#for context this is manic and tongue in cheek

[zebedeezing]

Like I’m taking advice from some loon

[maxwell-grant]

I’ve been diving a bit back into Batman 66 for research, and this is the cliffhanger from the very first episode. As such:

Jesus Christ

For context: Batman had his drink spiked by one of Riddler's goons at a bar he was investigating in, and he realized this just in time to call Robin to his aid, but Robin was tranquilized and kidnapped by the Riddler's gang just as he left the car. The scene above is what happens almost directly after Batman does the Batusi, and together they kinda form a microcosm for the whole show: That it is super silly and played for laughs and done with tongue-in-cheek irony, but when you’re a kid or just suspend your disbelief more easily, this is all extremely real and serious, there’s hardly much that funny or campy about the plot here

Adam West is so good here, drugged and despairing and worried bad enough that his composure is gone. The scene is funny in one way, because it’s drunk Batman handing the keys to the Batmobile to the police because he’s too sloshed to drive, but it’s also fucking horrible, because he’s just been roofied and has to stand by as his partner / son is taken by very, very bad people who want to do very bad things to him and he’s completely helpless to do anything about it. I don’t think even the movies (outside of maybe The Batman’s scenes with Falcone) ever got this dark

Frank Gorshin is so fucking good here, so goddamn creepy. The episode itself pivots hard tone-wise to get to this cliffhanger and most of Riddler’s scenes beforehand were all fairly comedic, with him trying to destroy the Batmobile or handing Batman the lawsuit, but he ping-pongs masterfully between affable conversational charm laced with uncurable arrogance, smug satisfaction and high-pitched manic giggling that causes his whole body to spasm and bend and curdle like the laugh is going to leave his body, and then he just as frequently punctuates those with ice-cold homicidal whispering with not one bit of humor in it whatsoever, and he shuffles these three multiple times per scene or even dialogue

I wanted to more personally confirm the stuff people have said about his performance, that he was the only villain in the show who conveyed genuine, chilling menace (not sure if he’s the only one as of yet), that he was the blueprint that 70s-onwards Joker ripped everything from, and yeah, forget just the Joker, he feels like a baseline for so much of modern film supervillains on a scale maybe only matched by Heath Ledger’s Joker (that I can think of right now)

Batman really doesn’t break composure in this show that much and that’s part of the charm, which helps make these two first episodes and his desperation with Robin more notable. I know there’s one major scene in the movie where he goes berserk around the villains to protect his date, but I’m liking how this matches something that's a fairly consistent pattern with Batman media, from the early comics to this show to the cartoons even all the way to The Batman, which is The Riddler’s ability to fucking piss off Batman to the point his composure evaporates and he goes berserk with violence.

[adhd-coyote]

Last Line Challenge

I was tagged for this by the wonderful @ithillia!! Thanksies, vod!! <3

I've actually already shared the last line I wrote in a separate post because I loved it so much, so here's an extended version of it with more context and some editing!!

He’d heard once that the definition of insanity was repeating the same action over and over and expecting different results. That meant he’d been insane even before he’d Fallen. Hells, one could argue that he was more sane now than he was before, since he’d given up trying to stop things and just let them play out. Manic giggles bubbled up his throat and spilled past his lips like vomit. The phantom taste of bile coated his tongue with each gasping breath he took. He doubled over, arms wrapped around his stomach, his fingers digging deep into his sides, like bugs trying to burrow into his flesh. Hot tears poured from burning eyes, leaving trails of scalding saltwater down cheeks that ached from how wide they were stretched.

This is from Part 5 of Visions and Where They Lead, a series of fics featuring a young Obi-Wan Kenobi who fell on Galidraan. The first three have been posted, if you wanna check it out ;3

No Pressure Tags: @hastalavistabyebye @whiskygoldwings @loverboy-havocboy @mamuzzy-creates-stuff @ithillia (tagging you back >:3)

[blueskiesfillmymind]

what’s your opinion on each Blue version ? 👁️👁️

I was waiting for another ask!! Oh my god you're gonna be here for a while!! Cuz I'm gonna gush so much!!

Btw im gonna use acronyms for most of the titles of the animations and such so incase u need context.

KM - Kiss Me

LDT - Look Dont Touch

LF - Love Fool

SUASWM - Shut Up And Sleep With Me

BBYHL - Baby Hotline

WIW - wutiwant [one and two]

OTF - On The Floor

KMY - Kuruoze Miy

BMTHD - Bring Me The Horizon / Drown

LTH - Let It Happen

OL - Ordinary Life

So with that out of the way, Here. We. Go!

Kid blue [PRE-TRAUMA]

Blue's baby photos are just adorable!! Makes me wanna give his cheeks a small squishy squish,, I also wanna just- take him to an arcade,, he feels like such an arcade lover,, I wish to pamper him and treat him so much better, I remember when we were kids, we made mud pies and played in the rain together, and honestly those childhood memories makes me all the more happy that we've come so far,, I dont have much else to say other than he's a cutie patootie :3

Adult Blue [PRE-TRAUMA | KM - LDT -SUASWM]

My oh my,, he's such a flirt! His warm soft smug smile, his smaller more awkward moments when i flirt back with him are pure bliss,, the way he peppers me with kisses and always leans on me whenever he needs breaks from his work,, he's my handsy handsome boy!! And he loves me sosomuch,,, The way he'd give me sly glances whenever possible,, and his lovely tooth gap- Have I ever said how much I love his tooth gap? God he's seriously so lovely,, hearing him whistle simple tunes while we walk side by side,, hhrrgsggs

Mild Blue [SLBB - WIW1]

He has such a wounded heart,, it makes me wanna bitch slap pink even more whenever I think of this version of blue, even without his mouth he's quite kissable, he's more quiet than most of the other versions, yet all I can do is softly caress his cheeks, and passionately kiss him, mouth or not,, the way we'd lay together in comfortable silence as he boops his no-mouth against my own mouth, he actually loves doing that with me, kissing my cheeks even though he has no mouth, aside for his devilish smile ofc,, it's like he kisses me through a face mask,,

Heart Blue [BBYHL]

Sly,, Playboy,,, Bnuy,, BLU- no joke he's such a slut for pampering me,, and I mean that in the most loving way ever. I mean cmon, he wears a light pink sweater layered over a button up shirt, his sleazy black pants and lastly his lovely fluffy hair,, his heart glasses adorning his framed face as he looks at me with his tinted glasses,, gosh I'd be here for Years just to gush about his eyes,, The way he sometimes slips his hand near my waist to pull me closer sometimes,, gives me butterflies everytime!!

Hypersexual Blue [KMY]

The fact that when I've fallen for blue,, he was my first taste of- HOLY FUCK HIS TONGUE- May I say that his tongue knows how to knot cherry stems,, his tongue dancing along mine whenever we make out is pure bliss,, sure his mouth tastes like alcohol and booze,, but my god it makes me want to get drunk by his sensual touches,, and whenever we have that special moment,, its all like a wet dream,, his tongue is not only talented but he's surprisingly flexible, in a way he is a little stiff in some places, but he's still flexy,,

Cyan Blue [BMTHD]

Fire, Pain, just his pure denial ignites his rage, the way he sees himself is such a sad feeling, aswell as the way he's stuck in this episode of denying his entire abuse just pains me so so so badly,, During it all, he was so afraid of touching me.. almost isolating himself from me and other awful things, we ended up taking a small healthy break from one another.. but then after he healed,, he apologized for his manic behavior,, and I accepted him in a heartbeat,, having to finally feel his face again was such a blessing,, and I could tell he missed my touch aswell,,

White blue [WIW2]

All I'm going to say,, is I'm proud of him atleast,, finding his scars all over his body made me feel so sorry for him,, and when I watched the video, I felt so hurt.. the way he was silenced for being a man? I'd say that's rlly sexist. but that's not what I'm gonna touch on. I've had to comfort blue, we ended up cuddling when he got back,, I sang the two of us to sleep, and when he woke up, he kissed my cheek softly and mumbled a soft "Thank you",, aaughhh,,,

[Side note 4 paranoid: Whenever blue had those paranoid episodes, I've found another way of comforting them with my voice,, and now whenever he goes through those episodes, he'll either stand there frozen or just get to me for my comfort]

Grey Blue [LTH]

He was in such a spiral,, I felt super super awful for how the aftermath definitely made a number on him, every night he'd cling on me, to which I'd always nuzzle him to remind him how much he means to me,, every night he tears up and cried, whenever I'd see his dried tears, I'd clean them up for him,, aswell as brushing his hair that he was growing out, ngl I missed his mullet,, but hey, I'll love him no matter what <3

End Blue [OL]

... i felt so awful, and absolutely depressed when he began thinking of the things he's always been comparing himself to,, "My existence makes everyone uncomfortable, I'm a peice of shit!" Yet here I am. Thinkin the polar opposite, we both have had therapy times and during the end of it, I'd always ask for a hug, if he accepts, I'd rock him back and forth and hum a soft comforting tune,, if he dosnt want a hug, I'd ask for an alternative, and usually most time we'd always end up cuddling afterwards, I'm apart of his healing, I never want him to go through that ever again,

I'm not gonna talk about the abuser version of blue, he's nothing but a figure of his imagination, he isnt real. Not to me, and never will be real to blue,,

Anyways!!! Yeah,,, as you can tell i love blue :3

[kryptonitejelly]

KJ, pls come get your man 😂

You know this is the literal epitome of Flyboy!Jake 😂

THIS MAN IS A CHILD SLSKSKKAKSKDLAJALDKAK

Context: Flyboy (but readable without) college Flyboy!

I am hooked on college Flyboy 😭 (if you haven’t already noticed, Flyboy asks really distract me)

-

You can hear the music thumping from down the hallway as you duck past a group of sweaty students. Your goal - the small football gym tucked away at the end of the hallway. Fingers on the handle, you tug open the door to be met by an unexpected sight - half the team dancing, and half working out at a manic pace. Your eyes scan the room to find Jake, palms pressed flat to grip the bench, tips of his shoes anchoring him to the ground, his hips thrusting back and forth in a continuous motion, face twisted, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth.

Your hand drops from the handle of the door, gazed fixed on Jake, music drumming in your ears. You aren’t sure what to feel - amusement, confusion, and also, a slight something you can’t quite place.

“Seresin! Your girl is here.”

The shout from one of his teammates makes your cheeks heat just slightly, no matter how many times you were referred to as his girl, it brought about the same reaction, something you had attribute the the fact that you were not really his girl, despite wanting to be.

Jake’s head turns to you, mid snap of his hips to the beat. He holds your gaze as his hips continue to move, it makes the tips of your fingers tingle, and the skin on the back of your neck prickle. You let your gaze drop from his eyes to his hips which are moving smooth, fluid, and you suck in a breath of air, a strange churning pooling at the pit of your belly.

“Uh,” you clear your throat, eyes meeting Jake’s again, “we were supposed to grab pizza?”

He pushes his hips in a final thrust, before pushing himself to a stand, running a hand through his already tousled hair while crossing the gym in easy strides, picking his hoodie and bag up along the way.

“I hope that’s not your sex face,” you blurt out, a combination of genuine curiosity and being slightly bothered.

“Wanna find out?” Jake leans in, and you find yourself staring at his lashes, into his greens.

It takes you a moment to compose yourself, taking a small step back while pushing against his chest, which makes him straighten back up.

“You wish,” you snort, stuffing your hands into the front pocket of your hoodie. It makes Jake laugh, the familiar deep chuckle washing over you.

“Pizza?” He asks, changing the topic while slinging an arm around your shoulder.

“Can we come?” You hear a call from the gym floor, to which Jake yells back “no”, while you call out a “yes”, you had become familiar with the team by now, more so than any girl or fling he ever had on his arm, due to your status as ‘Jake’s girl’.

“The lady said yes,” a different voice calls out, to which Jake raises a hand, middle finger pointed out as he yells out a “no” again, while tugging you out of the gym, lightning fast before the hoard can follow you out.

Don’t you feel like reader would be his girl - even if she/he were seeing someone else sljdlslakajaja

[dabideserveslove]

Fuck it, here's another no context smut snippet featuring ShigaDabi.

Reposted because literally no one reblogged it or anything so... Yeah. Just kinda re-circulating it for visibility.

NSFW Ahead - Minors DNI - check the warnings before hitting 'read more' - If ya liked it and are 18+ then please reblog <3

Warnings: Face sitting (Shigaraki is trans in this btw), breath play, blood, heavy Dom/sub themes, the word 'cunt' is used once in reference to Tomura's anatomy.

Dabi let out a partially muffled grunt of pain when he felt one of the staples embedded in his cheek tear through his skin. The continued stretch and pressure on it from him holding his mouth open becoming too much for the fragile skin to handle.

Sharp pain ebbed into a dull ache and Dabi could taste blood in his mouth, the sharp metallic flavor of it mingling deliciously with the musky, slightly tangy taste of Tomura's cunt.

Everything about it - how Tomura continued to carelessly grind down against Dabi's face, only letting up once in a while for Dabi to gasp in a few breaths before going back at it, not seeming to notice or care that a staple came loose, and even the lingering pain from the wound - sent hot pulses of arousal through Dabi's veins and sent him sinking even further into that warm, floaty, content headspace that only Tomura could get him in.

"Fuck," Tomura gritted out as he tightened his grip in Dabi's hair, making Dabi tilt his head slightly. The new angle apparently was nice if the scratchy, breathy moan Tomura let out as his thighs trembled said anything. "Keep your tongue out, yeah, just like that, shit," Tomura gasped out, "Such a good little slut."

The praise made Dabi's cock throb painfully, a gravelly moan escaping his throat until it was muffled and cut off by Tomura grinding down harder on Dabi's face. Air cut off and jaw opening a little more on instinct, Dabi felt the sharp pain of another staple succumbing to the rough treatment.

He could tell Tomura was getting close, though, and there was no way in Hell he was going to tap out because of a few staples. The pain just fed into his arousal to the point that his head was spinning.

Or, perhaps, it was the lack of oxygen that threw off his equilibrium and made bright spots explode behind his eyelids.

Whatever the reason was didn't matter, though, because moments later Tomura was letting out those gasping, breathy moans he did right before cumming and a rush of slick fluid coated Dabi's tongue.

By the time Tomura sat back on his heels they were both shaking and panting.

Dabi opened his eyes just slightly to see blood smeared all over Tomura's thighs and the slick, swollen lips between them. A weird, potentially misplaced, sense of giddy pride washed over Dabi at the idea that he had marked Tomura like that.

The smile that tugged at his lips hurt, jaw aching while the way the skin was tugged sent sharp jolts of pain through his cheeks. That didn't matter to him, though, nor did it stop the almost manic grin that graced his blood-covered face.

A content sigh came from Tomura as he caught his breath, red eyes opening to look down at Dabi and immediately widening in horror when he saw the blood. His gaze darted back and forth to either side of Dabi's mouth where the two staples closest to his mouth were barely hanging on to the small bits of skin that hadn't ripped.

(...and this is where I stopped writing but rest assured that Tomura is going to fix Dabi up and provide some top tier aftercare.)

[variousqueerthings]

okay i made that slightly jokey post about how "explaining" terry was that one-liner about cocaine and being like *whew*, but what i actually like is that i was somewhat hesitant (as were... many of us) about what "grounding a character" meant

and actually what it meant was simply giving him some emotional context and i think it elevated him and kreese and daniel and especially tory and kenny (but also robby, although robby totally didn't buy what he was selling by the end, love that for him) out of the kids

i don't know how tongue-in-cheek TIG is when he says that he thinks silver isn't a villain/redeemable, but also that's an actor thing - you always try to relate to your character's pov, no matter how that character functions in the text and now he has something to work with, without imo taking away from what I personally loved about his first iteration - the manic billionaire bastard who genuinely liked tormenting daniel and was devotedly overbearing towards kreese (with homoerotic tension off the charts)

those two scenes between terry and daniel were so good and creepy and functioned as great teasers, as well as affecting the plot because of how deeply it affected daniel

[modern-vellichor]

Grief, is a Beautiful Thing

Stage 5: Acceptance

Series Masterlist

Acceptance; a person's assent to the reality of a situation, recognizing a process or condition (often a negative or uncomfortable situation) without attempting to change it or protest it.

He's what you need. He's always been there for you, and now you see it. Now, as you stand on the roof, sun washing you of your sins, of the weeks and weeks of nothing but silence and sorrow, after the months of constant turmoil and grief. This is freedom. He's been there through it all.

When your relationship with Steve fell apart the first time, he was there to pick up the pieces. Then when he fell apart, Bucky was there to hold you up, he was there so that you could fix Steve. And when he left, and you broke and scattered across all ends of the earth, he picked you up, and put you back together.

You were there for him, but you always knew this. When Tony was trying to kill him, you took his side. When he tossed and turned during the night, you woke him, and cooed, and held him until he dreamed of sweet things, honey and sugar and you. When he was so spent from putting all his energy into you, you put on a smile and fixed him up.

This was love. Of course you loved Steve, but he was gone, and he fell in love with you for all the wrong reasons.

You fell in love with Steve, you saw last the captain, into the deepest parts of his soul. You fell in love with his smile and the way he paced when he was nervous. You fell in love with the way he held you, and his beautiful laugh.

He fell in love with Peggy, and saw her in you. The way you held yourself, the courage, the glimmer in your eyes, it was all a reminder of Peggy, his Peggy, the girl he loved so dearly.

There were aspects of you that he loved too, but he never fell in love with the full you. He never saw it.

You deserved the kind of love that Bucky gave you, pure and unfiltered and raw. It was harsh and violent but it was sweet and addicting, he couldn't get enough of you. He wanted to hold you and breathe you, until you were engraved in his soul, until you had weaved yourself into the very fabric of his being.

You needed him. He was the only thing keeping you together.

"Y/N?", his voice, that honey sweet call of home, pulled you from your violent reel of self deprecating thoughts.

You didn't deserve to be left. You deserved to be cherished.

You didn't respond, not with words. Instead, you pressed your lips to his, gentle and soft, intimate, terribly so.

His response was to cup your cheeks, to trace his fingers down your spine, across your arms, up your neck, right back to your cheeks. Tears still spilled from your eyes, but they had changed, in context. It was no longer sad and desperate, now, it was happy, it was lovely.

"I'm sorry", he whispered, mumbling into your hair as he pressed kisses to your forehead, and then your cheeks, peppering your face and neck and leaving you warm.

"I'm sorry", again. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I'm sorry", he repeated it like a mantra. He was begging for forgiveness, maybe from you, maybe for you, maybe from Steve. You never really found out. But all you could whisper back was;

"in me, burns the most catholic of desires: to devour the divine"

And he stopped. His mouth shut, he simply breathed. That was his forgiveness. That was his penance, you were his vocation, his divine god that needed worship, he was on his knees, begging, screaming, and you uttered those honey sweet words, thick and sticky, and he was washed of his sins all over again.

"I love you", he was no longer begging. You were heaven on earth, this was peace, this was love. This was his declaration of his faith, his everlasting devotion to you, in all your comforting and broken glory. "I love you, I love you, I love you", uttered between desperate kisses and soft gasps.

"I love you too, Buck"

You did. You loved him. Even more than Steve.

He was always sheltered, always hiding you away,your love was soft and gentle and filtered, but not this. This was raw, gnashing teeth and criminal tongue, grazing your bare soul, flying like Icarus to the sun, hoping that Ares will catch you. This? This was criminal, near psychotic, this was manic and dangerous, but you two were safe, you were happy. This was unconventional and painful, but all the best things are. For the longest time, this was forbidden fruit. But it tastes so much better when you can't have it. Now you do, it's in the palm of your hand, sweet and addictive, and you dont ever plan on quitting.

He holds you hand. He likes to come up from behind, wrap his arms around your waist, place sweet kisses on the nape of your neck. He likes to hold you close, tangle your legs together under satin sheets and cool moonlight. He learns poems to whisper to you in the deep dark of the night. He presses his forehead to yours, he smiles at you when  you're not looking, he laughs when you do, he cries when you do. He watches all your favourite movies, listens to your favourite songs, reads your favourite books. You take him to your favourite places. He loves it, he loves you. "Hey, Steve", you chirp, leaving against the cool marble of the headstone, roses littered all over the grave. He's loved even in death. "long time no see". It had been almost three years. You like talking to Steve, he never argues back, no sarcastic comments or judgy looks. You like to think hes listening, that he smiles at your stories. People leave roses and bouquets of white, red and blue for the captain. But you leave wild daisies and lilies, agapanthus and hyacinths, for Steve. He always liked lilies, you did too, The Funeral Flowers. "Buck's doing a lot better nowadays, hes sleeping through the night again. I am too, for the most part, I wake up in the middle of the night sometimes, just missing you. It sucks", you sigh and let out a breathy laugh. Bucky left you to get coffee, so you popped in for a visit. "Theres way more photos around the compound now, of you and the team, Morgan too. She's getting so big, Steve, you should see her. She's exactly like Tony, same eyes, same brain, same stupid decisions. I keep telling her she has to be at least 16 to be an avenger, because that's how old Peter was when he became one" A vase falls over next to you, you sigh, picking it up, "manners, Steve. Anyway, I'm in love" "Yeah, crazy. He's not as soft as you are, not as sheltered, Sam loves it, constantly making fun of you, how your ex and your best friend got together. I think I wanna marry him, Stevie" A cup of steaming coffee is shoved in your direction, Bucky smiles down at you. "Look at this, Rogers. The bastard finally cut his hair, would you believe it?" Bucky shoved your shoulder as he sat down next to you, leaning against your shoulder, nuzzling into your neck. "shut up", me mumbles. You laugh. Song like and wonderful. You wanted to marry Steve, once upon a time. You still feel guilty, but Steve's gone. He got his happy ending, you deserve yours. This is your happy endings, overpriced coffee and sunny afternoons, 2ams spent in your car, driving to God knows where, secret poems exchanged in the dark. You still talk to the moon, your saviour, your keeper. But you no longer beg for the sweet relief of death, or numbness, you no longer cry about love lost in the dark. Now, you chant, you sing, you dance, you're in love. You're yourself again, everyone notices. "Lady moon", you whisper. You're on the roof, hot mug in your hands. "tell me he loves me as much as I love him. This is heaven on earth", you smile to the sky, to the star that shines brighter than the others, to the lost souls floating up there. "He does", you jump a little as Bucky wraps his arms around you. "he loves you more than you could ever imagine" A single tear rolls down your cheek, it gets lost between your lips as you press a chaste kiss to his neck.

Eternity. You wish, you hope.

You don't know it, but Steve would be happy for you. He remembers how broken you were when he found you, when Tony found you. He remembers saving you, even in death he loved to see you smile. He remembers how Bucky never slept through a night, he remembers walking into the gym at 6am only to find that Bucky had been there for hours already. He remembers the tears he had shed in secrecy, the pleas for peace and freedom. He knows that you give him peace, he dreams of sweet things with you in his bed. He knows his heart warms with your touch, and he smiles at the twinkle in your eyes. Steve wouldn't have left if it meant leaving you, or Bucky, but you had each other. Steve left because he knew you would piece each other back together. You meant everything to him, so did Bucky. Steve got his happy ending, and you got yours.

[astazing]

Hopeful

“What are you feeling now?”

“Hopeful.”

The landing to bring them home was perfect.  No fireball, no crash.   When the ship came to rest, Brainy glanced across all the monitors and raised a fist triumphantly.  

“Huzzah! Back in the year 2019 without a hitch.”  

Nia smiled, but couldn’t help glancing out the windows.  “Brainy, did you check the exact date?  We should have come back to right when we left, and I don’t remember it being this grey and cloudy.”

Brainy had already disappeared into the galley before she’d begun her first sentence, and was now emerging with a bottle of champagne and two glasses.

“I propose a toast!” he enthused, setting the glasses down in front of Nia and beginning to untwist the metal holding the cork in place.  “To a mission accomplished, and to the next mission soon to be accomplished, when we shall return Supergirl to her home, reversing the damage done by the nefarious Lex Luthor.” The cork popped, releasing a stream of foam onto the floor before Nia could get the glasses into place.  Brainy was unfazed.  “A sweet victory, indeed,” he said as she handed him a glass of dissipating bubbles.  

“And to my Nia Nal,” he continued, clinking their glasses together.  “With your powers growing by leaps and bounds, all you need now are several books on dream interpretation and perhaps one or two on overcoming impostor syndrome, and you’ll soon be the hero you were meant to be.”

Nia chuckled. This was her Brainy - blunt, unintentionally mildly offensive, and usually mostly correct.  “Cheers, I guess,” she said, taking a sip.  “And thanks for believing in me.  Maybe someday we won’t need the, you know, do-overs.” 

“I don’t just believe that - I know it.”   

Nia regarded him as he cheerfully sipped his champagne, trying to decide on something.  It’s not that she wanted to take advantage of this rare and moderately manic mood, but it did seem like an opportunity presenting itself.  

“Brainy, did you know this was going to happen?”

“Know what was going to happen?” His brow furrowed.  “The trip to Midvale? Sharing a bottle of champagne?”

“No, no, this,” she said, gesturing back and forth between them.  “You and me.  Before you came from the future, did you know we would be together?”

She rushed the rest of her question before he could interject the words space, time, continuum, or any combination thereof.  “It’s just that you recognized me, kind of.  And you recognized my name the very first time we met.” 

To her surprise, he didn’t brush the question aside.  

“Spending part of my life in the twenty-first century was unanticipated.  But even more so getting to share that time with the fabled superhero of the past named Nia Nal.”  

“So then, why aren’t you worried that all of this will change the future?  Everything we’re doing together?  The superhero stuff and the, well, other stuff?”

Brainy set down his champagne and leaned in, taking her hand.  

“Because whatever happened, happened.  Lost, Season 5, 2009.  Though I travel through space and time, my timeline itself is linear. The distant future is my past, and the former past is my present, and today’s future is now my future.” 

She stared, an eyebrow raised - standard shorthand that he’d have to do a little better with a particular explanation.  

“Nia, the dangers I’m concerned with lie in knowing too much. They lie in letting such knowledge change our decisions and influence our journey.  I don’t know the future of me, or of you, or of us. Thus with you, Nia, I believe - well, I believe things are unfolding rather naturally.”

She smiled back at him and sipped contemplatively, the next question already bubbling up to the surface.  

“So, the 31st century knows about me, or at least some people there do.  And 1000 years is a long time, and I know Earth loses a bunch of knowledge from the past in a catastrophe I’m not allowed to know about. But the world also remembers Supergirl. If I’m a past superhero, wasn’t there any record of my life? And if you weren’t in it, what does that mean about us now?”

“Recall, Nia, that what we knew about Supergirl came mostly from Mon El. Now, my friend Nura knew much about her genealogy.  It had been - will be -  important to the generations between you to record their lineage. She knew you, Nia, were the matriarch. The OG Dreamer, if you will.  But she - and we - knew little else.” 

“I know I don’t need to know details,” Nia said with a sigh, “But I can’t help being curious about my descendants given how little I know about my ancestors.”

“I understand,” Brainy said gently.  “But Nia, I for one am glad for whatever happened that makes us unable to know how our story plays out.” 

“Why’s that?”

“It lets me imagine the possibilities.”

She met his eyes and a shy smile spread across her face.  “Brainy, you’re quite romantic this evening.”

“Indeed.”  He stood and held out his hand.  When Nia took it, he pulled her to her feet and kissed her, thumbs stroking her jawline and grazing the corners of her lips. As he anticipated, he soon felt the satisfying press of her weight against his chest and stomach as she melted into him. He moved his hand from her neck to her lower back to steady her as he kissed her neck below her ear.  

“Brainy you are. . . so. . . good. . . at that,” she breathed, eyelids fluttering.  

“Yes,” he agreed. “I've noticed that for someone so strong, you enjoy being made weak in this manner.”

“I do,” she admitted, a smile flickering across her face as she kissed him this time, her hands untucking his shirt and sliding up the skin of his back.  “Should we go to your bed?”

Brainy took her arm and practically lifted her off the ground, he pulled her so quickly toward his room.

Formal wear soon discarded, he pinned her down on the bed and kissed her, his knee firmly against her center. He waited until her back arched and her breath became irregular, and she rocked her hips against his leg. These were his cues to progress, and so he whispered urgently, “What appendage would you like me to use?”

Nia’s body relaxed - rather disappointingly - as she buried her head in his neck and shook with a fit of giggles. “Brainy, what kind of question is that?”

He pulled back to look down at her, puzzled.  “I thought it was fairly straightforward, seeing as how we have used several successful techniques in the past.  How else should I ascertain your preference in this moment?”

She laughed again and raised her head to kiss him on the cheek.  “No, you’re very sweet. It’s just, Brainy. . . ‘appendage’ isn’t a very sexy word.”

“But it’s useful, and descriptive!  For example I have fingers, I have a tongue, which while is technically not an appendage can certainly fit the definition in this context, obviously I have a -”

“Brainy,” Nia interrupted, “I appreciate the intent behind your question very much, I promise. But maybe instead you could say something like. . . “ 

She pulled his ear to her lips as she whispered, “‘. . .How do you want me to fuck you?’”

“Oh my,” Brainy pulled away, startled. “You are correct, that is better.”

“It’s just a suggestion,” she smiled. “Brainy, are you blushing?”

“I - what? No, of course not.”

“It’s okay,” she says, resuming their kiss.  “You don’t have to ask, because I have an answer. I want your tongue. Go down on me? Please?”

“An excellent decision from a very wise woman,” he concurred, and disappeared beneath the covers. Nia’s expression turned quickly from amusement to something else.

[antigonick]

Herald.

CONTEXT : I just wanted to try my grubby paws at Herald’s mind-voice. And, uh, if you haven’t read/played Fallen Hero: Rebirth, this will basically be nonsensical. That being said, what the hell are you waiting for? It’s here, and it’s incredible, so click the link. DISCLAIMER : literally nothing here is mine, this scene (or a version of it) pops up at the end of the game, I just shifted the POV. Cheeky one-liners, lovely characters, and cool-ass world-building all belong to Malin Rydén. WHAT TO EXPECT : Danny being shit at combat, me being shit at combat description, blatant and manic disrespect for basic punctuation and adjectival rules, non-native English potentially riddled with errors, a badly-camouflaged very marshmallow bluestep.

In the mirror, the smile is radiant and familiar, that one smile, the screen smile, a tug at the jaw, a supple curve of the cheekbone, a creasing near the eyelid. Breathe in. I think it reaches the eyes, and that’s good. Freeze-frame. I stare a little too long, fixed, glazed, but—of course, I look down first, suddenly self-conscious. He is another. When I bite the inside of my cheeks, zygomaticus grate and pinch under tired flesh. 

Hands clasped on the stripped marble of the washstand, I close my eyes for a second and listen to the gala undulate around me like a gust of wind. Breathe out. The clinking of high heels, champagne glasses, camera flashes. The mingled voices and laughter from the crowd saturating the trills of the orchestra. What is it… Brahms? Rather exuberant for background music; my mother usually went for Satie, his unobtrusive minimalism, the lightness of summer and greenness. I straighten up, wash my hands, meet my own gaze again. Pull at my necktie. Hmm. Under the immaculate collar, the blue edge of my suit peeks out, supple nanomesh moving like a tremor of invulnerability, second skin, an echo of truth under the soft guise of formal wear.

Just in case. If something happened. If I need to leave in a dash. And a little bit for me, too. You get how it is—the hero suit feels much more mine than the trendy clothes they tend to select for me. More mine, and more what I want to be. God, I’m being such a spoilsport, aren’t I? When Barbara comes into the dressing room with her rolling garment rack and her joyous cackle, there’s always a kiss on my cheek, a squeeze on my arm, a flourish of blues and greys to compliment your eyes, doll. If she’s having fun, then it’s all good. I smooth the vest she ironed with obsessive fastidiousness (don’t sit, it’ll crease), and turn around. 

Showtime. 

The offensive is soft and quick. Like a flock of birds they converge around me brightly, and, docile, my body takes over. My face shifts, my voice drops. I guess it’s all about—what? Modulating, absorbing, emoting? A few pictures under the lancet arch, a string of selfies, a few handshakes, a too-personal question that I dodge with sweet nonsense. I hear myself chortle to a joke I can’t even make out. A blur, yes, but warm, filled with goodwill, right? It’s not that bad. It’s the least I can do, really. I sign two notebooks, three napkins, a very embarrassing swimsuit picture cut out from a magazine, a naked arm; I think someone asks permission to give me a kiss on the cheek and I lean down, slightly dazed with the harsh colours and moving brilliances of embroidered stones, with the heavy expensive perfumes wafting close.

When I want to make my leave, they part with a common exclamation of sympathetic regret; someone squeezes my palm heartily, another hands me a flute of champagne; waves and whispers and smiles, a few promises. They know I’ll take questions for the Rangers at the end of the night. I cross the large corridor, reflections and dark marble; and step into the golden glow of the chandeliers.

(Breathe out.)

The weight of gravity lessens, freed by the stately height of the ornamented ceilings, by the cristalline width of the glass walls. Beyond the large ogives, the night is purplish, bright, swirling under the tempting rhythm of Santa Ana. Good weather for controlled gliding and absolute freedom, and I’ll soon be drowning in it; just a few hours left. Down here, there is a heavy quality to the air, always a little too rare, always a little too thick, like caressing silk against my tongue and along my throat. They can’t imagine how transparent (how easy) breathing becomes when you soar. How water-like.

I take a step forward, scanning the crowd, looking for Ortega. He’s not far, easy to spot in dark blue, aiming a cheerful wink at a flustered waiter as he gives back his empty glass. His posture is effortlessly confident; something indefinable in the angle of his hips, the arc of his shoulders, the boldness of his tilted chin, a pervasive self-confidence that I sometimes try to imitate (don’t tell anyone) in front of the large mirrors, in the changing rooms. Although I usually end up looking like a puffed up chick, if I’m honest. 

I swallow a mouthful of champagne before I join him; the bubbles go straight to my head. 

He arches a brow when he notices I’m alone, and I rub my neck. 

“So… Angie’s gone.”

I still don’t know if she left because of the paparazzi or because she wanted to lacerate my face until I begged for mercy, but I keep that to myself. Snarls and insults are better than the silent treatment, right? At least there’s space for communication there; space for improvement. 

“The exhibit was that bad?” Ortega teases before stealing my glass. He usually does—maybe he thinks I’m underaged. I let him with a chuckle. 

“It was pretty cool, actually. They have one of your old suits, you know. Was your waist really this tiny in 2003?”

“Hey! You watch your mouth, kiddo.”

He smacks my forehead and I hold up my hands in immediate surrender, but I hear myself giggle all the same. He doesn’t go easy on me when it comes to my skinny legs, so it’s only fair.

“You should go and take a look. There’s a whole display for Sidestep.”

“Is there now?”

A half-smile tugs at his lips and, without my glass, my hands suddenly feel very empty, very itchy; I thrust them in the pockets of my slacks. Don’t ask. Slowly, instinctively, my body rocks from the balls of my feet to the tip of my heels, and I have to catch myself before I start to hover. Keep your feet on the ground, in more ways than one. And don’t ask.

“So. No date, uh?” I ask.

“No date,” he shakes his head, and I can see an amused glint of teeth now. Smart eyes pierce through me like a torchlight. Looks like I’m as easy to read as a colouring book. There’s something about Ortega’s slow, silent teasing that reminds me of Josh and hits me square in the thorax. The same smug little delight in the pupil, a youthful crinkling of the eyes, just a hair’s breadth from a snicker. I clear my throat. Is that stupid raspy laugh mine? It is. Very smooth, dude.

“What? I just wanted to make sure before I tell your fan-club that you’re available for the eve-”

CRASH.

The first detonation is deafening.

“What the…?”

The next explosions flare up amidst brittle sounds of human fear and shattered glass. 

My feet immediately lift from the ground where it cracks and trembles while Ortega spreads his arms to keep his balance; I grab his wrist tightly, to stabilize him—no, to stabilize myself. Around us, the crowd starts to scream and scramble as stucco columns tip and crash in the empty gallery above. Thick, dark smoke swells from the back corridors, a wave of heat, a stream of fog, smelling of ammonium; in the miasma and the half-light, I can hear the coughing, the stumbling—the sharp pulse of my blood in my ears. Panic vibrates around us like a rolling tide. They’re rushing toward the doors as one, a moving glittering mass of merging bodies under the flickering chandeliers. Jesus. They’ll walk over each other and hurt themselves before they even get stuck in the damage. 

Ortega’s voice cuts through the chaos.

“Daniel! Go and check the exhibition rooms for casualties, okay? I’ll take care of the crowd for now.”

“Of… of course.”

“Don’t do anything stupid. Come back as soon as you’re done.”

His face is obscured for a moment, but I can hear the sharpness of his usually golden voice, the serious downturn of his mouth, the dry glare summoned from his Marshal days. The cogs turning in his brain. Does he think I’m not capable of handling this? I… Yes. Yes, he thinks he needs to protect me as much as the civilians around us. Without Argent and Steel, he must feel—no. No, no, it’s fine. Focus. I let go of his arm with a quick nod, heart thundering. No matter. This is not the time to argue. People are in danger. And… actions speak louder than words, right? I can show him—

“Good luck,” I mumble without meeting his gaze.

I soar and dart toward the archways.

For a suspended second, in the twilight before I curve, a suspended second between shadow and light, I sense a sizzling creeping flow brush against me, a feeling of unease, a velvet-deep dizziness. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the people below come together, join, fall into step behind each other; like an obedient army, a neat row of puppets, walking in line despite their strangled screams, despite the panic that shudders on their dark mass like a breeze on a lake. I swallow, hard. Breathe… in. 

The exhibition room is a lonely tomb. I expected huddled bodies and howling pleas, I expected the foundations to shudder until they crumbled and fell, but there’s nobody here—nobody but a dark silhouette, ambivalent, fluid, moving with seamless brutality amidst the glass-stands; gripping mannequins, tearing at cloth, shattering hissing screens. Around them, the heroes of my childhood lie sprawled and discarded, ridiculous, garish, strange to my straining eyes and my shuddering brain, a parody of amputated dolls and plastic grins. 

Alien. Remote. 

In the aquatic halo of blue-green spotlights, the stranger freezes abruptly, a gleaming spectre, their back still turned to me. There’s a gasp, I think. A gasp that grows to a chuckle that swells to a laugh, verging on manic, tinged with eeriness through their vocal distorters. The beating of my heart drowns  the jarring movie soundtrack that plays on a loop in the ceiling speakers. I grit my teeth; and dive. 

The air moves with me as I gather speed and with it surges the impetus of my attack; just a split second, a clear line, an easy arc, fast, swooping down on the exposed enemy, ready to ram into them in one motion and—with dizzying ease, the silhouette steps smoothly aside at the last moment. I stifle a scream, wait!—too quick, can’t adjust my trajectory, smash into a large glass-stand, raise my arms to protect myself against the impact. Around me, the glass explodes, the wooden shelves collapse, weapon-parts shudder and fall in a loud clatter of hollow metal. The dark spectre laughs softly, then advances toward me. Snow-like grating of heavy boots on broken glass. I tense, rush, crawl, clumsy, ready to block the next blow (am I?), but—

“Outside,” they say sharply, a smile behind the helmet.

They spin around and disappear in the murky corridors of the deserted museum, movements fluid and back taut. I scramble to my feet, pushing away the gaudy hero accessories (too light—only replicas), and take off straight away. There’s a spike of frustration needling at my gut now, and shame burning my face up to the tip of my ears. Throbbing. Thank god, nobody else was here, not Ortega,  not Argent, not the cameras. A string of curses rings in my ears. My voice. Hush. Fuck, fuck, fuck. That guy eluded me like air. Effortless. I can’t fight that kind of reflexes, can’t parry so quickly, and they won’t need long to figure it out.

Maybe it’s just a matter of timing. A well-placed offensive to knock him out until the team arrives. Hopefully, they can’t fly. I haven’t seen his suit clearly enough to be sure. It’s a light thing, moving smoothly with their body. Yeah. Who am I kidding, really? There’s no way for me to know. Can’t study them closely, can’t pick apart pictures, can’t break down their weapons, not yet, not without any information, not in the dark, not in the now. The only strategy I’ve got is empiricism. Try now and think later. It’s not like I have a choice, right? I can’t wait around and let them harm innocent civilians for the thrill of it.

Ortega is going to strangle me. If the stranger doesn’t do it first.

At full speed, I burst through a still-intact window, and the violence of the collision feels like a body-slam, but, hm, that’s good. That’s what I need. Focus, wake up, go for it. I can do this. The others won’t be long now. I just need to stall the stranger for a while. Make sure they don’t attack. I’ve trained for this—more or less. 

I scan my surroundings quickly to assess the damage; the rotating lights rip through the haze, ambulances wailing and stopping a few meters away; bodies stagger and clash aimlessly under the white street lamps—rescue and escape and panic. On the asphalt, on the stretchers, on the steps, people howl and scatter and call out to each other and hysteria teems like toxic water. I close my eyes, just a second, throat tight. How many have died? How many will suffer tonight because they were in the wrong place, at the wrong time? Because a faceless monster wanted to spit on the remembrance of our heroes?

The night is purplish and red and balmy, and the villain is waiting for me in the center of a tentative circle of onlookers and journalists—their anonymous helmet tilted toward the sky, a face of darkness streaked with ascetic lines. Gracefully, they raise their armoured wrist; they beckon me with a little flick of the hand. Come. They move with elemental smoothness, feet firmly planted on the ground, limbs prompt and light, each minute movement purposeful and sharp. No useless flourish. A chilling and subtle confidence in the tilt of the head, the stance of the legs. Strike and hit. I remember their lightning-quick dodge, in the exposition room. Speed enhancers? Mods? Maybe I can match it with enough—right—you wish—no—I drift slowly, out of reach, fists clenched.

“And who are you, anyway?” I call.

Breathe in. Breathe out. I can do this.

“My name is Shadow,” they reply, waiting. Relaxed.

Oh, they already know. They know as well as me that I’m no match for them.

Something in my chest unfastens and plummets to my stomach, and I know, I know, I know I should wait for back-up, and remember Ortega’s warning, and listen to Steel’s voice whispering in my head not to engage in hand-to-hand combat, but the sirens and the screams are piercing and clawing at my brain and suddenly Shadow (Shadow, yes, armour dark, limbs supple, voice low, pulsating with this impossible half-existence that belongs only to the fog) turns toward the crowd, arms spread wide, and taunts with quiet delight:

“I feel sorry for you. Looks like your so-called hero has abandoned you.”

The impulse is as feverish as a blaze and when they make a step forward, when the reporter stumbles back with a startled jerk, when the threatening glove rises in the quivering aura of the electric lights, I throw myself forward and dart through the tepid wind, praying praying that they don’t harm anyone—that they don’t turn around—that my shove will throw them to the ground—just a minute—that the surprise will make them stagger and twist on the nearby corner of the pavement—that, that… (that Argent will materialise please and join me in quicksilver blue), praying that—

The force of my momentum would have been enough to—what momentum—what—

Torsion, swift, harsh, a clean turn—Fuck! Bending torso, agile arms, implacable grip, and nowhere to run. They lock me in a tackle, injected with my own speed, and toss me, no time to scream, no time to breathe, straight like a blade in a nearby car that slams into my back like a brick wall. Oxygen flees from me in a long shuddering convulsion, and I remain motionless, between motor and airbags and tarmac, trying to catch my breath, clutching my fist against my heart. I can hear the wheezing fraying between my teeth. Can I move? I can’t move. I have to move. I rise on one elbow. A stabbing pain fuses between my ribs and burns my lungs. I hear—I hear myself—choke like a kid in the dark—is that blood under my tongue—if I could only glide, gain some distance—but—Shadow’s heavy, shielded boot falls on my aching shoulder and I writhe reflexively, a strangled gasp. My fingers close, white and desperate, on the black stiff ankle.

“Don’t,” I pant, or think, or… beg.

They lean toward me, slow. Under the nondescript helmet, they seem to examine my face, just a little while. I wait for a word of triumph, a last torture, a last fracture, but the sigh that escapes them has the lightness of a secret, and their warning is a whisper:

“Time for a nap.”

One final shuddering thin breath when they raise their boot above my head, and—fade to black.

[monkhsuns]

Addiction to Dawn

Short Story

Series: He Who Lies

Poetry: He Calls You Angel

TRIGGER WARNING: Abuse Context

Sunlight glistened on the polished marble of their manor balcony. The vivid gem tones: pink, orange, mixed with deep purple colored the sky. The warm autumn sunrise was a false promise that winter wasn’t a whisper away. False promises were something that Aine had grown used to but still, she craved the hopeful sensation that bloomed in her chest. A faded smile tugged at the corner of her lips as Azeyma finally washed across the land.

“Good morning, Angel.”

His voice came with a gentle touch to her exposed shoulder. Fingertips brushed across fading bruises and swiped porcelain strands away from her skin. Her pale gaze was quick to shift from the beauty of the day to his studious expression. Her brows twitched upwards and her dimmed smile brightened. The cup of infused water was set upon the railing so that her hands were free to carefully rest upon his chest. The way his eyes sharpened made the warmth in her chest run cold. Everything froze for a moment but, finally, he smiled at her and took her hands in his.

“Good morning, my love,” Aine replied sweetly, the stress in her shoulders slowly released.

“A good morning, indeed. So good, it seems, that it stole you from my bed.”

An unseen eggshell cracked beneath Aine’s barefoot. Words on the tip of her tongue were choked down. Her gaze was quick to lower only for him to release on hand and snatch her chin. His grip was just a little too tight but she knew better than to wince. He lifted her features back to his and she was torn between matching his focus or keeping it trained on his lips. She settled for the latter and gently squeezed at the hand that still kept claim of hers.

“I am sorry for leaving you chilled,” her voice barely audible. “I was unable to still busy thoughts and sought not to disturb you with them.”

“I suppose you are manic when your mind wanders aimlessly,” he considered aloud. “With how often it happens, I wonder if I should call a doctor.”

“No,” Aine assured quickly, “that will not be necessary. We wouldn’t wish for him to prescribe anything unsavory for our current priority.”

Cary’s eyes narrowed at her as his lips twitched into a frown. He smeared his thumb across scarlet lips in demand for her silence. Lipstick colored her cheek, and had she considered for a moment, a glint flashed in his eyes that was almost delighted. It vanished as quickly as it appeared and she was left to wonder if it was another manic thought. Finally, the hand on her face lowered to take her palm back into his. He smiled; it was a tense smile but it had been for as long as she could remember.

He always struggled to show joy, but she was able to find it. She knew him better than anyone.

“You’re right,” he settled; it was something she hadn’t heard often. “I wouldn’t want to jeopardize the health of my heir-to-be. Let us just hope your episodes are not genetic.”

“Under your guidance, I am certain that any such instabilities will be dealt with swiftly.”

With his mood improved, Cary’s smile brightened, and she was shown a glimpse that she was certain only he gave to her: unshackled joy. With his hands upon hers, he gently twirled her around and a soft giggle escaped her lips. He brought her in swiftly, tight against his chest, and rocked her back and forth to the beat of nothing but their heartbeats. For several minutes, they swayed like leaves upon a summer’s breeze. The unmistakable sensation of dawn washed over Aine.

“Come, Angel,” Cary whispered into her ear, “Let us go work on that priority.”

Alas, the colors of dawn were so like that of dusk.

[franklyshipping]

Marvin The Mischievous ~ A Septic Ego Series ~ Part 9 ~ The Finale

Whew.....here it is....the bonus finale to what has been a wonderful series to brainstorm, plan, write, post, and receive feedback on. Thank you all so much for reading and I hope this series has been as fun for you as it has been for me. LET'S GO!

TAGGING: @marvin-lee-magician and @anti-switch-glitch

Marvin the Magnificent smiled to himself.....not an evil, malignant, mischievous smile, just a really damn happy one. It had been a few days since The Great Tickle Revenge of 2018 had occurred, and honestly Marvin had never felt better within himself. It was strange. Everyone seemed to be spending so much more time together, people weren't split into pairs of people they were comfy with....everyone was close with EVERYONE. It was so lovely. Even Anti and Shawn, the recluses, had found themselves feeling safe and at ease when in everybody's company, and it meant that everyone was just so much happier. Marvin played with his cape as he stared into the distance, thinking of all the newest happy family moments they'd shared, feeling profound....until he was interrupted. I wonder if you can guess the one person guaranteed to cause a cheeky ruckus in this household?

'Sup kitty cat, been lookin' for ya!'

Marvin shut his eyes and let out an audible groan, which resulted in a delighted giggle from Anti as he plopped on the couch next to the magician.

'Why, so you can gloat again about my magnificent downfall?'

Marvin mumbled as he opened his eyes and looked to Anti, who dramatically gasped in the most affronted manner that you ever did see. He slung an arm around Marvin's shoulders, making the magician squirm and growl as he reverted back to a state of smirkiness in his reply.

'I meeean, ya can't really chastise people who tease ya since ya brought it o-'

'Brought it on myself YES I know!'

Anti giggled and flicked Marvin's nose playfully, making Marvin twitch and glare.

'Exactly! So, I can tease ALL I want!'

Marvin rubbed his nose and shoved Anti off him. Obviously he wasn't at all angry or annoyed with him, it was just their way of interacting. Playful fighting, banter, annoying one another, creating feuds over the dumbest things just because it was so much fun for both of them. Everyone's friendship with another person is different to how that person's other friends may interact with them, like Marvin had banter with Anti, Jamie meanwhile was constantly molly-coddled and babied and teased by the glitch; since Anti dubbed him 'a fucking human marshmallow'. Anti was sneering at Marvin, amused by his embarrassed blush and child-like stance of bad posture and folded arms on the couch.

'....friggin crimeny asshole poo-glitch....'

Anti raised an eyebrow.....before bursting into wild, happy cackles, which only made Marvin blush more. It was rare to hear Anti's real laughter when it was unforced, and to be fair Marvin still thought it was lovely....but he was oh so salty at how it was at HIS expense. Through his laughter and manic grin, Anti leant towards him and taunted.

'Whahat wahas that Mr ''P-Please I Can't Take Much M-More!''?'

Marvin hid his face in his hands, letting out a huge whine of despair as Anti managed to reign himself back to giggles, though his eyes had been glistening and threatening tears of mirth. He just found all of this ceaselessly hilarious.

'SHUT UP! YOU DIDN'T EVEN HAVE TO HELP THEM, I NEVER GOT YOU!!'

Marvin exclaimed as Anti smirked, and it was true, Anti could see how it was true. But he remembered so distinctly when he and the rest of them had rescued Jackie....he'd wanted nothing more than to tease the magician, to watch him be tickled, to help make that happen. To be part of a scheme like that had just been too enticing to pass up.

'Oh but I wouldn't have missed it for the world, the chance to watch you squirm and shriek in ticklish madness was just so much fun! Yeah ya never got me, and ya never will, but any chance te see ya knocked down a few pegs is fuckin' awesome!'

Marvin's face was a burning crimson now, it never ceased to fluster him to see how enthusiastic people were when it came to tickling him. However....there was a little something that gave Marvin a lifeline from his embarrassment. Something Anti had said. Something that, in Marvin's mind, very much sounded like a smug challenge. Marvin started to smile; how bold Anti was to assume he was immune.

'Never.....is that right?'

Anti tensed....what was with this new tone? The man was instantly on guard as he watched Marvin's curled up form, hoping to anything and everything that he hadn't accidently given Marvin confidence. His hopes were no use though. Anti gulped when Marvin's face emerged, and the magician was grinning ear to ear. There was silence, stillness....then a pounce.

'NODON'TYOUDARE MARVIN YOU LITTLE SHIT!'

Anti tried to scramble off the couch, but Marvin was on top of him in an instant and reaching for his wrists with a maniacal grin. They were practically wresting, Marvin smirking and focused whilst Anti growled with threatening intent. Anti was cursing himself, goddammit WHY did he have to keep teasing? He COULDN'T let Marvin get away with this, but Marvin as we know....is a determined bugger.

'One way, or another....I'm gonna getcha getcha getcha!'

Anti's cheeks warmed up and he let a smile slip out at Marvin's tease, noticing how he used some lyrics of a song Anti liked. Hearing the words in this context caused the first waves of embarrassment to quiver in Anti's tummy, and spurred him to glare and snarl.

'I SWEAR I will tickle torture you for this! Stop while I'm giving you the chance!'

Marvin knew Anti wouldn't go down without a fight, it was so admirable. Even though the magician did feel a quiver of fear at the threat....the threat itself was proof that Marvin had the upper hand. Marvin knew Anti well enough to know that when he started making threats, that's when he was the most nervous. Marvin snatched Anti's wrists and shoved them under his knees to pin them, and cracked his knuckles in response to Anti's growl.

'Well maybe YOU should have taken a deep breath while I gave you the chance!'

Anti was struggling and tugging with all his might, but nothing stopped that mighty shriek leaving him when Marvin's claw-shaped hands dug into his vulnerable tummy. He was encased in mad cackles instantly.

'AAAHH! NAHAHA GEHET OHOHOFF MEHEHEEE!'

Marvin snickered as Anti writhed beneath him, the magician was always amused how Anti's reactions to tickling were THE most wild and sporadic out of everyone; not that it's surprising, given his wild character. As Marvin let his ''claws'' drag over Anti's stomach, and the thin t-shirt Anti wore offered no protection, he cooed teasingly.

'No can dooooo! Coochie coochie coooo!'

Anti's face lit up at the babyish teasing, and his arched his back whist wailing in ticklish agony; this was already evil and this was the first goddamn ticklish spot. Anti knew he was doomed.

'YOHOHOU BAHAHSTAHARD!! FAHAACK WHYTHEDAHAMNCLAWING?!'

Feeling Marvin's fingers just drag and scratch at the same time just made Anti flinch and quiver, it was quite the effective technique. Marvin kept it up as he crooned.

'Why it's my favourite tickly technique! After all, you're the one who called me a kitty cat! I'd have thought you'd be happy to feel my claws!'

Anti was shaking his head maniacally as the clawing reached his waist, making him buck and squeal as he babbled. He never knew something could tickle so much!

'NONONOHOHOHO IHIHAMNOTHAPPY NAHAHAT HAHAHAPPY!!'

Marvin pouted softly, but it was very exaggerated, as he removed his claws and put his fists on his hips.

'Awwww, well that won't do will it? I'll just have to try harder!'

Anti was making the most of his break, taking breath after breath as he tried to force his smile away, but for some reason his mouth just wasn't co-operating. He was grinning and shivering as he looked up at Marvin, still giggling from the atmosphere....almost like he WAS happy....ha! What a preposterous accusation, ahem moving on. Anti's voice had dimmed to a gentle, jittery form as he replied.

'N-Nohoho M-Maharvin, th-that w-wahas ahalready e-evil!'

Marvin cocked his head to the side as he giggled, eyes glinting.

'Oho Anti.....I think I need to help you redefine what TRUE evil is.'

Anti's blush was dark and prominent from embarrassment as he watched Marvin with eagle eyes, trying to anticipate something, anything. Marvin started lowering his head towards Anti's abdomen, making Anti squirm as his muscles tensed and twitched nervously. Then Anti shrieked. Marvin had definitely thrown build-ups out of the window today.

'NONONONO DOHOHON'T DOHOHO THAHAHAHAT!!'

Marvin giggled once more as he swiped his tongue back and forth along Anti's waistline, knowing how much this technique in this place drove him absolutely crazy. As he tormented Anti's soft, delicate skin, he growled playfully like a feasting beast.

'Mmmm, I never knew glitches could taste so good....'

Dammit dammit dammit, the animal trope AS WELL AS the lickling? Anti was in hell. Anti whimpered through his high pitched laughter as he squeezed his eyes shut to try and block out the wet, warm, tickly sensation; but if anything, it only became more amplified. It was like he was being sloppily painted, but the paint was warm and the brush was slick and immeasurably soft. Anti cried out.

'P-PLEHEHEASE YOHOU KNOHOW IHI CAN'T STAHAHAND THIHIHIS!!'

Anti squealed when Marvin wiggled the tip of his tongue over the skin playfully, then gazed at him amusedly as he purred.

'But you don't have to stand it, you're lying down!'

Anti let out a groan of despair at the pun, to think he thought things couldn't have gotten worse. Now Marvin had brought his detrimentally terrible humour into play. Marvin snickered at his own joke as he flicked his tongue under Anti's navel, making him squeal and buck adorably.

'YOHOHOU FUHUCKER!! YOHOHOU'LL REHEGREHET THIHIHIS!'

Marvin sighed.....more threats. Will he ever learn. He stopped and crawled on top of Anti, making the glitch gasp as Marvin glared at him; it was partly terrifying in all honesty. The magician looked fierce and fiery as he snarled down at Anti.

'And I'll make sure YOU regret it if you keep up those threats. I can make you submit to me.'

Anti's heart was pounding.....oh why oh why had he let his brain convince him that being cheeky to Marvin was a good idea? Anti KNEW how ruthless he could be. He KNEW that he wasn't to be underestimated or belittled. And yet, his subconscious convinced him to goad the magician anyway....and it was his subconscious that controlled his stammers now.

'I-I'll....s-still g-get you! Y-You can't TRULY defeat me!'

Except, this just proved that Marvin already HAD defeated him. Marvin smirked, now all he had to do was make Anti admit that he'd been bested.

'Still got that defiance....heh, I shouldn't really be surprised. If anything....this is just going to be so much more fun.'

Anti quivered as his gaze flicked over Marvin's excited expression, and he was already smiling as Marvin leant down and nestled his face into the crook of his neck. Anti was so tense. His mind was bubbling with questions. What was he going to do? Anti tried to stay quiet as he felt Marvin's warm breath move over his neck....dammit the suspense was actually killing him. This was, of course, something that Marvin was dragging out on purpose. The magician purred.

'Gotcha.'

Anti gasped and squeaked. No, he did not fall into hysteria, he simply was overcome by a stream of squeaky giggles as Marvin's sharp teeth started nipping and nibbling at his very sensitive, pale skin.

'F-Fuhuhuck.....M-Maharvihin......y-yohohou cahan't....'

Marvin snickered, which sent more chills through Anti's system, whilst dragging his teeth over his victim's vulnerable skin; he'd still managed to keep Anti's arms trapped beneath his legs too, he was pretty good at this tickle torture malarkey.

'But I already am....you might as well admit it Anti. You've lost.'

Anti flushed, filled with embarrassment since he knew deep down it was true, but before he could respond.....Marvin's fingertips came into play.

'AH! Th-thahat's n-nahat f-f-fahahair! P-Plehehease!'

Marvin's fingertips had joined the party and were drawing little shapes all over Anti's bared, sensitive sides; galaxies and nebulas and patterns and shapes, all of them sending jolts through Anti's nerves....making him crumble more and more every second. Marvin whispered in a wispy voice, that almost sounded tickly all by itself.

'Come now Anti, you know what I want to hear. It's just....a little confession.'

Anti weakly shook his head, even though he barely had an ounce of willpower left he was scrunching up his face as a way to distract himself from the evil feelings.

'I-Ihihi cahahan't Ihi c-cahahan't!'

Marvin was just....so happy. Hearing Anti become undone was sublime. To think earlier he was his vibrant bratty self was almost unbelievable, but it just goes to show how being ticklish can reveal every hidden part of you. In this instance, Anti's prickly exterior was a shield for his meek interior; he was a soft little turtle on the inside basically. Marvin was gonna tease that little turtle to death.

'Sure you can....otherwise, heh well, I don't have anything to do today, and this is quite a comfy position....'

Anti gulped as he squirmed and whined, but any energy for potential escape had long been used up, he was hardly even glitching too. His body was only exhibiting the odd crackle and shift by a millimetre, but other than that, Anti was just completely vulnerable. And he knew it.

'Y-Yohohou h-hahave toho h-have mehehercy ohon me!'

Marvin giggled softly, finding a soft spot behind Anti's ear that he latched onto with his teeth, all the while his blunt nails relentlessly teased the dips of his poor sides. He only had to utter two words....two words that made Anti realise, he'd honestly lost.

'Do I?'

It went on....Anti didn't know how long. Time didn't exist it seemed. It was just tickling, tracing, nibbling, tracing, nibbling, tracing, nibbling. Anti's eyes were watering just from his high-pitched giggle fits as he tried and tried to endure. However, with every passing moment, he just seemed to get more and more ticklish, and Marvin wasn't even using magic. It was just plain old tickling. Tickling, just in itself, is torture....classic tickling with deft fingertips....can never go wrong. Marvin was about to find this out, to his utter glee.

'OKAY! Y-Yohohou w-wihin yohou d-d-defeheated mehe pleasehavemehercypleasepleaseplease!'

Anti babbled, he honestly couldn't have handled any more, it was like he was being hypnotised via touch. His breathing was raspy and erratic, his gaze was glazed and focused on the ceiling, and his body was caught in a haze of jolts and shivers....but now....a calm had been reached. Anti sighed in relief when Marvin's fingers retracted and his arms were released from under his legs; Anti bent his arms, he'd almost forgotten he had these two limbs. As Anti regained his senses though....he realised that Marvin hadn't gotten off him. Oh no. Quite the opposite. The magician was cuddling him, and smiling at him.

'I win.'

Anti pursed his lips when Marvin giggled, snuggling into him....like a goddamn cat. Fuckin' affectionate piece of cute. Anti begrudgingly hugged him back, giving his back a little pack as he mumbled embarrassedly.

'Yeah...ya did.....'

He paused, which made Marvin look at him again curiously. What he said next though, meant Marvin was the one blushing.

'I'm proud of ya.'

Marvin couldn't stop smiling, and Anti felt a wave of satisfaction....even after all that, he'd gained an inch of the upper hand. He chuckled, then playfully shoved Marvin off him onto the carpet so his could stand up and brush down his clothes.

'HEY!'

Anti snickered as he looked down at Marvin, who was playfully glaring. However he soon grinned when Anti gave him a hand up, rolling his eyes. Marvin smiled as he watched Anti start to saunter from the room....oh if only he'd since the glitch's smirk as he spoke offhandedly.

'Ugh I was not prepped for sappiness today, to think i only came here to tell ya Jackie wants to go on a date with ya...'

Marvin's eyes bugged out of his sockets, whilst Anti cackled to himself. Marvin blushed, frozen in place. Jackie. Cute Superhero. Date. With him. Actual Jackie....smirky teasy pretty kind selfless Jackie-WHAT?!

'WHAT WAIT ANTI COME BACK?!'

Anti merely kept on sauntering, hands in his pockets and head held high as Marvin's flustered, jittery voice followed him. Ah, the sounds of someone yelling Anti's name in frustration or in vain...things were definitely back to normal.

DOOONNNEEE!!! Wow I can't believe it's done....genuinely though I'd love to know what you guys though of this finale AND the whole series! LUV YOUS XXX

[builder051]

Shards of psycho

Creedless Assassins (Nat and Clint, pre-Avengers). Set approx. 2002. Contains references to self-harm and self-induced vomiting in a non-eating disorder context.

_____

Oh, she's sweet but a psycho

A little bit psycho

At night she's screamin'

"I'm-ma-ma-ma out my mind"

Oh, she's hot but a psycho

So left but she's right though

At night she's screamin'

"I'm-ma-ma-ma out my mind

--Ava Max

_____

“Shards o’ Glass popsicles are for adults only.”

“What the fuck…?” Nat stares at the words fading to black on the TV screen. They’re not the same words she’s hearing. She isn’t sure if it’s a test or if she’s going nuts.

“Geez.” Clint steps out of the bathroom, shirt untucked and tie draped over one shoulder. “Ok.” He ducks between Nat and the television. The blue glow of the next commercial illuminates a stubborn cowlick on the top of his head. The individual hairs wiggle in the static pull as he leans close to the box and looks for the power button. “You know that’s not real, right?”

Clint succeeds in turning off the TV, then crosses his arms and leans against the wall beside it. “Popsicles covered in broken glass? It’s a ploy to get people to quit smoking.”

“Huh.” Nat nods as if she understands. She can fool most people with a little sprinkle of faux sincerity, but Clint knows her too well. He narrows his eyes and Nat can practically see him noting the tells—her stance a touch too symmetrical, her motion a smidge too smooth.

“What’s the problem?” he asks. He flicks his gaze back to the blank TV screen, then looks at Nat again, his brows knitting in shock and concern. “You don’t want one, do you?”

Nat doesn’t rush to answer. If she says no in a hurry, Clint will only see through her. He will if she says no at all. So instead she matches his squint and glams onto the furthest fact she can without crossing the threshold into outright evasiveness. “You’ve seen that before?”

Clint nods. “You haven’t?”

Nat shakes her head, the motion much more natural. It’s almost embarrassingly so, as if she were born to be defiant.

“It’s on all the time,” Clint says with a laugh. “Truth media, I think?” He shrugs. “Something partnership for a drug-free America.”

“Right,” Nat scoffs. It would be absurdly petty to use the fact that she isn’t American to rationalize her penchant for dangerous behaviors. Even stupid ones, like slicing open her tongue for a lick of artificial strawberry. She imagines the juice running down her chin, thick and syrupy and mixed with blood. It’s not a hard image to draw up, and not entirely unappealing. Kind of like the pack of Marlboros at the bottom of her purse.

“What, don’t you watch TV on your days off?” Clint’s beginning to look incredulous.

“Yeah, of course.” Nat gives her hair a toss, the auburn waves dipping into her peripheral vision. It doesn’t take much of a stretch of imagination to turn the flash of scarlet into spray from a bullet wound. “I catch the news. Sometimes.” She steps closer to Clint, grinning manically. “You just think I’m weird because you watch too much.”

Nat uses both hands to smooth down Clint’s unruly hair, but it springs back up the moment she removes them. “I’m pretty sure only Cartoon Network does this much damage.”

“Hey, I don’t—” Clint starts, but Nat cuts him off and pushes him to sit on the edge of one of the beds.

“We’ve slept in the same room. Don’t lie to me.”

“Fine. Guilty.” Clint’s cheeks go pink. “Let’s not bring that up half an hour before my wedding, alright?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Nat says sarcastically. “You going all stodgy family man already? I thought you’d at least make it through the honeymoon before you gave up the ghost.”

Nat makes to head into the bathroom for a wet comb, but Clint grabs her arm. His calloused hand wraps all the way around her wrist and then some. “Hey,” he says, his smile slowly dropping into something more serious. “Nothing’s gonna change, ok?” Clint blinks, and Nat sees her silhouette reflected back in his eyes. “I’m not giving up the ghost. Alright Casper?” The corners of his mouth spring back into a grin.

Nat doesn’t want to smile, but she can’t help herself. It started off as a learned response, but now it’s her natural reaction when she’s about to cry.

“Here.” Clint gives her arm a tug, and Nat trips into his knees. He pulls her onto his lap and presses a soft kiss to her cheek. A chaste, brotherly kiss, but a kiss nonetheless.

Nat counts the seconds on her exhale, pushing her lungs until they’re completely empty, then picturing a diamond-bright shard boring a puncture to keep them from filling again.

“You can’t wear your tie like that.” She yanks on the end, intending to hold it up like a noose, but unsecured, the find grey silk slips off Clint’s shoulder and onto the floor. Nat hops down to retrieve it, not sorry for the excuse to break contact. As soon as they’re apart, though, she wants to touch him again. Or at least get close. “you can’t wear your hair like that, either,” she says.

“Who made you the fashion police?” Clint complains, though he stands and moves back toward the bathroom. Willingly, it seems.

“Um. You?” Nat offers. “Unless it was Laura.”

“Yeah.” Clint starts to laugh. “Like I said. Guilty.”

“Come on.” Nat pushes him against the bathroom counter and yanks his collar into place so she can get to work on the tie. A subtle buzzing comes from the mirror, and Nat realizes it’s vibrating against the wall. She doesn’t have to look up at Clint’s face to know they’ve made a silent pact to ignore whatever’s going on in the room next door.

“You gotta learn how to do this yourself.” Nat tells him, giving his tie a final adjustment and starting on his hair.

“I will, Clint promises. “I have, like, 20 minutes left to be a stupid bachelor. I’ll shape up tomorrow.”

Nat should grin at the joke, but instead she frowns and checks her watch. “Twenty minutes?” she says. “Try ten. Rule number one: never trust the clock on the hotel coffee pot.”

“Shit,” Clint mutters. He drops his chin and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Early is on time and on time is late.”

“Hey.” Nat dampens her fingers under the tap and smooths his hair again. She doesn’t mean for it to be a comforting motion, but it is anyway. It’s an equal swap, her confidence for his concern. It makes Nat feel a little better to see him losing his cool, and that makes her the guilty one. She deserves a Shards o’ Glass Pop instead of whatever they’re serving at the reception downstairs.

“You’re fixed,” Nat says when Clint’s hair is arranged neatly. “You’re good. Go downstairs and get your girl.”

“Thanks. I know what you mean, but…” Clint gives her an anxious smile. “I’m already with my girl.”

“Don’t let anyone else hear you say that,” Nat warns. But her cheeks twitch into dimples again. Because she feels like bawling again.

“You know what I meant, too,” Clint insists. “Ghost girl.”

And Nat does. They could never really be a couple. It would break up their partnership for one, turning them into the kind of husband and wife who rarely see each other, busy with stressful jobs and fighting over whose turn it is to take out the trash. If either of them is even home to do it. That one time they fucked is always going to be just that. One time. It’s probably better that way; no repeat performance to spoil the memory.

Laura’s going to be in for a rough life. Nat knows she knows it. She’s stronger than Nat is, knowing it and choosing it anyway. Nat isn’t sure if she envies her for it or hates her. The indecision makes her stomach hurt.

Clint takes his suit jacket from the hanger on the back of the door. “Alright,” he says as he slips it on. “I can do this.” He holds out his hand to Nat. “You ready?”

“Uh, yeah, one minute,” she waffles. “You go down. I’ll be there in a sec.” She quickly glances around for an excuse. She picks up a tube of mascara from beside the sink. “Just gonna touch up.”

“Ok.” Clint backs out of the bathroom. “But hurry. On time is late, remember?”

“Your opinion of my short-term memory is insulting.” That’s more like her usual affect.

“Yeah, yeah.” Clint waves his hand dismissively. “See ya down there.”

“Ok.” Nat stays put in front of the mirror until she hears the door to the room close. She keeps listening until she loses Clint’s footsteps at the bank of elevators at the end of the hall.

The people next door are still boning. Clint’s getting married in under ten minutes. And Nat’s going to explode.

She stabs herself hard in the thigh with the hard plastic cap on the mascara. It puts a dent in the sharp crease of her trousers, but it doesn’t hurt. Not enough.

“Fuck,” she breathes. She wants to put a good slice in the inside of her arm. Clint’s razor is there on the counter, tempting her, but blood on her sleeves would be a dead giveaway. Nat chews her tongue, thinking again of the commercial. It’s stupid. She’s stupid.

Nat’s stomach clenches. She crosses to the toilet in two steps and leans down, barely getting her fingers past her teeth before hot bile splashes into the water. She tastes copper mixed with the acid, and when she looks down, a thin veil of rust red swirls with the pale yellow.

Nat shouldn’t feel triumphant. Biting through her tongue or aggravating an ulcer is no cause for celebration. But there’s too much other celebration going on today. Nat needs the counterweight.

She tears off a length of toilet paper and wipes her mouth, then shakily stands up and washes her hands. Nat glances at her delicate gold watch. Three minutes left. It’s enough time, but barely.

She takes a deep breath, willing her diaphragm to stop trembling. She can do this. She’s done harder things. Standing with her friend through a 15-minute ceremony should be nothing. Nat picks up her neat black heels and tucks the room key into her back pocket. She steps into the hallway and runs for the stairs. The elevators are too slow. Plus the privacy of the stairwell will give her a chance to dry her tears.

[chikublogsposts-blog]

Otaku?

The term "otaku" seems to have been introduced to anime fans in the US and other countries via Studio Gainax's"Otaku no Video 1985," a self-parody film. 

Otaku, meaning probably "venerablehouse," refers to someone who has a devotion to a subject or hobby (not necessarily anime) to the point of not leaving home. For instance, an otaku fan of a particular movie star could quite possibly know all of the films s/he has been in, their birth date, time of birth, shoe size, favorite toothpaste, etc. Generally speaking, calling someone an otaku in Japan is an insult, implying that their social skills have atrophied or never even developed, due to their manic involvement in their chosen fandom. 

In America, the term is used to denote a zealous fan, usually of anime and/or manga. Due to its introduction to most people's vocabulary through its tongue-in-cheek use in Gainax's film, "otaku" tends to have a much less dire definition overseas. 

When dealing with Japanese people, however, it may be best to keep in mind the modern Japanese image of an otaku -- Someone who only leaves their home to eat or shop, if at all, with an overwhelming and unhealthy obsession about something. It can as easily refer to a stalker or sociopath as it can to a harmless anime buff. 

Best to avoid the word altogether if one is not sure of the context in which it will be received.

Positive: "Oh, wow! Check it out: Neck-through, Floyd Rose locking tremolo and an optional push/pull coil tap!" (slaps forehead and laughs) "Man, I am such a guitar otaku, aren't I?" 

Negative: "Stay clear of Toshi, man. He's such a RQ otaku, always online. Bet he's never actually even talked to a real-live girl before... You never know when he's gonna' snap, right?"

Sumber: https://www.google.com/amp/s/www.urbandictionary.com/define.php%3fterm=Otaku&amp=true

[chansondesalleurs]

Picking up a tag from @natsumi82​ and @theon-greyjoy-has-a-good-day​ who gave some A+ answers in their turn, and are super-fun and loving all-round. I only want to apologize for what I deem an awful lot of toing-and-froing in between trying to make sense of my own inclinations and individual preferences – it really was a case of a surprise host of half-formed ideas collapsing in on themselves before they could get past that early developmental stage – and scouring my mind for outcomes to go with a piece that is easy to assemble and assumes a larger perspective than even a cursory reading of the characters involved would have me adopt.

I am crazy attached to some of these folks, and I wanted to be able to think things through to ensure that the underlying aspects and idiosyncrasies attained their most vivid expression and slotted right into place in my head.

Basically my answers for the ubiquitous A Song of Ice and Fire ensemble – guessing you can pick any fandom, though?

Rules: Answer the questions and then tag seven people.

• First character I fell in love with: Daenerys – like many others, be it part of GRRM's earliest fanbase or stumbling into fresh territory through an episode or ten of the famed television series, royal exile Daenerys and her entourage were my introduction to some of the author's most varied, diverse even, work to this day. I remember being handed a copy of the first volume in the series to look over at my leisure, and whether a closer squint was enough to hold my attention, when my folio fell open in the middle of a pretty engrossing Dany chapter. I am not a hugely sentimental person when it comes to fictional characters, and I rarely, if ever, loosen up enough to allow myself the occasional sniffle, all the same I kept rooting for Dany to bail the crap out as she gamely went through the rigmarole of pitiable deprivation and a dearth of general levity, with no real sense of belonging and the looming absence of lasting familial comforts to prospectively sketch her demands of the world and help ease her way through life.

Dany's overreaching arc is essentially about being displaced. It's not that she accepts her marriage to Drogo (she doesn't) any more than she wishes for the cruelty visited on her by Viserys to continue – including, apparently, a measure of sexual cruelty – or the material eschewal of what property they may yet stand to salvage to endure, barely more than a girl herself, if ironically old enough to see through her brother's illusions of grandeur, and just as conscious of his manifest shortcomings. We talk a lot about the moral and social dilemmas that face Daenerys on the heels of her outlandish fire and blood, birth-of-the-dragon one-off, which likewise marks the high point and execution of a narrative crescendo laden with symbolism in the structuring of ASoIaF's three-act fantasy plot. A similar consideration is whether a uniform, non-peddling approach to competing claims of distinction and the gamut they seem to run from “Dany is a petulant child monarch with questionable ethics and twice the gall that renders one a liability more than an asset” to “Dany is Mary Sue-material, and I'm an owl” is tenable. I'd be lying if I said that the love I have for the Mary Sue type myself is circumstantial and a little tongue-in-cheek, quite the opposite. Besides, I like to think of owls as choice company which, as is the way with all things impossible, rocks way harder than I do.    

Most of the time, the thematic conflict here is enough to compact all the absurdities of the political and the personal, as action and re-action both are being attributed to Dany to lay out a dawdling path for the major events at work. In such a context, even her route around Slaver's Bay is clearly, if concisely, mapped out as she travels from Illyrio's vast Pentoshi mansion out to the plains of the Dothraki sea at the heart of the Essossi continent, and eastward by the sea. As the book opens, it becomes evident that her function is to serve as a stepping stone for her brother's vengeance, who is later revealed to be a pawn in an ongoing game of political ambition and secrets, and (let's face it) probably severely traumatized due to circumstances as a young fugitive on the run. In time, the covey of strands merge to form one long, drawn-out account. Although new cracks appear in the wall as Dany stumbles and falls in her pursuit of an autonomous existence, which the text insists is all the present concern, she nevertheless looks poised to rise above her predicament as a child bride and dweller in foreign lands, and much like the narrative imperatives of suspense and intensity dictate, lead her people to greener pastures to perform the sort of zippy junk the priests foretell.

I interpret Dany's single most prolific desire as this i n t e n s e  yearning for a place to call home, which is not so much a conversion as a double-natured energy at the edge of her inner vision, and thus difficult to quantify. Initially, Dany is projected to vary her brother's concentration circa-Game on the massive landmass across the Narrow Sea, theirs by right, notwithstanding that a certain idle desire of their former abode (“a house with a red door” outside Braavos) does still remain with her, tinting her expectations about Westeros. Now I've only ever heard the term “identity” used about this series of books, but my understanding of it is that it compresses all the debates within itself, rather than set them in awkward juxtaposition. I feel like the whole of A Song of Ice and Fire is predicated off of a descriptive relationship between belief and prejudice, intended and unintended consequences, the semiotics of power and intent, interacting motivations and an expunging of the self, which, at times, might threaten individual subjectivity and its foray into the surrounding hinterland of public conviction with a kind of falseness.

In A Song of Ice and Fire, the difficulty of matching one's core self-definition and aspirations is highlighted by the contrasting responses of the world. The question of how to truly know another hangs over GRRM's characters as they attempt to recommend themselves to their social and cultural milieu, and with respect to Dany, who seems to be motivated by some sort of reduction of suffering for the most people possible, it is none the less striking. Rather than allowing her experiences to enfranchise her from any duty toward her immediate circle, the personal happiness secured by Dany is presented as not just a matter of carving out a niche for herself, but of drawing in the communality of her charges, on the alert for future trouble, and on an unprecedented scale. As she sets out without a settled home, her brief stint in Yunkai, Astapor and Meereen becomes the acme of transient living. In the midst of backchanneling to a rigorously-ordered hierarchy, smashing the entire economic structure of Slaver's Bay in one fell swoop, and from no model but the vision of her meditations, runs an unstaunchable river of need, so that Daenerys must long either to return to the dwelling-place of her brother's manic summoning, or to substitute the distance in between with her own philosophy in life. Her oft-repeated mantra of 'I am the blood of the dragon' and  'If I look back, I am lost' is almost a prayer with Dany, not ominous in hindsight, yet furtively reminding us that security is beyond certain. In any case, it is some combination of her identity as a dragon and last surviving daughter of House Targaryen that steels her resolve, and ultimately saves Daenerys from beyond the pale of actual matrimony when Viserys (or rather, Illyrio) and Drogo come to an arrangement between them.

Two kinship plots contrast and tangle from this point onwards: her relationship to motherhood, and that of Daenerys as a dragon. In the beginning, Daenerys is unwilling to expose herself to the visitations of dragons – a direct parallel to Bran's encounter with the three-eyed crow and his uninhibited arsenal of wolf dreams – as they regularly conflate with thought-trains of Viserys, and all that may be bestial or ungovernable in human behaviour. With the passing of Viserys, Dany literally becomes the dragon, and in giving life to a triple-clutch of fossilized dragon eggs, she becomes a mother, too. Thus begins Dany's quest to re-make herself as her own patchwork mishmash of ideals and circumspect values, and because the only realistic source from which to take her opinions is, and always has been, Viserys, she must expend thrice the effort necessary to incorporate the originals available into a larger schema, one that she can be reasonably proud of.

During her time in Meereen, Daenerys is placed in a peculiarly tender relation to her Targaryen heritage and its vocabulary as the only other inhabitant of her commonwealth, which is a solitary island more than a permanent country seat. Soon she feels compelled to put away her dragons, keeping them under lock and key, and that decision, in turn, proves a threat to her usual blithe equanimity and conception of selfhood. At a stroke, the dragon motif and its invocation within Dany's inner orbit achieve yet greater intensity in this double deuce of names as talismans, as diminutive item forms full of meaning that is impartial and genuine and unique to the individual. ('Remember who you are', per Quaithe's words.) Daenerys later formulates this in an almost therapeutic burst of feeling imbued with a past beneath consciousness, now finally 'in play', and if there is a failure of tact in her haste to relieve herself of the traditional tokar before she takes off on Drogon, she is all the better for it.

By the end of Dance, Daenerys is shown at her most self-conscious: smarting under an increasing series of moral concessions, buried beneath the rehearsal of fixed impressions, a meagre ghost of all that has gone before in the confines of her formal position. All she can do to recover any sense of equilibrium is to gaze with clear eyes on past mistakes and admit, at last, to the full scope of her decisions against the political landscape of Meereen, much as her actions are curtailed, and she is relegated to interpreter between all the various household commonwealths, and an observer in each. In Daznak's Pit, her psychic drama is addressed when she finally breaks through the barriers raised by her intelligence of her own mixed motives, and in this switch from a state of stasis to acceptance, she is released from last lingering pretensions and reunited with one of her children. For one, Dany is left to contend with the discovery that she has been seeing in glimpses, or through distorted lenses, for she must indeed 'go back to go forward', and it is a monumental experience that frightens her, because she cannot pinpoint the apparition of Drogon and what it portends. The reader can share in the sumptuous relief, communicated for the most part through an imitation of intimacy as Dany acts to reconnect with Drogon, swooping in to bodily snatch her from her path of ruling malaise, and to rediscover a part of her as well.

So, it is definitely some sense of character emerging from the gloomiest surroundings that resonates with me, not the sort of button-pushing, id-pandering thrill of being given a magical boon of recognition and going around dispensing justice as if all it takes is a pinch of salt (and glittery effervescent Faerie Dust), but the author's express engagement with such an ambivalent setting, politically and ethically, and hence perhaps his reluctance to let the character off the hook easily enough, or without the compensatory gravitas of charting Dany's journey after she acquires her dragons, and its implications for the text. Like, Dany is 14 when she performs what has been, on numerous occasions, described as a miracle. Even if we assume that she has the chutzpah to get by well enough and survive by the heft of her own clever bootstraps, the fact that her retinue now consists of quite a few people and a triptych of hatchlings cannot be ignored. Obviously humanity doesn't work like that, but let's put this argument aside for the sake of the books being pure, unbridled fantasy. Dany is forced, early in Clash, to navigate the Red Waste unprepared, and riven by a shortage of supplies. Are we meant to believe that a teenager who has already suffered an assassination attempt on her person, and whose grasp on politics can be defined as rudimentary at best, would not be casually roped into a situation where the more leisured would seek to placate her for their benefit, if not write her off as a nuisance in light of her most recent investiture?

Daenerys is unique among GRRM's cast of compelling characters in one respect at least: her own network of connections and other affiliations is, unlike the rest of the action, located in Essos. She is also, iirc, the first character to accomplish so much about a fraction of the way in. If the trajectory of Dany's character arc convinces, it is because it gives the reader direct representation through Dany's inner-POV, and so largely escapes bathos before rebuking the audience with this Celtic knot of complicated interactions and endless politicking, which the author has spent way too much time building up to tear it, in a matter of pages, down. It is interesting to me that the exploration of the different shades of right and wrong, withdrawal and passion, has clear advantages to a fabulist in search of the perfect sequence to take Daenerys out of Essos and drop her in the middle of Westeros, when the alternative is easier to accommodate and far, far more appealing. I'm not the biggest GRRM fan, and if we're talking aspects of the main plot, there's a lot to pick apart, but I have rambled since whenever, and I need to get this into shape. I'm just saying that I consider this Meereenese thing one of his best/worst experiments with fictional spaces, and though mileage on how successful this has been may well vary, following Dany as she proceeds to shed her brittle exoskeleton and cross an invisible boundary upwards to become her own person is a seminal experience, 10/10 would rec, especially since the result of this ecdysis is a character refusing to be daunted into submission, refreshingly uncowed by the immensity of her cutting designs, and much as this word has grown obsolete, c o m p l i c a t e d. Then again, what isn't?

(Brevity and I have now gone our seperate ways. Imagine if I tackled fandom religiously and with gusto. This could be a joke for the ages.)

• A character I never expected to love as much as I do now: Stannis – so. here. First off, I love Stannis. Took me a while to warm up to him, but it was bound to happen.

I figure I'm just going to be earnest here as I admit to a queer sort of fascination with Stannis Baratheon, whom I found so irritably dour in Clash, and then in over his head, and then kind of arrogant, and then FINALLY about when he went north and everything that happened there and blah blah blah, I grew to love with a passion. Plus, I really ship him with both Jon AND Davos now, but what even is a Stannis without his Onion Knight, you might ask. Besides, his interactions with Jon throughout Dance are like, the highlight of the book for me, so very clever and typical of both characters.

Stannis is devisive internally; my headspace splits and goes in all sorts of different directions and it’s consequently really difficult to gather my feelings into a cohesive opinion. I think he’s a fascinating character, partially because he does inspire such confusion. Stannis is charmless, inflexible, stubborn, confoundedly upright, and has persistence past the point of common sense. He has no charisma, and his insistence on kingship seems to me to stem not so much from ambition as from some misguided attempt to reinstate himself as the rightful ruler of Westeros, born of duty and a sense of obligation. This is an unpopular opinion to fess up to, but I'm not one to hold any degree of coldness or callous behaviour against Stannis, at least not to the exclusion of any real depth of feeling. However, it's the sort of feeling that motivates those who have known immeasurable grief and despair, who have been loved and forgotten, and above all, denied everything they've ever deserved that defines Stannis more than anything else.    

Even as a person rather than a name/title, Stannis is flawed, if not outright tragic. He's a character full of diametric contradictions, which is why I could talk about Stannis till the cows come home and still never quite get to the core of who he is. Part of this, I suspect, is because GRRM is not all that inclined to allow his readers to peer into Stannis's head, and so Stannis becomes accessible to us solely through the POV of his advisors on one end, and Jon on the other. It is my contention that Stannis tries to do good, even as he fails. The king/man duality with Stannis does not negate the tensions between the contradictions, but even so it will probably be his undoing.

While we're at it, I will also say that I come to Catelyn Stark from a slightly different angle (albeit with similar results.) Catelyn is probably my favourite character in the entire AsoIaF!verse, bar none, as well as someone I identify with on a deep, personal level. Just to paint you a little visual, when expressing love for Catelyn among a group of my rl friends, I was told that the character isn't necessarily the most fun to read, that they were systematically put off by how dreary and maudlin she can get, and I understand that. For one thing, Cat's chapters are like getting dragged through the grief of a woman who is living out the destruction of her house's words (“family duty honour.”) GRRM's portrayal of Catelyn is that of a typically feminine character who embodies a classical role of historic femininity (motherhood), and who refuses to be rendered as a passive agent. I can only think of one or two other characters with ties to motherhood like those assured in the figure of Catelyn Stark – the entire Dany narrative provides a rich seam in that regard. But while Catelyn refuses to be objectified or designated to a footnote, even written on a course to become a voice for conciliation, it is in death that the pressures threatening to suffocate her in life are relinquished. The point here is not a channeling of un!Cat's involvement in an ongoing crisis through the accents of renewed importance, but rather becoming in death the incarnation of impulses her living counterpart would struggle against. As such Cat's tragic narrative progression, in which she is sadly unmade in terms of her principles and begins to unravel mentally as a result, is thematically beautiful and so very poignant.  

(Btw, I realise that I'm biased in favour of both Cat and Stannis, if for no other reason than show-wise, Michelle Fairley and Stephen Dillane are two of my absolute favourite actors, so this a lot like tying up all that's ever mattered to me in a nice little bow and everything.)

• A character that everyone else loves that I don’t: [/confession time] i was about to say Jon Snow, which FRANKLY is a bit of a ridiculous statement considering how much I stan the guy. Ugh, Jon, my apologies; I am a mess. ALSO! because I went into some detail with Dany, I figure I might just have to whip out my devious card of deviousness and dodge the question a teeny bit by talking about what attracts me to Jon as a character. Saying that I'm only tangentially interested in Jon's arc is nothing short of an understatement; mostly, there's enough fandom people who talk about Jon more and better than I ever could, sorry!

Since I have very little defence against this double-whammy of understanding of character and Jon's motivations, to my notions, the range of feelings provoked by his inner-POV has imo more to do with Jon learning that he's not the centre of the universe – not because Jon himself seems to think that, but because it's what makes him more than a troperiffic prophesied saviour of mankind within the heroic paradigm that he inhabits. Of course, that may change, what with Aemon's stanza of “kill the boy and let the man be born”, and the mystery (?) of his parentage coming out to test, as I suspect, Jon's deep-seated convictions. I strongly believe that Jon is the key to the restoration of balance/fighting off the White Walkers thing (along with Tyrion and Dany) and the only secret Targ that is needed. In simpler terminology, everything from Jon's tentative introduction to his arrival at Castle Black to the ranging beyond the Wall to his coming-of-age narrative with Ygritte and the wildlings leading up to his et tu-Brute moment at the end of Dance has been expertly crafted so far, and explored with the lightest touch. Good stuff.

• A character I love that everyone else hates: Aeron Greyjoy – the “Damphair” is on the little support ship I tug along beside me dubbed the U.S.S Kraken Force Extaordinaire. I love Asha, and I love Theon. I just really love the Greyjoys, and Aeron's Kingsmoot chapters in Feast are fascinating to me.

• A character that I used to love but don’t any longer: not being coy here at all, but honestly, I can't think of any. At the most, I guess I wasn't all too keen to take up Bran and Arya's stories again in Dance, which BUGS, because bb Starklings!! But no, that's about it.

• A character I would kiss: natsumi82 speaks to my soul; Jaime and Theon are like obvious choices here.

• A character I would slap: um, Gregor. Worst plan ever, I know. /whelp

• A character I’d want to be like: Brienne! Who is not just a hell of a fighter (!!!) but also has the ability to remain kind in a world that seems bent on pitting her ideals against the harsh realities of her setting. Brienne is my lodestar, and my second favourite character within ASoIaF, one that I've written about and will continue to write about. For my part, I'm still hanging on the edge of my seat, hoping against hope that GRRM delves deeper into her relationship with Jaime, and in that way we as readers will be able to examine how their characters have changed, and the comparison of that will be sizzling.

• A character that makes me laugh: all three Lannister siblings are hilarious to me!

• A character that I miss: Ned (also, if you didn't know how I felt about this character, now you do.)

• A pairing that I love: Jaime/Brienne (see above), Theon/Robb. Further yet down the ladder are SanSan, and Ned/Cat.

• A pairing that I don’t like: While I'm only really at the omnishipper point for fandom as a whole, at this point I have het ships, slash ships, crack ships, OT3 ships, poly ships, doomed ships (you don't want to know), and just about anything else you could name, I can’t think of any off the top of my head that I’m just immediately like GET IT AWAY FROM ME AND KILL IT WITH FIRE. With that in mind, I might have to make an exception for Petyr x Sansa.

Here are some people I tag: @irhinoceri @drafee @valorfaerie @blackbetha @gwendoline @earningbournvilles @bibliophilic-cat

[dabideserveslove]

Fuck it, here's another no context smut snippet featuring ShigaDabi.

NSFW Ahead - Minors DNI - check the warnings before hitting 'read more' - If ya liked it and are 18+ then please reblog <3

Warnings: Face sitting (Shigaraki is trans in this btw), breath play, blood, heavy Dom/sub themes, the word 'cunt' is used once in reference to Tomura's anatomy.

Dabi let out a partially muffled grunt of pain when he felt one of the staples embedded in his cheek tear through his skin. The continued stretch and pressure on it from him holding his mouth open becoming too much for the fragile skin to handle.

Sharp pain ebbed into a dull ache and Dabi could taste blood in his mouth, the sharp metallic flavor of it mingling deliciously with the musky, slightly tangy taste of Tomura's cunt.

Everything about it - how Tomura continued to carelessly grind down against Dabi's face, only letting up once in a while for Dabi to gasp in a few breaths before going back at it, not seeming to notice or care that a staple came loose, and even the lingering pain from the wound - sent hot pulses of arousal through Dabi's veins and sent him sinking even further into that warm, floaty, content headspace that only Tomura could get him in.

"Fuck," Tomura gritted out as he tightened his grip in Dabi's hair, making Dabi tilt his head slightly. The new angle apparently was nice if the scratchy, breathy moan Tomura let out as his thighs trembled said anything. "Keep your tongue out, yeah, just like that, shit," Tomura gasped out, "Such a good little slut."

The praise made Dabi's cock throb painfully, a gravelly moan escaping his throat until it was muffled and cut off by Tomura grinding down harder on Dabi's face. Air cut off and jaw opening a little more on instinct, Dabi felt the sharp pain of another staple succumbing to the rough treatment.

He could tell Tomura was getting close, though, and there was no way in Hell he was going to tap out because of a few staples. The pain just fed into his arousal to the point that his head was spinning.

Or, perhaps, it was the lack of oxygen that threw off his equilibrium and made bright spots explode behind his eyelids.

Whatever the reason was didn't matter, though, because moments later Tomura was letting out those gasping, breathy moans he did right before cumming and a rush of slick fluid coated Dabi's tongue.

By the time Tomura sat back on his heels they were both shaking and panting.

Dabi opened his eyes just slightly to see blood smeared all over Tomura's thighs and the slick, swollen lips between them. A weird, potentially misplaced, sense of giddy pride washed over Dabi at the idea that he had marked Tomura like that.

The smile that tugged at his lips hurt, jaw aching while the way the skin was tugged sent sharp jolts of pain through his cheeks. That didn't matter to him, though, nor did it stop the almost manic grin that graced his blood-covered face.

A content sigh came from Tomura as he caught his breath, red eyes opening to look down at Dabi and immediately widening in horror when he saw the blood. His gaze darted back and forth to either side of Dabi's mouth where the two staples closest to his mouth were barely hanging on to the small bits of skin that hadn't ripped.

(...and this is where I stopped writing but rest assured that Tomura is going to fix Dabi up and provide some top tier aftercare.)