#and yes this one would be 'under the influence' and not his choice

[toast-on-dandelioms]

completely fine if you can’t do this but I’m curious if you could do something with platonic yan batfam finding out teen reader smokes. Not hard core drugs or anything, just cigarettes (still bad I know), and maybe even drinks alcohol.

in their own words it “makes it so they can stop thinking”

Again completely fine if you can’t!! Also love your work ♥️

The ask is based before the events of part 4

beta reader: @duck-you

WC: 4.4k

Dividers made by @saradika-graphics @cafekitsune

Age of reader: 16-17 (the age of reader in the main serie is your choice, I don't think I ever made the age clear but for this ask reader is almost 18)

Tw: mentions of alcohol and cigarettes, underage drinking and reckless behaviour from intoxication, Joker, fighting under the influence, wrongful imprisonment, Black Mask and his uglyness

You first started smoking when you were at the end of middle school and started high school, your friends kept pressuring you into it since all the cool kids were smoking and you didn't want to lose them.

You did stop a few times but they kept gas lighting you into starting smoking once again and after you started to roam Gotham as Spider it became an habit that helped you do something whenever the night was dead or you were just bored.

You also made sure to not smoke before going back to the Manor since you knew Alfred would know and you didn't want to let him know and disappoint the older man, seeing him as a father figure instead of Bruce since he was the one who actually took time out of his day to pay attention to you whenever you told him in advance.

The drinking didn't start until you turned 17 and your friends managed to drag you to a party after a lot of begging and accusing you of not caring about them.

You still remember the night where you got drunk for the first time, the beat of the music making you unable to talk to anyone without yelling and how everyone kept pushing drinks in your hand and cheer whenever you drank it all.

The taste of whatever drink you just drank always made you make a disgusted face before smiling happily as you started to relax and have fun with your friends, even singing karaoke after someone pushed a microphone in your hands and told you to follow the words that were being displayed on a TV.

Honestly that night was one of the best you ever had because you weren't Spider, you weren't the forgotten child of Bruce Wayne and you weren't the straight A's student that people looked down upon because of how silent and antisocial you were. You were [Y/N], the one who beat 5 guys at arm wrestling, the friend who was dancing like crazy and how you just lost your virginity (the alcohol one, not the actual virginity).

You didn't really enjoy drinking, especially whenever you drank too much after a party and ended up with the worst hangover ever thanks to your powers, but it was a nice thing to do to de-stress after a long night or to just become free for a night with your friends.

One night you were still on patrol but had a long night because you had to stop many gang fights and even got shot on the leg, which you bandaged up but it was hurting and annoying you so you ended up drinking the entire bottle of vodka you had in your schoolbag, where you forgot to take out the bottle a friend put inside after you told them that you never drank it since you never had the opportunity to do so.

And you were a bit of a lightweight since you didn't start for too long and somehow you found yourself wandering around Gotham, drunk out of your mind and unaware of your surroundings. Yes people were taking videos of a drunk vigilante walking on the walls and street but didn't do much, especially when they saw a familiar clown approaching.

When Joker finally walked up to you with his usual smile, happy that he saw you since he could just use you after he noticed how Batman was attached to you, plus you looked incredibly drunk and you were stumbling around the empty street, still wearing your mask that was just rolled up enough that he could see your mouth, slightly open so he thought it would be easy to kidnap you by just using a crowbar.

Immediately, when you felt his hand touch your shoulder and his annoying laugh, you grabbed his hand and just slammed him into the ground with a judo flip, that you saw Damian do when you were watching him train alongside the others.

Your drunken mind didn't clock in that the person who touched you was the feared clown of Gotham, you just kept hitting his body with the crowbar that he had in hand after you took it off his hands after he tried to hit you with it when he had the chance to attack.

But you didn't let him, somehow your mind and body when under the influence were a better fighter than you actually thought, you weren't using your superstrenght most of the time and only if he actually posed as a threat when he tried to attack you once again.

During the fight your mask was taken by that clown, who probably got even angrier when he saw that you were just a kid and that looked like you were gonna fall asleep in any moment, which was why he even managed to hit you on the face. Unfortunately for him, his hit made you remember when Jason hit you and somehow awakened an anger and you just started to hit that man like there was no tomorrow.

Somehow, during the drunken fight between you and Joker that people were recording, you didn't notice three masked figures on a rooftop who were watching you fight that clown and were discussing when to butt in.

Dick was watching with glee as you hit the clown while also waiting for Oracle to tell him who Spider was once Joker took off your mask, amazed as he watched your fight.

He did feel anger whenever Joker managed to get a hit on you with his fists and had to be held back by Jason and Damian, since they both wanted to see you win and see you fight in real life instead of watching from the cameras, which didn't show all of the fights most of the time.

As he watched he did that you moved a bit weird, like you were under the influence and that made him panic because what if Joker actually tried to drug you? What if someone tried to kidnap you and he wasn't there to save you?!

Jason was also watching in glee when he saw you hit the Walmart clown with a crowbar, cheering whenever you hit him in the face with that crowbar. He would also yell out scores when you did that, not caring that people were filming him.

He did notice how sluggish you were when you moved and was also ready to jump down to help you, not wanting you to get badly hurt by that clown even though he knew that you could defend yourself.

Damian was watching and making small comments about your posture as you fought before noticing how many moves were incredibly similar to downright the same moves he did as he fought with random criminals, making his heart soar with respect and felt incredibly honoured that you were copying him. He knew that he was gonna show the footage to the others to show how much Spider was like him and how he's obviously the favourite since they're copying him.

He did found your face very familiar, like he met you once but he couldn't find any memory of you in his mind, making him frustrated and angry since he's supposed to be the heir of Wayne Enterprises, his memory shouldn't get worse so soon.

When you felt a hand on your shoulder and another grabbing the hand that was hitting the now dead Joker, you turned around and just kicked that person away with all your strength to a nearby dumpster and just prepared yourself for another fight.

You honestly couldn't really see who was close to you thanks to Joker punching you right in the face and making your eyesight a bit blurry that you honestly couldn't see who was approaching and just thought it was another guy or more trying to kidnap you, so you kept fighting by using your spider senses to find them.

It took Dick, a laughing Jason and an annoyed but amazed Damian to manage to stop you, leaving all of them with bruises and many injuries since you didn't hold your strength back. The indented dumpster after you kicked Damian when he tried to grab you and the hole in a wall after you missed punching Jason and got stuck in the wall was proof of it.

The last thing you remembered before falling asleep after getting a small injection in your neck was Jason's laugh even though he sounded like someone kicked him in the chest and Damian's exasperated voice as he talked with Dick and how they shouldn't let you near anything alcoholic anymore.

You woke up the next day in your room, the headache from the hangover making you groan in pain, especially after feeling how sore your body was even though you couldn't remember anything from last night, before managing to get up without feeling like puking or falling, cursing yourself and making a mental note to never drink during patrol.

You slowly walked to the door, cursing your hangover since it felt like your door was farther away from you since you though you were in your usual room and not in another that looked exactly the same but you didn't really pay much attention to it since your head was killing you as you tried to think of anything.

You finally reached the door and opened it, immediately facing a surprised Bruce, making you confused and annoyed since you already felt like shit and seeing your father that never stepped up as a father to you made your headache worse.

You and the man stared at each other for a few seconds that felt like hours before you pushed him away and walked to where you thought the bathroom was, knowing that you needed to have a shower and probably puke your mind out.

When you finally walked out of the bathroom with a less painful headache after drinking some water from the sink and while you were showering, knowing it was safe since the Manor filtered the water, but the short-time happiness from the long shower was immediately ruined by Dick's loud voice as he talked about something you weren't paying attention to and him dragging you to the dining room where everyone was waiting for you, your headache coming back strong to even making you try and get away from his arms.

You groaned when he basically dropped you on the carpeted floor of the dining room, to which everyone's eyes were on you as you slowly got up and made your way to a random chair far away from everyone else, a bit weirded out since you actually never sat on a chair on the actual table. Hell, you probably never even stepped foot in the room in all the years you lived there.

You mumbled a thanks to Alfred when he set a bowl of soup in front of you and a few pills on a tissue next to your glass of water, to which you assumed it was for your headache and hangover.

You started to eat the soup without saying anything to anyone else at the table before looking up when you heard Bruce's voice saying your nome, ignoring how hesitant his voice was when he actually said your name, like it was the first time he ever actually pronounced your name out loud.

You stared at the older man who was supposed to be your father, hissing a little when the lights from the chandelier hits your eyes, too used to your poorly lit room and of the gloomy weather of Gotham that never lets any sun in so bright lights hurt your eyes.

"[Y/N], hun, I know you drank last night. And I am sure you know that drinking is bad for you, especially when you are underage. You could've hurt yourself and the people around you, which you did last night!" he said, his voice raising at the end before pointing at Dick, Jason and Damian, who you just noticed all had some bruises and looked uncomfortable while sitting on the chair.

Honestly, you didn't even feel bad. The only thing you felt bad about was not being able to remember anything about it. You hoped that someone took a video of it, god you hoped so hard.

As you thought of finding that video you suddenly noticed that Bruce was still talking, probably going on about the dangers of alcohol and what it could do to someone's liver after prolonged drinking, making you annoyed since he cares now? After years of ignoring your existence?

So you did what he did once when you were little, you just got up and left without a word to your room, not caring about anything he was saying. You didn't even know where you were going in the Mansion,thanks to how big it is and how you stuck to your room instead of exploring and ended up inside a small bedroom that looked like no one entered it for years thanks to the all the dust inside of it.

You opened the windows to let some air inside and found a few diaries as you snooped around before finding the holy grail of things you could find in anyone's room: an unopened bottle of rum in a hidden drawer that you might have broken while trying to open it because you were curious.

You were now loving whoever lived here and put the rum away in a pocket before walking out the room by the window so you could reach a bag you left on the rooftop that held a copy of your costume. Why did you had a bag there on the first place?

That was simple. You once forgot it while you were drinking on the rooftop when you had a horrible day and just forgot it there when you stumbled in your room by walking on the walls. And yes, the conversation you had with Alfred to ask him about having some money to buy all the stuff you needed to re-make the suit and re-create the voice modulator was very uncomfortable, especially when you knew you couldn't afford all of the stuff you needed even though you had a job.

And yes, you didn't have an allowance because Bruce never thought of giving you money and you had to take a job to just survive and not always ask for Alfred for money when you needed something for school or for dance practice.

As you reached the bad tied to an unused chimney, a small frown formed on your face when you saw the old design of your vigilante suit but still changed before putting the web shooters on your wrists, your bag already on your shoulders and the rum safely stashed in it and wrapped around your clothes to make sure it won't accidentally break while you were swinging around Gotham.

Once you got on a random rooftop of an abandoned building, which you made sure wasn't a rogue or a gang hideout before settling on it so you could finally drink the bottle you stole. You were close to one of the mafia's territory in Crime Alley but you didn't care which one it was, you only wanted to drink.

As you finally started to drink, your tongue tasting a hint of nutmeg and weirdly cinnamon with each sip you took, you slowly started to relax as the alcohol did its job, each sip making your head feel less heavy, like it was getting pumped full of helium and slowly making your forget about the pain your body was in.

God, you never wanted to stop, just four sips in and you were already past the tipsy part and you felt so free that anything you saw in the starless, polluted night of Gotham made you laugh like crazy. You finally felt like you belonged when you drank and that all the hatred, anger and the deep resentment you felt towards the Bats was calm, like a warm heavy blanket was put on those emotions.

As the night progressed, the bottle now half empty and your mind completely fuzzy, you started to hear noises and grunts of pain from one of the alleys near your spot, making you curious to see who it was and especially what was happening that would ruin your drinking night.

You slowly got up, your limbs feeling like jelly as you moved to walk on the side of the building, slipping a little as you stumbled around. After a bit you finally managed to get to the right alley when you realised you were on the wrong side of the building, and as you walked over you luckily avoided a frantic Nightwing grappling to a building.

You watched in silence when you finally got to the right alley and saw Black Mask, one of the criminals you knew his own goons feared because he could kill them if they did anything wrong in his eyes. You couldn't count the times you saw bodies in alleys when you were patrolling, their bodies covered in bruises and most of the time they were beat up beyond recognition that always made you sick.

But, unfortunately for you, your drunken mind decided to say something since you found his mask boring and weird. Like, compared to Jason's mask, his just looked boring and not really original. And you knew he was dangerous but noo, let's anger the mafia boss who kills with no mercy.

"He-Hey! You look ri"- you took a few sips of the rum - "uhh, oh yea! Ridiculous! Why that? No red, thought of being compared to Red Skull?" you started before your drunken mind just decided to go on a whole rant about his choices of brand and what he does with his goons.

As you were ranting about his ugliness and name choice, your spider senses made you dodge an incoming bullet shot at you but unfortunately Black Mask managed to hit your sacred bottle that still had most of its contents in it and you just watched with tears in your eyes as the alcohol ran out of your bottle to the ground.

The anger that surged in you after your drunken mind realised that he wasted your precious rum made you so angry that you didn't care who Black Mask is and threw the broken glass bottle at him and used his small distraction to web his chest and launch yourself at him, using all your strenght to punch his ugly masked face.

Using the moment and how distracted the man was, thanks to your punch, you kept hitting the man with all your strenght. Sadly, this moment of you overpowering the insult for eyes as a man as the man manages to catch one of your punches that was aiming for his stomach and pulled you forward to knee you on the chest, making you gasp for air and cough and almost made you puke but you anaged to keep it down.

Sadly, the bastard with no imagination for names started to hit you on the back of the head, making your vision blurred for a few seconds before your vision went back to normal thanks to your fast healing. You managed to avoid another one of his hits and quickly jumped on the wall and webbed him on the chest, pulling him forward and jumping on him, kicking him on the jaw.

You stared at the sad excuse of a original rogue as it stayed on the ground and slowly raised your hands like you won before grabbing the broken bottle of rum and walked on a wall, waiting as you watched the thing who you refused to acknowledge as a man get up and wobble around while the two goons he was hitting before already ran away.

Once it got up, obviously confused when you watched him look around and you waited until he got closer and hit him on the head with the bottle as a revenge for the wasted precious alcohol and then you quickly kicked him on the back to keep him down since you knew he was good at hand and hand combat and you knew that you couldn't win if he was lucid so you were lucky that you gave him a concussion with a lucky move.

You kept hitting the man-thing with the bottle with no care in the world, the blood splattering on the walls and the dumpster near you two, your smile the only thing he could see as you just kept hitting him, the bottle getting thrown away when it was completely broken from hitting his mask so you went back to using your hands, smashing his mask onto his scarred face, the alcohol in your body making you ignore how the shards of the mask were also getting embedded in your hands as you kept punching his face.

You stopped when your spider senses alerted you of danger and got ready to fight whoever it was that before getting hit with something and falling asleep, the last thing you managed to say before falling asleep was "fuck yall".

You woke up once again with weird cuffs on your wrists, but fortunately you weren't chained to the bed. You slowly got up from the bed and noiced two things: your hands were bandaged, making you confused as to what happened last night after you drank and both windows in the room had bars on it.

You managed to get up from the bed and walked to the door, your vision being a bit blurred as you looked around the room. You first walked to the window to see the bars and noticed how the bars were so close together and had such a small space between that even your finger couldn't pass through.

You then walked to the door and went to grab the doorknob but almost fell to the ground as you noticed too late that the doorknob was missing from the door. You quickly recovered and looked angrily at the door, punching it with all your strenght before realising that the cuffs were blocking your super-strenght when you felt an immense pain in your hand after you punched it and the door didn't fall down like you planned to.

You slowly retracted your hand from the door and started to pound the door with the other hand, yelling for Bruce and whoever lived in the fucking Manor, too angry and scared to care about the pain as your hand kept touching the door.

As you pounded on the door, you hoped that Alfred would come to save you from this room and explain why the hell you were stuck in a room with no way out, feeling trapped as minutes went by and no one came to explain what was happening and why you were trapped in that room.

You let out a huge sigh of relief when you heard footsteps coming your way and finally stopped pounding on the door, only now noticing the prints of blood on the door from your hand that was now bleeding profusely, making you almost cry as even slightly moving a finger brought you immense pain.

You looked up when you heard the door open and stared at Bruce and Alfred, who was holding a first aid kit, and moved to the side to let them enter, not wanting to fight until you knew why you were here.

You sat on a chair, who you now noticed was plastic, and let Alfred change the bandages on your hands while you stared at Bruce, waiting for an explanation before getting frustrated when he didn't say anything and just stared at you.

"What happened to me? Why are my hands bandaged?" you asked, staring directly at Bruce to hear his explanation, not remembering anything after you drank.

The man who you were told to call father just stared at you with a grim expression on his face "two days ago, after you snuck ou-" to which you interrupted him "I didn't sneak out, using those words would mean that you cared that I actually lived here and what these last 17 years showed me was that you don't care. Don't act like you do now".

You watched as the man acted like it didn't affect him but you knew that it did. You knew Bruce Wayne and he loves kids, you saw how he acted with Damian when he got hurt during patrol and how Jason once came home bleeding. You saw the man who you thought was heartless and didn't care about anyone cradle Jason's body as he carried him to the batcave, his face showing so many emotions that you never saw before.

You stayed silent as you watched him, giving an ok to Alfred when he asked if the bandages were too tight, still waiting for him to explain before sighing loudly when he just stared back at you.

"I went out to drink so what? Did I fight a gang member and somehow got so hurt that my hands need help healing?" you joked, wiggling your fingers to show your bandaged hands like it was something to be proud of.

To which Bruce seemed to get extremely mad about it "no, you decided to fight Black Mask after insulting him and ended up killing him. Damian and Cass had to sedate you as they thought you were a danger to yourself and to the civilians.".

After that you just stared at him before looking down at your own hands and looked at your knuckles who were staining your bandages since they were still bleeding. "So what? I didn't hurt someone innocent so why am I in a room with bars and no way out?" you asked angrily, not caring that you killed someone since you never viewed Black Mask as a person after everything you've seen him and his men do.

The man stared back at you "and this is exactly why you won't be let out until I know that you aren't a danger to the public" he said coldly and walked out with Alfred while you just stood there in shock.

You quickly ran to the door and started banging on it "NO NO NO! YOU CAN'T LEAVE ME HERE! I AM AN ADULT! YOU CAN'T DO THIS TO ME" you yelled as you banged to it, ignoring how their footsteps started to sound so far away while you cried and yelled in the room.

[sil-te-plait-tue-moi]

The idler wheel is wiser than the driver of the screw.

PART 1 ★ PART 2

Quick summary: After one too many drinks, you find yourself unable to think of anything but a certain smart-mouth detective who is in desperate need of a release.

Word count: 11K (I'm sorry)

Warnings: This is basically just SMUTT with a lil feelings (if you squint) sprinkled in there; kind of angsty at points (mentions of canon-typical death and violence (hellooo they're homicide detectives); gets a bit existential at points, watch out; pretentious.

A/N: YAY! I had this obsession with True Detective S1 all throughout October (watched it at my nan's house lmao), so enjoy the lovechild of that. This is just for fun, so, please, nobody be angry at me if they don't agree with Rust's characterisation, or any of the weird philosophical chat, lalallalal, OKAY ENJOY!!

***

The night air is sluggish and humid with the remnants of a warm summer’s rain, pressing down thickly, close, clogging, simmering just below the surface.

A few times, I’ve interviewed people who live in these sorts of places: motel-types, the “in-between”, where folks stay when they’ve either got no money, no choice or nobody. Other residents include passers-by who’re looking to save money on accommodation, skipping on the fancier places. Not that Louisiana really has any “fancier places”. Places without the paint peeling off walls like dead skin, I guess. A bed and breakfast in the nicer suburbia, with a view overlooking a subpar daydream of a ghost town centre. 

I’ve leaned up against the crooked, metal railing, felt the influence of my weight almost sending it and myself crashing down onto the faded parking lot beneath. I’ve leaned up there—after knocking—and waited, waited for a grey face to peer through a crack in the cracked door. I’ve smiled and remarked about how the beat-up, brass numbers up there are hanging by a thread. Sometimes, people are real stingy – they slink out and close the door behind them, or they remain in that little slit, just an eye visible, or they plain shut it in my face. Most let me in right away, maybe a little intimidated by the shiny badge clipped up in my jacket – I’ve sat across from ‘em, felt that mud in the room’s air seep into my pores, inviting me under its still swamp. 

Seems like the sort of place for him.

Too many a fuckin’ time, Marty’s come grumbling and muttering into the office kitchen, rolling his eyes, scoffing, huffing, the whole lot. And when I ask him why the strop?—“Ancient fuckin’ philosopher fuckin’ Rust Cohle on it again. Birthday’s comin’ up: get me earplugs and a generous bit o’ duct tape for my dear partner over there, would you?” 

Or somethin’ along those lines. 

For all his apparent talk about us silly, little “biological puppets”, this seems like Rust’s sort of place. Temporary existence, temporary living. Purgatory?

Whatever.

If you ask me, Rust Cohle’s head is so far up his own ass that it’s no wonder his outlook on life is so dark. 

If I was more sober, maybe I’d be thinking about it—about him—less—but this night out has had me so drunk I was maybe even hallucinating at some point. Rust?—sure, he’s been in the back of my mind for some part of the last few months – I have to see him most days I go to work, don’t I? – but, sometime in the space between my third and fourth shot of straight vodka, he was suddenly at the very front of it. I’d seen a guy who smoked like him: cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger, a simple, deep drag. I’d thought it was him, but then I realised his face was shrouded in the smoke that he’d exhaled, and I recalled that Rust never seems to do that. Never seems to exhale. All the tar and shit stays in. 

With a twist of my keys, the engine rumbles off into more-or-less silence. Fuck, it’s a bad idea, yes, just being here. If he likes to keep his distance, well—he’s entitled to that choice. 

I glance over my shoulder, out the window, out at the complex which is all yellow and shining, illuminated by buzzing halogen light bars and, of course, the occasional bug zapper. It’s clean enough. The lines of this parking space were white enough. Apartment 11A, said Marty. Second floor. 

“Are you drunk?” he’d asked – Marty, not Rust.

I’d replied, “No,” pressing closer to the phone box in attempts to remove myself from the swarm and bustle of the ladies’ bathroom. And it was an honest reply. Sort of. Despite his scepticism, by that time, I’d long stopped drinking, and all that remained from it was a sort of numb tingle in my fingertips—as far as I was concerned. 

I don’t think I’d be in this parking lot, stepping out of my car, if I wasn’t still a little bit gone. 

Marty’s sigh had crackled through the receiver. “Don’t bring any o’ tha’ party-this-party-that attitude to ‘im, alright? He’ll hate it.” I’d told him okay, my stomach spiking up with excitement. “Fact is, I don’t think you should go at all. ‘f you do, should be a work matter. This a work matter, detective?”

I’d lied, said yes, perhaps with a slur to my voice. 

He clicked his tongue. “Okay, buck, whatever you say.” Then, he’d hung up. 

There was something disapproving in the manner of the conversation. I got the feeling that he was talking to me in the same voice he used to lecture his daughters. The only reason I’d called him was to get something from him, sure, so that I could basically get something from Rust, his partner. I could see how that sort of thing might’ve upset someone. Not that Marty Hart should have any right to judge, not when he’s coming into work in the same clothes as the day before, stinking of sweat and God knows what. The unsaid agreement of everyone in the office is to turn a blind eye. I’ve met his wife. Someone should cut off his damn dick. 

Quiet, now. Hell, who am I to talk? Marty’s fun to chat with, makes a slow day at the office a little brighter. ‘Course, there’s rarely a slow day at the office.

And I’m at the top of the stairs, now. And I knock—one, two, three—on the pilling, forest-green door. Dulled down 11A. Blinds are determinedly shut, slats flat. For a second, I think maybe I’ll be waking him.

Then I remember Rust doesn’t sleep. 

A grey face appears as the door swings just a little ways open, grave and sunken-tired. His expression isn’t so pissed-off as it is just his usual expression. 

“Rusty,” I say to him with a small nod, words scraping out dryly. 

He doesn’t respond right away – ‘stead, he leans his body out partway, eyes absent like he’s searching for some hooligan criminal in the night.

“Marty told you my address?” he asks lowly. It’s more a statement than anything, but I amuse him with a nod anyways. There’s a cigarette flaring up between his fingers. His hand twitches a little like he’s wanting to take a drag, but his eyes are fixed on my shoes, now, like he’s still coming to terms with the fact I’m a foreign body in his domain. 

My toes curl up tight in my shoes – there’s that prick of anticipation again. Ice-cold, you could easily mistake it as dread. 

Rust doesn’t exactly subject me to an imploring look—not really his style—but he bows his head down just slightly – that’s sign enough for me. He wants to know why I’m here, and he no doubt wants to know the quickest way to be rid of me. 

I sigh. I ask him.

My body trembles, and he notices it, records it, stores it away for later reference, for some other time he’ll find that it and me will contribute to his purpose. 

Rust has a face of stone. I get to know it well as I search for a sign there that might let me know what lies beneath. But, of course, a statue is solid through and through. Sharp angles and smooth planes carved hollow. If he’s cold to the touch, I’d like to reach out and be sure. Is he cold where a man ought to be warm? Christ, it makes my pulse jump just to think about it. 

There is no greater purpose or cruel intention underlying my words, as far as I’m concerned. Rust, however, lingers there, with his arm up on the door, barricading the entrance, while he peels back and flits over every layer of possible meaning, his attention fixed absently on my left ear.

He then looks at me—briefly—in the eyes, with a sort of paralysing intensity. Even the tingling in my fingers ceases to be. 

It takes a moment, pregnant with the chorus of cicadas, crickets and other night-creatures, before he steps back neatly to allow me in.

The door clicks softly behind me as I enter into a room that’s bare as bare can be.  

Rust grunts, coming up around me and into the kitchen area. “Want anything?” he mumbles around his cigarette, other hand shoved in his pocket. He’s still half-dressed in his work clothes, his tie strewn on the counter, his blazer slumped over a rickety picnic chair perched up in front of a wall of crime scenes and dead bodies. My eyes linger there—how can they not?

“A beer,” I tell him, still looking at those photographs, then at the stacks upon stacks of books. Philosophy, ethics, religion. Names I’d expect only those with PhDs to know.  

“Don’t think you’ve had ‘nuff to drink already?”  

I shoot him a look. “I think I can handle it, Rust.” He straightens up, raises his brow. I snort, reasoning, “I’ll only have one.”

“One,” he agrees, opening up the fridge and having a rummage around.  

White walls and all of them empty, like some sort of psych ward. Half-sure Rust actually did do some time in that type of care, though, so—shouldn’t make any quips about that. I don’t want him thinking I think he’s crazy – he gets enough of that, I’m sure.   

Back at my place, though, I’ve got posters or drawings or paintings up around every corner. My niece’s drawing of a mermaid sits on my dresser, and photographs of my family are displayed in the hallway. One up by the TV, I painted myself when I was in high school. About two years after I graduated, they asked if I wanted my portfolio back, and I’d obviously said yes. And I love my stuff! Some ‘cause it’s pretty, others because of memories and whatnot. Guess some people don’t have that creative trait, or they lose it. Or maybe they detest the sentiments, those strings that have been, are and will be attached to things. When my cousin broke up with her boyfriend, she cut her hair and burned his clothes. “I just want to forget him,” she’d snarled. I’d sputtered a laugh into my tea.

Rust plants a Corona down on the counter, already cracked open.

There’s no mirror in here either – I can’t check whether I look as desperate as I feel. When I focus back on him, Rust is taking a swig from his own beer, turning to glance at the crucifix pinned above the messy mattress on the floor. Huh. Didn’t peg him as a Christian.

His honey-blond hair doesn’t look cold to the touch, that’s for sure ‘n’ certain. Wonder if he just wakes up like that or what. Once, Marty had been teasing him at work, even cracking a smile out of the old guy. “Ain’t them just the prettiest curls y’ever seen, buck?” he’d remarked, nudging into me, cooing at him. Silently, in my head, even then, I’d agreed: prettiest curls I’d ever seen. Rust hadn’t looked up to chart my reaction, but, if he had, he’d maybe have seen my fidgeting fingers or hitch of breath. Or maybe he felt it, heard it. 

“Sorry to barge in on you like this,” I offer pathetically through a nervous smile. 

He blinks, takes another swig, leaning over the counter that separates us. “No, y’aint.”

Jesus, I have to turn my head and shut my eyes for a second. I don’t particularly believe in God, but I ask Him to please give me the strength to resist my urges and act like a normal damn person for at least a few more minutes. And then I apologise for only praying out of convenience. In the face of temptation. This is why people shouldn’t drink – still, doesn’t stop me from downing a good part of my beer.

I turn to the wall and try to turn myself off a little bit. It’s not hard – Rust still has Dora Lange (rest her soul) pinned up on his wall, naked, blue, stiff. I don’t want to know why, so I don’t ask him. 

His eyes are adamant on the side of my head. Funny how he never seems to look at me at the same time I’m looking at him. Pisses me off a lot of the time – not just him, but in general. A lot of people share this same fear of not being heard, not being listened to and not being cared about. Men in particular, I’ve noticed, have a tendency to raise their voice over others’, to yell or shout or hit things or push ‘n’ shove. Marty’s that way – a lot of men at the precinct are, too. Women who are raised to be the listeners sometimes act out in the same way, frustrated at all the things they have to care about that men don’t, burdened with manners and politeness. I used to hate having to listen, to wait for the man who interrupted me to finish speaking. Rust always lets people finish their point, for better and for worse. Pisses me off in a different type of way. I can feel his judgement seeping out of him, so potent that’s it’s tangible, lapping at my feet.

He doesn’t push and shove – he’s a listener, too. Of course, he has that male privilege where his silence has a gravity, a magnetic pull, where mine is simply as is. At least he pays attention. Sure, on the surface, it might look like he doesn’t care at all, hunched over a case file at his desk, back turned to me and the rest of the lot, but proximity has its power – assigned workspaces put with his personality, and he knows what’s like and unlike me better than my sister. He’s reading into my refusal to talk, to face him – unlike me.

“So, you’ve given this some thought, then,” Rust says matter-of-factly, and my tummy bubbles up.

I snicker nervously, heart racing. God, I’d expected surprise, disbelief, outright refusal, maybe even a little disgust, but, when I manage to turn around and look at his face again, it just seems to me like a calmness. Stoicism found in the affirmation, maybe, of his expectations. It’s like I’m walking right into one of those little theories of his: a proved hypothesis.

I take another sip from my beer, feeling too shy for my liking. “Well, yeah,” I drawl, slumping over the kitchen counter and propping my chin up to look right back at him in a surge of liquid confidence. “I always think ‘fore I do anything that’s anything, Rust.”

Almost immediately, he retreats, standing up straight and resting the small of his back against the lip of the sink behind him. He hums, glances away. “We both know that’s a lie,” he combats, hands tucked into his pockets, chin tilted up, eyes down. A mouthful of beer numbs the sting of rejection. “What you mean is you think you can justify all your decisions. You think you can justify why you knocked on my door and said what you said—” he elaborates quietly, eliciting a snort from me, “—but, at the end o’ the day, all your decisions boil down to what you feel is right, not what is right.”

“‘n' you think you ‘n’ you alone know what’s right?”

Slate-grey eyes flit up and down my face, like I’m a specimen on a slide.

“I think that the girl who’s stumbled up on a fella’s door asking him to fuck her is less inclined to know, without bias, what’s right, yes.”

I swallow thickly, sucking the remaining flavour of beer off of my tongue before going in for another swig.

Christ.

Not a single bat of his eyes. Not a quiver of his mouth, not a twitch to his nose, not a morsel of natural, human hesitation. Does he have to be so crass? I did the courtesy of making it palatable, at least to my own ears, with a euphemism. But when have I ever known Rust Cohle to water anything down? No drink I’ve ever consumed will match his body’s preference of alcohol content. He’s nursing his beer close to his chest, but who knows what poisons lay dormant in these cabinets?

“Rusty,” I say lowly, maybe asking for a break – I close my eyes for just a second, part because I couldn’t bear it if I caught some sort of disapproval on his face, and part because it’s just past two o’clock in the morning.

Late nights have consumed my life recently, what with that sicko rapist connected to a Christian fertility cult. Children of God – “go forth and multiply”. His confession had turned my blood cold. Johansson had offered to sit in the box instead, but I did it anyway. I went home and cried over it, then came into work the next day to talk to some press and then receive my new assignment.

He hums, taking a drag from his cigarette, swallowing the smoke down. Rust knows how it is. To be honest, I’m probably the one who doesn’t know the half of it. One night at the office, he’d casually confessed to his insomnia, like he was just commenting on the state of the weather ‘n’ nothin’ else. So, I guess I won’t pretend to get it.

I gnaw on the inside of my cheek. “Are you into that whole abstinence thing?”

The weak light above flickers gently as he pauses, turns the question over in his mind. Anyone else would’ve surely laughed.

“I believe that man is susceptible to desire, yes—but he can resist it and its consequences should his willpower be stronger than the false promises posed by that temptation.

I snort again, because, now, I really am tipsy, and I can’t hold in my attitude any longer. It’s not that I think he’s lost it or whatever. It’s just—he’s so—objectively—absurd. Well—“objectively”. He’s got points, but those points lose all meaning in the spiralling darkness of overthought and deep contemplation wherein he’ll explain that everything really means nothing—and he’ll be right about that, sure, but also unintentionally prove a point about himself. I’d ask him what it means when, in a world where everything means nothing, a child will give their friend a flower found on the way to school, but I feel like his answer would be too morbid for my liking. Does that make me an unreliable source? The fact that I want to live?

He's absurd. He’s also a little bit awry in the head. Don’t know what he’s lost or what he’s lookin’ for, but it’s not a good look on him. He’s honest, yes – that’s a good trait. But honesty without kindness is cruelty. And he is kind – underneath, he’s kind, and I know that because of how hard he works to weed out evil people in this world, most times at his own risk. That’s kindness, albeit unconventional, whether he realises it or not.

The kindness almost cancels out his arrogance.

“So, what?” I challenge under the guise of a teasing grin. “You can go mouthin’ off for hours on end about how up themselves religious people and all’at are, but you can’t draw the similarities between their philosophy and your philosophy? How does that work, Rust?”

While I was working that Children of God nightmare of a case, he just couldn’t seem to restrain himself – every bullshit word that left him revealed to me his hubris. Now, I’m not angry, and he’s not stupid – we’re not arguing. In fact, he seems intrigued, lean body shifted toward me. He sets his beer down on the counter, crosses his arms over his chest after securing his cigarette between his lips, and lowers his head as if to listen to me better.

I sigh, continue. “D’you know what I think? I think you oversimplify humanity. You’re a great detective—‘nd I guess you know it—and, within the confines of your job, it serves you well, makes you good in the box. But your assumptions are too general. People are who they are, sure, but they also decide to be those people. By their environment and those who surround ‘em, people make the decisions that define ‘em. A lot of the time, their circumstances ain’t fair. People born into badness are trapped by the badness—either physically, or up in their heads—and they have a tough time escapin’ it.”

Rust inhales the smoke again, the only evidence of it happening being the soft whisp that curls away from his nose. I wonder to myself how his lungs are still standing.

“‘s that how you explain that—homicide case you’re workin’ on?” Three-year-old boy died of neglect, his siblings found locked in cabinets, one in a dog cage, by their mother and stepfather. Rust’s eyes flash silver. “Killer had a tough time?”

Asshole.

I narrow my eyes dangerously. “Don’t be mean, Rusty,” I scold, and he blinks in concession. “I think evil exists. I think it’s complicated. I think you summarise things that ought not to be summarised.”

He’s silent for a heartbeat. Then, his hand comes up to pinch away his cigarette, and he waves it in a small flourish, explaining, “When I say “people”, I mean society. Human culture.”

“Last I checked, Rust, you don’t know everybody on the planet. You don’t know their “culture”, or experiences.” That seems to shut him up. My eyes wander to his broad shoulders, trail along the meat of his arms beneath the cheap, polyester shirt that hugs close to the muscle, and they linger there like the quiet that settles between us.

He nods slowly, once. “Our decisions define us?”

I bob my head, unabashedly staring at the elegant column of his throat, his neck, and the stretch of tan skin that is settled beneath the white undershirt revealed by the first one, two, three buttons which have recently been undone.

He’s quieter when he asks me, “Well, how does this decision define you, then?” There’s nothing malicious about the way he says it, or even lustful – just a calm curiosity.

“Ain’t it obvious?” I grin again, laugh a little, blush hotly. “I’m horny!” I hide my face in my shoulder, trying to compose the hiccups of laughter in my stomach. “I’m sorry,” I snicker, wiping my palm over my brow, my eyes. “This probably isn’t very attractive to you.”

“You’re a very pretty girl,” he replies. He mutters my name solemnly, like we’re in a formal meeting or something.

I glance up, check whether he’ll offer me eye contact again, but he doesn’t – he’s staring at the wall, lost.

I scoff. “You’re a very pretty guy, Rust.”

God willing, none of the boys at the precinct will ever find out about this. If Marty lets it slip that I even asked for Rust’s address, then I’ll never hear the end of it. Worse, everyone’ll think I’m dead-gone over him. Guess I don’t really fit the standards expected of women around here: “wife”, or “whore”. Or “dead”. It’s hard enough to be taken seriously going about pretending I’m not interested in sex at all. Once sex comes into the equation, I’ll be reduced to that and nothing else. 

Anxious, I start flicking up under my fingernails. Is Rust already starting to think those things, too? I’m a great detective, but that’s the only capacity in which he’s really known me. 

I wring the neck of my bottle. “I should explain—”

He holds his hand up, stating, “I don’t need you to. Do you feel the need to?” 

Curious, wary, I watch his face, a blank slate. Still waters run deep. My eyes drift down, to where his hands are together in front of him, one relaxed beside him the other curled around his wrist with two fingers resting on the pulse.

“No,” I reply. 

“You thought it over,” he says, eyes tilting up at the ceiling, aloof, bored, maybe. His words are sort of monotone, like he’s reciting a passage from a book that he’s just recently read: “You chose me because you know me. You haven’t been sleeping well. You’re stressed, you’re scared, you’re frustrated.” He blinks. “You’re attracted to me due to some—unfortunate trigger beyond your control in the reptilian part of your brain.” Brief as the flicker of a candle in a still room, he looks over me, brow raised slightly as if daring me to tell him that he’s wrong. He pauses again, takes a short puff. “It makes you think I can take care o’ your needs.”

Look at the state of him: sallow and wilting on the inside. Reducing me down to a sentence or two, and being right about it.

“Well, can you?” I ask weakly, feeling small. He looks over me, blinks blankly. “How do you take care of your needs?” No reply. “You do have needs, don’t you?” I remark, tapping the rim of my bottle to my warm temple. “Programming ‘n’ whatnot.” 

He tilts his head away in dismissal. 

I smile, more to myself than to him. “Beat off in the shower, is it?”

For a second, Rust is still. My eyes grow heavy, admiring the strong profile of his nose. He then nods helplessly, like there’s no point in trying to lie.

I hum, a soft, self-satisfied smirk edging its way onto my face. “Must feel like a sin,” I snicker.  

He squints slightly, like he disagrees with my logic, but does not interrupt to protest. 

“I remember takin’ baths as a teenager and double-checkin’, triple-checkin’ I locked the door,” I confess. “Couldn’t take my time. ‘S that how it is for you, Rust?” I probe, tilting my head to the side, losing his eyes as quickly as I catch them. “You ever let yourself enjoy it? Let yourself want it—?”

“I don’t want it,” he snaps quietly.

“But your programmin’ says you do, right?” I point out, scrambling to hold onto the flaw in his argument. I search his face, my own bright, eager.

He quirks up a miraculous smile, and I myself burst into a wide grin. Still smiling—though, you’d have to admit, it’s such a strange sight, sort of gratifying, almost patronising—he shifts his weight between his feet, scratches at his nose with his pinkie, sniffs, takes a long drag of his dying cigarette. I know he must feel disjointed, though he doesn’t show it: he’s misstepped, and I’ve caught him. And how often does Rust Cohle misstep? I should’ve checked the news for a blue moon tonight. 

Interested, now, is he? Breathing quietly, rolling his jaw – he’s entertaining the competition I have goin’ up in my head. From the looks of the gentle smirk on his face, he’s enjoying it, too. 

“No,” he corrects with a dry husk to his voice. “No, I know what I want, and, when I think those things are necessary or useful, I know how to get them.”

In this type of context, I’d like to see him try. Though, he is an undeniably attractive man. Thick, solid all the way through, like a rich wood. But he’s got these brittle eyes: fraying.

He continues: “Most of the time, though, what we want is born out of dangerous feelings, like rage or lust. Ruminating on the consequences of those potential actions seems to me the more sensible thing to do than to just leave it and find out.” I sniff. “Desire is inescapable for most, including the sexual kind. I feel it—“ he eyes how I wriggle beneath my skin, “—you feel it. But it can be resisted. You’re lettin’ it dictate what you do ‘n’ say. If I do to you what you want me to, have you thought about how it might affect things down the line? Tomorrow, next week, next month—?”

“Yes,” I hiss, a little too emotionally, such that a gleam of satisfaction crosses his grey eyes at the strain and stretch of my voice. Christ. Desperate much?

I take several seconds to think before allowing myself to speak again, all while staring at him straight on and refusing to look away: I’d just die if I let him catch me out. “Well, how can you be sure of the fallout? How do you know the good won’t outweigh the bad? Not “you” specifically, but, also, yeah, “you” specifically. I can think about something morally ambiguous, and I can evaluate the potential consequences, and, just as you are satisfied to observe, I will decide to follow through with this somethin’ and deal with what I gotta deal.”

He sighs. “Because decisions define a person?” 

I tuck my hair tight behind my ears. “Yes.”

And he hums – that beautiful noise resonates in my stomach before sinking down there, low, its weight a comfort. “I agree with you in that respect,” he admits. 

A laugh erupts out of me like the sputter of an engine. Luckily, I’m easy to laughter – it’s like me, as is my genuine grin. “Rust Cohle’s agreein’ with me on somethin’?—Call the police!” 

“We are the police,” he replies smartly, watching me snort and smile and grow flushed in the face. I feel very grateful to that beer – at least my giddiness can be blamed on the effects of alcohol and save me from embarrassment.  

As I simmer down, he looks away, adds, “I agree to an extent. People all think that they’re one-of-a-kind. That they make these—amazing decisions. They speak and do and walk and play and work and fuck and eventually die – all of ‘em.”

“You’re part of the people,” I argue.  

He hums, nodding in acceptance. “Yes.”

“If a person acts due to their instinct, whether it’s succumbing to it or fighting against it, then isn’t man simply his programming?” He lowers his head. “You can be aware of it, and you can be a part of it, too. Who are you to deny yourself the good parts?”  

He fiddles with his cigarette, svelte fingers nimble and acute. I cross my legs, flex my hips; he notices. 

“Because of the consequences,” he replies, a soft whisper.  

I thought that everything meant fuck-all?

For someone who sees no meaning in life, he sure seems to spend a lot of time contemplating it. Here, I thought I’d have hot hands sliding all over me, gripping, spreading, pushing, but instead find myself defence in an unprecedented debate. 

Rust is breathing slower, deeper, almost unable, now, to look me in the eyes, even look at me in general, whereas, before, it had been a choice, whether that choice be conscious or unconscious. His cigarette burns weakly in his fingers, forgotten. The muscle in his jaw flexes, his expression hollow. 

My body buzzes with want, leaves me scrambling for breath like I’ve just run a race. I want. I want, I want, I want. The rough pads of his fingertips, the surest and most confident I’ll have ever known. Sharp tongue, quick and precise. Something about how he smells. All my compliments to pheromones – even in the heavy musk of the bar, I’d smelled him, ashy, warm, alive, and now it’s wreathing all around. Or maybe that’s just me – it’s like when you try to take someone’s pulse with your thumb, and all you’re feeling is your own heartbeat.

I want – my breath trembles with it.

“Rust,” I say softly. He shakes his head a little, looking away still, vulnerable like a wild animal. I sigh, gnawing at my lip. “I really want it. I—I’ve—it’s not just a rash decision,” I explain. “I’ve wanted it for a while, now.”

He shudders – I notice. “Since when?”

I huff out a sheepish laugh, fix my eyes on my restless hands. “You won’t remember it—”

“I will.”

His voice sounds clogged. It sobers me right up. 

“A year back,” I tell him. “You were working at the office—late, in the dark. You called me, and I asked you why, and you said—it was because you were tired and thinkin’.” I glance up to check if he’s maybe looking, but he’s not – he’s turned his head even further away. The soft, gentle curls of his hair tempt me. 

Blindly reaching for the bottle, securing it almost immediately, he finishes the rest of his beer, then sets it back down. 

“I—” he begins, scratching his nose, “—I was—tired.” He pauses to re-thicken his voice. “And—thinking—”

He doesn’t finish his sentence, but the both of us know what he said that night: Of you. Thinking of you—of me .  

My stomach flips, leaving me almost nauseous, just like it did when I first heard those words. At first, I thought I’d misheard, that I was so tired my mind was playing tricks on me. Then, I thought he was being cruel, or maybe he was drunk. Those two instances weren’t—aren’t—unlike him, but he never, ever calls to be mean or to be stupid. He’d been quiet and warm through the phone after that, a presence so thick I could’ve sworn he had his arms around me right then. I hadn’t slept well for a time, then, of course, and that made it all the more vivid. His voice had made me shiver all the way through as he told me he had to get back to work. 

When I saw him the next morning, I couldn’t look at him. It was the first time I couldn’t, not wouldn’t. It was also the first time I felt him paying attention to me.  

I shift, ask the question I’d wondered since that call: “Why?”

A pause. 

Then: “You brought me coffee that morning,” he explains softly, speaking to the wall opposite. “I was—looking at the mug on my desk – it was yours. Green one you like to use.” He sniffs. “And…” He teeters on the precipice of that word but does not finish the thought. 

Hmm. That’s something to think about. Rust Cohle thinking about me and not picking apart why and why he shouldn’t be. It had been a mindless enough gesture – it’s not unheard of me to be makin’ coffee for other people in the office, not because I have to but because I like to. For the people I can stand, that is: Johansson always, and him for me; Cathleen;   Marty, when I’m not pissed off at him; and Rust, from time to time. Everybody knows that green mug is mine, though – nobody touches it, not even the boss. Rust reads far too much into things. Most of the time, he’s dead-on. I should’ve known from the moment I placed that coffee on his desk, from the sharpening of his eyes (that did not spare me a glance) that lingered on my lingering hand on his table, that he knew. Figured out something I hadn’t even quite figured out myself. Not until later that night. 

I wonder if he’s ever thought of me when fucking his own hand. I wonder if he thinks about me sometimes, when he can’t sleep, in between horror stories and brutal blows and uncovering the secret truths of the universe. I do, sometimes. 

When I push myself back to my feet, stand up, Rust’s attention springs back, and he watches me, looks at me.

Quietly, I relish in the satisfaction of his stare, crossing on light feet to toss my empty beer bottle in the bin. He steps aside to let me open the cupboard under the sink, his hand curled in a loose fist by his side. I’m not trying to tease him – I grant him the space he so clearly needs, retreating about five paces back, leaning slightly myself against the counter. 

I could say anything right now, no matter how insane, and he’d treat it with total and utter respect. I could reveal to him the reaction my body has to seeing his fingers fiddle like that with his cigarette, and he’d manage to identify the cogs and wheels in what, when you step back, actually turns out to be a hidden machine. Christ, I could probably remove all of my clothes, stand naked in front of him, and he’d look on as one would look on at a piece of evidence at work. Going over the details, once, twice, scribbling it all down in that big, leather ledger. 

Here’s what I think: he needs it. For all his talk about how unoriginal, how predictable mammals are at the end of things, he probably knows that himself. The tension in his jaw, the perpetual tightness of breath. That clipped way of talking he has, wound so tight around himself, like a compressed spring fighting its natural urge to let go.  

I could make him let go. Maybe. I wish he’d let me try. It’s nothing possessive, really: wanting to be the one to unravel his tightly coiled body. Just—the release of seeing him be. No thinking in particular – just being.

He is still, however, uncommonly mute, avoiding my eyes.

I sigh. I ask him tentatively, “You think I ought’a be ashamed o’ myself?” biting down on the fleshy inside of my cheek.  

“No,” he contradicts.

“But—you think I should be findin’ my fun elsewhere, with—some other guy?”  

He sort of pins his hands behind his back, pressing his weight against them there at the edge of the sink. He looks a lot taller from this angle. “I think there’s a lotta fellas stumblin’ over themselves to be with a girl like you.”

“Maybe,” I scoff, “but my reptilian brain don’t want none of ‘em.“ I blush warmly when I glance up and he’s there watching me, though there’s no bashfulness at all on his side of it. 

I expect him to maybe dart his eyes away again, like he does, and then walk me to the door, maybe even to the car if I haven’t offended him too badly, and then call it a night. I could stuff it in; I can compartmentalise. Monday would carry on as it always does, except now without the wondering and the yearning and the delusion. Did he have to be so good-looking? His cheap, wrinkled shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows—like they are now—and those lean forearms braced up on the table, caging in the neatly set-out notes scrawled up in his ledger, like they have mind to escape. And he’s—beautiful. He’s tall. Out-of-place sort of tall, where he has this bend to his neck, sometimes, as to not draw attention to himself. Other times, though, he stands to full height, regal, elegant, authoritative, like when he comes out o’ the box.

He sees into people. He feels it all so deeply.  

And he’s looking at me, seeing into me, deeply. His eyes are brittle like china pieced back together with store-bought glue. The low light casts long shadows down his neck and harsh face. 

“Come here to me, Rust,” I say to him, beckoning him over with a tilt of my head. To my surprise, he does. He does immediately, peeling himself off the counter, eyes drifting somewhere just behind me as if disinterested.

He stubs his cigarette out on an old plate, abandons it there officially, before stepping slowly towards me, feet never dragging, dodging my searching eyes like the plague.

Hmm. Maybe I made a good argument “for” to his “against”. Or maybe he was never “against” to begin with. I’ll watch him carefully tomorrow and see if there was anything I missed.

I reach up and touch his face gently. I used to do this with my husband before he passed, and he’d close his eyes and whisper my name and lean into the touch, tender, loving – my fingers shake slightly with the memory. Rust Cohle does none of that, because he is nothing like my husband. He’s perfectly rigid against my fingertips; his stare flits briefly up right into my soul, his mouth pressed in a hard line. Everything about him is so sharp. The ridge of his cheekbones, the defiant slant of his nose. The lean muscle of his arms and shoulders, slightly sinewy just beneath the skin. 

But when I brush my thumbs up along his eyebrows, easing the sharp line between them, he sighs and closes his eyes, neck bowing down, still as stiff as before, just—different. A small gap, an opening, to that locked room of his upstairs.  

“Rust,” I whisper, nose brushing his. He hums again, lowly, eyes shut. “What do you think of us havin’ sex?”

“Sex,“ he replies softly, “is the illusion of connection constituted by the release of a mess of happy hormones, simply by touching all the right places—and nothin’ more.”

I hum and watch the look on his face grow brittle as our breaths mingle closely. God, he’s so near to me that my head swings in a bout of lightheadedness, heady, vision centring in on him and only him, such that I wouldn’t know if this place was burning down all around, even if the flames started eating us alive.  

“I think you’re full o’ shit, Rusty. Know how I know that?”

He sighs shakily. “How?” It’s like the word is dragged right from the pit of his chest, barely a breath to show for the effort of it.

“I can feel you against my leg.” 

He swallows thickly, but he does not blush, and he does not open his eyes. And, contrary to what he might seem, Rust is not cold like stone. When my fingers grow more confident, when they trace and drag lightly along the line of his cheeks, he is warm there. His pulse, when I find it, exists and is hot and slightly erratic, a fact that leaves my mouth dry and open. I can feel the inflexion of his throat as he swallows again, the shift of the skin and the rhythm of his heartbeat, the gentle influence of his breathing. 

I wait for him to say something, but he doesn’t. So, I ask him, “Can I kiss you?” ever so gently. 

Softer still, he replies, “Yes,” with that slight Southern whistle of his, barely moving. 

Give me strength. Give me strength. 

That look on his face is filling me with a delicious, vibrating power. As I stretch my neck up to brush a kiss against the corner of his mouth, my eyes are open and watching him, charting him: Rust breathes strongly out of his nose, eyes still determinedly shut, like he’s absent and meditating. He is not tough as stone – parts of him are soft. He barely returns the kiss, but, as far as my brain processes, his lips are soft. Hesitant, maybe. 

Then, these soft lips part, and he is sucking in a hot, shuddering breath, capturing me in a deep kiss, as if to breathe all of me in, a strong hand threading through my hair. It hurts a little at first – a small noise escapes my throat at the slight shoots of pain tugging at the roots – but Rust doesn’t seem to notice. Not at first. No, he’s still breathing me in. His lips are dry, rough, a push and tug, a twist, and he’s kissing like a punch, knocking the breath right out of my lungs. Whatever oxygen I manage to hold onto is sucked out of me promptly. 

I whine, my body going all slack and tired as he smooths the hair out of my face, palms dragging clean back across my cheeks. Those hands cradle the back of my head, making it impossible to keep my eyes open.

Content, I sigh, eyes succumbing to the sensation and falling shut. The last thing I see is his own eyes slipping open to look at my face.

Boy, he’s a good kisser. Must be that lizard brain he has such a distaste for.

My fingers blindly reach and fumble at his belt, hooking into the waist, pulling him flush against me. Rust must forget what he’s doing for a moment, and he pauses where he is, in limbo, eyes far away. When I begin to unthread his belt from its quietly clinking buckle, he goes stiff again, blinks rapidly before perceiving me. 

Holy shit, he’s gorgeous.

His hands hover over my shoulders, not quite committed to the contact. 

He’s seeing me—really seeing me—as I unzip his trousers and spit crudely into my palm and curl around the length of him, warm, tight. I begin to understand the gentle throb and strain he feels, a delightful thrill running rapid all through my insides. He feels deliciously alive. 

But then he turns his head away, neck straining up, breath choked back in his throat. His hands come away, raised, it looks like, as if trying to seem non-confrontational, trying to come away unscathed from a bad situation. 

My stomach burns with desire. “Let yourself like it, Rust,” I mumble against his cheek. “Are you here with me?” 

I can feel him swallow.

“Yes,” he responds. I guide his face to me, stroking his cock confidently once, twice, as encouragement, maybe. Temptation. Whatever you want to call it. My mouth waters, my head goes airy, when I feel his sex twitch in my embrace. 

“Kiss me again, then.” 

And he does. Brows furrowed as if in pain, he does, with the tip of his nose dragging and pressing into my cheek. He kisses me sweetly once, then again, and then pants down hotly into my mouth, hovering there before sliding his tongue deep inside, close, smooth. 

I let myself love it. I let myself let go with every kiss he blesses me with, growing looser and easier and lighter each second. 

The weight of him in my hand inspires a beautiful urge to have him lay down and let me feel every part of his body. Even though his hips stutter, he doesn’t buck up into my fist, doesn’t whine, doesn’t moan, doesn’t curse. Not yet. He just breathes and breathes, and kisses me and kisses me, like it’s all he was set on Earth to do. All he’s allowing himself to do.

Desperate, perhaps, my thighs are pressed against his, feeling unnaturally weak and warm. The throb between my legs coincides with my heart rushing in my ears, a steady ache, impatient. Part of me wants to drag this out as long as possible, because what if this never happens again?—and another part wants to push him inside me already, have him fill me up, fuck me stupid. 

This thought stuffs me up to the brim, like cotton punched down into a pillowcase. I whine shallowly and try to slot his thigh between my own. 

A switch in his brain must flick on. 

It’s like he’s inside my head, like he’s in on my desperation, like he can see and feel every sinful image and thought circulating my alighted brain. He knows it all so well, such that he uses his hips to press us firmly against the counter, spreads my legs with the nudge of his foot between mine, and immediately pushes the rough pads of his fingers right where I need it, through the fabric of my skirt, letting me grind myself against him, hips and all. He circles there generously. I can feel my need dripping from me. He can too, no doubt. 

I sigh, he breathes. I gasp, he breathes. My eyes flutter open and shut, but he looks on, eyes half-lidded but stare immovable. 

He then lifts his knee to place against my cunt. 

“That feels good, don’t it?” he says gently, rocking me over his knee up and down, back and forth, fingers digging into the soft skin of my hips.

My legs widen. When I gasp out weakly, he raises his brow and scans my face, like he had predicted the shaky, wordless nod that I offer to him too late in return. 

“Did you want it like this, girl?” His voice is low, intimate, a hit of something just shy of addictive. “Or did you want somethin’ else, too?” 

He kisses the hollow of my neck. 

His other hand grips at my ass, up my skirt, kneading the flesh there, manipulating it, and his fingers ghost my slit, spreading me around his knee. He fucks up into my hand. I slide my fingers through his hair, which is soft and warm like butter. 

Fuck him. Fuck him and his stupid, pretty curls. I’ve proved my point: regardless of whatever act he may try to put on afterwards, we’ll both know that Rust isn’t as numb as he wants to be, that I made him feel good, that I made him want me, and that he’s hot-blooded and thrumming with life. I can feel how alive he is . I hope he thinks of this again some time, whether by himself or surrounded by people. I hope it drives him a bit mad, remembering this. 

A hot, sharp breath fans out across my cheek, his mouth slotting back over mine, open, daring me. 

I rut against his knee, my fingers teasing the wet head of his cock. I look down between us, at my hand on him, with half a mind to drop onto my knees and make him cum down my throat.

Rust lets out a grunt and swallows hard again.  

Then, he gently grabs my wrist and pulls my hand out of his pants, leaving me dazed and confused. With nimble fingers, he unzips my skirt, pushing it over my hips and dragging his hands over my bare skin. He asks me, “You want the bed?”

I step out of the pool of fabric around my feet, slide my shoes off. “‘s not a bed.” 

I slide my fingers beneath his sweaty, white undershirt, feeling the taut muscle there, feeling the steady breaths that contradict his racing pulse. He holds my eyes, dipping slightly when I dip, tilting when I tilt. “Seems like one to me.”

How unlike him. 

A smile spreads over my face, and his pupils blow wide, dark, imploring. “You wait ‘n’ see what happens when the dust-mites turn up.” 

His eyes on me alone are enough to leave me breathless, chest caving in on itself. Of course, when he kisses me softly, it only makes things worse – his long fingers curl around the base of my throat, watching me watching him, and his other hand slides up under the hem of my blouse, palm spread over my bellybutton. 

I sigh, try not to squirm. 

“You want the bed?” he repeats, heavy, rough. I bite back a needy whine that sits at the back of my mouth. His fingertips press down slightly into my pulse, tightening my breathing. 

I nod. “Yeah.” 

Think of all the times I’ve sulked over his lack of eye contact with me. Was I annoying? Uninteresting? That, obviously, was an immature way of looking at things, definitely not improved by my distinct femininity undergoing some kind of unspoken disapproval by most I met on the job. This is the most present he has ever been in a moment with me around.

As he pulls himself away, steps back, his eyes are darting over my face, less like he’s judging me and more like he’s trying to find and memorise every detail. I do that, sometimes: if I pay well enough attention, it feels like I’m re-living the moment when remembering. 

His hands slot sensibly into his pockets as if his cock isn’t blushing and poking out of his fly right now, belt undone, hanging low about his narrow hips. 

Legs don’t fail me now. I slink out of the glowing kitchen and carry on to where the mattress lies in a dim, blue corner, the strange crucifix watching over, a long shadow cast over the empty wall upon which it hangs. He follows shortly behind me, his warmth radiating out onto my back. 

I pause and look out onto the darkness revealed behind the half-open slats of the floor-to-ceiling blinds that shield the room from the window to the outside world. 

Rust’s presence is intoxicating behind me. He smells like cigarette smoke, still, enticing. I’m trying to quit, but he makes it damn hard. His nose is just shy of my hair, his body so close to enveloping me into him – the prospect of it makes me shiver in delight. I must hallucinate his fingertips along my spine. 

I unbutton my blouse with slow fingers, then slide it off and undo my bra. 

His breathing is level and grounding by my ear as he comes close, sliding his strong, wide hand up my stomach, along my ribs, and cups under my soft breast. He rubs over my nipple in gentle circles before squeezing over me warmly. He then comes around to pinch the creamy tissue gentle between his fingers and thumb, closing his hot mouth over, drawing along his feverish tongue. I sigh, stroke his hair, let him press soft pecks and kisses to the curve of the soft flesh and to my sternum.

My fingers, cupped around the nape of his neck, dip under the collar, cool. This touch, for some reason, causes him to make some sort of breathless, pathetic noise against me. His eyes are half-shut. 

“Anything else philosophical y’wanna get out before we fuck?” I quip smartly (though, not feeling so smart altogether), hand placed innocently on his hip. 

He lifts his head, removes his hands from my body – he looks so tragically beautiful in this light. “You want me inside you?” he asks genuinely, seemingly aloof to the fact I’m naked in front of him, open and wanton and pressing my thighs together, his eyes never drifting from mine.

“What do you want, Rust?” I whisper. 

He seems to really think about it – he’s always thinking. Briefly, his eyes flit down to my mouth. Then, he looks away, scratches at his forehead. 

After a moment longer, he swallows thickly and tips his head down over to the bed, tells me, “Lie down on the mattress,” in a gentle, decisive tone. He’s so soft-spoken – it makes my toes curl. 

I do as told, transfixed by the dark shadow in his eyes, and sink down to sit and then recline back on his coarse mattress, coarse bedsheets, with my weight on my forearms and chin tilted up towards him. He watches me, tucking his thick cock back into his underwear.

Still fully dressed in his work attire, he takes a step forward, looming over me, powerful, assertive. Saliva pools in my mouth—again—as I play with the thought of him sitting heavy on my tongue with his stomach tight, shaking, hands in my hair, fucking down my throat. I would let him. Hell, I’d probably let him do anything he wanted to me at this point. 

Does he know that? Maybe. I don’t know.

As he reaches his hand out too smooth the hair out of my face, I try to figure it out, but I can’t – he seems too wrapped up in his own desire to be thinking anything at the moment. I feel a flicker of satisfaction jump up in the pit of my stomach. Or maybe that’s something else. 

“Lie back, girl,” he tells me. 

My cunt flexes. 

I thump onto my back, breathless. “Take off your shirt, Rust.” 

Without replying, he sinks down to his knees in front of me, my thighs. Instinctively, I prop myself up and watch him unbutton that wrinkled shirt all the way down, shrug it over his broad shoulders. I could fuck myself silly just over the thought of those shoulders, I remark inwardly. He tugs the wifebeater over his head, lean muscles catching the low light, strong, study, solid, and tosses the thing to the side thoughtlessly. My hands reach out to touch him, to feel him and know him. When my fingers press into his skin, glide up his neck and down over his chest, he sighs deeply. He then carefully removes my hands, urging me to sprawl down under him.

“Said lie back, didn’t I?” 

Rust doesn’t say another word before placing his large hands on my knees and easing them apart, lowering himself to press pecks and slow, open-mouthed kisses to my thighs, closer, closer, stroking my sensitive skin gently. I almost flinch at his every touch, like it burns. His face is awful serious, like he’s concentrating. I wriggle in anticipation, eager. 

“Rust,” I whisper purposelessly. He looks up, hums, searches my face for anything the matter. 

I watch on desperately, on the brink of feral distress. A sob clogs my throat as he kisses my fluttering stomach, ducking his head down and curling his forearms, his hands, around my thighs. The dark stamp of his bone-bird tattoo curls over his arm. I realise he is waiting for my attention to return to him, his eyes patient but glazed over with something cardinal. Hungry.

“Can—?”

“Yes.” 

He hums. And then he breathes hotly over my underwear before pressing his nose right there into the damp fabric, inhaling my scent there. I whimper at the pressure he applies with the strong bridge of his nose, at the wetness of his open mouth against me. He breathes heavily into me, groaning slightly beneath it all – I can’t tell past the thrumming of my heart in my ears.  

“Rust,” I whisper again, my shoulder straining with the task of keeping me up and looking down at the sight of his sweet head buried between my glistening thighs.   

“Lie back.”  

He kisses me through my underwear, dutifully kneading the flesh of my hips, my inner thighs.

I thump back against the mattress, helpless, keening into his touch as this grey man roughly tugs my underwear down, down, all the way down, until they’re clean off my body, long gone, and then returns his nose to the cleft of my pussy, unseaming me with his tongue, opening me up, breathing me in. It’s enough to draw a shallow, hoarse cry from me. He doesn’t say anything, and I can’t say anything, biting down on my white knuckles.

Rust licks warm over my clit, sucking gently on the bud of nerves (then not so gently), before sliding down, down through my very centre.

Whining breathily, the twist in my stomach tightens and spasms as he presses my hips and thighs right down against the mattress, slow, strong, giving me time to notice it, realise it, give into it, deny the natural instinct to curl my limbs tight all over his face, his neck, his mouth. 

Holy fuck. Rust Cohle has his face buried between my legs right now. I have Rust Cohle’s tongue pushing deep into my cunt – he sighs softly, a sound with its own powerful gravity a black hole to envelop me in, and grinds his hips against the edge of the mattress for a split second, just once. My mind pulses with the thought of making him cum. I wonder if he feels the same hunger. 

Then, he’s sinking his long, elegant fingers into me, one, then two, and just the knowledge that those fingers belong to him makes my thighs quiver and shake, makes me sigh again. Thick, confident, they curl inside, slow like an experiment, right up to the knuckle. When he taps up against me, when I squeal and crimp up into his hold, he returns himself to mouth dutifully over my clit.  My hand threads itself into his hair, holding him steady – I offer a breathless moan when his grip across my hips loosen, an invitation to begin rolling myself up over his pretty face. He pulls his fingers out of me, wet and hot, and encourages my thighs upon his beautiful shoulders, clinging onto them urgently. He shudders a little, I think, when I lock them firmly around his head and grind myself shamelessly against his mouth, his nose. He moves his jaw, his face, in tandem.

I cum after a while like that, because how can I not? The searing buzz reaches a roiling static.

I go loose, moaning softly, melted down flat, and stroke fuzzy fingers through Rust’s pretty hair as he sucks my clit still, as he inhales again and sighs again, reduced to something primitive and needy.

Thick, my heartbeat throbs and echoes like a drum in my skull, threatening. I feel so full that I could mistake the beat of pleasure for nausea pressing in my throat. It was silly to think that this could all be satisfied just from one time. My eyes closed, Rust’s light touch over my abdomen, up to my throat, is acute and heightened, like a million tiny, individual sparks. His fingers fumble over my jaw, then press lightly over my pulse. 

He retreats just as I’m playing with the hairs at the nape of his neck, coming to stand to full height above me, unthreading his belt from his trousers with quiet, precise hands. I press my shaking thighs together, watching him breathe strongly through his nose, trying to remain somewhat respectable in the presence of the darkening look in his eyes that is locked down on my body.

He pauses, wipes some shine from his nose. Before he can continue with whatever, I find myself sitting up on my knees, grabbing his hips hard enough to bruise all pretty and purple, shoving the trousers down to his knees, and palming him through his boxers. 

We don’t have to say anything. He just watches me passively, pushing my hair back again, behind my ears, my shoulders, rolling my earlobe softly between his fingertips.

I remove his underwear, take him into my mouth, thick and long and wanting; he sighs, holds my head with two steady hands.

When was the last time someone helped him like this? I honestly couldn’t have told you, even given a loose theory, prior to this moment: Rust is simultaneously the hottest and most non-sexual being I’ve ever come across in my life. He just happens to be beautiful; he just happens to inspire these sort of feelings choking up inside me. No overarching intention that he’ll ever admit to, no vanity, no preening. So strict to himself, so tight, like a piston, something that fights and pushes and hurts.

So, as I hold him firmly and suck at the head of his blushing cock, kissing him, I watch his face, savour the tart taste of him, and press my thighs together: he’s becoming warmer, looser.

Still, as much as I want him, I know he’s wanted me. However vague he tells it, he’s wanted me. Good Lord, he looks even more stressed now, somehow, than when we had just been talkin’. Hands gently cradling my skull, he tilts his head away, watches the cross on the wall, as he succumbs to it, maybe, and begins to gently, languidly fuck my face. I tuck a hand between my thighs, and I love him, my other with the fingers digging into his hip, his ass. If I’m lucky, maybe it’ll leave some sort of mark, just to remind him I was here, so that, when he’s being all indifferent again, with his eyes lowered to the floor as he shares a report with me at my prim, little desk, we’ll both know that we were once in this room together, here like this.

Rust breathes and breathes, almost mechanically, and slides his cock further into my mouth. The weight of him in there drives me half-insane. If I could consume him, envelop him, and we could be one and the same, I’d readily allow it. When he sinks deeper still down my throat, I sigh around him, rub myself the way I like.

His eyes are determinedly shut, like some part of him refuses to be here. 

Before I can make him cum, he shakes his head and tugs my hair back a little bit, mumbling for me to stop and sit away. 

For all his mouthiness just a half hour ago, would you look at him now?—Rust Cohle, plundered by the human sensation of speechlessness. I’ve never seen him out of his element before. When he comes down and cages me with his body, hot skin flush against hot skin, I don’t mean that in a bad sense. Shit, he’s far from it. But there’s nothing to say. Nothing of note, nothing to pick apart, no deeper meaning, no theory. Just an itch that has to be scratched. He wants, he is, and it’s heaven to see. 

In the dark, he sinks in to me as he is, eliciting from me a soft moan that curls over the shell of his ear. I have to bite down on his shoulder when comes the push, the stretch, the sink, the comfort of him inside. I curl my legs around his waist and grab at his ass, willing him deeper still. He shudders silently over me, thick ripples of pleasure rolling through his lean body.

I curse, but I’m sure it barely registers with him. 

His head lifts and his eyes clamp shut as he braces an arm against the wall, lifting one of my legs up over his hip and fucking into me deeper, slipping out and in, and again, and again. I know what I’d see if I took a look down, saw his cock pumping into me, but I can hardly do anything but buck my hips up to meet his effort, my stomach stuttering with that building pressure, hands gripping desperately around his neck and shoulders. 

Though, I’m not even sure it is effort that’s driving him. 

I mumble into his shoulder, dumb, focussing on the feel and press of him in my belly. I doubt he’s really aware of anything more than the sensation of it, evident from the small grunt that passes his lips as he fucks deep in me. His stomach presses heavier down onto mine, crushing a delicious pressure there, teasing out a long, breathy whimper. He snakes an arm around my hips, pushes his free hand to the back of my knee, tilting my legs back a little more, and then pulls me wider. Tight, he moves me how he wants me, my flesh dipping and carving, fucking himself raw with me, with my hot cunt. His mouth moves over mine, not kissing me, not speaking, just there, present, hot, panting. He doesn’t open his eyes, so I close mine, and I breathe.

Rust stutters and cums and spills over into me with a grunt. He pants sharply, harshly, rhythmically into my mouth, tense again, and then he collapses over my body, and he lays there. I lay there too, burning on the far inside. 

I think he only really remembers I’m there when I shift under him.

His eyelashes brush against my cheek. “Sorry,” he murmurs, but the sound of his voice scrapes directly against my brain with the shock of a flesh-wound. 

I assume he’s referring to the thick cum that I can feel leaking out of me now. He shifts his hips, adjusting himself in the grip of my cunt. My fingers wrap around his arms, squeeze as I feel him easing out. 

“It’s okay,” I reply. 

He glances down between us and guides himself out with a lewd noise, swallowing hard. I shiver. 

Quiet, sedated, he shrugs his trousers, his underwear, off of his ankles, slipping the bedsheet over both our naked selves. His hand spreads and flattens warm over my abdomen, feeling the gentle swell and sink of the breaths I take and release.

[bluespiritshonour]

Water Siblings and Fire Siblings as Foils

Katara and Sokka are peak sibling rep: they bicker, they hurt each other, they take turns being the voice of reason while the other goes batshit crazy—and they'd die for each other.

And very clearly Sokka's daddy's boy and Katara's momma's girl: and for most parts, they seem to be content with that dynamic.

Look, parents have favourites, let's establish that first: don't come at me for it.

But in a healthy environment, where all of the kids’ emotional needs are met irrespective of which kid gets along with which parent, they're less likely to tear themselves apart yearning for parental affection.

Sokka and Katara's family was a normal one, a healthy one—as healthy as one can be in a war ravaged world—and Sokka and Katara are normal siblings. Even after their mother died Katara doesn't seem to care much that Sokka gets more time with their father. And everytime she brings up their mother Sokka gets this weird look on his face, which, I think is later explained by the fact that he feels guilty that he doesn't even remember what their mother looked like. And it's not because Katara seems to know more about their mother despite being younger.

Neither of them grudge the other for having been close to one of the parents—let's call it ‘being close to’ instead of ‘dad/mum loved you/me more’ because that's what would come up with Azula and Zuko.

One can say that Azula's daddy's girl and Zuko's momma's boy... Except it isn't like that.

Azula wasn't loved by her father; neither was she close to him. If anything she had the illusion that she's close to him. But children can sense when they aren't loved, which can explain why she took her mother being close to Zuko so hard. Because she didn't get that from her father and isn't she supposed to be daddy's girl? But dad's good to her; mum... isn't. Dad lets her do what she wants... As long as she obeys him or she'd end up like Zuko.

For Ozai, both his children are pawns. He uses Azula to abuse Zuko, which in turn is to get at Ursa. And honestly, Ursa was a bad mum and an abuse victim and not the villain are takes that can co-exist.

A lot of mums in primarily patriarchal cultures end up abusing their own kids while trying to protect them in an environment where they themselves hold little power.

Ursa and Hakoda can be compared in this.

Katara haters can look away: she isn't whiny. And even if she is, well, she takes responsibility when no one else does so I guess she deserves to complain if that's what it takes. Katara is extremely mature. When she was mad at Hakoda, she still had the critical thinking skills to point out that yes, she understands why he left. He had to! She doesn't blame him for that, it wasn't his fault that there was war going on—but it still hurt!

And what does Hakoda do? He hugs her and apologises. He doesn't defend himself, because he doesn't need to. She understands! She said she does and he doesn't insult her by making excuses. He acknowledges and validates her pain.

Unlike Katara, who grew up in a healthy family with parents and grandparents and a whole community—Azula was isolated and under the influence of Ozai. And she was so young! If you remember being that young, you'd remember thinking that parents are always right. You don't realise that parents make mistakes too—and while her emotional needs weren't being met by Ozai, she turned to Ursa—but Ursa was at her wits end trying to undo the damage of Ozai's abuse on Zuko.

If she had given attention to Azula, Zuko, who thought that Azula was perfect and already had father's approval would have gone off rails—and since she didn't... Azula went off the rails.

Which was exactly how Ozai would want it. I don't like the comics much but it made sense that Ozai would hold both the children as bargaining chips against Ursa. Ursa made her choice, or rather, the illusion of her choice and Azula had to pay for it: the real reason Zuko could turn over a new page while Azula couldn't was because from the very beginning, Zuko had his mum and uncle.

Azula had no one!

Like Hakoda had to go to war and leave his children behind, Ursa had to choose between Azula or Zuko; Ozai orchestrated it as such.

But while there were people to pick up Hakoda's slack, there was no one to guide Azula. Sokka and Katara raised each other and they had Gran Gran.

Zuko and Azula were constantly pitted against each other by a war-mongering father.

I don't like this unrealistic expectations that fandom has of a family where both the siblings not only love each other equally, they also process emotions similarly (see: the Sokka vs Katara debate on how they both react to trauma) and parents who love all the kids equally.

Katara and Sokka are normal and realistic in the way that they are both different people: they process grief differently. Katara takes up responsibly and grows up too fast, it takes a toll on her and she's vocally expressive. She turns her grief into anger. Meanwhile Sokka internalises it in a survivor's guilt kind of way.

There's also gender involved in the way both pair of siblings interact. It's more subtle for the fire siblings than the water sibling. Plus, Suki makes Sokka drink his respect women juice, please y'all don't call Sokka sexist. That was character development for him which was addressed. I could make another post for gender and A:TLA.

And they both love each other dearly and they're okay with the fact that one is daddy's boy and the other is momma's girl. It's okay.

In contrast Zuko yearns for his father's affection and Azula yearns for her mother's. And while Zuko feels inadequate, for Azula it's “behave or you'll end up like your brother.”

She also learns to derive a sick sort of pleasure from watching Zuko suffer—which is entirely her father's doing. Because in rare moments when she doesn't have anything to gain by getting Zuko into trouble...she actually kind of looks out for him. It's extremely rare and sprinkled here and there to show us the Azula that could have been.

And I don't think Zuko really realised that Azula was abused too—not until he lets go of his father. Until the final Agni Kai. What I love about it is that despite portraying Azula as Zuko's tormentor for 3 seasons (and she was his tormentor) they did not frame the Agni Kai as some epic good vs evil shit.

Because from Zuko's point of view Azula was perfect. He's out here vying for his father's affection while she gets it freely. She's so lucky!—until he lets go of his father and realises what a monster he was... And he also realises that father never really loved Azula either...

They didn't say as much in words. But the final Agni Kai is proof enough. Zuko doesn't rejoice bringing Azula down (technically Katara did it). At this point, I guess, he realises that Azula's a kid too. Even younger than him—that their father couldn't care less about either of them.

Okay. I really do think that Zuko suddenly becoming invested in Azula's redemption would make sense after the Agni Kai. I also read this Twitter thread by Aaron Ehasz where he says he had plans for Azula's redemption and it was fantastic.

So yeah. Without being overt, the water siblings and fire siblings are contrasted by each other. Which is why I don't like the comics trying to do this brother-sister thing where they put Sokka and Katara and Zuko and Azula in back-to-back panels like... Even if I'm a huge supporter of Azula-deserves-redemption I didn't like those panels in the comics.

P.S. don't pit Sokka and Katara against each other. You aren't Ozai. They're different people who process trauma and loss differently and hence, react differently.

Adios.

[reds-skull]

Fanfic Recommendation: Multi-Chapter (completed)

Been a while since I've made one of these! Decided it's time to get into the biggest category I have...

These don't have any shared theme beside having multiple chapters and being completed, and they're both NSFW and SFW.

As always, make sure to look at the CWs and tags before reading, and if a link doesn't work, you're welcome to reach out!

[Some of these might be by authors I already recommended, you can find that list here]

Shotgun Sunsets, Desert Stars by noxmajor - Soap keeps disappearing. Ghost gets curious.

Chasing Ghosts and Dreams by TheEdwardianOne - Soap and Ghost finally do something about their feelings in a safehouse after a mission.

Give Me Hope & Let Me Down by MechanicalBones - Soap saves his idiot Lieutenant & there's a shit tonne of hurt-comfort & smooches.

Love Is Not An Act, It's A Habit by wodnica - Ghost and Soap got separated from their team, lost and alone. Ghost must reconsider how close his relationship with Soap really is.

The Devil You Know by Artaccountant1 - In order for life in the 141 to go on, Ghost had to die. He knew Soap wouldn't take it well, but he never expected him to end up like this. That mask was only supposed to be for special occasions.

It's cracked and it's scarred (but I would give you my heart) by FetteEule - After a mission gone wrong Ghost and Soap find themselves cut off from their team and have to work together to figure out what happened, all while navigating their growing feelings for each other.

when does a man become a monster by wellyesbutactuallyno - One of Makarov's men takes Ghost. Soap gets him back.

Pieces of You by FreeToWriteForMe - Soap slowly collects pieces of Ghost through his clothes or his weapons. Eventually, Simon gets something of Johnny's.

a Moth to a Flame by theidjits - Firefighter John MacTavish was eager to start his career. What he didn't expect when he was assigned to Station 141 was to fall for the elusive Lieutenant. (firefighters 141)

Trace Them Gently by Grangers_apprentice - There are a lot of reasons Ghost wears so many layers. Layers keep you warm. They keep you safe. They keep prying eyes and wandering hands away. Ghost has more reasons than most to want to keep his skin under wraps. [Restricted]

A Steady Beat in an Unsteady Time by Grangers_apprentice - Soap has been having dreams where Ghost dies, and comes up with an unconventional way of reassuring himself that his lieutenant is fine. (part 1 of the Heartbeat Series) [Restricted]

Blossoms by felicitous - Against his better judgement, John "Soap" MacTavish was in love with Simon "Ghost" Riley. And while he knew that Ghost could never, would never, love him back, he was happy to take whatever attention the man would give him, even if it killed him. (Hanahaki AU)

Remember Me (Please) by Darkflamej - Johnny winds up with amnesia and Ghost is struggling to keep them both alive while trying to balance the fact that he’s hopelessly in love with a man who doesn’t even remember him.

The Truth Comes Out by Darkflamej - Ghost is under the influence of a truth serum and is trying his best to not confess his love for Soap.

Mission: You by TheD - Soap keeps getting distracted recently by Ghost. They do something about it, leading to an entanglement that leads to complications in their relationship.

the human condition by bilbhoebangins - Ghost shows up to an anonymous hookup and finds a naked and blindfolded Johnny waiting for him. His sergeant is completely unaware of just who he's arranged to meet, and Ghost has to make a choice, between what's right, and what he so desperately wants.

Awake At Night by CYBERGUTS - A friends to lovers fic over 4 seasons.

Prank Call by Team_141_property - A prank call goes wrong, personal walls are ripped down, people get hurt, and feelings get confessed. [read the CW on this one especially]

Yes to Heaven by Apollos_Last_Prophet - Sergeant John "Soap" MacTavish is declared K.I.A during a failed recon mission in 2017. His commanding officer, Captain John Price, takes the loss personally, but has no other choice then to move on. Five years later, Price fights an assassin with a familiar face. [the one and only]

Someday The Dust Will Settle by shadow_in_the_window - Panic was starting to flood Ghost's senses. Johnny had lost a lot of blood. He cleared his mind. There was no way he'd let Johnny die on his watch. Not now. Not ever.

A Sunrise In the Dark by [orphan_account] - “Don’t say that, Johnny.” Ghost spoke, his voice quiet. “Say what?” “That you’d take a bullet.” “I would, though.”

On Begged and Borrowed Time by goforblood - Soap MacTavish is the newest member of Task Force 141. Soap could not have foreseen the enigmatic lieutenant, Ghost, who threatens to turn everything on its head. Can he keep his burgeoning crush on the masked man a secret? Or will someone call his bluff?

Midnight Snacks by MireyaRowan - Ghost is forced to share a room with Soap for a few nights, greatly increasing his anxiety about his night terrors. He hasn't let anyone in the task force know how hard being idle is for him. Soaps makes a whole deal out of it to try and keep Ghost distracted from his past.

I Woke Up Underground by WispScribbles - Soap, Ghost, Price and Gaz are on a mission to take out Hassan's allies. It goes south when explosives cause the cave system to collapse, injuring and trapping the team.

A Little Death by CaptainMJ - Ghost dragged himself out of Vernon's grave to see that Roba hadn't left. Had waited to see if he'd manage to do it. Ghost never escaped and eventually they were successful in breaking him down and making him someone else. Kinda. Kinda successful.

Spoils of War by CaptainMJ - Ghost defeats Soap's kingdom and after splitting up the spoils, he takes Soap too. Soap expects the worst, but Ghost doesn't seem keen on doing anything to him. How long is that going to last?

Target Locked by MildLimerence - Soulmate AU: In a world where having a soulmark is a rare and forgotten phenomenon, finding your other half can be more a curse than a blessing. Soap joined the military intent on escaping the stigma of the mark, adamant he'd never find his soulmate.

Fucking new guy by glaciers (Hayfever_Street) - Soap joins Task Force 141, ready to prove himself as the best of the best. On his first day, he finds himself choked in the training room by a prick in a skull mask. Now Soap must deal with his growing attraction to his lieutenant, a sarcastic and cold-hearted man named Ghost, while at the same time proving to the 141 he's worthy of being there.

ripe and ruin by ghcst - It's August 1917, the rain doesn't seem like it will ever cease, and Soap starts to wonder if this war will ever end. He also has trouble trying to decide whether or not Lieutenant Simon Riley is really human. [WW1 AU, I recommend it even if you don't like the time period!]

Got your back, you got mine by WhiteBeakedRaven - five times Ghost did Soap a favor and the one time Soap had paid him back.

He Stuck Around For The Moon by escence - He’d been avoiding Ghost, planning on continuing to do so until he could sort out his thoughts and feelings regarding the man, preferably, shifting them into something less intimate. Evidently, he’d run out of time and Ghost had found a way to pin him down, literally and metaphorically.

The fever dream by glaciers (Hayfever_Street) - Ghost and Soap are back from a mission when Soap is struck down with a fever. Ghost navigates keeping his sergeant alive while coping with Soap unabashedly hitting on him, riling him up to bursting point.

Worth the Wait by trueheirofslytherin - Soap needs a sign that Ghost is interested in him. Ghost needs a sign that Soap is interested in him. One of them needs to take the initiative.

kiss the skin that crawls from you by congee4lunch - soap gets kidnapped. ghost tears through flesh and blood to get him back. amidst the carnage of a sinner's hands and in the absence of his god, he remembers what it means to love.

solemn prayer, poppy in my hair by congee4lunch - when soap invites ghost back home to scotland for a week, ghost hadn't imagined he would wind up in a fake dating scheme to trick soap's family, of all people. it also doesn't help that he's head over heels in love with soap, of all people.

Need You Now by SammyLuka - Alternatively, time in between missions makes Ghost realize that he doesn't know what to do without Soap. Thankfully, Soap understands.

Deep In The Fog by Crispyywheat - Soap is a big ol’ cryptid!! The 141 hunts down monsters/cryptids but Soap being a little idiot but also smart(?) decides to hide amongst the 141 as human. [I believe this one is currently being rewritten, the new work is called "Oh Weary Souls"]

I Didn't Need It, It Needed Me by starryathame - Ghost was wearing his balaclava, but he could feel his true mask slipping. He was becoming more Simon with every day Soap was around, and that knowledge terrified him. He hadn’t seen Simon Riley in the mirror in over a decade; he didn’t even know if he’d recognize himself anymore.

Affirmative, Sir by Wixiany - A mission goes wrong and both Soap and Ghost are left wounded. Back home, on his sick-leave, Soap's apartment gets broken into by the very men they were supposed to capture that day.

Wrap Your Arms Around My Cortex, Dig You In, and Let You Drain by [orphan_account] - Ghost returns to home base for the first time in four months and is unequipped to handle the growing emotions he feels toward a certain sergeant.

Say Yes To Me by [orphan_account] - Ghost gets held hostage and Soap saves him + the aftermath.

Pattern Breaker by mothbeast - A canon-compliant rework and extension of MW2: Reboot.

your finger on my hairpin trigger by lostReality - after Soap makes a few comments, about the mask, about sex, Ghost can't think of much else. And when Soap offers to fuck him after calling him pretty, why would he refuse?

earl grey skies by hyacinthwine - Johnny tries not to stare, but it’s difficult to tear his eyes away from the man. Really, there’s nothing that striking, he’s just an average Manchester man starting his day, yet Johnny wants to ogle just a little more. [coffeeshop AU]

Blinking by witchofsparkles - When Soap started seeing a very specific face with a skull mask and a pair of honey-brown eyes on his mirror and some glass, he thought he lost it good. Then it talked to him. [alternate dimension AU]

drag the lake and bring me home again by amongthebooks - During a stakeout mission in a remote area, Ghost is taken by the enemy. He's bound and thrown into a lake, and Soap has to scramble to get to him in time.

leave and liquor by your_wild_simp - Ghost is forced on a mental leave after a harsh mission. He crumbles, loses himself, has panic attacks and nightmares every time he remembers. But Soap is there, always there for him. Either through the phone, or physically rooming with him, Soap is there to help.

Between the Sand and the Stardust by tey_a - The one where soulmates leave marks on each other at their first skin on skin contact but feel drawn to each other before. Soap joins the 141 hoping to find a home in the form of a team. He finds it in the form of a man instead.

Six Feet Under And Quiet by snapple714 - Everyone in Soap's life has told him he's just too much. Not in the 141 though. But that can't last forever. He's bound to mess it up soon. It seems to happen on a particular mission, when Johnny gets trapped in a grave with a corpse. When the team realizes where they've made him wait for so long, they feel nothing but regret. Particularly Ghost, who is all too familiar with spending time underground…

Stubborn born by DepressoEspresso1000 - Soaps a fucking idiot and almost kills himself just to avoid medical leave, and Ghost is just as much of an idiot but he loves Soap and is not gonna watch him not care for himself.

If You Don't Stop, I'll End up Believing You by Hochseeperle - The new guy in the 141, Soap, doesn't have a filter when it comes to flirting. Ghost has no idea how to cope with that. He can't afford to lose face in front of his peers, so he decides to just… play along.

With Colours Over All The Wasted Years by kilikinnie - everyone owns a necklace that displays your soulmate's emotions through colours and their proximity through temperature. Ghost never expected to meet his, and Soap thought his was long gone.

(every scar will build my) Throne by Sillililli - Soap, the new leader of the MacTavish family mafia, is owed a debt by a family rivel. To repay him, Soap is given Ghost.

Keep The Change by hertzdonut - Soap's been shipped out to a safehouse in the Canadian Wilderness alone, except then Ghost shows up, but maybe Soap wasn't supposed to be shipped out in the first place? And Soap's been running on zero sleep and pure angst since they left Chicago. 'Tis the season.

real people by ghost_throat - ghost is struggling with his recent discharge from military service and doesn't hold much hope for his future. his former captain secured him a job at a coffee shop with a stupid name and annoying colleages and customers. [Restricted]

The ghost lingering in your shadow by arkinh - It took only a few weeks before objects seemed to move around without Soap remembering moving them. Lights were switched on or off by themselves, or flickering as he passed by them. For the first time in his life, he doubted his beliefs. Perhaps he should have left room for the possibility that it was all real?

What's The Name? by AvaLoren - John MacTavish is late to the coffee shop he works at after a late night argument with his girlfriend the previous night. He can't shake the memory playing on a loop in his head until a voice snaps him out of it. The customer before him has him fumbling for words and smiling like crazy. [another coffeeshop AU]

The Wind Will Howl Your Name by Minimelo - After a hunt goes wrong, John finds himself in the care of Ghost. [medieval AU, so so so good]

Cave In by glaciers (Hayfever_Street) - Ghost and Soap are forced to abandon a mission after the rain washes them out. They take shelter in a cave while they wait for the storm to pass, except this storm is sitting over them and won't budge. As night falls, the cave cracks, and they find themselves trapped. It wouldn't be a problem, except Soap is panicking, and Ghost is struggling to calm him down.

Burbon Soaked Letters by FreeToWriteForMe - Soap began finding letters full of threats and extremely personal information about his family and loved ones. He desperately hides it from his team while trying to find out the identity of his stalker. [the MCD tag on this one doesn't apply to the 141]

Safety Hazard by Red_Clegane - Soap is the adoptive son of President Price, but he’s hard to contain and a security risk. He’s never had a secret service agent last more than a few weeks. So, when Special Agent Ghost and his team are brought in to babysit, he thinks it’ll be another few weeks of fun. But a traitor is lurking in the Whitehouse and while Ghost protects Soap from himself, Simon will need to protect Johnny from something far more insidious.

[scoobyrooster1]

She's Mine [Part 1]

Qimir x (she/her)!reader

Summary: Events take place after episode 8 of the acolyte. You are Qimirs new acolyte after agreeing to train under him. But, first you both must escape to the outer rim and outrun the Jedi who now hunts you. A precarious situation arises when you suddenly owe a debt to the local gunrunner... but it could be just the opportunity you've been hoping for. Now you have to break the news to Qimir... Shit. Warnings: Angst, Angry Qimir, cursing Notes: I plan for this to be a slow burn story between you and Qimir. Haven't officially decided on a permanent title yet. And yes there will be plenty of future smut but I wanna do this right!

*Im trying my best to use canon history but high republic era is a little difficult so there will be discrepancies and times where I have to improvise... bear with me!

She's Mine [Intro] She's Mine [Part 1] She's Mine [Part 2]

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The Republic's influence and reach were stronger than ever, and with that came the ever-present shadow of the Jedi. Since narrowly escaping Vernestra on Brandok, the last few months had been a blur. You were never truly safe. Settling down had been more a matter of necessity than comfort, and even then, "settling" was a stretch.

You were still trapped within the confines of Republic space. Your ship's transponder was a liability, a beacon that couldn’t slip past any checkpoints unnoticed. The only real refuge was the Outer Rim, far from the vigilant eyes of the Jedi and the ever-watchful Republic. But the closest jump to Hutt space was out of reach, forcing you to land on the barren sands of Jakart.

The Jedi were already scouring the galaxy for any sign of force discrepancies, even in the most remote backwater planets. And you both couldn't very well lead them back to Qimirs home. So, you made the choice to hide in plain sight, settling in a place where the noise of a thousand other lives could drown out your presence. Jakart, with its swarms of thugs, scavengers, and criminals, was the perfect cover. Here, you could disappear into the crowd, becoming just another face. But you knew that this was a temporary solution; the longer you stayed, the more you pushed your luck, and the longer you went without proper training.

You didn’t know when—or if—another opportunity like Ian’s would come along. Passage to the Outer Rim on a ship that could evade Republic scouts was a rare gift, one that you couldn’t afford to lose But now, you had to face the hard part: breaking the news to Qimir.

As you scanned into the small, cramped building you and Qimir now called home, a wave of exhaustion washed over you. The door slid open with a hiss, and you stepped inside, the faint hum of the city’s underbelly muffled by the walls. You pulled off your cloak, shaking off the fine layer of dust that clung to it, a grim reminder of the harsh environment outside. Your eyes stung from the grit of the sand, and you rubbed them wearily. It had been a long, grueling day.

The dimly lit room felt stifling, the walls pressing in with the weight of the choices you had to make. You tossed the cloak aside and took a deep breath, trying to steady yourself before the inevitable conversation. Qimir wasn’t going to like what you had to say, but there was no other option.

The sound of Qimir moving around in the next room broke your train of thought. You squared your shoulders, pushing down the fatigue, and stepped forward.

There he stood. Looking at you through wisps of black hair, slick with sweat. His eyes, which you once thought were brown, seemed almost black now, with a sharpness that felt more predatory than human.

"You're back." He exclaimed.

"I picked up some Jogans." You tilted your head in the direction of the small table in the corner.

"Feeling hungry after that mug today?"

You only sighed in response.

"That thug tried to take my shit... Would you have rather I just let him walk away?"

He tilted his head back in frustration, his adams apple bobbing as he swallowed whatever distaste was rising in his throat.

"How many times do I have to remind you that our survival here banks on our ability to lay low."

"About that..."

His eyes locked on you, demanding an explanation.

"I found a ship that can take us to the outer rim, under the radar."

His eyebrows shot up in surprise "the pilot you found wasn't a bust after all."

You bristled at his tone, almost offended by his doubt. These past few months had shown how strained the relationship could become. It felt more like a game of cat and mouse, and you hated losing.

"Not exactly."

He continued to stare at you through his eyebrows. Why did he always have to stare at you like that.

"A smuggler can get us there."

"who's the smuggler."

He didn't waste any time. You tensed. Ian was the last name you wanted to give. But thats where this was headed anyways. You just had to bite the bullet.

"Ian Skynyr."

Even the name tasted bad on your tongue.

His jaw twitched.

Jeez this was gonna a difficult one to swallow.

"Skynyr." He repeated.

He took a long pause before continuing. "No."

"This is our only shot. You know as well as I do that a freighter like his could secure us both passage safely off of Jakart. I just have to help him out then we can---"

"Help him with what exactly." He cut you off.

You froze.

"Its just a job." You stated casually.

"What kind of job."

"Obtaining and transporting cargo to some client." You brushed it off as if it were a mere fly buzzing past your ear.

"What else."

"Thats all he told me."

"Details matter y/n."

"No they don't matter... because this might be our only chance to get to the outer rim."

"Whatever debt he thinks you owe him... forget it. Skynyr is an idiot. Wherever he goes a blaster target follows him."

"I know, I know. I trust him about as far as I can throw him. But he's all we've got. So, I'm doing it."

"And the deal we made?"

"What about it? I'm not going back on anything. So being your acolyte is following whatever you say regardless? Can you not trust me on this?"

He grimaced.

"No. It means don't fall into a mess I have to pull you out of."

"I can handle myself just fine. I thought Brandok proved that."

"Brandok only revealed how reckless you are right now."

Did the death of your old master, at your own hands, prove nothing to him?

No.

You were bartering with a man that had no interest with the rest of what you had to say. But no matter how much he disliked this plan or how much of a headache your existence seemed to him at this moment... he couldn't resist the appeal of Ians secure passage through Republic space.

"Do you have any better ideas then?"

He sighed, finally breaking eye contact and looking down at the floor. His posture slumped as he leaned against the wall, just as exhausted as you were.

"If you can come up with one, I wont take Ians offer. Otherwise we should take this deal."

You didn’t wait for a reply. Instead, you walked into the next room, slumping onto the small cot that had been your bed for the past few weeks.

You imagined that the only reason he didn't follow was because he knew the truth, which was that you both had no idea when another chance like this would arise. He was just angry it involved working for Ian.

You replayed what Qimir had said to you.

Brandok only revealed how reckless you are right now.

You realized that killing your old master did prove your commitment. But to Qimir it also unearthed how little he truly knew you. And something he couldn't predict or control... that probably terrified him.

Good.

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You basically had to drag Qimir to the landing platform where Ians team was meeting. The air was filled with hyper fluid and gases that singed your nostrils. It reminded you of your old post fixing up freighters like the one that now towered before you. Although, that life now felt like it belonged to someone else.

Ian practically beamed when he saw you both approach, his voice cutting through the cacophony of the buzzing platform. "Glad to see you made it."

You only gave him a small nod in return face remaining neutral.

The rest of the crew were people you recognized from around the bazaar.

The Transdoshan known as Kiro. His presence was intimidating, standing at an imposing 6'7", with a build that suggested he could break bones as easily as he could snap his scaly talons.

Next to him was Shaun, a grizzled sharpshooter. He gave you a curt nod, acknowledging your presence with the little care.

A droid, its model old but well-maintained, stood quietly beside them. You couldn’t quite place its make, but it looked functional and that’s all that mattered.

And Ian. Your point of contact - begrudgingly so.

"Our buyer is interested in a rarity being sold at auction tomorrow on Carinth. Job is to secure the cargo and transport it. We'll rendezvous with him on Canto Bight."

"how do you intend to secure the bid. I'm guessing you don't have nearly enough credits to bid on something that an anonymous buyer wants"

Your skeptic tone was thinly veiled.

"Who said anything about bidding with actual credits."

"So what, you yell fire and then grab it in the chaos?"

"Our operation is a little more refined than that."

Qimir scoffed earning a frown from Ian.

Kiro growled, lacing his arms together in a tight cross obviously put off by Qimirs severe lack of respect for any of them.

"The buyer is willing to pay whatever sum for the item plus our services. But he doesn't want to be tied to the acquisition of the aforementioned cargo. So we're going to act as his ambassador of sorts"

"And how do you intend to make the highest bid."

"Rod here is going to take care of that." He gestured to the droid. "So no matter what you have the highest bid."

"Wait, that I have the highest bid?"

"Well Yord was supposed to be the stand in for the auction and canto bight but he's kinda occupied right now."

It took everything in you to bite your tongue.

"You said this was a simple job." You bristled.

"It is."

"You never said anything about impersonating a bidder."

"You didn't ask sweetheart."

Qimir clenched his jaw.

"Yord normally keeps a low profile which made him the best suited for the stand in. Unlucky that he broke his streak on trying to rob you"

"I'll be recognized."

"Where we'll be, no one is going to give two bactas about who you are. These aren't the type of joints where saints congregate. Jedi will be the least of your worries."

"Why are the Jedi looking for you two anyways." Shaun questioned suddenly very interested in the conversation.

"Thats none of your concern."

Shaun put his hands up realizing that you weren't one to answer pointed questions.

"Whats the item I'll be bidding on."

"that also happens to be none of your concern either."

"If we're doing this job I need more information to make sure were not walking into anything we can't walk out of."

"Even if I wanted to I couldn't tell you. The item only goes by its bidding number and the client wont share beyond that. Also I don't really care what it is... as long as I get paid. You're now the stand in on Carinth and Canto Bight, and thats all I'll hear of it."

"Why was it Yord? why me?"

"There's a strong likelihood that the rest of us aren't exactly on the best terms with some of the attendees frequenting the auction, especially not in Canto Bight. We need someone who’s not a big player—or better yet, someone who’s completely unknown. The client insists on absolute secrecy. The fewer issues we encounter and questions we face, the better."

You couldn't deny that everything he stated made sense for a job such as this.

"So what happens when they find out the credits being transferred are fake?"

"Thats when we blast out of there like a bat out of hell."

You almost smirked. You hated to admit it but the chase excited you.

"So you're what is considered a big player?" You replied mockingly.

"Ouch." He pretended to take a knife to the heart.

"Fine."

"And just because I like you so very much y/n I'll let the two of you split Yords share."

"How generous of you, Ian." You swallowed your words with disdain.

"I like to think so." he smiled with great satisfaction. "Be here at 05:00."

Before you could nod your head, Qimir had already turned on his heal heading towards the exit.

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

"Whatever you have to say, go ahead. Get it out."

Qimir said nothing as you followed him down the ally. Though you could almost read the back of his head.

"Well if you're going to brood about it at least -"

Before you could get your next words out, you were slammed against the wall. The impact knocked the air from your lungs, and you barely had time to react before his hands pinned your arms to your sides, his grip like iron.

"This isn’t my fault," you gasped.

"Of course it isn’t," his voice was dripping with sarcasm.

You could feel the anger radiating off him. He continued.

"Skynyr is trouble, and nothing but. That makes him dangerous."

"And what are we exactly?" you shot back, your voice tinged with defiance. "What are we?"

"You know what we are," he replied. His tone was cold, as if stating an undeniable truth.

"So when did smugglers become the biggest, baddest thing in the galaxy? In the dark, there’s nothing to fear but us."

"Maker, you’re naive," he spat. "He’s more trouble than he’s worth."

"You’re right," you conceded, though your voice was steady with what you said next. "The sooner we leave the sooner we can continue training. And he’s our best shot out of here."

His jaw clenched, and his teeth bared in a snarl. The rage in his eyes was palpable, and for a moment, you felt a shiver run down your spine. He tightened his grip, pressing you harder against the cold, unforgiving wall. The proximity, the force, everything about the moment screamed danger, yet you held your ground.

"The only reason I’m willing to go along with this little drama," he whispered, a lethal calm overtaking him, his face inches from yours, "is because of that damn republic transponder. Maker knows who else has one... Maybe this trip will teach you a valuable lesson, my young apprentice."

Those last three words hung in the air like dead bodies.

Ghosts.

Ones that constantly haunted you.

My young apprentice.

It wasn’t just a title; it was a reminder of everything you had left behind when you walked away from the Order. He was asserting his authority, reminding you of what you were to him—and more importantly, what he was to you. The unspoken command was clear: Don’t forget it.

You could see the words of warning in his eyes.

"Yes, Master," you whispered.

He stared at you for a moment longer, as if to ensure you truly grasped the gravity of your position. He loosened his grip and pushed himself away from you, storming off toward the compound.

You remained against the wall for a few seconds longer, the echoes of the encounter still reverberating through your mind. The word “Master” clung to you like a weight.

The next morning you both had packed everything you owned... which was very little. But it wasn't the material things that weighed you down. Qimir lashed out at you for a good reason. It was the uncertainty, the sense that you were stepping into something that could very well get you both killed.

Or worst captured.

Maker help me. You whispered.

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Thats it for today! Hope you liked it! If your feeling it, let me know what you think in the comments.

[capymosey]

on meljayvik & that bomb tinkering scene

i made a lil comment on this but i wanted to expand on it here since there’s no hard character limit

so, yeah, there’s a lot of what i would consider bs discourse on mel ignoring viktor etc and jayce and manipulation etc whatever blahblahblah i hate that shite because it really isn’t satisfying since it feels like people making claims on very little objective data

mel knows jayce couldnt take the bomb apart and she brings up this hot topic when viktor is in the middle of doing delicate, dangerous work. sure, he stops during it but she isn’t worried at all. she trusts him, jayce trusts him - they know he’s competent and brilliant and works well under pressure (“the resonance will stabilize it. trust me.”) so they are all ok to have this difficult convo during a very dangerous task

i did see some people stating viktor was also considering letting jayce and him die, whick is uhhhh something all right. viktor isn’t a fighter. he’s a scientist. he’s gentle, kind, quirky, but also a risk-taker. he isn’t someone who would hurt others, though. so as fun as that train of thought could be, i don’t buy it since it isn’t in line with who viktor is. i cant believe the same people who advocate for “there is always a choice”!viktor, and other such things about his character would even consider this line of thinking but whatever. it’s fandom 🤷‍♂️

i do think there is some great misunderstanding to characters because of ships and limited screen time to anyone who isn’t violet or jinx but i see the trio as a group who understand each other and work well together. yes, mel didnt realize how close jayce and viktor were before viktor got hospitalized, but she knows his mind and contributions. mel isnt an idiot. she knows shite. she researches and strategizes and she also knows viktor and jayce. just look back at any convo you might have with friends or family in groups of more than 2 people and this is like one glimpse into how the trio might talk to each other at any given time over any topic. not everyone always agrees with each other and sometimes you can tell when you can influence, for example, your dad over your mom regarding getting a pony. viktor’s name isnt on hextech public records so mel knows viktor has given up having a majority say on it (maybe because viktor is all about being behind the scenes, esp as his health continues to spiral, and jayce could also be at fault for not treating viktor like the partner he claims viktor is). sure, there’s some societal issues going on, too, but at this point - whether mel is still influenced by this piltover attitude or not - she cares about jayce enough at this point to value what he values, and one of those big things is viktor (which she undoubtedly knows coz he keeps going to her about him 😅). and when viktor strongly objects she looks at him like someone who wishes she didn’t have to suggest what she’s suggesting since her feelings about her mom/upbringing could be a factor she’s considering.

another big holy shit moment in this scene is mel bringing up heimer and showing he doesn’t always have the sway with jayce that she now does. heimer may have been neglectful of zaun, but now mel seems against zaun, too, and jayce is appearing to be agree with it (and he does, until the prep for the finale battle in s2)

like this scene is also more of a tie with the a bridge scene in showing jayce and viktor not sticking together. viktor is seeing jayce consider him less and less and seeing people from zaun as subhuman. jayce “understanding” grows less and less in his mind and viktor becomes more isolated. how can he trust jayce when jayce may not trust him (“they’re dangerous!” and “i need to think [about this on my own, without further convo with you, viktor, who i claim is my partner]” “defend your people”) and who can he depend on to help zaun if he’s dead and jayce is using hextech to take lives? he’s gotta take the risks. but sky’s death and the hexcore sentiently taking away the use of his leg show him the error of the path he starts and he just accepts death (not that he wants to die) as something that will happen irregardless of what happens after he’s gone. (too bad he just dies and we never see viktor in s2 until his theme comes up at the end when jayce gives him the cosmic hug)

also mel gives viktor another look before telling jayce the choice is his. i think she wishes he was on board coz then they might have come up with another solution but the show is written in a way where hextech is always the answer (i.e., weapons, etc) and not like…personal and political manouvering 😅

plus the trio smile at each other when an alternate option is approved by the council before jinx blows it all up. there’s some kind of dynamic going on here

anyway

my brain doesnt work this hard this long

i think fortiche should unleash their meljayvik vault of fics and help fandom out since they often partake and enjoy fanworks to help meljayvik out 🤣

p.s. can we instead focus on how hardcore viktor is in the end? not even a sigh of relief or anything showing stress. man is a well-oiled machine when it comes to how confident he in his choices. he already figured out the bomb and made a choice after getting distracted/frustrated with jayce

[bringthekaos]

Alrighty, here we go. Act III.

Mostly Jayce and Viktor centric, but with some wider thoughts as a whole thrown in. As usual, this is all my opinion, you’re free to disagree with me. Just don’t be a dick.

I am torn. I’m appreciative of the visuals and the JayVik crumbs (even though Christian Linke’s comments post-show have soured it to queerbait for me). But mostly I am disappointed. And I so badly didn’t want to be. I had such high hopes (and that’s probably my fault. I expected too much). They completely massacred Viktor’s character. There was such beautiful setup in season one of his background as a Zaunite living in Piltover. So much of his lived experience came from that—the oppression, the inequality, the xenophobia, the inaccessibility. It formed his opinions and his values, and that’s why he was so adamantly anti-weapon making. That’s why his number one goal was always to help the people in need down in Zaun. They showed us that he was a tinkerer and a builder, that he valued the ingenuity in machinery. They gave us that cute little boat from his childhood and the fucking Hexclaw.

Viktor was supposed to be a Zaunite champion. He was supposed to embrace Techmaturgy as a direct opposition to magic/Hextech. He was supposed to undergo his transformation into the Machine Herald of his own volition, with his own agency and bodily autonomy (yes I know it also stemmed from severe depression and one could argue that it messed with his decision-making, but still… he did that shit on his own). And there were so many opportunities to go this route in Arcane, and it would have worked!! If Viktor augmented his hand and his leg, but it cost Sky her life, he could realize the cost of magic, and turn to Tech. He could have been exiled back to Zaun, where he was supposed to be, and then the shitshow really could have unfolded—having one of Hextech’s creators now working for the other side.

And I know they had to change it so that he could be a bigger part of the overall narrative, as his original lore was rather disconnected. But there were much cleaner ways to go about it than disrespecting his entire character arc by turning him into a grimdark edgelord ethereal magic Jesus who no longer notices or even seems to care about the oppression and class warfare going on in his birthplace. Like. I’m sorry, him “curing” Salo? OG Viktor would have taken one look at a representative of the very oppression he stood against and blown him to kingdom come. (And yes, I also realize that he did it in Arcane because he was “under the influence” of the Hexcore, which only wanted to “infect more people.” But that’s another problem I have. This was never really made all that clear. And watching him go from “we will not be building weapons, that’s not why we invented Hextech/there is always a choice/we were meant to improve lives, not to take them” to making him turn human beings into weapons?? I don’t care that they tried to salvage his character by suggesting he wasn’t in control, it still undermines everything about him. And GOD, original League Vik had so much DEPTH. He was a hypocrite, he was still partly human and so he retained pieces/parts of all the things he preached against, which made him a wonderful contradiction. And he had a sense of humor and whimsy too! He enjoyed sweet milk, he cracked dry jokes and was sarcastic as fuck. He had a personality! And now he’s just… empty space man blinded by forced apathy.

And I think all of this is part of a larger problem—they wanted to use Arcane as a stepping stone to future shows, and as such, the class warfare and systemic oppression plot from season one was completely abandoned. They tried to solve it with “well they have to band together to face a bigger enemy.” Which in my personal opinion is a cheap cop out. There are always bigger fish, that doesn’t change the fact that Zaun has been living in Piltover’s filth with Piltover’s boot on their neck for generations. They’ve suffered injustices most of us can’t even comprehend. And then suddenly we’re supposed to believe they all band together to face this threat, stand side by side with their oppressors because Jayce made one speech about it? With no proof? And then all they get from the deal is one Zaunite seat on the council? And they’re okay with that? I never expected the show to solve systemic oppression, but I also didn’t expect them to abandon it this spectacularly.

The Noxus/Black Rose plot was clearly thrown in to set up future shows, and to show Netflix/investors/whoever that this massive financial investment has a future. And it destroyed the Piltover/Zaun story. I think this could have been a totally isolated story just about Piltover and Zaun, and been completely successful. In fact, I would have definitely watched future projects despite them not taking place in the setting of Arcane. And I’m not at all saying I don’t like Ambessa and Mel. I was very intrigued by the story of a warmonger like Ambessa facing her comeuppance, not just for her warmongering but for her affair with a damn MAGE. And her daughter trying desperately to break the mold her mother has set for her, while also struggling with who she is and these new, incredible powers she has. That shit is juicy as hell, and honestly should have been its own show. But throwing it into Arcane in season 2 with absolutely no hint of the Black Rose or its impending approach (beyond “the people who killed your brother don’t think the score is settled”) in season one, it just felt like the aforementioned cop out to get Piltover and Zaun to get along. And in doing so, they steamrolled Viktor to make him a bigger player in the narrative.

Did I like the final astral plane scene with Jayce and Viktor? God, yes. Is it one of the most beautiful confessions of love and eternal devotion I think I’ve ever fucking seen? Also yes. But it kinda feels like a bandaid on a bullet wound. I got the love I always knew remained between Jayce and Viktor, but I paid for it with Viktor’s entire character. Not to mention Christian Linke keeps pouring salt in the fucking wound, denouncing JayVik and “bromancing” them, and then also suggesting in one interview that Jayce and Viktor are actually fucking dead, and in another that Viktor will be back in future projects (with no mention of Jayce, which suggests that they’re turning him into Sky 2.0 and that he’s dead but Viktor isn’t). And that completely undermines the entire ending of season 2’s “intrinsically entwined/always you/in every universe.” And I know, I shouldn’t listen to this dude’s opinion on the matter, he’s not the only one making this thing, and honestly it was the easiest unfollow/mute of my life. But how hard is it to just shut the fuck up and let people enjoy things? To not comment one way or the other, let people think what they want, and rake in your millions in the process? Haven’t you ever heard of rainbow capitalism, my guy?

Ugh. I’m very sorry for being so negative, I didn’t want to be. I still love the show, and I’d still like to keep writing JayVik, even though it’s just been made near-impossible (I’m actually really glad that I never finished Oasis now, cuz I can go back to that and expand it well beyond what I originally planned cuz… it’s all I have left). I’m just mourning my cyborg wife, and the fact that goddamn SMEECH had what Viktor was supposed to. Hopefully the more time goes on, I can reconcile these changes and embrace them, cuz I love this fandom, I love this ship, and I don’t wanna lose it.

Anyway, I will still be sharing art and memes and posting analyses, because you can like a piece of media and still be critical of it.

[shinysobi]

the kiss (aka that one scene) and subsequently—

*spoilers for bridgerton s3*

ahem...this might be a bit indelicate? Let us think about who Colin is, at his core. he is a dreamer. he's sweet, he's kind to a fault, and he's also the Bridgerton brother most likely to have ao3 in the 21st century.

Penelope asks for a kiss, and Colin cannot deny her that. so much of their relationship is evinced by the fact that they cannot deny each other anything, even if it is at the expense of their own well-being. Penelope has never once voiced her feelings for Colin because she is aware that he would never see her in such a light, and mostly because, she does not think that her feelings are his business. In the books and in the show, Penelope has never voiced her crush.

So, when she's facing the very real prospects of remaining a spinster and firmly under the influence of her mother and sister (Prudence, especially, I don't really think Phillipa would be that bad) she makes a choice to ask the love of her life, mind you, the one man she had always felt safe with, to kiss her. She is waving goodbye to the dreams of being married, finding a place of her own in a world where a woman had no value if they were not attached in matrimony to a man. Yes, it seems pathetic, yes, it seems desperate. It is. It is desperate. Penelope is desperate at this moment, and she is reckless, but she is not pathetic. She wants to be kissed, and she asks for it, it is a moment where we see a woman exercise agency for the first time in her life. Feelings are so very rarely black or white, and so is this scene; on one hand, you feel wronged and angry at the fact that Penelope is pleading for a kiss, on the other, you empathize with her situation and where she is coming from. She wants this moment, and who better to ask from, than her best friend? Colin has always, always been there for her, and she has been there for him. They know each other the best, she has had the privilege of being able to love him. She wants love, and she has it in her hands at this moment, a fleeting, transient glimpse into what her life could be if she were someone else. This is the moment when Penelope Featherington's dreams are well and truly shattered.

And that same kiss turns Colin's world on its axis. It is so wonderful to see on screen how the same action can have two entirely opposite, but just as important effects on people. Colin has always loved Penelope. This is not even a discussion. He took action on behalf of her family (on behalf of her, really) when he found out about her cousin's schemes. He gives Cressida the cut direct when she humiliates Penelope in front of him. He seeks her out at every social assembly. He has always looked out for her and has always loved her. But all this is platonic. He has never felt a physical connection with her, because neither of them has had the chance to explore that avenue. Neither Colin nor Penelope are aware of their latent attraction to each other. For Penelope, it is because she has never been allowed to feel a physical connection with anyone, and Colin because he has never thought of pursuing a physical connection with Penelope. It is their kiss that ultimately awakens that connection in Colin, and by connection, Penelope asking Colin for a kiss is what puts the wheels in motion.

Which brings me to the first paragraph. Colin is the sweetest boy in the Bridgerton family (Gregory I love you, but nine children? Get off that woman, immediately). When he realizes that he likes Penelope, and loves her romantically, what does he do? He internalizes it like he does everything else. So much of Colin's character arc, both in the book and in the show is about him internalizing everything. He refuses to voice his own feelings if they make other people uncomfortable, much to the detriment of his own mental health. After being deceived in the first season, he removes himself from London because he cannot bear to stay in the city anymore, not when he is reminded of how naive and stupid he was, every moment. It is also important to realize that Colin has been viewed as the naive, soft-hearted brother, by everyone else. When he gets engaged in season 1, Anthony, his big brother, the example he is supposed to follow, tells him that he should have taken Colin to brothels and accuses him of getting married to have sex. In season two, Penelope, an outsider, is the only person who gives a damn about his thoughts. His own family refuses to listen to him, and what does he do when he returns a second time? He tells them, "I shall not bore you with the details". He knows, no one essentially gives a shit. This is why, when he comes to the knowledge of the full breadth of his feelings for Penelope, he internalizes so hard he dreams of her. And this is not an indelicate dream. He does not dream of taking her in the back of a carriage or on his yellow sheets, he dreams of her returning his feelings. He is yet unaware of the extent of Penelope's feelings toward him, but he knows he should not force his feelings onto her, and that is why he dreams of her.

I could go on and on about why Colin is the best Bridgerton brother (Gregory, nine children) but it will take up a lot of space, so I shall keep it brief: (in the show) Anthony almost marries Edwina, a girl who is what, thirteen(?) twelve (?) years younger than him, a girl who has no safety net outside of her sister and her mother, her sister whom Anthony was in love with, and refused to confront his feelings for. Literally, no one forced Anthony to propose to Edwina, he went down on one knee while being aware of his feelings for her older sister. Kate would have been content with relinquishing her younger sister to a marriage where she loved someone who would forever love another. Imagine if Anthony had married Edwina as he intended. Do you think, for even a second, that he would look at her face and not be reminded of Kate? Not to mention neither of them took action till the very last second, and Edwina, a bystander, was forced to ruin herself. Half the reason why she married abroad is the fact that not a single person in London would have married her (headcanon: she marries the Prince, fuck you, Anthony) when she was very publicly denigrated as the Viscount Bridgerton's cast-off. Yes, the Queen's favor saves Anthony and Kate's marriage from scandal, but it also saves Edwina, it saves her from further public embarrassment and scrutiny by a ton that not only views her as an outsider but also envies her for securing the title of the Season's Diamond. (Book)Benedict forces a woman from a servant class to be his mistress while he searches for the girl he fancied to be the love of his life. I'm sorry, there's no coming back from that. Colin gets angry when he is aware of who Lady Whistledown is, but his anger is not directed at Penelope herself. It is directed at her lack of thought for her own safety. Colin puts Penelope's safety and reputation over everything. In the carriage scene, he steps back as soon as he hears the words "but we are friends" from her mouth; he takes it as a sign, that this is Penelope telling him I don't have feelings for you, and he is happy to respect her wishes. Colin would have never voiced his feelings a second time if she had rebuffed him then, he would have been happy to remove himself from Society and spend his days on the Continent, writing in his journals. So much of both Penelope and Colin is them learning to voice their wants and desires and fuck, it's the most beautiful thing to watch as it comes to life on my screen.

[lalune9x]

S-Classes ‘Side Story’ chapter 124 spoilers under the cut…

god I love this novel so much, it’s so funny and ridiculously endearing lmaooo 😭 (sorry I’m on mobile and don’t know how to format indented text)

—-

“Normally, I shouldn’t interfere. But since my partner has requested it…”

With those words, Sung Hyunje appeared.

“I have no choice but to comply.”

He was tiny, small enough to fit in the palm of my hand, and had fairy wings. It was a form I had seen once before, but still…

“…Why are you in this state again?”

Aren’t you about to turn forty? Actually, at this point, aren’t you already in your mid-forties? A man nearing fifty was fluttering around with shiny wings, claiming ‘I’m the Sesung Guild Leader~’ If he were a complete stranger, I would’ve said that people in this world had all sorts of preferences and left it at that. But unfortunately, this person happened to be my partner.

Amidst everyone’s gaze, Sung Hyunje-ssi landed on my palm. For a moment, I had the urge to clench my fist and shake it. Would sparks fly if I grabbed him?

[…]

“So that’s why you came with wings,” I said.

“The wings are because I felt Han Yoojin-gun’s interest in me has been waning a bit. I just spruced myself up a little.”

… What nonsense. When people said they wanted to spruce up, they usually changed their hairstyle, put on nice clothes, or added accessories. Why on earth would you suddenly add wings?

“… Anyway, we can explain publicly that the Sesung Guildmaster shrank due to a curse. As long as we get cooperation from the current Sesung Guildmaster, Hunter Kang Soyoung, it shouldn’t be too hard to bring Sesung Guild in line with its current state.”

“Um, excuse me.”

At that moment, Soyoung-ssi raised one arm with a serious expression. She glanced between the tiny Sung Hyunje in my palm and me before speaking.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a while, but… in the end, the person who was a mermaid, then a captain, and now a fairy—is my boss?”

“Uh… yes? I suppose so.”

“And that thing… I mean, this person, needs to become the Sesung Guildmaster? No, wait, the original Guildmaster was… Why did I even join Sesung Guild under this person in the first place? Director Han Yoojin raised my dragon, didn’t he? And more importantly… Is that person really the Sesung Guildmaster?”

Soyoung-ssi clutched her head, looking confused. It seemed like her gradually returning memories were clashing with her current reality. Or maybe she just couldn’t accept that Sung Hyunje was her boss.

“Kang Soyoung-gun,” Sung Hyunje spoke softly to the bewildered Soyoung.

Since he was the guildmaster, maybe he would give some comforting advice to his young guild member…

“I’m a fairy dragon,” he said.

But no—he lied without even batting an eye. Had he lost his mind?

Kang Soyoung’s eyes widened as she stared at him. “You’re a dragon? For real?”

“Yes. Gyeol was born due to my influence as a fairy dragon. Don’t we even look alike?”

The self-proclaimed fairy dragon spun slowly once in my palm to display himself. Appearance-wise… he clearly did look like Gyeol. I felt sorry for Gyeol, but what Sung Hyunje-ssi said wasn’t entirely wrong. And now that he had fairy wings, his nonsense actually sounded somewhat plausible.

“So that’s…!”

Kang Soyoung cried out in awe and astonishment. Her expression went through a number of complex changes for a moment, but then she quickly calmed down and nodded firmly.

“I understand everything now.”

…Really? That was all it took?

“It all makes sense. It’s perfect. Yes! I love Sesung Guild and our Guildmaster!” Soyoung-ssi shouted with eyes full of guild pride…

Was this really okay? Sung Hyunje-ssi, didn’t you feel guilty at all? We did need to finish this mission and get out quickly, but this seemed too shameless.

[aishangotome]

Clavis Lelouch: Even If I Can No Longer Play Pranks

From A Hidden Oath: King of the BEAST (2024 Election) - Collection Event

Thank you @dark-frosted-heart for providing the SE video!

—

Under the gentle sunlight, we went on a picnic date to the lakeside, but...

Emma tilted her head, puzzled, at the cupcake she took out of the basket.

Clavis: What's wrong? Not in the mood for cupcakes?

Emma: No, it looks delicious, but I'm a little surprised it's not homemade by you, Clavis...

Clavis: I heard it's popular in town.

Clavis: But I didn't realize you were craving my special cake... I've failed as a fiancé.

Emma: Of course I miss it, but I'm very happy with the cupcakes too.

Emma: I'll have one right away!

Clavis: Yes, I've prepared all kinds for you. Enjoy them to your heart's content.

Seeing Emma happily munching on the cupcakes fills me with contentment.

(I'm changing things up today. I don't want to bore her by doing the same thing all the time.)

(...But it's unsettling to not have anything planned.)

Emma: As expected of a famous cake. It's really delicious.

Emma: But I guess it's a little lonely without your special cake, Clavis.

Clavis: To hear such words, you've truly been influenced by me.

Emma: I've experienced so many of your pranks that I've had no choice but to get used to it.

(Ah, usually - no, even since I was young, I've always tried to get attention with pranks.)

(Otherwise, an ordinary person like me would fade into the background.)

(But now it's different. Even without trying to get attention, you look at me more than anyone else.)

(Still, I can't help but wonder...)

(What if you get tired of me someday and leave me?)

Even though I know it's unlikely, I can't help but think about it sometimes.

Clavis: Then, I must think of even more outlandish pranks that you can't get used to.

Emma: No, it's alright. Really.

Clavis: Don't be shy, don't be shy.

(The reason why I still have the bad habit of playing pranks on Emma to get her attention is)

(Probably because I'm unconsciously trying to prevent myself from doing so.)

(But if, by any chance, I can't even play pranks anymore...)

He offered her a book with a ribbon.

Emma accepted it as if examining it, opened the cover, and looked at it closely.

And finally, as if she had decided it was an ordinary book, her expression changed to one of suspicion again.

Emma: Clavis... did you eat something bad? Or did you have a nightmare?

Emma: Or are you feeling down... If you have any worries, please tell me!

Clavis: Haha, you're overthinking it. I'm always a devoted man - there's nothing strange, okay?

Clavis: Now, there's no one to disturb us here. Enjoy reading to your heart's content by the quiet lakeside.

Emma: That's fine, but...

Emma: But it's true that it's a happy time to be able to read a book while eating delicious food under the warm sun.

(That's right, that's right. I knew you'd be happy as a book lover, and my plan worked.)

As Emma finally smiled brightly and opened the book, the edges of the pages fluttered in the wind.

Clavis: It's getting a little windy. Even though it's good weather for a picnic, aren't you cold? That's right...

Emma: Wah...

I picked Emma up and sat her on my lap.

Clavis: You don't have to worry about that if you read like this.

Emma: Clavis, you just put me on your lap and didn't do anything... What's wrong with you today?

(She's worried, but her earlobes are bright red. Oh no, she's so cute I want to take a bite... my wicked heart aches...)

But determined to stick to my resolve, I cleared his throat and returned a gentlemanly smile.

Clavis: What? Do you think the only thing you can do without distractions is read?

Emma: Meaning...?

Clavis: It's just the two of us here, the perfect setting for a little fun with my fiancée, wouldn't you agree?

(When the time comes that I can't play pranks anymore, how will I confront this love and keep Emma's attention...?)

(Thinking about that time, I need to devise ways to capture her attention now, not through pranks, but through more straightforward methods.)

(As a first step, I've decided to thoroughly spoil Emma today.)

Emma: ...Does this mean today is a no-prank day?

Clavis: A peaceful day like this isn't so bad, is it?

Having dodged her probing question, Emma opened her mouth again with a serious and loving look in her eyes.

Emma: Isn't Clavis only Clavis when he's playing pranks?

Emma: I'm always prepared to handle those pranks, so don't hold back now.

(It must only be Emma who would face my pranks head-on like this.)

Clavis: I see, so simply being loved isn't enough for you?

Emma: I don't want to agree, but thanks to someone, it seems I've become that kind of person.

Clavis: Haha, there's no other woman as spirited and delightful as you.

Clavis: That's what makes you my beloved fiancée.

Emma: If you understand, then that's all that matt—mm!

As she wished, without waiting for her to finish, I parted her lips with a mischievous kiss and entwined my tongue with her surprised one.

Her body trembled slightly on my lap, probably because she was starting to feel the sweet sensation.

Emma: ...C-Couldn't we save the rest for when we're back?

Clavis: I told you, it's just the two of us here.

Clavis: The perfect place to make love, wouldn't you say?

As I slid my hand from under her skirt and caressed her thigh, Emma's eyes moistened with heat.

Emma: ...B-But there's no guarantee someone won't come, right?

Clavis: Don't worry, I've made sure no one will come near for a while.

Clavis: Now, think of this as another one of your requested pranks, my fiancée.

As I kissed her gently, conveying all my love, I made a deep vow in my heart.

(I will continue to search for ways to keep you by my side with love in the form of pranks.)

(And even when the day comes that I can't play pranks anymore, I swear to continue my love for you.)

FIN

[marlboro00999]

RECRUITING FOR MAX

The twins were Jonathan's best buddies at school. They were always great fun to be with, and were top at every subject. They both had the same floppy hairstyle and always wore colourful clothes. They were at the heart of every party. Jonathan had secretly masturbated to the twins in the past, and had had a secret obsession for them - but had got over it when he started dating his first girlfriend. Everyone expected them to go to university and be highly successful in whatever they chose to study.

The results of the final exams were published, the twins getting the best results in the whole school, with places in top universities secured.

Jonathan heard nothing from them during the Summer vacation, with no reply to his messages. Jonathan had decided to not apply to uni, and was going to do a trainee course in plumbing. He'd not heard anything from the twins since the school year ended, and when the Summer was over he learnt from another friend that the twins were still in town and hadn't gone to university.

He felt let down by his best mates, having been close friends throughout his school life - but he was shocked and concerned to hear that they were not continuing with their studies.

He tried to contact them again, hoping one of them would respond. He got a surprise when he got a reply, saying they were about to contact him and that they want to meet him - in a parking lot in the industrial area at 9pm. Jonathan didn't know what to make of it. Why there? Why not where they usually met in town? Why so late?

Something didn't seem right. Jonathan even wondered if he should go. Something in his head told him to ignore it and not turn up, while his concern and keenness to meet up with his friends again was pushing the instinct to the side. He'd go.

Having to walk for 2 miles out of town as the evening light faded, he reached the location in the parking lot behind a disused warehouse by 9pm. He couldn't see the twins anywhere.

Suddenly he heard a noise behind him as two figures came out of the empty warehouse. Stood before him, two identical men with shaved heads and puffer jackets. He was startled on recognising his friends, totally transformed.

"Oh hi! he said feeling confused almost intimidated. The twins smiled a cold smile, not the bright smile they were so famous for. There eyes were different. Their normally bright and open eyes were dark and cold. Yet, they were mesmerizing. It had been only a few months since he last saw them at the school getting the exam results. They'd been so happy and warm, excited about their marks and going to the universities of their choice. But, now they appeared transformed. Hardly the same guys at all.

In unison, they said "Jonathan", as their gazes bore into him.

He froze on the spot. Their voices were those of his friends, but some inexplicable authority surged through him. It was both domineering and erotic. Now... that long past sexual feeling resurged like a volcanic eruption in his mind.

His gaze was drawn to the Marlboro logos on their jackets. None of them had ever smoked, and had no interest in smoking... but the logo on the jackets had a mysterious magnetism which instilled confusion in his head.

These few seconds felt like hours, as his emotions and reality swirled around his mind, and his jeans tightly constrained his full erection.

The cold smiles of the twins curled up to a sneer as they saw Jonathan fall under the influence.

One of the twins spoke up "Max wants to meet you".

Jonathan was even more confused. "Max?", he managed to murmur.

Questions he had planned to ask them about uni and why they didn't go had completely gone from his mind. His mind was empty of everything except for the vision of the transformed twins before him... and the Marlboro logo on their jackets that was eating into his mind.

"Yes. Max. Our Boss at the Marlboro Men's Club. He wants to meet you. That's why you are here, Jonathan."

Jonathan began to sink further. He felt intense desire and subordination before the twins. Instinctively, he knelt down before them. It seemed like madness. What was he doing?

"That's right, Jonathan... That's right", said the other twin in a low and calm voice.

"You are doing really well."

They both took out a pack of Marlboro Reds cigarettes and each of them lit one and began to smoke... then one of them lit a second and handed it to Jonathan.

He took it and placed it between his lips as he knelt there before them; his mind consumed in an erotic ecstasy and feeling of deep subordination... to the twins... and to Marlboro.

Without a word needing to be said, Jonathan inhaled on his first cigarette as the twins looked down on him with a triumphant smirk.

Jonathan's eyes flitted back and forth between the dark and powerful gazes of the twin and the Marlboro logo on their jackets. Everything was sexualised... their penetrating gaze into him, the Marlboro logo, the shiny puffer jackets... the cigarettes... and the rush of the smoke filling his lungs with it's tar and nicotine. It was the most overwhelmingly intense and sexual experience he'd ever known, and he wanted more... much more.

"It's your time to join us, Jonathan.... Max is waiting for you... Come with us, now."

As if in a trance, Jonathan obeyed, got to his feet, and the twins led him through the door of the disused warehouse as all three of them dragged on the Marlboro Reds between their lips.

Continuation from The MARLBORO MEN'S CLUB Part 1

[hanafubukki]

Summary: "We were at war and yet here you are sipping tea.”

The Knight and General clashed weapons.

Neither wanted to back down.

This battle would determine the outcome of war.

“You asshole! It’s your people who invaded our lands.”

The General of the Right of Briar Valley shouted, the Knight of Dawn grunted against the force.

“I know! I wish for a world where fae and humans get along. I do not have the power to make it so!”

“You coward! You could! If you grew a spine!”

Fae and Human locked in battle, unaware of their surroundings.

“I can’t! I have people I have to protect!”

“So do I! But you don’t see me fall under the heel of a greedy asshole, do you!”

So entranced were the two in combat, they failed to hear the rattling of a carriage and the hooves of horses.

“You-”

By the time they noticed, it was too late.

The ominous carriage stood before them, stopping the battle.

The Knight and General are shocked.

“What the fu-”

The horse neighed. One would think it was smirking, before the carriage’s door opened and sucked the two in.

Humans and Faes alike watch in stunned silence as their leaders were stolen away.

“What do you mean we have to attend school?!”

The Chairman of NRC look at the two in front of him. He seemed rather used to this disruptive behavior.

“Exactly that. The carriage has picked you two up and now you have no choice but to attend.”

Lilia held himself back from throttling the person in front of him, before gesturing to the knight right next to him.

“I get why it chose me. But why him!”

“The Enbony Carriage is never wrong. Everyone who has been chosen has always had a place at NRC.”

Lilia whirled to the man right next to him, only to be surprised at the calculative look in his eyes.

The Knight of Dawn turned towards him; the smile he gave shocked Lilia.

“Do you think they’ll stop the war if their main commanders are missing?”

You’re kidding-

“You seem to be taking this hard.”

The Knight of Dawn picked up his cup as he glanced across the table.

His enemy, now turned classmate, huffed at him in irritation.

“You’re taking it too easy. We were at war and yet here you are sipping tea.”

“I think of it as a vacation.”

Lilia snorted in response.

“Besides, you told me yourself to make my own choice. This is my answer.”

“Your answer is running away?”

“No, strategically missing.”

The Knight of Dawn sharply looked at Lilia Vanrouge, “Tell me. Do you believe my people stand a chance without me? Without me leading, they have no choice but to retreat and pause this war.”

He was not wrong. Lilia knew this.

Without their strongest warrior, they would be nothing. He could see how such a move would be in all their favor. It just irked him to see the knight calmly sipping tea…in the same dorm.

“I can’t believe that stupid relic put you in Diasomnia.”

The clank of cup meeting plate was the only sound in the lounge for a while.

“…maybe this was the answer to my prayers. A sign that it is possible for our kind to get along.”

Lilia couldn’t deny that nor could he deny the knight’s placement in Diasomnia. For all his gripes, the Knight of Dawn had all the qualities of those under the Thorn Fairy.

“A vacation huh? Sounds nice. I can get away from the menaces at home.”

Lilia picked up his cooled tea, almost dropping it at the words that came out of the human’s mouth next.

“Yes. I can stay away from that brat. Let’s see him try to wage his war without me.”

The gleam in his eyes accompanied by the slight smirk stunned Lilia briefly.

Hmm. Maybe the Knight of Dawn did belong at NRC...and Diasomnia.

Lilia drank his tea, school didn’t sound so bad after all.

This was influenced by this art. I couldn’t help but think “What would happen if the carriage kidnapped them? What if they were forced to be students? What then?”

And this was the result 🤣💞🌺

I also love to give the knight these glimpses of the deviousness and straightforwardness we see in Silver.

The Knight might be forced to follow Henrik, but it doesn’t mean he doesn’t have thoughts about it. 😂💞🔥

I had a lot of fun writing this one 💞🌺💙🌻

[thegreymoon]

Mo Ran is so gay it isn't even funny.

Now, this is just my opinion and I realise other people have their own interpretations, but this whole episode is super telling to me of just how unreliable his narration is about having tons and tons of sex with people of both genders in his previous lifetime. He's just so... oblivious. None of this reads as a man with a lot of previous experience with many different people. He did not pick up on her flirting with him at all. Sure, he did have a lot of insane sex in his past life, but as the book unfolds, it becomes very clear that most of that sex was with Chu Wanning. At best, there were only a handful of other people he was involved with, and one was a prostitute he was paying, while the other was his wife whose relationship with him was also transactional.

I know people argue that he is bisexual because he married Song Qiutong, but when we actually get her POV on their marriage, it turns out that they had unenjoyable sex only a handful of times, at least one of which was him taking her from behind and very much imagining that it was Chu Wanning in her place. There are plenty of gay men who end up married to straight women (and vice versa) for whatever reasons and none of this makes them any less gay. He also identifies as a 'cut-sleeve' himself at one point, so he doesn't seem at all confused about his sexual attraction to men. Later on, when we finally get his unaltered POV on his life in the brothel, it comes out that he considered the girls there as sisters at best, never as sexual partners. The only other named sexual partner is Rong Jiu, who is male, and I can buy that there were possibly other people who looked like Shi Mei that he was with under the influence of the cursed love spell, but there was never any real attraction there, which is why some argue that he is attracted only to Chu Wanning and would still be attracted to him regardless of gender.

But I think that this is also not true. He definitely was obsessed with Chu Wanning from an early age, which makes it hard to see what his preferences would have been if Chu Wanning wasn't in the picture, but that chapter when he finally realises his feelings also reveals that he does have a type, which he never dared to think about before because he thought he was unworthy of having a choice. However, Chu Wanning fits this type to a tee, so it's easy to run away with the idea that he is shizunsexual and that Mo Ran's attraction begins and ends with him.

With that said, we do get confirmation later on that he does find other men attractive, in particular, Jiang Xi. It's just that he never has the space or the inclination to do anything about it because of his preoccupation with Chu Wanning. In the extras, when Mo Ran misunderstands Xue Men's relationship with Jiang Xi and thinks they are having a love affair, in his unfiltered Taxian-jun state, he is full of approval because he personally finds these powerful, beautiful, prickly, emotionally unavailable older men to be the height of attractiveness. If Chu Wanning hadn't been in the picture, Mo Ran would have definitely been attracted to Jiang Xi or someone similar. Even Ye Wangxi, whom he also fixates on, fits this type (except for the older man bit because I understood her to be only a few years older than Mo Ran). The fact that she turns out to be a woman also cannot be used as an argument for Mo Ran's bisexuality because she very much presents as a man throughout the book (but whether or not she actually identifies as one is debatable).

In short, Mo Ran does have a type of man he is attracted to and it is definitely men that he likes, regardless of his few dubious and very unsatisfying dalliances with women. While Chu Wanning definitely fits this type of ideal man, there are other men out there whom Mo Ran finds attractive too, it's just that he is too unhinged about Chu Wanning to actually do anything about it. Also, I very much doubt that Mo Ran was nearly as promiscuous as he makes himself out to be because he reads as very oblivious when it comes to sexual relationships in general. Even with Chu Wanning, who was right there and about to pass away from sheer horniness that he couldn't even begin to disguise, Mo Ran was still going, "Shizun is so pure and virtuous!" 🙄

(I'm not going to get into the whole Shi Mei situation and how badly he misread him every step of the way too, but that is because his brain was so badly mangled by him that he really stood no chance on that front until it was entirely too late.)

[otomehonyaku]

DIABOLIK LOVERS More,Blood Stellaworth Tokuten Short Story Papers ☽ Ruki ver.

Original title: DIABOLIK LOVERS MORE,BLOOD ルキ ステラワース購入特典SS English translation by @otomehonyaku Scans can be found here (courtesy of @karleksmumskladdkaka!)

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

SUMMARY | Taking place right after the end of Ruki's More,Blood drama CD, this short story depicts Ruki pondering his past choices on the rooftop while Yui lay drained and unconscious before him.

─── ･ ｡ﾟ☆: *.☽ .* :☆ﾟ. ───

—Even now, I remember the sky that day. It was endlessly high, its azure colour all but burnt into my retina.

We obtained freedom for one brief moment, only to have it brutally snatched away from under our noses the next. I’d always thought that was the natural way of things.

After all, it was clear as day that God had abandoned the four of us.

Wants, needs, freedom… such indulgences were like confectionaries to us. You could live without them.

However, I refused to come to terms with that fact and nevertheless reached for all of these vices as soon as they seemed within reach. Knowing it was unrealistic, I desperately clung to help with all the power I could muster… Foolish as I was, I expected that God might smile down upon me for once if only I wanted it more than anyone else in the world.

In the end, I pledged my subordination to a higher power and resigned myself to my fate. Or, rather, I welcomed it with open arms. I’d been trampled over, abused, and yet I chose to keep on living no matter what. 

Life is suffering. Choosing to live in the face of such adversity was no strange thing to me.

“—When given the choice, humans are always eager to choose the easy way out, after all,” I quietly spoke to her, even though she lay unconscious on the ground before me. 

Was I only whispering life advice to my past self, then? If I’d known back then what I knew now, I wouldn’t have been here. I didn’t know whether that was a good or bad thing.

“In any case, this is the so-called ‘life’ I’ve come to live. I’ll just have to make do with it.”

A small sigh escaped from my lips. I was under the influence of a sentiment I did not understand. I was an immortal man, yet why was I plagued by these kinds of thoughts?

“Perhaps you… No. This is ridiculous. What am I even saying?” 

I had to suppress a scornful laugh. It sounded like I was deceiving myself, considering my ambitions. 

Kindness and compassion were pointless. I was a vampire. I feasted on the blood of humans.

And I would not rest until I had obtained absolute power.

“Maybe I would have been better off if I’d asked Him to wipe my memories as well.”

I gazed up at the sky, steeped in darkness. 

The serene azure sky that I remembered was nowhere to be seen. Instead, a jet black colour had spread across the earth’s atmosphere like ink. It was almost as if it was a harbinger of my future.

There was no going back. I had already bared my fangs. 

There was no other option for me than to sink my teeth into this woman and claim her blood. 

“Until then, I wish you the sweetest of dreams…”

I gently pressed a kiss to her forehead.

“It’s simply what’s best for you… Ah, yes. It must be… so be a good girl and offer your blood to me. Only me.”

—End.

[wutheringheightsfilm]

i didn't get a minor in art history for no reason, so let's talk about

The Adoration of the Shepherds with a Donor by Palma Vecchio, c. 1520-1525 (held at the Louvre under the French name L'Adoration des bergers avec une donatrice, here's its collection details)

What's fascinating about this painting (done in the very very late High Renaissance to early Mannerism) is that the identity of the commissioner of the painting is the one kneeling to the far right, who Armand in the episode says is modeled by him, is actually unknown. (So that makes it very handy for the show to claim it's Armand without actually being inaccurate or anachronistic)

What this depicts is the Christmas story (though yes, I know, it doesn't look like Christmastime in the painting) where the shepherds pay Jesus a visit after he's born. There's a lark sitting in the window on the left, which often symbolizes rebirth, and there's a dog all the way to the very right, which usually symbolizes loyalty.

Of course, within the IWTV verse, the choice of using this painting (which doesn't have much, if any literature on it by itself--maybe because for a long time it was attributed to the painter Titian by mistake instead of Vecchio) is extremely fascinating to me. There's a lot of dimensions here: most notably, as another user I saw pointed out, Armand was the model for this, and the painter (Marius de Romanus in the show, Armand's maker) whitewashes Armand. Now, Armand is immortalized in room 711 in the Louvre forever as a 20 year old, looking nothing like himself, his identity effectively completely erased, while thousands of people pass and see this painting every year.

It raises a lot of poignant questions, also: since the commissioner of real life (who is the real life model) doesn't exist in IWTV, what is the motivation for Marius to paint Armand in a Christ scene? Because obviously, Armand would not have commissioned this painting. What spurs him to do that? Since the real life artist, Vecchio, was very influenced by Titian at the point when this painting was made, was Marius also? I really do want to know the team's thought process behind choosing this painting, because it's endlessly interesting to me. It's definitely one of the lesser known works in the Louvre, even just a cursory glance over JSTOR barely has any information. I might literally email my art history professors and ask if they have any material on this or Vecchio because I'm so intrigued... anyone else wanna discuss <3?

[snarky-art]

Chimera and Cassandra!

In my rewrite, they’re both Lunarian , aka Deliosians (the actual name that most of them use to refer to themselves as)

Cassandra does indeed use Valtor’s influence to get them a higher ranking, in fact, the highest ranking one could get under Solarian rule.

Chimera is just a pawn in that, and although isn’t enthusiastic, is non the less shunned into obedience by their mother.

Info on their general storyline, content within my lore, and why I drew them Cassandra with a different skin tone and Chimera with a different hair texture below!

Cassandra ends up tanning to pass as more Solarian since they have an ethnic ancestry from those who stayed underground on Lunaria, which in my thing, results in them tending to have a paler complexion as well as increasing the likelihood for a paler hair color. Blond is considered a Solarian trait by those from Solaria, although the lightness of it would be considered Lunarian. Cassandra can just pass it off as being the result of some “impure Ancestry” though and that she’s mainly Solarian because,, the color of her hair, you see? Blond! And her iris color (also Lunarian, but she can claim the paleness is because of the small Lunarian part “tainting” it and resulting in phenotypic traits being less intense in hue) and that combined with her tan, she can prove she is Mostly Solarian,, right????

Spoiler alert: she’s totally 100% Lunarian.

In my thing, Stella will realize fairly quickly that Chimera is not someone who has much choice in this. On top of not being a willful participant, they hate pretty much everything about it. They straighten their hair because it’s easier than curling it to the 3c and various 4 texture curls that Solarian’s can have, but they still hate it. They refuse to tan or add glimmers or contacts to change their eyes. They don’t want to. Why should they?

Cassandra allows it, VERY begrudgingly. She can blame it all on Chimera’s father anyway (he had an ancestry from those who lived above ground hilariously enough, meaning his skin tone and hair color were darker overall, and he could’ve passed better as Solarian if he wanted to ((he didn’t for obvious reasons. Fuck Solarian Imperial rule.)) but shhhh he’s not in the political sphere there’s no reason for that information to pop up ever).

Even with all of this though, when all of this stuff is said and done, Stella can’t even really blame Cassandra.

For Cassandra, yes it is an attempt at a power grab, but, Stella also kind of Gets It.

“Well,, I can’t really blame her for this at the end of it all. I understand why she would want that power. How else would she get it? She’s Lunarian.”

She’s still pissed at her for doing what she could to get rid of her obviously and she thinks she’s a shitty mom, but the actual goal of trying to get on the throne? Stella goes, “well I think it’s fair to see why she would want more power. It’s not like they have much compared to me. To Solarians.”

And people are pissed she’s saying this, it was cute she was trying to play Dress Up and shit (how they referred to her connecting to her heritage from her mother, wearing actual Deliosian garb and paying respect to the Moons equally as much as the Suns). But she’s taking this seriously? Cassandra was just another power hungry Lunarian trying to get into court in a higher position. They’ve always wanted more than they have, say the Solarians in power.

Stella’s response? It’s because what they have isn’t equal.

The rest of the panel she’s speaking to during the court session: well,, I mean, that’s not the same as wanting equality-

Stella: why not? Because you’ve refused to give them independence. This wouldn’t be an issue if you did that. Or are you actually going to concede and give them equal representation?

The panel:…..

Stella ends it by pointing out she’s just as much Lunarian as she is Solarian. The panel hates it.

Stella and Chimera end up as sisters when everything is done, with Stella and Chimera referring to each other as such, and Chimera becomes one of the loudest people and a head representative for the Delios Independence Movement.

Cassandra is still in court sessions as a political figure, but is given shit for being such an ass to Stella and being seen as a shitty mom, forcing her daughter into this and using her mainly for a political pawn. It’s too soon to let her continue to hold influence though after the Valtor incident the others present decide, and she’s kicked out for a while. She’s still shit talked for the reasons previously mentioned, and for being a Lunarian that dared to want power, according to the Solarian Imperialists in court.

Stella invites her back after a time. Stella appreciates her thoughts on how to make things better for those of Delios because she knows Cassandra will never hold back on her real thoughts and feelings. Chimera and Cassandra don’t really talk after everything for a while, but eventually things do get better, and they do resume regular correspondence and communication. They’ll never be super close, but they know they can rely on each other when it counts.