#because some habits are apparently impossible to break

[heylittleriotact]

It takes a while, but one of the Lighthouse gang finally realizes that Emmrich and Amina offer different transactional greetings and farewells than most people.

Seriously, they almost never say “Good morning/afternoon/evening” to anyone. Instead a polite “Hello” or “Greetings” is offered.

They notably steer clear of “Goodbye,” and “Farewell,” and never encourage anyone to have a nice day. Instead they simply say, “Take care.”

It’s Neve who puts it together: bidding a person who’s just lost someone a good morning might come across as callous, even if it was meant with the best of intentions. Even the word ‘goodbye’ might be salt in the wound of a broken heart.

[juuuulez]

📰 | brat taming, richie jerimovich.

(pure filth guys…blowjob, facefucking, lowkey degrading anndduhhhh then some more sex…)

(also i’m crazy i just wrote another whole richie fic so expect that tomorrow i’m insane.)

“i can’t take it.”

“you can, and you fuckin’ will, princess.”

the punishment for being a brat has always been the same, so really, you should’ve expected this.. but at the time, it seemed like a good idea.

it was richie’s day off, and you had this whole mental plan about staying in bed, getting to enjoy your boyfriend and keep him all to yourself. but apparently the beef was short staffed, and he’d decided to go in anyway, despite mikey’s insistence that it was fine. in truth, it probably wasn’t fine, but that didn’t matter: today was your day.

so you’d stopped by on his lunch break. except richie skipped the break in favour of a cigarette and getting back into the muck. now, you had his best interest at heart, you swear! all you wanted was for him to take a moment. or maybe that’s the excuse you told yourself.

“don’t be a baby ‘bout it.” richie grunts through a clenched jaw, one hand with a firm grip on your cheek, and the other at the base of your skull. “you asked for this, sweetheart. now you’re gonna fuckin’ take it.”

your jaw is opened impossibly wide, his cock buried to the hilt, struggling to breathe through your nose. his grip is unforgiving and doesn’t let you move, willing down the urge to gag around his length as air forgoes you as he rocks his hips deeper. tears have sprung in your eyes, messily slipping down red cheeks and making wet tracks on your neck.

it was the tiny skirt that did it. when you’d sauntered into the kitchen, trying to find richie. it barely covered the globes of your ass, the ends of little spandex shorts peaking out: he would’ve preferred you completely naked, because fuck, those shorts really did it for him, the way they hid absolutely nothing.

and you’d done it on purpose. made sure to linger in the office doorway for an extra moment, having some offhanded conversation with mikey that didn’t even fucking matter, because what were you doing? then you’d offered to help out with the rush, going out front to buss some tables, undoubtably attracting the attention of anyone else in the restaurant.

your hands fist at the fabric of richie’s sweats, the garment pushed down just enough to release his cock. his work shirts still on, as the pair of you had landed on the couch, where you were promptly shoved to your knees. he revels in how small your hands look on his spread thighs, rocking once, twice more into your hot mouth, feeling ten times more aroused simply by the power he holds over you.

and you know when he’s about to cum, of course you do, and it has you trying to pull off. you had been hoping he’d still fuck you, as part of the punishment, spilling his load deep inside where you’d still be able to get an inkling of satisfaction.

“nu-uh,” he chastises, voice rough and breathy, “stay right where ’ya fuckin’ are.”

so, you do. and when you pull off, your tongue is sticky with it, a salty taste that clings to the back of your throat. richie’s hand squeezed your jaw, putting pressure on the hinge that forces your mouth open, admiring his work. “swallow.” he’ll tell you, to which you do, sickeningly obedient for someone with a habit of causing trouble.

he won’t fuck you, either. you’ll try to beg for it, pulling out all the stops, batting your wet lashes and kissing at his neck. it takes everything in him to deny you, but he does, successfully.

it’s not until later, curled up in bed, that you finally huff out somewhat of an explanation. “just miss you.” you’ll mumble, face pressed into his fresh shirt, the cotton tickling your nose. “think you work too much.”

it’s not like richie is oblivious, he caught on pretty quickly, but thought it’d be easier to make you work for it. so he relents, previously rough hands now soft as they skim your back, blunt nails gently tracing the curve of your spine.

“could’a used your words,” he’ll shoot back, and despite the scolding tone, he’s already rolled atop you to kiss down your neck. “or do you just get off on bein’ a brat?”

the crude remark makes you roll your eyes, one arm hooking around his broad shoulders, while your other hand rests on his head where it’s tucked into your neck. a sharp bite to your shoulder finally elicits a response, “maybe a little,” you mumble.

it’s okay, because richie still fucks you into the mattress that night. its a bit softer, at least to the best of his abilities: richie isn’t exactly one for slow or gentle, so it ends up being equally as unforgiving as the punishment itself, with the reprieve of his words turning praising and sweet. telling you how good you feel, how much he loves this pussy, so perfect for him. just him.

and he’s right: it’s just for him.

[vomitspit2]

IN BLOOM. jade leech

He had not expected to see you at all during the duration of his birthday party. This, he was fine with. You are recovering after all and should remain in bed. Though, Jade supposes his act is not subtle by the way his twin keeps eyeing like watching a dog off a leash, making sure he won't run off.

tags: mild hurt/comfort, birthday bloom event, drinking & talking, established relationship, pre-canon to Got You.

word count: 2060

He is not being subtle, is he?

Too many physical clues have given his twin insight that he is not doing mentally well. He can pass off the fidgeting with the wooden shaft of his broom to nerves over flying. His dual-colored eyes flickering over to the lounge’s clock might just be him wanting to be out of the spotlight. All those little quirks can be shrouded by a false truth, but Floyd won’t believe a single one.

Jade preserves despite this inner schism between his twin and himself. The dialogue that Shrimpy’s a big girl and she doesn’t need ya coddlin’ her, Seven, you’re latchin’ on like some parasite, get a grip. Which would be fiercely combated by the dialogue that I’m her boyfriend which should put an end to discussion but probably wouldn’t.

So, neither of them discuss it because why fight on our birthday?

He gets through the interview and the broom-flying without a hitch. Even when he teethers himself a bit closer to the safety of the ground, he manages to do it all efficiently and effectively. Though all the stomach-knotting worry, it is an impossible task to stop the smile that cracks off his pursed lips when his twin tries to snatch his Birthday Bloom hat.

For the majority of this evening’s party, Jade has been biting his tongue to hold back excuses to leave. If he took a bathroom break, it would give him ample time to – at the very least – poke his head in his dorm room. Then, he thinks about how much that is a dog owner excusing themselves early from the party to let the mutt out; then, he thinks about those stout, pearly gray parasites from home; then, he thinks himself out of his idea.

He is fiddling – that is one of his more apparently anxious habits, always grasping at the nearest thing to twist or rub between his fingertips – with the white roses sitting elegantly in his broom’s bouquet when he sees what he was not expecting to see. Birthday gifts and surprises truly don’t stop coming until midnight? Because at the entrance, there you stand.

Kalim’s proclivity towards partying has never benefited or inconvenienced Jade much before. It might have caused a few stand-alone memories to pop, but nothing other than that. Right now however, there is a slight relief coursing through him due to Kalim leaving the party early to attend another.

Your attention will not be spread so thin. Because after you are done scanning the glittering decorations, your tired eyes fall upon him first with the crushing weight of acknowledgment and scrutiny.

You smile. It is tiny and disappears right when it flickered alive. Expression quietly somber, the uncharacteristic of it is quite jarring. None of the guests are even noticing you enter beyond himself and Floyd – who for the first time all night, finally turns away and stops watching him like he is a dog off a leash, about to sprint at the next opportunity.

When you land, you sit pressed leg to leg against one another. Despite how thick the robes are, indigo cotton like a shield, he feels the weight of you leaning against him like a fallen building most. Pressure under the Coral Sea is suffocating; the crude mimic of the sensation done by you is comforting.

“I’m not crashing the party, am I,” you ask into the pattern of golden swirling keys and crows on your boyfriend’s cloak. “Thought you guys would be done by now.”

“So did I. Truthfully, there is not much left to be done.” Which is why it has been frustrating that Floyd was not letting him escape.

“Whaaa,” you whisper softly, “no, you gotta party till you drop. There’s no other way to celebrate a birthday.”

“I see,” Jade tuts. He looks down at the crown of your hair resting by the corner where his magestone sits on his birthday uniform. “You don’t particularly look ready to get up and dance with me. How unfortunate.”

Like a feline, you rub your cheek deep into the dreamlike scene embodied on his outfit. The entire wardrobe line does look like these birthday boys were plucked from dark night skies. It would not be surreal to imagine you collapsing into him and falling asleep, like a meteor fizzling out on earth.

Instead, you murmur, “I just woke up from a nap. Give me a second.” Your hand reaches out and grabs Jade’s milkshake glass that is full of Boozy Blue. He watches through what isn’t blocked by your hair as you take the miniature umbrella he left on the edge and begin to twirl it in your fingertips. “You won’t be able to keep up.”

“Is that a challenge?”

“No. Just a promise.” A cough splits apart the end of your sentence.

Deliberate, Jade points his focal attention towards the lounge. Only a few stragglers are left in the almost concluded birthday celebration. Even Azul has already retired so really this should close up soon. Gazing, Jade finds that Ortho Shroud is among the stragglers and he happens to be impolitely staring at the both of you.

A twitch passes over Jade’s upper lip. He surmised that he knows exactly what those traffic-yellow eyes are taking in, calculating the diameter and shape of the bruises left on your neck.

He goes to reach down, pet along the side of your face, and cover your neck from any peering audience when something hits his fingers. Your heartbeat … it’s pounding. Like a drum. So powerfully loud that it almost seems to disrupt the air around you. Is it not uncomfortable to sit upright like that when your heart is seizing up in premature cardiac arrest? He should rest you down further on the couch so you may relax until your heart stops trying to break out your ribcage.

Had you just woken up from a nightmare? Jade’s hand lands on your shoulder, sailing past the spot he was seeking to conceal. If he touches there, there is a rising probability that you might seize up.

He flexes his grip on your bicep and you lean deeper into his uniform, both of you trying to fuse into each other’s warm touch. Running his tongue over needle-pointed teeth, Jade asks after a quiet minute of cuddling, “May I ask that you fulfill a promise to me on my birthday?”

“Of course.” You stir to look up at him with witchcraft eyes. A jovial smile pulls your lips, ready to please, as you twist the little umbrella, guaranteeing, “Anything for the birthday boy.”

“Never. Never go into Ramshackle without me.”

Your lips fall flat. That thunderous heartbeat — that Jade can almost graze as it lies thin and delicate across every plain of your skin — skips a beat. “Jade —.”

“Please,” he tries to keep despair out of his voice but knows by how you flinch that it was inadequate. “Please, never go into Ramshackle again.” It feels selfish to ask a person with your disposition to be shackled or forbidden from a certain place, but it would ease his own pounding heart to never find you in such a state again.

After a moment of silence, you pull away from Jade and place down the umbrella. Your furrow brow makes him think you are going to leave, walk straight out of the party. Instead, you reach into your pajama pants pocket. “I promise, I won’t ever go into Ramshackle again. But, I had to go in there yesterday because I had to retrieve this.”

Between the gate of your index and middle finger, slightly obscured by your howlite ring, you hold up something slim and shiny. One could almost mistake it for a sturgeon scale and when Jade was younger than eighteen, he probably would have made that mistake. Now older, freshly turned twenty today, he knows that you are holding your lucky guitar pick in your hand — one of the three original possessions you have from your alien world.

“Why didn’t you —?”

“I didn’t think it would be right to ask you for your help. It’s my pick. It’s my problem. And I didn’t want —.”

“Nonsense.” Jade grasps the wrist holding your treasure and says firmly, “It would not have been a strife to go with you, I promise.”

You go huff with a closed lip smile. So it goes. Your head falls delicately and looping hair covers up the skin-deep necklace of plum and black that you wear. An insidious accessory.

The first thing you eat after waking up from your nap is a plum that has gone bad. Everyone has left the birthday longue, even Floyd who had ruffled your hair and told you that ya still owed him a birthday gift. You had smiled; now you are frowning while the feeling of wet, rotten curdles lying in your mouth upsets your taste buds.

You find a napkin and spit into it. The pattern of it matches the birthday outfits with their golden crows and golden keys and golden swirls. In the ribcage of your napkin sits a squishy heart of discolored yellow, half-chewed plum. The color reminds you of those science videos wheeled out of a rickety table, showing off pale yellow cholesterol in the veins and pale yellow puss seeping out infected eyes. A snail-trail of old salvia falls from the heart and glides over your palm.

Comatose, you stare at the bruised fruit cradled in the night-sky napkin before Jade pulls you out of your melancholy by setting down the tea you asked for.

Unsure why you were staring so vividly and tracing each rutting mound of half-chewed fruit, you fold the napkin over your rejected bite and inform your boyfriend, “The fruits gone bad. Did Azul forget to get rid of old stock?” You doubt he did but you are simply asking to fill up conversation space.

His eyes flicker curiously over to what you hold out to him: inners that are rotting in a slimy brownish, pale yellow. “Perhaps he did.”

Before you can get up to do it, Jade takes the plum from your hand and disposes of it in the nearby trash. He leaves you with your napkin; perhaps because he did not see you spit up instead of swallow your bite. You hold it in your hand, over the top of your knee, as wetness seeps through the thin cover of night.

“This should wash the taste out of your mouth,” Jade says, sitting down and pushing the tea he prepared towards you. He has already made sure it has cooled to the perfect temperature.

Meticulous, you think as you lift up the fragile chinaware. It washes through the bruises that have been left in the inner-workings of your throat like a heated river. “Thank you, baby.”

“It is no trouble.”

You squeeze the fruit-heart in your hand, just once for good luck. Truthfully, you don’t know if you will be able to sing again. Too terrified to try, you have been avoiding even humming to fill up silence, worried the tone might be off. Sacrificing your health had seemed natural when you went back into Ramshackle to gather the last belonging that you left behind.

Bowing your head, you sigh. The atmosphere, now that everyone is gone, is so serious. You loathe serious atmospheres and always hope the future has no more in store for you. Always, your hopes are dashed.

So, you try to switch the conversation, “Your flowers are pretty.” You’re curious if he picked them himself or something like the ‘Magical Pendulum’ or another inane sorting device chose them.

Jade glances at them just as you say. “You’re in bloom. Twenty is the cusp of adulthood.”

He smiles handsomely. “Such a notion makes it sound like my previous years had little significance.”

“Well, not like that. But you got internships coming up. Everything has to … turn serious, you know.”

“You must be loathing your next birthday.”

“Hey! I’m staying nineteen forever. I don’t know about you but I’m not ever coming out of my teens.” A chuckling rumble spread across your arm as Jade laughs at your quick nudge. His witch’s hat tilts with his mirth.

Both of you think — unbeknownst to the other half — things should stay like this. Immortal flowers that will never rot. Always in bloom.

[iceingms]

I don't know what title to give this.

Ok, Idk if some of you missed it, but I'll give you the context, (I'd like to share the story, but honestly, it's not mine, and the author himself deleted it on his own, so I'm unsure if I can give you anything about it).

But I'll give you a little summary of the situation. The delegates from each kingdom are preparing for a sports festival in which all the kingdoms are participating.

Bael comes up with the idea of giving Mc as a trophy, because Bimet was the one who suggested giving a juicy reward, and Sitri, reluctantly, accepted it. Mc could not oppose the idea because Bael said goodbye too quickly, and Mc meets Marbas, who guides her to the stadium.

On her tour, Mc sees our favorite kings from afar, and Lucifer. Marbas tells her that he chose the outfit, and she tells him that if she continues to count her as a prize in the horse race, if she continues to look at them lewdly.

Marbas leaves MC at the end of the race, for a better view, and then Azathot is the one who narrates the events of the race; Satan on his remodeled motorcycle, Mammon throwing money while calmly galloping, Beel eating a donut while flying in a cluster of flies in the form of a horse, and Levi, who was threatening his horse to win the race, and finally, after all this, Lucifer.

We are mentioned that Lucifer had a habit of riding unicorns, and not only that, but Mc waits impatiently for Lucifer to win. To no one's surprise, Lucifer grabs Mc by the waist and takes her to the stables, where they practice… not questionable acts, of course.

And they make it clear… three things:

The angels' dicks (it is not clear if all of them) provoke orgasms at the slightest penetration (don't laugh, it's real).

2.Lucifer is brutally honest… And he says things that kill the moment (Like Satan, of course).

Ignore that there is something else there, simply, that happened to say hello. (Now he thought not only of God, but also of his brothers, how thoughtful.), and I don't know exactly what that is supposed to mean, if they were having sex. Open speculation, because I think there is a reason they have chastity belts, and Luci is laying the cards on the table.

3. The unicorn was impregnated, because she witnessed Lucifer breaking Mc's vagina/ass.

Apparently, in the WHB world there is no Holy Spirit, but rather, simply the miracle of conception happens upon seeing the sexual act involving an angel (I am doubtful as to whether this works with all angels, and whether God is also included in this phenomenon). It's even made clear that the unicorn is a virgin, so it was “impossible”.

Y… I want to know what exactly it is that gives PB the craziest ideas to put in a single card. Being honest, the really good thing about it all, were the kings' costumes, and how the relationships between the nobles of other countries are.

And an honorable mention to our baby Morax, who almost went with god, because the bandages came undone. :(

Also for Abbadon, who is half prison (why would there be a prison in hell if his rules are so non-descriptive?).

[krisnixprisonwedding]

Saw ur tags abt endgame krisnix and I'm 👀 curious. Cuz personally I'm a huge fan of their divorced vibes n the way they Cant work out, so I'm So curious as to what endgame krisnix would look like to you

hello and thanks for your ask! before i answer it, i am going to lay down three (3) disclaimers that might end up being longer than my answer itself.

1. i exist in the shipping multiverse, where any number of ships could work out or not work out in my mind depending on the conditions. i have very few "endgame" ships (fradrian and gumworth pan out in most of my universes), and the rest of the ships i like live in some schrödinger's state of existence for me.

2. i love to play with possibilities. exploring possibilities is the real fun of fandom for me - that's what makes fandoms transformative! the ace attorney canon is also so goofy and impossible that i love to think of what conditions could make a ship happen while still technically not contradicting canon.

3. i am, above all else, a playful contrarian. i started this blog because i'd have several people tell me that only one ship, a certain very popular one, had any chance of being "endgame." to which my lightly salty response was to make a blog called "krisnix prison wedding."

now that we've got those out of the way, here are my thoughts on endgame krisnix:

how it happens

- all of my long game kristoph ships take advantage of the fact that kristoph is never mentioned again after aa4. they threw him in the basement so i'm dragging him right back out again while capcom doesn't even notice 😂

- all of my long game kristoph ships take advantage of the fact that miles edgeworth has canonically pulled the strings of the justice system before in the service of people he knows and cares about. i'd argue that if klavier went to his boss and begged him not to have the state execute his only apparent living relative, edgey would find a way to commute his sentence. (bonus points if phoenix and edgey are in a relationship, and phoenix also begs edgeworth for clemency despite what kristoph has done)

why it happens

- you bring up a good point about kristoph and phoenix having divorced energy. think how much more potential for married-divorced energy there is if after all the insanity of the 7YG and aa4, kristoph and phoenix are still addicted to each other and, more importantly, still attracted to each other.

- midnightbrightside once tweeted something to the effect that kristoph and phoenix knew each other on both an intimate and mundane level over 7 years, and so they actually probably know more about each other than phoenix and edgeworth do bc of the amount of time they spent together. there is a force of habit but also a comfort and familiarity of having someone be present and stable in your life for that long. phoenix is a chronic attachment issues girlie and while i know he wanted to see kristoph punished for his actions, i'd be surprised if he wanted him out of his life permanently. kristoph would DEFINITELY take much longer to come around after his pride was shattered, but phoenix is patient and kristoph can't fully resist someone who gives him attention

what it looks like (partially a joke, but i'm not saying which parts)

- prison date visits with phoenix's sweetheart, much to the chagrin of literally every other AA character. apollo punches phoenix's lights out when he finds out that phoenix is back together with the guy who phoenix manipulated him into imprisoning

- kristoph showing progress in court-ordered therapy by gritting his teeth and saying to phoenix, "it is hard for me to admit when i feel vulnerable." he looks furious, but one of the black psyche locks breaks and that's good enough for phoenix

- house arrest anklet is the perfect accessory for date night!

- later, when the wounds have healed, they can laugh and banter about it! it makes everyone uncomfortable at parties when they tease each other about all the heinous and unethical shit they pulled to take each other down!

a final, more heartfelt note

idk, i like to think of how characters can grow and transform! kristoph is so interesting and tragic to me because he doesn't seem to know how to experience intimacy outside of his weird games. he wants to be close to people, but he doesn't know how and his paranoia won't allow him to. phoenix seems to struggle with the same thing minus the control and manipulation issues. i like to think about what post aa4 growth and closure would look like for them in a series that refuses to give it to us.

thanks again for the ask!

[lonelychicago]

hi :) 81 for the spotify wrapped drabble prompt?

hiiii :))) 81 was habit by louis tomlinson <333 (this might have gotten away from me oop)

You're the habit that I can't break. You're the feeling I can't put down. You're the shiver that I can't shake.

Buck and Eddie aren’t a thing, not really. They’re friends, best friends, in-sync on a level Eddie has never experienced with anyone else. Buck's his favorite second person after Chris and Eddie— he loves the guy unconditionally. That's the truth.

He doesn't really know how they got here or how has Eddie let it get this far, but they have sex. Occasionally.

There's also the fact that Eddie is pathetically, embarrasingly, stupidly in love with Buck and he would marry the man on the spot if he asked (he hasn't, much to Eddie's secret disappointment). But those are just tiny, insignificant details that he's been too much of a coward to let Buck know of.

Eddie tells himself he'll quit it. He'll call off whatever implicit sexual deal he has with Buck and walk away (figuratively, of course. he wouldn't really walk away from Buck— Eddie doubts he could even if he wanted to. As in, it would be emotionally and physically and spiritually impossible for him to or whatever.)

But he'll walk away from the sex part of their relationship. From this friends with benefits thing they kinda fell into without Eddie really meaning to.

He'll do it! He swears!

The thing is— Well... Buck is really good at sex. In a mind blowing, toe curling, Earth shattering, makes you come undone at the seams, ruins you for anyone else ever kind of good. (Maybe part of it it's that Eddie's in love with him but still, the guy has skills alright) And it makes the walking away plan kind of hard to pull off.

It all comes to a halt at Athena and Bobby's renewal of vows.

It's a small, simple ceremony they do for their seventh anniversary— It's really sweet, teeth rotting and all. Eddie is happy for them, truly.

It also reminds him of everything he wants and can't have.

It makes him so terribly upset that he can't even focus on Buck trying to quickly blow him in the bathroom while everyone is dancing outside. Which Eddie never thought would be possible but apparently it is.

He tries not to let it show but his mind keeps conjuring this picture of Buck wearing a fancy suit standing in front of Eddie with a ring in his hands and a beaming smile on his face. He keeps imagining him reciting wedding vows and then them coming home, a white picket fence, a tiny baby, a dog running in the garden and ruining their neighbor's flowers.

He sees their future, so clearly that it hurts.

"Stop. Buck, stop." He chokes out as he pulls away and quickly zips his pants up.

Buck looks up at him with wide, worried eyes. He's still on the floor on his knees and Eddie can't think straight but he also can't breath and he feels like screaming, like punching the wall (which he won't do because he has at least some control on his emotions, thank you very much— and also because he's sure Athena would absolutely kill him and get away with it.)

"Eddie? What's wrong?" Buck asks, a small crease forming between his brows and Eddie's gaze can't help but to zero in on his still wet with saliva and a little bit of precum, soft lips.

It's really not fair how beautiful Buck is.

"I can't do this anymore. The— friends with benefits thing we have going on or whatever." Eddie runs his fingers through his hair as he clenches his jaw and looks away from Buck.

"W-what? Why? Did I- I do something wrong?" Buck stutters out as he stands up, trying to catch Eddie's eyes with his.

"No, I just— I don't want this. I don't want it to be like this." Eddie makes a vague gesture with his hand between them.

"How do you want it to be, then?" Buck asks and there's a tentative, shy but hopeful tone in his voice. It's tinged with possibility, Eddie thinks but that might be wishful thinking from his part.

He might be a little drunk and too tired of holding back, though, so he just blurts it out.

"I want you, Buck. All of you." He licks his lips nervously. "I want to come home.to you and I want to wake up in the mornings with you, and I want to be able to kiss you and touch you just for the sake of it, without having it led to sex— Which is great, by the way. I just— I want more."

Buck looks stunned, gaping at him with his mouth hanging open like he wants yo say something but he isn't sure what. Eddie doesn't give him the time to figure it out.

"And it's okay if you don't. Want that I mean." He swallows thickly. "I'll get over it, we'll be fine—"

"No."

"W-what?" Eddie's heart stutters, fear starting to brew inside his chest.

"Please don't get over it." Buck says and takes a step closer. "Please don't get over me." He whispers and closes the distance between them.

This kiss tastes different than all their other kisses. Eddie realizes with startling surprise that Buck's been holding back— this kiss is a cosmic event on itself but it's also soft and tender and full of emotion. It isn't as biting or demanding as the ones they've shared before.

It tastes of promises and of future.

It taste like home.

[st0rmyskies]

if (lbr when) sky has pups, how is his behavior going to change?

Apparently, I can write an essay about all this. There are about 37 ways this could all go down. Here's one of them.

In Sky's mind, having kits is completely out of the question. I won't linger on the details as to why. So his first reaction to realizing something is amiss is going to be straight-up denial, or thinking that it's a temporary issue. He's not going to tell anyone. He's not going to change his habits or his diet or take it easy or any of that BS. The longer he just ignores it an acts normal, the more control he feels he has in the situation.

There would come a point in time, though, where things progress past a threshold that he hasn't crossed before. And at some point, he's going to have to come to terms with the fact that this is happening, and that's going to be a bittersweet moment for him. Because on one hand is the welling fear that this is going to end badly, that this could make him very sick or worse.

And on the other hand, there's hope. His bond is so, so different now. Maybe things will be different this time.

There's also the horrible decision he's going to need to make of whether he should tell Time or the others what's going on. In the event that nobody's caught on, Sky would be faced with the the choice of telling them that he's pregnant and being infuriatingly coddled about it--

Or, now he's dragging the others down this emotional road with him, too, and risking breaking their hearts.

And I don't think he'd be able to do that.

Sky would become withdrawn. He'd be quieter than usual. Now that the others know him much better, they'll be able to tell that he's sad. But no one, least of all Time, is going to know how to cheer him up.

There will come a time, though, when there's a third drumbeat in Sky's chest: the beat of his heart, the echo of Time's, and a quick little patter belonging to someone they haven't met yet. And because of their bond Time is going to feel it, too. But he's a big, dumb alpha who's never had kits, himself. He's probably going to think at first it's just a muscle twitch or indigestion or something.

But at some point he's going to abruptly stop whatever he's doing, and he's going to stare at Sky from across camp or across the tavern or what have you, and something's going to click. Something's going to click and Time's going to run right to him, tugging at the front of his own tunic, it's that funny spot he's been complaining about, it's right here, right next to Sky's... is it... does this mean...

And Sky's going to start smiling and crying at the same time, and there's going to be a lot of comforting and explaining to do.

Sky is going to be incredibly resistant to putting a pause on their journey just because of this, and leaving him behind to stay somewhere safe is out of the question. But I can't imagine the group is going to survive for very long in this scenario. Too many emotions and hormones running high would make forward progress in their adventure nearly impossible. So at some point they're going to need to find a place where they can all rest for a longer period and get set up for this new challenge they're presented with. And Sky is going to feel incredibly guilty and frustrated with himself because of that.

Skipping over all the dramatic logistics of actually having said kit, once the dust has settled and it's just Sky and Time and this little one, I think it's going to be another opportunity to heal a part of Sky that had been chipped away during his time with Demise. First he was certain he'd always be bonded to Demise, and that ended up not being true. He was doubly certain he'd never be able to have a kit--heck, he never even had the chance to figure out whether this was something he even WANTED in life--and yet here they are, cuddled under the blanket together, the two of them soft and vulnerable and needing a LOT of rest.

And they're as safe as can be, thanks to the rest of the pack. Wild has a warm hearth that's overflowing with plenty of Sky's favorite foods and warm mugs of tea. Hyrule's magic has probably saved him once, at least, during the whole process. When Hyrule wasn't enough, you know Legend had tricks up his sleeve that the others didn't even know about. Warriors is even more fearsome than Time when it comes to keeping the group on task while Time is otherwise occupied; not even a squirrel is getting through their perimeter without him knowing. Twilight is very invested in protecting the group, yes, but there's also a big burly wolf that's sniffing close to the nest several times a day, wanting to greet their newest addition as soon as he's allowed. Wind is bursting with stories and lullabies and all the things he remembers from helping raise Aryll. Four is a little nervous about handling the kit at first but quickly becomes a preferred playmate and dedicated sitter.

And when Time isn't waiting on Sky hand and foot, changing the bedding or helping him out of the nest to bathe and feeding him and chasing the others away so he can rest, he's going to be marveling at the new little life that they've made together and holding their kit every single chance he gets.

Being so vulnerable and receiving so much care from others strengthens one's sense of belonging, of community. I think that with this renewed sense of trust and safety, Sky is going to emerge on the other side of this little detour as close to being his true self as we've seen him yet: sweet and funny and deeply caring, but still with that fierce edge of martial skill to keep his loved ones safe.

Sky will have an unbreakable love for each of the Links, and for the new little hero among them.

[mikhailwrites]

Soaring Ever Higher 1 - Ghoap/Ace Combat 7 crossover

Remember when I said it's gonna be a one shot? Yeah, me neither...

Ghost looks up, into the vast expanse of clear blue sky. To be honest, he never paid too much attention to it. His fight is and has always been on the ground. Now, he can’t help but wonder: how does being up there feel? There is no ground to support you, no cover to help you, no nothing, just you, the mission, and almost endless space. Is it freeing or terrifying? Maybe both? Maybe he will ask MacTavish, if they cross paths again...

This chapter on AO3 | Next chapter

„This is Bravo 0-7. I’m in position and ready,“ Ghost says into the com, crouching in the vegetation, trying his best to ignore a bead of sweat tracing his spine. Of all the places, the jungle is probably his least favourite. Everything around him slithers and crawls, the humid heat making him sweat gallons.

“Copy that, Bravo; ETA on Strider is T-minus seven minutes; be ready to paint the target,” Laswell informs him in her signature matter-of-fact manner.

Ghost takes the laser designator out of the backpack and mounts it on a tripod. The conditions are less than ideal; the sky is uniformly grey and overcast. It’ll be hard, if not impossible, for the laser to penetrate the clouds, and even then, there’s still a dense jungle that could thwart the attack. It’ll take a damn skilled pilot to make this work.

“Bravo 0-7, this is Strider 1 en route; how copy?” a new voice on the coms. Ghost’s eyebrow twitch in surprise as an unmistakable Scottish brogue greets him.

“Solid copy,” Ghost answers out of habit more than anything.

“Some taps-aff weather today, eh? I reckon I’ll be entering the OA in about three minutes.”

Sure enough, a few minutes later, a behemoth of a jet emerges from the clouds like a bloody reaper surfacing from the Styx. Ghost has never seen a plane like that before, all sharp angles and planes of dark grey stealth coating. It looks like something from a sci-fi movie. And right behind it comes the thundering sound, unable to quite catch up to the plane.

“Strider 1 entering OA. I’m getting a solid reading on the laser, moving up to drop the package. You might want to turn around, LT,” the pilot warns as the jet closes in on the target. The drop is flawless, and Ghost doesn’t turn away despite the advice. The jet thunders by, and a few seconds later, the whole enemy base goes up in an eruption of fire, debris and smoke. The explosion shatters the building and shakes the ground. Ghost is grateful for his protective headset because it most probably just saved his hearing.

“Bloody hell!” Ghost shields his eyes as the shock wave reaches him and, with it, the gust of dust and dirt. The worst of the dust settles in, the jet gone, up above the clouds once more, as if it was never here in the first place, a spectre of destruction. “Bravo 0-7, confirming a direct hit.”

“Happy to hear that. Strider, Bravo, you’re RTB. Get out of there before the enemy regroups,” Laswell instructs, just as Ghost is packing the designator and prepares to trek back through the jungle to the RV, where the helo will be waiting to pick him up.

No sooner than he starts to think the mission’s been a breeze, the bullets start flying. The base is destroyed, but apparently, what’s left of the enemy managed to regroup rather quickly. Ghost curses and immediately lifts his rifle as he scurries through the dense vegetation, hoping to lose the tail. There’s no telling how many are onto him, but it doesn’t matter; he’s alone, and that’s some crappy odds he doesn’t want to test.

“This is Bravo 0-7. I’m in a hotspot, multiple tangos on me,” he hurriedly explains his situation just as a bullet chips away at the tree not even a few feet from him. He has no choice but to throw himself on the ground to make himself the smallest target possible. “Fuck!”

“Break the contact and proceed to the RV!” Laswell urges him.

As much as he’d love to heed her words, he’s pinned down. “Negative, Watcher 1, I’m stuck!”

“I can turn around and make a sweep; he’s got the IR tag; I’ll see him and can provide support,” Strider cuts into the conversation.

“You’re RTB, Strider 1; do not stray from the course!” yet another voice, male, older. Perhaps Strider’s CO.

“I’m not leaving him there if I can help!” Strider 1 argues, sounding more irritated than agitated.

“That was a direct order, Strider. Return to base immediately! You are not armed for close air support!”

“I still have the 20mm; that’s more than enough! Re-entering OA in two minutes!”

Ghost doesn’t say anything, but he’s bloody grateful for Strider’s help, insubordination or not. Carefully, he turns and dusts one tango he has in his sights. There’s plenty more as another salvo of bullets flies over his head.

“ETA thirty seconds, Ghost; hang in there, soldier!” Strider says, sounding breathless.

“I’m going to have your ass for this, Trigger!” the man on comms shouts.

Ghost is almost tempted to say something at that point. Luckily, the grey war beast makes a hell of an entrance right then. Ghost’s only warning is a shout of “incoming!” as the fighter swoops in from the left and spreads some 20mm cheer across the jungle—the vegetation yields. The enemies do, too. The jet is gone, leaving an ungodly amount of devastation in its wake. Only to make a second pass from the right moments later. Strider had to pull off some serious high-G turn to be that fast.

It paid off, though. There’s not a single living thing near Ghost.

“I’m in the clear, heading to RV now; thanks for the air support, Strider 1. Much appreciated, mate,” Ghost says as he’s finally on his way from this hellhole.

#

Ghost can’t leave it alone. He wants to thank the man properly, so after a lengthy mission report, during which he hasn’t forgotten to stress that Strider saved his life, he heads to the hangar. Sure enough, the aircraft is there. Up close, it looks even stranger. Like it shouldn’t even be able to fly, let alone be capable of stuff Ghost had witnessed earlier that day. The jet is huge and imposing; short, diamond-shaped wings and vertical stabilizers placed on the outer edges of the craft only enhance the overall alien look. Ghost also notices distinct white decals on its vertical stabilisers: three scratches and a clawed paw. It feels familiar, yet he can’t honestly remember why. Maybe he overheard someone talking about it, or maybe his mind is playing tricks on him.

“Bonnie lass, ain’t she?” someone asks from behind his back. The voice is a little familiar now. Simon turns around to put a face to it. And is surprised. Pleasantly so. The man is a bit shorter and well-built, obviously fit, but that goes without saying. You can’t sustain high-G manoeuvres without some proper muscles and strength. His face is pleasant, too, thin lips curling in a smile. He looks like a father proudly displaying his offspring. Only the “kid”, in this case, is a multimillion-pound war machine. Ghost pauses his inspection on the mohawk. How cliché is that? Yet, it suits the man.

“What is it even?”  slowly, he turns back to the plane.

“An old prototype made for the Americans. They went with a different plane in the end, the F-22. The two of these were meant for some sort of museum or whatever. Got a chance to rescue one, so I did,” Strider shrugs, looking at the plane almost lovingly.

Ghost hums in contemplation. The plane looks like a prototype, alright. But whatever does the Strider even mean by rescuing it? How do you rescue a jet? And why? “What’s your name?”

That seems to get the pilot’s attention. For a split second, he looks confused, then bursts into laughter. “Aye, that’s fair, boasting about my plane, and I haven’t even introduced myself.” He walks closer, extending his right arm. Ghost shakes it, noting the firm grip. “John MacTavish, call-sign Trigger.”

“Ghost,” Ghost replies, not bothering with his name and surname as he suspects Trigger already knows. “Thanks for… earlier.” The Lieutenant nods to show his appreciation further. Trigger truly saved his ass back there. What an apt call-sign, too.

“Don’t mention it. You needed a backup, and I was close by,” Trigger waves his hand to dismiss the gratitude, looking almost sheepish as if anyone would do the same. Ghost knows only too well it’s not true.

“You disobeyed a direct order,” Ghost reminds him, having a very clear idea about the reprimand and possible disciplinary actions that awaited John.

“I value life over the orders, anytime, and from what I’ve heard about you, I think you understand,” suddenly, Trigger’s face became unreadable, blue eyes searching Ghost’s own for… something.

The Scot is not wrong, but how exactly does he know? He has no idea. Ghost’s notoriety comes mostly from the mystery behind his mask and his combat skill. Sticking up for his teammates is usually not part of the legend.

At first, Ghost thought MacTavish to be yet another flamboyant hothead. Fighter pilots are an odd bunch, all of them. Yet MacTavish seems different, somehow. As if he wants to fit the stereotype; wants the people to see him for someone he’s clearly not. Why? Ghost has no idea. There seems to be a growing number of ‘whys’ around the man, and Ghost would be lying if he said he’s not intrigued. “I do, which also means that I can appreciate the sentiment all the more.”

“Tell you what, if you really want to thank me, how about you buy me a drink? I’m parched!” Trigger proposes, and the smile is back on his handsome face.

Ghost has a pretty good idea about where this is heading, but there are not many reasons not to pursue it. The bloke is interesting, entertaining, and easy on the eyes. If he’s game, then Ghost is, too. And if he’s misreading the situation? Well, he deserves a drink anyway.

“Give me a few minutes. I’ll finish up here and meet you by the gate,” John says as he takes a rag and cleans an oil stain on the nose of his plane.

Ghost nods and heads out. The night has fallen while he was in the hangar, but the base and especially the tarmac are always well-lit.

Ghost waits by the gate, just like Trigger asked him to. However, it’s already been over thirty minutes, and there’s still no sign of John. Ghost gives it another ten before he comes to an inevitable conclusion that he’s been stood up. Ghost shakes his head in disbelief. In his thirty-odd years, this has to be the first.

The Lieutenant chuckles as he starts to the barracks.

[youwouldntlietopapa]

"I'm not jealous, you are jealous."

With Primo

This is anon and it’s definitely not Beth ❤️

I love you and I like you thank you bye

Oof, okay, this one got more feelsy that I was aiming for. Sorry not sorry.

_________________________________________________________

“Buongiorno, sorella.” Primo’s greeting sounds unusually formal and a bit flat when you walk into the greenhouse. Not his usual warm welcome or his smile. In fact, he hasn’t looked up from his work table where he was fussing over one of his plants.

“… Good morning, Papa.” You respond, sounding more like you’re asking a question than offering a hello. “It’s nearly tea time.”

It’s become a habit over the last few weeks. Tea with Primo in the greenhouse at 10:30. Late enough in the morning that he’s ready for a break and early enough to give you some time to spend together before lunch. It’s… something. Neither of you have been willing to name it or put rules to it. It simply is what it is and you’re content knowing that you’re both comfortable and happy with your arrangement, without worrying too much about the rest. Sharing his bed (or work bench, or chair, or whatever else is at hand) when the mood strikes, and enjoying his company just as much.

You walk over, setting the tea tray down on the bench next to where he’s working. Primo still doesn’t look, shifting his weight subtly to make any attempt at a kiss on the cheek awkward if not impossible. It’s not like him to behave that way and definitely not like him to not even offer a thank you for bringing pastries from the kitchens.

“Not today, I think.” He says bluntly. “I am very busy.”

You blink at him for a long moment. “Replanting that hosta? Primo, if you’re going to lie to me, could you at least make it less insultingly transparent?”

He huffs. “I did not think you would come today. I have things to do.”

“Why wouldn’t I come today, of all days?” That’s all the patience you have for talking to his back and you walk around him to actually see his face. “If I did something, I wish you would tell me.”

“You did nothing. I just assume you would be with Cardinal Doyle this morning. Too busy for tea out here.” He says Doyle’s name like a curse, his mouth twisting sourly.

It takes a moment for the meaning to sink in, like an unexpected slap in the face. You had been talking to the Cardinal or, more like, he was talking to you. The other Sisters had already warned you about that man and his wandering hands. He was a menace and a pest, and also had seniority. It was very hard not to talk to him once he got it in his head to talk to you.

“What on Earth are you talking about, Primo? Do you mean at breakfast?”

“In the hall, si. You seemed very interested in what he had to say. I hear him telling you to come to his office later.” He finally looks at you, trying to keep his face neutral but his pale eye glows in the muted light of the greenhouse. “You are not obligated here, Sorella. If you wish to meet with the Cardinal, I am capable of entertaining myself.”

“Are you being serious right now?” You stare at him, stunned. “Where is this coming from all of a sudden?”

“Are you forgetting who you are talking to?” In all the time you’ve known him, you’ve never heard Primo play the I am Papa card. Definitely not with you. He’s told you more times than you care to count that he’s too old for juvenile dick measuring contests. I always win those anyway, he winks every time.

But not today, apparently.

“I thought I knew. But I’m starting to wonder.” You pause and look at him, pieces clicking together. “Are you… Are you jealous???”

Primo scoffs and dusts the dirt off his hands, marching across the greenhouse to look for a larger pot. “Now you are just being ridiculous!”

“Me!? You’re the one who’s all bent out of shape because I was talking to Cardinal Doyle – who approached me by the way! He’s my superior, what was I meant to do? Walk away? I’m so sorry, Cardinal, Papa Primo will be absolutely miserable if I talk to anyone else! A rule I was supposed to just intuit, as it happens. I know, very odd, but you must know that I can read Papa’s mind and know exactly what he wants without him ever actually telling me!”

That certainly got his attention. Primo turned back, pulling himself up tall. It was easy to forget how imposing he could be. Easy to forget that Papa Secondo was his little brother. His little brother who still wouldn’t cross the eldest Emeritus. But you are quickly reminded, fighting the urge to try and shrink down, to back away.

“You may speak to whomever you wish, Sorella. You do not belong to me, clearly. If it is Doyle you want, you have my blessing. May the Old One bring you both nothing but happiness.” His tone was icy cold.

“You are jealous!” Is all you can think to retort. Maybe not your finest comeback and definitely not ideal timing, but no one ever said you were good at keeping your mouth shut.

“I am not jealous. You are jealous!” Primo snaps.

This time you do stand there, looking like he slapped you. Part of you wants to laugh at the absurdity and part wants to scream. Not able to make a decision, what finally comes out of your mouth is simply, “Who in all the depths of hell is it I’m jealous of, exactly?”

“I see you yesterday, and several days before that, Sorella. Don’t think I am so old and feeble I don’t notice. The way you glare daggers at Sorella Abigail when she comes to talk with me.” There mockery in his tone meant to get under your skin and it works all too well.

“Abigail???” You are very aware of how loud you’ve both gotten and the greenhouse walls aren’t thick. But to hell with it. “You think I’m jealous of Abigail???”

“Si, Sorella.” He fires back snidely. “You deny it?”

“Satanas, I think I had better just go get your brothers because I think they may need to take you to the doctor for whatever head injury you’ve apparently suffered. Jealous of Abigail. Lucifer be merciful. Of all the absurd things you could have said. The last person I will ever be jealous of is that catty, manipulative, power hungry little social climber. You can talk to her whenever you want, Papa, I just thought she was making a damned fool of herself, aiming to be rejected by the third Papa this month!”

“And you were, what? Going to Doyle’s office just for a nice chat? Hmm? Everyone here knows who he is. What he does. Don’t tell me you don’t know. I see right through you. You want to fuck that stronzo, you go ahead. And when you are sorry and disappointed, don’t come back here crying to me. I try to warn you.” He slams the bigger pot for the hosta down on the bench so hard it cracks.

“I don’t want to fuck Doyle!” You shout back at him. The shadow of a ghoul on the greenhouse wall freezes, pressing a little closer to listen. You know that silhouette. “SWISS, FUCK OFF!”

The shadow skitters away, leaving you to your shouting match.

“I was only talking to him because his fucking sister is a florist and she knows people who deal in rare flowers, you absolute dickhead! All I wanted was her number so I could surprise you because it’s your birthday next month! But I suppose I won’t need to worry about that now, will I? I don’t need to ask you what this is or if you want more. I don’t need to tell you how I feel. You’re the brilliant Papa who’s already got it all figured out. It’s Doyle I want, right? Just my type. Creepy scumbag who keeps trying to feel me up. Not the man I actually spend all my free time with. Not the man I actually get excited to see.” Your anger and your hurt collide and your voice cracks. All the energy you’d had for yelling vanishing at once.

“Not the man I actually love.” Your eyes drop to the floor because it hurts to look at him, and all you can manage is a tired sigh. “I’m so sorry I bothered you, Papa. Please forgive me. I won’t keep you from your work any longer.”

His hand catches your elbow before you can reach the door and when you look back at him, there’s something panicked and uncertain in his eyes. A hope he’s afraid to give voice to, half certain it will crumble to dust if he tries.

“You don’t mean that.” It’s not angry or even accusing. Just disbelief.

The tears on your cheeks burn like acid. Traitors, every one of them. “You’re going to call me a liar now too?”

“Tesoro…”

“Don’t snip at me about treating you like you’re old and feeble and then tell me you didn’t know, Primo.” You hang your head and give in to the exhaustion. “I love you. Of course I love you. I spend every morning waiting to come out here just to see you. To be with you. To be close to you. You had to know.”

“Why didn’t you say?” His hand slips from your elbow to your hand.

“Say what, Primo? That it wasn’t enough? Because it was. It was enough to just… to just have you to myself for a little while. A few minutes. An hour. Whatever I got. I could make it enough because it was better than nothing. And if… if I said it and it was wrong… it would vanish. I couldn’t… I couldn’t risk that.”

His warm arms envelope you, wrapping you in the smell of fresh turned earth and a dozen different herbs you can’t hope to name all of. The sound of his heartbeat, faster than its usual steady rhythm. His hand rubbing your back, soothing and calm.

“Mi dispiace.” That voice, that’s the one you know. Primo’s voice. “Mi dispiace, angelo mio. Forgive me. I don’t have an excuse. I am a fool. A fool who doesn’t deserve you.”

His finger hooks under your chin and lifts it to look you in the eye. Gently drying your tears, cupping your cheek. “I thought…” He sighs, shaking his head at himself. “I see the way he hangs around you. Like a fly, always buzzing. But you smile, you laugh and I think… Satan knows what I think. Stupid, ridiculous, petty things. Because he is still young, he is flashy and confident… And I am…”

“Perfect.” You finish for him. “You are perfect.”

Primo presses his forehead to yours and closes his eyes. “Far from perfect. But for you, fiore mio, I will keep trying to be.” His lips brush against yours softly. “Anch'io ti amo… from the start. The very beginning. No matter how many times I tell myself you don’t need an old man holding you back. I can’t help it. I don’t want to. Ti amo. Ti amo tanto. Ti amo così tanto che non riesco a pensare lucidamente.”

When you stretch up to kiss him again, it’s no light brushing of lips. Your hands catch the back of his neck and you kiss him deeply, passionately, the way you’ve held back from anywhere but bed. Worried it would overstep some line. Break some unwritten rule. But he leans into the kiss, meeting you with equal desire and need. His arms crushing you to himself.

When you finally break away and look back at him, it’s like seeing a new man. “Does that mean we can still have tea?”

“No.” He says firmly. Letting you go and taking your hand, he starts walking quickly toward the far end of the greenhouse, hidden by a thick layer of foliage, to the private room you two have made use of before.

“No. Today, amore, I still have apologies to make and lost time to make up for.”

________________________________________________________

Anch'io ti amo = I love you too

Ti amo. Ti amo tanto. Ti amo così tanto che non riesco a pensare lucidamente. = I love you. I love you so much. I love you so much I can't think straight.

[waeirfaahl]

The way to slightly fix S05E09 and S05E10

In previous post I discussed about how to make the leading to the love-story less infuriating, here I'll discuss about how to make 9 and 10 episodes of 5 season less infuriating.

I have no ideas, which could make the decision to return to the past and to erase the future right — it is wrong from all sides, it dergadates Jack and genocides all habitants of the future and also makes Ashi more dusgusting character. The only what comes to my mind is simply to add the existing of Aku's spell and/or technology, which would be activated exactly when Aku was dead/killed — some kind of "I am the future! Nobody else! Especially the samurai and his worthless kind!". On another hand, Jack simply could just imprison Aku either in the stone tree (what actually had to happen in 5 season even in the past) or in the sword.

So, about 9 episode. Here, here, here and here I discussed in deepest details, why the sudden "Luke, I am your father!" bullsh*t in 9 episode makes zero sense, why this "twist" is absolutely impossible, why this "twist" contradicts to the canon of the classic seasons and breaks them on fundamental level, making them impossible from the beginning, why this "twist" contradicts even to 5 season itself, and why this "twist" is insulting toward Aku and disgraces this character in the worst way. And I hate and despise the very idea of Aku having daughters, I hate and despise the very idea of Aku mating with humans, and I hate and despise the idea of "a female human is pregnant after either mating with the supernatural being or immacular conception and gives birth to demigod abominations". Insulting, mediocre and disgusting sh*t from bad fanfiction, it is a bad taste straight up and the blatant travesty on Aku.

First of all, Tartakovsky's mind apparently was rotten with religion, because he turned Aku, the supernatural trickster with awesome, unique and really interesting biology and tragic backstory, into a typical and cliched satan/devil with obvious cliches like worshipers from nowhere, who treat him like a god and get his strength to their kids or whatever. (later Tartakovsky will call the Scandinavian deity of vengeance/revenge as a devil in 2 season of Primal)

And it is not my assumption, the entire 5 season has these weird religious elements — like, the sudden religious zealots, who treat the "wrong evil spirit" as a rightful and kind god, who gives his "flesh and blood" to them for worshipping, the travelling inside of the giant beast, what changes the mind of the character with "wrong beliefs", the "sacrifise" of this new "half-breed" character in favor of humans (and apparently for getting an immortal soul and a chance for rebirth), the idea "Humans are the purest, the most noble and innocent, we can't kill humans, it is a sin" or whatever, how Tartakovsky compares the future with Hell, and also the line from 5 season "Aku enslaved the children with his beats from Hell!" — yep, in the f*cking distant 4000+ future we hear this sudden bullsh*t with Hell (in contrast to this, in the classic seasons there was only "Aku's evil beats", i.e. simply a dictator type). I hate, when authors reduce something unique, deep, intriguing to this primitive religious sh*t. Especially, when it wasn't intended originally, and when it is opposite concept, i.e. impossible to co-exist with.

Second, Tartakovsly's mind was rotten with "A poor girl with bad/abusive/absent daddy" cliche — like, now let's ignore Hotel Transilvania or 2 season of Primal or recent Unicorn: Warriors Eternal series for a second, just look at Aku's reaction and behavior in 9 episode — the demon was pretty friendly to Ashi and ignored her, having no intentions to harm her, but as soon as he discovered that Ashi is his spawn or most likely just an infected vessel of his blood, Aku immediately started to mock on her and mistreat her and act bad toward her. As if Tartakovsky knew that many people enjoy Aku and intentionally ruined this character by adding this crap, totally ignoring that it contradicts to the canon and Aku's core and personality, and that it doesn't work at all due to "Why should I despise you?! We have no relationships whatsoever! We don't know each other at all!" and also how stupid it is to mourn due to sudden "Oh no, my sudden relative or blood donor I never knew is a villain! Poor me!" and how stupid it is due to "Excuse me, why you judge and blame me?! I don't know this girl! It is even not one night stand! It is as if your hair were used for creating either clones or chimera without your permission and awareness, and for some reason everybody will blame you for unawareness and how you dared to be bad toward these abominations!".

Third, attempting to connect Ashi to Aku, Tartakovsky makes Ashi more disgusting Mary Sue, who steals Aku's backstory and arc, but also Tartakovsky erases the good build up Ashi already had — she survived, she trained, she remained human, she took revenge on her monstrous mother for all cruelty she commited to Ashi and her other daughters, she befriended with Jack and started to study and to learn positive life and feelings. And also Tartakovsky makes another hypocritical thing by this "Ashi, I am your father/creator, so I'll be bad to you and you'll oppose me!" sh*t — Tartakovsky totally ignores, forgets and erases Ashi's mother and her crimes, cruelty, affect and influence on Ashi, he tries to blame Aku in this, as if the demon knew and planned everything and himself mistreated Ashi since her infancy with the fanatical leader's hands or whatever (remember Tara Strong's words in interview about the game?)...

...despite the fact that Aku knew nothing about these zealots and their leader's intentions and goals, he didn't give any orders to them or to someone else, Aku knew nothing and did nothing in 5 season, only the fanatical mother is to blame for the existence of Ashi and her sisters and their horrible life, full of suffering and death. (And in contrast to this, the three alien gods knew everything and started the conflict and did nothing, they participated in this, not to mention that the human soul they used for the sword... is not pure) So, how this trash from 9 and 10 episodes can be fixed? Easy — Aku simply could take control over Ashi, using a spell — like, the transformed Ashi looks like those cursed archers, so why not? For increasing the stakes, Aku could infect Ashi with his blood, calling his tiny part as his "little naughty daughter that can play with this mortal young female toy before eating" (I mean, he previously called Ultra-robots as "My children!", i.e. he called as "his child" his tiny parts, which even haven't become separate organisms, and vessels of his blood, i.e. it is metaphorical thing, not literal), and then finding out Ashi's sad backstory (i.e. Aku never visited those female fanatics and knew nothing about them — plus, Ashi's father can be either some random human, maybe a zealot from this same cult, or most likely Ashi and her sisters can be born without a father) and mocking on both her and Jack, 'cause he can't help her, as well as 'cause Ashi can't oppose to Aku's blood that controls her and slowly and painfully devours.

And Jack doesn't use the sword for burning Aku's blood from Ashi's body and gives up exactly after Aku silently commanded to his blood to torture, to crook Ashi's body and to almost break all Ashi's bones, so she screamed due to pain.

While in 10 episode Aku's decision to not kill Ashi immediately after he caught Jack can be explained by his confidence that the girl under his control and spiritually she is weak enough in contrast to already wounded Jack. So, he mocks on her like "You already spent enough time having me as your awesome daddy and entertaining my little daughter, but now it has come to the end! Kill the samurai, my dear, be useful to your crazy mother that terrified even me after reading your memories! Don't disappoint her at least once, after this — goodby, my sweetheart, my daughter will eat you alive and you'll not suffer anymore!" — simply saying, Aku would command to his blood to devour the infected Ashi immediately after she would kill Jack.

So after Jack's friends arrive and distract Aku, the infected Ashi (or specifically Aku's blood) attacks Jack, Jack tries to free Ashi, she is weakened and says that she can't rebell and that no one needs her in this world, she is just a worthless replica of her mother, so better to let the demonic blood to kill her, better to die, while Jack says that it is not true, that Ashi is not her monstrous mother and can choose a path, that she already did that, and that he (Jack) needs her and values her and loves her, and she gave to him the desire to live and to continue the battle. And then Ashi has inner unfair epic fight with the demonic blood and wins — i.e. Ashi became free exactly due to own inner spiritual strength and Jack's support, not due to the stupid "Power of Love".

And later Aku sees that she is free from his blood and control and attacks Ashi, but Jack reachs for the sword and fights the demon, who already killed the 3/4 of all Jack's arrived friends. Yes, no sudden demonic powers — no way Ashi would ever have them and use. Not to mention stupidity of this — in 5 season Aku defeated the Portal Guardian, who defeated and almost killed Jack, but failed to the teenage human girl. So, no this bullsh*t.

And after this we have the final, which I mentioned in the beginning of this post — Jack imprisons Aku either in the stone tree or in the sword, deciding to stay in the future (and, well, Ashi could give to Jack the idea of "You showed me the path of light, maybe for Aku there's a chance. When I was under his control, I could see his memories he hid for centuries and wanted to forget. And he actually hesitated in killing me."). So, that's how the final episodes of 5 season could be done and handled (if we're talking about the story and direction 5 season chose). I dislike the idea of "Fix-It" format (pointless spending of time, if you well), I prefer to erase the bad sequels from the universe and create new stories, but since I don't have the certain production materials for certain post yet, I can't publish my AU of 5 season for now, I want to end with that post with production materials firstly.

[fluxedbuds]

apparently y'all Are desperate enough for my Lomadia Oc so uh. hope you're in the mood for [checks notes] ~13 paragraphs, half of which is just description!

allow me to introduce Villom!

She doesn't have an actual name or in-universe nickname, I just call her Villom. Because she was originally a Villain Version of Lomadia from a sci-fi world for some comic idea I totally scrapped bc it sucked. Except for Villom!

So basically what if we put Lomadia in space and gave her every problem and no normal coping mechanisms

The base universe is Completely Impossible sci-fi space stuff, involving solar systems being relatively close together and having tons of habitable planets, with star trek 'convergent evolution' making everybody a Weird Human Basically. Part of these choices is that I. Don't actually like sci-fi lol. I don't think its bad I just can't Get Into It, so I did the lazy version. HOWEVER I do also use the fact that its extremely artificial and story-focused as part of the plot so its FINE There IS also magic, but it’s generally less used, as tech is more accessible and less complicated from a user standpoint. That doesn’t mean it isn’t powerful, if you know what to look for. Thats foreshadowing!

Compared to base Lomadia, Villom is.. very immature. She has trouble identifying and controlling emotions, she's quick to anger and holds grudges. She's also more impulsive and tends towards insults and crude jokes. She's actually pretty fun to hang out with as a result, but responsibility is a role she's crushed into, and it never truly fits. She's trying her best ok

Villom starts out her story as a young adult, training to be a pilot. She does some hero shit, but breaks so many rules in the process and gets kicked out. She’s enraged by this betrayal of what was supposed to be her life, and steals a ship to go rogue and try to pursue her dreams anyways. She doesn’t exactly know what she’s doing, though, and eventually a chase causes her to crash on an unfamiliar planet, where she meets Rythian. He’s steampunk now, don’t question it

Anyways, they end up teaming up, and form the first of her crew. Later additions are Martyn, who is a mouse guy who has So Fucking Many People Who Want Him Dead, and Zoeya! Who ended up separated from Fionn following partially the plot of Mushbury, and works as the ship’s engineer. Their ship (that lasts long enough to get a name…) is called the Ask, and Villom occasionally (and jokingly) calls her crew the Answers. (Its called the Ask because originally I gave the characters nicknames based on Norse mythology for Pretentious Reasons, those might come back later)

So everything’s all fine and poggers for a while, with the Ask’s crew causing mischief and undercutting evil empires across the worlds- and then Villom’s home planet is destroyed. And she sees it happen.

See, one of the tropes of sci-fi that bugs me, is how understated the death of an entire planet tends to go. This is the first step of Villom realizing how truly fucked up the world they live in is- and the first step of her wondering why it has to be this way, and how to stop it.

It only gets worse from here.

No matter how many evil empires they topple, no matter how many massive threats they thwart, there’s always another one. And no matter how fast they are, they can’t stop every world-ending crisis. Villom starts learning magic, wondering if theres some kind of solution there. When she doesn’t find one, she just looks harder. Brushing so close with forces she’s alone in experiencing wears on her, compounding with their futile mission.

The breaking point is when Rythian dies. Raiding an enemy ship goes wrong, they’re outnumbered, they’re trying to retreat. Surrenders are not accepted, there.

It’s another thing she sees happen, another thing she was inches away from but unable to stop. And she can’t take it. She can’t take losing another part of her, another of the few things she could call home in this cold void.

She takes some of the things she learned looking where she shouldn’t- and kills the nearest member of the enemy team, trading a life for a life. And part of her soul as tax, of course. Just a small bit, this time. She never tells him. Pretends it was instead an incredibly close call. He probably knows she’s lying, on some level, but he never says it.

Villom is desperate, now. There’s more and more things she’s hiding from her crew, more and more boundaries of safety she’s pushing. She trades one of her eyes for the ability to see the functions of the world itself- maybe it’s a mistake, there’s some gear stuck, and if she fixes it this infinite loop of wars will stop.

There is no mistake. This is how the universe is intended to function.

She can’t give up. Because if she stops, she’s never going to get up again.

Maybe there’s other worlds where it’s better, where it’s safe. Maybe there’s a way to make this world like them.

Maybe there’s a way to leave.

She’s barely human anymore, even though she looks perfectly fine. Her hair is white, her eye replaced, but that’s all. She’s replaced the things she’s traded away. She’s barely even a part of the world, anymore. Unstuck from the threads of it, floating as a constant point, unchanging and undying, snapping back into place when moved.

A lot of universes are visited by a strange woman with white hair, who never stays. Sometimes she’s a savior, or a tyrant, or merely another passerby.

One of them, somewhere, has to have an answer. The way to break the cycle. And Villom will find it- even if she has to take every one of them apart.

[electricbluebutterflies]

JessLeto + i could keep you safe. they’re all afraid of me.

Canon-divergent for once within a continuity / collab'verse I've developed with @encyclopedica (her fic the lighthouse is basically the backstory here). PG-ish and also on ao3.

Above all else, Jessica is a creature of cultivated routines. Make everything a habit and make it look effortless, learn rhythms and patterns and align her own to those around her, make everything-

Even now. Even this. Always a baseline she can find and retreat to. Even in light of the impossible.

Grief had been one thing. Years upon years of bracing for that, of knowing on some primal level that she would outlive this love of hers and at most hoping that whatever happened would be quiet and long into the future, and… reality had not been so kind, but she had braced for that too, she has made herself so damned adaptable and compartmentalized every little detail and-

All of that for nothing. Months of bloody lips and restless nights for nothing. Isn’t that just her luck.

She should be more relieved. She should be a lot of things she isn’t right now. A miracle, perhaps a resurrection, there are questions she should be asking, there are-

Instead of any of this, fury.

There is, she fully expects, some good reason for all of this. There’s always a reason with that man, and she always ends up believing him despite every rational brain cell she has left disagreeing with this tendency. There will be no reason not to believe him, when she’s calm enough to listen. Survival above all else, and maybe he thought she was dead too, maybe-

No. They don’t work that way. If he had assumed such a thing, he would not be here right now in this unfamiliar place, she would not be seeing that practiced calm and the little signals of not-okay that she only knows because she knows them so well, they would not be-

She gave up so easily. There were no signs to the contrary. The circumstances were what they were, she reminds herself, and she wanted a clean ending and that was clean enough and-

All of this for nothing. All of this for-

She should be questioning this more, she knows. Should find it just a little stranger that her partner is apparently not dead after all. But she would know if something were more wrong than it appears, she would know, half her life lost to this and she would know, she would-

She believes him. She has never believed in anything else.

She is so good at all that she is, she reminds herself, so good at being calm when on display, voice so even and body language unexpressive and no visible reaction and at worst an uncharacteristic curiosity to see where this goes, see what happens, see where-

They are alone now. They are alone for the first time in months. After…

“I-“

Nothing has to change, Jessica thinks. Nothing she has practiced has to actually change. They are who they are – or at least she is, at least she is unchanged, at least-

She wants to cry. She wants to ask a hundred questions. She wants to scream until her voice breaks. She wants to bite her lip and run her hands over every inch of her partner’s skin and find some new detail that might say what his words won’t. She wants to leave marks of her own. She wants…

Oh, those two little words have gotten her into enough trouble. No more of that. Not today.

“This is a complication I was not prepared for,” she says, because she has to say something, because there is too much in her mind and she can’t-

“I could say the same.”

Well, there’s a significant difference between she would’ve told him she was pregnant again if things had fallen apart two weeks later than they did and the whole not actually goddamned dead thing, but…

“I have made a life here. I have… done what I had to do, and you can’t just-“

“Jess-“

“You do not get to-“

“This is not-“

“Don’t.”

Her voice breaks, and this is how she knows all of this is real and almost good, in cautious movements and fingers wrapping around her hands and there is so much right and so much going on and-

“Is survival enough?”

“You tell me.”

She’ll justify all of this later. The sheer number of unexpected circumstances here… she’s supposed to be good at keeping composure, and she is, but the logistics alone…

 “A life,” he repeats like he isn’t sure what she means, like all the worry of the past few months has hit at once, like-

“I could keep you safe. They’re all afraid of me.”

There are questions she will not ask for days to come, she thinks, and new lines on her partner’s face alone, and what scars will she find, and-

They are one and the same. Always have been. For once she did just slightly better.

“Was that your intent?”

No, she wants to say, no it was not like the mind games she used to play when she was bored and stuck in a reputation that could’ve gone one of two ways and she chose her thorns because that got her left alone and-

“Would you believe me if I said no?”

“Then what-“

“You have seen me with different eyes than anyone else,” Jessica murmurs. “It’s either witch or… I chose the option that gave me autonomy. I was mourning and I would not-“

Her voice breaks again, and she hates this, and the memory of decisions made impulsively in that haze is unpleasant but she did what she had to do just like always and most of it worked and-

If she had chosen differently, she wants to say, if she had not been so sharp, she would not be able to be in this space as she is. Good thing she’d been in no state to let some new unknown claim her. Good thing she is so-

That’s another story for some other time. Her own damage is less important, her enhanced powers irrelevant to someone who hasn’t asked the questions he should in so many years. What matters is that she has done well enough, made space for herself, and-

“What are you planning?”

“I still half expect you to slip though my fingers, or to wake up cold and alone again. My dreams have become so vivid… I don’t…”

“But you are… enough to…”

“I think so. Doesn’t mean… I’m not sure…”

“For you to admit-“

“I have spent the last six months thinking you were dead and turned to dust,” she hisses. “Don’t you dare think you know what I’ve become in that time.”

“Clearly not any softer.”

“Good thing you never preferred me that way.”

“Still-“

“Give me time. I know we have that. Give me a day or two and-“

“Do we actually-“

“Have I ever been wrong on that scale? Has my paranoia ever underestimated a situation so vividly?”

He brings one of her hands to his mouth, slightest brush of a kiss, and they will find their way, and-

“No.”

“Do you still trust me?”

“More than anything.”

“Then don’t push me. Whatever happens… I have not… I will respond and we will be-“

She’s in control now. The reality hits her all at once and she’s thankful for the physical tethering and if anything this seems like the right moment to move closer and let herself be held. So many years in the shadows and now this, now visibility she is unprepared for and how will that change of status change them and-

“So nothing has actually changed in you.”

“Perhaps a new lack of inhibitions,” she murmurs. “Not having you to hold me back…”

“That barely sounds like an accusation.”

“It isn’t one. You made me calm. Without that…”

“I suppose there will be no overheard comments about what a wallflower you are.”

“Not even close. Not anymore.”

[starlightshadowsworld]

Since Cooking Companions and now Dread Weight pull from Slavic Mythology.

With their inclusion of the Baba Yaga.

I wondered if any of our new characters in Dread Weight carried any similarities.

Their is definitely something up with Kurt.

Why would the Baba Yaga want him specifically dead.

If it was just another mass murder like she's done before I wouldn't question it.

But it's made clear over and over that everyone else in the mansion would be spared if Kurt was handed over to her.

There's also the the spirits, Maximillion the Duck who says he'd love to leave but because Kurt won't allow him too.

I saw a comment on Superhorrorbro's playthrough of the demo that wondered if Kurt could be Koschei the deathless.

So I chose that as my starting point.

The first thing that pops out to me is the involvement of not only the Baba Yaga in this tale but a Prince called Ivan.

Ivan being the name of the person Potato mentions at the beginning of the game.

"We need to repay him for Ivan."

The him being presumably Kurt.

There's also the note which reads:

Dearest (the name is smudged out)

I know your still upset about Ivan.

I'm asking the impossible, but please forgive me and let's end this madness.

We're different. To lose track of time.

To let feuds rot inside of us, undying, while the rest of the world moves on.

This isn't healthy. It took me ages to unlearn this.

I am asking you, PLEASE let this one die.

- Sincerely,

-(the name is illegible)"

So there's a mysterious person called Ivan, something happened to him that we want repayment for.

We're upset about what happened and someone is telling us to forgive them.

And we know this person is Kurt.

Because it's his mansion the Baba Yaga ends up attacking.

The story of Koschei the Deathless comes from a Russian fairytale in which Koshei, an immortal man who had a habit of kidnapping young girls.

He's known as the Deathless because he stores his soul inside of a needle which in turn is stored into an egg.

Which fair, some people store their soul in an animatronic suite and than upload their digital consciousness into it's circuit boards.

And divide that into several tapes several tapes.

You do you.

Though the egg is stored inside of a duck.

And wouldn't you know it, Kurt keeps a duck around in the mansion.

And being the container of his immortal soul sounds like one hell of a reason as to why Maximillion isn't allowed to leave the place.

Though in the story it's a lot more complicated with duck being hidden inside of a hare, who's in turn inside a chest which is buried under a tree etc.

But it could be why a duck and a rabbit are specifically the animals in the mansion.

Much like how Baba Yaga in Slavic Mythology has a cabin on chicken legs.

And under the floor boards of the cabin you can find chicken bones.

It's said if the egg was destroyed the duck would fly free, which is what Maximillion wants.

The story of Koschei the deathless tells the tale of a Prince called Ivan who stumbles upon a fuck ton of bodies, from Koschei's army in the woods.

Finding out Koschei himself had been captured by the warrior queen Maria Moreenva.

Who Ivan later meets, falls in love with and marries. Though when it came for the warrior queen to go to war she showed Ivan a door to a locked closet and warned him not to open it.

Im sure we can all guess what comes next.

Inside the closet is an old man, chained and begging for water.

Feeling pity for the old man, Ivan gives him water and to no ones suprise the man turns out to be Koschei.

Now having regained his strength from the water, he breaks his chains and kidnaps Ivan.

👏🏼👏🏼👏🏼 Way to go smart guy.

His wife finds out and after probably giving the worlds biggest face-palm goes to recur her husband.

However, Koschei was prepared for this and ambushed her, cutting her into pieces.

But it's all good!

Apparently she had 3 shape-shifting brothers who came to her aid as a falcon, a Raven and an eagle. Sprinkling some good ol life water on her, Queen Maria was back.

Knowing Koschei was too fast to catch up too, she went to person who had the fastest horse.

The Baba Yaga.

Who gave her a sickly looking horse but the more Maria rode it it became stronger. And she eventually caught up to Koschei.

Maria nabbed her hubby back and took off with Koschei following her.

Until Koschei's horse hit a rock, Koschei fell off and Maria used the opportunity to impale and set him on fire.

Queen Maria, do not fuck with her.

And they live happily ever after.

Moral of the story, listen to your wife.

Although with all myths their are different iterations.

And this is no exception.

One that caught my eye was one in which instead of kidnapping Ivan, Koschei decides to get revenge on his captor Queen Maria.

With Ivan the one who goes on a mission to rescue her.

He escapes with her twice but is overcome by Koschei on his much faster horse.

Ivan tries to fight against him but the other is far too powerful, resulting in Ivan being cut down, put in a barrel and set out to sea.

However, Ivan is able to cheat death with the aid of his sisters who had all married powerful sorcerers.

They located him, Ivan managed to get Baba Yaga's horse. And defeated him.

Some with him impalong him, others have him dying by the horse kicking him in the head.

Before he's properly burned.

.

And so I wonder if in Dread Weight, we have a case where Ivan wasn't or couldn't be revived.

It definitely seems like he is dead in the game.

And Kurt, if he is Koschei and the one to kill him than much like what happens to the Baba Yaga, he begins to grow soft.

He starts to feel remorse for his actions.

He writes a note and asks for forgiveness, that they are both immortal and cannot spend their lives like this.

Kurt being Koschei explains why despite being immortal and having his whole soul in a needle, egg, duck etc why he is afraid of the Baba Yaga.

Because if there's one thing Koschei despises it is the idea of his own death and he knows if anyone can kill him it's the Baba Yaga.

Even without her having his soul.

... Though that is definitely something to worry about.

Though there's definitely not enough evidence for this I think it's a cool idea.

Because Koschei or not there's definitely something up with Kurt.

.

.

The info for this for anyone curious came from the video the Death of Koschei the Deathless on The Folktale Project's YouTube channel,

And the video Koschei the Deathless | Russia's evil sorcerer from the YouTube channel Mythology Unleashed.

@blindinlatin

[attroxx]

❛ @mythcaels said . . . They're home alone together having dinner, Naruto is very animatedly rambling on about something that happened earlier that Sasuke had apparently missed. His dual colored eyes watch the blonde's every movement and he listens to every word. He loves this idiot so much, so much so that it can be scary how much he loves him sometimes because he was so willing to move mountains for this man. Naruto's blue gaze meets his and he can only assume he's making sure Sasuke is listening still. Lips twitch as Naruto starts rambling again, a small smile settling there. Everything just feels right in this moment. Everything makes sense when he's with the blonde and they're staying together in the same apartment. His heart flutters, he pauses eating and realizes that he's happy, quite possibly the happiest he's ever been. He never expected to have happiness like this in his life, not after so much darkness and sadness. He feels something warm run down his cheeks and realizes he's crying, not out of sadness but out of such a genuine happiness that he feels. He realizes Naruto has trailed off at some point and words are quick to tumble past lips. ❝ Sorry it's just . . . I'm really happy. ❞ ❜

𝐀𝐃𝐌𝐈𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐃𝐋𝐘, 𝐇𝐈𝐒 𝐒𝐓𝐎𝐑𝐘 𝐖𝐀𝐒𝐍'𝐓 𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐓𝐎𝐎 𝐈𝐌𝐏𝐎𝐑𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐓. and a few times their eyes meet and it's enough confirmation from sasuke that he is listening, or at least half paying attention. chopsticks pick up some rice, placing it in his mouth as he murmurs through his chews, a habit he was trying to kick but found almost impossible when he was usually the one leading conversation at dinner. he swallows, raising his glass for a drink before continuing. it's then their eyes meet once more but, sasuke's are red. frantic blue hues dart around his face, having trailed off from the story to complete silence now. worry etched across his face, naruto sits up a bit. but before he can make a move or say a word sasuke speaks. ' sorry, it's just . . . i'm really happy. '

the air is knocked from his lungs, leaving naruto floundering a bit. their casual dinner had come to a complete halt but in the most profound way possible. naruto often wondered if sasuke was happy. things certainly weren't easy and the dark often brought the two of them sleepless nights. some days were better than others. with every fiber of his being naruto does what he can, helps sasuke where needed and leaves the rest to him. he cannot hover . . . at first when sasuke returned it was hard not too. every time the man walked out the door naruto wondered if that'd be the last time he saw him. the war and the events after had left the both of them picking up the pieces, sasuke especially. relief washes over him. clearly he's done something right. throat tightens, tears sitting just behind his eyes but naruto attempts to regain composure. it's sasuke's turn to break down. placing down his chopsticks he scoots his chair closer, a hand resting atop his lovers.

❛ really . . . ? you're happy ? ❜ when a nod follows naruto feels a weight lifted off his shoulders. sucking in a shaky breath he grins, bright as ever as those tears he'd been fighting back threaten to spill. ❛ i . . . i'm really, really happy to hear that. ❜ without missing a beat naruto's hand raises to cup sasuke's wet cheek, pulling him in for a chaste kiss. soft, sweet and most importantly, reassuring.

unprompted asks. — always accepting.

[puzzlyfloof]

The Origin - 1

Are you going to go to combat practice? I'm going.

"What is it like over there?" he said. Is it terrifying? Does it feel like you're free? As he looked up into the sky. What happens when you go in a cloud? Of course, he doesn't know. You have no ground, no cover, and even worse.

And of course, he doesn't know that either.

"This is Raptor 1, I am in position and ready," Raptor says into the com, as his first day started. He was sweating, he tried to stop.

"Copy that, Raptor; ETA on Warthog is T-minus seven minutes; get ready to paint the target," Sentry informs him in his signature matter-of-fact manner.

Raptor takes the laser designator out of the backpack and mounts it on a tripod. The conditions are less than ideal; the sky is uniformly grey and overcast. It'll be hard, if not impossible, for the laser to penetrate the clouds, and even then, there's still a dense base that could thwart the attack. It'll take a damn skilled aircraft to make this work.

"Raptor 1, this is Warthog 1 en route; how copy?" a new voice on the coms. Raptor's eyebrows twitch in surprise as an unmistakable American brouge greets him.

"Solid copy," Raptor answers out of habit more than anything.

"Some rough weather today, yes? I reckon I'll be entering the OA in about three minutes."

Sure enough, a few minutes later, a behemoth of a jet emerges from the clouds like a bloody reaper surfacing from the Styx. Raptor has never seen a plane like that before, all sharp angles and planes of dark grey stealth coating. It looks like something from a sci-fi movie. And right behind it comes the thundering sound, unable to quite catch up with the plane.

"Warthog 1 entering OA. I'm getting a solid reading on the laser, moving up to drop the package. You might want to turn around, LT," the jet warns as the jet closes in on the target. The drop is flawless, and Raptor doesn't turn away despite the advice. The jet thunders by, and a few seconds later, the whole enemy base goes up in a eruption of fire, debris and smoke. The explosion shatters the building and shakes the ground. Raptor is grateful for his helmet because it most probably just saved his hearing.

"Bloody hell!" Raptor shielded his eyes as the shock wave reaches him and, with it, the gust of dust and dirt. The worst of the dust settles in, The goggles out, up above the clouds once more, as if it was never here in the first place, a spectre of destruction. " Raptor 1, comfirming a direct hit."

"Happy to hear that. Warthog, Raptor, you're RTB. Get out of there before the enemy regroups." Sentry instructs, just as Raptor is packing the designator and prepares to trek back through the base to the RV, where his mom will be waiting to pick him up.

No sooner than he starts to think to think the missions a breeze, the bullets start flying. The base is destroyed, but apparently, what's left of the enemy managed to regroup rather quickly. Raptor curses and immediately lifts his gun as he scurries through the dense smoke, hoping to lose the tail. There's no telling how many are onto him, but it doesn't matter; He's alone, and that's some crappy odds he doesn't want to test.

"This is Raptor 1. I'm in a hotspot, multiple tangos on me," he hurriedly explains his situation just as bullet chips away at the cloud not even a few feet from him. He has no choice but to turn his stealth mode on. "Fuck!"

"Break the contact and proceed to the RV!" Sentry urges him.

As much he'd love to need his words, he's pinned down. "Negative, Sentry 1, I'm stuck!"

"I can turn around and make a sweep; he's got the IR tag; I'll see him and can provide support," Lightning cuts into the conversation.

"You're RTB, Warthog 1; do not stray from the course!" yet another voice, male, older. Perhaps Warthog's friend.

"I'm not leaving him there if I can help!" Warthog 1 argues, sounding more irritated than agitated.

"That was a direct order, Lightning. Return to base immediately! You are not armed for close air support!"

"I still have the AIM-120; that's more than enough! Re-entering OA in two minutes!"

Raptor doesn't say anything, but he's bloody grateful for Lightning's help, insubordination or not. Carefully, he turns and dusts one tango he has in his sights. There's plenty more as another salvo of bullets flies over his head.

"ETA thirty seconds, Raptor; hang in there, jet!" Lightning says, sounding breathless.

"I'm going to have your ass for this, Warthog!" the jet on comms shouts.

Raptor is almost tempted to say something at that point. Luckily, the gray war beast makes a hell of an entrance right then. Raptor's only warning is a shout of "incoming!" as the fighter swoops in from the left and spreads some AIM-120 cheer across the base-the hangars. The enemies do, too. the jet is gone, leaving an ungodly amount of devastation in its wake. Only to make a second pass from the right moments later. Lightning had to pull off some serious high-G turn to be that fast.

It paid off, though. There's not a single living thing near Raptor.

"I'm in the clear, heading to RV now; thanks for the air support, Warthog 1. Thank you." Raptor says as he's finally on his way from this hellhole.

#

Raptor can't leave it alone. He wants to thank the jet properly, so after a lengthy mission report, during which he hasn't to stress that Lightning saved his life, he heads to the hangar bar. Sure enough, there are people there. Up close, it looks too modern. Like it shouldn't be there, let alone be in the future, but Raptor sees different things. The bar looks like it was made in 2045. And it even looks like it was made by aliens. He couldn't stop looking at the bar. He remembers going here as a kid but it didn't look like that.

"Love the new bar?" someone asks from behind his back. The voice is a little familiar now. Mitchell turns around to put a face to it. And is surprised. Pleasantly so. The jet is a bit shorter and well-built, obviously fit, but that goes without saying. You can't sustain high-G manuvers without some proper wings and a never-ripoff tail. His face is pleasant, too, thin lips curling in a smile. He looks like a dad who is proud of his son. Only the "kid", in this case, has a gun that goes *BRRRRRT*. Raptor pauses his inspection on the man. What type of hair is that? It fits perfectly.

"I love it.." slowly, he turns to the jet

"He was born in 1977. When were you born?" Lightning shrugs, looking at the man.

How do you do? How is your day? "...What's your name?"

That caught the jets attention. "Heh. I've never introduced myself."

The jet walks closer, as he wants to do a handshake. "I'm Bolt McSoan. call-sign Warthog."

"Mitchell. call-sign Raptor." Raptor replies, as he was happy.

After that, it was history.

[rxshl]

CCTV IN THE SKY

Religions understand this: they know that to sustain goodness, it helps to have an audience. The faiths hence provide us with a gallery of witnesses at the ceremonial beginnings of our marriages and thereafter they entrust a vigilant role to their deities. However sinister the idea of such surveillance may at first seem, it can in truth be reassuring to live as though someone else were continually watching and hoping for the best from us. It is gratifying to feel that our conduct is not simply our own business; it makes the momentous effort of acting nicely seem a little easier.

Libertarians may concede that we would theoretically benefit from guidance, but they still complain that it would be impossible to deliver it, for the simple reason that at heart no one any longer knows what is good and bad. And we don’t know, as it is often pointed out in a seductive and dramatic aphorism, because God is dead.

Much of modern moral thought has been transfixed by the idea that a collapse in belief must have irreparably damaged our capacity to build a convincing ethical framework for ourselves. But this argument, while apparently atheistic in nature, owes a strange, unwarranted debt to a religious mindset – for only if we truly believed at some level that God had once existed, and that the foundations of morality were therefore in their essence supernatural, would the recognition of his present non-existence have any power to shake our moral principles. However, if we assume from the start that we of course made God up, then the argument rapidly breaks down into a tautology – for why would we bother to feel burdened by ethical doubt if we knew that the many rules ascribed to supernatural beings were actually only the work of our all-too-human ancestors?

It seems clear that the origins of religious ethics lay in the pragmatic need of the earliest communities to control their members’ tendencies towards violence, and to foster in them contrary habits of harmony and forgiveness. Religious codes began as cautionary precepts, which were then projected into the sky and reflected back to earth in disembodied and majestic forms.

Injunctions to be sympathetic or patient stemmed from an awareness that these were the qualities which could draw societies back from fragmentation and self-destruction. So vital were these rules to our survival that for thousands of years we did not dare to admit that we ourselves had formulated them, lest this expose them to critical scrutiny and irreverent handling. We had to pretend that morality came from the heavens in order to insulate it from our own prevarications and frailties.

But if we can now own up to spiritualizing our ethical laws, we have no cause to do away with the laws themselves. We continue to need exhortations to be sympathetic and just, even if we do not believe that there is a God who has a hand in wishing to make us so. We no longer have to be brought into line by the threat of hell or the promise of paradise; we merely have to be reminded that it is we ourselves – that is, the most mature and reasonable parts of us (seldom present in the midst of our crises and obsessions) – who want to lead the sort of life which we once imagined supernatural beings demanded of us. An adequate evolution of morality from superstition to reason should mean recognizing ourselves as the authors of our own moral commandments.

Of course, our readiness to accept guidance rather depends on the tone in which it is offered. Among religions’ more unpalatable features is the tendency of their clergies to speak to people as if they, and they alone, were in possession of maturity and moral authority. And yet Christianity never sounds more beguiling than when it denies this child–adult dichotomy and acknowledges that we are all in the end rather infantile, incomplete, unfinished, easily tempted and sinful. We are readier to absorb lessons about virtues and vices if they are delivered by characters who already seem fully acquainted with both categories. Hence the ongoing charm and utility of the idea of Original Sin.