the couch, practically tangled up in Mario Ferraro.

Like—Will’s head is on Mario’s shoulder. He’s got a hand tucked between their bodies, fingers loosely curled into Mario’s hoodie, and Mario isn’t even flinching. Just chewing trail mix like this is normal. Like this happens all the time.

Which. Maybe it does?

Mack blinks, something uneasy crawling up his throat. He tries to ignore it. Looks back down at his phone. Swipes through a few messages from his mom. Doesn’t reply.

Looks back up.

Will laughs at something Mario says and tugs the guy’s sleeve like he needs more of his attention, like he’s not already climbing him like a cat in a sunbeam. And Mack’s stomach twists.

It’s fine. It’s whatever. Omegas are naturally more tactile, right? And Will’s always been affectionate—nudging Mack’s elbow in the locker room, draping himself across Mack’s back during off-ice warmups, falling asleep half on top of Mack during road trips.

But that’s… that’s just them. Isn’t it?

He glances around.

No one else seems to find this weird. Some of the younger guys are playing a half-hearted game of Mario Kart in the corner. Toff’s snoring in an armchair. Eky’s messing around in his phone.

Mack sits up straighter. Sets down his shake. Crosses the room and drops down on the other side of the couch with what he hopes is a casual, neutral expression.

“Hey,” he says.

Will perks up immediately. “Hey! We were just talking about your reverse hit on that Kings guy this morning.” He grins, crooked and dimpled. “You nearly flattened him. It was beautiful.”

Mack hums, his eyes darting briefly to where Will’s still nestled in against Mario. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Will says, voice warm with praise. Then, with zero hesitation, he wriggles free from Mario’s side and sprawls dramatically across Mack’s lap instead.

Like it’s nothing. Like it’s normal. Like it’s inevitable.

Mack freezes for a second. Then, carefully, he puts a hand on Will’s waist to steady him.

Will sighs, pleased. “You’re comfier anyway,” he mumbles, cheek pressed to Mack’s thigh.

Mack’s heart does something weird and stuttering. “Right,” he says, trying not to sound wrecked.

Mario gives them both a knowing little look but doesn’t say anything. Just smirks and gets up to grab another snack, leaving Mack alone with the warm, heavy weight of Will across his lap.

Will smells like warm sugar and summer grass. Always does. Mack breathes it in before he can stop himself.

“You good?” Will murmurs, barely looking up.

Mack swallows. “Yeah,” he says. “You always like that with the rest of the team?”

Will hums. “What, cuddly?”

Mack nods.

Will stretches, his hoodie riding up slightly, revealing a thin stripe of skin above his waistband. Mack looks away.

“I mean,” Will says thoughtfully, “not with everyone. Mario’s chill. But like—not all cuddles are the same, you know?”

Mack doesn’t know. Or maybe he does, because suddenly he’s remembering how Will will always lean into him just a bit more. How Will seeks him out on the bench, how Will tends to end up in Mack’s hotel bed when the rooms are doubles. How his hoodies always smell faintly of Will’s omega scent, even when he’s pretty sure Will hasn’t borrowed them.

“Do I smell like you?” Mack asks before he can stop himself.

Will pauses. Then looks up at him with a slow, smug smile. “You’re only just noticing that now?”

Mack groans.

Will laughs, bright and delighted, and curls in closer.

“It’s fine,” he says, pressing his nose against Mack’s hoodie. “I like it when you smell like me. Makes people know you’re mine.”

Mack chokes on air. “I’m what?”

Will grins. “You heard me.”

And then he closes his eyes, like the conversation’s over, and Mack is left staring down at him like the world’s spun sideways.

He thought he was the jealous one.

Turns out Will’s been staking his claim this whole time.

♡

[thatonefandomweirdo]

Poppy Playtime Make Believe AU where the events of the game are just a (very messed up) game the kids at the orphanage are playing.

It all started with "Huggy" playing a prank on the unassuming Player, secretly following them around. It spiraled from there because a lot of kids wanted to join in afterward. Poppy was the one who came up with the basic plot and got "The Prototype" to play the villain. Except for Theo and Poppy, nobody interacted with The Prototype, so nobody knows who the big bad is, but most are sure it must be Poppy's father, Elliot Ludwig.

It's Marie who first throws in the idea of cannibalism and everyone immediately loves it. Poppy puts her in charge of the Game Station in the story, and the shy Marie becomes the completely unhinged Mommy Long Legs. She blossoms as Mommy Long Legs. It is terrifying. But she accidentally breaks her arm during the game and has to watch the rest of the game from the sidelines, much to her disappointment.

Theodore is the next one to focus the story on himself. At first his worship of the Prototype within the story is acceptable, but he gets a little too excited to play this game over time and steals some files on the other orphans to use as a base, so he as well as Marie (due to her broken arm) get to have long extensive talks with Elliot Ludwig. Because both incidents happened because they were needlessly antagonising the Player. Elliot is not amused. Poppy and the others decide rather than getting dragged away after being caught, Catnap deserves the honor of going out in a really cool boss fight.

Quinn acts like a rabid animal in the game. Outside, he is a relatively normal kid, but in game he goes full animal. It is terrifying

Riley is really happy she is involved, and writes some very intense diary entries that fit the story. Miss Harper is very concerned over this. "I am finally fitting in with the other kids :D" "I am being cut open. Life is hell"

Matthew was originally not supposed to be a part of the game since he is much older than most kids, but he was supervising Jack and Kevin at the time, who both wanted to join in, but only with him. Kevin was a bit too rowdy, so the adults asked Matthew to watch over him, and Jack's parents worked at the factory but couldn't find a babysitter. So Matthew was asked to handle both.

When it got pointed out by someone Jack needed to be an orpan, Kevin said they would just kill off his parents and Jack immediately happily agreed. As revenge for trying to exclude Jack from the game, the trio decided to kill off the character of the kid, Pianosaurus, immediately. "Pianosaurus" was mad over this, but the others found it hilarious.

Initially, the trio is teamed up with Poppy and the Player, but Kevin does not like this arrangement. When the Player messes up too much and them doing their job leads to most of the characters dying off, he convinces Matthew and Jack they should get revenge.

There are some adults who play along. The Prototype and... Harley Sawyer?? The mean doctor who most kids are convinced is evil. But Quinn managed to convince The Doctor to join in to torment the Player. Nobody is 100% sure if it is because Quinn was the one who asked or if the Doctor just hates the Player so much and loves tormenting them.

But for most adults the kids just reenact things they heard them say to fit the game, making them come off as exaggerated.

The Player is just some worker, none of the kids knows their name. They don't even realize they are made part of the kids' game, they just think they have very bad luck and the kids are being a bit weird. OK, not a bit weird, they are being chased around by kids, bitten by Quinn and attacked for no reason.

[meowmeowriley]

Ghoap Actor AU but 'Ghost' is the stage name used by a a mysterious man who takes "faceless" rolls. Rolls that require pounds of makeup, tons of prosthetics, huge armor suits and feats of puppeteering. No one knows what he looks like, or his real name, and he likes it that way.

Sorry, it got kinda long lol, ficlet after the cut.

Johnny is a new face but damn is he winning hearts quickly. He loves fantasy and sci-fy rolls, and for him getting cast as the heart throb muscle-bound hero is as easy as smiling. A smile which sweeps any and all off their feet, straightness be damned.

Working next to The Ghost is as much a dream come true as it is fucking terrifying. His list of rolls is as long as Johnny is tall, the man is a legend.

Said legend stalks into the catering tent in full makeup, extras scattering because the man is honestly pretty intimidating. Ridges and bumps, red skin and horns, all work to completely dehumanize his features and frighten away any potential lunch buddies. After grabbing his food he stalks back out wordlessly.

They hadn't shot any scenes together yet, but the schedule called for the two of them to be working together nearly every hour of the next week, and John was determined to make a good impression. He grabbed his own food and swiped some fancy wrapped chocolates, perhaps to share and make friends, and scampered out after Ghost.

The man was seated alone, at a table under a tree. He'd popped his fake fangs out and sat them on his tray, and was digging into his sandwich. Red hands tipped in wicked red claws expertly avoided spearing and shredding his food.

Johnny plopped down across from him.

"Cannae be comfortable, wearin' all 'o that all day." Best to get the whole 'being Scottish' thing out if the way immediately, he often had to hid his accent for rolls and this was no exception. Opening his mouth and speaking naturally always garnered a huge reaction, generally glee, from his co-stars. Though, if Ghost was surprised by it, he made no comment.

"Been doin' it for years, 'm used to it." John found himself the one surprised, he hadn't expected the man's voice to be so lovely. Nor had he expected the man to be a fuckin' brit. Clearly he'd also been masking his accent. Shame, Hollywood always loved an evil Brit.

Delighted by this new discovery, Johnny launched into introducing himself, gushing about the rolls he'd seen Ghost in and how he'd loved his performances. Ghost didn't respond much, but slitted pupils with gold and red irises never left him, and even through the makeup a small smile played at the corner of his bright red lips.

Ghost didn't participate much, throwing out a hum or a nod, an occasional quip, but Johnny quickly realized the man was simply quiet, as every time he stopped he'd receive a few words, a gentle nudge to keep going. All was well until Johnny finished his meal and started in on his chocolates.

He'd held one out to Ghost, who took it, and wordlessly sat it on his tray, mirth dancing in his eyes, amplified to a mildly animalistic predatory level by his contacts.

Johnny had rolled with it, assuming the man was just happy about the sweet, and popped his own in his mouth. Only to spit it back out immediately after crunching down.

"Ach, that is VILE, the fuck is wrong with this chocolate?" Johnny stuffed his fingers into his mouth, attempting to scrape the bits that had secured themselves in and between his teeth.

A deep rumbling belly laugh enveloped him, the sound coated his body, every last inch of him, and locked it into place. Fingers still stuffed into his mouth and crouched over like a golem, Johnny watched wide eyed as Ghost leaned back, shoulders heaving and a clawed hand over his brow as he laughed uncontrollably at John's plight. "It's not chocolate," the man gasped out, "it's bloody hand soap!"

Johnny groaned and spat out his fingers as well as a few bubbles. He'd grabbed them from beside the hand washing station, but hadn't thought anything of it. Why the fuck were they wrapped all fancy like?!

Ghost stood, and clapped a hand on Johnny's shoulder. "I look forward to working with you, Johnny." He sighed between fits of laughter. He grinned and popped his fangs back in. "Keep up, Soap."

Johnny turned and watched Ghost stalk back into the catering tent to return his tray, silicone tail swishing side to side, really lending itself to Ghost's jolly demeanor as he left, still chuckling. Johnny felt his face flush, knew he must be as red as Ghost's makeup, in embarrassment, knowing he was gonna be stuck with a ridiculous nickname, but also from realizing he was still bent over and staring at Ghost's ass. Was his ass really that nice, or were those heels, designed to look like hooves, just working absolute wonders?

Thus began Soap's insane crush on a man he knew nothing about, not even how he looked.

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter Thirteen

Series Masterlist

Thanks for being patient and supportive, guys. I am going to try to get two out on top of this, as this is technically last weeks chapter, but I am doing my best. I had some really awesome people reach out and check-in on me this week and honestly, I needed it. I put a lot of pressure on myself with every chapter- i feel like it's been so good up to this point so with each chapter I am pressuring myself to keep the quality up and sometimes it's just a lot. Your guys' support means everything to me.

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The car’s quiet except for the faint hum of the engine and the occasional rustle of paper from the back seat. Just a daytrip- a quick jaunt to London for a sim technology conference. A few presentations, more than a few handouts, a mediocre lunch service. A stop-in before Brazil. Necessary evil. For RedBull. For Redline. Just business.

Christian drives with one hand on the wheel and a tired sort of ease, eyes focused on the dark stretch of motorway that cut back toward Milton Keynes. Max sits in the passenger seat, arms crossed, cheek propped against his knuckles, watching the world smear by through the window- headlights, hedges, the vague shape of trees pressed up flat against the night.

In the back seat, you’ve turned the quiet into something else. Not noise, exactly. But motion. Intent. Working- of course you’re working- your laptop balanced between your knees, a mess of pamphlets and printouts spread across the leather seat like a dealer laying down cards. Brows drawn, your mouth slightly parted in concentration as you thumb through the stack, cross-reference a spec sheet from another, then type something with sharp, purposeful taps.

Every so often, you pause- chewing at your thumb, the nail already raw from a day’s worth of absent-minded worry- before returning to the keys with renewed precision. Max can hear it: the rhythm of you cataloguing, organizing, making sense of all of it. Like it wasn’t enough to have gone to the presentations, shaken hands, taken the obligatory photos- no, you needed to digest it. To dissect it. To turn just business into something useful before the car even hit the roundabouts.

Max doesn’t turn to look. He doesn’t need to. He can feel the energy coming off you like static- tired, but alive. Like you’d spent all day holding yourself still and were only now allowed to exhale, alone in the backseat with your chaos.

He shifts in his seat, jaw tight. It was easier when you weren’t in motion. Easier when he could convince himself you were a moment. A blip. Not someone with velocity.

Christian’s phone buzzes against the dash, screen lighting up with a name. Max’s eyes flick to the center display: Franz Tost. Christian exhales through his nose. Not annoyed. More... contemplative.

Max feels it immediately- whatever this is, it’s not for public consumption. Not immediately. Not without decision. Christian reaches for the phone, thumb hovering over the screen a beat too long. "Should I- " he mutters, mostly to himself, then glances in the rearview mirror.

Whatever he sees must make up his mind. He hits accept and toggles it to Bluetooth with a practiced flick of his thumb. "Franz," he says, slow and even. "You’re on speaker. I’ve got company."

A pause. Static. Then Franz’s voice comes through the speakers- faintly German-accented, clipped, all business. "Ah. I see." Christian doesn’t reply. Just keeps driving, one hand steady on the wheel.

"I’ve looked through the numbers," Franz says finally. "Not exactly standard."

"It’s what was offered," Christian replies.

"That’s clear. Still surprising."

Christian lets out a soft huff of breath. "It’s lean."

"Very."

Behind them, the rhythm of keystrokes falters. Then stops. Max hears the soft click of a laptop being closed. Paper shifts. Something about the silence feels intentional- weighted. Max can feel it. The way you’re listening now. Still as stone. Like even the creak of leather beneath you might give something away.

“Do you think… the dynamics of the workplace will be an issue?” Franz says, voice low, deliberate.

Christian shrugs like it’s nothing. Like they haven’t all spent months navigating politics sharp enough to draw blood. “I have yet to be concerned. Besides, if we were worried about workplace dynamics we’d start letting robots drive the cars.”

There’s a pause- thin, wire-tight. “Pipeline?” Franz asks.

Christian doesn’t even blink. “Not an option. We’ve already had this conversation.”

“And Helmut?”

Christian’s fingers shift against the leather steering wheel. “Aligned.” That one lands hard. Max feels it settle in his chest like cold water, the kind that bites deep, spreads slow. The shape of it starts forming before he can name it. Something real. Something decided. Like he can feel what’s coming before he knows it.

Franz exhales, measured. “So we’re settled, then.”

Christian glances briefly toward the passenger window, then back at the road ahead. The lights of the motorway slide past in rhythmic blurs, gold and white and rain-slick. “We’re settled,” he says.

In the backseat, you don’t move. You’re leaning forward now, just slightly- one hand braced against the center console like it might pull you closer, the other curled in your lap, knuckles pale.

You don’t say a word.

You just listen.

Christian adjusts his grip on the wheel, his tone suddenly lighter. “She’s in the car,” he says, like it’s an afterthought. “If you want to say it yourself.”

A beat of static follows. The sound of breath caught somewhere in the ether. Then Franz, as calm as ever, as clinical as a scalpel: “Welcome to Alpha Tauri.”

You freeze.

No sound. No movement. Just a single breath drawn too sharply through your nose. One hand lifts, slow and instinctive, pressing against your mouth like you can catch the words before they settle. Like you can hold them inside a moment longer, keep them suspended.

Christian smiles, not unkind. “We’ll let it sink,” he says. “I’m sure she’ll be calling you shortly.”

The line clicks off.

Silence rushes in- not gentle, not still, but dense, like a pressure front collapsing inward. It doesn’t settle so much as press, heavy against Max’s chest, coiling in the space between words that never arrive.

Christian says nothing. His hands stay steady on the wheel. Max doesn’t move. Even the road quiets. The tires hum low beneath them, more suggestion than sound, a soft whisper across wet asphalt.

It hangs there. The weight of it. The finality.

You’re on the grid.

Max is still chewing on the words when he hears it.

A sharp crack- plastic slapping leather- your laptop shoved aside with zero ceremony, skidding half off the seat before your bag catches it. Papers follow in a loose explosion, fluttering across the backseat like confetti fired from a gun. Handouts, notes, color-coded madness- gone, scattered.

And then- 

You scream.

Not a yell. Not a cheer. A full-throated, spine-snapping howl as you slam the window control. The glass barely halfway down before you’re already half out of it, one arm braced on the door frame, the other thrown back like you’re summoning gods.

“FUCK YEAH!” you roar into the night. “I’M ON THE FUCKING GRID!”

Christian twitches behind the wheel, startled. Max blinks. Then you’re laughing- wild and sharp and goddamn unstoppable- as the wind slaps your hair across your face in tangled streaks. Your voice rips through the air outside the car.

“SEE YOU IN BAHRAIN, MOTHERFUCKERS!” you shout, head tipped back like the stars are listening. “I’M ON THE GRID, ASSHOLES! YOU HEAR THAT?!”

Your joy carves itself across the motorway. A minivan swerves slightly in the next lane. A lorry honks, long and confused. Someone flashes their brights from behind. You don’t care.

You’re laughing too hard to breathe, shoulders shaking, half-out the window and fully alive, clinging to the door like the car can’t hold you anymore. Like you might just launch.

Max stares straight ahead. Jaw slack. Heart pounding. Vision tight. Christian chuckles, low and amazed. “Guess it’s sunk in.”

You make a sound- something between a gasp and a growl, half-feral, wholly triumphant. “Fucking- yes.” Then you fall back into your seat, limp with joy, breath hitching, face flushed and lit from somewhere deep. Your hair’s a wreck, your papers are gone, your voice is probably halfway to hoarse- 

But Max has never seen anyone look more alive.

He was still angled toward you- barely- just enough to see you in the mirror’s corner. And God, it was like looking directly into the sun.

He’d seen you a lot of ways. Snapping. Spitting. Glaring at him across conference tables with a heat that made engineers forget their talking points.

He’d pressed you, more than once, just to make you crack. Just to see if you would. He liked the fury. Liked knowing it was in you. Liked proving to himself you were human. Mortal. That the clean professionalism and perfect posture was just a veneer. Poking, needling, pressing on every bruise until something bled. 

And you had snapped- sometimes with anger, sometimes with ice. You’d lashed back at him, sharp and venomous, and every time he’d told himself good. That’s what she is. That’s all she is.

But this?

This was the first time he’d seen you raw with joy.

You look alive in a way that almost hurts to witness. Like if Max blinks, you might burn out entirely. Like he’s seeing something he was never meant to. Not in the wild. Not without armor.

In the driver’s seat, Christian chuckles, low and warm. “You get it all out?”

You don’t lift your head- just groan through a smile, breathless and giddy. “For now.”

Christian glances back, a casual flick of the eyes that still carries weight. It’s not mocking, not patronizing. Just... paternal. The kind of look that says you’re still a kid to me, no matter how many contracts you’ve signed or late nights you’ve spent grinding data until your hands cramped. The kind of look older men give young people when they forget, for a moment, that the person in front of them is already pulling weight like someone twice their age. “You should call your friends,” he says. “Go out. Get a beer. Raise hell.”

You blink up at the ceiling of the car, dazed and glowing. “God,” you rasp, voice still wrecked from screaming, “a beer sounds incredible.”

Then you turn your head, just slightly, and aim it at Christian with a deadpan delivery so dry it nearly evaporates in the air. “But Christian… my only friend is a thirty-seven-year-old man who’s probably eating dinner with his wife and children right now.” Your words are casual. Inevitable. Like you’ve already made peace with it.

Christian laughs- but there’s a stutter in it, like it catches halfway through.

Max doesn’t laugh at all.

The silence after your sentence lands just a little too sharp. Not cruel. Just honest. The kind of silence that fills a room when everyone realizes they knew, but didn’t think about it long enough to feel it.

Christian recovers first, though his voice is a shade softer now. “Yeah,” he says, smiling again, but less brightly. “That’s right. I forgot.” He looks forward again. “Eighty-hour weeks don’t leave much room for socializing.”

“Shocking, I know,” you mumble, dragging a hand over your face.

You don’t sound bitter. You don’t look like someone who got lucky. You look like someone who fought. Who scrapped. Who bled. Who won. For the first time all night, Max turns. Really turns. He looks at you. And doesn’t say a thing.

Because it hits him- not as thought, but as truth:

You’re not going anywhere.

You’re not fading. Not flinching. Not folding under the weight of it all like he used to tell himself you would- had to, eventually. That the system would grind you down the way it does to everyone who shows up too bright, too earnest, too unwilling to play the long game.

But you haven’t gone quiet. You haven’t disappeared. You’re not dissolving under pressure like a sugar cube in rain.

You’re here. 

And not just physically, not just taking up space in the backseat of a car you didn’t drive, but here, in the way that matters. Unshakable. Bright. Absolutely alive. Max feels it settle- not like a punch, but like something heavier. Slower. A recognition that doesn’t ask for permission.

For the first time, Max knows- really knows- that whatever he believed would happen to you, isn’t going to happen. Whatever he wanted to believe- whatever petty, bitter hope he might have nursed- that somehow this would be temporary, a half-season-long disruption, a footnote… that you would do- or not do- something to send you packing and out of Redbull, out of Formula, out of Jos’s fucking mouth… he knows better now.

You’re not going to get overwhelmed and disappear.

You’re not going to say the wrong thing in a meeting and lose your shot.

You’re not going to flame out under pressure, or back down when the paddock sharpens its teeth, or get so disillusioned you hand back your badge and walk away quietly like a shadow that never mattered.

No.

You’re going to fight. You’re going to stay. You’re not passing through.

You’re arriving.

And it’s happening right in front of him.

He watches you, sprawled in the backseat with your hair still tangled and your smile too big for your face, like you’ve cracked open and joy is leaking out in every direction. Your papers are a mess. Your laugh is too loud. Your voice is still hoarse from screaming at the motorway.

And he can’t be mad about it.

Not right now.

Because it’s hard to be bitter when you’re watching someone’s dream wrap itself around them in real time- hard to resent the way your eyes keep slipping closed like you’re trying to hold it all in, to stretch the moment before it passes.

It makes something ache in him. Nostalgia, maybe. A memory long buried.  And God- he remembers what that felt like. 

The first time the call came. When he got his call. When everything he ever wanted was suddenly, actually his- and nothing had gone wrong yet. 

When someone outside the walls of home- outside the garage, the track, the echo chamber of expectations- just said it, plain and certain: You’re good enough. No stopwatch. No lecture. No icy silence after a second-place finish. Just a voice on the other end of the line saying, You belong here. You, yes you. 

When for one, fragile moment, it wasn’t about consequences. Wasn’t about slammed doors or missed dinners. Wasn’t about endless laps in the cold, and the rain, and the dark until his fingers felt closer to shattered glass than part of his hands. Wasn’t about waking up too early and going to sleep too late, body humming with exhaustion and nerves because he couldn’t afford to mess it up again. 

When it wasn’t about making up for the weekend before. Or the one before that. It wasn’t about hearing that voice- sharp, cold, disappointed- repeating the same five words on loop: You should’ve done better. 

When all the pressure hadn’t calcified into armor. When his name hadn’t yet become a shield. Before the PR machine. Before the politics. Before the paddock turned love into leverage and every podium into proof he deserved to be there.

It didn’t matter that it took Jos all of forty-five seconds to get on the phone and start planning his promotion from Toro Rosso. 

Because that one single moment was his. And you’re standing on the edge of that moment right now, drunk on it- without even needing the beer.

And Max- 

Max feels something sharp twist in his gut. It’s not hatred. It’s not even resentment.

It’s longing.

Melancholic. Jealous, if he’s honest. Not of your talent, or your seat, or even your rise- he has his own throne, his own empire. But of the feeling. That raw, high-voltage, maybe this is really happening kind of magic that only happens once. Maybe twice, if you’re lucky.

He didn’t realize how long it’s been since he felt it. How much he misses it.

And now here you are, soaking in it like it’s sunlight, and he can’t look away.

He remembers that version of himself. Bright-eyed. Hopeful. New. A kid that joked with Carlos and followed Danny around like the ground he walked on held secrets worth learning. 

And somehow, that’s what he sees in you. Even now. Even after everything. And for the first time in a long time, Max doesn’t can’t bring himself to resent you for it. Maybe he will. Maybe tomorrow. That’s okay.

But not tonight. You can have this one. He’ll allow it. 

The car settles again. But the silence isn’t heavy now. It’s expansive. Open. Like someone cracked the seal on a room that had been airless for too long. Only the rhythmic click of the blinker breaks it when Christian changes lanes. The faint drag of tires. And every so often, your laughter- quieter now, but still alive, still glowing. It’s a small sound. Crooked. Half-choked, like it sneaks up on you before you’ve decided to let it out.

Like the disbelief keeps reappearing in your chest, uninvited, and all you can do is laugh it off.

Max doesn’t turn back again. Not directly. But every time it happens, every time that sound breaks through the quiet- low, giddy, almost disbelieving- his eyes flick to the mirror. Just once. Just long enough to catch the outline of your shoulders trembling with it. Then he shifts back to the window, like it’s nothing.

Like it doesn’t land.

It does. It lands hard. That laugh- it gets under his skin, sure, but deeper than that. Under everything. Under the detachment, under the static, under the thick layer of contempt he’s wrapped around you for months. He doesn’t know how to describe it. Only that it sounds like something he’s never been allowed to feel.

Freedom.

They drive like that for ten more minutes. No one speaks. Christian hums softly under his breath, barely audible, the sound light and tuneless. You’re still stretched across the back seat like gravity let go of you. One boot perched against the center console, your head tilted just so against the cool window, your body loose with joy.

Max doesn’t check the mirror again- eyes forward- and that’s when he clocks it. The exit they always take- the familiar loops that gives way to the roundabouts toward the factory- slides past on the left, untouched. Christian doesn’t slow. Doesn’t glance. Just keeps driving, calm and unhurried, like this is exactly the plan.

Max straightens a little. Frowns. “You missed- ”

“Got anywhere to be?” Christian asks, voice casual- too casual to be innocent. Max glances at the clock. It’s late. But not late enough to matter. Not like he’s missing anything.

There’s no warm meal waiting for him at home. No one checking the time, waiting for the plane to land, watching the door, asking him how the event went, if he learned anything useful at the presentations. He’s not getting texts. Not really. There’s always someone to talk to, sure. Always someone to entertain the idea. But no one waiting.

And that’s what it comes down to. There’s no one waiting for Max Verstappen. So he shrugs, voice even. “No.” And it’s the truth. He has nowhere to be.

No one to be there for.

Christian just nods once. Says nothing else. Doesn’t explain. Doesn’t need to.

He flicks the indicator, turns onto a narrower road without hesitation. The headlights carve through a tight lane lined with old brick, terrace house fronts with trimmed hedges, and lampposts glowing, warm. It’s not unfamiliar, exactly. It looks like any other suburban stretch near Milton Keynes. Just unexpected.

From the back seat, you must notice- slow and half-alert- blinking off your daze like it’s something you can set aside. Max can hear your diagram confetti rustle as you sit up. “Where are we going?” Christian doesn’t answer. Just keeps driving, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at the edge of his mouth like he’s enjoying whatever surprise he has planned. And then the car slows. 

A small pub sits ahead- not some posh gastropub or dimly lit cocktail den- but a squat, weathered building tucked just off a residential bend. The paint on the wooden sign is chipped, peeled in layers down to bare grain. Warm light glows behind the glass, spilling across the wet pavement in patches that flicker against the cooler silver of streetlamps. Each time the door opens, muffled music and laughter leak into the air, caught and swallowed again when it slams shut. It’s not dingy, but it’s old- dated in the way that means history. Too lived-in to be a tourist spot, but too loved to be a complete shithole. Everything about the place looks aged and uneven- the kind of pub that’s been there longer than the people inside it. 

Christian pulls into a small space right outside. The engine goes quiet. For a moment, no one speaks. Max flicks his eyes toward the pub, then toward the rearview mirror.

“What are we doing here?” you ask, voice hesitant, caught somewhere between confusion and quiet amusement as you lean up between the front seats and look out the windshield- like maybe the side windows had tricked you- like you maybe weren’t parked in front of a neighborhood pub.

Max watches you from the corner of his eye- your gaze flicking between Christian and the battered old pub with a strange mix of suspicion and something softer. You sound like you want to laugh, but you’re not sure yet if it’s safe.

Christian doesn’t miss a beat. “We’re getting a beer.”

He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, like it doesn’t mean anything. But Max knows it does. Small as it is, this- this- is Christian giving a damn. Maybe not loudly. Maybe not in words. But enough to drive off-course. Enough to stop here.

You just blink at first. Max can see it- how the words take a second to sink in, like your brain needs time to register the gesture for what it is. You look out at the pub again- at the weathered door, the faded signage, the people slipping out of it, hunched against the cold, heads ducked low in the kind of wet that soaks you before you feel it.

Then your mouth tugs upward. Slow. Like you’re not used to smiling for no reason.

“This place is…” your voice trails as you scan it again, and Max sees the way your shoulders twitch- something uncoiling, piece by piece, not quite sure if it’s allowed. “...perfect.”

You don’t bounce out of the car. Don’t flash your teeth or strut toward the door like a woman who owns the world.

But you do move with purpose. Like maybe the world is giving you something tonight, and you're not going to waste time questioning it. You step out into the night, trailing behind the glow leaking from the pub’s front door like you’re trying to catch up with warmth before it changes its mind.

Christian follows a beat later, stretching like an old dog before straightening his jacket. He gives the place a once-over with that strange brand of affection older men save for even older bars. Like a decent pint is something personal. 

Max stays where he is. Hands resting in his lap. Still. Watching. Hesitating.

He doesn’t know why he hesitates. He doesn’t hate pubs. He’s been to plenty. But this place… this moment… it feels like it wasn’t meant for him. Not really. Like he’s accidentally stumbled into someone else’s memory being made.

And you look so happy.

Not in the way he’s seen before- not the polished post-race smiles, not the forced cheer of sponsor events. This is different. Bare. Quietly radiant. You’re not floating just out of orbit of this world anymore. You’re walking right into it, like it finally has space for you.

Max breathes out through his nose. Slowly. Then he moves.

Deliberate. Grounded. Shoulders drawn tight under the weight of something he won’t name. He climbs out of the car, planting his feet on slick pavement, the cold nipping at any exposed bits of skin- his face, his ears, the sliver of skin where his pants are tailored just so to the tops of his shoes. His hands slide into his coat pockets, fingers curling into the seams.

Not because he’s cold. But because he doesn’t quite know what to do with them when a night starts to feel this gentle.

“This place looks like it hasn’t passed a health inspection since the ‘80s,” he mutters, mostly to himself. Flat. Observational. No real teeth.

You glance over your shoulder, eyes catching his for a flicker of a second. Your mouth quirks. “It’s personality.” It’s teasing, it’s just two words- but it might be the first time you’ve ever said anything that borders on being friendly to him- not professional, not heated, not frustrated. Not what he makes you to be. Just… what you are. Warm. Kind. Like you’ve forgotten what a pain in your ass he is.

Christian just laughs, the sound low and amused, and claps Max on the shoulder with a firm pat that borders on a shove. “One beer. You’ll live.”

Inside, the air smells like fryer grease and varnished wood, like carpets that have soaked up too many rainy shoes and Sunday pints. A tapestry-patterned grid of carpet stretches out beneath scuffed tables and mismatched chairs. There’s a low hum of conversation, football playing on two TVs mounted high in the corners, sound just under the level of speech. One chalkboard lists drink specials in smudged white chalk; another advertises upcoming game coverage on SkySports and a Sunday poker night in barely-crooked block letters.

It’s not a shithole.

It’s just... used. The way good things are.

Max pauses just inside the doorway, his eyes scanning the room like he’s trying to map out exits. There’s a stiffness in his spine, a quiet discomfort that doesn’t read as fear- just unfamiliarity. The place is too normal, too small, too honest. Nothing here needs polishing. A dozen patrons, maybe fewer. Mostly older men, coats still on, eyes half-lidded as they nurse their drinks like they’re waiting to be tired enough to sleep.

No one looks up. No one gives a shit who just walked in. This place doesn’t want anything from him. And for reasons he doesn’t understand, that feels... almost comforting. Max exhales through his nose. Something tight uncoils in his chest, just barely.

“This,” you murmur, more to yourself than anyone else, “is my kind of place.”

Christian beelines for the bar the second they’re inside, already tossing a half-wave at the barkeep like he’s a regular, or just pretending to be one. His voice disappears into the low hum of the room- easy, warm, familiar.

And just like that, Max is left trailing behind you.

He doesn’t mean to. Not really. It just sort of happens. One step after the other, unthinking. The carpet firm underfoot. The air too warm against his face. He watches the way your head tilts slightly as you scan the room, the subtle pause in your step when you realize he’s following you- not like a bodyguard or a shadow, but like someone who didn’t make a decision fast enough and now doesn’t know how to back out.

You don’t say anything.

But your shoulders pull a little tighter for half a second, the way people do when they’re trying to decide if they’re being hunted or accompanied. Then, with a misdirected kind of purpose, you veer toward the left. Max follows.

The side room is empty. Blessedly, perfectly empty.

Same worn tapestry carpet, same faint scent of beer and furniture polish, but quieter. Detached. A few scattered tables and chairs. A dart board. One pool table- it doesn’t match either of the ones out front. And a jukebox against the wall- an actual jukebox. Old-fashioned. And mechanical. Not touchscreen, not curated. The kind that requires real coins and real commitment.

You hover near the doorway for a second, then walk in, slow and casual, pretending you’re assessing options but already choosing. You pick a table in the back- half-tucked near a radiator that clicks softly under the window. You don’t look at Max, but you know he’s there. You can feel him behind you.

He hesitates in the doorway again, just for a beat, before stepping inside. His steps are slower now. Intentional. He slides into the chair across from you, because like fuck is he going to sit next to you. And then it happens.

That terrible, silent, brutal minute where neither of you says a word.

Because no one made you sit here, together. There’s no team debrief. No overbearing fathers. No media duty. No camera crew waiting to catch the dynamic. No podium to share. Just... a table. A chair. And the awful weight of silence.

Thick. Ugly. The kind that knows it’s silence. The kind that grows louder the longer it stretches.

You glance toward the main bar, then back at Max, your expression flickering into something a little too neutral. Your voice is light but strained, like you’re trying to casually toss something into the void to break the tension.

“Do you think Christian’s ordering for all three of us or… do you think I should- ?” You gesture vaguely toward the door, a half-lifted hand that immediately regrets existing.

Max blinks at you. “He’ll get three.”

You nod a little too fast. “Yeah. Right. That makes sense.” And that’s it. Nothing else. Just those sad, wrinkled words sitting in the air like a damp napkin no one wants to pick up. 

Silence again.

It’s impossible to tell if the talking or the not talking is more awkward.

Neither of you looks at each other.

Christian returns- mercifully- carrying three pints with the kind of practiced balance that says this isn’t his first pub trip. The tray is plastic, probably older than all of them, and each glass is filled to the brim with a different shade of gold.

He doesn’t say much. Just slides the drinks onto the table like he’s delivering a verdict and claims the seat beside you, sighing as he shrugs off his jacket.

“Here we are,” he says. “The best thing I’ve done for either of you all week.”

Your hands are already around the glass before he finishes talking.

Pilsner, probably. Crisp. Cold. Head still holding. You stare down at it like it’s a religious experience.

Max watches as your fingers tighten around the glass. Your shoulders are still a little hunched from the lingering discomfort of whatever the hell that silence was, but now there’s something else bubbling up behind your eyes. Energy. Relief. Joy.

You lift the pint slightly, almost toasting with yourself, and then just laugh- a short, breathless thing as you shake your head. “I’m trying to think of something to cheers to,” you say, voice warm and hoarse. “But all I can think about is how fucking good this is going to be.”

You grin down at the glass. “I haven’t had a beer since I moved here. I- God.” You cut yourself off with another soft laugh, this one less strained. “It just looks so good.”

You say it like it’s more than beer. Max watches you. You’re entirely infatuated with your glass, which makes it easier to do.

He hasn’t seen you like this. Not really. Not happy, not glowing, not vibrating with the kind of low-key anticipation people usually outgrow once the world teaches them better.

He shifts in his seat and picks up his own pint. Ale. Bitter. Familiar.

Christian raises his glass and taps it gently against yours with a knowing grin. “Then stop thinking and drink it.”

You don’t need to be told twice. You lift the glass with both hands and knock back a third of it like you’ve just been pulled out of the desert. It’s aggressive, almost theatrical, except it’s not. You don’t even seem aware of how intense it looks- just drink until the foam’s down your throat and the glass is heavy again on the table.

“Fuck,” you breathe, wiping the back of your hand across your mouth. “That was exactly as good as I knew it was going to be.”

You sit back in your chair with a soft thump, spine loose, mouth curling like the weight of the day finally slipped off your shoulders. Max watches it all with a kind of passive disbelief. Not judgment, not exactly. Just… surprise.

You don’t look like yourself.

At least, not the version of you he knows. The one clipped and coiled, always tucked neatly into meetings, simulator data, tight-lipped PR nods. This is different. This is you opened up, like someone’s unzipped your skin and let something feral crawl out.

And it’s… weird.

Not bad. Not good. Just wrong somehow. Off-kilter. Like seeing your teacher at the grocery store in sweatpants, or hearing someone usually stiff and composed let loose a bark of laughter that doesn’t belong in their mouth.

“Best beer I’ve ever had,” you say into the foam, laughing softly to yourself. “Not even close.”

Christian’s grinning, already halfway into his own pint. “That’s because this is your first proper pint.”

“Hm. Probably.” You nod, like he’s just confirmed something sacred, then shift your attention toward the jukebox across the room. “Wonder if that thing still works.”

Christian cranes his neck, squinting toward the machine. “Not unless you’ve got change.”

Without missing a beat, you grab your purse off the floor and haul it into your lap, already unzipping a side pocket. “I’ve probably got a few twenty-pence pieces in here. My order at the work vending machine always gives me 20p back.”

You dig around, knuckles disappearing into the depths- keys, old receipts, some rogue stick of gum. Then the jingle of metal.

Max watches, eyes flicking from your hands to your face and back again. You’re buzzing. Not just from the beer. From something else. Movement. Relief. The sheer absurdity of the moment. 

And he can’t figure out if it’s entertaining or uncomfortable. He doesn’t like you. Not really. But seeing you like this- unguarded, messy, alive- it feels like catching a stranger undressing in a room you weren’t supposed to enter.

He doesn’t look away.

But it doesn’t sit right, either.

A scatter of coins clatter into your palm. Mostly 10ps and 20ps, one suspiciously sticky quid. Then, with a pleased hum, you stand and cross toward the jukebox, slotting the first coin in with a satisfying clink.

Max follows, slow and curious, hovering beside you, scanning the vinyl list for something that he’d like to listen to. 

He doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t need to. He just assumes.

Of course you’ll hand him one. Why wouldn’t you? That’s what you do. If he asks for a file at the factory, you get it. If he shows up late to a meeting, you fill the gaps. You’re polite. Accommodating. Always willing to smooth over his edges, like that’s part of your job description.

So he holds out a hand. Expectant. Waiting.

You turn. See his outstretched palm. And for a moment you just blink at it. Then you burst out laughing. Not a scoff. Not a bitter exhale. Laughter. Full-bodied, surprised, involuntary.

“Oh my God,” you choke out, grinning wide. “You really just assumed I was gonna give you one. Like, full faith.”

Max blinks. Hand still out, suspended in the air like a loose wire. You just shake your head, still laughing, and tuck the rest of the coins into the back pocket of your pants. “What?” he says, flatly.

“What?” you echo, eyes wide and tone syrupy-sweet, the kind of sweet that makes your teeth ache. “Oh, sweetie, bless your heart. You must’ve forgotten- we’re not at the office. I don’t have to kiss your ass here.”

Max freezes, not because the words sting, but because they don’t. And your tone- it’s like creamed sugar. It’s too gentle. Too soft. Like there’s a knife slipped under the lace of your reply.

And he doesn’t know exactly what just happened.

But he’s pretty sure you made fun of him.

He stares at you like you’d just malfunctioned. Max leans in, his arms crossed tightly over his chest. His tone is measured, almost too calm- because the idea that you wouldn’t hasn’t even occurred to him. “Just pass me one.” he says.

You don’t even bother to lift your eyes. “Why would I do that?”

He blinks, as if surprised by his own impulse. Like he’s just remembered he’s supposed to ask. “Because I want to pick a song?”

You finally meet his eyes, and in them you catch something warm- a glimmer that isn’t full mockery, but rather a spark of amusement, light and unexpected. “And I want to own oceanfront property in Arizona. Guess we both have dreams.”

Max blinks.

You're serious.

He stares at you, genuinely gobsmacked- more from the unexpected tilt of the moment than from your words- because it’s not just that you’re refusing, it’s that you’re enjoying it. That the second you’re off Red Bull property, the second you're not in your work clothes and obligated to keep things diplomatic, you put your foot down. 

Over a twenty pence coin.

For months, you’d always given in to him, you’d always played the part as best you could, no matter how he acted: polite, professional, bending just enough so he could assume it was his idea.

But now?

Now you laugh- loud, unreserved laughter that rings out clear as you fish a single coin out of your pocket and hold it up like a prize. It’s the kind of laugh that feels raw and real, and it cracks the weight of the past wide open. The idea that you might hand him a twenty-pence piece simply because he wants one is absurd- so absurdly funny that it seems the universe itself has tipped the scale.

Max’s mouth parts in a tentative “You’re serious?”

“Oh, deadly,” you reply, your tone light but edged with challenge.

And it’s not just a boundary- it’s a message.

I don't owe you anything.

He narrows his eyes, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth despite himself. “Come on.”

With a casual flourish, you hold the coin between two fingers, letting it catch the light- a tiny sun in your grasp. “If you want a song that bad,” you say, your voice sweet and teasing, “I’ll give you one. But you have to get on your knees, right here, and tell me I’m the best support driver you’ve ever had.”

The room between you shrinks in that moment. It’s more than the clink of coins or a request- it’s a defiant echo of balance, a playful wager that recasts every past slight into something strangely equal. And in the soft glow of the jukebox’s failing neon tubes- Max, for a brief, unguarded moment- is wrestling with that truth.

He lets out a breath through his nose- almost a laugh. Almost. No chance. Max Verstappen is not going to beg.

That’s the one thread he clings to, even as the night starts to loosen around the edges- warm light, cheap beer, and the comforting weight of anonymity settling over the room like a blanket no one asked for but doesn’t mind.

But asking again doesn’t really count as begging, right? It’s not like he’s on his knees or anything. He’s mulling it over when ‘just one beer’ unanimously becomes ‘just one more.’ He doesn’t remember saying he’d stay this long. But he doesn’t remember not saying it either. He also doesn’t remember asking for a second round, but one shows up anyways- probably Christian’s gesture of good will or penance or plain old morbid curiosity, but either way, Max doesn’t argue. He takes the pint and lets the chill hit his hand, then his throat, and plans his next move through half-lidded eyes.

It’s not that you’re being mean. Not really. You’re just… unbothered. Casual. Infuriatingly in control of this very stupid, very small situation.

He waits until you’re halfway through your second beer to try again.

Max hovers just behind you with his mug, arms crossed loosely, watching as you slot another twenty-pence piece into the old machine, your fingers dancing along the laminated list like you’re selecting fine wine instead of vintage trash-pop. He’s scowling, hovering just close enough to keep asking. Needling. Pestering. Because now it’s a matter of principle. 

“You can’t possibly need all of those.”

“Probably not,” you hum. “Think I’ll hang onto them just in case. Unless?”

When two locals approach the edge of the room- one in a Saints jersey, the other nursing a cider- and ask if you and Max want to team up for doubles on the lopsided pool table, you glance at him for just long enough that he thinks his respectable performance might have bought him some leverage. Wrong. Denied. Kneel. He scoffs. 

“I’m Max Verstappen.”

You shoot him a look so full of icy amusement that it could be a patented cooling system. “Kind of embarrassing if you can’t afford 20p then, you think?” There’s something so pleased in your voice, like you can’t believe he’s gift wrapped you a third opportunity to tell him no in the same night. Like you’ve already collected the return on your little shenanigans, and now Max is shoveling over interest for free. 

He doesn’t get it. He really doesn’t. You’ve always been accommodating. Tolerant. Even when he was an asshole- especially then- you still handed him things without making it a fight. You played the part. Took the hits. Smiled through clenched teeth.

Every appeal he makes, you swat down without lifting your voice, without raising an eyebrow. Just that same calm, clipped response- get on your knees. It becomes a rhythm. A bit. A game that neither of you acknowledges as a game, but plays to win.

You make your next selection, humming under your breath again, and Max stares at your hands- at the last few coins still gleaming in the half-light. They might as well be orbiting stars. Unattainable.

The worst part is that now he really wants to play a song. Not even to win. Not even to prove anything. He just wants the satisfaction. The hit of dopamine. The petty victory of hearing his music next.

And you’ve made it a hostage negotiation.

He paces. He sighs. He sits down on a barstool for thirty seconds, then stands back up. Sighs again. Another drink. Maybe his third. Or fourth. Time gets weird in warm places with sticky floors. Fuck, he wants to play a song.

And then it happens. Something cracks.

He groans- loudly, dramatically- and drops down to one knee right there in front of the jukebox, his jeans collecting samples of whatever filth settles on the floor of a place like this. “Fine,” he spits. “You’re the best support driver I’ve ever had.”

His voice drips with so much sarcasm it practically coats the walls. “Truly. Couldn’t have done a single thing without you.” You stare down at him like he’s a sewer rat that’s learned to tap dance. Amused. A little revolted. Deeply entertained.

And then you grin. It’s not cruel. It’s not even smug. It’s pure, unfiltered delight.

Then, without fanfare, you flick a twenty-pence coin toward the floor. It falls soft on the carpet. Rolls. Spins to a stop just out of his reach. You don’t say a word. But the look on your face- God- you don’t have to.

You’re glowing. Not in the clean, polished way people look when they’ve just won something shiny and official. No, this is something messier. Deeper. Satisfaction pulled from the pit of your stomach, slow and earned.

Max stares at the coin.

Then at you.

Then back at the coin.

And fuck- it’s humiliating. Which might be why it’s perfect. After everything he’s put you through- the weeks of sabotage, the debrief interruptions, the psychological bruising dressed up as excellence- you get to watch him bend.

He reaches down and picks it up.

You laugh. Low and loose and entirely unbothered. Like the idea of him groveling for your spare change is the funniest thing you’ve seen all week.

And maybe it is.

Because he feels it. In his spine. In the back of his throat. The shift. The tilt. This isn’t just a joke anymore. This is power. Yours. 

And for a moment- a long, stretching second longer than either of you probably intends- he holds your gaze. That coin is still cold in his palm. Small. Silly. Heavy in ways it shouldn’t be. Then he turns to the jukebox. Scrolls deliberately. Finds the most obnoxious ABBA song in the catalog. Hits play.

Out of spite. Out of principle. Out of sheer, fucking petty survival.

Your laughter follows him as he walks back toward the table- bright and alive and echoing like it’s chasing him down. And God help him- 

Max doesn’t even mind.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

The car hums low beneath them, dark outside now- later than it feels. Streetlights streak through the windshield in rhythmic bursts, washing Christian’s hands on the wheel in gold every few seconds. The roads are mostly empty, quiet, tucked in.

The silence in the car isn’t awkward.

It’s something else.

Max slumps slightly in the passenger seat, just enough for his spine to ease off the tension that’s been riding him all day. He’s not drunk, not entirely. But there’s a looseness in him now- beer-soft and slow, like someone’s untied a knot in the center of his chest without asking his permission.

His gaze drifts, half-lidded, unfocused- then catches the rearview mirror.

There you are.

Sprawled back in the seat again, just like you were earlier, but this time you’re warm with victory and booze and something that looks dangerously close to peace. Your head’s tilted toward the window, eyes half-closed. One sneaker up on the seat, your jacket unzipped, your fingers idly fiddling with a keychain that had come in your convention bag. 

Max forces his eyes forward. Then a beat later, they drift again.

Back to the mirror. Back to you.

He keeps doing it. Keeps catching himself. Keeps looking. And every time he does, the image plays again in his head like someone queued it up and hit repeat:

That coin.

The way you held it between your fingers like a king holding court. That smirk. That casual little toss to the floor, like the indignity of him crawling after it might scratch the surface of what he actually deserved. And fuck- maybe it did scratch the surface.

Maybe that’s what’s been clawing at him all night.

Because in that moment, on the grimy floor of some shitty pub, he had deserved it. And you’d known it. Had looked at him like yeah, fucker, I’ve got you. Like pulling him down to the floor made up for every interruption, every data sabotage, every small, cruel, calculated erosion.

And the worst part?

It worked.

He hadn’t felt humiliated. He’d felt- God, he doesn't even know. Exposed? Levelled? Something so real it almost hurt.

You’d leveled the field with one coin.

He rubs at his jaw, tilts his head like it might shake the feeling off. His eyes flick back to the mirror.

You're still there. You’re always fucking there. Soft now, somehow. Not unguarded, not entirely, but less braced. Like the night gave you something back. Like you won something that didn’t come in a contract or a race result.

Max shifts in his seat again. Clears his throat. Doesn’t say anything.

But he looks.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You’re folded into the backseat, the hum of the road under you and a pub buzz still warm in your veins. Not drunk, not really. Just soft around the edges. Floaty. Like your body hasn’t caught up with your life yet.

You’re going to be in Formula One.

You say it again in your head- quietly, like a secret. Not because it is a secret anymore, but because something about the shape of it still feels fragile. Like saying it too loud might undo it. Pop the balloon.

Formula One.

God, you can’t wait to tell your mom.

The thought hits you hard enough you blink at the window, like the reflection might steady you. You picture her face. The way her eyes will go wide, her mouth open just a second before the joy breaks loose. You can already hear the way she’ll say your name- half disbelief, half vindication, all pride.

You feel it rise in your chest, tight and hot. You would cry, probably. If you were capable of that sort of thing- of happy tears. So you settle for smiling into the dark window instead.

And then- eyes.

You catch them by accident. Just a flicker in the rearview mirror. A flash of blue. Max. It’s not a look. Not really. Not loaded. Just… brief. The ghost of eye contact. But the second it happens, both of you look away. Like it burned.

You turn your head, pretend you were adjusting your jacket. He shifts in the front seat like something itched. And that should be it. Should’ve passed. But you don’t mean to- you swear you don’t- but your eyes flick back up to the mirror, just once, just to check if he’s still-  He is.

Staring.

Not in that cold, calculating way you’ve come to expect. Not annoyed. Not unreadable. Just... watching. Quiet. Caught.

So you stare right back. You don’t know why. Pride, maybe. Challenge, probably.

Fuck, why is it electric? It’s not charged with romance. There’s no tenderness to it. It’s something else entirely. Like striking flint. The glint of blade against blade. 

He doesn’t look away. Neither do you. You don’t move. And in that breathless little standoff- somewhere between the motorway and the factory- you realize something terrifying. 

He might see you.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Series Masterlist

[grey-spark]

The Complete Events of Lion’s Fury

So with Shishitoren coming back in the manga, more people need to get up to date on the events of the Winhero Game. So here's a 1000 word synopsis covering Episodes 1-7 of the Shishitoren storyline. It takes place between the Shishitoren and Noroshi War Arc.

Here is the complete ENG SUB of the series on youtube translated by the wonderful Spirit_Glaze, if you want to watch it yourself:

Episode 1

Choji and Togame decide to immediately step down after their loss to Bofurin, and many of the members leave anyway. One of the random members that remained suggested finding Wanijima, the old #3 to be the new leader, but nobody has his phone number. 

They hear that Arima and Kanuma are quitting the gang, and find the two under the bridge (who literally have nothing to do without Shishitoren lol). They inform Arima and Kanuma that they’re stepping down and don’t have to leave. But this only offends them, since they blame themselves for the debacle. Arima and Kanuma challenge them to a fight and lose. They all reminisce on the old times and commit to rebuild the team. Arima text Wani.

Episode 2

Wani is working part time jobs to make money for his family. He also has a sister, Asuka, who will be relevant later. They find him on the street while doing an errand and reconnect. We get a flashback of Wani standing up to Choji shortly after he goes evil, but after losing decides to quit the gang.

Since then, he’s been doing part time work, which explains why he didn’t beat the weakened Choji before Umemiya did. He fights Choji again and says he’s gotten weaker. But he also tells them his own fighting skills have since diminished and wouldn't make a good leader. Wani tells Choji to find his old faith in power, then leaves.

Later at Kraken’s base. Takeru Takoya hatches a plan to attack the weakened Shishitoren after hearing they're desperate enough to make Wani their new leader. Takeru is noticeably abusive to his own men and is doing this to impress his big brother, Takoya Toru.

Episode 3

Choji and Togame ponder what to do, and Choji says he wants to find his favorite stray cat. But hilariously, the cat is getting scared by Inugami who growls (like a dog) when he’s upset. He’s upset that Sako is leaving the gang and they set off to find him.

Sako is at the river bank pondering what to do. Hiragi was the only reason he join Shishitoren and now that’s over. Inugami arrives and begs him not to leave. Sako is reminded of his devotion to Hiragi and maintains that he’s not someone to look up to. Sako throws off his jacket, but Inugami yells at him then challenges him to a fight,

If he wins Sako has to stay in the gang. He struggles horribly, and eventually Choji steps in. Sako loses, and feels bad for abandoning Inugami like he felt Hiragi abandoned him. He runs off near tears. They chase after him. Meanwhile at HQ, the base has received an imminent threat from Kraken.

Episode 4

Kraken kidnaps Wani’s sister. Thinking he’s the new leader, Takeru Takoya calls Wani and threatens him to come save her at their base at the docks, or else. Wanijima tries to explain he’s not the leader, but Takeru doesn’t listen. Wani has no choice but to collect the forces gathered at The Cage and go to the docks.

That night, Shishitoren gets to the docks and find Wani’s sister being held hostage high up on a shipping container. Wani fights Takeru while Kanuma and Arima all get their asses handed to them by Kraken. They tell Kanuma to run off and bring the others.

Episode 5

Arima and Wani are barely holding on. They threaten to break Wani’s legs an force his sister to watch. And then, just in time, Choji and Togame arrive. They play it cool and lure the Takoya Brothers into a false sense of security. It’s then revealed that Sako and Inugami had snuck around back and save Wani’s sister. 

In a flashback, it cuts back to the riverbank, where Inugami demands Sako explain why he’s leaving, but Sako can’t bring himself to explain his past with Hiragi. Just then, Choji and Togame run up with word that Kraken is attacking. Sako can’t bring himself to quit while Shishitoren is in need and stay with the team. Sako then devises the plan to take a stealth approach. Back in the present, Takeru Takoya struggles to fight Togame. And Toru blames their loss of the hostage on his brother’s stupidity and incompetence. Toru finally steps in and challenges Choji. Wani demands Togame let him finish off Takeru, so Togame and others take the Kraken army.

Episode 6

Ironically, fighting Kraken brings the Shishitoren team closer together again. The battle turns and everyone is having fun. Wanijime beats Takeru by using his special alligator grapple move.

But Choji is struggling. He confronts Toru Takoya on his philosophy. The leader of Kraken is a smart ‘octopus’ like mastermind who sees everyone as a piece on a chess board, even his brother. Choji recognizes that until recently, he saw his own team members as replaceable too. Choji then gets the upper hand, and Toru is stunned to see all his allies are defeated. Before he goes down, Toru gloats that Kraken is only the first, and that a whole conspiracy of teams are planning to strike against Shishitoren. But Choji just knocks him down, claiming they’re ready for anything that comes their way.

Episode 7

After the battle, everyone reaffirms their commitment to Shishitoren. Wani realizes what the team meant to him and his sister also thanks the group. Sako takes Choji and Togame aside to explain his past with Hiragi to them offscreen. Togame notes how Sako was too shy to share the story in front of Inugami, which makes him blush. Sako says he wants to be like them and commits to growing with the team. Later on, the whole team gathers for an announcement where Wanijime officially rejoins as a member.

He gives a motivational speech where he declares Choji and Togame the leaders again. The narration declares that New Shishitoren will become the strongest team of all time.

[knight-a3]

Eve, the Mother of Humankind

Heavenbound AU, Heavenbound Lore

Hazbin Masterpost

There's not a lot of canon to go off of(yet), so I had a lot of freedom in her design. With how the writing has gone so far, I don't expect to like the canon version of her anyway.

One big thing is that I don't want to portray her as a villain character. The forbidden fruit didn't make her evil or anything. She's a sweet woman and caring mother. It's important to me.

More notes under the cut

--Design Notes--

Appearance: I immediately wanted her to have dark, curly hair and a full, curvy figure. Lots of round shapes. Her eyelashes are similar to Charlie's because it has a nice, round, apple-like shape.

Apple: Canon has apples as a symbol for the Morningstars, especially Lucifer. But I think it would be more fitting for Adam and Eve instead. "Adam's apple" is a real term, after all. So I wanted to incorporate that. I also used apple blossoms for Eve, so I could throw in some feminine flowery stuff for some of her outfits.

Leaves: After eating the forbidden fruit, Adam and Eve made clothes of fig leaves. So one of her outfits is designed with leaves in mind.

Earthy colors suit her. I focused particularly on red, green, and yellow, but also included a little bit of pink because of apple blossoms. I made a few alternate color palettes for her clothes.

--Background--

Adam and Eve were the first humans and were tasked with cultivating the garden of Eden. Abyss wanted them to Fall so it could consume them, so it created Lilith. Lilith befriended them, then offered the forbidden fruit to Eve. Eve, realizing she'd be kicked out, ran to Adam. So he could stay with her, he ate the fruit as well. The fruit gave them the ability to understand morality, and ultimately the ability to choose good and evil, aka sin. Now that they could sin, they could Fall.

Abyss instructed Lilith to seduce Adam to sin. She tried to force herself on him, to get him to commit adultery, but he rejected her. The friendship between the three of them was broken by this. Lilith hadn't eaten the fruit yet, so she didn't really know what she did wrong.

Adam and Eve were banished from Eden, while Lilith was cast to hell with Helel(Lucifer). Adam and Eve had a family and lived happily ever after. Until Cain killed Abel. I don't have that aspect of their story totally worked out, and I'm not sure how relevant it will end up being.

Children-- The Bible only names three children. Cain, Abel, and Seth. But it says they had "more sons and daughters". There's no definitive numbers. It's not even clear if Cain was actually the firstborn. The true firstborn may have gone unnamed because Cain had a more prominent role to document. No daughters are named in the Bible, but some traditions and apocryphal writings mention a few. Aclima, Awan, and Azura.

The bible story basically goes like this: Cain and Abel offered sacrifices to God. Abel was a shepherd and gave the best of his flock. Cain was a farmer and gave some of his crop. There is no specification to the quality of Cain's offering. So the implication is that he was selfish and kept the best for himself and either gave an average or sub-par offering, maybe even as an afterthought. So when God favored Abel, Cain killed him out of jealousy. Seth was born to essentially replace Abel, so I'm assuming that means Seth was also a shepherd. But I may make Seth a hunter, for variety.

History or myth?-- I personally think the Adam and Eve story is largely symbolic, not literal. The method of history keeping during the early biblical days was through stories, often using symbolic imagery to portray a general idea of an event. Which is why there will be other stories across various cultures with similar themes and plot elements. I think the story of Adam and Eve is representative of the evolution of mere ape to sapient human. While Cain and Abel is about how humans can sin.

Afterlife-- While Adam is the Chief Saint and official leader of the saints, Eve is the same rank of angel as him. While he leads the army, she focuses on uplifting saints in ways that Emily can't. Emily struggles to relate to the mortal experience, while Eve can.

When concern over hell's growing population and risk of an uprising became prominent, the exterminations began. Recently, the exterminations have been more brutal. Turns out Eve has gone missing, and Adam thinks hell is to blame somehow. So he's furiously searching for her.

I don't have details figured out, but Eve is trapped in hell due to the machinations of Abyss. It might have something to do with why Lilith has been missing for seven years. IDK yet, I just like designing characters. She's even been cursed with a demon form, which has made her more difficult to recognize.

While in hell, she's referred to as "Apple Blossom" or "Blossom"

She's a sheep because of the religious symbolism. Sacrificial lamb, lost sheep, etc. While I was designing her, my sister had commented that she looked kind of like a sheep, and that sort of solidified that I wanted to design a sheep form for her.

Deciding on the colors was sort of hard. A totally white sheep is a fairly stereotypical sheep, but I didn't really want the whitewashing implication. So I went with a darker colored sheep with white wool for hair. The yellowish color is due to lanolin, which is a waxy oil-like substance from wool animals, primarily sheep. It's a good moisturizer and is naturally anti-bacterial. It's extracted from wool that had to be shorn anyway, so no sheep are hurt for lanolin.

(edit notes will go here as needed)

[honeipie]

Hi love! I love your works and writing style so-so much! May I please request Bakugou falling in love with a weak and sick fem!reader that is bound to hospital bed because of her disease (she can walk but she is too weak to do so). They could meet at the hospital while she still had strength to walk. Basically, he falls in love with her watching her wither away.My heart is craving angst and some soft Bakugou💔It's okay if you can't write it. Anyway, thank you!!! Sending you lots of love 🩷🩷

THE PROMISE

katsuki bakugo x fem!sickreader

synopsis: katsuki fell in love with you, but all good things must come to an end

author note: my first writing request i will treasure this forever!

cw: sick reader, the sickness is not specific, mentions of dying

“thank you for coming dynamite! the kids will be excited to see you here!” a woman in scrubs bowed in thanks, which katsuki only grunted at.

“don’t have to bow or anything, but you’re welcome” katsuki dipped his head a bit as a sign of respect. the woman held her clipboard with a smile.

“well aren’t you humble? come on now, the kids are right this way”

the nurse led him through a pair of doors that were decorated with stickers and kids names from top to bottom.

katsuki had decided that he would spend his volunteer days at the local hospital. it was either that or wearing a hairnet at the local soup kitchen. telling kids about some of his battles and even doing a damn craft if he had to.

now he had thought the doors were colorful, but the room was something else. children’s drawings were hung up all over the ceiling being held together by small clothespins and wire. there were shelves of toys and stuffed animals across just one wall, and a playmat for a safe area to have fun in.

though there were no kids on the playmat letting their imaginations run wild with dolls. neither were there at the easel’s painting a new picture to hang up.

they were all sitting at the table enthralled with something in front of them. katsuki was about to get their attention before he heard your voice.

“and then they came in contact with the evil king. he sat on top of his throne which towered above the hero and the princess”

“why’d he make his throne so high up?” one of the kids asked eyebrows scrunched together.

“because the king thought he was better than everyone. thought everyone was small compared to him, but that’s not the right mindset to have” the child nodded in understanding which allowed you to go on “then the king yelled out to the two-“ you looked up finally noticing the pro hero staring into your soul. your next words stopped in your throat at his presence.

blinking your eyes you gained your composure again sending the kids a smile “the king yelled out you’re gonna have to wait until next week to find out” all the the kids screamed ‘no!’ collectively, disappointed that their story time was being cut short. all you could do was laugh as they all gathered near your legs begging you to continue the story.

“i don’t think you’ll want to hear any more of the story when you see the special guest" all of the kids immediately turned around at your words now noticing the big pro hero that had been lingering behind them.

"dynamite!" they all screamed and went over to him as fast as they could. he was now being bombarded with questions and stories about himself.

"guys c'mon! let him breathe" you walked over giving him a smile "sorry, they're just really excited"

katsuki shook his head at your words "it's fine. better then damn villains attacking me-"

"he said a bad word! y/n he said a bad word!" the kids started feeding off of each other's energy until it turned into a full on shouting match.

"i heard it everyone don't worry, but dynamite is an adult so he's allowed to say the bad words" you gently tugged the kids away from dynamite so he could collect himself. some part in you hoped he had something planned, but he just seemed to stand there awkwardly. this was nothing like the hot-headed hero you saw on the television. he shifted his weight from one foot to the other looking at the kids, then up at you again. catching the memo you nodded.

"why don't we all introduce ourselves to dynamite, yeah? go find a seat and then we can start"

he watched as all of the kids followed your instructions without further push back. katsuki sent a subtle nod your way in which you returned "right this way dynamite"

you led him over to the chair you were sitting in "you can sit right here then we can go over names" katsuki sat down in the chair, but had to scoot up to the edge of it. between his hero suit and wide hips fitting in the chair simply wasn't going to happen.

for the next hour you directed as the kids introduced themselves and were able to ask the hero questions. katsuki answered most of the kids questions, well the one's that weren't 'do you have a girlfriend?' or 'why do you look mad all the time?'. your personal favorite being 'why do you sweat so much?'. as soon as it came out of the kid's mouth you burst out in laughter.

dynamite rolled his eyes not even looking at you "glad you found that funny"

"sorry! just- just wasn't expecting that"

by the time the last question was answered it was time for them to go back to their individual rooms "everybody say thank you to dynamite!"

"thank you dynamite!" they yelled out before filing out of the room one by one. there was a smile on your face as you turned to clean up but immediately jumped at the sight of the pro hero that was now particularly close to you.

"hi!" it came out in such a high pitch you had to clear your throat to make sure you were alright "thanks for spending time with the kids. they really enjoyed it i could tell"

"good"

his empty response only left you more confused. blinking away the confusion you put back on that polite smile of yours "well i'm just going to go clean" you stepped away from him walking over to the table. you had gotten the bright idea that each kid should make colorful nametags and give them to the pro hero.

"what was i doing wrong?" he asked quickly, but you still caught it.

"excuse me?"

"what was i doing wrong? cause some of the kids were looking at me like i was stupid when you walked in"

a smile crept onto your lips hearing his words. the katsuki bakugo asking for feedback.

"well i know you're a blunt man, so let me be blunt with you. when you walked in you kinda looked stupid. like you just got shocked by lightning and couldn't move. correct me if i'm wrong. that's probably because you don't have much experience with kids"

he scratched his chin a light stubble growing on his chin. he hasn't had much time to shave "i don't"

you could tell that there was more that he wanted to say, but couldn't bring himself to say it. taking one of the pencil boxes you slid it back into place "if you wanted to visit again. i could teach you some of the things i've learned along the years. i could take you on a walk around the hospital" his eyes stayed glues to the floor making you just a bit nervous "i didn't want to assume but the kids really had fun. plus i know they would love if you came back"

taking his fingers off of his chin he looked up. there was no way the paparazzi was catching him in a hairnet "okay, let’s go, show me around the hospital"

you raised your eyebrow at his swift demands and stepped aside to show him the mess on the table "i know you're some popular pro hero, but here? you're a volunteer. so what we're going to is clean this place up. then we'll see about that walk" you went over and gave him a pat on the shoulder "welcome to the team"

the next two months went by pretty quickly. he would come to hang out with the kids and you'd help him with how to interact with them and setting up activities. and after all the festivities were over you would take him on walks around the hospital.

this was the third month he had come, and you were showing him the gardens. the two of you had established your own kind of relationship with each other built on respect. he even let you call him bakugo now.

"sometimes i like to bring the kids out here and teach them all about the plants and how to garden. they don't like it because they're learning though. they like it because they're big dirtballs and love to play in the flowerbeds"

this made katsuki let out a stiff chuckle. he would take this to his grave, but he was genuinely enjoying the time that he volunteered here. his manager didn't have to threaten him with late night shifts just to blindly pick up volunteer hours anymore. there was some sort of fulfillment he got out of hearing the kids call "mr. dynamite" when they had a question. or when they laughed so hard their tiny stomach's hurt just because he called them "little brats". he watched as you went to sit down on a nearby bench going to make sure that the flowers next to them had been watered recently.

plus, he didn't mind spending alone time with you either.

he sat down next to you moving his focus over to your hands "you know a damn lot about this hospital. how long you been a volunteer?"

you stilled at his question, and he was one to notice details. you pulled your hands away from the flowers going to face him "i actually don't volunteer. i'm a patient" you didn't like people asking questions, so you prepared a speech every time someone asked "i don't know what illness i have. doctors have been running tests for years and they still can't seem to understand. at random times i'll just get things like flareups, or my body will become absolutely exhausted out of nowhere. there’s other symptoms too, but i don’t want to bore you with the details. they won't let me go because it's like every time i walk out of the walls of this hospital something bad happens and i need to go right back to bed rest"

katsuki did something that a lot of people who asked about your sickness didn't know how to do. he listened. he was attentive and never let his eyes leave your face as you explained.

"i've been in and out of here since i was a kid. that's why i know the hospital and the workers so well. that nurse that brought you in the first day? she was just my nurse years ago, but now she's head of the pediatric floor"

it was all coming together now. the way you showed him the most secluded hallways. how you knew what times they would be doing building wide activities. and he was finally making sense of your words that you had told him on his first day.

"you have to know the hospital to really understand the kids. i know it sounds stupid, but this is their home, and some people can't understand that. most of these kids spend more time in the hospital than they do in their own house. so know this hospital. have enough respect for them to at least try and understand what they're going through"

you had felt so deeply about this because you had gone through the same exact thing, and you weren't going to have someone mistreat these kids.

“cool”

your eyebrows raised at his response.

“cool? i just told you about my lifelong sickness and you’re gonna say cool?”

“well whaddya want me to say? you want me to treat you like a fucking dying plant?”

“no”

“then i’m going to say cool and we can move the hell on”

“wow! is the number two hero dynamite really being a sweetheart?”

with one hand he gave you a playful shove “fuck off” he mumbled taking that arm and letting it rest behind you on the bench “and call me katsuki”

as the months pass, katsuki grows more comfortable with the children, and with you. he decided that he should come more frequently. once every month turned into every two weeks. then those two weeks turning into one. the two of you never really defined the relationship. you didn’t need to. all that you needed to know was he cared for you, and you him.

it only took one week to change everything.

katsuki walked onto the children’s floor heading into the room. all of the kids were doing their centers, but you were nowhere to be found. he saw the nurse though, helping one of the children with a computer game. when he walked over he ruffled the hair on top of the kids head “sup brat. mrs. harada, ‘s y/n here?”

mrs. harada’s expression grew soft. she placed a hand on the child’s shoulder letting them know she’d be right back. gently she grabbed katsuki’s forearm and walked him to a corner of the room.

“y/n relapsed. it was a two days after you came to volunteer. she was fine, about to head out from cleaning then just collapsed”

katsuki felt his blood running cold. how the hell could this happen? he just saw you. you were just fine.

why didn’t you call him?

mrs. harada placed a gentle hand on his shoulder “i’m sorry. i know you two are close, and i'm sure you don’t know how to feel. i can tell you her room number so you can see her. i’ll step in for both of you today” she smiled writing it on a sticky note and handed it to him. he gave her a nod then went to storm out “bakugo” she called out to get his attention “i understand you might be feeling betrayed, and you’re allowed to feel that way, but y/n is feeling a lot at the moment. she finally thought she was getting better and- and here we are. so please go easy on her”

katsuki thanked her, then headed out the door.

he walked through the hospital on a mission. he didn't stop to greet anyone or take autographs. the only time that he stopped was when he saw your room number.

the door was cracked open, but he couldn't see you from the angle where he was.

it was strange.

katsuki has trained for more hours than he could count. he had been facing villain's since he was at least fourteen years old. he had been through a whole damn war for crying out loud. and yet, as he stood there he felt a weight he had never felt before.

you glanced up seeing katsuki walk through the door. your heart started beating faster as soon as you saw him. even if you tried to put up a facade about it, your heart monitor gave everything away.

“you found me”

“ ‘s not like you gave me any other choice”

you watched as he stood in the doorway. hand stuffed in the pockets of his sweats. you had recommended that he didn't wear his hero suit since it would probably get uncomfortable after a while.

"katsuki you can come in-"

"why didn't you tell me as soon as it happened?"

"it's complicated"

"then fucking explain it to me" he stared at you his face unmoving.

"fine" you sat up wincing slightly at the pain shooting up your spine. katsuki almost faltered seeing your face contort from the pain "I don't know why I didn't tell you okay? The thought crossed my mind about a thousand times, but I just couldn't do it" a shaky sigh left your body and you tried to fight back the tears "there's just a lot going on.. and- and-"

the door clicked softly behind him, but you hadn't noticed. katsuki had made his way next to your bed and was already climbing in beside you. the bed let out a groan because of the added weight. he wrapped one arm around you and wiped your tears with the other. his thumb had a rough texture from all the explosions they've let out throughout the years. but they were gentle for you, and only you.

"you don't gotta say anymore. i've got you"

you leaned onto his shoulder letting the dam of your emotions break onto him. tears ran down your face, but you let them flow this time.

so you cried, and you cried, and you cried and cried and cried.

and katsuki let you.

it had been a while before you could compose yourself again. the room was filled with comfortable silence and the occasional snuffle from you.

"do you feel better?" he asked turned his head to face you.

"yeah.. 'm sorry you had to deal with that"

"don't fuckin' apologize for crying"

you chuckled at his words going to grab a tissue to wipe any excess. he tilted his head some analyzing a spot on your face closely.

"you got somethin' right.. there" he swiped a piece of tissue that had gotten stuck on your face.

you faced him getting a better look from up close. blond hair stuffed under a black baseball cap. bags under his eyes from all of his night shifts.

katsuki couldn't handle you looking at him like that. eyes still puffy from crying. your tongue running over your lips.

fuck it.

katsuki's hand slid from your cheek to the back of your neck. he pulled you close as gently as he could. your foreheads touched before anything else.

"you don't want to kiss me. my face is disgusting" you whispered making him laugh, genuinely laugh.

"i've seen some disgusting shit and this isn't one of them"

you smiled before closing the distance between the two of you. there was a nice contrast to the kiss. between the roughness of his palm on your neck and his soft lips pressed against yours.

you could stay this way forever.

katsuki sneakily moved his tongue over your lips and pulled away. he made a face shaking his head "salty as shit"

"shut up!" you pushed him playfully making the both of you fall into laughter.

you and katsuki went on like this for months. constant visits, playful kisses, and when he was tired from patrol, he'd even let you read to him until he fell asleep.

but with the good, also came the bad.

your body had been getting weaker throughout the months. it came to the point where you couldn't get out of the bed unless you had help. katsuki had offered to take you on walks by putting you in the wheelchair, but you always refused. that is until you got the news.

"kats" you said causing him to lift his head from your shoulder "i wanna go on a walk"

he was confused at first. the sudden request to do something that you never wanted to was strange. though he didn't ask any questions as he went to get your things set up.

katsuki wrapped his arms around your torso lifting you up to be placed in the wheelchair. he had studied how the nurses did this thousands of times. you were embarrassed that he had to do this for you, but he'd do them a million times over it if meant walking with you.

there were no questions asked on where you wanted to go, you both knew.

katsuki pulled your wheelchair right next to the bench, but ended up putting you in his lap. you leaned against his shoulder looking at the cherry blossoms.

"when i die-"

"y/n don't start with that shit. you're not gonna die. you're gonna come back from this"

your one hand weakly played with the hair on the back of his head "we all die kats. it's okay if i talk about it"

"yeah, but you're talking about dying soon"

with a sad look in your eyes you watched his eyes follow the falling blossoms.

"can you at least promise me something then?"

"yeah"

"when i die, take care of the kids for me. you're so good with them and i don't trust just anybody handling it up there"

katsuki's eyes stayed glued to the trees in front of him.

"I can do that"

"and also-"

"idiot you said one promise!"

"hey! i'm dying i can make as many promises as i want" you smiled weakly at your own joke, but he didn't think it was too funny.

"promise to take care of yourself"

you saw his throat bob up and down at your words.

"you take care of so many other people and don't make time for yourself. learn how to rest kats. i can't have you dying either okay?" you placed a soft kiss on his cheek for good measure "you promise?"

katsuki rubbed one of his hands up and down your arm. a slow, shuddering breath leaving his mouth.

"i promise"

knowing that he would be okay you could finally rest, forever.

[ineffable-suffering]

Why Aziraphale is an unreliable narrator

Part 2: The Story of wee Morag

This is Part 2 of 3 total metas. Here are:

Part 1, in case you want to read about my analysis of the Story of Job first

and Part 3, in case you're impatient and want to jump ahead.

Fair warning though, for the sake of understanding some of the references, you're probably better off reading this chaptered meta chronologically. However, every part should work just as well as a standalone! I'll do my very best to make it so.

Alright, off or on you go beyond the cutty cut!

I'll start this second part off with a very brief summary of the main take aways and points from Part 1, which go as such:

Memory, as opposed to a third party's narration, is not a factual, objective retelling of a story or event. It's mingled and mangled with emotions, imaginations and exaggerations, projecting both the feelings and impressions you had back then as well as those you might have now in the present time back on whatever it is you are remembering. (Which is why we need to put everything that Aziraphale is remembering into the context of what he might have felt in the past, as well as what he's feeling right now.)

While this doesn't mean his (or anyone's) memories are lies, it does mean they're a very subjective and sometimes factually distorted representation of what actually happened, which, in our case, gives us a lot of subtext and a lot of not-there furniture to figure out and look at.

So, let's continue with S2E3 and the Story of wee Morag. We start our flashback with a scene of Aziraphale writing his diary entry on the 10th of November, 1827. Immediately, it's firmly established that this is once again not an outside-point-of-view narration, but rather what Aziraphale remembers and wrote down.

One thing that immediately stuck out to me here, is how helpful and kind Crowley is to Elspeth, pretty much from the very beginning when they meet her in the graveyard. Not only does he take on a Scottish accent so she won't perceive him as English (as she does with Aziraphale), but he also helps her drag the barrel that has the fresh body in it and, in the end, even pulls it all by himself while Elspeth simply follows behind them. Here's a rather poor-quality picture, for reference:

Now, we know that despite not showing it very often, Crowley has always been very fond of the humans and never really put himself on a pedestal simply because he's an immortal being himself. He likes humans, just like Aziraphale does. But, just like this story will tell us, Crowley knows that on top of liking humans, you can't just put them into boxes of good and evil and expect them to always do what is supposedly the "right" or "divinely good" thing to do. (Which is what differentiates him from Aziraphale in the way he understands and treats them, as we're shown in this minisode).

Him immediately and unspokenly helping Elspeth with dragging the barrel therefore might also be a first sign of a tiny projection from present day Aziraphale, as opposed to what Crowley might have actually done (probably just walked beside her, like Aziraphale) because he has the knowledge that Crowley really was so very kind to her in the end, wasn't he? And that he's kind to humans in general. ("Not kind! Off my head on Laudanum!" Sure, babe.)

Most of this minisode, in my opinion, is actually there to establish how Aziraphale's view of morality and good vs. evil used to be quite flawed and elitist –– and how Crowley has always been there to gently nudge him towards questioning his black and white view of heavenly right and hellishly wrong. That's why I think there's not as many hints in this minisode about Aziraphale's memories not being an accurate portrayal of what happened, as there are in the Story of Job or the magic show in 1941. (And, fear not, the latter will definitely be the most hint-heavy one). Alas, there's still a few bits and bobs in the Story of wee Morag that stuck out to me, that make a brief yet good case of the whole unreliable narration thing.

First of all: The way Aziraphale describes all of it in his diary is so different from the way we see him actually remembering it. It's almost like he tried to write this entry (and possibly all of his diary) as a bit of a thrilling short story, with himself as the main character. Which makes sense, given the fact that he adores books and would certainly be keen on dabbling in the art of capital-w Writing himself. It's yet again hinting at the fact that sometimes people (and angels) try to polish and bedazzle stories (and memories) to make them seem more exciting and adventurous, often to distract from the not-so-fun parts of it.

Like when Aziraphale's diary narrates:

"It was with heavy heart we arrived at Elspeth's destination. I was determined to thwart her monstrous plan!"

... and yet we see Crowley and Elspeth casually walking down the alleyway, very obviously not heavy-hearted in the slightest, while Aziraphale nervously scurries on behind them, very obviously not determined to thwart. (Timestamp-wise, it's around 17:38 in S2E3, in case you want to see for yourself.)

We get another cinematographic/auditory hint at the fact that Aziraphale's memory is heavily influenced by what he's feeling that very moment, when Dr. Mister Dalrymple –– FRCSE, thank you very much –– shows him the tumor he removed from the seven year old boy. You can see the shock and horror on Aziraphale's face once he learns of this child's cruel fate. We then proceed to hear Mr. Dalrymple's voice grow sort of echo-y and far away as the sad music swells up and drowns out his voice almost completely. It's awfully similar to what it feels like when really horrible news are broken to you and you dissociate and drift into a state of shock. Here's the clip of it, so you may listen for yourself:

It's clear that this is a very subjective portrayal of what Aziraphale is going through during this part of the memory. He's deeply horrified and saddened about the little boy having passed away so early in life – and we hear and feel this shock with him. Through him, because this is his memory. Whatever it is he's feeling and thinking, we're feeling and thinking it too because we're seeing it through his lense.

Another (less sad) hint at a possible exaggeration is the abnormally deep hole Crowley makes the two graveyard watch keepers fall into. I'm pretty sure he's very much in charge of his miracles, making this random slip-up seem a little silly – which is why I'm also pretty sure the "Might have slightly overdone it on that hole" is a wee bit of a meta hint at this just being another one of Aziraphale's dramatic bedazzlements of this story. For the *flings feather boa around neck* drama!

You know what else might be exaggerated? Hm, I dunno, maybe Crowley growing into the size of a tree for no apparent reason. Sure, yes, he's pretty high on Laudanum which is making him a bit loopy. But apart from that, it does seem an awfully big cinematographic euphemism for him being the metaphorical (and, once again, for the drama of it) literal bigger person in this scenario. He's the one who ends up saving Elspeth and who manages to secure a safe life without poverty and grave robbing for her. While Aziraphale was so tangled up in his own moral journey and main character-ism, missing that wee Morag was seconds away from death already, Crowley is the one who actually ends up growing stepping up for the human in need and saving them for good (pun intended).

In a way, it might just be Aziraphale's view of/feelings for Crowley in this very moment. Watching the demon outgrow what, according to Aziraphale's heavenly logic, is supposed to be a foul fiend, bestowing evil upon humanity – and growing into someone who does the exact opposite and saves Elspeth instead. Another larger-than-life character development, in Aziraphale's eyes. Literally.

Let's switch back to the topic of the diary entry one last time, so I can make my final point of the this minisode's unreliable and a smidge over-dramatic narration of Dr. McFell. If you pay close attention, Aziraphale starts the entry we're all getting to experience with: "Last month, Crowley and I both happened to be in Edinburgh." Which means it didn't actually happen on the 10th of November, but rather at some point in October, 1827. Once we see Crowley get hydro-pumped back to Hell after rescuing Elspeth, the minisode ends with, presumably, the last sentence of Aziraphale's diary entry: "And that was the last I would see of Crowley for quite some time."

Take my hand and let's look at where the furniture isn't: This very clearly means that Crowley couldn't have been gone for more than a month, at best. Read again: "It happened last month and that was the last I would see of him for quite some time." This, albeit indirectly, clearly implies that when Aziraphale had sat down to write the diary entry, he had already run into Crowley again. Otherwise his phrasing would have probably been more along the lines of "... and I haven't seen Crowley since" or "... and Crowley has yet to return from wherever it is Hell's currently keeping him".

What's the point I'm trying to make? Good question. I guess my main point of storyteller Aziraphale being a bit over-dramatic in his narration is simply backed up by this, since A Single Month would barely pass as "quite some time" for an immortal being like him. And yet that's how he puts it, in his little Confidential Journals of A.Z. Fell, Vol. 603.

And another point that has absolutely nothing to do with the topic of this meta (but I'm still gonna make it 'cause this is my memory post): The meeting at St. Jame's Park in 1862 that so many, post-S2, took to be their first run-in after the Story of wee Morag, actually wasn't that at all. They saw each other at least once only a month later, as Aziraphale's diary lets us know. Which explains why he wasn't very surprised or concerned when he met Crowley in London, 1862. If there really had been 35 years in between those two events, the first one ending with Crowley being sucked back Downstairs to receive more than three decades worth of hellish punishment, wouldn't Aziraphale have been at least a tiny bit worried or more interested than:

Just saying.

Alright, let's string this inflated hot air balloon of a post back together so we can outline some invisible furniture. This time with only two humble points:

Crowley through Aziraphale's lense Backed up by how we are introduced to Bildad the Shuhite in the Job minisode (suave, cheeky, smart, passionate in shoemaking and obstetrics), it's growing quite clear that Aziraphale's memories and impressions of Crowley are very fond and impressed ones. He sees him as someone who's not only witty, funny and cool, but also as someone who has figured out way sooner and faster than him that nothing's ever black and white. Not God's plans and not the human's choices either.

Aziraphale as a bit of an exaggerating adventure author With the direct parallel we get of inkslinger journalist!Aziraphale in the present day, it's quite apparent after this minisode that Aziraphale's memory is not only deeply influenced by his emotions, but that he also tends to have a bit of a dramatic touch to him. Although, you gotta give it to the guy: A month without seeing the love of your life, even if said life is eternal, can indeed seem like "quite some time".

Well, would you lookie here, we've reached the end of Part 2! What a journey it was. I hope you forgive me for the fact that I drifted off-course a few times. I just can't seem to reel in my silly little observations, even if they've got nothing to do with the point I'm trying to make. But hey, doesn't that just make me a little bit like Aziraphale's storytelling, in a way?

I'll let you be the judge of that.

See you in Part 3! And in case you haven't snuck a peak yet: here's Part 1 again.

Ta!

[myechoecho]

When the Phone Rings, ep 10

This show keeps on delivering and is making up for what has been an absolutely dismal year for kdramas.

I wonder how the assistant got mixed up with OG Sa Eon and how they never met up until the end. It's good to know that the assistant was not completely evil and was able to help Sa Eon, now the he knew he was not the one to who killed his brother. Interesting to note, that in some ways, Sa Eon considered Do Jae a friend. He tells him that he does not trust, yet the only one he trusted as Do Jae. When Do Jae saves him from being stabbed, he lets OG Sa Eon go and focuses on saving Do Jae. I weirdly hope that they can become friends (well not that much), though Do Jae does need some prison time.

OG Sa Eon underestimates Hee Joo because she was not going to just let him drive away with her leaving Sa Eon behind. No, she fights for her life and yanks his hair hard so that he crashes the car and can escape. I love the hug when she runs to him and then later her putting the blanket on him, patting his back to comfort him.

I simply cannot get over OG Sa Eon's mom. Look, I don't have kids so I cannot speak to the mother/child bond that most mothers have. However, I fell like a line would be drawn if my child killed small animals then progressed to killing multiple children when he was still a child himself.

What do you mean how could you still treat him this way? He became a serial killer as a child and I am pretty certain he would have killed you at some point without a second thought. OG Sa Eon's father is terrible but at least he recognizes that his son is a monster and will cut him off or work to capture him. BECAUSE HE IS A LITERAL MONSTER. Of all the terrible parents on this show, and there are four of them, I think she is the worst.

I love, love how In A and Hee Joo are working together to put all the pieces together. It's In A who realizes that the car accident was likely intentional, all because their younger brother saw the OG Sa Eon.

I cheered for Hee Joo finally speaking back to her mom. For finally realizing that her mom never loved her and her obeying her mom was not love. She will not be gaslit anymore. I have a feeling it won't be long before Hee Joo completely cuts her out of her life. And I love how In A stayed, partially to comfort Hee Joo but also to immediately let her know who she thinks sent the DNA results when memory was triggered by what Hee Joo's mom said.

Sa Eon was the one who sent the DNA report, which is a twist I did not see coming. For Hee Joo, it's one of the final missing pieces. He really did orchestrate their whole marriage. Because he loved her and wanted her to have her freedom, never believing she would love him back. The fact that Hee Joo asks him to marry her, while crouching before him in the dress he bought her is swoon worthy. But he says he will propose to her instead. They both want to start over properly. The kiss was amazing.

We get another piece of the puzzle - what the deal was with the Chairman. The Chairman was behind the car accident and Hee Joo's stepfather found out. However, the Chairman promises to kill his grandson to balance killing the stepfather's son. The Chairman would replace someone as Sa Eon, but the stepfather knew and would bound to secrecy with an additional guarantee of getting anything he wanted from the family as long as he kept his quiet. At the very least, it looks like he really needed Sa Eon to be dead and all deals were void if he was not, as we see him crash the memorial with a shot gun.

By the way, proof again the OG Sa Eon's mom is terrible since she knows he is there and does nothing.

Hee Joo the fighter and survivor that she is, makes good on her promise to protect Sa Eon. She tells Sa Eon that she loves him, floors it and drives straight off a cliff into the water below. How OG Sa Eon thought that letting Hee Joo drive was good idea is beyond me. Did he forget how she escaped the first time? She crashed the car. Did he forget that she nearly tore his hair out causing him to crash a short time ago? Hee Joo has repeatedly shown that she will crash a car if necessary to survive or protect. He never should have let her drive.

The press conference scene was hands down the best scene. Disheveled Sa Eon, revealing that his is not the Chairman's son. No, the one true thing is that he is a husband who loves his wife and she is missing. He reveals to everyone who Hee Joo is, nearly breaking down completely in the process.

The lack of promo sucks, though I get why there is not one.

[heretyc]

Hi! I’m the anon with the maneater wife for Franco and I just wanted to say thank you so much! You met and exceeded my expectations ten fold with my request I really liked what you did and if you ever wanted to write more for it I’d absolutely love to read more! ♥️

(Also you were right on the money with the naming scheme I personally envisioned the mantis myself but you can absolutely leave this up to everyone else’s own interpretation)

I 100% plan on writing more! It's addictive I s2g. [NSFW ahead. Not kidding, I got real dirty with this lol]

Franco meeting you was totally unexpected; he was roaming the streets of Havana, trying to locate a buyer who pussied out on him to no avail. He stole Franco's money, and as a result, his trust. Nobody fucked with a Barbi. This shit was next to impossible, with how many dark alleyways there were in this place. However, he didn't expect to see such a gorgeous woman standing over the man who fucked him over. Your face bloodied and your throat seemingly purring with delight like a cat with fresh cream. Franco wasn't disturbed, no. He's seen much weirder shit. He just raised a brow, "Good, is he?" "Very." You licked your lips free of blood to no avail, your face coated in the substance, "However he tastes a little...bitter." "Considering he ingested my fuckin' goods..." Barbi smirked, growing amused at how you described your fresh kill, "I wouldn't be too surprised." It took you no time at all to connect the dots. Havana was known for its drug rings, so you merely raised a brow, ready to rise. "Did I take a loyal customer from you? My mistake." "Loyal ain't the word I'd use to describe him, doll," Barbi sucked his teeth, growing a little irritated at the reminder, "Fucker stole my shit." "...Ah." You nodded, moving to rip a lung from the corpse's midsection. "May I continue?" "By all means." He didn't understand why he had a hard-on, but he's not one to question the body's desires.

He couldn't let you go. Absolutely fuckin' not. That'd be a crime against his carnal desires. For some odd reason, he found himself captivated. You were a woman who knew what you wanted, and you wanted to steal hearts. Literally. So he got to know you a little bit. This is what he learned; A runaway from your home country due to your strange craving, you abandoned your life after a series of murders. You've always found yourself enamoured with the delectable nature of human flesh, and after your father cheated on your mother and left you two with nothing, you had even more of an urge. So on your 17th birthday, you were found eating him. His body cut into sections, his new, young wife - whom he cheated on your mother with - found her step-daughter with hands full of intestines. She didn't live long, either. Your 17th birthday was satisfactory indeed. The government, however, did not agree. You were messy and you left fingerprints after his wife's family called in for a wellness check. A little hard to call her family when her head's in the toilet and her cunt is stuffed full of knives. So you hid on a cruise ship to Havana, and have lived there ever since, surviving off of your cannibalistic urges and theft. So you were the infamous maneater, he questioned. You certainly had a reputation here...albeit quite niche. You ate only men. Sure, you tried to eat evil men, but all men were good enough to your palate. He was obsessed already. Was he a little intimidated? Absolutely. But that's even better. You grew to enjoy his company. And for the first time in your life, you didn't immediately think of ways to devour him. He wasn't edible...to your mouth, anyway. But your heart? Definitely. You wanted more.

Your first date was held at a restaurant that he co-owned. Well...co-owned meaning he tied the owner up in the back and threatened him if he had plans on ruining your date. His men held guns at the staff, and threatened them to continue on with their duties. He even went as far as to hire a chef known for working with human meat. Nicknamed "Havanabal" [Hannibal and Havana], it was fate. Franco was more than enchanted, leaning his head onto his gloved hand as you spoke of random topics, occasionally sipping on wine. You were, however, rudely interrupted. "Hey, boss," one of his henchmen walked inside of the empty dining room, and Franco couldn't stop his hands from clenching. "We got somebody wanting you.." "You were told not to fuckin' bother us." "I know, but there's a potential buyer wanting to see you," the man whistled, "Lookin' mighty rich." "He better be rich with patience, then," Barbi rolled his eyes, "I'm fuckin' busy." The henchman just nodded before looking you up and down, a smirk forming onto his face, "Damn...and I can see why. She's worth it." He didn't have the time to notice Lupara's barrel firing into his jaw, and the other men working under Barbi didn't think to expect one of their allies laying on the floor, bone shards and flesh littering the floor. You weren't even bothered, either; you simply smiled, "I like my men how like I like my popcorn...popped." You teased. Franco snorted before snapping his fingers, "Clean this shit up, and cut him into pieces. Put this fucker into mia bella's meal," he cooed at you, before turning to look at the men beginning to drag the corpse away. "Keep the fuckin' bones intact...I have an idea." Thankfully, no questions were asked, and the chef came out within the next half hour with two dishes. "Carbonara for the sir," the chef hummed, but he purred the moment he placed yours down, "And livernese for the cultured lady." "Thank you," you hummed, putting your hands together in delight, "it smells lovely...blood in the sauce?" The chef grinned, nodding, "Of course...it's the perfect taste and colour, no?" "Absolutely." He soon bowed, and left you two to eat. Now, Barbi should have gagged. This was against human nature...but he wasn't one to give a shit about human nature. He watched with interest as you slurped a piece of liver, moaning at the taste. "So...rich." He wasn't fond of eating another person, but even your reaction had him curious about the taste.

[Inspired by this anon here] Franco's support of your lifestyle had meant the world to you, and it was clear you were meant to be the moment he took you shopping to places. The bar, the grocery store, the sex club. You'd be leaning into him as he pointed at random men, hoping to help you find something to quench your thirst. "What about that fucker?" He picked his teeth with a toothpick, his free hand placed onto your hip with affection. His eyes were on a priest, speaking with a man. "Hmmm...tempting," you murmured, "priests tend to be quite...unholy. Unfortunately that transfers into their taste," you sighed, shaking your head. "Next one." "Alright...what about him?" He motioned to a man twitching out of his mind, seemingly shouting at nothing, "Nobody would miss him, darlin'." "He's high off of something...the only product I take is yours," you quipped, shaking your head. "Besides, I feel like the demons would miss him." "Touche," he clicked his tongue, before finally narrowing his eyes at a man walking past. "Him." You looked at the individual, noticing how...shady he looked. "Fucker's a rival of mine." "Oh...well, in that case..." You chuckled, taking his hand into yours. "Give me a hand."

[NSFW, blowjob] Your second date was in a hotel; it was moreso forced, seeing as he started a gunfight over your little cannibalistic habits, but he told you to meet him in the hotel across the city. You'd be safe there, he promised. And so, you separated. You stuck to the shadows and he shot at anybody who dared look at him. You took a little too long for his liking, and he worried if you got caught...until you walked into the room, coated in blood. A trademark look for you, but he simply raised a brow. "Sorry...I ordered takeout," you joked, sucking on a finger. God, if only you knew the effect you had on him- "Oh?" You purred, making your way over to him to place a hand over the bulge forming in his dress pants, "Am I making you...excited, Franco?" "I'm not the lying type, sweetness," he bit his lip, his breaths becoming shallow, "You make me fuckin' harder than steel." You simply laughed, pushing him onto the bed before locking the doors, and pulling the curtains over the windows. "I had a feeling...I saw your little friend get excited the day we met." You winked at him, your steps silent as you made your way to the bed. You took no time at all to pull his pants and boxers down, and you whistled at the size of the cock bouncing free from its confines. "Sorry...big friend." You snickered, a bloodied finger moving to trail down the shaft. A mere 9 inches and deliciously thick, you traced your bloodied nail along every vein that seemed to throb each time you came close, and you drank up Barbi's frantic breaths like water in the desert. "Does this excite you?" You tilted your head, beginning to stroke his cock with a slow pace. "Knowing a maneater is stroking your cock...knowing I could bite it off in one bite." "Fuck...yes," Barbi growled, a gloved hand gripping the sheets as the other gripped your scalp, "I could...fuck, I could die happy thinking about that shit." You smirked, your tongue peeking out to lick the bead of pre-cum forming on his cockhead. His cock was turning a sickening red, a result of the blood on your hands wiping off onto the thick organ, "You could, hmm? Tell me more." "Tear my fuckin' throat out, crown me with your halo of crimson," he began to pant, his cock beginning to twitch out of eagerness, "FUCK, you excite me, you vixen. Take me into your mouth, please," he huffed, his eyes wide in excitement. You felt like a drug with how desperate he was. He didn't have to ask; you were quick to take half of his length into your throat, bobbing your head as you moaned at the taste. The combination of his musk, the blood, the sweat...god, it was addictive. His hips showed no mercy as they began to thrust. "Bite me," he choked, "bite my fuckin' dick. Show me how much of a danger you are, you fuckin' TEMPTRESS," he groaned, tossing his head back. He cared not for the sirens outside, or the screams of people in the streets. You grazed your teeth along his length, not yet biting down, but making sure he knew they were an available threat should he thrust too hard and too fast. The thought of having you rip his cock off...fuck, why did that excite him? He felt his balls begin to tighten, and he yelled out in pleasure, cum rushing from his cockhead to travel down your throat. Nothing was more erotic, more divine than seeing you pull off of him, bridges of bloody saliva connecting your lips to his softening cock. You chuckled breathlessly, laying a kiss onto the cockhead, "I think I've found my new favourite taste..." Oh, how he became a whore for that sentence. A shame neither of you noticed Clyde Perry sneaking in during your moment of bliss.

[justcruisingaroundrevived]

Sigh... I'm so embarrassed but I was wondering if you could write oc(self insert) x canon for me? Please! Not forced at all but my heart yearns for me x pete so much...my sona is named dan and he's an evil prick...he likes movies, sports, and anything "typically manly" and edgy..he and pete get along because they're both vulgar and loud.

Maybe a late night hangout cause they got kicked out of a convenience store for being nuisances. YOU DON'T HAVE TO OF COURSE I'm just brain dumping! .. dan revealll... Tysm even if you just read this ! Your writing is awesome and I adore ur work! 🍀🩷

Cause I’m Kind of Like Han Solo, Always Stroking My Own Wookie

Summary: Pete and Dan’s nightly shenanigans while trying to see a rerun of “Reanimator”

Word Count: 1.1K

TW/CW: None

A/N: Again, so sorry this took forever! I really enjoyed writing these two’s banter! Hope you enjoy!

Reblogs are appreciated!

When people think of late nights at Eltingville, it’s usually just a quiet and peaceful night. Even with the loud mouth, “I’m walkin’ over here” type of life that plague the streets are all of a sudden silent. Maybe they were watching a movie with the family, silently eating dinner or even simply just going to sleep.

…not at the local 7-11. The clerk just had enough. From the moment these two teens came into the store, it was nothing but chaos. Pete was already “subtly” putting licorice into his pocket, while Danny was pouring down the cherry slushy into his refillable cup. It didn’t even occur to him that he would have to pay for the concoction. Instead, he was more focused on just filling the damn thing!

“ENOUGH!”

His shouting caught the two teens' attention, but it barely stopped them. In fact, he could see Dan just barely slowing down the handle, while Pete just stared at him with his beady eyes.

“…Just get out of my store AND STAY OUT!”

The door slammed open and out came Pete and Dan like a barrel of bricks. Pete just let out an annoyed grunt. “Man, can’t even get a good pack of candy without being ripped into.”

“Well, it was your fault.” Dan grunted. He dusted off whatever crumbs were left behind on his clothing.

“MY FAULT?! It was YA idea to get the goodies at the 7-11, and now look! We have about 20 minutes to get to the last showing of ‘Re-Animator’”!

“YEAH, well…you should’ve stopped me!”

“You legit brought the biggest water bottle you got so the both of us could share!”

“Yeah, and it was genius. Maybe if you didn’t start stealing the licorice-“

“That was the best plan, yet! Besides, at least we’re not going to be chewing on the world’s hardest laffy taffy known to mankind.”

“UGH! I know! I think the last time that stupid place was ever cleaned, ‘The Night of The Living Dead’ was still playing!”

With a chuckle, Danny picked himself up and started to walk towards the destination.

“HEY! WAIT UP!” Pete screeched.

With that, the two were set off to the local theatre. They were a weird doer to the outsider. Pete was a short, buzzed cut teen with a bad attitude. His attitude poisoned everything he touched, even with the media he loved. On the other hand, Danny was a tall and stocky guy who wasn’t afraid of roughhousing and absolutely plummeting those who deserved it.

In all honesty, in an ideal world, that person would be Pete. Both of their quick tongues often got them in trouble, particularly with authority figures. It was like whenever an adult was around to lecture them, something turned off inside their brain and immediately jumped onto the defense.

However, it was probably that attitude that made them like the weirdest yin and yang. Such harsh tongues whipping each other with whatever comebacks the other had come up with.

Even now, while they slowly walked to their destination, you could feel the tension brewing between them. Though, this wasn’t a bad sort of tension, oh no. In fact, one could say it was comfortable. Yeah. They were used to this type of inevitable outburst.

Especially now.

“Why did you want me to come see ‘Reanimator' re-release? Don’t ch’a have your other nerdy friends to take you?” Dan asked. That asked Pete to look up at him before scoffing.

“Well, yeah, but ya know how it is. Bill’s focus on trying to brigade his household, Josh’s too busy organizin’ his stupid sci-fi collection, and Jerry…well, he’s just being Jerry.”

“Ah…so, one’s a tyrant, the other’s losin’ his mind, and the final one’s annoying. Figures.”

“Hey!” Pete chuckled, “Ya know, there’s a difference between being right and being nice, right?”

“Still. Knowin’ the difference doesn’t mean I still can’t point it out!”

Another laughing fit, this time from the both of them. Dan was close to wheezing, to the point where he even had to stop walking for a second to catch his breath.

“C’mon! I wasn’t that funny!” Pete protested, but the way his cheeks tried turning that frown upside down told another story.

“Yeah, that was a pretty fuckin’ lame joke. I was just laughing at my genius joke!” Dan shot back.

“Ya know, if I wanted to see you fail at comedy, I would’ve just walked over to ya ma’a house!”

“I do that all the time with ya daddy!”

By the time they made it to the movie theatre, all that left was to pull out the wallet and-

“SHIT!”

$6.50. That’s $3 short for a second ticket.

“Now look what ya done! Ain’t know why I’m draggin’ myself back home in defeat! Unless-“

“NO, DAN! Last time we did that, my clothes stink for a week. My ma forced me to wear my brother’s hand me downs for a-“

The start of a monologue didn’t stop Dan from climbing on top of Pete’s shoulders and boosting himself into the second floor of the theatre.

“…I TOLD YA ONCE-“

“Yeah, yeah, yeah. I know. I know. Now, come up here before the security guards come snooping around.”

GROAN! Pete walked over to the large dumpster in the back. In it was stale popcorn, expedited candy and thrown out pretzels. Unfortunately, that also was the highest boost he could get before having to take the jump of faith for his life.

Still, Reanimator wasn’t going to start without him. So, with the god of horror on his side, Pete boosted himself up to the window and crashed his way in.

“Woah!, didn’t expect ya to actually do it!” Danny chuckled.

That laugh. God that stupid laugh. Pete had heard it a million times, but it still got him red face and blushing (internally). It’s like ever since he started to hang out with Dan, he could feel himself getting more drawn to him. Like, sure, Dan was his complete opposite in hobbies and looks, and sure, the only form of communication that has is pure, unadulterated screaming…

…but that’s what also draws Pete in. Never has he met someone who could make him feel comfortable for being loud, obnoxious. It’s like Danny knows him so wholly and entirely, and he doesn’t want to let that go.

In fact, he wants to savor it. To keep it close to him until the day he dies. This sort of bond was only really shown in someone like Morticia and Gomez, but still, could those two really compare to what Pete craves with Dan?

“Pete?”

Snapped back to reality. Pete saw Dan holding onto a large popcorn and two medium sodas.

“It looks like you’ve just seen a fuckin’ ghost!” Dan chuckled.

“The only ghost here is ya, the way I’m goin’ to smoke ya ass to the seats first!” Pete counteracted.

The staff watch the two teens rushing towards the last showing of “Reanimator”, completely enjoying the loud energy of the other company.

[lynn-tged-posting]

tged webtoon ep 163 spoilers and thoughts that are making me procrastinate on like all of my work but its totally fine below the cut

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i am so serious i was completely tricked into thinking this would just be a light episode with some ominous foreshadowing but still some answers for how to defeat fate. i thought we'd be in silly haha territory now and that soon we'd reach the end and everything would be wonderful now and they can finally have what they want. I WAS PROVEN WRONG

YOU. YOU TRICKED ME FROM THE GETGO BY SETTING THE MOOD OF THE EP TO BE SILLY OFF THE BAT. YOUR STUPID CUTE HAIR BEING MESSY WHEN U WAKE UP AND THOSE SILLY ASS D*SNEY ANIMALS. YOU YOU YOU YOU RAPHAEL YOU FOOLED ME

it's super cute and funny that his singing and his general demeanor is so fairytale esque that animals and people just love him even though he tried to destroy what they were working on . he looks adorable with messy hair. i wanna see it more. cute and blond. but also. FUCK YOU

like we went from that to this and i was like "oh my god they're gonna have a bonding moment" and i was so so happy i just,, i really thought,,,,

like he looks so pretty here!! and then javier says something so sweet and so javier-brand of affectionate and they're being funny about it and it's so cute and they're all smiley afterward in the reflections of the water so its like "awww stupid fucking idiots being happy at each other without even really knowing it i love them so much" AND THEN.

STUPID FUCKING OMINOUS REFLECTION GOT ME ALL WORRIED. BUT THEN I THOUGHT OF RAPHIE AT THE START AND WENT "nahhh thats just. yknow. the normal foreshadowing at something bigger. they haven't even gotten answers yet. it's fine" oh lynn. oh girl you had no idea.

like they're so close to the truth cmon they wouldnt dump what they need to do to stop fate AND whats going on w javier at the same time right? ha. ha. ha.

ominous panels aside POOR LLOYD,,, OF ALL THE SECRETS HE COULD HAVE CHOSEN,,, he had no idea its not fair </3 we got blushy lloyd as a result i love this panel btw he's very very cute. super duper bug of him. i really like that the artist has been drawing the two of them at this angle a lot recently they look so stupid i like it a lot

ALSO JAVIER DO YOU. HAVE SOMETHING YOU WANT TO SAY. WHY DID HE ASK THAT I. JAVIER U CANT JUST ASK PEOPLE HOW DEE- WHAT THE FUCK

and then we got hit w javier being worried and i was like "man me too buddy, im worried too but im sure itll be oka-"

DEATH FLAG. WHY. WHY DID YOU HAVE TO THINK THAT LLOYD OH GOD. i read this and my worry that was briefly washed away IMMEDIATELY came back . tged is very good at giving me tonal whiplash. i dont think thats a bad thing but also its not good for my health either so. /lh

AND THEN WE GOT HIT WITH THE JEWEL OF TRUTH SECTION AND. AAAAHHH AAAAAAAAHHH the darkness that lloyd is in, he's all alone when he hears this god i . oh god i have so much to say okay

it's kind of hard to go shot by shot with this section because all my thoughts are overlapping with each other but ill try my best???

he's immediately pushed into communication between just him and the jewel and shrouded in a very very isolating darkness. there's so so so much empty space and all my yapping about how much lloyd has been isolating himself for the sake of finally protecting his loved ones kind of comes to a head here. and then we hear the truth...

lloyd is a BUG. the fact that he EXISTS is a problem that has been the catalyst of all the pain and work that he and javier have had to go through, so so early in the story. he's essentially being told that its HIS fault fate is threatening their lives. AND WOW THAT HURTS. how do you cope with being told that?? how do you manage that???

and on TOP of it all, in order to fix it, he has to choose. rid the world of this bug, or let the bug take over. THAT'S SO EVIL

the only way to protect his loved ones is to forfeit his protection over them, giving up his life. and yet the only way for him to continue being there to protect them is to lose the life of the one he absolutely loves most, javier. WHAT THE FUCK. WHAT THE FUCK WHY WOULD THEY DO THAT

the moment he hears this he falls to his knees. im so fucking ill IM SICK . THIS IS SICK AND TWISTED!!!!!!!!!!!

some more thoughts on the language and just. inherent despair of this section:

i think the choice of calling lloyd a bug is so so so heartwrenching. i don't know if it's an intentional thing by the writer/adapter or if it's just something they defaulted to since the world is considered a system, but either way it makes me so damn emotional

i'm a computer engineer, so i take some computer science classes too as part of my major, and one of those fun facts that you learn in those classes is that debugging/bugs became common terminology in compsci for a very silly reason. "bugs" as a word to describe error and defects had been present before, but it became conflated with programming due to a team of programmers actually finding a moth, a true to life Bug, interfering with their computer and thus messing with their program.

see, the JoT could have called lloyd anything. an error, a mistake, a problem, hell even a glitch would have worked. but they specifically said bug (and again whether or not thats intentional is up for debate but i will treat it like it is)

and the thing about bugs, the thing that haunts me now, is that without them the rest of the program (theoretically) works fine. if that moth hadnt entered the computer of those programmers, then their code would have been operating smoothly. the system would be chugging along well.

the knight of blood and iron would be functioning just fine.

yeah it'd be sad, yeah javier would have lost everyone, but it would have gone exactly as the program was written. the memory allocated for the class lloyd_frontera would be freed, and the story wouldn't have had to call on it, ever. but lloyd, the bug, the moth, stuck around. errors ensue.

and often, bugs are HUMAN error. it's a problem in a human design, not a natural glitch or mistake. the moth wouldn't have been able to enter that computer if it was built differently. bugs do not appear naturally. and they do not go away until you go back to where the bug appears and FIX IT. lloyd cannot fix the story, he can NEVER achieve the happy ending he's always wanted, because the program will always be bugged because of HIM.

suddenly too, all the little changes that have happened in the story thus far make so much sense. all of those events happening EARLIER than they should have completely tracks.

the choices lloyd made - to defeat neumann, defeat lacona, go to cremo, go to the capital - pushed javier's presence ahead, and i know that's like really really obvious, but coupled with this bug analogy i feel insane because

something that's very common in programming in general are function calls, where on the side you have the function written out all complete, and in your main code you can just say the name of the function. when it compiles, itll know what to refer to when it sees the name in your main code.

something else thats very common is conditionals! y'know, your classic "if (comparison here) then do (this thing here) else (do this thing here)", you might have seen this before (or not, im not sure how well versed tged tumblr is on programming which is why im explaining this)

and u think back to javier being there EARLY and oh. ooohh....

if (javier.location == magentano.event_location(banquet)) {

kyle_betrayal(alicia);

}

this function, this betrayal, was called early. THIS WAS CALLED EARLY because a certain character object, lloyd frontera, changed the state of javier's location way sooner than it should have happened. a bug. a bug. a bug. a bug made the code jump to this conditional. he's been a bug this whole time

and you think to when the glitches on javier first started appearing and oh. oooohhh. the object referred to as javier, disabled the "protagonist" variable on him and passed it onto lloyd. but that won't do, because all these functions for the ENTIRE STORY rely on javier's class object. how can it call on lloyd instead? lloyd should have been freed, aka the memory storing his little array of data, should have been REMOVED. CAUSE HE WAS SUPPOSED TO DIE

theres more examples of this throughout the whole story that maybe ill list another day (as much as im yapping about it, its really not that hard/deep on figuring out where things were called early lol) but yeah yeah yeah. yeah this is so so evil and i cant believe i didnt put two and two together earlier. this analogy is SO EVIL WHY WOULD THEY DO THIS TO ME

apologies for the jargon btw. i have no idea if i explained this right or if anyone else really knows what im talking about but i've been losing it over this for the entire weekend ALKDFJLSDKF

WHATS WORSE IS THAT IVE BEEN CALLING LLOYD A BUG FOR LIKE. ACTUAL MONTHS. I WOULD REFER TO HIM AS A CREATURE AND AS A LITTLE ITTY BITTY BUG AND NOW I FEEL SO SO TERRIBLE BECAUSE HE REALLY WAS A BUG. I MADE A SHITPOST AND EVERYTHING (that ill prolly post later) THAT I HAD NO IDEA WOULD. AGE POORLY SOB SOB SOB

I AM SO SO SORRY LLOYD. I DIDN'T KNOW I DIDN'T KNOW I DIDN'T KNOW!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

sniffle,,, sob,,, anyway,,, thats enough yapping about bugs and programming and lloyd being a bug,,, back to the anguish

the following section is just. god ow ow OW. the shaking linework, the shadows setting in at the top with the dramatic bottom lighting, and the blur on javier as he loses focus and starts truly, truly panicking makes me INSANE. artist you're making me CRAZY!!!

javier truly has no idea either but god dammit he's trying his best to help, but how can lloyd explain this to the man whos completely and utterly loyal to him to the point of sincere devotion? if lloyd tells him, whos to say that javier - the martyr that he is - won't just give up his life for him? god that's so... GOD. GOD GOD GOD WHY AGHHH

AND AGGHHH AGGGHHHH THE FLASHBACKS TO THE P PANELS OF SUHO WORKING SO SO HARD TO REACH THE LIGHT. GOD FUCK. FUCK FUCK FUCK

ITS DIMMER ITS HARDER TO REACH AND OH MY GOD THE PANEL OF LLOYD REACHING UP EVEN IN HIS PANIC TOWARDS HOPE. THE THOUGHT THAT "ITLL GET BETTER ONE DAY" COMFORTED HIM AND KEPT HIM ALIVE BUT NOW ITS BEING RIPPED FROM HIM I FEEL ILL. EVIL EVIL EVIL EVIL

this panel of that light going out . not much words on this i just feel sick to my stomach. why would u do that.

and finally at the end of the chapter we have this incredibly HAUNTING panel of lloyd panicking. the despair here is UNREAL. the lineart is shaken and messy and scribbly, and the focus on his face and his hand gives the panel a very claustrophobic and hard-to-breathe feel and it makes mE SICK!!! IT MAKES ME SICK!!! SICK AND TWISTED!!!! JEWEL OF TRUTH I HATE YOU!!!!!!!

anyway that's all my thoughts for right now . i really really hope they figure out a loophole or something . if they dont im actually gonna keel over and die /j not literally but yknow what i mean

SICK AND TWISTED!!! is my final word on this ep

thanks for joining me in hell ill see yall next week salute emoji