#even if someone else might have solved it more effectively

[amplexadversary]

I don't know how effective it would be for anyone else, but I think it's helpful to think of genre-requisite pacifists (you know, your Stevens, your Aangs, even your Doctors Who) as characters that, in-universe, just wouldn't be able to handle that kind of violence psychologically without becoming incapable of addressing the threat at all.

Hell, some shows do provide some amount of explanation along those lines. Pretty sure Avatar does (Aang is from a culture of pacifists, fucking with that would at least set off a trauma arc), and any part of Doctor Who where the Time War is relevant definitely has it as subtext.

This requires some amount of engaging in good faith, of course, but tying the pacifism thing into the idea that exists in any fiction where 'there are some things that a character is capable of and there are other things that they are definitely not capable of' can reduce that annoyance to a manageable degree.

i dont agree with a lot of the posturing against people who only watch kid's cartoons because it feels mean-spirited. like if you want to do that it's cool and i don't think you're committing some moral or intellectual sin--but it is very silly when people who do this forget that they're watching cartoons for children, not in a 'you can't expect children's media to be good' way or even a 'the politics of children's media aren't worth analyzing way' but in a 'you have to be realistic about genre expectations' way. because that's how you end up with arguments over whether steven universe should have killed people or not

[clockwayswrites]

City Pigeons Bleed Green, Part 31 masterpost cw: strongly implied off screen murder and discussions about it

“Do you need me to pull the car over so that you can put your make-up on?” Jason asked.

Tim shot him a withering stare. “Do I look like I need you to pull over so that I can do my make-up?”

“See, I know better than to answer yes to that,” Jason said cheerily, “but I also don’t want to deal with you poking out an eye with a mascara wand.”

“I’m not going to poke out an eye putting on mascara.”

“Or bitching the rest of the drive because your lipstick is slightly crooked.”

Tim paused. “…okay, that I might do.”

“And we’re pulling over!”

“Fine,” Tim sighed, “We need to spray your skunk streak black anyways and change.”

“I can’t believe their uniforms are really all white suits,” Jason said as he looked for a convenient side road to pull of onto.

“I know, have they never heard of no white after Labor Day?” Tim asked as he dusted something over his cheekbones.

Jason snorted. “Yeah, cause that’s my problem with the all white suits. Nothing about them being impractically easy to stain.”

Tim hummed. “White is easy to bleach, think lab coats and hotel sheets.”

“That only solves the problem if they don’t have to go anywhere before they can get the stains out,” Jason pointed out.

“It works if they think that they’re immune to any repercussion of having stains,” Tim said. He set the fluffy brush he had been using down. “How often do you think they walked around with Danny’s blood like it was nothing?”

Jason gripped the steering wheel so hard that it creaked under his hands. “Never again.”

“No,” Tim agreed. “Never again. Not any of them.”

“I hate that we can be as final with all of them,” Jason said as he forced himself to relax his grip.

“I know, but the organization is better handled by the Titans and Justice League. Bringing the law into their end will have more lasting effects than bring an end to their agents.”

“Damn bureaucracies,” Jason grumbled. “Always someone else to fill in a spot.”

Tim hummed in agreement. “If taking out agents and bases was enough, the LOA would be long gone, trust me.”

“Oh I do, Timbit. It’s why you’re the one in this car with me. I don’t have any illusions about your hands being clean or worry your commitment wavering.”

“Good, it won’t.”

“I know.”

Jason turned the car down a road and off to the side where it was hidden between tall rows of corn. Tim leaned forward to continue his make up. He really was the best chameleon of them all, even the old man. Jason tried not to think too hard about what that meant for Tim himself. Things were better now, that was enough. He grabbed the can of hairspray from Tim’s bag.

“There’s contacts in there for you too,” Tim said. “And put in the pomade before the spray so that it doesn’t run. You need to slick your hair back for that government lackey sort of look.”

“Glamorous. Is that why your shade of lipstick is so horrific?”

“Bland yet obligatorily feminine,” Tim replied with a flutter of his eyelashes.

Jason snorted as he set about running enough pomade through his hair to make a 1930’s man proud. He stepped out of the car to use the can of spray color and clean his hands off. The dusky contacts were popped in next before he fussed with getting his hair swept over just right and the sides pressed flat against the his head.

Tim finished about the same time with his wig, so Jason grabbed both garment bags and spread the one out on the trunk for Tim. By the time they were back in the car it was like Jason Todd and Tim Drake were never there. Agent UU and Z settled easily into the seats and continued on their way.

“We’re not making a mess,” Tim—or double U— said some time later.

Jason growled.

“I know, but we need to keep this clean.” There was just the right amount of lilt to the voice to sound like a determined woman who had spent to long fitting into a ‘mans’ world. “This is just the GIW cleaning up two assets before they can be picked up and spill secrets to the cops.”

“What’s the plan then?”

“The pen in your pocket is really a needle with a very quick acting sedative. It paralyzes. Everything.”

Jason nodded. “Okay. Act like we’re extracting, get them apart to gather vital items, stab them?”

“In the neck.”

“Okay.” Jason pulled the car to a stop in front of bland suburban house.

As if they had practiced, they exited the car in sync with one another, slight tug to their white suit jackets and everything, and approached the door in a matching clipped pace. Tim was a step ahead (a woman would be better received) and rang the doorbell before crossing his arms behind his back. Jason made himself breath as the door opened.

“Dr. Fenton,” Tim said. “Agents UU and Z. It’s urgent that we come inside, the GIW is breached.”

[callme-naomi]

I Hold You in My Heart

when Nanami went on business trips and his girls miss him

As part of his job, Kento occasionally had to leave for long trips to other cities. Luckily, he hadn’t had to leave for long yet since your daughter was born, and when you saw how attached she had grown to him, always seeking out his presence, you wondered how you’re gonna handle it if he ever had to leave.

And when he had to, you felt as if you forgot how to look after your own three-year-old child.

The morning she woke up, she waddled in the entire house, searching for him. The storm didn’t brew, until at night when she sat in front of the door waiting for him, and did not even come for dinner until his voice sounded.

That’s when you told her he isn’t coming home for one week, and you braced yourself. At first she didn’t understand why would he be gone for so long. But when it finally dawned on her, oh boy.

Even he would have heard the wails she burst into, sobbing for Papa.

Your girl was habitual of doing everything with Papa. Eat, play, sleep, watch TV, talk.

Yes, she was obedient to you too, but the way she seemed to be reprogrammed every time he would tell her something, as simple as, ‘D/N, don’t do this’, made you think of the two as your version of the Pied Piper.

You asked if she wanted to go to the park, like Papa took her every day, and it was a no.

You gave her the newspaper that she and her father fought over every day to see who solves the crossword first, but the crayon just remained untouched beside it.

Every few minutes, you’d see her look out the window too high for her, as if waiting to hear the familiar car revving up.

And your heart especially broke when she leaned into your arms, whispering, “I miss Papa.”

And all you could do, the wife missing her love, was tell her, massaging her hair, “I do too, sweetheart.”

So when she didn’t eat, you grew worried, trying to think of all the ways you could get her to come to the table or even take down a bite.

Finally, the kid gave in to your relentless attempts and bit a cookie, but she straight up refused to go to sleep without Kento.

At that moment you were one decision away from crying. And right on cue, your phone rang up. You practically lunged at it to find the very person you’d just been thinking of.

“Hello, darling.” Kento’s voice came across the line as soon as you received it.

“Hi, my love,” you sighed, sitting on the edge of the bed too empty without him. “How are you? Is everything going good?”

“I’m fine, and so is everything else-”

“Of course it would be. You’re there, after all.”

A chuckle sounded back. “Sounds like someone’s missing me.”

“That is an understatement.” You closed your eyes. “Nobody could be missing you more than I am right now, love.”

“Ah, I miss you too, darling. It isn’t home without you. And I think D/N might beg to differ with your statement.”

“On that note, she misses you so much! Like, so much as not-to-eat-without-you so much.”

His tone was laced with worry now. “She didn’t eat?”

“If you don’t count the half cookie I fought into her mouth. She is saying no to everything. She wants you back home. I tried literally everything, but she just wouldn’t listen.”

“Is she asleep yet?”

“No, before you called she just fought on not sleeping until you come and tell her a story.”

“Listen to me. I’ll switch to video call, and you bring her.”

As you called for your daughter, making baby steps towards your outstretched arms, he switched the call. You scooped your baby up to your lap and turned the camera towards her.

The effect was instantaneous. The girl who was just sulking, burst into a squeal of joy as she clapped and recognized who it was.

“Papa!”

“Yes, my princess, it’s me.” the smile on his face was something to die for.

“Papa, I miss you.” she whined at the camera.

“Sweetheart, I miss you too. Did you have something to eat?”

She shook her head. “I want to eat with you.”

“D/N, I can’t come home tonight. You have to listen to Mama and eat, alright?”

As she began to pout, her little lips quivering, he added, “you’re my good girl, aren’t you?”

“Yes, Papa.”

“Then you’ll eat, okay? It's just for a few days, then I’ll come back.”

“And then I’ll eat with you!”

“Yes, then you’ll eat with me. Now give the phone back to Mama.”

As she returned it to you reluctantly, happiness filling her face while she went to the table, you smiled at Kento. “If only you knew the power you have on her.”

“If only you knew the power you have on me,” he replied, smiling as you giggled in response, and for the next half an hour it was you happily chatting away to him on the phone, while you fed your daughter her cereal, who was occasionally talking to her favourite person between bites.

When there were fifteen minutes left in her bedtime, he had to disconnect the call to attend to another job.

Just as you began tucking her to bed – who was being an obedient girl because ‘Papa told me to be’ – you got a message from Kento.

Play this when she’s going to sleep.

It was an audio of his voice, telling his daughter a little story and talking to her.

And when you played it, she immediately snuggled in for a sleep, her eyes closing with the sweetest smile in the world.

[burnednotburied]

Chapter 6: A Dagger In One Hand

AO3 Link | Masterlist

Pairing: Abby Anderson x fem!reader

Fic Synopsis: Abby goes looking for Owen and ends up on the wrong end of your knife.

Tags/CWs: angst; slowburn; mutual pining; enemies to friends to lovers; talks of purity culture/ideals and “sin”; internalized homophobia and some comp-het feelings (they’re both so gay but so dumb about it); animosity between WLF and Seraphites; blood/gore; descriptions of being hanged; religious/cult-like ideas

Note: I'm really sorry for how long it took for me to write this chapter. Life's been a bitch lately. Keeps kicking me while I'm down, so to speak.

Someone asked about a taglist, so I'm starting one! Please comment if you want to be added :)

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Abby fell asleep surrounded by Scars but woke up alone.

She sat up, blinking away the stubborn remnants of her dreams. Images of her father, alive, and simpler times.

Sunlight shone in from nearby windows, indicating that it was probably already late morning, if not early afternoon, meaning that she’d slept much later than she’d meant to. Much later than she normally would.

But the last couple of days had been anything but normal.

The sound of voices in the hallway brought Abby to her feet and out the door.

Lev and Yara stood just down that hall, arguing, their voices low and insistent.

“Even if you make it, she’s not going to come with you,” Yara said.

“I can convince her.”

“We broke the rules, Lev! That’s all she’ll care about!”

Abby didn’t know who or what they were talking about, and she wasn’t nearly awake enough to begin to decipher it. Behind her, a door opened, across the hall from the room she’d come from.

“Abby?”

Your voice was quiet. Almost surprised. Like you hadn’t expected to see her standing there.

She shivered, as if you’d touched her.

She wished you would touch her.

Jesus. She really needed to get her thoughts in check.

She turned to face you.

You smiled, a stark contrast to the tense words being exchanged just around the corner. “Hi.”

“Hi.” Abby might have just woken up, but she could’ve sworn there was a halo of light surrounding you.

Maybe she was still dreaming.

Her too-recently-conscious eyes could only take in one thing at a time. First, your eyes. She was stuck there for a while. Probably much longer than what was socially acceptable. You had beautiful eyes.

Then, your mouth. Lips still slightly upturned in a warm smile. She wanted to know if you greeted everyone like this. If that smile was a common sight to those around you or if it was just for her. She couldn’t imagine she’d done anything to deserve special treatment from you, but looking at you smiling at her felt like a gift. One that she couldn’t possibly have earned.

It was at that moment that Abby remembered that she was looking at the Seraphite Prophet.

Isaac had warned her about you just over forty-eight hours ago. He’d said that the greatest threat you posed was in your ability to win people over, earning their loyalty even at the cost of their own morals. Their life-long allegiances. Their people. 

She understood now why you had been chosen to be the new Prophet. There was something about you that drew people in – had them letting their guard down – with or without all of the Seraphite brainwashing. 

Hell, Abby met you two days ago and she was already prepared to leave the certainty and security of the Washington Liberation Front to follow you wherever you wanted to go.

There was something magic about you. You must have a similar effect on everybody.

Abby was momentarily relieved, feeling like she’d solved an equation. She wasn’t losing her mind. (At least not any more than anyone else around you was.) This wasn’t her fault. It was yours.

Even as she thought it, it sounded stupid to her. But the only alternative was that these thoughts and feelings were uniquely, inherently her own. And that could only lead to the hope that you might feel the same way about her. 

She finally managed to pull her eyes away from your face and noticed that you were carrying a small, neatly folded pile of clothes. 

“Mel gave these to me,” you said, following her gaze. “She said that they don’t really fit her anymore.” Abby only blinked at you incredulously, not understanding. If she hadn’t just woken up, she would’ve known what you meant. “You know. Because of the–” You trailed off, using your hand to make an arching motion over your own stomach, as if to represent a pregnant belly. “–the baby.”

“Oh. Yeah.” Abby looked away, running a hand absently over her braided hair. “Makes sense. That was… nice of her.”

You nodded, falling quiet as Lev and Yara’s voices grew louder just around the corner, the two of them still arguing.

“I can’t believe she’s on her feet already,” Abby said after a minute.

Your worried look gave way to another small smile. “Yes, well, Yara’s always been tough.” 

There was so much that Abby didn’t know about you. And Yara and Lev. And about your history together. She’d been picking up on bits and pieces of it, especially yesterday with Lev. It had taken some time, but he definitely started opening up to her as they traveled to and from the hospital.

He had even turned things around on Abby and asked what was going on between you and her. And he seemed to find it funny when she got flustered and dodged the question entirely. 

But you had not been such an open book. And Abby wanted to know more. She wanted to know everything. 

She just didn’t know where to start.

“What are they fighting about?” she asked instead. 

“Lev is worried about their mother,” you explained, just loud enough for Abby to hear. “About what’ll happen to her because of them.”

“Should he be worried?” she asked.

“He needs to focus on his own safety right now.” 

“What could happen to her?” If she had to guess based on what she knew about the Seraphites, it couldn’t be good.

You looked away. “Sometimes parents are held responsible for their children’s sins. But their mom is so devout that she’ll probably be fine.”

“Are there options? For helping her?”

You frowned. “Lev wants to go back to the island to get her. But he would never be able to convince her to leave. I’m not even sure that I could, and I’m–”

“The Prophet?” Abby finished.

You moved on without acknowledging that truth. “Yara and I are more worried about what she might do to him.” Before she could think of a response to any of that, you looked back at her, shaking your head like you were shaking those thoughts away. “They’ll work it out. Lev’s not unreasonable.”

“He’s a kid,” she said frankly. “I’m not an expert, but aren’t kids supposed to be hard to reason with, especially when they’re emotional?”

“He’s a Seraphite,” you corrected her. “Seraphites are never really kids.”

Again, Abby felt the urge to ask you to explain, to tell her more about what you meant by that. 

“I could use your help with something–” you said, hesitant, “–if you wouldn’t mind. I would ask Yara, but she’s occupied. And she’s also down one arm.”

“Yeah,” Abby said, sincere and probably far too eager. “Of course. What do you need?”

You smiled gratefully and gestured for her to go back into the room where you had all slept. She followed without question, shutting the door behind her. 

“It’s kind of embarrassing.” The look on your face told her that you wouldn’t be asking if you didn’t have to. “It’s this dress,” you said. “It isn’t meant for me to be able to take it off myself. One or two of my attendants would always have to help.” And then you turned, just enough to draw Abby’s attention to the back of the dress, where there was an admittedly overly complicated looking corset thing going on. It looked cool, but yeah, she could see how it would be difficult, if not impossible, for you to undo it by yourself.

“They might as well have sewn me into it,” you added, doing your best to look at it over your shoulder. Then you turned back to face her. 

She took a beat before she found her voice. “You have attendants? Like maids?”

You shot her an exasperated look. “I had attendants. But they are on the island and I am here, and it’d be really great if someone would help me get out of this thing once and for all.”

“Yeah yeah, I got it,” Abby said, smiling now. “Turn back around.”

You sighed but did as you were told, tossing the pile of clean clothes on the couch for the sole purpose of being able to cross your arms over your chest. Abby chuckled, surprised but amused by your sudden attitude. 

She stepped up behind you, taking a closer look at the fabric contraption that had you trapped in this dress. It suddenly occurred to her that, in order to help you with this problem, she would have to get very close to you… And that she’d have to touch you… And that this would inevitably end with you taking off your clothes. Hell, she was (technically speaking) the one who would be undressing you.

She cleared her throat and tried – not for the first time that day and probably not for the last – to get her thoughts under control. You weren’t coming on to her. You just needed help. You probably would’ve been just as likely to ask Mel to do this. 

Abby shifted on her feet behind you, lifting her hands to start what was sure to be a very long untangling process, but she paused before actually touching the fabric that hugged your back. “Can I…?” she asked. It felt important to have your permission before she touched you. 

“Hmm?” you hummed, glancing over your shoulder before you realized what she meant. “Oh. Yes. Please.”

A thrill shot through her at the sound of you responding to her request to touch you with please.

God, there had to be something wrong with her.

No one – genuinely not one single other person in her whole life – had ever had this effect on her. 

She got to work on the dress, trying to convince her stupid, horny mind that the ribbons and fabrics beneath her fingers were not, in fact, attached to your body. She was unsuccessful.

“Jesus, they really did not want you getting out of this thing,” she huffed. “What? Was trapping you in your clothes their way of keeping you chaste?”

Since when did she say shit like chaste? It did sound like some bullshit the Seraphites would do though.

To her surprise, you laughed. “I think the idea was more likely to keep me dependent on others. Trapped both physically and mentally, you know? … It’s a dress, Abby. You don’t exactly have to take it off to have sex.”

Abby’s fingers stilled, her eyes went wide, and her face warmed. And she was glad you were facing the other way so you didn’t see any of it.

She changed the subject before she did anything stupid, like ask you literally anything else about that subject. “So… have you always worn this dress?”

It was a stupid question, but it’s the first thing she could come up with under these conditions.

“This exact dress, no,” you said. She could tell from your voice that you were smiling, and she couldn’t be sure but she thought you might be teasing her. “But some version of it, yes. Since the day I turned twelve. New ones were made for me as I grew and if they tore or got dirty, but it was always something like this.” You paused for a few seconds before going on. “It’s strange. I haven’t worn pants in eight years. I’m kind of excited.”

Abby couldn’t imagine being excited to wear Mel’s hand-me-down pants. But she also hadn’t been forced to wear the same virtually inescapable dress for nearly a decade. The thought alone made her chest feel tight. 

She had made a small amount of progress with the dress, but not as much as she would have wanted, and she was getting frustrated with the whole thing. She yanked on something that she thought would loosen it, but ended up making it much tighter. You let out a sharp hiss.

“Sorry,” Abby said quickly. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to do tha–”

“Do you want to just cut it off of me?” you asked, spinning around to face her again, clearly even more eager and annoyed than she was. 

“Umm.” Abby thought her brain might be shutting down entirely. “Yeah. I can do that. If you’re sure you’re not gonna want to wear it again.”

“I’m not going to want to wear it again,” you confirmed.

Neither of you had taken a step back when you turned around, which left very little space between you. Something that Abby was painfully aware of.

“Okay,” she said, voice low. “Then I guess I’m cutting you out of the dress.” But she didn’t move from where she stood, just a breath away from you.

You were the first to move, walking over to where you had all dropped your stuff yesterday and returning with your dagger. 

“Here.” Face unreadable, you offered the deadly blade to Abby handle-first. She took it as you spun back around.

She gripped the dagger’s hilt in her hand tightly. The trust that you must’ve had in her, to hand over your weapon and willingly turn your back to her… It made her feel brave.

Or maybe she had bravery and stupidity mixed up.

Abby began carefully cutting through the same ribbons that she’d previously been attempting to untie.

“Are there rules,” she asked, trying to sound nonchalant, “about abstaining from sex? I’ve read about a few Old World religions that were strict about that.” 

You were entirely unfazed by the question. “Seraphites have rules for everything. Some of them always made sense to me. But most of them are ridiculous. Meant only to ensure that our Elders are able to maintain complete control.” 

The top of the dress loosened and began to sag as Abby continued to slice through the offending constraints, until it was only held up by the straps. She had done enough for you to be able to easily get out of it. If you were to let those straps fall from your shoulders, the whole thing would fall to the floor, gathering at your feet. 

She looked away from the smooth expanse of skin in front of her and tried to force that image out of her mind. 

“Should be able to get it off now,” she said, deciding that it would actually be better for her to take several steps away. 

An earnest ‘thank you’ came from your lips as you grabbed the new clothes from the couch. You didn’t ask her to turn around, but she did anyway. And she was decidedly not thinking about what was going on behind her.

“To answer your question from before,” you began as you got dressed. “Yes, there are rules about that, but they’re wildly unimaginative. We are not permitted to be alone with someone of the opposite sex – outside of our family members – until a spouse is chosen for us. At which point, that person becomes a family member. So technically, we’re never allowed to be alone with someone of the opposite sex.”

“That sucks,” she threw out, not knowing what else to say as she stared at a random stain on the wall and forced herself to wonder how it might’ve gotten there.

“Probably. For most people. But I never really had a problem with it.” Your voice was much closer now, just behind her.

“Why not?” Abby’s question of if it was safe to turn around yet was answered with the light touch of your fingers against her wrist, trailing down to meet the dagger still grasped in her palm. She relinquished the knife to you, letting her hand linger against yours as she turned to face you, taking it all in.

You were, indeed, wearing pants. And also a shirt. And they both fit you pretty well.

And you were beautiful. There was always that.

You passed the dagger from your right hand to your left, and the look of determination on your face was nearly the same as it was moments after she first saw you. When Abby was hanging by her throat and you were going to kill her. Only this time the feeling coursing through her body wasn’t fear. It was anticipation. 

Whatever you were planning to do next, she wanted it. 

“Why not?” Abby had asked a minute ago.

“Because I’ve never had any interest in the opposite sex,” you answered as your right hand found its place against her jaw.

Time slowed as you stood there for a moment, holding a dagger in one hand and Abby’s face in the other. 

She thought you might kiss her. She was hoping you’d kiss her.

And then the door flung open and your hand fell to your side.

Yara was crying or yelling or both, and it took Abby way too long to process the words she was saying.

“Lev’s gone! He took a boat! He’s going back to the island!”

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Note: This chapter is a bit shorter than usual, but it felt good to end it here for now. Also, I want you to know that I'm dedicated to finishing this fic, and I know exactly where I want to go with it, so expect more updates soon!

Taglist: @h0meb0dyi @lmaoo-spiderman @quinnsadilla @rew1nds @sapphicontherun

[muntitled]

Yes I would still love the Lee tang smut!!

Convenience Store Guy

Summary: Confronting your coworker about the weird messages you've received doesn't go as planned.

Warnings: Language, Dark Themes, Stalking, Threats, Slight!DeadDove, Gaslighting, Convenience store era cus that was the best, Unstable Tang, Smut 18+ (Minors DNI) Rough Sex, Choking, Degradation Kink, Kinda Virgin!Tang, Dom!Tang

Stalking is bad. If someone is Stalking you, 100% don't do what y/n does, please.

The more he spoke to you, the more he found it increasingly difficult to act like a good person.

“And guess what else?” The chill in your voice has nothing to do with the oppressive winter weather.

“You're pregnant.” your co-worker says.

You laugh and he laughs because you laugh.

It took a certain level of skill, Lee Tang likes to admit - being able to time exactly when you’d crane your neck back, letting your complaints reach the artificial fluorescents while he lowered his incriminating eyes to your cleavage.

“Remember that unknown number I told you about? The one that kept sending all the weird messages?” Tang hums, bopping his head as he slyly adjusts the front of his jeans, obscured by the counter.

“Shit, don't tell me you got another one,'' As the words leave his mouth, you're already handing your phone to him.

“This was sent to me last night,” You say, swinging your head away from the cash register and towards the wide windows displaying the night beyond. Anyone out there could be the person terrorising you. Anyone could be out to get you.

The text simply and succinctly read:

Wear the same colour tomorrow.

And while Lee Tang attempted to feign uncomfortable ignorance (as one might when your coworker tells you she might be getting stalked), he couldn't help but notice that you were, in fact wearing the same colour. Bright yellow.

For some inexplicable reason… you listened.

“What were you wearing?”

He already knew.

“Is that important?” You step aside, making way for the final customer to be rung up. All the while, Tang nurses an even bigger boner than before.

He did not… exactly intend for his moves to get so bold but texting you and having you listen to hus demands… the demands of a stranger… the whole thing is something akin to shooting pure heroin straight into a fresh vein.

Perhaps you weren't so innocent in the exchange.

“That's not important,” You say quietly before swinging your head towards him again, “I thought we should focus on the very real fact that I might have a stalker?”

“Maybe you should respond to the poor guy and see what he has to say- that'll be ₩5000,” While Tang entertains his customer, you immediately grab your phone before stuffing it into your back pocket. The convenience store buzzes with the exit of the final customer.

“Because entertaining a stalker is exactly what they tell us to do,” you accompany your sentence with a small eye roll.

“We don't know if it's a stalker.” Tang didn't like that term. He'd much rather prefer ‘walking you home from a distance,’

“All this guy has done so far is send a couple weird messages.”

Not a stalker. Not a stalker. Not a stalker.

“Why don't you just block him?”

You'd think by the self gratification in this voice that Tang solved world hunger. You let him dwell in his ignorance, partly because you were afraid to dissect how deep this iceberg went.

You were afraid to admit that you had already blocked the Private number… twice.

Initially you had hoped the messages were the effects of some virus, but they kept getting worse by the second.

[17:59] Just wanted to know if you've had a nice day? :)

[20:22] My cat’s sick. Idk what's wrong with her.

[20:23] I don't have a cat lol

[22:23] Where'd you get your cat?

[01:00] I love talking to you

[01:05] You're so fucking hot

[02:03] I love you

You were afraid to admit that you waited for his message at the end of every long monotonous day.

While you wrestle will all sorts of the moral implications that came with enabling you stalker, Tang couldn't take his eyes off your dress.

Had you really worn the dress for him?

Tang couldn't suspend disbelief even for a millisecond to imagine a world in which that was possible. When he sent that message, he obviously didn't expect a response.

He always believed he was nothing but a fragment of furniture in the workings of your life.

The convenience store guy you occasional spoke to.

Everything began to feel more and more brighter in your presence. The clinical musk that hung in the convenient store began to smell more and more like jasmine and time seemed to grow wings and take off whenever you swung by, chatting his ear off about your latest inconvenience.

One moment you were an irritation, the next Tang found himself seated at his desk, surrounded by a halo of used tissues while habitually scouting out porn where the campy lead actress resembled you more and more. He found it concerningly easy to get off when your eyes, your smile and those beautiful fucking tits were clouding his mind eye.

It was around this time when he started walking you home.

For a while, a vaguely heavy silence sits in between you two. Tang, with his head bowed, chooses to ruminate in an emotion very new and complex to him…guilt.

He is completely unaware that you're watching him, until you sigh loudly. “You know… you could at least try to sound convincing,” your words cause his neck to snap up and he watches with wide eyes as you round the counter, dragging your finger against the cold surface.

“I think I'd find it way more endearing if you don't try to lie to me, Tang.” You're walking closer and closer and he feels like his entire mental state has imploded on itself.

“Fuck, I'm going mental,” he screws his eyes shut and pats his cheeks rather hard. When he opens them, youre still there. His breathing picks up as your warmth penetrates the radius surrounding his flustered, agitated body and Tang immediately sends a worried gaze up to the CCTV nestled in the corner above.

“Some girls respond better to just being asked out.”

A billion lies try to flash across his mind's eye. Anything that might get him out of this situation unscathed. He comes up empty. Eventually, all Lee Tang is capable of, is a droop in his shoulders as he asks, “Are you going to call the cops?”

You don't respond immediately. Choosing, instead, slide your finger over his on the counter. Your warm hands encircling his had the power to knock the very life out of him.

“I should call the cops,” you state very gravely,” you look up at him with a grim sort of fascination.

Lee Tang has mentally checked out. His droopy, ringed eyes are stationed on your lips alone.

“You really should.” He says, before bending down ever so slowly as if to bridge the gap between both of your lips.

“You're sick, you know that? You had me fearing for my fucking life,” You're whispering. Why are you whispering?

“Don't say shit like that,” he whispers back.

“Why?”

Almost before he can talk himself out of it, Lee Tang grabs ahold of your hand, the one stationed on his own and he presses your palm directly onto his bulge. His eyes nearly roll back at the warmth of your small little hand alone and you watch, absolutely mesmerised as he begins to rub your palm up and down and up and down.

“Wait-”

“No.” He states, before motioning to bend down and kiss you, but before he can, you stop him with a hand against his chest.

There it was. That all too familiar pang of rejection. That nauseating, acidic feeling that ate away at his insides.

It made him want to hurt you.

How dare you try to stop him?

How dare you bring him this far, only to take it all away?

How dare you?

“Wait.”

“What?” Your eyes widen at the slightly louder quality in his tone. Sensing that you might have disrupted something that was well on its way to blossoming, you're quick to try and appease his nerves. You watch the conflict in his eyes dissipate and when you step closer towards him, your front pressed against his as you whisper in his ear, “Not here,” before spinning around, in the direction of the break room. It takes a moment for his brain to process your words, but when they do, he's ambling his way onwards, away from CCTV.

The very second he shuts the door to the break room, he's charging at you in a quick, frantic gait.

You're only allowed to feel nervous for a total of 5 seconds before he's pushing you against the wall, forcing his tongue down your throat as if it were his first kiss. His movements are jilted and frantic and so incredibly messy. If it were anyone else you might have been disgusted by his haste only proves to be contagious. You can feel it rubbing off on you with the way you mewl against his mouth, shoving your fingers into his mop of dark, unkempt hair.

“You're so perfect to me, F-Fuck,” he whispers in between kisses. He never strayed too far. Your lips stayed connected by a line of saliva. You were both absolutely wrecked.

“So, long…” he whispers, before shoving his hand over your boobs and squeezing, “I've thought about this for so fucking long. I've jerked off to you for so fucking long- I just-” He breathes out, before flattening his thumb against your pebbled, clothed nipples, “I've always fucking wanted you,”

“How long?”

“Since I saw you,” he whispers before dipping his head in between the crook of your neck. Instead of splaying lazy kisses there, you gasp at the sound of him completely inhaling you. “F-Fuck…” he whispers before pulling back, enough to fiddle with his belt, “I need to fuck you,” he simply and succinctly says before bringing his other hand up to your collar. “You're not gonna go anywhere, yeah?” As he asks this, he curls his fingers around your throat, alluding to the real and very daunting fact that he wouldn't allow you to go, even if you wanted to…

“I'm not going anywhere,” you attempt to coax him yet again but he still keeps a firm grip around your throat as he slides, quite sloppily into your slippery cunt. Now his eyes roll back and he exhales the biggest groan he's ever let out. “I already know I'm not gonna fucking last,” with his free hand he swipes his fingers across your clit, stimulating you to the highest level as you whine and mewl into the air.

“So long,” he continues muttering as he ruts into you, “ s-so fucking long… s-so tight. You're too tight-”

You're caught in the throes of the pleasure of being fucked so throughly and so roughly that you completely miss his question.

“Hey?” He says all too quietly while slapping continuously at the side of your cheek as if trying to bring you back down to earth, “You're such a slut you didn't even hear what I asked you?”

You manage to shake your head.

“I asked if you were a virgin.”

You stilled at the question, sensing that you were walking on dangerous ground. Which, you were realising is a norm around this guy. While you were thinking you had to choose your words correctly, Tang dips his head in between your neck and shoulder once more.

“Doesn't matter,” He ruts against you, feeling himself get closer and closer as his grip on your neck becomes tight.

“I'll kill him-” and for some inexplicable reason you cum at that very moment. Your moans reach the dusty ceiling and you fall apart against him so absolutely.

“You're gonna make m-me-” He's already cumming inside you, all while completely cutting off the air to your lungs. He watches you through his spell of pleasure as you claw at his hand and it only makes him cum harder.

“F-Fuck,” he whispers when he empties the last of his seed inside your weeping cunt. You gasp for all the air you were deprived of and he watches with morbid curiosity as life flows back into your eyes.

“That was way better than porn.” Now that he had you, he didn't plan on ever letting you go.

[crudely-drawn-ben]

Introducing Trilogy

Yesterday I released Trilogy, a new tabletop RPG crafted to support you in having grand adventures in worlds of your own making.

There are several reasons I started writing Trilogy, but the biggest one is that I ran a Dungeon World podcast called Crudely Drawn Swords for seven years and that was a lot of time to think about what we were playing. To a degree Trilogy is the game I wish that we could have had to run the podcast.

Starting from the question "what would a purely PbtA game for epic fantasy look like?" I started thinking more widely - what do I want from a fantasy game? And the truth is that I want a game that supports the structure of characters and their interactions but doesn't tie itself to a specific setting.

Trilogy begins with The Appendices - conventionally in epic fantasy these are at the end and document information about the wider world that might not have made it into the story, but here it is where you sit down as a group and decide what tone you want your game to have, and your world looks like. What kind of place is it? What magic is there? What is religion like? What are the major cultures where the story begins? How would it feel to be in this world? Trilogy doesn't tell you any of these things, it gives you the tools to think through how you want your world to look.

This creates a secondary challenge - without knowing what the world looks like, how could I design character classes for this type of game? Trilogy answers this by going back to the fundamentals - instead of a conventional character class, the playbooks in Trilogy represent a narrative arc. Some of them, like The Fighter, The Priest, or The Magus, look like familiar classes. Others, such as The Volunteer, The Mentor, The Weapon, or The Defeated, are a little different. Character arcs have a set of turning points, story beats that allow you to advance along your arc after you have collected a certain amount of experience. Some are positive and others negative, you choose which ones you want to hit and when, but every character's story has its highs and lows and to get the most from the game you need to lean into both. A character can pass through three arcs as they grow and change, like the three volumes of a trilogy.

The aim of the game is to create a slower but satisfying sense of progression - instead of hit points characters take Stress and Harm like in other Powered by the Apocalypse games that can have both mechanical and narrative effects. That makes combat feel dangerous, but the game also offers more ways to solve problems without getting into combat - I have played games where the player characters never got into a fight, instead resolving confrontations through an ingenious selection of alternative strategies including "lying" and "vomiting magic ink all over the floor." I'm genuinely enthusiastic about this game - I think I would be as excited about it if somebody else had written it. It leans hard into the joy of discovery and the excitement of adventure - you can play it as spooky and whimsical or gritty and hard-edged and anywhere in between.

Because I was writing it I even got to make most of the examples of play roll out as the story of someone's game, something I always appreciate when I read it. It also contains every technique I use as a GM in the hope that even before people get the chance to play it (heaven forbid any TTRPG afficionado have books we haven't got around to playing yet!) people who read it will still be able to use that advice in their other games. So that's Trilogy, the game I've been working on for the last few years. I think it's pretty great and I hope you will too:

Obviously it's a full-priced game and that's a big gamble from an unfamiliar creator - if you want an idea of what it's like in practice we've got the CDS team back together and we're starting a streamed campaign so you have a chance to see it in action. You can find that over on Youtube: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NxpXacko9Nc

The first episode includes me notably failing to use OBS at both the beginning and end, and I can't make any promises things will improve in that regard, but it should be a good opportunity to see how the game shapes up from this start and with this crew I know it's going to be funny and take some wild swings. If you're interested in reviewing Trilogy or you really want to give it a try but you can't afford it, drop me a message

[applestorms]

trying to break down beyond more so here's some random thoughts:

he's very particular about the ways in which he's unhinged/insane, and oddly conscious about every weird thing he does. everything is meant to one-up L: excess sugar (jam + coffee sludge), uncomfortable body movements, presenting as a Genius Detective to hide his own crimes, etc. his weirdness is unnatural and, at least in the ways he specifically tries to replicate L, not innate to him specifically. there's a version of beyond, perhaps pre-L, who is weird in his own unique way.

for a serial killer, he has very little interest in the killings themselves. despite executing all these violent murders, even one of a 13 year old girl, every one of his victims is killed only after they're drugged to unconscious and the mutilation of their bodies is all post-death, for the sake of his puzzles alone. seemingly the only reason why he bothers with murder is because that is what L focuses on, and because his eyes make him so intimate w/ death.

his motives are clearly focused around L, perhaps both as a reaction to L and as an attempt at initiating some kind of interaction? iirc mello claims near the end of the story that his sole purpose is to give L some kind of unsolvable case, but clearly some of his behaviors must be done to antagonize L specifically, since almost nobody else (other than the meta audience) knows who he's presenting himself as/clowning on.

ultimately, it's his ego that gets him. he underestimates naomi's abilities often throughout the story, feeding her clues to ensure that his own puzzles get solved-- perhaps out of a lack of respect for her intelligence, but also to present himself as even more capable? to brag as much as he can?

the congenital shinigami eyes is honestly one of the most fascinating ideas any death note side story has ever presented. there are so so so many questions you can ask here-- is beyond genetically part shinigami? is he or his birth family somehow connected to a death note? how can he read the lifespans? mello describes beyond's shinigami eyes as follows:

Killing people was, for him, normal. Killing people who were fated to die anyway was no effort at all. Mmm, I guess I should explain the idea of the eyes of a shinigami. The phrase is only too familiar to me, but if I don't explain it, some of you will cry foul. The eyes of a shinigami. These eyes could be given out by any shinigami in return for half the recipient's remaining life. Normally contact with a shinigami was a prerequisite for acquisition, but Beyond Birthday had traded nothing--he had seen the world through those eyes since before he could remember. He knew your name before you said it. He knew the time of death of every person he met. ...I hardly need to explain just what effect this would have one his personality. You might think they would hardly be useful without a Death Note, but that is simply not the case. The ability to see someone's remaining life is the ability to see death. Death, death, death. Beyond Birthday lived his life unceasingly reminded that all humans would eventually die. From the time he was born he knew the day his father would be attacked by a thug and die, knew the day his mother would die in a train crash. He had these eyes before he was born, which is why he called himself Beyond Birthday. Which is why a child as strange as him was taking in by our home, sweet home--Wammy's House. (pg. 94-95)

it's unclear exactly how much of this story mello heard from L and how much is him interpreting/theorizing w/ his own ideas. the potentially biased narration is a fantastic layer in this story.

he is the second known wammy's kid to overtly attempt suicide, though his attempt is of course incomplete. we have no idea about the circumstances surrounding A's suicide, though i find it notable that A is mentioned at all as their presence makes this a pattern. this also seems important in conjunction w/ mello's infamous opening line: "I am your narrator, your navigator, your storyteller. For anyone else but [Near and Kira], my identity may be of no interest, but I am the old world's runner-up, the best dresser that died like a dog, Mihael Keehl. I once called myself Mello and was addressed by that name, but that was a long time ago. Good memories and nightmares." (pg. 12)

sidenote: love his use of "the old world," in that quote, i wonder what the original japanese is... fits well w/ the whole idea of L as the god of the old world. anyway,

his relationship with naomi is also Fascinating to me, particularly since it really doesn't seem like either of them have a speck of respect for the other. lmfao. i should really fic write for those two sometime... i really just need to do a proper character study on both of those bitches. lol.

edit: almost immediately upon posting this i open back the damn book back up to this quote:

If he attacked her with intent to kill, he would absolutely fail. He knew that he would. Ensuring his path of escape was far more critical. Naomi Misora was nothing more than L's servant, and if she died there would be dozens of replacements-- from the FBI, the CIA, and the NSA-- even Secret Service. So he had only been testing her. Seeing if Naomi Misora was capable of being L's substitute. "Hmmm...mmmm...hmmm...Huh huh huh huh...no, hee hee hee? I could go with ho ho ho ho, but that's a little too jolly...anyway. Oh, Naomi Misora-- you are pretty good. A shame to waste someone like you in the FBI." She had passed the test, so far. (pg. 95-96)

so. shit, idk. i guess he does still have some respect for her, albeit tempered by that classic death note sexism. shrug.

the beyond vs. KIRA comparison has a lot to consider, particularly when it comes to their egos and how they choose to cover up their crimes. L's reaction to either of them is also intriguing-- as much as i like to point out L's lack of respect for beyond he does admittedly take on the case even when it doesn't quite fit his usual standards (10+ deaths and/or 1 million dollars). he's at least somewhat aware of what his legacy is setting up, though how much he actually gives a shit about any of those kids is somewhat debatable...

[artdotpage]

Problems facing modern artists & creators

I've talked with hundreds of artists and creators about the difficulties they face trying to earn a living from their craft.

This post covers two of the big ones (social media algorithms & bargain basement marketplaces), and what tools are available to grow your business despite these issues.

Social Media Algorithms and Audience Ownership

Social media platforms are a godsend for getting your work in front of potential clients and building a loyal fan base.

However as you will all have experienced, it can take a mastermind to figure out what kind of content the algorithm wants you to post, and if you don't do that you'd be as well throwing your content into the void as even your own followers might not see your post, never mind new viewers.

It also means you don't truly own your audience, if you post something slightly controversial your account could be deleted without warning, or perhaps a billionaire buys the site and everyone flocks to a new platform where you have to start growing your following all over again.

Solution: Build a mailing list

This is perhaps the single best marketing tool available to any business, and is sorely overlooked by artists and creators.

It's cost effective and because you own your mailing list it doesn't matter what's happening on social sites, you can always keep in touch with them.

The tricky part is converting people into mailing list subscribers. However I've seen plenty of creators successfully build one by offering incentives including free digital downloads, early access to content, discounts on your store etc.

Those who sign up to your mailing list would be considered high quality followers, someone who is much more likely to convert to a paid client and buy from you again in the future compared to the average follower on social media.

Tools

https://art.page/

https://substack.com/

https://convertkit.com/

Losing clients to undercutting competitors on the same platform/marketplace

If you run your business on a marketplace or platform, your clients are one click away from finding plenty of other choices who are willing to undercut everyone else to land a sale.

These sites have no incentive to make sure that traffic you drive to your profile actually purchase from you. Whether a sale is made through your listing or another seller, they collect their fee either way.

They also use uniform designs which reduce you to a generic product listing. Whilst this can simplify the customer experience, it means you have no control over the sales funnel and ability to differentiate yourself, making it harder to convert potential clients into paying customers.

Solution: Direct clients to your own site

Use your own personal website to make sales from, there are plenty of options with no monthly charge and lower fees than marketplaces. This lets you make dedicated marketing pages showcasing your best work to make a client excited about doing business with you, instead of just being a generic product listing.

Take advantage of marketplaces purely for their customer base. Don't rely on them as your sole business platform. This way, any fees you pay are worthwhile to generate sales you wouldn't have had otherwise. 

Tools

https://art.page/

https://www.bigcartel.com/

https://squareup.com/

Interested in more?

There's plenty more I have to share on this topic, including:

How to properly use Print on Demand without getting ripped off

Streamline managing your business so you spend more time creating and growing your business.

How to better utilize your brand to connect with clients and increase sales

So let me know if you’re interested and I’ll get writing!

Transparency

I'm building https://art.page to solve these exact issues, with the goal to create the best all in one site builder for artists and creators that makes running your business easy.

[ind1c0lite]

(Basic context is that AU of Duel Desinties where the phantom impersonates Phoenix to get him found guilty of Clay's murder, I talk more under the cut abt it jkhlj)

-Basically meant to be a parallel to turnabout trump, cause if you can have ONE boss get found guilty of murder, why not a second one?

-OK basically: everything in DD happens normally until like- a day before clays murder, Phoenix gets yoinked by the phantom somehow (he is still alive, just being held captive), Phantom is still Fulbright, but they've decided to be silly goofy (target Phoenix and get him found guilty of murder, escape police custody and then murder phoenix and make it seem like Phoenix accidentally died while on the run, thats why they didn't kill phoenix right away unlike the real Fulbright) there is an imposter amo-

-I dont have the logistics as to how this affects solving Metis's murder, and how it effects what evidence is used n whatnot and turnabout for tomorrow as a whole, so im just going nuts HGJKHLJ

-Originally I was actually imagining this taking place during turnabout for tomorrow and I wanted that case to be apollo v klavier instead of phoenix and edgeworth and thats why klav is in here instead of Simon (I decided that Simon got badly injured and couldn't stand in court for the retrial, so klavier was asked to step in)

-The courtroom bombing still happens the same way it does normally, but Apollo decides to take up the case again instead of taking a leave, instead of like, you know, healing from the traumatic event that just happened, turnabout countdown still happens as well

-Apollo and Athena do not find out about the phantom's existence until well after this trial, so they have no idea that Phoenix could've possibly been replaced, though simon, after hearing about the trial, might be suspicious about whether or not that was the real Phoenix

-The Phantom had been not only keeping an eye on Simon for a while, but was also stalking Phoenix and Edgeworth after they both started looking into UR-1, so they were able to impersonate phoenix so well that not even his own daughter thought that anything was up (though while Trucy did find him a *little* bit off, but she figured that it might've been the bombing that caused him to act ever so slightly weird, so she didn't pay much mind to it until she heard about his confession in court and realized it might've been because he possibly, ya know, killed someone)

-it's pretty much just switching Athena being framed for murder with Phoenix, and instead of the trial ending on a cliffhanger, it continues on (probably with Klavier insisting on it) ending with soloman being found innocent and Phoenix being declared guilty

-There's a couple days inbetween the end of the cosmic turnabout and the start of turnabout for tomorrow, so Athena, Apollo and Trucy all get a little bit to process the fact that "oh god my boss/my dad killed someone" (simons execution date is pushed back a bit in this au) and they probably get to talk with Klavier and eventually a lil bit with Simon after he gets out

-Im not sure how it all winds down in turnabout for tomorrow (Phoenix escaping and being at large is basically the perfect cover for the phantom to resume being fulbright for that trial) but they do eventually realize that the phoenix who confessed wasn't the real one and now there's a search on going to find out where the real one is being held captive, hes fineeee just ready to take a week long nap and a good vacation (along with every other waa member)

-I dont have anything else to add on rn but if you want to add something or just throw in a scenario feel free to!! this idea has been bouncing around my head for like a month now and Im very happy to finally show yall it

[konigsblog]

I’d like to direct those sending hate to people simply writing dark content to holding adult video sites accountable if they want to achieve some kind of moral victory.

There have been multiple instances of sites like 🌽 hub taking genuine footage of rape/SA and refusing to remove it even when requested multiple times by the victim. Some of their heavier ‘consensual’ bondage vids etc have been said to involve deliberately pushing expressed boundaries by female actors that have do things they didn’t originally agree to for fear of loosing their job. These are real people- their experiences are REAL and have a lasting physical, social and mental effect.

Ghost, König etc are not real. Y/n, is a reader insert of course, but you are never in genuine danger. Everything you ‘put yourself’ into in these fics, can stop at the press of a button. You can hate it, hate the author and never interact with them again- problem solved (If only y’all would do that). In real life? A SA/rape survivor has lived through it, suffers from it forever and might have the disgusting burden of having to see their assaulter in the flesh at work, home etc.

To insinuate that a piece of fanfic that can be ignored, that you CHOOSE to engage with is as equally abhorrent as the real act is disgusting. It’s downright offensive. It’s a great discredit to us victims and shows you don’t actually give a damn about us at all.

You’ll be silent when it’s time to hold a harmful industry accountable/silent in the face a thousand men saying that 🌽 actresses ‘deserve it’ but will continually send hate to what is a largely femme community for typing words on a screen that you could avoid so easily. Yeah, I know why, there’s a word for it starting with M :)

On that note, most of these people are dead silent on other fandom issues which proves it’s vendetta, not justice based. They don’t actually care about making it a ‘safe place’ (which is impossible, that’s no one else’s responsibility but your own). Not a peep about racism, for example- can’t be assed making fandom more accessible and less exclusive to POC, gotta go out of their way to harass authors though!

You don’t have to like dark content, or even the authors. You can have limits, disdain bad tagging practices, question respectfully why someone might want to read/write such content, but don’t you dare use victims as a scapegoat or insinuate that you are in any way justified if you choose to harass or bully. Do better; focus your energy somewhere actually productive and deserving of criticism, or shut up and move on.

I agree with absolutely everything you said. These are the same people that consume pornography via porn sites, then sit and complain about people having rape fantasies and consuming dark fiction (key word: fiction). They care more about people's kinks and fantasies and decisions in the bedroom (where both parties have consented beforehand), then they do about the REAL rape tapes on porn sites. It's not just rape either, there's a lot of incredibly fucked-up, illegal, and sickening things on these sites that I won't get into. People have their trauma published, profited off of, and are violated for money, and these sites never take these videos down either.

They care too much about their comfort character being portrayed in a way they don't agree with to focus on the poor souls who have had their trauma uploaded online – and to make money off! Are the COD characters real, or am I missing something? They're fictional characters. Just because you don't agree with a headcannon doesn't mean that everyone else also disagrees. It doesn't determine their morality. And honestly, do I really think these hateful and spiteful people are victims of some form of assault? No, I don't. Because victims of SA/rape (who cope differently) filter things out to prevent themselves from getting triggered. I don't think that these hate anons are actually triggered by the content I upload and just want to judge others for coping differently. They just want to seem more moral – as if your mortality depends on your coping mechanisms/fantasies are. If you don't want to watch a video, you wouldn't choose to watch it anyways. You wouldn't force yourself to watch the entire thing, then come to the comment section and cry about how you're not interested in the topics featured in the video. You watching that video was a decision you made, a choice. You wouldn't take a kid to a horror film that's clearly 18+, then scream at the film directors for creating it in the first place. If you're not the intended audience, then don't stay. There is an audience of people who do enjoy dark fiction, and just because you don't, doesn't mean that it can't exist. The world doesn't only revolve around you. It's selfish and small-minded.

You get taught about fiction and non-fiction in Primary school, and yet here we are, have to tell adults (or at least people who claim they're 18+) the difference between the two. If you can't draw a line between fantasy and reality, then you shouldn't have access to the internet. That's irresponsibility. It's people wanting to be saviours, act as if they have the moral high ground because they disagree and think that it makes them a better person, when it doesn't. If anything, them constantly harassing innocent writers is worse than what they try to portray us dark content writers as. These are the same people wishing rape, death, and doxxing towards writers who have done nothing but be respectful and give out warnings before a story. Dark fiction writers have more empathy and sympathy than these puritans who think they're on top of the world for coping differently, because we actually understand that there are different mechanisms to cope after being sexually assaulted.

I will never apologise for writing what I write. I refuse to walk on eggshells around these anons simply because they can't act mature and manage their own triggers. These people won't bother reading the articles that I've linked countless times, or listen to this entire post. Because they're narrow-minded, that's what narrow-minded folk do. They don't hear other opinions or think for a second, that maybe, just maybe, they're being disrespectful. They claim we're romanticising rape by writing it, but don't bother learning what romanticising actually is. I've said countless times that rape is a disgusting, violating crime that deserves years of punishment. I don't describe what these characters do as IDEAL or something to WANT, if anything, I describe them as horrible people because that's how I see them. They're in the military for God's sake...

When they send hate to an author's askbox, do they think for a second about the effect it'll have? Victims go through years of self hatred and disgust after being traumatised, and when they find a coping mechanism, do you think they want to be told that they deserve to be raped again, or that they're disgusting, or that they're supporting the vile crime? Of course they don't, because they don't support victims at all.

These people are too illiterate to read this entire post. If anything, it'll go right through them. In one ear and out the other. Am I also responsible for the media they consume? As in, horror films? Will I hold their hand and cradle them, rock them to sleep because they don't want to take responsibility? That's life. You have responsibilities. You can't just drop them because you feel like it and then put it on a writer's shoulders because YOU weren't thinking.

And sure, I can see how dark fiction can possibly affect reality. But, that's not my responsibility. If someone is has the urge to rape someone, that's an issue on their behalf, caused by mental illness. I can't control what people do, just like how film directors can't control the effect that their work will have. If people get themselves off to my content, that's not my responsibility. Writers and film directors aren't responsible for the effect it'll have on others, because there are a plethora of factors that can change a reaction towards certain content, like mental illness, for example. Mental illness plays a huge factor.

[novlr]

I know lots of people say writers block doesn't exist but I still get it (don't come at me, ok?)

Do you have any tips on how to get over it? Like I've tried all the usual things but I'm still stuck.

There are so many reasons why someone might be unable to write, so no shade here. Inspiration doesn't always come when we need it to, and that's ok.

If you've tried all the usual techniques, then here are some more things that have worked for me in the past:

Switch genre.

I know that sounds drastic, but imagining your story from a brand new perspective is a crazy but effective way to shake loose ideas. You might even realise that the block is because your story fits another genre better. It's definitely worked for me in the past.

2. Switch format.

Just because you imagine your project a certain way, doesn't always mean it's the best way to tell your story. Had an idea for a novel but you're struggling to extend it? Maybe it works better as a short story. Were you working on an epistolary novel with a narrow view but you can't bring the story together? Maybe it should be long-form prose instead!

3. Word association.

Play some writing games to do with word association. Mindmap or list anything that comes to mind when you think of a certain word you associate with your project and see if it sparks any ideas.

4. Change the ages of your characters.

If you're struggling with your characters behaving in a way that doesn't seem to suit the story you want to tell, try changing their ages. How does the story work if your characters are more mature? How would a child behave in a certain scenario? Maybe the block is that the characters simply aren't the right age for you to tell your story.

5. Write in a different language.

Now, this one won't be a possibility for everyone, but if it is, then it can be a good way to come up with new ideas. Different languages engage different ways of thinking and communication. Sometimes just working in a different language for a chapter you're struggling with can give you some new ideas.

6. Change the PoV.

For me, the biggest cause of writer's block is if I'm stuck in a PoV but need to either reveal or obscure something the PoV doesn't allow for. You can spend hours trying to solve the problem, when really, trying for a different PoV is usually the easy fix. Don't tell a story with a first person narrow PoV if you need an omniscient narrator, and vice versa.

7. Go on a microadventure.

Get out of the house and do something else. Keep a notebook with you, and just get outside and try and experience something new. Keep your project in the back of your mind, and actually take in the experience you're having and try and use it for inspiration. Or don't. Sometimes doing something completely unrelated is enough to get over the hump.

Want more detail on any of the above? Click the link to the full post in the Reading Room below!

[canisalbus]

Just recently discovered your tumbler and I love everything about it. Your art style, the time period you have chosen, the background you are building for the characters. Top notch.

Though I do have a question : going back through all the asks people are tending to focus on sunny boi Vasco supporting nerve wracked Machete but a relationship needs to be equal so, what's the turn around?

When/how does Machete say 'don't worry babe, I've got this'? He is after all a very accomplished and competent person inside his areas of expertise.

Because of his trusting and altruistic nature, Vasco has been burned in relationships before. Even though he's good at reading people and might sense that he's being treated unfairly, he endures it because he doesn't want to be the bad guy and upset the other person. He's from a well known noble family, he's affluent and he's considered to be very good looking. Over the years he has met countless people who wanted to take advantage of him, his status and his assets in a way or another, and he has hard time tolerating that kind of greed and dishonesty. Machete has never been interested in his pedigree or wealth, and the way he's utterly devoted to him makes Vasco feel confident and secure.

He's been forced into various boxes and moulds all his life, his family had high expectations for him and did their hardest to whip him into a shape that satisfied them (now that I think about it, Vasco's parents probably would've been proud if their son turned out more like Machete, hard working high achiever). He tries to not let it bother him, but on some level he does feel guilty for letting them down. Machete is Vasco's biggest fan, he earnestly believes in him and loves him the way he is. He feels like he doesn't have to pretend to be something he's not around him, but at the same time Machete's influence makes him want to be a better person. Vasco admires his ambition, knowledge, diligence and perseverance. Machete tries very hard to be a good person and do a good job, but because he's so difficult to get close to and puts up such a cold facade, his efforts tend to go unnoticed. Vasco sees this side of him and finds it very charming.

Machete could use a lot of tlc and Vasco is happy to be there to provide it. The fact he's able to have such a profound positive effect on someone and their quality of life makes him feel needed, he feels like he's contributing something good to the world and that gives him strength. It's not like his only job is to pat Machete's head and tell it's going to be alright though, they enjoy each other's company and feel at ease together. In a way Machete also has a calming effect on Vasco. On his good days he can be very pleasant company, he's interesting to talk to, he's kind and gentle and even awkwardly funny at times, he has an eye for beauty and is able to appreciate small good things in their lives. He isn't an expert in expressing his affection physically, but when he does, Vasco can trust that his attempts are authentic.

Machete may not always know the correct words and gestures to comfort him, but he's a good listerer and does his best to be there for him. He never belittles or makes fun of him, he's patient and forgiving when Vasco makes mistakes, and will drop everything if he's ever in a need of help. He often makes Vasco feel seen and understood like no one else. Machete is good at solving dilemmas and coming up with working solutions (or preventing problems from ever arising, more often than not), and Vasco has the nerves of steel to keep him grounded and stable at a time of crisis. Together they make a very efficient and resourceful team.

Their jobs are very similar, Machete works for the church and Vasco is a secular politician, but they both deal with diplomacy and foreign relations. They end up working together often, and since Machete is very competent in what he's doing, he often ends up helping and advising Vasco.

I think despite their differences, they're just very well in tune with each other. In the ways that actually matter, they have common interests, tastes and worldviews. They enjoy similar things. And the parts that differ tend to augment them instead of driving them apart. A lot of their fondness stems from the fact they have a lot of shared history, they met at a young age and their friendship-turned-romantic was a very formative experience for both.

Should it be necessary, Machete would face God and walk backwards into hell to protect Vasco.

[lavendercharm]

Linger, Chapter 1: She's So Mean

Summary: From the moment you meet her, you can't stand Melissa Schemmenti.

Warnings: Strong Language

----

You’ve always been one to go above and beyond. Whether it was because you were truly an ambitious go-getter, or because it was actually rooted in a deep-seated fear of letting others down, who can say? What mattered was you were reliable. You did your best to stay organized and on top of things, despite the fact that you struggled with it. You thrived when it came to creative problem-solving. And you were never, ever late.

At least, that’s the mantra you repeated to yourself as you mentally practiced the apology you’d be giving Abbott Elementary’s principal. Glancing at the watch on your wrist as you burst through the front door, you curse under your breath. Arriving almost a full 45 minutes later than you were supposed to was not the way to make the first impression you wanted. You’d been a bundle of nerves the night before, prepping the following day’s lunch as much as possible. You’d made a concerted effort to get to bed at a decent hour, you’d laid out your “first day subbing at a new school” outfit, and you’d even set a few different alarms in order to prevent this exact situation.

It might have slipped your attention that the alarms you’d set were actually for the PM.

The surge of adrenaline when you’d seen 7:02 AM blinking back at you from the digital clock on your bedside table as you woke was more effective than any cup of coffee. You were barely finished dressing before you were out the front door with your shoulder bag in tow - hair piled in an unkempt mess on your head and makeup, socks, and half-prepped lunch forsaken in your haste.

Mercifully, most subs had pre-planned lessons to follow, so you didn’t have to worry about throwing off your student’s schedules too much today. But seeing as this was your first day at Abbott, you weren’t familiar with the building layout. Even worse, you’d never met the principal, which means you have no idea what kind of reaction to expect in regard to your tardiness.

You knew students started to arrive at Abbott at 7:30 for an 8 o’clock start to the day, and you’d been instructed to arrive no later than 7:15. You looked up from your watch to get your bearings in the unfamiliar environment. Just up the hall from the doors you entered, you saw an office with glass walls and what looked like a check in area where there stood a tall, stunning black woman.

She was dressed stylishly, shockingly so for someone who works in an elementary school. A form-fitting olive green dress hugged her curves, which were emphasized by the large brown belt around her waist. Her hair was long and looked right from a salon, her nails meticulously cared for. She wore red lipstick and her eye makeup could easily be seen on the cover of a magazine. Her face was buried in her phone, so she hadn’t noticed you enter the building. You approached her, your hectic morning creating a distinctly frazzled air around you.

You felt silly and underdressed standing next to her, your normally put-together appearance ditched in favor of time. You silently thanked your past self for having the foresight to lay out your clothes for the day. Even still, your plain black work trousers, white button-down, and sneakers felt distinctly out of place next to this woman. As you stood there, she didn’t look up from her phone.

Unsure what else to do, after a moment you made yourself known by clearing your throat. Without looking up from her phone, a single, sculpted brow raised in question, followed by a short, “What do you want?”

Taken aback, you stuttered, “I-I, uh, I’m the principal- I mean, I’m looking for the principal.” You felt heat rising in your cheeks at your mistake. ‘Good one,’ you thought.

At least your slip-up gained you some ground. The woman lowered her phone and glanced at you, giving you a once-over from head to toe. “What do you want with the principal? If you’re here to complain about something, you’ll have to send it in an email or Instagram DM, she’s on vacation.”

Your heart dropped to your stomach - the principal wasn’t even here? You weren’t sure if Abbott had a vice principal. You were already late, you didn’t know where you were supposed to go, and you weren’t sure if the vaguely-unfriendly woman in front of you would be able to help.

“Oh, actually I’m a sub-” you started.

You were cut off by a loud, “Oh! Well, why didn’t you say so? Why are you dressed like a waiter?”

You frowned. She was right. You did look like a waiter.

You were stunned as the woman’s entire demeanor changed. A large smile graced her features as she held out her hand. “Ava Coleman, principal of Abbott Elementary.” You stared at the outstretched hand before taking it, your eyebrows furrowed.

“Wait, did you just lie to my face about being on vacation?”

“Usually when someone introduces themself, you’re supposed to do it back. Unless you’re like Leo DiCaprio levels of famous, obviously,” she prompts you, entirely ignoring your question.

You give her your name, overwhelmed by the whirlwind that has been this morning and the whiplash of the woman’s sudden change in attitude. “Nice to meet you,” Ava says with a glowing smile as she releases your hand. “You know you’re late, right?”

You nod, rubbing the back of your neck sheepishly. All things considered, Ava didn’t seem upset, or even remotely reprimanding, for that matter. She might as well have been asking about the weather she was so nonchalant. Having braced yourself for a lecture or a raised voice, you found yourself feeling just the slightest bit relieved. “I’m sorry about that. This isn’t… it’s not the norm for me, I promise. It won’t happen again.”

“Girl, I am not pressed,” Ava says, brushing off your apology with a wave of her hand. “At least you showed up at all. Trying to get a sub lately has been like trying to get Taylor Swift tickets - a whole lot of waiting just to find out there aren’t any left.” She gives a cheesy grin at her own joke, not waiting for you to react before continuing, “You’ll actually be with another teacher. Her aide has appendicitis, she’s out for at least the next week and a half.”

You were surprised, not unpleasantly so. You’d expected to have your own room, but there were plus sides to subbing in for teaching aides. “Oh, okay. That will be good actually, I can get a feel for things and watch how she runs her class, maybe ask her for pointers,” you state as you start to follow Ava down the hall.

Ava glances back at you, a look you can’t quite discern in her eye. “Uh, yeah,” she said, entirely unconvincing. “I’m sure she’d love to share pointers. She’s been a teacher here for a long time, so she does stuff a certain way.”

Ava’s words reignite some of the anxiety you’d felt starting to dissipate. You thought having another teacher to lead the class and watch would be a good thing, but Ava is making it seem like this teacher would be difficult. You’d had plenty of old, strict, mean teachers as a student. When you first started subbing, you’d met a teacher at another school who went through teaching aides like Duracell batteries. She’d been in the same school for well over 35 years, so it was essentially her way or the highway. She was so strict and particular, most people ended up taking the highway.

Ava stopped at a door on the right side of the hall, and as she pulled the door open, you heard a chorus of tiny voices say, “Good morning Miss Schemmenti!” At least you’d managed to make it before any actual instruction began.

Popping her head in the room, you heard Ava say, “Melissa, you got a sub today.” A ripple of ‘oohs’ and giggles spread throughout the class. Kids were always interested in a new face.

“Oh really?” came a dulcet voice with the strongest Philly accent you’d heard in a minute. It was tinged with incredulity and annoyance. “A sub who can’t be bothered to show up on time?”

Your stomach churned with anxiety and shame, but you felt a slight spike of annoyance as well. You suppose you couldn’t blame her, but you hadn’t even met this woman yet. You pushed these feelings aside as best you could as Ava replied, “You’re lucky you got a sub at all girl. I didn’t have to put her in your class. You’re welcome!” Stepping aside, she gestures you into the room.

The first thing you notice is the sheer amount of kids crammed into one room. There’s a division in the center and one side seems to be slightly older. The confusion must be evident on your face, because Ava chimes in, “We lost a third-grade teacher last minute and we couldn’t afford another one, so we combined a second and third grade class. You get two for one! I love a good deal myself.” Her joke doesn’t land.

Two grades in one room was really unconventional. How could both classes be receiving the right instruction? You couldn’t wrap your brain around it. Either the second graders had to be feeling left behind, or the third graders were learning the same things they’d learned last year. Not to mention the number of kids presented a challenge itself. ‘There have to be close to thirty kids in this room!’ you thought.

The velvety voice from before chimed in, “You could at least try not to look overwhelmed. Jeez, how old are you anyway, kid? I’m not gonna be able to tell the difference between you and the students.” Some small giggles echoed around the room as you turned.

Whatever you had been expecting, this woman was not it. ‘Is everyone working in this school hot?’ you grimaced to yourself as your eyes took in the gorgeous red-headed woman who stood before you. She was older, which in your mind only enhanced her beauty. She was a few inches taller than you, although you noticed the heeled boots she wore. Her deep red hair was luscious, with soft waves begging to have fingers combed through them. A single eyebrow was raised and a decidedly unimpressed expression graced her face, a dusky rose color painting her pursed cupid's bow lips. Her nose was soft yet prominent - it suited her immensely. Her eyes were slightly close-set, a captivating green-hazel color. They were rimmed with a subtle smokey shadow that made them pop.

She had on a long-sleeved black shirt and a few necklaces decorated her collarbones. But what caught your attention most were the leather pants that clung tightly to her soft hips.

You’d always been a sucker for a woman in leather.

“You gonna acknowledge me or not? Do I need to get you a copy of the lesson plan, or a coloring sheet?” She asked, hands on her cocked hips. Another ripple of giggles ricocheted throughout the room. Your cheeks flame with embarrassment. You were used to being teased about your height and young appearance by people you knew, not by strangers using it as a way to question your position at work.

Feeling a surge of indignation and annoyance, you opened your mouth before you could stop yourself and shot back, “I’m 28 years old - how old are you?”

A loud chorus of “Ooooh!” from the class, and in a split-second, you knew you’d fucked up.

A fire ignited behind Melissa’s eyes, her eyebrows coming together and her weight shifting forward. Her posture was rigid, coiled like a rattlesnake, ready to strike at any moment. Her nostrils flared as she bit out, “I’m none-of-your-business years old.” Her tone was dangerous and sharp. The class waited with bated breath to see what you’d do. Would the new sub start a fight with Miss Schemmenti? The tension in the air could be cut with a knife.

You heard, “Neither of you swing before I start recording!” from Ava.

Your heart was rattling inside your chest. ‘And I thought being late would be enough to make the wrong first impression.’ But you didn’t feel sorry for what you said. It wasn’t fair for her to be so critical. If she wanted to play the age card, then you’d meet her where she was at. She had no right to belittle you, even if you were less experienced.

You decided then and there that you didn’t like Melissa Schemmenti.

But you needed to get past this - you both had a class to teach, after all. Standing your ground, you managed to hold her gaze as you said evenly, “If you would be so kind as to point me to my desk? I believe we have a school day to start.” You were immensely proud that your voice didn’t tremble, despite the way your pulse thrummed in your ears.

Glaring at you for a moment longer, you knew you’d live to see another day when Melissa shifted her weight back again, arms folding across her chest. 'Her well-endowed chest,' you thought. You immediately chastised yourself. You needed to get a grip. This was your workplace and you should be keeping things professional, although that had almost gone out the window already. Even if she was alarmingly hot, she’d disrespected you without so much as a “hello.” The woman had been ready to tear you limb from limb a moment ago, and not in a sexy way.

Melissa tilted her head with a pointed look toward the back corner of the room, and you glanced over to see a small desk. You met her gaze once more and muttered a “Thank you.” But as you started to turn, you realized neither she nor the class knew your name. Stopping, you introduced yourself, instinctively holding out a hand.

It occurred to you how incredibly awkward it was to offer to shake the hand of the woman you’d just slighted, and you’re thankful you can write off the heat still lingering on your cheeks as your temper.

For a moment, she stared disdainfully at your proffered hand, but she sent a furtive glance toward the class and a look of realization passed over her face - her students had been watching all of this unfold. Maybe she wanted to set a good example, or maybe she just wanted to move on, but she took your hand begrudgingly. Her grip was a bit too tight. “Miss Schemmenti,” she said, and you noted the lack of a first name. Her teeth were gritted behind a strained smile. The flash in her eyes made the message clear. You are not on my good side.

Ava made a disapproving sound. “Man, I thought I was gonna get something good,” she said, and you caught the light glinting off of what you suspect was her phone camera as she turned and walked away.

You released Melissa's hand and retreated to the back of the room. As you deposited your things on what was now your desk, Melissa began, “Alright my little cannolis, enough dilly-dallying. Shawnte, will you please help me pass out these math sheets?” Her irritation was masked impeccably behind a practiced teacher's voice as she split a stack of papers with a small girl from the third-grade side of the room.

You exhaled deeply. It was only 8:15 and you’d managed to make your first enemy at Abbott. Unpacking your things, you found you couldn’t resist watching Melissa as she made her way around the room. You didn't consider yourself quick to anger, but somehow this woman had managed to piss you off in a matter of minutes. And you were supposed to spend at least the next week and a half with her?

As she passed by you, her eyes shot up and briefly made contact with yours. You felt the heat of her glare piercing into you. It seems she couldn’t resist another pointed comment on your tardiness. “Maybe tomorrow, you could get here on time and do your job, so I don’t have to ask a student to help pass out papers.”

This was going to be a long week.

[veliseraptor]

Xue Yang winds up at Song Lan's monastery shortly post finger crushing!

oooh this is an interesting one! I am sort of torn between this happening at a point where it's on purpose and xue yang is still close enough post-crushening to have some belief that somebody (in this case, a temple full of daoshi) will help him or if I want it to be long enough after that he's turned pretty well bitter on the idea of help from other people being a thing that exists, at least for him.

and since I can't make up my mind about it I'll have it "teetering on the edge between the two, maybe slanting a little toward the latter but desperate enough to try seeking out help from these people anyway"

(or it could be he ends up there because somebody brings him there, but I think I'm setting that one aside for this particular ask.)

song lan gets to experience the traumatic experience of proximity to a horrifying aftermath of a very nasty crush injury at a young age! this is probably formative - it's interesting to me thinking about the effects this might/could have on song lan, actually - while I don't think he's ever as rosy-viewed of the wider world as xiao xingchen is, I think being up-close witness to xue yang's specific story and its aftermath would render him a little more cynical than he is in canon.

I definitely like the idea of song lan growing up protective of his shidi as a result of, again, personally witnessing the gruesome aftermath of xue yang's trauma. xue yang enjoys this but also is merciless about needling song lan in general, because it's fun, but also that is his uptight shixiong and nobody else gets to mess with him.

I think being in a nurturing and protective environment that provides him with guard rails, expectations, and a life where his utility/livelihood isn't tied to violence goes a long way toward at least tempering xue yang's worst impulses. the impulses will still be there but having fewer reasons to act on them/forming better habits because of the expectations in place and the rewards of abiding by those expectations would make a substantial difference in the way xue yang moves through the world. it changes the calculus on how he sees other people/what he expects from them - even if the betrayal/hatred of chang ci'an is still very much there, it's tempered by the fact that he found someone to look after him.

when song lan decides to leave baixue xue yang goes with him, and please imagine the two of them as the weirdest pair of wandering cultivators solving peoples' problems that most people have or will ever meet.

when song lan encounters xiao xingchen they are still going to connect with each other on a profound level and xue yang is not going to be happy about it. very jealous, very possessive, immediately decides that xiao xingchen is stupid and annoying and not to be trusted.

send me a potential AU and I’ll tell you five fun facts that would happen in a story

[yubellia]

What did Cerise wish for?

I keep thinking about the London special and about what Cerise could have wished for.

Remember how the special was called originally? „The end of ladybug“

This made me think. Her wish must have caused something big. Sure, she could have wished for a world where she gets whatever she wants.

However, they show us something very interesting in the special.

When cerise makes her wish for real the first time, granny bunnix and adult bunnix disappear because that is something that happened to them when they were kid bunnix (god I hate time travel it’s always a mess), so she has to solve this problem now. It’s already part of the greater timeline if you will….

But if everything works out in the end they should not have disappeared???…. Let’s push this aside for this theory!

In other words, they were cut off because they never happened as bunnix. There is no ‚adult bunnix‘ if kid bunnix messed up.

But if cerises wish really meant the end of the universe or the end of time, then why didn’t everything go poof in an instant? If time itself was destroyed, that meant that fluff got destroyed and the burrow should have disappeared. Remember, the Kwami are the manifestation of a concept and fluff IS time. Not just the time portals should have disappeared . But in the end, even with all portals gone, the burrow still stands. Bunnix just ‚loses Access‘ and the portals disappear.

What if she didn’t vanish because she exists as a person but couldn’t use the portals anymore because something else happened?

Which brings us back to cerises wish.

For just a moment, I want you to think back to how Cerise/Lila was introduced. She was the new popular girl and everyone was ‚stupid enough‘ to believe her lies. She even offered Marinette to become friends. Probably a lie but I think she rather not get enemies in her way so it would have been easier.

She only went after Marinette after she rejected her and kept going against her. Who was the one to really get in her way first though? ‚Ladybug‘ . Ladybug exposed her right in front of Adrien. It’s what led to her first akumatization. And from there everything went wrong for her.

Also, cerise is very persistent. She is not letting go of grudges. We saw that she would even let go of Adrien to get what she wants.

And now with Gabriel gone, Ladybug is the only ‚enemy‘ left.

So what is her wish?

When she learned that Marinette is ladybug. Everything must have made sense for her. How Marinette managed to fix everything and come out on top, why she even had the strength to do so in the first place.

I think that her wish did something that was big enough to effect everything else but smaller than we think.

I think that she wished for Marinette to never become Ladybug in the first place. Without ladybug, Marinette would still be the shy and clumsy girl that can barely stand up to Chloe. Someone she could manipulate, someone who wouldn’t be able to defeat her. It would be ‚the end of Ladybug‘. Maybe she even wanted to take her place to get that power. And with that, she could become a real celebrity and ‚hero‘.

It would also explain why the burrow is still there and young bunnix too, but why she can‘t use it. She does exist. She isn’t dead. But without ladybug, she never became bunnix and so her adult versions got cut off and vanished. The future ahead of them DID disappear.

However, I also believe that a selfish wish like this could have backfired on her easily. BugNoir told Gabriel exactly that. It made him use his wish selflessly. We saw that Gabriel’s wish had little to no consequences except for Nathalie coming back to life. Something might have gone wrong for cerise because she was selfish.

Also, I would like to point out that I don‘t believe that Cerise is the supreme because of this. I still believe that the supreme is an evil version of Fu or maybe more guardians. Simply because shadybug and claw noir knew that they had to ‚be stoic and turn off their emotions‘ to protect themselves from the butterfly miraculous. We see that in the special. That was the technique of the guardians.

I admit that this idea with cerises wish isn‘t new. Some more people are catching up to it. Mostly on YouTube though and I don‘t see people discuss it here. I would really like to see confirmation for this in the show though. Just how they confirmed that Gabriel did not bring back Emily. Even though that was clear of you just think about it and people ‚wished‘ for that to be true.

Anyway, what do you think? Do you have ideas what Cerise could have wished for? I hope you liked it.

See you again next time. Bye!

[meredoubt]

"Training"

Early, establishing incident for @hyperbali's incredible OC, Aavya'Raan vas Nedas, and my traumatized Paragon, Commander Ze'ev Shepard. Set early in Mass Effect 2. About 5k.

(We've got so much lore, so many little stories in messages. The artwork? Fucking phenomenal, y'all don't even know. Working to compile some of the extended one-shots into something a little easier to access. Absolutely obsessed with these two, tbh, they are so messy over time and so complicated and sooooo goooood)

“What do you mean, you ‘don’t count your shots’?”

“It’s not like I usually resort to guns to solve my problems, Shepard!”

Aavya’Raan vas Nedas flinches as another blast hits the warehouse wall over their head, and concrete dust floats down. Looking around for anything they can use, the quarian blindly lobs a toolkit biotically, in a wide arc over their head. It hits something with enough force that one of the many, many Blue Suns they’re fighting cries out. 

Ze’ev Shepard and his unwinnable damned situations.

Their suit is giving them comically placid warnings about their “alarming spike in heart rate,” and an extremely minor blaster burn they’ll have to patch. Aavya is over it. They have well and truly had it. 

They’ve only been signed on for two weeks, and it’s been non-stop heroic bullshit ever since. Aria T’Loak herself had bothered to negotiate the contract with the Commander, which meant it would be good reliable work. It was supposed to be dangerous, sure, but they’ve known Aria for years, worked with Aria’s contacts more times than they could count. T’Loak is many things-a pain in the ass as a mentor, for one-but she’s always been dependable in the shifting cesspool of Omega. Aavya’s never known her to give them more than they could handle. 

…but maybe the money had made Aavya a little less careful than they should’ve been, or their concern for the Flotilla’s vulnerability to the Collectors had blinded them to a rare bad call. Damn it. Damn it all. 

They shouldn’t have jumped into bed with Cerberus so quickly, that was abundantly clear. Aavya knew they should’ve listened to their instincts. They’d nearly laughed outright and walked out on the spot, of course, given the organization’s actions, but the Commander-

Well. He’s…something else. 

Shepard doesn’t seem like just another Alliance jarhead. They’d been sure he would be; they figured, given the politics, he’d be a nice governable lapdog to someone. Everybody knows what Spectres are really supposed to be like. It’s a job, which means somebody writes his paychecks, so he’s bought. Just a little fancier of an attack dog, for his government or the Council. Simple enough.

Shepard doesn’t seem simple. He might actually mean it.

Doesn’t matter. No Cerberus paycheck is outrageous enough to warrant getting shot at this much. One or two-maybe even three-they could handle without much of a sweat. But this? They couldn’t even lift this many people if they’d had the drop on the mercenaries from the start. And they can’t spend the money if they’re dead. No uptight human is hot enough to put up with these circumstances.

Aavya chances a frantic glance over at said Commander, a scant two feet away. 

Shepard is, infuriatingly, completely at ease.

He’s outmanned, in the middle of a four to one gunfight, but he doesn’t even seem alarmed. The human’s wordlessly exchanging a series of completely unintelligible, but emphatic hand signals across the crates. He doesn’t flinch at the gunfire, at the din. 

Garrus Vakarian-

-and that had been a whole realization for Aavya, learning that Alliance posterboy Shepard was willing to work with, even seemed to like, the Archangel-

The turian shrugs good-naturedly, and cocks his rifle. 

Aavya has no damned idea what they just communicated, but apparently a consensus has been reached. 

Shepard brings up his omnitool, deftly enters a command, and turns slightly in Aavya’s direction, those long legs pushing up against their own. He indicates to someplace beyond cover without looking; he knows the layout. His hand is steady, his tone sure.

“Go get ‘em, girl.”

Aavya doesn’t see his drone drop, but they can hear when it does. Human technology has an entirely different sound to anything in the Fleet; feels different, too, every time they try to tinker with it. They can make it work in a pinch, but it gives them a headache. It’s coming from a completely alien perspective, and that shows up from the top down. 

The drone shoots bullets just the same, though. 

The Commander leans over further into Aavya’s space to be heard, and the quarian tries not to notice.

“Stay down,” Shepard orders loudly over his drone’s gunfire and the confused shouting; about to pull away, he pauses, looks to the scorched part of their suit. The Commander frowns, glances up to their face. “You’ll be okay. We’ll get you out of here.”

Before Aavya can even gather themself to respond, he whistles to Vakarian, and they stand up, rifles handled with practiced ease.

It takes a moment for Aavya to notice what they’re doing (they blame it on the suit warnings, and not on Commander Unattainable’s disarming proximity), as the two exit cover, backing up as they move at a continuous and steady pace, and always away from each other. 

Crossfire. 

Shepard and Vakarian are chillingly effective, thorough; like they’ve done this hundreds of times before. Aavya almost can’t bear the nearly mechanical shots: one high caliber bullet expended, the next a beat later. Clockwork. And the drone whirring away thoughtlessly, in the center of it all. 

The quarian dares a glance over their cover, despite his order, and sees…carnage.

Their stomach churns at the ease of it, the methodical efficiency, the gore. It’s the kind of scene  that, if you crossed it going down a familiar alley towards the Afterlife, you’d turn and run. Everyone on Omega knows the most dangerous place to get caught is in the cleanup of a hit. 

One merc is left, jabbering away, understandably, covered in his associates’ blood.

Shepard holsters his rifle, brings up his omnitool as he saunters towards the man. Aavya knows this is the boss they’ve been chasing; the datapad they’d glanced at around Shepard’s shoulder suggested he might have bribed one of Aria’s usual runners. 

Stupid mistake, they think numbly, jaded. She’d kill you for much less.

The panicked turian suddenly brandishes a pistol on Shepard, trying to stop his approach. He knows he’s not going to get away from whatever Aria has planned for him; knows that his meager chance has slipped away into nothing. The house always wins.

The Commander raises his hands calmly, tries to de escalate, seems almost bored by the threat, even after the turian gives a warning shot that whizzes past Shepard’s head, inches from his greying hair.

But Aavya-

It doesn’t even register when their arm raises. 

Bubbling, rippling, overflowing…the dark energy sparking along every nerve, blossoming through every vein, expelled through their very pores and out through their suit. They know the science intellectually, but it’s more than that. Aria had tersely said it was just a tool, when they’d curiously asked her once, how biotics felt to her. They knew she was lying, in her way; to protect them or herself, they didn’t know. 

Pure will, made manifest. 

It makes so many so afraid. 

The mercenary is choking on his terror, suspended in eezo-thick air, gun clattering uselessly to the metal grating at Shepard’s feet.  

Reckless, he could’ve shot anyone. I should’ve stayed down. Why did I-

But they slowly let out the held breath; become aware that their whole body is shaking with adrenaline. They just survived another gunfight. They finished it, even. 

The mercenary is pleading for his life to anyone who will listen. He has pissed himself. It’s grim, and sad. Vakarian keeps his rifle trained on the babbling Blue Sun, but is already picking up the man’s gun, wincing. 

And the Commander-

Shepard’s face is completely impassive.

His red eyes burn straight through Aavya.  

* * *

He takes them off the duty roster, until they give in to his demands to undergo combat training, at his discretion. 

They stare, unbelieving, at the side of his head, but Shepard does not look up from the message terminal. Companies and contacts still seemed to find him, somehow, even after two years dead. 

He’d shown them once, briefly, on their first day on the Normandy, and it seemed completely overwhelming. The man was inundated with threats, thanks, and decades long Alliance reply threads, and he seemingly viewed them all with the same long-suffering acceptance. Aavya wanted to ask why he didn’t just delete his old profiles and start over, but that seemed…personal. 

Command suits him like a glove, even at ease. Hunched over the terminal in a hoodie, dutifully reading messages, yet his profile is still distracting. Miss Chambers certainly seems to be surreptitiously noticing. 

It all only makes Aavya feel more put-upon by the entire farce of a situation. 

“Come on, Commander,” they croon, a final desperate tactic. Don’t keep me locked up on the ship. “We both know I’m an incredible biotic-one of a kind, even-and the sort’ve person it’s always good to have around. You’ve got grunts. You’ve got people who’ll shoot first, ask questions never. And I’m not without my skills; I can be very good in a fight. Give me a chance to work my magic for you.”

They lay their hand on the console just next to his arm. He at least looks down at it, for a long moment, before flicking his eyes up at them…and moving his arm away. 

“I don’t work with people who don’t do as they’re told, vas Nedas,” he replies flatly, returning his attention to the screen.

Aavya flinches involuntarily, pulls their hand back to fold their arms.

Shepard pauses. He doesn’t look over, but they can tell he noticed. Of course he did. 

“...Aavya. I’m telling you this as your captain: I won’t put any member of my crew in a situation they’re not ready for, and your lack of weapons training will get you killed. I won’t allow it. Dismissed.” 

Aavya knows that’s bullshit. They both do. But they also know better than to actively mouth off to the captain of the ship they serve on-their mother would never get over it-so they just mutter an obscenity in Khelish (they swear they see his lips twitch). They ignore the urge to call him on it, and stalk off to their quarters. 

At first, those first two or three days, they pace. They idylly daydream they’ll actually do something to piss him off deliberately. Aavya knows they won’t, of course; they’re too smart to get stupid. They’ve dealt with captains swinging their proverbial dicks around before. Still, it feels good to briefly pretend they’ll be that foolish, with Jack.

(“...we could fry the systems with your tech-”

“Jack. That man would hunt us for sport.”

“Spectre asshole.”

Aavya leans back against the pillar, and sighs. They glance over at the other biotic miserably; she’s looking over at them from beneath a raised forearm, laying on her cot.

They’d connected almost instantly; had vented before about all number of things, including how hot the Commander’s infuriating self-righteous schtick is. 

Jack barks out a rare caw of a laugh, when they curse.)

So, the plan shifts, to align with…actionable reality.

Collect the absurd paycheck; cruise around on this overpriced (beautiful) joyride (maybe even study it); eat the surprisingly decent food; work on their amp project on Cerberus’ dime-

-and continue to eye Ze’ev Shepard balefully, until he blinks first. 

They start making the effort to be in the CIC when the away squad returns. Aavya lays on the charm a little thicker; asks after any fun details of the adventures of their newfound friends.

And they do make friends, in that light casual way that…doesn’t matter at all. They’re liked enough to be reminded of drink nights, or sat with at meals. They haven’t had to be the center of attention in a very long time, but they still remember how to do a version of it, if they really have to. Being drilled on comportment and control as a child…you don’t forget it. Especially from an admiral. 

Mordin broaches the subject, at one point, in his way, maybe a week into their unplanned vacation aboard the Normandy. The doctor means well, and if anyone on the crew had earned their trust, it’d be the man who cured the plague that had ravaged the undercity of Omega, but his curiosity is unwelcome. 

They don’t really have an answer for him; can’t. Not for anyone who’d ask. They won’t get into their past, ever, if they have a say in it. It’s gone, only present in the agony it engenders when they remember it, and the person who experienced it’s loss…well. They weren’t vas Nedas. 

And anyway, it’s not like they’re being completely insincere; it’s just knowing when to be involved, who to talk to. Aavya knows half the battle is just being present in the Commander’s mind, making sure they’re not just another faceless member of the Normandy’s crew. 

They can do that. They’re good at it. They can weave their arm through Kasumi’s, and jokingly steal a dextro-fry off Garrus’ plate, and crack jokes with all of them, and watch Shepard watching them.

But the Commander never initiates, is never drawn into their web. 

They start to notice how deliberate he is with his time, with his crew. That he is always present, and astonishingly attentive to everyone’s details; but does not often engage.

He doesn’t need to be the center of attention. He simply draws everyone into his orbit, whether he tries or not. He’ll be silent, for long stretches, listening intently; when he opens his mouth to speak, everyone stops to hear. 

It makes it very difficult to get under his skin. To win. 

Eventually, they sigh, and lose. Just so they won’t be bored. 

* * *

He sets course for the Citadel, when they finally give in. 

Shepard’s face is completely neutral, and his tone mild, but his eyes hold a glint to them that proclaims victory. Graciously, he says nothing. 

They hate how attractive smugness makes him. Aavya pushes the feeling down, a little alarmed by its ferocity and inconvenience. It’s not like they have anywhere to put it, the man’s practically a monk. And he’s Shepard. 

But…the Citadel? Not human space? They’d done some feverish research into Alliance training to prepare themself (apparently for nothing), trying to calm their nerves.

Aavya’s playing it cool now, while the two of them are waiting on their shuttle outside C-Sec, but they can acknowledge it privately, in their own head: this feels like a big deal. The quarian’s never been alone with their Commander. They’re a little intimidated, and not just because of the actual session they’re about to endure.

He was getting regularly talked about, even in the Terminus, when he died. Made a splash, had all the pirates and corporations nervous. Even buried as they were at the time, in their own problems, Aavya had heard some version of what he’d accomplished. Not every day someone defends the Citadel, hunts the equally notorious Saren Arterius. Saves the day. 

It was all pretty romantic, enough to make them just a hint shy, maybe. Sure, Aavya was certain a lot of it was fake or overexaggerated. But then…he did look so good and right on the recruitment adverts.  

The Alliance knew it, too, they thought cynically. You couldn’t escape his soundclips to al-Jilani for a while. Which is why they would’ve bet on him setting up some awful ramshackle course in a field, on some human backwater for their training. 

When Aavya hesitantly suggested this during decontamination, Shepard looked at them like they’d grown two heads. It was easily the most emotion they’ve ever seen from him, followed closely by his disapproval when they began to laugh. Loudly.

The Spectres have their own office and training grounds. Who knew. 

“You think the Alliance wants anything to do with me?” Shepard points out, glancing over at them as he swings into the cherry red skycar that pulls up. 

Aavya eyes the vehicle appreciatively, before sliding in. The interior alone is worth more than apartments they’ve lived in, though not any recently, not since working with Aria. It’s a little disgusting, and absolutely gorgeous. They supposed it made sense, given his other ride. 

“I’m surprised the Spectres do, if you’re so much trouble,” they hum playfully.

Shepard’s hands fly across the holo-controls. 

“Mm. But the Spectres count on it. They just find it…politically inconvenient, currently.”

Aavya bites their lip, unseen, watching him as he maneuvers the shuttle smoothly between traffic. “So, if you’re so inconvenient…I mean. The Spectres seem more strict than your human military, surely. Why are they letting you waltz right into their office, and use a bunch of their weapons?”

A muscle in his jaw twitches, almost imperceptibly. “I didn’t even go to the Alliance. But as for the Spectres…as if I’d let them tell me no.”

Aavya turns, sudden, to watch the flashing lights, the life, of the station flash by. The billions of lives he’d saved, maybe. They’d be thinking about that answer too much, the conviction in his voice, otherwise; turning it over in their head when they had so much else to worry about. The upcoming training, if nothing else.

“So…quality time, alone with the Commander. What will the others think, Shepard?” Aavya teases, a little too brightly, after a beat. May as well have fun. 

Ze’ev snorts. “That you’re a terrible shot.”

“I’m a great shot, when the odds aren’t outlandish.”

The Commander doesn’t answer. Aavya knows he heard them. 

* * *

The sheer number of guns Shepard signs out when they sign into the range is daunting.

Aavya eyes the lineup, as he inspects each one, checks the chamber, and lays it carefully on the long bench. It’s overwhelming. They can’t even use most of these. Their nervousness builds in their chest, makes them fidget. The quiet doesn’t help. 

They’d tried to make conversation, but when he seemed to mostly be listening rather than bantering back, intent on his task, it only made the anxiety build. Seeing all this makes it feel like work, makes them feel out of their depth. It starts to really feel like they’re not supposed to be here, with these people, on this mission.

They don’t need him to make them feel that. He was the reason they’d even taken a chance on this stupid thing, to begin with.

Finally, Shepard seems satisfied. He turns towards them, begins shrugging off his jacket. 

Arms, Aavya thinks dully, dutifully. 

“So, ground rules,” he begins. “One, no biotics.” 

He holds up a hand as if to preemptively curtail an argument that wasn’t coming; when it doesn’t, he tilts his head slightly. 

“...interesting.”

Aavya shrugs, smiling ruefully as though he can see it.  “I know what I’m in for.”

“Do you.” There’s challenge there, in his tone, and the slight lift of a dark eyebrow. 

The quarian sighs, and leans against the bench. They look down at the pistols, the only weapon they have any experience with, and gesture, maybe a little dejectedly. 

“Commander…I’m never going to be good with most of the guns you signed out. I don’t have the years of experience with anything here that you’d need. I’m a great shot-truly, when it counts-but we both know where my primary skills lay. It’s why you took me on.”

They make themself look up at him; it causes something in them to flinch, curl away and in. The unguardedness of his expression, in the ease of his body, in his folded arms. The way his eyes rove over a face they know he can’t see.

“So, yes. I understand ‘no biotics.’ Because that’s not why we’re here. I’d tear this room apart, if it was about my…ability to destroy.” 

They almost can’t say this part-it sticks in their throat-and the next part is harder. They can’t meet his gaze, no matter how hard they try. 

“You know I’m capable. You know I prefer biotics, and talking more. This is about the rules themselves. You can’t stand when I struggle to obey.”

Well, they’re in it, now. Aavya runs a finger along the dark countertop, scuffed with use. They brace.

“I won’t,” he says sharp and sudden, and they flinch. He clears his throat, and his voice is less stern. “Tolerate it. It’s about safety, Aavya.”

Shepard hesitates, weighing something.

“I need to be able to trust you to trust my judgement. That’s what we’re struggling with. I take information, interpret it, and make calls, and if you’re with me, that’s what you agree to, alright?”

Aavya nods, small. They sense, hear, him come close. When he speaks again, it’s…not soft, exactly. But it’s earnest. It cares. 

“You listen, and I keep you safe, and between us, we change things for the better. We will save everyone we can, because���” they see him, in the periphery, gesture between them, “...we move together. I don’t need to look back to make sure you get out alright, because if you’ve listened, I know you’re safe. And I need to know you’ll follow me, no matter where we may go. That’s our deal. That’s what I ask.”

Aavya can’t respond, not with the lump in their throat. It feels like they’re getting a dressing down, but it’s not unkind, and that makes it so much worse. It makes them…angry, and embarrassed, and-

It’s because Shepard really means it. He really believes they can be part of this, that they can accomplish the insane, insurmountable task ahead of his crew. That they’ll be able to get through the uncharted Omega 4 relay, defeat the Collectors, and…ride off into the sunset at the end. They can read it, in every line of him. That’s what he intends to do.

Aavya’s finding that they are upset because…they don’t want to disappoint him. And where the fuck did that come from?

Shepard paces, just slightly, just a little, like he can’t stand still.  There’s an energy between them that is not good, but also isn’t bad. Just-changing, maybe. He continues thoughtfully, almost to himself, like he isn’t tearing into them in ways he can’t possibly know. He has to know.

“What we’re doing…it’s too important for you to introduce doubt, for me. Too many people are counting on the choices I make. There is so much out here that will swallow us whole if I make the bad call. And I can’t know when to let you go as far as you want, out into all of it, without trusting I’ll be able to draw you back in. I won’t have that on my conscience.”

His eyes are intent on them, intense. At some point, Aavya looked up-couldn’t help it-and now they find they can’t look away. He’s…resplendent, with his conviction, his drive. They’ve never seen anything like it, and they’ve seen leaders before. 

They are glad for the mask obscuring their face, for the bench supporting their hip.

Shepard looks down the long road of weaponry he’d had brought out for them. It’s a small army’s worth. 

“I know you can’t use most of these. I wouldn’t ever ask you to,” he agrees, surprisingly gently. “But I’ve been wracking my brain about our problem, our issue. And it occurred to me that the only real way for you to believe me, was if I could demonstrate why I have my job. It’s challenging, trying to…translate my experience to people. There’s not really a way to describe it with words. I’m sure you have much that I’ll never fully understand, too,” he adds quickly, almost in apology. 

“So…yeah. This is the closest I could come up with. Adjust your audio levels,” he adds, the spell broken almost mundanely, like he doesn’t know what he is, as he indicates the protection he’s about to put over his own ears. “And step back…we’ll call it ten feet. Some of these kick.”

Aavya’s eyes go wide, but they do as he orders, somewhat sluggishly. The quarian feels almost exhausted, numb, like they’re fighting off a fever, but their suit’s quiet. They hug their own arms, as he walks to the left and picks up the first rifle. Surely, he can’t mean-

Shepard glances over at them, and taps his ear in a question. Aavya nods, without thinking. The human turns, hits the target button on the underside of the bench, and lets out a long breath.

Everything goes by shockingly fast, but then, he clearly knows what he’s doing. 

It’s rote practice, muscle memory. Calculations and angles he’s had to run so many times that he must feel the weight, the swing of his arm, the way each weapon favours one side or the other when the hammer hits. The guns that spray, he knows how to conserve bullets. The lasers, he knows how to charge. When he gets to the precision weapons, it’s art, it’s textbook, it’s perfect. 

Aavya knows just enough to know they’re standing on the edge of a cliff, and it’s a long way down. They watch as he lifts, shoots, reloads, places back down in almost mechanical motion…at least three dozen times. They lose count. They couldn’t tell you what happened, yet every second is seared into their brain, as though they could experience the entirety of it again in an instant.

When he places down the final rifle, there’s a moment of silence. Shepard doesn’t look at them. 

“...holy shit, Ze’ev,” Aavya breathes. They blanch immediately, but he waves them off. 

“As I said: a demonstration. I’m hoping it helped convey my point.” He finally looks over. “I know what I’m doing, Aavya’Raan.” 

* * *

They practice, legitimately, for some time after. It’s easier, now that they’ve cleared the air. Shepard shares his criticism thoughtfully and his praise sincerely, which helps. Aavya finds they don’t bristle at it, the way they might’ve before. They can tease him again, and he deigns to respond to some of it, and it feels…good. They feel good. Really good.

They feel companionable, now; not again, but for the first time, maybe. He’s easier to be around, when it’s just them. 

The praise is even…well. They’ll deal with it. It’s truly unfair that he’s just-like that.

It’s starting to get on, and Shepard indicates it’s about time to head out, when he stops. He’s looking down the range, and starts adjusting the holo-targets with a furrowed brow. His face pulls only slightly, but it conveys a lot, for the Commander. Shepard shakes his head.

“...this has been bugging me for weeks, it’d drive me crazy if we didn’t try it while we’re here. Test your standard. I’m aware the biotics will always be your go-to, but I wouldn’t feel right if we didn’t look it over. Something’s off.”

Aavya hesitates, but proffers their heavily modified gun. 

Shepard takes it slowly, and stares down at it.

“...alright. I’m starting to understand,” he huffs dryly.

They’re roused to action. “Don’t badmouth my work, Shepard. I’m quarian. You’ll cause an incident.”

He ignores them, inspecting their weapon more thoroughly. “It’s impressive, Aavya. If I wasn’t persona non grata to every law-enforcement agency, I might even feel bad about not caring. It’s astonishingly dangerous. I’m not even sure where you’d find some of these parts.”

Aavya can’t help but preen, just a little bit. “You say the sweetest things.”

Shepard relents, and hands their gun back carefully. He taps his fingers consideringly along the surface of the bench, looking downrange. “...alright, so it’s not the gun. That seems custom to fit your uses. Hm. Try out some of these. It might help us figure out what the discrepancy is that I’m noticing, without having to mess with your actual weapon.”

“Good. You don’t know what I’ve rigged it to do,” Aavya replies archly, picking up the Acolyte and getting into firing stance.

“I can only imagine,” he deadpans. “...ah. Loosen your hips, pay attention to the weight distribution on your feet.”

At their sidelong glance, he sighs.

“People always think it’s the shoulders, but it almost never is. There’s your problem. Wasn’t sure while we were training, but now I think I’ve got it. Admittedly, I don’t know how the Flotilla trains, or the specifics of Quarian anatomy that would influence what they tell you.”

“...I could always answer any questions you might have about ‘Quarian anatomy,’ Shepard,” Aavya teases over their shoulder. “Give you a thorough crash course.”

They can feel him shooting them a look. 

“I’m sure you’d like that,” he replies darkly. “But no. No sex at the gun range. There’s a rule.”

Aavya laughs low, turning to him, firing stance utterly forgotten. “Now, who said anything about sex, Shepard? I think you’re-wait. You’re joking?”

Damn their curiosity. Shepard actually chuckles, his flash of teeth doing all sorts of pleasant things to them. Damn, damn, damn.

“If you actually put the work in and we fix your stance so I won’t need to worry about it, I’ll even set you up to ask the poor guy at the desk about it.”

Aavya dutifully turns back to the targets, and thinks, carefully trying to follow his advice. Shepard being a little mean? This they’ve gotta see, they’ll earn it. 

“Promise?” they hum playfully, sighting down scope.

They jump slightly when his hands alight at their hips, correcting just a little. Aavya shivers, and Shepard goes very still behind them. The moment hangs between them, heavy. They hear him breathe out, and they could swear it’s off.

Ze’ev steps back. 

“Promise,” the Commander teases lightly.