#but not nearly as important as HOW they overcome it

[actuallyjustabiscuit]

Kinger is Cursed With the Consequences of His Actions, and That's What's Making Him Crazy

Oh yes! The character we've all officially designated as Pomni’s new papa has got me reminiscing about another silly crackpot monarch who is actually an intelligent man in his late forties, an identity that has been buried so deep within the recesses of his altered mind that it can only emerge through special circumstances of which he has no control. But I know I'm not the only one who's made connections between him and Simon Petrikov from Adventure Time.

Btw did you know that they're also nearly the same age?

Yeah, this comparison has already been made by plenty of people. But if I may, I'd like to point out one other similarity that I've noticed; the fact that both of these men tragically lost the love of their lives, yet even in their broken minds the love they felt for them is still remembered fondly.

But, what if Kinger was also indirectly responsible for losing Queenie?

So........what exactly causes someone to abstract?

Of course, this would be an important question considering it's baked into the premise of the show itself, but I find it to be particularly relevant when dissecting Kinger's character because if we only assume that abstraction occurs when a human loses their mind, then how is someone like him still hanging around the Circus?

He’s been trapped there the longest, how long exactly is yet to be confirmed, but it’s safe to say that all those years haven't been kind to him. In the pilot he’s characterized as extremely erratic and forgetful, getting easily startled because his spatial awareness and object permanence are practically nonexistent nor can he retain previously established information for very long. On top of that, he regularly spouts nonsense that seemingly has nothing to do with the current situation. Because of this, his general demeanor tends to range between ridiculous to downright frustrating to the other characters.

So it’s no wonder that his fellow humans have more or less dismissed him as just being insane.

But I think this is a completely reductive view of this poor man because Kinger’s got that “he’s a little confused, but he’s got the spirit” energy that I love about him.

I think this is one of the more adorable aspects of Kinger's character; he's always trying to help. He tries his absolute darndest.

And what makes me sad is that, with the way that he is, he has such little control over how much he can actually help the people he clearly cares a lot about.

In Mystery of Mildenhall Manor, it's revealed that Kinger's lucidity is apparently affected by his exposure to darkness. How this works exactly is a bit inconsistent as we've had scenes of him in complete darkness and still acting pretty goofy.

However, based on my observations, I believe the change is not instantaneous. Like, he doesn't immediately become the Kinger we see in the adventure with Pomni if he is suddenly enveloped in darkness. I think what primarily plays a part is the amount of time he spends in darker settings. The segments we get with Kinger and Pomni are significantly dimmer compared to the rest of the episode, and we even get hints of Kinger progressively becoming more logical before we get to the cellar.

I’ve also noticed a small pattern in which he prefaces these brief moments of clarity with “I think…”.

This could be completely unrelated, but I find it interesting that Kinger's big advice to Pomni on how to overcome something difficult is to try "not thinking about it". I may be reading too much into this specific bit of phrasing but I feel that it's worth noting if this really is the mentality he lives by, because this is the advice he gives her when he's in two totally different states of mind.

Anyway, it turns out that when this silly man finally gets a good grasp on himself again, he’s actually extremely competent. Kinger shooting down the angel is a pretty obvious example of him being a BAMF, but I want to give these two moments a bit of focus.

I like the idea that Kinger has been in the Circus long enough to become so familiar with his weird digital body that he uses his detachable parts and disembodied hands to his advantage. It’s just a neat little detail because we get a taste of just how capable Kinger can be in this world if it wasn’t for his handicap.

And what really sucks is that the amount of time it takes for him to regain his sanity in the dark is really disproportionate to the amount of time it takes for him to lose it when back in bright environments.

Take the scene where Kinger is having a conversation with Ragatha in Candy Carrier Chaos with the bucket on his head for example, which definitely foreshadows this detail since it's the first time we hear him speaking more sensibly.

and then this happens

Notice how he taps the handle of the bucket? Like he's realizing that he does, in fact, have a bucket on his head that's obscuring his vision, before lifting it off of his face and going right back to responding in the way we've come to expect from Kinger.

It makes me wonder if Kinger has ever tried to tell the other's about this, but just couldn't. Ragatha clearly isn't aware of it despite having known him the longest out of any of the current residents of the Circus. And Kinger himself can't seem to pinpoint when exactly he shifts between sane and insane. Like a man who blacks out and feeling ashamed of his drunken actions when he sobers up again, despite having no control or awareness in the moment.

Describing Kinger's usual behavior when not in darkness as a "blackout" is pretty ironic, but I think it fits beautifully because it perfectly explains his short-term memory loss. Or I guess it would be more accurate to call it a "brownout". Either way, the point is that his memory becomes more obscured when he's in the light.

As for what initially caused this impairment, we still don't know.

I also don't want to get too clinical with Kinger's "symptoms" because I am in no way schooled enough to diagnose a fictional character who has only had a single episode focused on him.

But even just one episode proved to be very enlightening (...heh...see...see what I did there? Enlight-eh forget it) because after comforting a freshly traumatized Pomni, our girl interacts with Kinger at his most coherent long enough to learn some very crucial information.

It seems that the abstracted humans are not inherently dangerous, at least not when secluded in darkness, which Kinger was fortunate enough to witness with his own wife before they were separated (not legally, divorce doesn't exist in the Circus).

I've made this connection in another post I made, but yeah I really do think that it's the Circus' garish lights that make the abstracted so aggressive. I mean when you have that many eyes, that shit would aggravate the hell out of you.

But now comes the real question, and I'm tying it back to the one I made at the start, what made Queenie abstract in the first place?

How very convenient, Kinger. How did Jax put it, "gotta keep the mystery alive"?

Well, I'm playing detective here and I say you're the key suspect!

That's right! I'm accusing you! But unlike Baron Moldydick's crime, it twasn't homicide.

Yeah, everyone has picked up on how Mildenhall killing his wife acts as a parallel to what Kinger may or may not have done to Queenie. But I don't think it's as cut and dry as Kinger losing his mind and then somehow putting Queenie in direct danger as a result.

No, I like to think that it's definitely a bit more complicated than that.

It's not clear when exactly Kinger began losing his mind, but I certainly believe it had everything to do with losing Queenie. And it would actually be a pretty fun bit of character design if it does because in chess the King becomes most vulnerable when the Queen is taken off the board.

I know we all want to imagine that Queenie had existed alongside the other characters sometime before Pomni's arrival, but based on what we're given in canon, I'm starting to think that was highly unlikely. Because if everyone knew who Queenie was, then they would also deduce that Kinger wasn't always the way that he is now. I just don't get the impression from everyone else that they know about Kinger's dual state of mind. Otherwise, it'd be kind of awful that they wouldn't do more to help him if they were aware of this fact.

Kinger has always been crazy to them because all they know is that he's been in the Circus longer than anyone else. Which really goes to show how little they truly understand one another despite having only each other for company.

And it's not like they don't care enough (well, except maybe Jax) to want to understand and be there for each other, but it's almost like they are never given enough opportunities to really...bond.

And yeah, unfortunately, a lot of it has to do with each of these characters having their own hang-ups that keep them from doing just that. It's not just Caine constantly shoving them into his adventures to distract them.

Ragatha is dishonest with her feelings

Gangle is insecure when her mask breaks

Jax hates being vulnerable

and Zooble is never comfortable in their own skin (or at least their body's equivalent of skin)

I don't want to downplay it either, these are real issues that need consistent work. These people need help and the only one really capable of supplying that is a little broken himself.

This is why it's so fortunate that Pomni was with Kinger when he started speaking more sensibly. She has already displayed a remarkable level of emotional maturity with Gummigoo, but that's because Gummigoo was the one in need of reassurance at that moment. When exposed to problems far worse than your own, your problems in some way appear much more manageable in comparison. Pomni may be trapped, but Gummigoo doesn't even get the luxury of existing outside of what he was made for. That alone gave Pomni the confidence to live in spite of her circumstances and inspire someone else to do the same.

But it's hard to maintain that confidence when your new support system gets literally deleted right in front of you.

It's ok tho! Thanks to participating in Kaufmo's funeral, Pomni begins to open herself up to the others more, which allows her to have...some faith in her new friends. This is especially good when she gets to finally break down for a minute with Kinger because honestly, it's amazing she's held herself marginally together this whole time without crying at least once.

Pomni experiences her (so far) all-time low, and this segues to Kinger sharing his.

It's pretty terrible, losing someone. The previous episode pretty much forced that onto Pomni. How exactly do you completely move on from something like that? Well see that's the neat part, you don’t. In fact, Kinger even alludes to how you shouldn't. Even though the memory of losing Queenie is painful, it's what anchors him. He lost Queenie, but he still has everyone else, and he refuses to give up on them. So despite his mind constantly working against him, he does what he can to help his friends. In his own clumsy and confused way, he's there for them.

To me, abstracting isn't going insane. It's giving up. Giving up on yourself and giving up on others. It's easy to get to that point without the occasional necessary affirmation that you shouldn't give up.

This was the hardest lesson Kinger had to learn in the Circus. And he's doing his best to get the others to understand as well. But Kaufmo's recent abstraction proves how unsuccessful he's been.

Thankfully, Pomni takes it immediately to heart.

This is crucial, not just for Pomni's development, but for everyone else. Kinger even assures that it's more important for Pomni to remember than for him to not forget. That's why her name is more than just an ironic punchline, it's meant to represent her purpose in the story. As long as she remembers, hold on to the good, she'll get through it. Kinger is putting just as much faith in her practicing what he just preached as she is in letting him lead her through hell.

Oh no I've made more biblical allegories! The Pomni is Jesus theories are winning!!!

Ok but in all seriousness, we see just how much Kinger's words influenced Pomni's actions in Fast Food Masquerade. It's all but said that Gangle was close to abstracting towards the end of the adventure.

Yeah she’s about to turn into an eldritch horror, but c’mon we’ve all been there after a long shift.

Trying to talk things out didn't work, so Pomni then took a more practical approach to helping her.

Something as simple as allowing Gangle to get some rest and verbally reminding her that she doesn't have to handle things on her own. It's almost poetic how although Pomni can't leave the Circus, she's constantly telling others that they can leave and she's going to help them.

And Pomni doesn't save Gangle all on her own either. It was Kinger's insistence to have Zooble take his spot in the adventure that allowed them to witness Gangle's manic-depressive decline. They also had a practical way of showing support by offering to stay past their designated shift and relieve Gangle of the burden of transporting a drunk Ragatha.

Episode 3 really was all about acts of service, wasn't it.

If Zooble wasn't present for that adventure, they wouldn't have had the full context of why Gangle feels like she's not wanted.

Zooble saying "I still like talking to you" carries far more weight than if they had said, "I like talking to you". Especially when Gangle already feels insecure about how honest Ragatha is with her. Zooble got to see Gangle spiral and still accepts her. On top of that they are adamant about calling her their friend despite her doubts. That means something. Everything really.

This is what cherishing someone looks like.

I think Queenie abstracted because, at some point, Kinger began to neglect her. Perhaps he became so obsessed with finding a way out that he forgot what was most important. It's too early to really say if that's how it went down, but it'd be a poignant bullet point to the tragedy that is Kinger.

So I guess the real question is: How does one lose their wife?

Well in the wise words of Cody Martin

[just-trying-to-fangirl-in-peace]

Inspiration (Sauron x fem!Elf!reader)

-> in which you struggle coming up with new designs for the Nine, and the Lord of Gifts helps you overcome your creative block

Warnings: smut (p in v, cockwarming, tease and denial, dom!Annatar vibes), reader hesitates at first because she’s surprised by Annatar’s advances but she’s on board with it, manipulation cause she doesn’t know Annatar is Sauron, small discrepancies with the canon timeline for the sake of the fic’s (very little) plot, unrealistic(?) method of solving artistic blocks (the irony is that I wrote this fic to get out of writer’s block with another one and it worked😆)

Mature content below the cut - minors DNI!!!

“How fares your progress?”

Lord Annatar’s voice nearly startles you when you see him approach. You thought you were alone in the forge room, with nothing but your thoughts and the unfinished Ring designs currently staring in defiance up at you from a piece of paper.

“Well enough,” you say, reflexively. Then sigh, letting your pencil fall on the table. “Well, in fact... it is slow,” you confess, glancing at Annatar as he walks towards you. You wince internally when he looks over your shoulder at your sketches. “My skills are no match for Lord Celebrimbor’s, and even he has had difficulty finding the right designs.”

“And yet he chose you alone to carry on with the efforts in his absence,” he argues, even when faced with what you deem to be your far-less-than-satisfactory attempts. Looking up, you find him offering you a sympathetic smile. “You sell yourself short, my friend. It is a real pity.”

You avert your gaze, attempting yet surely failing to conceal your fluster. His compliments, however small, always have a sincerity about them that touches you deeply.

Lord Celebrimbor had, quite literally, worked himself into oblivion after one too many failed attempts at crafting the Nine, and more hours without rest than even an Elf could endure. He had refused to retire to his chamber for some much needed sleep until he had fainted upon his own worktable, and even then, he had refused for anyone but you to even attempt to create new designs for future tries in his absence. He had been odd, of late, mistrusting and, dare you say, even irresponsible at times. But you were his oldest and most trusted apprentice, and that seemed to earn you some of the good will he still had left.

Not that you feel he has made you much of a favour, leaving you to labour alone on such an intricate task. You are not exactly freshly rested yourself, and you have seen so many Ring designs in the past few weeks, you seem to have been drained of the ability to come up with any fresh ones.

There was only one idea you had that might help you, and you had risen from your seat and sat back down two or three times already, changing your mind about whether you should seek out Lord Annatar or not. Whether it would be appropriate. Now that he has come to you, however...

“I was wondering...” Your eyes wonder about the room, hesitating to meet his. “If it isn’t too bold to ask...”

“Be at ease,” Annatar intercedes with that same gentle smile, and it isn’t so difficult to look at him anymore. “My very purpose here is to aid you in your endeavours. You need not hesitate to ask for my help.”

All of a sudden, you feel quite silly for ever doubting you could speak with him openly. He has been most willing to share his knowledge as he worked closely with you these past few weeks. It’s just that now, he has taken on Celebrimbor’s duties as Lord of Eregion as well, and you hate to feel as though you are keeping him from more important matters simply because you cannot seem to handle your own given task.

“It’s just that I feel so... utterly uninspired,” you confess, casting a dismayed look to the sketch-filled papers in front of you. “The proportions, the aesthetics... I cannot seem to get all the elements right at the same time and the more I try, the farther I stray from the desired result.” You raise your gaze to Annatar’s. “Might you spare a moment to assist me, if only with one design? I’m sure it’ll be inspiration enough for me to finish the others whilst you tend to the affairs of the city.”

“Of course,” he says, placing a reassuring hand on your shoulder. With the other, he picks up the piece of paper, and you are now grateful that his attention is solely on the drawings, for the sudden contact has made you rather flustered. “You see,” Annatar says, contemplating the sketches, “sometimes the artist’s mind, though creative as ever, tends to... restrict itself, in the most frustrating way. So great is the desire for perfection in the end result, that it stifles the natural flow of the precious ideas without which no result may be reached at all.”

You resonate with the wise words, but you are not sure you understand the advice they carry.

“Are you suggesting I... draw whatever design I like first and worry about the practical aspects of it later?”

“I am suggesting,” he says, putting the paper down, “that you do not worry at all.” You frown. With that, you do not resonate at all. But your main focus now is that Annatar steps behind you, this time placing his hands on both your shoulders. Your heartbeat quickens as he speaks, at leisure, “That you do not even... think about the task at hand—not entirely—and that you simply... give in to your most natural instincts.”

“I am... not sure I understand,” you say quietly.

After a moment’s silence, Annatar asks, “May I show you?”

You knit your brow, unsure. You had expected him to help you by simply completing one of the sketches, or even just discussing some new ideas. These cryptic words, along with the physical contact, is all quite peculiar.

But you do trust him. You more than trust him, if you’re being honest. That is why the sudden closeness feels rather nice, though you do not wish to make a fool of yourself by showing it.

In the end, you give a small nod.

“Very well,” he says, and you hear the pleased smile in his voice. “For that, you need only resume your work, and trust me.”

Failing at producing quality designs right before his eyes doesn’t sound exactly ideal, but you put your faith in his methods, whatever they are. You pick up the pencil once more, bring a fresh sheet of paper before you, and begin your fumbling attempts anew.

You note—how could you not?—that Annatar has yet to remove his hands from your shoulders. Because of that, you sit more upright than you usually do, but you doubt changing your posture is his sole purpose. Slowly, he begins to move, thumbs brushing your skin, then softly pressing down onto it in a languid rhythm.

You are grateful that he cannot see the wide-eyed surprise on your face as it dawns on you that the Lord of Gifts himself is giving you, a common Elf, a massage. His thumbs come to knead the flesh at the base of your neck on either side of your spine, and the slight pressure feels divine, especially when you have spent so many hours hunched over the table. You bite down an audible sigh, willing your hand not to waver while you work. You still do not feel particularly inspired, but if he meant to bring you relief from the constant stress of the past few weeks, his efforts are most certainly appreciated.

You mean to offer him a polite and rather bashful thank you, when one of his hands begins to stray. His fingers leave a tingling trail across your skin as he draws them up your neck, softly cupping your jaw from behind. You are quite stunned by the gesture, and find yourself retracing the same pencil line a few unnecessary times before you move on. His fingertips graze their slow way up your jaw, straying briefly through your hair before they reach your earlobe. It’s almost as though he is drawing his own intricate pattern along your skin, and your hand slows in its movements as your heart races in your chest.

Surely, he would not— oh, but if only he did—

And he does. His fingers take their sweet time tracing the shell of your ear, and finally, they reach the tip, where they catch the pointed bit of flesh between them, tugging ever so gently.

Your breath catches in your throat, shivers rain down your spine, and your hand freezes on the page. Because your kind do not touch one another’s ears in such a manner unless they are, or wish to be, courting. The simple reason is that, as you are now vividly reminded, those pointed tips are quite sensitive to touch, erogenous in nature for most Elves—including yourself.

You do not question Annatar’s wisdom or the grace with which he has assimilated into your ways of life, but perhaps he is somehow not aware of this particular intimacy-related aspect? Should you let him know, as courteously as possible? But then how would you explain that you had felt his intent, and despite having been given all the time in the world before his fingers had reached that most tender spot, you had done nothing at all to prevent such a caress?

Before you can decide, his hand returns to your shoulder, any movement halted.

“Is something the matter?” he questions, concerned.

You cannot tell him. You simply cannot. In truth, you miss the touch already.

“No—” you clear your throat, willing the waver out of your voice. “No, my lord.”

“Then, why have you stopped?”

He sounds genuinely curious, as though he could not fathom what had affected you so. You give no answer, other than to put pencil to paper once more. The moment you resume your work, his hands resume theirs—massaging, caressing. He does not touch your ears again, though his fingers do come dangerously close to doing so as he runs them through your hair, and you berate yourself for hoping each time that they would find those sensitive peaks again, catch them in their delicious hold.

So distracted you are by the prospect of it and the images you strive to continue creating, you do not even sense Annatar leaning down. Not until you catch a glimpse of long, blonde hair at the periphery of your vision, and then there is the soft graze of his lips over your neck. You draw in a sharp breath as your skin is set alight, and the pencil slips from your fingers.

“My lord!” you gasp, chest heaving as you whip around to fix him with a most alarmed look. There is no misinterpreting the intent behind that particular gesture, and he knows it very well.

But he doesn’t seem fazed in the slightest as he stands to his full height, seeming to you more majestic in appearance than ever as you look up at him.

“Keep drawing,” he instructs calmly. “Unless you wish for me to stop.”

Your brow furrows even further, your confusion growing, and then—

It all clicks in your mind.

The rules he has demonstrated thus far are simple enough: you stop, he stops. It’s both a condition and a reassurance. You do not have to outright refuse him. You need only refuse to continue drawing, and he shall leave you be, and all will return to the way it was before. But if you do pick up the pencil, it would be tantamount to confessing to the desire you have held secret within your heart for weeks, and that would change everything. Not to mention it would be unprofessional. Most inappropriate.

Your skin still sings where he has touched it.

Be it courage or folly, you turn away from him, pick up the pencil, and draw.

You think you can feel a smile on his lips as they return to your neck. This time, you close your eyes, finally able to savour the sensation—only for a moment, though, for the blissful touch depends on your ability to keep forming shapes on the paper, so you open your eyes and do your best to conjure some semblance of a coherent design as Annatar peppers your skin with unrushed, tender kisses. His lips are even softer than you had imagined, and you tilt your head lightly to offer every inch of skin within his reach. Now that the door has been opened, there is no more use pretending like you do not crave his affections.

Before long, his fingers ghost along the neckline of your dress, then his hand ventures below, to the swell of your breast. You do not make the slightest move to stop him. In fact, you pray to the Valar for the ability to keep your hand drawing at least somewhat relevant lines on the page. For you keep reminding yourself that if you stopped, so would he, and you cannot fathom the loss of his delicate grasp of your soft flesh. He easily finds a stiff nipple, peaking through the fabric of your dress, and tugs it between his thumb and forefinger. You shudder, holding back a whimper—but to your embarrassment, the beginning of one does escape you when his hands and lips suddenly leave you.

“Do you need a respite?” he says with a tinge of admonishment. You’ve abandoned your efforts on the paper without even realizing. You shake your head, not trusting your voice, wishing for nothing more than to feel his touch again, and resume scribbling lines on paper.

“Very well,” he says, and his hands return to you.

It’s increasingly challenging to keep drawing through each graze of lips, each brush of your ears, each tease of your nipples through your dress. It’s already so much, so fast, and yet it only makes you long for so much more. You’ve given up biting back the soft moans in your throat, lacking the power of concentration to spare for that purpose as well. And you certainly cannot help how your thighs press together in a futile attempt to ease the ache growing between your legs.

The sketch of one Ring is already finished, but you don’t even stop to consider whether it’s satisfactory before you begin another. His method shall be most efficient in increasing the quantity of your work, if not the quality. Would he do this with any other smith, you wonder, simply as a means of encouragement? Is this what he has been doing to Lord Celebrimbor on the late nights when the other smiths have gone to sleep, and they alone remain to carry on working in the forge? The thought stings, but the only question on which you can truly focus at the moment is how much further will he go with you, right here and now? As if in answer, his hand begins a most tantalizing descent, over your stomach, down to your navel, and you desperately repeat to yourself to do not stop drawing, no matter what, as you part your legs to receive him without shame.

When he cups you intimately through the fabric of your dress, you truly do not know by what force you are able to keep the pencil on the page, let alone keep wielding it. But thanks to the muscle memory acquired over many years of training, you do, even as you whimper and rock your hips into Annatar’s hand, even as he massages the throbbing bud which had longed for his touch on the shamefully many nights you had stroked it yourself while thinking of him. You wonder if he can feel how wet you have grown for him even through the fabric of your dress, wantonly hope that he does—

He stops. Even though you haven’t—you are so sure of it, you’ve been so careful. You only cease drawing when he lifts himself from you and you turn to him with a questioning, pleading look.

“Stand,” he instructs simply.

You nearly protest. But you remember yourself, that you are meant to be putting your trust in him, and do as you are told. You are hyperaware of the wetness between your legs as you stand, leaning against the table for support. The haze of desire has left you pleasantly weak.

Annatar steps towards you, facing you fully for the first time since he has begun to touch you intimately, and it is both relieving and electrifying to see that desire darkens his gaze as well as he takes in your breathless state. Taking gentle hold of your chin, he lifts it so your eyes meet his, and not a moment later his lips are upon yours, soft and tender. It’s barely more than a short peck, just enough for you to melt into the kiss only for him to pull away before you can fully savour it. This teasing of his is so maddening, like a game to which the only rule you know is that you either submit to his rules, or forfeit altogether, and you can only hope he will not leave you wanting in the end.

Stepping back, be pushes his robes to the side, and proceeds to unfasten his trousers with relaxed, steady movements under your longing gaze.

He pauses whilst he is still decent, and patiently asks, “Will you welcome my flesh?”

Welcome it? You could think of little else for weeks.

“Yes, my lord,” you murmur.

Only then does he bear himself to your gaze. He is a masterpiece, hard and swollen and glistening at the tip. The state of his cock denotes much more impatience than he demonstrates as he gracefully seats himself in your chair. Your cunt clenches around a gnawing emptiness at the mere sight.

“Return to your seat, then,” he invites with a cheeky little smile.

You find it strange that he has not pulled the chair away from the table, sitting in it as though he means to work there himself, rather than receive you in his lap. But you obey either way, a daze of elation coming over you. It’s such a foreign, illicit feeling, pulling up the skirts of your dress with trembling fingers as you step between the chair and table to face Annatar, ready to straddle him.

Before you can lift one knee onto the chair, he stops it with a gentle but decisive hand.

“I do not believe you have finished the designs,” he says. “Have you?”

Frowning, you give a slow shake of your head. His tone nearly makes you feel like a chastised student. Disoriented, you are nothing but pliant as his hands guide you into turning around so that you are now facing the table. Surely, he cannot mean for you to keep drawing once he is inside you? You could barely manage to control your pencil strokes whilst you sat relatively unmoving with his hands upon you, you could not even manage to find the paper if you begin to ride him.

You are about to ride him. Lord Annatar. The thought banishes any such concerns from your mind, leaving nothing but blinding lust in its wake. He adjusts you so that your legs are bracketing his thighs, pulls your garments out of the way to expose your soaked folds, and guides you down so that the tip of his cock is only just breaching your entrance.

That initial stretch alone pulls a small whimper from you, and you plant your hands on the arms of the chair for support, trying not to make any rash downward movement that might hurt you both. But his hands are strong and so safe on your hips, and you surrender to their guidance as he eases your joining. He slowly teases the tip of his cock in and out of your cunt, each time reaching a little deeper than before, until you cannot take it any longer and and sink onto his length completely.

The stretch pulls a mewl from your throat as you finally settle in his lap. You strive to catch your breath, looking down as if to reassure yourself that this is, indeed, real. Your dress covers the place where he has disappeared inside you, but you are so heavenly filled by the length and girth of him, you fear the sight alone might cost you your sanity. You whine, your eyes falling shut as Annatar pulls you to his chest, one hand pressing down on your belly whilst the other gently wraps around your neck, and he whispers in your ear, “How does this feel?”

Your voice is no more than a trembling whisper, “Wonderful.”

You cannot bear to wait a moment more. You try to circle your hips in his lap, moaning as his cock begins to prod at all the most delightful spots within you—

He plants his hands on your hips, trapping them in a firm hold.

“Be still,” he demands. It’s no easy feat, but you settle down, awaiting his direction. “Good,” he purrs in your ear. “Good. Now...” he pauses, letting you quiver with anticipation, “you shall remain still until you have finished the designs.”

Your eyes shoot open, wide and confused as you twist your head to look at him. There is no trace of jest in his eyes. Even the pleasure he feels in the warm embrace of your cunt is a faint glimmer beneath the surface of his determination, subdued with utter discipline. You realize he truly means his words, and you despair.

“But...” You cannot even make a coherent plea. So dreadful is the thought of enduring the pleasure of having him inside you without pursuing it, you are reduced to little more than a pitiful whine, “My lord—”

“Shh,” he coos, tenderly kissing away a tear that had slipped down your cheek, aiming to soothe you as if he is not the very source of your torment. “I know,” he murmurs. “I feel it too. This all-consuming ache to reach fulfillment, this longing for release... the wonders of your mind crave the very same. Open the door to set them free, as you have opened yourself to allow me in. You managed well enough before .”

“Yes, but you were not...” You grimace, clenching around him without meaning to in your anguish. “It’s so deep—”

“And you are so warm. So tight,” he breathes out, hoarse with want. “Yet I shall wait, patiently, for as long as I must. For your sake.”

His tone leaves no room for argument, which only worsens the ache between your legs. But you know by now—either play by his rules, or stop the game altogether.

You sigh, defeated, and nod. “All right.”

Annatar presses a light kiss to your temple, a gesture so sweet and chaste, it makes your head spin as much as his praise. “Good girl,” he rasps out. “Go on, then.”

He offers some support as you will your limbs into cooperating and begin to lean forward, towards the table. The movement jostles his cock within you ever so slightly, and you groan as you withhold from moving your hips in search of any further friction. The position is somewhat awkward, with you leaning over the page from a slightly too high angle, but you plant your elbows on the table and get on with it, determined to see this through.

If someone had told you this was how you would finish the designs—seated in Lord Annatar’s lap, his cock buried snugly inside you, so perfectly stretching you out that it drives you to the brink of insanity—you would have called them a most impolite adjective, and slapped them for good measure. But even less probable, even more scandalous, is that it’s almost easier this way. After a few moments of adjustment, you no longer scratch out attempts before they’ve even begun to take shape, or overthink each stroke of the pencil to the point where you forget what your overall intention had been in the first place. The wonderfully torturous stretch of Annatar’s cock within you takes over that part of your mind, and what is left of it is high on the thrill of it all, the anticipation, the graze of Annatar’s fingers as they trace the occasional languid line along your spine, so tender and encouraging.

The practical knowledge is there, deeply rooted in your mind from years of practice, and the creativity is a gift that’s never truly left you. But it is only now that you finally understand how to let them intertwine without trying to control it, to give in to the flow of inspiration the same way you are giving in to him.

And he keeps his word, sitting silently until the last stroke of your pencil, his hips never once giving the lightest stir. Only when you sit back to show him the finished sketches does he lean forward slightly, taking the paper from your hand as you take deep breaths to cope with the new stimulation.

You plant your hands on his knees for support, nerves filling you now that the creative haze is over. You are left only with great unfulfilled lust, and the creeping doubt that, perhaps, your work is no more adequate than it was before. You’d found a way to push through so far, but you are not sure you could manage such a feat a second time if he asked it of you.

But you would try. You would try anything, if it allowed only the sliver of hope that your Lord Annatar would finally take you, unrestrained and to sweet completion, at the end of it.

To your great relief, when you turn your head, you find him studying the paper with a most appreciative smile.

“See what you can accomplish when you give yourself permission to do so?” he says, caressing your thigh as if in reward. “These are splendid.”

“Thank you, my lord,” you murmur. Before, you would not have dreamed to ask for more than such words of praise. Now, you bite your lip and entreat, “May I... May I, please...?”

“Seek your pleasure?” His voice is knowing, teasing, as if he is not furiously hard within you this very moment. Even after all this, a bout of shyness makes you avert your gaze briefly as you nod. “No,” he says seriously, and your eyes snap to him in alarm. “Not in this manner,” he goes on. “I wish to look upon your face.”

You have no doubt he meant to have your heart lurch in your chest. There is a wicked side to this messenger of the Valar, a shadow hidden within the light with which he surrounds himself. It only arouses you further.

Annatar helps you stand, and the emptiness left behind as he slips from within you would render you an inconsolable mess, if it weren’t for the promise of soon-to-be-found relief. You can’t help but eye his cock, drenched in your arousal and bobbing enticingly as he rises to his feet as well. He sets the precious sketches on the table with care, then turns to you with, at last, unveiled hunger, and reaching to the back of your thighs, hoists you in his arms in one swift move.

You wrap your legs around his waist, cling to his shoulders, and gasp as he carries you to the nearest wall, pressing your back against it. He holds you up effortlessly, even as one hand slips between you to touch your clit directly for the first time. The bundle of nerves has been helplessly throbbing for so long, it only takes a few firm strokes of Annatar’s fingers to have you fall apart with a brisk whimper, burying your face in his neck.

“How sensitive,” he muses, quite content as you pant through the sudden burst of pleasure. “You have craved my touch for a long time, have you not? I admit it has been quite distracting.”

There is the slightest hint of accusation in his voice, and you know he doesn’t just mean since he first touched you today. You must have failed, in all those weeks you worked together, to withhold the lustful thoughts he invoked in your mind from showing in your eyes. And so you had distracted a messenger of the Valar from his work on the crucial task to save all of Middle-Earth.

“Forgive me, my lord,” you whisper into his hair.

“Whatever for?” he asks as though you’ve said the silliest thing. Cupping your face, he tilts your head up so your gaze meets his. “Have you forgotten my name?” he speaks softly. “I am here to give.”

And give, he does. He slides inside you to the hilt, gladly welcomed back by your still-aching cunt, and this time, finally, finally, he withdraws and sinks back in once, then again, thrust after thrust until he builds to a quick rhythm that has you drowning in the pleasure after which you had thirsted for so terribly long. A string of ‘pleases’ leaves your throat, unbidden, even though you can hardly ask for more than the stretch of him inside of you, the relentless press and drag against places so sweet and deep within, the ceiling is filled with all the stars in the night sky as you throw your head back against the wall with abandon. Annatar leans in to kiss your neck, his tongue setting your skin even more ablaze. Your sole remaining ability is to moan and cling to him, receiving the pleasure you are being given.

Sauron is deeply satisfied as he takes his own. He has been aching as well, though the Maia is far more skilled at mastering the urges of his flesh. You had been quick to obey, eager to follow his commands, even without his influence nudging at your mind to suit his purpose, which in itself was as pleasurable as having your tight cunt wrapped around him as you worked. And now you are so pliant in his embrace, moaning in sweet submission as you reap the reward he most graciously offers—the very picture of the peaceful surrender he seeks to accomplish through the Rings. If only every being in Middle-Earth would accept the blessing of his authority as easily as you have, they would spare themselves so much wasteful bloodshed.

Perhaps he will keep you safe from it. Perhaps he will keep you to himself.

But you don’t know what is to come, nor would you care as your pleasure crests towards its peak, and you cry out with the force of your release, clenching around Annatar’s cock.

“Thank you,” you mindlessly gasp in between whimpers as he generously fucks you through it, “thank you, thank you, thank you—”

With one last, brutal thrust that pins your hips to the wall, Annatar groans, long and deep as he throbs and spills inside of you. It occurs to you that he has barely made a sound besides his laboured breathing throughout your coupling. Before he even slips out of you, spent, you wonder if you might have the privilege of hearing more in the future.

He is gracious enough, as your high subsides and you catch your breath, to carry you back to your chair. You doubt your legs would support you this very moment. He sets you down, fixes his robes, then stands before you as poised as ever. If it weren’t for the spark of mischief in his eyes, one would think you had done nothing but discuss Ring designs over a cup of tea.

“Thank you, my dear,” he says, retrieving the sketches from the table, “for your most valuable work.” He admires them for a moment, then gives you a knowing smile. “Do not hesitate to ask for my aid, should you need it again.”

With a polite nod, he leaves you sitting in your chair by the table, much as you were when he had found you. Only, at that time, his spend had not been pooling between your legs, and it was hard to imagine it ever would be.

You smile to yourself. What an unconventional emissary, and how lucky you are that the Valar have sent him to guide you in your endeavours. For indeed, you are sure you shall require his assistance again quite soon.

Sequel -> Further inspiration

[charlotte-zophie]

Therapy conversation

Dear Fandom, dear Mr. Gaiman,

I hope this isn´t weird but i have something to confess.

Since I watched the second season of Good Omens, I've gone through so many phases that I barely recognize myself anymore.

My first reaction after episode 6 was shock, then I was disturbed because I didn't know that it was possible for a series to have such a strong influence on my psyche, I questioned myself and doubted my sanity. Then I was overcome by an incredible sadness and was really heartbroken. I felt like a pubescent teenager, in my mid-30s. I couldn't sleep properly for several days, had nightmares and my thoughts were with these two ineffable loving idiots the whole time.

And the worst thing about it was that for the first few days I was really ashamed to admit to myself and my husband that I was completely and hopelessly immersed in this world. I did nothing but watch videos, listen to sad songs, and read heartbreaking fanfictions for days. And of course I read the book again and watched the series over and over again. All in the hope that it will ease my heartache a little.

But as is often the case in these situations, after a few days in which no real change occurs, you have the thought that you will be lost in this feeling forever. But since I have 3 children that I need to look after, of course locking myself away for weeks with heartbreak wasn't an option, so I had to find an outlet for myself to channel my pain.

So I started painting a picture. By Aziraphale and Crowley. And stroke by stroke I let my feelings flow out of me and into the picture.

It took over a week until I had a motif in which I could see my thoughts and feelings expressed and then it took another week until I finished the picture. On an old canvas with paints that haven't been used for a long time, with many, many layers of old paint underneath.

But when the picture was finally finished, it really took a load off my mind. It was like I had broken a dam and was finally able to let it all out and convert it into creative energy.

But I think the most important thing was that I uploaded the picture to Tumblr and received such a response that I was incredibly touched and immediately motivated to paint more pictures.

Since that day, hardly a moment goes by when I am not holding a pen in my hand or not thinking about a new picture. I'm in one of the most creative phases in a very long time and I'm really enjoying it.

I am so grateful for the wonderful people here! Here I see that I'm not alone with my strange feelings that I still don't really know how to classify. Here I read thoughts that are so similar to mine, here I see works of art that melt my heart, here I feel understood!

And I am so grateful for the pain that showed me the way back to my creative energy!

Thank you Fandom!

Thank you Neil Gaiman!

I would have been lost without you!

Because I don't know my way around here very well, I didn't think about pinning the picture in question as a link when I created this post, but since many people have asked about it, I've pinned it here. Thank you all, love love love

[justlettheraincome]

I've met someone

"I've met someone" It was a notion, that Aziraphale had dreaded for a long time. There was a smile playing on Crowley's lips. Just the faintest notion of love hanging in the air. "You've met someone?", he repeatet. "Yes, lovely bloke", Crowley puttered on: "900 year old timelord, has seen the start of the universe and could actually name all of my stars…" There was a pain digging into Aziraphales heart. Crowley had met someone, someone who shared his ife experience. And his interests. Someone, who maybe wasn't so afraid of speed. Or his own feelings. Aziraphale felt the ground under his feet start to spin. "- anyways, I digress", Crowley finished the tangent. Taking a closer look at Aziraphale's face, he asked: "Are you alright?" "Yes, yes perfectly fine. Do go on my dear." Crowley shook his head slightly, as if to acknowledge that he didn't really believe Aziraphale. But his point seemed to be important to him, so he didn't dig further: "We talked about the problems of a nearly eternal life. And discovered that we had quite a lot in common." Aziraphale felt the ground sway again. He breathed in, softly. This was an important experience in Crowleys life. Even if he would have loved to be that guy instead of listening to Crowley going on and on about him, he owed Crowley the respect to listen to his feelings. "Including the regret of not saying something very important. And he doesn't have the chance to say it anymore. But I do. And I don't want to regret not saying it." What was Crowley going on about? Aziraphale had lost him somewhere on the way. Hadn't he just been explaining how great that guy was? "Right, okay, yes, so… We've known each other a long time. We've been on this planet for a long time. I mean, you and me. I could always rely on you. You could always rely on me. We're a team, a group. Group of the two of us. And we've spent our existence pretending that we aren't. I mean, the last few years, not really. And I would like to spend… The rest of eternity not pretending any more." With that sentence, Crowley seemed to deflate. Aziraphale needed a moment to register: "Not pretending anymore?" he repeated slowly. Crowley closed the distance between them. Yellow eyes pierced into sky-blue ones. He took another deep breath in: "Aziraphale…", there was just the tiniest bit of hesitation in his voice. A fear not yet fully overcome. "I love you."

[moraxine]

Third Time’s the Charm [Aemond Targaryen]

Pairing: Aemond Targaryen x reader

Summary: Two times you almost kissed Aemond, and one time you actually did.

Words: 1.4k

i.

The Red Keep looms large as always, a castle of shadows and whispers, but there's a familiar charge in the air tonight. You feel it as you step through the winding corridor, the night breeze caressing your skin, making your feet nearly silent as you pace on the stone floor.

It’s nights like this you’re unable to find sleep, too preoccupied filling your head with duties of the day ahead. And it’s nights like this you’ve noticed that prince Aemond leaves the urgent late-night meetings of the council around the same hour.

It’s a ritual at this point. A ritual that you’ve grown to be quite fond of. You would rather die than admit it, of course, but it thrills you knowing that Aemond passes by your corridor to head to his before calling it a day. What started as a way to ease your mind, ended up being the reason you stay awake in the first place.

And it always goes like this: you trade barbs — sharp words laced with deeper meanings that neither of you dare to confront outright. It’s strange how easy it is to exchange insults when it’s clear that you both have cultivated something more than feigned animosity. You can see it in the prince’s intent gaze as well, he knows too.

You are not of Targaryen blood, not a dragon-rider, as exciting as that would’ve have been. Your father, a highborn lord, has served as Hand of the King for as long as you can remember. Thus, you found yourself living at the Red Keep from a young age, allowed to weave yourself into its intrigues. However, as safe as it might be, it does not shield you from the most dangerous flame of all—Aemond Targaryen. Not that you need it to, anyway.

You meet him at the entrance of the library this time. His silver hair gleams even in the dim light, and as he spots you, his single eye narrows.

“Ah,” Aemond drawls, his voice smooth and taunting, “…here to read something above your station?”

You roll your eyes but can’t help the slight tug at your lips. “Maybe. Shouldn’t you be stabbing something? Since your reading skills are questionable…”

His lips curve into something that could almost be a smile, but it’s too sharp, too full of challenge. “I save my blades for those who warrant it. You’ve never been important enough to see any of it.”

You scoff, stepping closer to him, close enough to see the flicker of amusement in his eye. “No? And here I thought I kept you awake at night, my prince.” The word drips from your lips with a mockery that only you can get away with—well, almost.

Aemond's jaw tightens for a fraction of a second, and you see the fire ignite behind his composed mask. He steps towards you, and for a split second, you think he might actually close the distance. His face is so close to yours now, his scent—a mix of leather and smoke—filling the space between you.

“You think far too highly of yourself,” he murmurs, his voice low. “Tell me, what could you possibly do to keep me awake?”

Your heart pounds in your chest, a rhythm that slightly betrays the composed expression you’re trying so hard to maintain. His eye flickers to your lips, and for a moment, just a mere heartbeat, the air between you burns with a heat that neither of you wants to openly embrace. And though fierce, you’re no stranger to its burning. You both always keep a safe distance behind the heated stares and dance of words.

The tension is broken as quickly as it comes. You can’t let it overcome you, not yet at least. If someone is to break first, let it be him. You will never be merciful enough to give him the satisfaction of victory. So, you take a step away with a smirk, your pulse still racing.

“One day, you shall find out, in case you are not aware of it already, that is…” you manage to reply before walking away, your heart still racing in your chest.

ii.

A few days later, you find yourself in the training yard, watching with interest as Aemond spars with Ser Criston. His movements are precise, deadly. He’s all grace and fire, every swing of his sword like pure poetry. And you hate that you notice it, you hate that you can’t take your eyes off him. You hate the way his presence is enough to hypnotize you.

As if sensing your gaze, Aemond looks over mid-swing and meets your eyes. You raise an eyebrow, trying not to smile. “Missed a step there, prince.”

Aemond's lips twitch into that infuriating yet attractive smirk again. “If you think you could do better, you’re welcome to try. Though, I imagine your skill in combat matches your intellect—woefully lacking.”

You glare at him, and without giving it a second thought, you step into the training yard. “Hand me a sword and we’ll see. Unless you're too frightened to be bested by someone woefully lacking.”

Ser Criston senses the tension between you two and with a hesitant nod your way, he steps aside, giving you a wooden practice sword. You barely have time to grip the hilt before Aemond lunges, his speed catching you off-guard. But you recover quickly, deflecting his blow with a sharp clang. The impact rattles through your arm, but you don’t falter.

“Careful, my prince,” you hiss, your face inches from his, “if you lose, they might start calling you the one-eyed fool.”

His eye blazes as you trade blows, the clang of metal echoing through the yard. It’s not the most graceful fight you’ve ever had, but it’s the most exhilarating. The air around you is electric, charged with the tension of every unspoken word, every look, every insult you’ve ever thrown at each other.

Aemond’s sword swings wide, and you duck beneath it, twisting to bring your own blade up to meet his. His arm catches yours, and suddenly, you’re chest to chest, your breaths coming fast as your swords clatter to the ground.

“Call me a fool again, and I’ll—” he growls, his breath hot against your face, but the words are swallowed by the closeness of your bodies, the overwhelming pull between you.

For a few moments, neither of you moves. His gaze drops to your lips again, and this time, it’s harder to ignore the fire blazing between you. But before either of you can cross that final line, you shove him back with a scowl.

He cannot win.

“Get over yourself,” you mutter, turning on your heel before you can give in to the storm inside you.

iii.

The night before Aemond is to leave to deal with some unrest in the Riverlands, you find him alone in the godswood. The moon casts a pale glow over his features, making him look even more breathtaking, as if that’s somehow possible.

“I see you’re brooding as always,” you say, crossing your arms as you approach him.

“And you’re still insufferable,” Aemond replies without looking at you.

You roll your eyes but can’t help the pang in your chest. “You’re leaving.”

“It’s only a mission,” he says, his voice cool. “Don’t tell me you’ll miss me.”

“Hardly,” you scoff, though your heart says otherwise. “I just want to be here when you inevitably return defeated. Then I can gloat properly.”

Then, Aemond turns to you, his eye burning with something you don’t quite understand. “You’ve always talked too much.”

“And you’ve always been an arrogant ass.”

His lips quirk into a smirk. “Perhaps. But you like it.”

Before you can hurl another retort, Aemond closes the distance between you. His hand finds your jaw, his thumb brushing your cheek in a way that sends a shiver down your spine. Your breath catches as his lips crash against yours, fierce and consuming. It’s as if every unspoken word, every insult, every stolen glance suppressed over the years is poured into that kiss.

And you let yourself fall. You fall for the way his hand is resting on your burning skin. You fall for the way his lips move in perfect sync with yours. You fall for how good he tastes, for how good he makes you feel when you go back and forth each time.

When he pulls away, you’re both breathing hard, your heart beating hard in your chest. “Be careful,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

Aemond's expression softens. “I always am.”

And with that, he turns and walks away, leaving you and your glistening lips already anticipating for the next time.

In a way, Aemond Targaryen has won.

[pumpkin-bats]

No Comparison - Sanji x Reader

a/n: This took me so long to write for literally no reason. I hope it turned out ok though! Plz enjoy our silly little blonde loverboy!

summary: Sanji’s habit of practically worshiping every woman he sees makes you anxious from time to time. He refuses to let you stay anxious about it.

contains: sfw topics, gender neutral terms for reader, fluff, comfort, mention of anxiety and insecurities.

wc: 1k+

Sanji was not somebody you fought with. Not because you never had anything to fight about, but because Sanji did his best not to give you a reason to be upset with him.

It wasn't as though you were upset with him now... but you weren't too happy either.

The thing is that he has this undying love and devotion towards all women. He'll fall at their feet and swoon and follow their every word, sometimes at his own expense. It bothered you, sure, but at this point in your relationship, you knew that didn't mean he loved or prioritized them over you. You were his partner, after all.

However, that didn't stop the occasional bout of anxiety that would overcome you when he was a little too close to someone than you were comfortable with.

You'd never ask him to change, since that was a big part of what made Sanji, Sanji. And, ultimately, he was mindful not to go too far since you started dating. You knew he didn't love them more or love you less, but it still... hurt. Just a little bit.

After all, no one likes the idea of seeing their boyfriend being overly friendly with someone who wasn't them. Unless they're into that, which you weren't.

It was after one of these incidents where he gave a look too flirty, a voice too enraptured, that had you out here now. Leaning against the railing, the time pushing close to midnight, as you watched a sky glittering with stars. You wouldn't cry, but you'd be lying if you said you didn't want to. It was one of those nights.

It wasn't cold, but a light brush of the late night breeze against your skin made a shiver run through you. As if on cue, a black suit jacket settled snugly across your shoulders. The smell of cigarette smoke and spices wafted up from the fabric and it did little to fend off the slight burning sensation in your eyes that you'd been fighting off.

"You're gonna catch a cold out here if you're not careful," Sanji spoke softly, moving to stand beside you and lightly press his arm against yours.

"No I won't, it's not even that cold out," you huff back, chuckling quietly. The slight quirk of your lips still felt a bit too bitter for your liking, but you tucked the jacket closer to you regardless.

You could tell his eyes were trailing over your face, sweeping over your features. He had a little frown as he leaned forward to see you better.

"Hey, what's the matter?" he asked, tone more serious than it was a second ago.

"Nothing..." You hesitated. 

A sudden urge prickled at the back of your skull to unload every one of your thoughts onto him. Ask if you're more important than the girls he fawns over, if you really meant that much to him. There's also the part of you that's too scared of the consequences of instigating that kind of conversation. Namely the look of pain you know would be there, as if he didn't make it obvious how much he cherished you on a daily basis.

Sanji waited patiently for you to speak, not rushing an answer but simply giving you the space to think. The fact that you knew he'd follow along with whatever you decided made this worse.

"What..." You swallowed the lump forming in your throat and nearly grimaced at the way it struggled to go down. "What made you want to date me?"

Sanji blinked in surprise, clearly caught off guard by the question. "Huh?"

"It's... you always go along with whatever I say, and you do the same with all the girls you come across. A lot of things are the same. We don't even argue- I just... wanted to know what made me different... from them."

The silence that followed was thick and heavy. You refused to look over at him, almost ashamed of your insecurity. The ugly voices whispering about how you weren't good enough. Your doubt in him despite knowing how much he's done and is willing to do for you.

But it's hard not to. Not when his eyes still reflect hearts at any passing woman.

Almost a full minute passed when Sanji finally answered. His voice was quiet, almost strained.

"Have I been making you feel this way this entire time?"

"No, no of course not, I only-"

"No. There's no excuse." He placed gentle hands on your shoulders and lightly guided you to turn and face him. "Don't make an excuse for me when I'm hurting you."

You couldn't help but look into his eyes as he spoke. Maybe it's because he was missing the classic cigarette that dulled the lines of his face with plumes of smoke, his blue eyes seemed crystal clear under the moonlight. Clear and focused intently on you.

"I- I wasn't. You're not hurting me, it's just my own... it's me." With him holding your gaze, it was difficult to not expose your more truthful thoughts. The uglier ones.

You watch as his curled brow furrowed deeper, his lips pulling into a tight line. Then he slowly, gently, as if you were paper in his arms, pulled you closer until he had you pressed securely against his chest.

"It is you. It's because it's you that this is important. I don't pick fights with women, because I can't. I respect them, but it's different. If I upset them then that's a moment of regret. But if I were to ever upset you, I'd rather have that idiot moss head gut me with his swords. I can live without them. I can't breathe without you."

"What's a passing wildflower when compared to the sun? What's appreciating a moment of beauty to seeing the light of tomorrow? One is much easier to lose than the other." As he said this, you felt him squeeze you just a bit tighter.

"I can tone it down, whatever you need me to do, because you matter more to me. I'm with you because no one makes the world as colorful as you do. You chose me, and I will never take that for granted."

He pulled away only to hold your face in his hands, his thumb grazing over your cheekbone as he smiled at you. There was more affection and truth held in that expression than there were stars in the sky.

"Nothing and no one compares to you. And I'm not stupid enough to let anyone think otherwise."

[Fin~]

[yupuffin]

I think the aspect of the 2.7 story that felt most impactful to me was something that was previously addressed in the Penacony main story, but was reemphasized and expanded upon with Sunday being the narrative focus of this update:

Sunday is scared.

His motivation to protect the people and things important to him -- Robin is an excellent example -- manifests as a desire for control, to eliminate potential dangers. This motivation is based in fear; he's afraid to lose what he has to factors beyond his control, like the bullet that nearly took his sister's life.

And part of the "true paradise" he longs for involves preventing the sense of powerlessness that accompanies that fear. He believes that humanity sleeps because "we are afraid to awaken from our dreams." Indeed, the appeal of the "sweet dream" of Penacony is freedom from the uncontrollable and inevitable tragedies of the waking world.

It's part of what made him such an effective villain in the Penacony arc; even though you may disagree vehemently with his actions, you can understand with and sympathize the rationale behind them. In his mind, absolute control over the Dreamscape -- the elimination of frightening unknowns -- is the most effective way to keep everyone safe and happy. However, this undermines the real freedom and autonomy of the affected populace, many of whom are unaware of the Dreamscape's true nature.

In the 2.7 update, Sunday is "nerfed after turning into a good guy," to use March's words. Previously, he enjoyed immense social status as the head of the Oak Family -- and as the imposing, invulnerable, "final boss"-style antagonist. Now, his role is effectively reversed; he's a fugitive who has to disguise himself to evade the potential consequences of simply being seen.

He's an incredibly vulnerable position.

Not just physically -- as the audience, we also get intimate insights into his feelings and thought processes. Now he recognizes the scope of the harm he was previously willing to cause in the name of absolute control, and shoulders the responsibility of dealing with the repercussions.

His newly evident guilt and shame is emotionally moving on its own...

...and becomes even more poignant when you realize that guilt and shame and vulnerability has been a crucial aspect of his character from the very beginning. After all, so much of his deep-seated fear of the unknown stemmed from him blaming himself -- his lack of control over the situation -- for Robin's unforeseen injury.

I found the scene at the Dream's Edge the most touching in this update. Sunday's conversation with Robin is a bit of a paradox: he is deeply sincere and vulnerable in speaking to his own sister, yet guarded because he must avoid revealing his true identity. And Robin, in turn, directly provides an alternate outlook on Sunday's character, describing him as though to someone who's never met him, as though he isn't there.

And Robin's perspective reaffirms that Sunday's apparent invulnerability was essentially a facade. He may have been the head of the Oak Family, and the imposing final boss, but at the same time, on the inside, he was continually paralyzed by fear.

Sunday has always been vulnerable. He has always been scared.

And I think what makes the conclusion to the 2.7 story so satisfying and triumphant is that Sunday begins to properly address his fear, his persistent guilt and shame. He moves beyond simply acknowledging it, and recognizes not just how indulging his fear can bring further harm, but also what good things (that otherwise wouldn't occur) can happen when he overcomes it -- as it were, when he doesn't let his fear control him.

I'm going to be real, I probably had an intelligent-sounding conclusion for this, but... it took me several weeks to write this and I've forgotten any idea i might have had previously, so let's just say he definitely hit me right in the feels. 🤣

[buddierecs]

slow burn buddie fics

all mature rating!!! make sure to kudos/comment on these amazing works :)

tell me about despair by: hattalove "the entity often affectionately referred to as the unrepression fic." word count: 148k important tags: ptsd, therapy, trauma, heavy angst, friends to lovers, pining, getting together ripples all the way down by: iriswests "christopher partakes in some parent trapping" word count: 57k important tags: mutual ping, parent trapping, jealous!buddie, miscommunication don't worry baby (everything will turn out alright) by: woodchoc_magnum "buck and eddie are falling in love, and it's obvious to everyone but them." word count: 63k important tags: friends to lovers, team as family, fluff, angst, mutual pining overcome by: orphan_account "set post season 5A, where buck is alone, and angry, and exhausted, but mostly terrified that everyone he loves is slowly slipping away from him." word count: 53k important tags: TW: past child abuse, alcoholism, past suicide attempt, insecure!evan buckley, hurt!evan buckley, panic attacks, mental breakdown, eventual happy ending, mutual pining, sharing a bed, eddie diaz takes care of evan buckley standing on the brink of emptiness by: woodchoc_magnum "in which eddie is struggling in the aftermath of being shot, learning how to take care of himself and realising he's in love with buck; and buck is dating taylor, taking care of eddie and christopher and trying to figure out why he's so goddamn confused about everything." word count: 70k important tags: ptsd, injury recovery, pining, pre-relationship, getting together, angst

'cause we belong together now by: smilingbuckley "on a call, buck and eddie meet an adorable little girl that they fall in love with and want to adopt. the only problem? they're not together romantically..." word count: 68k important tags: fake dating, marriage of convenience, adoption, pining, fluff, soft!buddie, friends to lovers for a holiday (and forevermore) by: wikiangela "eddie's sick of personal, intrusive questions about his love life whenever he visits his family, so he starts bringing buck for the holidays as his (fake) boyfriend. he only wants to shut them up, and doesn't expect that the small crush he has on his best friend could actually turn into something more.." word count: 94k important tags: fake dating, sharing a bed, pre-relationship, idiots to lovers, soft!buddie, oblivious, fluff, angst, eventual smut i've got your back by: sammyunhinged "a very slow burn fic chronicling the progress of buck and eddie's relationship, buck's parenting journey, and eddie learning to accept himself, in which buck gets injured in an accident and he moves in with Eddie and Christopher." word count: 109k important tags: idiots to lovers, falling in love, hurt/comfort, mutual pining, cuddling, getting together, eventual smut the pain will leave you once it's done teaching you by: fruitsdoesnotknow "when daniel buckley lives a little longer, evan Buckley dies a little more. and this is how eddie diaz saves him, a little later on." word count: 43k important tags: angst, hurt/comfort, panic attacks, mutual pining, found family, grief there's an ache in you (put there by the ache in me) by: goforeddie "the buddie couple therapy fic where, following the events of eddie getting shot, both him and buck are forced by the department to go through mandatory couple therapy." word count: 50k important tags: couples therapy, ptsd, post s4e14, pre-relationship, anxiety attacks, panic attacks, nightmares, fluff and angst, sharing a bed every single things to come (has turned into ashes) by: imdarlenescousin "eddie starts dating, makes some friends, makes some realizations, and makes a serious offer." word count: 66k important tags: friends to fiances, demisexual!eddie diaz, mental health issues, pining,

heart of flowers/heart of gold by elvensorceress "after nearly losing each other, buck and eddie find their way to each other and their family’s happily ever after." word count: 144k important tags: season 4, friends to lovers, mutual pining, evan buckley takes care of eddie diaz, demisexual!eddie diaz, gun shot wounds hold steady, hold steady by: thetalee "after eddie's bombshell announcement on christmas, buck runs away and finds himself back on his first day on the job. a time-travel fix-it fic of sorts, ft. a stranger that totally just wants to help, honest." word count: 172k important tags: time travel, time loops, supernatural elements au, shannon diaz lives, hurt!evan buckley, temporary character death

explicit slow burn buddie fics :)

[ninibeingdelulu]

Welcome home ✧

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Plot: You’re Nanami’s wife, waiting patiently for him to come home from a long mission.

A/N: I swear this man is most husbandable person ever. Reminder: English isn’t my first language.

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The front door opened quietly as Kento arrived home after a long day. You stirred from your spot on the couch, having fallen asleep while waiting up for him.

At the soft click, your eyes opened to see Kento closing the door behind him.

"You're still awake?" he asked in his gently deep tone, footsteps light as he removed his shoes.

"You must be tired, darling. I'm sorry for the late hour."

You smiled softly, rising to greet him.

"I wanted to. How was your mission, dear?"

Brushing aside a lock of hair, your hand lingered on his cheek in welcome. Kento's own hand rose to hold yours there, eyes closing briefly at your touch.

"Exhausting. But rewarding to help others."

His steady gaze conveyed more warmth than any words.

"Your company is the light I come home to."

Leaning in, Kento rested his forehead against yours with a barely-there sigh.

"Come to bed, my love. Your rest is important too."

Winding your arms around his broad form, you embraced Kento lovingly, always soothed by his protective strength.

Hand in hand you walked together to find solace in each other's arms, a calm union to overcome any trials faced outside in the duties of his work.

Inside your bedroom, Kento's usually stoic shoulders noticeably relaxed. He stepped close to gently run his hands down your arms, his simple touches speaking volumes.

You leaned into his chest, lending comfort through your embrace.

"Long missions take their toll," he rumbled quietly, resting his chin atop your head.

Your hands rubbed small circles across his back, sensing the knots of tension formed throughout the day.

"But returning to you renews my strength."

Pulling back just enough, you began working the fastenings of his formal dress shirt loose. Kento watched your devoted care through hooded eyes, permeated by weariness yet warmed by your love.

The shirt slid off to reveal hints of faded bruises nearly healed by your previous tender ministrations.

Once free of restrictive layers, Kento drew you back into his arms with a murmur of thanks.

You guided him to lay amid soft pillows, joining his side and draping the blankets over you both.

Secure in your bonded shelter, his deep breaths gradually eased into restful slumber.

You watched over him through the night, grateful as always for this man's devotion in protecting others - and finding solace in yours.

[houserautha]

Mine

Summary: Feyd-Rautha decides it’s time to finally mark you as his.

Pairings: Feyd-Rautha x gn!Reader

Word Count: 894

Warnings: Feyd pierces your nipples and you like it, it’s suggested that you have sex, he’s territorial

A/N: I have never pierced anyone’s nipples and no one has pierced mine so I apologize for any inaccuracies😂 I’m navigating on thots only

The needle glints dangerously.

You eye it wearily, craning your neck to watch as Feyd-Rautha prepares it. He’s shirtless, seized in the moment by some concept out of your grasp — a marking. You admire his taut stomach, the muscles shifting in his arms. He’s angled so that you can’t quite see what he’s doing, and you squirm in anticipation.

“Patience, jewel,” he rasps.

Like a caress, his voice brushes over you. And, like him, you’re adorn only in a pair of pants, and your skin prickles at the touch of his words. The light above you is bright, nearly blinding. You turn your head to avoid its glare and that’s when you see it fully, the needle, not as long as you imagined it. The smell of antiseptic solution fills your nose and heightens your awareness.

“Mm, look at you,” he says. He flicks his thumb over one hardened nipple. “So ready for me.”

Before he sterilizes you, Feyd takes each of your nipples in his mouth and lavishes it with his tongue, a parting gesture, or a welcoming one. And despite the chill in the room, a surge of heat washes over you. What would it be like, to be marked by the na-Baron? The thought is almost too heady to even consider.

It was a custom on Giedi Prime, apparently, to mark your partner with a piercing. A sign to others that you were involved. It made sense now why some of the courtiers were adorn in silver and gold, entangled with several lovers. After this discovery, of course, you wondered why Feyd was entirely bare. He had plenty of lovers before you. You never could bring yourself to ask, however; it seemed important enough that you would be the first person for him to mark.

Once he’s deemed you ready, Feyd looks you over, needle in hand. His gaze sears across your bare torso. “It might hurt,” he tells you, more of an afterthought than a warning. His plush lips split into a grin. “You might like it.”

You yelp as the needle pierces your nipple, more from surprise than the pain. In fact, the pain is quickly overcome by pleasure, bolting through you with the swift finality of a lightning strike. It’s Feyd, after all, leaning in close, pupils blown, his concentration and care leaving you breathless. It all happens rather fast, too, and you find that you’re excited for the next one.

“Very good,” he cooes. It’s obvious how aroused you are. The piercing is a silver bar, rounded at each end.

This time, your back arches off the table as he slides the needle through your nipple, a starburst of bliss exploding on contact. His fingers are deft, gentle, as he inspects his work. You’re not afraid to show him how this has affected you, panting, hands curling and uncurling as you refuse the urge to touch yourself. You feel, somehow, that this would not please him.

Feyd arranges himself near your feet, his dark eyes gleaming with greed, with lust. “You’re mine now.”

“I always have been.”

“Perhaps.” He strokes a finger over the arch of your foot, up your calf. “But now everyone who gazes upon you will know that you belong to me.”

A cry escapes from you as he suddenly yanks on both of your legs, jerking you towards the end of the table. You fumble to accommodate him. He presses between your legs, against you, and Feyd moans as your new piercings graze his chest. The sound is involuntary, rumbling through him. You capture his mouth with your own, or perhaps it’s the other way around, but soon you’re both seeking out pleasure from the other, invigorated by this development of your closeness.

A physical sign, a promise. A threat. At least to others. To you, the lingering pain feels like the sweetest song, each brush of your piercings against his warm skin a victorious reminder that this incredible man has claimed you.

And when you’ve both finished, hungrily gulping in air and slick with sweat, Feyd kisses your sternum. He’s heavy-lidded, delirious with your pleasure. Stripped bare. “You are mine,” he mumbles, “mine.”

“I am yours.” Emboldened, lovingly — stupidly — you say, “Let me mark you.”

Feyd’s head snaps up. All signs of any post-coital haze disappear in an instant, a predator’s focus. “What?”

“Please.” You hate how you sound. Pitiful. Desperate. Scrambling to rectify this, you add, “It doesn’t have to be anywhere visible like mine. I just, I mean, I want to —”

“Shut up.” There’s anger embroidered in this, but not malicious. Frustrated, maybe. “You want to mark me as your own?”

At a loss for words, and unsure of what to expect, you just simply nod.

“Say it.”

“I-I want to mark you as mine.”

Feyd-Rautha hums in reply. Clearly, this was the answer he was looking for. He takes your hand, brushes it over his cock — soft from your efforts, but hardening again. “I know exactly where you can mark me as yours, so that every time I thrust inside you, you know of my devotion to you.”

You shudder at the idea and smile, drunk on him, on the power that he imbues you with. On a whim, you close your hand around his cock and give it a firm squeeze. “Mine.”

[oatmealcrisp-freak]

It makes my heart ache that Penber starved Naomi of the validation she so rightly deserved so much that the second a freaking kid goes, "I think you're right" her eyes light up and she says, "Really? You mean that?" Honey... Oh honey...

She is a former FBI agent. He is a highschooler. LIKE.

Light's literally not even gassing her up. He's just acknowledging and respecting her intelligence and treating her like a goddamn person, and it has her practically over the moon enough to smile since probably the first time Penber died. She's being told that her deductions make sense. Her brain is worth something after all. Light's not lying when he tells her her theory could become central to the Kira case. It's literally the truth. He acknowledges this to himself. It's basic fact. And he treats it like such, and verbalizes that to her as such after a touch of light skepticism to see the strings she's connected. And she's all for it.

And she has indeed connected them. Every single one. Everything she's saying makes sense, but she's been so goddamn trained by Penber that she was very nearly resigned to not being believed. She's adamant to explain her conspiracy board piece by piece in person because she's so acutely aware of getting swept aside, but she still knows she's right, and that her deduction is important, and she overcomes that fear and goes anyway.

She is a careful, intelligent woman. She IS. All Light does is respect that and she's suddenly spilling fucking everything to a kid she doesn't know, who she knows is tied to the police, who she knows have a leak, who she knows her fiance was investigating. She plays some cards close to her chest but she's just so swept away by being believed for once that. Well. She dies.

Light very quickly falls into honeytrapping and using women as tools but based on this I wonder how much of it is his. I don't know. Headcanon territory alert but. Seeing a reflection of the self in them? IIRC he only does this to women who are blatantly attracted to him. He doesn't seek to use Naomi in any way. Manipulate her, yes, as she's a very real threat but she's also blatantly a person to him even before he learns how much she knows. I very well could be reaching, but I could see Light seeing people who are attracted to him and being disgusted by them. He knows he's attractive on the surface, but underneath...

Does Light see the world as rotting because he's viewing it through the lens of self? Ykno?

They see his face and swoon and suddenly it's like they don't seek to know him at all. He's effectively been a prop his whole life, a model 'good son', and he sees that he's become a prop to these people too. So, too, do they become props to him. He's serving his worth to them by just being there - it's practically reciprocal, and therefore the fair and right thing to do.

Light uses Misa. He's not kind to her. He uses Takada. He's really not all that kind to her either, though he's less blatant about it to her face for the most of it. He cheats on them with each other aaaaand literally doesn't care if they might be hurt. But he still trusts Takada to effectively become his second, and trusts Misa to information gather and write names and follow a plan outside his immediate supervision. He is a two-timing manipulative gaslighting bag of dicks who'd happily sell them to the devil for a corn chip, but I'm tempted to think that's because he knows their worth, their abilities, sees his need of them, and is therefore always keeping that in mind as he tries to seduce them sweetly to where he needs them to be. Light thinks women are easy as hell, his opinion of their intelligence is definitely a hand waggle at best but he still sees them. And honestly, he thinks everyone's intelligence is a hand waggle at best, and he thinks everybody is easy to manipulate, and he's, frankly, not always proven wrong. His dismissal is pretty sex-neutral. Women probably get singled out because statistically she's gonna be straight and therefore attracted to him and that's just another button he can mash. Looking at Mikami, I have no doubts he'd treat men who are interested in him in the same way.

Naomi, obviously, is not attracted to him in this way even though he's able to please her with almost excessive ease. Naomi therefore seems to retain her personhood in his mind. 'She's just a woman', yeah, he thinks to himself as he's freaking out and going over worst case scenarios where he might actually have to assault her. She's smaller than him. Her long hair means she has an easy handhold. He's not really figuring out that she could kick his ass before he can do so much as yelp... he still hesitates, doesn't go for it, and finds another way. He thinks to himself that she's too careful for him to successfully assault her even though she's 'just a woman'. People say he taunts her after she walks away to commit her suicide but I'm not so sure he is. He's ensuring his alibi publicly in every way he can, to anyone who happens to pass them by, to anyone who can see him smile, to anyone who can hear him and register his 'friendly' voice the moment he's not speaking so only Naomi can hear. Naomi is a threat. Naomi is careful. Naomi is very, very fucking smart. Light needs to ensure his victory as much as possible, and is acting to do this from every angle even as Naomi is in the grips of the Death Note's thrall because she's goddamn Naomi Misora.

And Light, though he's only met her very briefly, knows that. There is no way he didn't enjoy that cat and mouse game. Of course he revelled in his victory. She was an exceptional opponent who very nearly had him in checkmate several times in, like, the span of a half hour. L's been at this for months and he's never gotten as close to catching Kira as Naomi did lmao Him being giddy makes sense in that context.

Penber trusts Naomi enough to get him tea and keep house. He tells her as much to her face. All she is, is his fiance. That's all she's good for anymore - whatever her capability, whatever her intelligence, whatever her reputation 'before', they're now worthless. He'd never even think to try and manipulate her to make use of her blatant fucking intelligence because he literally doesn't see it. He dismisses her skills out of hand. What a waste. What a goddamn waste. If Naomi had been the one investigating Light, he'd be in custody before Ryuk even told him he was being stalked.

[another-dumb-user]

I think about Same Coin way too much.

Especially as a Ford-centric concept.

Like, Ford has not seen or interacted with his brother for over thirty years (save for the portal incident). Even building up to Weirdmageddon, they barely talked. Ford has only the memories of his brother from childhood. He doesn't really know him.

I just imagine that afterwards, as he starts to get to know his brother, things very slowly fall into perspective. Stan will say something or do something that makes him do a double take. And at first he thinks he's just being paranoid. That, because of his trauma, he's seeing Bill everywhere.

But it just keeps happening.

And maybe he thinks that there's something left of Bill inside Stan's head. Something left behind that's causing this, but (to his horror and intense denial) he comes to realize Stan's always been like this. His personality and Bill's have always been eerily similar. He just wasn't there to make the comparison before.

As Ford is grappling (and failing) to understand what it all means, Stan honestly couldn't give two shits. He's just there. Chilling.

I mean, of course he cares that his brother is apparently having some kind of dilemma, but he knows that he's his own person. That Bill is dead and not in his head.

Ford's just traumatized and paranoid.

Eventually, of course, everyone finds out that Bill was Stan's past life and Ford loses his ever loving mind.

I don't think anyone else will react nearly as strongly as Ford. Dipper might get up there, but he might focus in on the whole "reincarnation is real," "if souls are just recycled, what does that mean for individual people," existential parts of the situation. It would bother him a bit that "technically " Bill and Stan are kinda, in a way, the same, but he knows his uncle and knows he isn't Bill.

Mabel is just like, cool, wonder what I was in my past life.

And Stan literally couldn't care less. His mom did past life readings back in the day and that stuff is nonsense to make people feel better about being a nobody in this life. And now that he knows it's real? Doesn't change his opinion. He knows who he is now and that last life mumbojumbo is as important to his self view as his astrology sign. Which is to say, not important in the slightest.

But Ford. Ford's whole world is shattered. He's going to go through it. Every negative emotion known to man is flashing at the same time in this poor man's brain and everyone else just doesn't seem to care!?!?

Having to grapple with finding out just why Stan reminded him so much of Bill. About how he views his brother in the light of this knowledge. Grief and anger and fear and confusion. Emotions that I think will take him a long while to overcome (with the help of his family of course!).

I just love Ford-centric Same Coin, cause, at the end of the day, I really don't think Stan would care too much. It's Ford whose response is the most interesting to me.

[firelxdykatara]

I too ship Zutara and think they should have been canon. Although for me it's important to know how such a rewrite would go down. I tried to think, and I'm lost.

After Mai betrayed Azula for him, will he just go "sorry, not interested"? He isn't obligated to date her because of this, but her redemption hinges on Zuko and I don't see it being satisfying if he ends up rejecting her after this.

I thought the solution would be to rewrite her arc in boiling rock to make her have a moral realization, but then the problem with Maiko is practically solved. Their relationship wasn't salvaged by her redemption because last time they talked, Mai still didn't understand what's wrong with the Fire Nation and only changed because she loved Zuko. So how do you make it both satisfying & logical?

With Kataang the problem is the Chakras. The problem with the original (in my opinion) is that after he opened his chakra, letting go of his attachment to Katara, he's still attached (forcing a kiss on eip). Should TCoD get rewritten so that Azula shoots him before he opens it? Then why wouldn't he just open it later? Maybe the chakra would be locked so he feels as though he doesn't need to overcome his attachment just yet. In that situation, how would his chakra even unlock? The stone thing felt like nonsense, so how would I do it?

So yeah I have no idea how to approach this. How would you? (Thanks)

I've been rotating this ask in the back of my head like a rotisserie chicken for a few days--it's interesting because I don't generally stop to think like, how would I write them out of these relationships, I either ignore the relationships completely (which isn't hard, they were barely footnotes in the cartoon) or play a little bit with jealous exes or something. Thinking about like, In A Perfect World where Bryke wasn't in charge of ATLA post-canon (because if zutara had been canon, you can be sure they would've made us regret it) is interesting, and I do have thoughts on how I'd handle their relationships in a rewrite.

(this got long, so the rest is beneath the cut)

Assuming you mostly want to keep canon intact, I think maiko would be the easiest to work around, given how little relevance their relationship has in canon. The problem with maiko as an endgame ship is that it was not set up that way--if it had been, it would not have begun entirely off-screen and their whole relationship would not have been a study in misery and utter inability to connect emotionally. His relationship with Mai was there to showcase just how much he had changed and how little he fit into the life he had been so sure he wanted more than anything since his banishment. It worked very well to highlight Zuko's growth--how that contrasted to Mai's lack of it and why she could not understand him even at his most open and vulnerable--and did not work nearly so well when she was shoved back with him in the epilogue, after he'd quite literally forgotten her existence (he never mentions her again after Boiling Rock, not even to say a word of mourning, considering he'd have every reason to believe she was killed for defying his sister).

I don't think you can fix this by giving Mai some moral realization, because there simply is no room for it. As @araeph says in the essay I linked:

As a character, Mai is very useful to the story during Zuko’s return, because she represents everything that Zuko gains by sticking by his father. A girl who cares about him; the ability to indulge her; the authority he has over others at the palace; we see it all in his interactions with Mai. But this makes Mai a tether to a life he has long outgrown. Her function is not to advance Zuko’s character development, but to obstruct it, which also unfortunately means that Mai gaining a full understanding of Zuko’s trials would be disadvantageous to the story. If she knew everything about him and still wanted him to stay, it would give Zuko more cause than he should have to remain in the Fire Nation, but if she knew and encouraged him to leave and join the Avatar, it would rob Zuko of the triumph of making this decision on his own. In other words, there are good narrative reasons for keeping Mai in the dark; it just doesn’t make their relationship any stronger.

The seeds of a genuine redemption arc (one that includes some sort of moral realization and change to her moral framework) for Mai would have to have been planted far earlier than five episodes from the end of the series, but doing so would have of necessity detracted from Zuko's own character arc and the realizations that he makes despite his attachment to Mai (or more specifically to their relationship, which I feel like he was clinging to more out of a sense of abject loneliness he couldn't shake rather than genuine feelings and emotional connection).

So, in my mind, since we're tackling this with an eye towards getting rid of maiko with the fewest ripples to the overall story anyway, the easiest way to do this would be make one slight change to the end of the Boiling Rock two-parter--have Ty Lee (who had always been the least gung-ho of the trio about bowing to Azula's whims and had to be textually threatened into joining her in the first place) save Zuko's life, and then have Mai (who showed the most genuine affection for Ty Lee anyway) save Ty Lee. I love Zuko more than I fear you always fell flat for me as some epic declaration of love, anyway, since a) Zuko is not around to hear it, and b) unlike Ty Lee, she never showed much fear of Azula to begin with, so it wasn't a very high bar to clear. It was a cool line that was entirely unearned, and I don't think it would be missed, there would be some cute mailee crumbs this way, and a throwaway line of getting them released from the prison after the war ended could wrap up their presence in the story pretty nicely.

Now, kataang is a little trickier, if only because the last leg of Aang's character arc is almost completely derailed by his refusal to let go of his possessive attachment to Katara, to the point where he never naturally reopens his chakras, he has to have the Rock of Destiny hit him in just the right place, and the deus ex lionturtle there to give him a way out of having to make a hard moral choice. (I've maintained for years that if you work the final act of your main character's overall arc in such a way that it could have been solved by one good session with a chiropractor, something got fucked along the way.)

The thing about Aang's chakras is that, narratively, his whole thing with Guru Pathik and leaving his training early to save his friends was basically his version of Luke running away from his training with Yoda on Degobah because of his Force vision, only to find out that his friends were in the process of rescuing themselves and then losing his hand because he hadn't completed the most crucial part of his training. What's missing, therefore, from the last act of Aang's character arc, is the return.

See, in Star Wars, Luke pretty explicitly makes the wrong choice when he chooses to prioritize saving his friends over attaining enlightenment and fully mastering the Force. It was the only choice he could have made, but it was still the wrong one--because, like Aang, his friends did not actually need him to save them, he actually almost makes it harder for them to get away by requiring them to save him because, like Aang, he loses a battle in a very critical way. This was a lesson he desperately needed to learn, and it is clear he has learned it by the time he makes it back to Degobah and witnesses the end of Yoda's life, his own enlightenment having already been reached.

But Aang never goes back to the Guru.

And the text refuses to allow us to sit with the fact that he made the wrong choice in prioritizing his attachment to Katara over his ability to master the Avatar State. He is actually narratively vindicated about it, because the plot bends itself into a pretzel so that he doesn't have to spend any time during the last book trying to reopen his chakras and regain access to the Avatar State, handed both in the final battle with no excess effort on his part, and handed the girl into the bargain. (The girl who never even wanted him, so far as we can tell from all the lack of cues she gave him that she actually returned his feelings.)

And I think this could have been solved with a few scattered scenes. Let Katara actually have some agency in her own romantic relationship (or lack thereof), insofar as noticing Aang's advances and clueing the audience in to how she actually feels. Let Aang struggle with the fact that he can't reach the Avatar State, that his mastery of the elements is in limbo because he can't access his full power, rather than ignoring all of this until the end of the show. If we're trying to keep the shape of the last season roughly the same, let Katara confront Aang about the invasion kiss.

This would have been the perfect time to establish that Katara actually does feel some type of way about Aang prior to the epilogue, and it could have saved us from the exceedingly cringey EIP kiss that Aang never apologized for. How it comes across now, of course, is that Katara basically pretends it never even happened, to the point where she doesn't even know what Aang is talking about during EIP until he reminds her--the death knell for any shot their relationship had at looking requited, because I can tell you, as someone who's been a teenage girl, if someone I had conflicted but burgeoning romantic feelings for had kissed me, I would not have completely forgotten about it only a few weeks later--and we never get any indication as to what she actually felt about the kiss (which was not mutual, despite what Aang's dialogue in the EIP scene implies) except for the fact that she looked away and frowned afterwards. (A change mandated by Bryke, who wanted to leave her feelings completely ambiguous; the original storyboards had her smiling to herself.)

So, with an eye towards wrapping up Aang's puppy love crush and establishing Katara's distinct lack of romantic feelings for him, have her talk to him about the kiss. A good frame of reference for this would be Meng's conversation with Aang in "The Fortuneteller", where she finally realizes that he doesn't like her in the same way she likes him. Katara and Aang's conversation about the invasion kiss could be a callback to this, with Aang having some important realizations--that just because Katara doesn't share his feelings doesn't mean she loves him any less, and just because he can't have her the way he wanted doesn't mean he has to love her any less, that she doesn't belong to him but that's ok, because she's still his family and they'll always have each other's backs. Which could have functioned well in helping him take another step towards unblocking his chakras. Going back to the Guru directly may not have worked, since by this point in the story we're hurtling towards the final confrontation and Sozin's Comet, but let Aang reflect on what the Guru told him with new understanding granted him by his experiences throughout the first half of the season.

To keep the stakes high and up the suspense, obviously, he shouldn't have fully unlocked his chakras and the AS before the final fight, but the seeds could be planted--little moments like a talk with Katara about the invasion kiss, maybe a little more empathy and understanding from him about why Katara needs closure in TSR, etc--and then, during the final fight, rather than hand him all the answers on a silver platter, have him almost lose. He still can't go full Avatar, he's out of time, he still doesn't know exactly what to do about Ozai given his own pacifism and desire to preserve that part of his culture--he tries to fight but he's pretty quickly overpowered. Idk how I would've animated this, and maybe it wouldn't have looked as cool for the final fight, but the true climax of the finale was the Zuko and Azula agni kai anyway, so it hardly matters--I'm picturing him doing the rock-shield thing and going into a brief meditative state, where he finally achieves the enlightenment necessary to unlock the AS on his own, no rock of chiropracty necessary. And at this point, I'd give Ozai a Disney Death, since leaving him alive causes more problems than it solves and it's not necessary for Aang to kill him for him to die--they're fighting on a mountain ffs--but if you don't want to change that part then him figuring out energy bending as part of becoming a fully realized Avatar would at least feel more earned than the lionturtle just handing it to him. (And that could've been foreshadowed better by seeding the idea for it earlier in the season.)

After all of that, particularly if you up the emotions during the agni kai and have Zuko and Katara kiss there (or something less explicitly romantic but still tender, like a brief forehead touch), it'd feel pretty natural to have a just friends ending for Aang and Katara. Maybe a brief, slightly awkward but ultimately amiable conversation if Zuko and Katara had a ~thing at their final fight, and then the final shot of the series could be the gaang all together, maybe zutara holding hands or Katara resting her head on his shoulder or something, but since they already kissed there wouldn't feel like a need to end the whole show on romance, something which I've always felt missed the point of the series.

And then, y'know, after that, the world's your oyster! This is how I'd do it if I were trying to keep the bulk of the final season intact. Of course, breaking it all down to its component pieces and rebuilding from the ground up is also an option, but that'd probably be a longer post lol.

[wishchip106]

i’m craving cherik in the apocalypse again….

post nuclear-apocalypse lets go 🫡

lets say Shaw manages to start the cold war and now most of the planet is destroyed and nearly everyone is dead except for a select few (cherik)

it’s been a year since they all started living in the mansion’s bunker and things are not going well 🙁❌❌

food and water are getting low, people are having fights, two people died while going outside and cherik are not talking to eachother because they had a really bad fight or something (idk i need some form of tension for them to overcome)

lets say for story sake, Charles needs to go on a quest to find a missing item for Hank’s new invention that’s probably important and Erik decides to go with him

and then yadda yadda yadda, they traverse through the wastelands, meet new societies, nearly die a few times, get over themselves and makeup/out, find the item they were looking for and somehow make it back to the bunker faster than how they left

uhh happily ever after except you can still barely breath the air

very fun 😁 if anyone wants to write this feel free to do so i will gladly read it 🫡🫡

[creepercraftguy]

NAEGIRI WEEK 2024: Day 1 - DISCOVERY

Makoto Naegi is the unlikely headmaster of a rebuilt Hope's Peak Academy, navigating its haunting past and uncovering hidden secrets alongside Kyoko Kirigiri, who confronts the emotional and physical scars left by their shared tragedies.

@naegiriweek

Full Story below the cut. You can also find the story on my WattPad and AO3.

In case it wasn't already obvious, Makoto Naegi was not your typical high school headmaster.

Several months after the Final Killing Game, Makoto and the Future Foundation decided to rebuild Hope's Peak Academy, with him becoming the principal and working alongside Kyoko. This was a decision that many had found...questionable...Especially considering almost every bad thing that had happened to Makoto, and by extension, the entire world, all originated from this prestigious, but ultimate twisted academy.

Any other person would have been more than happy to scrap the building, abolish the Ultimate system entirely, and maybe even build an entirely new academy to teach the next generation of youths, but Makoto's idea of Hope was much stronger than the average person. The symbolism of turning a school that had fallen into despair, and transforming it into a beacon of Hope once again was just too powerful to pass up, and thus the Future Foundation agreed to give Makoto this one opportunity.

But there were more reasons than just that. Hope's Peak still hid many secrets within its walls. Secrets that could potentially be exploited for evil. Makoto knew that if anyone was going to find these secrets, he was the best person for the job. And who better to help him uncover these secrets than Kyoko, who was well acquainted with the school herself?

With that being said, progress on the investigation was slow, and Makoto mostly handled it himself due to Kyoko's condition. She had almost died due to the NG poisoning during the killing game, but miraculously, she left the building alive, having been recovered by Mikan from a near-death state. However, the poisoning had still destroyed a large portion of her body inside, leaving her arms and hands horribly scarred. The doctors were able to fix the damage, but unfortunately, the burns were so severe that Kyoko had lost nearly all vision in her left eye, and needed a walking stick to help move around.

Makoto knew she would never be able to live a normal life, but he was glad she was able to survive. Even though it had been a month since the incident, she was still getting used to her new disabilities. Makoto offered to have the Future Foundation provide her with the best possible prosthetic arms and legs, but Kyoko refused, saying she wanted to overcome her struggles using her own strength.

Unsurprisingly.

Still, today was a bit different, as out of the blue, Makoto had asked Kyoko to come and visit him at the school. He hadn't been clear on the reasons why, just that it was important and involved her. Kyoko had agreed, and now the two were standing in the middle of the classroom together, looking around as Makoto spoke.

"So you're probably wondering why I asked you to come here?" he said.

His voice was almost teasing, as if he was enjoying being the one in the know while Kyoko didn't; a rare switch in their usual standing that he was very happy to take advantage of.

"You wanted to show me something," Kyoko answered, her eyes narrowing as she scanned the room, "That's the only reason I can think of for why you would invite me here."

"Correct," Makoto nodded, "so...you know how we've been looking around the school, and we keep finding these hidden rooms that each serve a different kind of purpose?"

"Yes," Kyoko nodded, "are you saying you found another one?"

"I am. But there's a reason why I called you here instead of anyone else who could help me check it out. I know you're supposed to be resting, but it felt right to invite you over. It was a bit hard getting you to come here without spoiling the surprise, though."

"That was an annoying effort, I'll admit," Kyoko smiled, "but you did a good job."

"Thanks," Makoto smiled, "So...you ready to see it?"

"Lead the way," Kyoko replied, gesturing forward.

Makoto gave a single nod, then proceeded to walk over to the wall where the hidden room was. With a quick tug on the right books, the door to the secret area opened up. The room was small, only big enough to fit one or two people inside, but it was still impressive. The walls were lined with monitors and a few keyboards, all of which were powered by an electrical box that was sitting in the corner of the room.

Kyoko also saw a few shelves with dusty paper files on them. At a glance, it was clear which one's Makoto had already read and which one's he had left be.

"What's all this then?" she asked.

"Well, I was hoping I could your opinion on that," Makoto told her, "but from what I can tell, this room was supposed to be some kind of secret study. A place where someone could hide and work on stuff away from everyone else."

"A spy room?"

"Possibly, or just a place to think."

"Junko's?"

"That's what I thought at first, but...Well, when I was looking around, I found a bunch of these files on the shelf," Makoto explained, "past investigations, secrets about the school, and even a few hidden journal entries that somebody left behind. All of them are signed with the same name..."

"Who's?" Kyoko tilted her head. Makoto swallowed, as if he was hesitating telling her, but did so anyway.

"The previous headmaster, who died prior to our Killing Game," Makoto told her, "Jin Kirigiri. I think this was his secret study."

Kyoko's eyes widened.

"My...father's?" she asked.

"I know how crazy it sounds," Makoto replied, "but this place has the same vibe that his office did, and the writing style in these documents matches up with what we knew about him. Plus, I can't think of a reason why anyone else would be hiding this place, not even Junko."

Kyoko felt a little bit of emotion rise up inside her, but quickly stomped it back down, keeping her expression calm.

In the eyes of many, and in the heart of Kyoko herself, she and Jin Kirigiri were related by blood, but nothing more. For most of her life, she believed that Jin left her when she was a little girl and that he used her mother's death as an excuse so that he could leave the house, never knowing him as a father because they never really spoke to each other much during their days together.

It was Kyoko's disturbingly twisted grandfather, Fuhito Kirigiri, a man she had spent her whole life looking up to before she found the truth of who he really was, who encouraged her to hate her father. In reality Jin left the family because Fuhito showed no care when Jin's wife died.

When Kyoko found out that her father died in the school at the hands of Junko and Mukuro, and found his skeleton, she didn't show any feelings towards his death. But Makoto, who was looking at the remains of her father instead, noticed that she didn't even look in the box.

Makoto somehow knew that somewhere in her heart she must have thought she was wrong and guilty about her father's death. But she never showed it. Not even now.

"That is certainly interesting," she commented, "I wonder why he didn't tell me about it, if this is his secret study."

"I don't know," Makoto said, "maybe he was just hiding it in case anyone tried to snoop around and found his investigation papers? I mean, it's not like you would have remembered it was here after Junko wiped our memories, so maybe he did tell you and you just don't remember?"

"Fair point..." Kyoko nodded, "So what's in here that you think is so important?"

"I think it'd be easier if you saw for yourself..." Makoto gestured towards some of the shelves, "just...be careful. The dust is thick in here."

Kyoko was honestly hesitant. Yes, as it turned out, Jin Kirigiri wasn't the poor, selfish man that Kyoko thought he was, but at the same time, she'd been avoiding places associated with him since their escape from the school. She didn't want to think about him, or about her past in general, because she didn't want to stir any painful feelings inside of her.

But still, Makoto had been nothing but kind to her, and he had taken time out of his day to find this secret study. He had even invited her specifically, despite knowing how she felt. Kyoko would have been lying if she said she wasn't at least a little curious, so with a deep breath, she walked over to the shelf, grabbed one of the folders, and flipped it open.

Makoto, for his part, lingered in the doorway, letting her read alone, but waiting nearby enough so that he could offer his support if she needed it.

"Is this..." she whispered, her voice trailing off as she began to read.

"Yeah," Makoto said, his own tone low, "it is."

On the inside of the folder, Kyoko saw a picture, a list, and some handwritten notes. The photo was of a young girl, around 10 years old...Unmistakably herself as a child.

Her style was a bit softer and less hardened than her current self, though still notably professional and reserved. She had long, silver-purple hair tied in a neat, straight ponytail, with her bangs framing her face and covering part of her forehead.

Kyoko wondered how her father got this picture of her. After all, this had been taken long after they'd been separated, so where did it come from?

"There's a letter," Makoto mentioned, "you can read it if you want, but I've already done that."

Kyoko knew that even though he said she could read it if she wanted, his tone suggested that he really wanted her to read it now. Maybe not out loud, but still while she had it so she wouldn't forego the chance to read it later.

She sighed and found the letter he was talking about, and her eyes began moving along the page, silently reading her father's words:

Dear Kyoko,

I hope this letter finds you, though I can only imagine what state you might be in, should it reach you at all. And I hope, despite everything, you will still find it in your heart to read it.

The world seems to have fractured at its seams, spiraling into something darker with each passing day. This tragedy...it is beyond anything I could have predicted, even in my worst fears. I can only wonder how you and your classmates are managing in the middle of it all. I do not know what kind of future is left for you, or for any of the young souls burdened by the chaos we failed to prevent.

I can only apologize, though I know it will never be enough. For not being there when you needed me, for all the unanswered questions I left you with. Believe me, leaving you was not a choice I made lightly. I told myself that my distance would protect you, that it was the only way to keep you safe from a fate darker than loneliness.

Seeing what you have become...an accomplished, highly intellectual detective, I believe that my father's teachings served you well, even if I disagreed with the notion myself. Yet now, I can't help but regret it. I can't help but wish that I had been stronger, had found another way. One that did not mean leaving you on your own.

But even in my absence, Kyoko, I have always cared. You must know that. I followed your progress from afar, watched you grow into someone more resilient and brilliant than I could ever have imagined. I see in you the strength I had hoped for, though I had no right to ask it of you.

Hold fast to that strength. The world may be coming undone, but I have faith that if anyone can navigate it, it is you. I say this not as your headmaster, but as your father, and whether you accept as much is not for me to force upon you.

With all my love and my deepest regrets,

-Jin.

Kyoko could feel her hand beginning to tremble as she reached the end of the letter, and she quickly placed the folder back down on the shelf. She took a deep breath, then turned back to face Makoto, who had patiently waited for her.

"It's a shame," she commented.

"What is?" Makoto asked, a little confused.

"This room," Kyoko explained, "all this space, and for what? To keep secrets, and hide things away. Such a waste..."

Makoto knew exactly what was going on, though. He knew her too well not to.

"We'll get the chance to make better use of it," he reassured her, "once everything's settled, I'll have a room cleared out. You can store all the important evidence you need in here, and nobody will be able to get to it. You can make it your own personal study, and we'll call it the Kyoko Kirigiri room!"

He flashed her a bright smile, hoping to cheer her up.

Kyoko stared at him blankly, but there was a twitch in her mouth, as if she wanted to smile back.

"We can discuss that later," she said, turning back to the shelf, "for now, I should check over the files and make sure we're not missing anything."

"Sure thing," Makoto agreed, "but...Kyoko?"

"Yes?"

"You know you don't have to be like this ALL the time, right?"

"Excuse me?"

Makoto sighed.

"I know you've been like this for as long as you can remember. You keep your emotions in check so that the people around you can't take advantage of them. It's the best defense mechanism you've got. But, the world's different now. We're rebuilding it. We've overcome the worst of our despair," he asserted, "You're among friends. I know this is gonna sound cheesy, but you're safe. There's no reason for you to have to keep putting on a mask all the time, not when we're here for you. You don't have to be so cool, calm and collected 24/7. If you want to cry, then cry."

Kyoko shook her head.

"I don't want to cry," she made this clear, "but...you're right in that I feel...emotional...about this..."

"There's...actually another thing in that file that you might want to see," Makoto mentioned, "it's a photo. I'm not sure who of, but I can take a guess."

Kyoko turned back to the files, and found the photo.

It was of her father, and another woman sitting next to him, back when he was much younger. She was sitting on Jin's lap, her head resting against his chest. A wide, contented smile was spread across her face, and Jin was grinning down at her, his arm wrapped protectively

She looked a lot like Kyoko. She shared her composed demeanor and elegant appearance, with some physical similarities. She had a refined, calm aura, and her hair was a muted shade, worn in a practical yet stylish way, possibly in a short, neat cut or a simple, low bun.

"I was thinking that might be your mother," Makoto mentioned.

"I agree," Kyoko nodded, and surprisingly, a smile broke across her face, "so that's what she looked like?"

"You didn't know?" Makoto asked.

"I never met her truly," Kyoko said, "she passed away when I was too young to remember her. I'm sure I'd have some semblance if I was allowed to visit her, but my grandfather forbade me. He wanted to prioritize my detective work."

Makoto clicked his tongue. Even though he knew that he had been an iconic figure in Kyoko's life, he couldn't hide his disdain.

"I know this isn't my place to say. I can't speak for either of you, after all," he said, "but Kyoko...Jin really did love you as his daughter. I'm certain of that now. Whether you agree or not is a matter for you, but you can't deny the proof."

Kyoko nodded.

"You're right," she said, "as far as my father's involvement, there's no denying the facts."

She put the file back on the shelf, then turned and looked at him.

"Thank you, Makoto," she said "For showing me this, I mean. I think you were right to. This isn't the kind of thing you can just ignore, no matter how hard you try. It's something that has to be faced."

"I agree," Makoto smiled back, "so it's no problem, really."

"And, also, I'm sorry. For putting you through this, for making you deal with my issues. You're trying so hard, and I appreciate that," she said, "I'm a bit embarrassed, honestly. I'm supposed to be helping you with your investigations, and instead you're doing all the work and having to worry about me on top of it. You'd think, with all my experience, I'd have a little more self-control..."

"Hey, it's fine," Makoto assured her, "it's okay to lose your composure once in a while. In fact, I like this side of you. Not to say that you're a dishonest person. I just want you to be more honest with yourself, just like you are with us."

"Honest with myself?" she frowned curiously.

"Yeah, when it comes to emotions, anyway," he elaborated, "We're friends, so we don't mind. Just...don't shut yourself out. Don't pretend you're okay when you're not, and don't pretend like you're not hurt when you are."

"I suppose I could work on that..." Kyoko said.

"Yes, you could," he chuckled, "just...if you need to let your emotions out, do it any way you please, and I'll help you with it."

Kyoko paused, considering his words for a moment.

Makoto was completely the polar opposite of her. He wore his heart on his sleeve, and never usually hid how he felt. Even when he tried, he was usually bad at it.

His kindness and compassion for others were evident in his every action, and that was one of the many reasons why everyone who had been affected by the tragedy adored him.

Maybe there was some wisdom in that. After all, Kyoko wasn't sure how much longer she could go on keeping her feelings to herself. And she trusted Makoto with her life. She had every reason to, after all.

"If that's...really how you feel..." she lowered her eyes for a minute, brushing some hair to the side with her hand, "could you...come closer?"

"Sure," Makoto nodded, carefully moving a little closer, "is there something else you need me to look at?"

"Not quite," Kyoko replied, "I was actually thinking that I'd like to return the favor..."

She carefully wrapped her arms around him in a hug. Makoto paused for a moment before he returned the gesture, as Kyoko rested her head on his shoulder.

True to her word, she didn't cry. But she did take a minute to bask in the feeling of having someone so close, a warmth she hadn't experienced in a long time.

"Thank you," she whispered.

Makoto didn't say anything back, but Kyoko didn't miss the small, comforting squeeze he gave her as they stood there, embracing each other in the secret study.

In that moment, Kyoko felt the urge to say something more.

Maybe the world wasn't ready, maybe she wasn't, or maybe it wasn't the right time. But even so, the words bubbled up inside her, and she wanted nothing more than to say them. She lifted her head, and stared into his eyes.

"Can I kiss you?" she asked.

"Sure," Makoto said again, without hesitation, knowing that this had been a long time coming.

The two moved their heads closer, and their lips met, as Kyoko's hand found its way to Makoto's hair. He pulled her closer, deepening the kiss, and she let out a soft sigh.

After a few minutes, the two reluctantly separated, and Makoto gave a small laugh.

"So...did you just kiss me because you were grateful?" he asked, his tone light and teasing, "or was there a little more to it than that?"

"You're smart," Kyoko smirked, "I'm sure you can figure it out."

"Well, maybe you could give me a clue?" he suggested.

Kyoko thought about it, and her answer came quickly.

"It's not something that needs a reason, is it?" she said, "If two people love each other, then there's no reason not to express it. That's my opinion, at least."

Makoto blushed.

"Love?" he said, his tone incredulous, "Is that how you feel?"

"I wouldn't ask otherwise," Kyoko shook her head, "you know me. I'm not the kind of person to ask something like that without meaning it. Unless the idea of your lips on mine is that revolting."

"Don't be stupid," he chuckled, pulling her in for some more.

Time passed, and eventually they broke away. Kyoko left the files where she had found them, took her cane, and they walked out of the study, locking pinkies.

"I'll definitely come back to that room later," she said, "I...think there's more I want to learn about my father."

"Me too," Makoto nodded, "just make sure you let me know next time. I'll come with you."

"You don't have to do that," Kyoko assured him.

"I know, but I want to," Makoto said, "for a few reasons of my own."

"And those are?" she asked, genuinely curious.

"Well, for one," he listed, "I also want to learn more about Jin. And even if I didn't, I want you to know that come hell or high water, I'll be there to support your or lend you an ear if you need it. That you can lean on me if you have to."

"A fair point," she said, "but also, I hope you don't feel like you have to watch over me or worry about me. I am an independent woman, after all. You don't have to treat me like a porcelain doll."

"Oh, I know," he nodded, "it's just that...well, it's nice to have someone watching your back."

"I agree," Kyoko nodded, "sorry for being difficult. Are there any other reasons?"

"Well," he leaned in, his tone and expression surprisingly low and flirtatious for him, nuzzling his cheek against hers, "I don't think anyone else knows about that study yet. So it's nice to know there's a place we can go without getting...interrupted..."

"Psh...You dog...!" she snapped teasingly, planting a kiss on his cheek.

[cosmicjoke]

People are always trying to give the credit for Levi’s heroism and goodness to someone other than Levi him self and it’s so freakin’ annoying.

“Oh, Levi’s mom is the only reason he turned out good, because she loved him.”

As if the handful of years they had together and the single clear, positive memory he had of her would alone be enough to overcome the two plus decades of absolute horror that followed, or even the horror of their lives together, living in absolute, desolate impoverishment, squalor and ruinous desperation.

“Oh, Kenny taught Levi to value life by showing him his life mattered.”

Is this a joke? Kenny was a serial killer and the only thing he ever taught Levi was how to use his strength for selfish gain.

“Oh, Furlan and Isabel taught Levi to care about other people.”

Levi saved Furlan’s and Isabels’s lives before he even knew either of them. Nobody showed him or taught him to do that. He did that on his own.

“Oh, Erwin instilled Levi’s desire to help people into him and taught him morals.”

See my previous point. Levi had a desire to help people long before he ever met Erwin, as exemplified by his rescue of Furlan and Isabel, as well as the other characters he attempts to rescue and safeguard the lives of throughout "No Regrets", like that soldier who nearly killed himself on the titan obstacle course, or Flagon and Sairam out in the field. Even in the OVA, we see Levi protect Isabel from those thugs chasing after her, despite knowing nothing about her. We see him agree to Lovof's proposal only because he wants to protect the life of that disabled member of his and Furlan's crew, after he's taken by Lovof's men to the surface, the obvious implication being, if Levi doesn't cooperate, then they're going to kill the kid. Or later on, when he tries desperately to get both Furlan and Isabel to stay behind on their first scouting expedition, to take all the danger onto himself, only agreeing to let them come when Furlan asks him to trust them. We see that instinct and desire to help and protect people long before Levi ever knew Erwin, or felt any sort of loyalty or admiration for him, he just didn't have the means or the know-how, given what a struggle it was just to survive in the Underground, and given nobody ever taught Levi the ways in which his strength could actually make a significant difference to people. Levi only had a limited idea of how it could, from having taken Furlan and Isabel under his wing and providing them protection.

What Erwin did was focus that already existent desire and instinct onto a broader goal, by convincing Levi it was possible for him to really make a difference to all people by lending his strength to the Survey Corps. Erwin showed Levi how it was possible for him to do what he'd already had a desire to do, if not a belief in his ability to do it, something we see Levi struggle with throughout "No Regrets", not fully believing in his ability to actually help anyone until the end, when Erwin gives him his big speech. And again, it makes sense that Levi would struggle to believe he could actually help anyone or make a difference, given how he grew up and how nobody ever taught him how to use his strength to help. You can have all the desire in the world to do something, but if nobody ever taught you how, then it's going to be a lot more difficult to believe in your ability to do it, or to do it at all. Still, Levi did his best, and did help people as much as he could and knew how. Erwin isn't responsible for Levi having that as his motivation. Erwin only gave Levi the direction needed to believe he could utilize his strength to the benefit of many people, rather than just a few. Basically, Erwin broadened Levi's horizons about what might be possible, and of course, that's why Erwin's influence and impact on Levi is so great. It's fine to acknowledge that, it's fine to acknowledge how important Erwin was to Levi. But to actually try to give Erwin the credit for Levi's compassion and kindness, or his moral values, is absurd and wickedly unfair to Levi himself. Levi already had those qualities in him. Nobody instilled it in him.

I don’t know what this obsession is within a certain segment of this fandom with wanting to rob Levi of the credit he deserves for being the man he is. It's why I always say Levi is a perfect example of nature over nurture, because he literally had no good role models growing up. He had his mom, but again, he barely knew her and barely remembers her. He had literally the opposite of a good role model in Kenny. And yet look how he turned out. It's why I get so pissed when people try to give the credit for that to someone else. Levi deserves the credit for how he turned out. He beat such hard odds, and it's unfair to him to deny him that recognition. It's unfair to deny him recognition for the strength of character it took to overcome the hellish cruelty he was raised in by retaining his great humanity, empathy, compassion and kindness. Very few people could have done the same. Further, I think there's something insidious in it, when people do that, when they try to give the credit for Levi's goodness to someone else. It's basically tantamount to claiming Levi's pain and trauma growing up isn't worth acknowledging. It's like telling an abused kid that they were made better by their abuse, and they should be grateful for it as a result, instead of complaining about it or feeling hurt over it. It’s so lame and unfair, because not only does it perpetuate this harmful idea that none of us are responsible for ourselves, but it also undermines and dismisses the trauma and tragedy of Levi’s childhood by pretending it wasn’t really all that bad or there can be found something positive from the abuse he was subjected to under Kenny's care. It's horribly close to victim blaming, and smacks of abuse apologism

It’s a miracle that Levi turned out the way he did, and the miracle comes from Levi himself, not any of the people listed above.