#fuck the appendix in particular

[dicentsalve]

You shared your La Squadra headcanons... Now what about L' Unità speciale?

// also,, I love your work! It's interesting :)

Thank you VERY much, bb!!!!! I don't know if this is the same person who asked me about my La Squadra hcs, but if this is, then I'm waiting for you in the bedroom in my new lace lingerie And it's ps2 colors again

● Squalo

Squalo is Tuscan, Tiziano is Sicilian and there are a couple of reasons for this: Tuscany is a treasure trove of the Renaissance and many precious artistic creations, and Tiziano is reference to the artist Also in Sicily is very I mean, is VERY common and in demand fish, and Squalo is literally a shark, as his stand

The accent in speech is almost undetectable, but he often uses the Tuscan dialect and actually pronounces “Tizzano”

He and Sale are brothers. Sale doesn't know that his appendix is ​​a member of the Boss’s elite guard, but believes that he simply found a rich friend in Tiziano, which he sometimes uses with gnashing of teeth. They are also the direct personification of jokes: - I fucked your mother! - We have the same mother, idiot.

Squalo has a Stand from birth and for this reason doesn't eat fish.

Living up to his name, he bites quite often, as sharks bite the object of their adoration as a sign of courtship. (But if think so, he only bites Tiz)

Squalo loves and often goes swimming, especially early in the morning or late in the evening, and carries Tiziano with him, who, in turn, doesn't like to swim, but loves to spend time on the shore, watching Squalo, who sometimes brings him beautiful shells or stones from the bottom.

Can't stand white wine.

He knows a lot of different and ridiculous facts about sea creatures and loves to tell them to Tiziano.

Regarding the Bucci gang, has a particular dislike for Mista (this hc is based on private comparisons between The Clash and Sex Pistols and disputes between fans)

Having a difficult relationship with parents.

● Tiziano

Has the softest, almost inaudible accent, especially to an unknowing interlocutor, which is also well disguised behind purring.

The great love of Sicilians for women played a certain role in his appearance, which gave him great attention from men in Sicily and beyond. From the women, by the way, too.

Tiziano damnably loves money and is ready to do anything if he is paid well for it.

He also doesn’t eat fish, but he didn’t do that even before the stand appeared, he’s just sick of it.

Tiziano values ​​his personal space very much and hates when it is violated against his will, but he himself does this quite often, if not constantly.

Is the information side of the Unità Speciale.

He has the habit of pampering and treating Squalo, who, in turn, is ashamed of this.

Not particularly talkative or smiling, but has a good command of the language. (In terms of speech patterns and traps for the interlocutor, but in a different sense too)

At home he has several plants, which he carefully cares for.

Father is a farmer. Doesn't maintain contact with his mother, but has a stable relationship with his father. (His dad also likes Squalo) Final screamer, but Tiziano and Squalo are just friends, at least officially (This turns me on even more)

● Carne

Carne is almost completely deaf. He can speak, but does so rather vaguely and quietly.

He's afraid of cats and I'm not going to explain it.

His height is 211. It seemed strange and illogical to me that since Carne is meant to be cannon fodder and the stand itself demands that he be killed in any case, he is very short. And the higher the cabinet, the louder it falls.

Regarding the work of Notorious B.I.G: Yes, Carne needs to be killed And he will die, then his soul in the form of a stand will crawl out of his body. However, when Notorious B.I.G. reaches the target and kills the victim, it returns to the owner’s body and restores the wounded parts.

● Cioccolata

Cioccolata is the last one who is also Sicilian for me and I'm ready to explain why: In the anime adaptation, Risotto (who, according the canon, is Sicilian), Tiziano and Cioccolata have a single, unique manner of speech, which is especially clearly heard from Cioccolata. I can’t explain it, but just listen to their voices and compare with the others, they have some kind of abruptness, “stammers” and breath before syllables.

Based on this, Cioccolata has the thickest accent.

As a child, Cioccolata wore braces, which he installed for himself. However, he still has a natural "unevenness" and his front teeth protrude slightly, causing his upper incisors to show through unless he consciously closes his lips.

He sleeps a lot, which can be attributed to his slight excitability and extreme emotionality at work, although otherwise he is quite calm and even silent.

During each new medical experiment, he tries not to repeat himself, because otherwise the process will no longer cause the same pleasure.

Despite certain inclinations, he still adheres to extreme sterility in his work.

● Secco

He has no fear of Cioccolata. In the sense that he is still afraid of him as a person and an unstable personality. However, he is not afraid, because he is firmly confident that Ciocco wont harm him.

He has a slightly sinewy, but large and elastic physique, broad shoulders, to which a significant contribution was made by the stand, which requires good training of the swimmer, and we all know what swimmers look like.

Due to the huge amount of sugar, he is very restless, nervous and twitchy.

After being with Cioccolata for a long time, he really began to forget and confuse some words or sounds.

He is a Neapolitan and knows every corner of Naples like the back of his hand, so he poses a much greater threat in pursuit here.

Cioccolata often kicks him out of the office or forces sits halfway under the floor, since Secco loves dirt.

[esperderek]

Approval is Silly

I've been paying attention to Approval for my second playthrough, after barely caring in my 1st, and I can't help but feel the Approval system is a little silly.

It's actually very hard to actually go into the negatives, even if you're being consistently dinged, because doing your companions quests usually give you fuckton of Approval. It's much easier to get them to fuck off through plot events than Approval.

Admittedly it being hard to get someone to fuck off through sheer "Just don't like you!" makes a certain amount of sense after knowing the artifact is protecting everyone from being brain-jacked.

Conversely, it also leads to silly situations like Shadowheart saying something like "I've never met anyone like you before, and perhaps never will again." in an absolutely reverent tone even when she's at like, Medium approval, or going through Astarion's entire plotline, saving him from the hunter, helping him reclaim his autonomy, ultimately killing his slaver followed by talking him out of becoming just like him, and him ending the game on 'High', which is the middlepoint of positive approval thanks to all the -1s through the game.

Sure you liberated him from 200 years of slavery and torture, but on the other hand you felt a little bad about that goblin losing their parents and, uh, expressed your disgust about slavery a couple of times.

Others are absolutely trivial. Gale in particular has so many very early game boosts if you're at all playing nice (like I do) that it's hard not to have him at Very Good or Exceptional by the midpoint of Act 1 unless you're intentionally leaving him in camp or choosing things specifically to piss him off. Karlach and Wyll aren't far behind him. I think I finished my first playthrough with everyone but Astarion at 'Exceptional' and it wasn't very hard.

It also has the weird thing that some party members protest....taking quests. Sorry you don't want me helping these refugees, Lae'zel, Astarion, but I would like to do the content that the game provides.

Honestly, if I was makin' the game, I don't think I woulda bothered. At this point 'companion approval' just feels like the appendix of western style RPGs since BG1/Fallout. It's put in because it's always been put in, even though it's not actually adding anything.

[that-trans-autistic-guy]

The Dream of Being in DBD as a Trans Character

as an actor who adores DBD and yearns to bring trans characters to life, this is the story i made for a character that i thought could be brought into the show via an episode focus. so, enjoy:

The plot begins with a client walking in. A ghost boy, no older than eighteen, comes in and asks for their assistance. His friend, who we’ll call Roy, had moved to the UK before the ghost, we’ll call Gilbert, passed away. The two were extremely close and Gil was Roy’s only real friend. Gil’s request is that the agency finds Roy and helps him deliver a last message to his friend. It takes some discussion, but the agency agrees.

We see a teen walking through a high school, head down, headphones on and clearly on the outside (think Edwin’s scene of walking against all the other students). Some jock in a varsity jacket slaps the books out of his hands. One particular book gets kicked down the hallway or something, and the whole hallway watches him go after it. His locker has all sorts of insults scribbled onto it, multiple of which are feminine in nature. Roy just sighs as he exchanges some of his supplies.

We watch him go through classes, just glimpses of classmates glaring, throwing papers at him, etc. He doesn’t respond to it beyond a few resigned expressions and sighs. A bell rings and the hallways are flooded by people going to lunch. Enter Crystal Palace, flanked by Edwin and Charles. She asks if he has a moment to talk and he says something like, “Look, I’m just trying to go eat without getting fucked up. So if you and your ghost boyfriends could just leave me alone, that’d be great.” He walks off, leaving Crystal and the boys extremely confused.

They didn’t think he would be able to see them. Gil had said he’d never said anything about seeing ghosts.

Crystal and the boys talk to the other students about Roy, posing as new/exchange students who’d noticed something about him. None of the students are particularly nice, saying he’s weird and abnormal. They also add in statements saying things like he’s “a girl playing pretend” and other statements like that. It confuses the boys, especially Edwin, but it seems to click for Crystal.

She finds Roy after school, hiding in the art/band room while the hoard of students goes outside to leave. His headphones are still on and he’s on his phone, but his head whips up the second the psychic enters so he’s clearly on high alert. Crystal sits across from him and asks why he could see ghosts.

Roy explains that when he came out, his parents stopped caring. They didn’t provide anything to him and refused to call him by his name. When he was seventeen, his appendix burst. He’d complained for days that his stomach was unbearable and his parents ignored it. It burst at school and he nearly died from their negligence.

His uncle asked for custody and they gave it over without protest. Once he had it, his uncle, who we’ll call Josh, immediately worked on helping him transition. Josh got him to doctors who gave him HRT and helped him legally change his name. When Josh was told he would move to England for his high paying job barely two months later, he got Roy top surgery before they left. He enrolled in school, which had just as much bullying as his last. 

Crystal tells him that his friend, Gilbert, had contacted them to find him and help deliver a message. Roy’s shocked and asked if he could see Gil. The three agree, saying they could arrange something for that night. They make conversation until Roy deems it safe enough for him to leave.

The two friends reunite that night. It’s tearful and emotional. We learn, through conversation or flashbacks, that Gilbert had died shortly after Roy moved away in a car accident. Roy had flown out to be at his best friend’s funeral and had been inconsolable. Gil’s family had let him sit with them, basically his own family. The boys hold each other like they might fade away, resting their foreheads together.

They talk. Gil reassures him that he was okay, that he was glad Roy was still going. He’s sad that Roy hasn’t made any new friends and the boy says he’s scared of letting in the wrong people. He says that maybe he can start with the detectives and Roy agrees that maybe he can. They talk a little more, the two stating that they love each other and similar statements, and Gil’s ready to move on. The blue light appears and he smiles sadly, giving his friend one last hug. He tells Roy to look after himself, asks the agency to look after him, too. Roy is holding in a sob but tells Gilbert to go on and that he’ll see him later, yeah? Gilbert nods and goes with Death, the light disappearing. As it does, we see the ghost boys holding hands, reminded of their own deep friendship and unable to imagine parting.

Roy swipes at his tears as the agency approaches. They all offer their condolences, even a hug maybe, and he accepts. He asks if what they do is helping people move on and they say that it is. He nods and says that he’d like to help them sometimes, to which they all agree. The four of them hang out for a while, letting Roy tell the stories of Gilbert he’d been aching to tell.

I like to think Roy would make a few other appearances, in a similar way to Monty. Edwin would ask him questions about his identity and queer stuff, notebook in hand. Charles and him would mess around, maybe playing jokes on the others. He and Crystal would commiserate over neglectful parents, maybe helping her as she tries to rebuild her life. When Niko comes back, they’d share shows and books they each like. 

Maybe the bullying gets bad and one of the ghost boys goes with him to school, casually tripping the bullies or being silly around them while the bully is oblivious. Roy slowly makes a friend or two at school, and overall comes out of his shell bit by bit.

again, this is just a wild dream i have. the character envelops the themes of love and grief that the show is based on, as well as self acceptance. naturally, i'd love to see any kind of trans character on the show since we are an extremely underrepresented group and the love put into the show would make it excellent. so, naturally, Save Dead Boy Detectives.

[yerrenica]

⋯ JAHA LEE x MONGRANG | killers at heart

⬦ info; mongjaha, panic attacks, ballroom dancing, pining, mongrang is a mess (also touch averse), no beta we die like byung gu, skytsui is mentioned (implied yerisky).

⬦ wc; 6.4k

The Jade Flower Palace's event planners have really outdone themselves this time, and Mongrang hates them for it. He's having the worst night he's had in weeks and it's all their fault.

In reality, it's not their fault at all. But the people who forced him into this were not here right now, so he had to get someone, anyone, to blame.

The Jade Flower Palace has a rule. Well, it has a lot of rules, but the one that is currently screwing him over is this: 

Jade Flower Palace Code of Conduct V. 4:

Section C, Article 4

For significant palace social events* with over 150 members of the general public - there must be at least two (2) Martial Masters present.

*See appendix [ii.x] for extended event criteria.

Unfortunately, the event that Mongrang is currently wasting away at meets all the said criteria… He checked. It's the day of the Dongzhi Festival, which means it's cold as fuck, dark as fuck, and everyone's stressed as fuck. He just wishes he was home, curled under a blanket by a dying fire, some lovely woman's hands rubbing soothing circles into his back. He sincerely hopes that the people who wrote the Code of Conduct trip into a ditch.

The palace's main ballroom has been made to resemble a frozen forest; done up in silvers and blues and glittering tinsel. The servants have done a spectacular job of it. Various crystal trees dot the space, carved from rare silver ore, and embedded with glittering gemstones. The centerpiece is a magnificent fir tree, carved completely from ice. It's almost tall enough to scrape the golden dome at the room's centre; the key word being: almost. Nothing can be tall enough to reach the cupola. That's another rule.

The lower ceiling is intended to emulate the night sky. The dark shimmery fabric has been draped from the upper balconies and crisscrosses the room, forming a perfect backdrop for the tens of thousands of twirling snowflakes. They don't melt, don't fall, only twinkle in place like baby stars, casting dappled light over the crowd.

It's truly a dazzling display.

Mongrang would like nothing more than to be able to fully immerse himself in the beauty of it all, but alas, the reality of his situation is far too damning.

Mongrang usually tries to make himself scarce for these events. He doesn't harbour a particular dislike for galas in general. But it was more of an issue with the attendees. From the moment he began avenging Byung Gu's death, an entire host of their nation's elite decided that he was the Jade Flower Palace's most eligible bachelor. They've been going out of their way ever since. Hoping to win his hand for their daughters.

And sure, while Mongrang loved to indulge in hedonism, these particular high-class women were not to his tastes. (He'd like to add that he means personality-wise.)

It's not that he doesn't understand their reasoning; He's young, physically attractive, influential, and wealthy. Marrying someone from within the Mong family would give any family a lot of influence.

Has he mentioned that he's by far the best choice out of the Mong family? Yeah. You'd have to be severely desperate to go after anyone else from his lineage. 

Now, just because Mongrang is the best choice, doesn't make him a good one. To be honest, the entire situation is a little sad. He's been introduced to hundreds of young women, and been wined and dined across all of the land. But he forgets their names, faces, and stories almost immediately; all blurring together into a mass of unrecognizable bodies.

Most of the women tend to swoon over him, in awe of his power, status, and other arbitrary nonsense. Some are a little scared, nervous that they'll fuck up and invoke the Jade Flower Palace's wrath. It doesn't really bother him. He, in theory, could reassure them that they'll be okay after his inevitable rejection, but he doesn't particularly care enough to ease their fears. 

Hey. If the entire family decides to sleep with pocket knives under their pillows for the rest of their lives, who is he to stop them? Not that that would make any difference in the grand scheme of things, anyway. Besides, if he were planning to put a hit on them, they'd already be dead.

Sometimes - people simply forget to use their brains.

Honestly, they truly needn't fret. He's not interested in any of that. He's got bigger things to think about. Like how he feels like he's carrying the entire world on his shoulders, how he's unprepared to be the next cult leader, and how the Mong family abhors him.

Mongrang is currently (trapped in) making polite conversation with a young lady. She's quite pretty, if not a little obnoxious. Her name is Skylar if he remembers correctly; the subordinate of some sect whose name continues to escape him. Skylar is clearly not interested in him, well, not in that way, anyway. From the moment they were forced into this social interaction, she’s been (not so) subtly stealing glances at one of the entertainers stationed at the Northern doors. 

Mongrang decides to put her out of her misery.

"I see that someone's caught your eye." He notes, voice only a touch above the steady playing of the orchestra. Her sect leader isn't nearby, probably engrossed in some conversation with another old man with avaricious hands and a giant stick up his ass. Mongrang nods his head in the direction of the entertainer. Skylar stiffens up, eyes widening.

Mongrang gives her a gentle smile. The kind he reserves for the civilians (especially the women (mostly the women)). The kind he practices in the mirror every day so he can come across as more than an empty shell of a person.

"Her name is Yerenica." He whispers. Tension drains from her shoulders. "She has one last performance left. Find her afterwards and ask her to dance." He suggests.

"But—"

"Don't worry about your sect leader."

He could easily have whatever sect leader she was under distracted for a couple hours. Slip a sleeping drug into his drink. Have an escort give him some extra attention. Lock him outside in the gardens. Hell, he could have his body dumped in a ditch somewhere if it'd make Skylar's life easier. 

"Mongrang, if I may ask." She pulls him from his scheming. Her eyebrows are furrowed in concentration, trying to find the right words.

He nods. "Yes?"

"Are you... like me?"

Oh.

He pauses. No one's ever asked him that before. 

He really doesn't know, and even if he did, he probably couldn't tell her. But his thoughtful silence seems to speak for him. Skylar smiles, like she knows something he doesn't. It's her first real smile of the night.

"You are kind." 

He doesn't say anything in parting, and she slips away into the crowd. He wishes to tell her that he is not, and will never be kind, but he is almost certain that she already knows.

He digs his nails into his palm repeatedly - a nervous tick that he has been trying to get rid of for years. Many of his siblings have told him that it's unbecoming.

He can't help but stifle a scowl at the thought. Perhaps he should return to the bar. After all, he's far too sober to be here right now.

He makes his way over, narrowly avoiding tripping over the most inconveniently placed decorative bush he's ever encountered. He's been acting far too clumsy tonight. He's about to order however many shots of alcohol from the east he can reasonably knock back in one go when a distinctive, shrill voice breaks his concentration.

"Mongrang!" His blood goes cold. He knows that voice. He hates that voice. "Would you care to join us at our table?"

This particular girl has been a resident thorn in his side for the past year. She's wearing an ugly olive green hanfu. It clashes horribly with her skin. It has far too many gems, frills, and ornaments. Mongrang thinks it makes her look like a toad. Why did she insist on always wearing that hideous shade?

Her name is Mi-Cha or Mi-Hi or Yoo-Mi or something along those lines. He knows, for a fact, it has a Mi in it, but that's about it. He would ask her again, but he doesn't really want to use any of his already limited brain power to remember it.

"Of course! It would be my pleasure." He says, forcing his face into a familiar false smile. Be nice Mongrang. Be gracious. Smile. Show teeth. They're all watching you.

They walk to the table. The girl hanging off his arm like a noose around his neck.

He really wouldn't be that upset about the invitation if it weren't for the fact that he hates these people. He honestly wouldn't mind sitting down for a bit, but this woman and her father have been harassing him for half a year. He should've known they'd be here.

The girl, Mi-Cha, is delusional. There is simply no other explanation. She thinks he's in love with her. Unable to see that his compliments are surface level, his smile is fake, and his politeness is obligatory. Her father is the same kind of delusional. Mongrang can't stand people like him. People who are drunk on money, power, and social status.

Everyone at the table is delighted to make the acquaintance of a member of the Mong family, and if he has to feign interest in another person's narcissistic business venture one more time, it might just kill him, or them, depending on how well he can keep himself in check. This is why, for the past two years, his eldest brother has been effectively banned from these gatherings. You kill one party guest and suddenly you're benched. Hey. Now that Mongrang thinks about it. His brother might be onto something.

Right now, Mongrang is in Purgatory, sandwiched between the desperate duo. The father is to his right, talking to some other old fool about embezzling taxpayer gold or whatever people do nowadays to make their millions.

Yoo-Mi, yeah, that's definitely her name, sits to his left. She's exceedingly boring. She has the personality of a paper bag and talks in a high-pitched monotone voice that somehow manages to both be incredibly quiet and exceptionally irritating. Mongrang has to strain to hear her over the music. It's quickly starting to lull him to sleep, and if he has to listen to another story about her entirely unremarkable time at a Western boarding school he's going to throw up.

Furthermore, she's a horrible person.

She is mean to servants, rude to the palace staff, and is genuinely a bitch to everyone she deems lower than herself. He had to bite his tongue as she happily rattled off a story about how one of her handmaidens had accidentally shattered her favourite mirror, so she had the poor woman beaten until she bled.

She spends an absurd amount of time talking openly about the plague of poor people. How they're "leeching off" the nation's resources, and using the money of respectable taxpayers to avoid getting jobs.

On top of it all, she's incredibly handsy. Right now, she's using his arm as a makeshift pillow, leaning closer by the minute. It makes him want to peel his skin off. A little-known fact about Mongrang is that he loathes being touched without permission. Growing up being treated the way he was in the Mong family made everything feel wrong. Every little bit of contact burned if he did not initiate it himself.

It's not like he can make his preference known. Oh, how people would talk if they knew the great Mongrang is touch averse.

Just deal with it, the night's almost over.

Mi-Hi tightens her grip on his arm, and he cannot help the gooseflesh that crawls up the limb. His stomach rolls. He needs better company and fast before he loses his shit and does something he might regret. His temper may not be as short as some of his other siblings, but he's not exactly known for being patient.

There has to be someone else here he knows. One of his servants? An old sparring partner? Or better yet, the second Martial Master that had to come with him for the event. There has to be another one of his siblings here. That's the rule.

It's not that Mongrang gets along particularly well with any of his other siblings. But they are excellent at repelling unwanted conversation partners. You'd have to be mad to approach a respectable Mong family member (except for him, apparently) in the first place, let alone two.

He prays it's not his eldest brother. Talking to him makes him want to pull his hair out. Honestly, listening to this wet napkin of a girl might actually be a better choice than chancing an encounter with–

"And then there was this one time when my dorm mate Cho-Hee told me the most extraordinary riddle…"

Never mind. 

He scans the room, looking for another signature robe. No one on the dance floor. No one at one of the centre tables. No one mingling with the crowd. Damn, whoever is here right now might just be doing a worse job socializing than him.

"So there's a man and a horse, or was it a horse and a man?" Gods, Mi-Young! What difference does it make? 

He digs his nails into his palm again, this time hard.

Turning his attention to the outskirts of the grand ballroom, he checks all of the best hiding spots. The corners, the ceiling, behind an ornamental plant, under the buffet table. Gods, he was starting to feel like a lunatic.

Unfortunately for Mongrang, no one appears to be anywhere. He racks his brain, trying to figure out where else someone could possibly be hiding.

...

No way. Was he left here all alone? He should've known his siblings would forsake him in such a manner. Thus, he groans, resigning to his fate of spending the rest of the night with Mi-Whoever.

He tilts his head up to the stained glass ceiling in prayer. Maybe the Gods will have mercy upon him? Smite him down from the heavens above?

After a second of wallowing in self-pity, he turns to look back at the people seated at the table with him, and oh... Then he sees it. Salvation. In the corner of his eye, on the third balcony. Raven-black hair (which he's always thought of as too soft-looking) tied with a red ribbon he'd recognize anywhere.

He narrows his eyes and focuses on the figure. Yes, that's definitely him leaning against the railing. He knows exactly who that is, and he's never felt more excited to see him.

"And then, Mongrang, this is the best bit: he had actually given his horse the name Friday. So that's actually the answer to the riddle—"

Everything is suddenly too loud and darkness is starting to creep into the edges of his vision, the girl's hands on him feel like ice, spiders crawl from beneath them and he needs to get them off. 

A server refills his wine glass for the third time in 15 minutes and he chugs it, shrugging Mi-Sun off in the process. But before the waitress can leave, he catches her sleeve. 

"Bring me two shots of the strongest shit you have." He whispers, hoping against hope that his face conveys his desperation.

"Ah, Mongrang, have I told you of the time that—" That agitating voice starts up again, and the rich girl wraps herself around him once more. He imagines taking a knife and— shit, this was getting really bad.

"Actually, make those doubles." He pleads. The servant nods, seemingly understanding his predicament, and hurries off to the bar. Five painful minutes and one elephant dart to the face of a story later, Mongrang's saviour returns with two shot glasses.

"190-proof." She whispers. And, heavens, he's never wanted to kiss a woman more.

He stands abruptly, shaking the girl off of him for a second time. Oops. Everyone at the table turns to look.

"Dearest apologies, this has been lovely. But I've got another obligation." He feigns dismay. 

“Oh, Mongrang, you will come back, won't you?” Calls one of the women. 

"I'll make every effort to." I will not.

He snatches the two glasses and quickly takes his leave, weaving through the sea of people to the grand staircase. His saviour still hasn't moved when he gets there. He's leaning against the railing, looking like he's contemplating throwing himself off.

"Country bumpkin!" He calls. 

The raven-haired man looks at him out of the corner of his eye. Mongrang stiffens just slightly. But quickly, a smug smile makes its way upon his face when he notes an entire empty bottle of wine on the floor next to the man. This might actually work.

Mongrang holds the shot glass at arm's length, willing the other man to take it. He does. Thank the Gods. 

"What's this?" Jaha asks dully, swirling the liquid around the cup. He narrows his eyes in distaste, looking between Mongrang and the glass as if they're both bugs and he's deciding which one to take a shoe to first.

"A peace offering." Mongrang shrugs.

"I guess you've finally started using your brain. " He smugly smirks, then sniffs the liquor and furrows his brows. "Shit dog, this is rubbing alcohol."

"Almost." Mongrang grins.

"Are you trying to poison me?"

"Wanna find out?" Mongrang raises his glass, and for all his posturing, Jaha does the same. They clink the shot glasses together before lifting them to their lips and knocking them back.

It's absolutely foul. Mongrang coughs and sputters, eyes threatening to bulge out of his sockets. He looks like he might puke. Though, he does hold it down. He threw a shot up once, way back in basic training, and never heard the end of it. He can't risk that again.

To his surprise, Jaha's countenance remains as nonchalant as ever. Mongrang wonders if during their time apart, Jaha lost his sense of taste, because surely no normal person would be able to down something as vile as this with such an expression on their face.

"Are you aware that people get thrown overboard for serving shit like this?" Jaha glances at Mongrang. Mongrang grins in turn, did Jaha just make a joke? "Also, I have to ask. What part of me standing alone in this corner implies that I wish to hold a conversation? Especially with the likes of you?" He just had to throw an insult in there, didn't he?

"A sense of kinship, perhaps." Mongrang gestures to the ball going on below them, specifically on the people in the crowds. "I hate these too."

The orchestra is on a break. Now, a vocal soloist has started a set. She's singing an aria, coloratura soprano voice ringing high and clear over the din of the party. Jaha seems to be enjoying it, though. Contrary to Mongrang, whose shoulders tense every time she goes above a G#.

"Maybe I don't hate these? I might be perfectly content right now." He huffs. "How did you even find me here?"

"Your hair." Mongrang smiles, as if proud of himself. Jaha makes a repulsed expression, then mumbles something that sounds suspiciously like "weirdo".

"I know you're having a shit time too, you're making that face you make when you absolutely abhor something."

"And what face is that?" He asks, genuinely curious.

"Your eyes get all hard. And then you draw your lips into a thin line. It looks like you're trying to vaporize everything and everyone in your line of sight." Mongrang describes, all the while his eyes trail over every contour of Jaha's face.

"That sounds like my usual expression."

"Well, to some. But it's different. I can tell."

"You sure pay a lot of attention to my face." Uh oh. Mongrang had not meant for the conversation to go in this direction.

"Why are you even here?" Mongrang attempts to change the subject, and wow, that did not come out right at all. He has no idea why he's tripping over his words like this in front of this country bumpkin. It's not like he's afraid of him.

Jaha seems to get what he means though, even if he furrowed his brows at Mongrang's harsh tone. He's almost never at these festivals. But It's not that he particularly dislikes them. On the contrary, he's quite fond of them. It's just that he simply has no time to attend them because everyone seems to constantly be up his ass about one thing or the other. Thus, his time is usually spent taking care of the working class and dealing with his enemies.

"I'm on a mission." He sighs, resigned. "My subordinates are here too. I'm here in case everything goes to shit."

Ah, that actually makes a lot of sense. From what Mongrang's amassed about the man is that he's always doing something. He can never just idly sit by and relax. There's always a reason for his actions. Still, though, Mongrang fails to understand just what could be so dangerous about a festival such as this?

"What about you?" Jaha unexpectedly asks, and Mongrang can't stop his face from brightening.

"Due to the palace's code of conduct. It's an obligation." Mongrang wistfully sighs. He'd truthfully rather be indulging in some wine with some pretty women.

Jaha hums in affirmation. Misery loves company. The soprano finishes her performance to the light applause of the audience. There's the scraping of chairs as the orchestra gets into place.

"You're making that face again." Mongrang says, which is a grave mistake because Jaha's expression breaks into a smirk.

"Honestly, shit dog, I'm more interested in why you've spent enough time studying my face to make that little observation." Shit. He's really dug himself into a hole here.

"I—'' Mongrang stutters, pink gathering on his cheeks. Later he'll blame the flush and the stuttering of his heart on the alcohol. Like he hasn't just been caught admitting he stares at this country bumpkin a bit more than is appropriate for their current relationship.

"Oh? Have I rendered the Great Mongrang: Lord Unable to Shut Up, speechless?" Mongrang rolls his eyes. "You can tell me. Don't be shy." Gods, is the other man usually this, for lack of a better term, flirty? He can't have been; Mongrang would've noticed. Although he supposed they never really talked much, or so he'd like to think. But somehow they always end up sharing a drink or two during every encounter.

Jaha smirks. Childish. Mongrang doesn't like how it makes his mouth go dry. Doesn't like that at all. He swallows thickly.

"You're um... well." He tries to think of a way to phrase his sentence in a way that won't dig an even bigger hole for him, but... "It'd be impossible not to stare at you." Fuck. That's arguably one of the worst things he could've said.

It's true though; Jaha is objectively handsome. Mongrang wishes he wasn't such a dick so that rich men and their daughters could fawn over him instead. He wishes he could bear at least some of the burdens of being known.

"Hmm?" Jaha croons. Mongrang can tell the other man is laughing at him. Because Jaha knows. He knows that Mongrang is watching every movement of his throat as he speaks, and tracing the contours of his jaw with his eyes. He probably thinks this is exceedingly funny, and Mongrang gets ready to be teased mercilessly for the rest of his miserable life and–

His salvation and damnation arrive in the same form: He hears them coming first. That soulless monotone, the clacking of high heels that she has no idea how to walk in, the sound of stupidity. You don’t always need to hear what somebody is saying to know it's idiotic.

Mongrang groans. "You've got to be kidding me." Walking up the stairs is the same girl he's avoiding, and this time, she has her father in tow. He pales. Mongrang tries his hardest to disappear into his robe, ignoring the static that threatens to creep into his vision.

"Shit dog?" A cold voice snaps him out of it. Oh. Mongrang forgot that he was having a conversation. Jaha glares at him, but his face is also laced with concern. Mongrang feels a twinge of guilt for dragging him into this.

"It's stupid. But you see them? 12 o'clock." He tilts his head in their direction. 

"The girl in the dress that makes her look like a toad and the old man?"

"Yeah. They've been on me for months. Won't take no for an answer. She's in love with me, convinced I'm her future husband."

Jaha bursts into laughter. "You're right. That is fucking stupid. Would've thought you'd have her in your bed by now."

Mongrang frowns. He may sleep around a lot, but even he has his limits.

The orchestra is back, the music picks up, and at the same time, he accidentally locks eyes with Satan herself. She waves and starts to tug her father in their direction.  Mongrang's eyes widen in horror.

"Shit. She saw me!"

"So?" Jaha is unimpressed. "What exactly is the problem here?"

"I don't want to be anywhere near her. She's the worst." Mongrang huffs, exasperated. 

"Tell her to fuck off then." Jaha says - like it's easy. He raises an eyebrow. "You're a member of the Mong family. Act like one."

"I've tried. But she's so dense, and she's always all over me, and I don't know what to say, and I just–" Mongrang's heart beats fast and he feels his breathing start to pick up. This is so embarrassing.  

He's so fucking itchy and he doesn't know why. He wants to tear his skin off. Or hers. Or someone's. He needs to do something. Would it be asking too much for the ground to open up, swallow him whole, and shroud him in its quiet darkness once and for all? If he asked nicely enough, would the abyss swallow him whole?

That would save a lot of people some grief.

"Fuck, shit dog, you're a mess. Does it really bother you this much?" Jaha asks. Mongrang realizes he's been frozen for a good ten seconds. The shorter one doesn't seem to be mocking him like usual. Right now, he sounds like he's underwater; he's so very far away, even though he's right there. This is stupid. Be a man, Mongrang. Just say fucking no. 

The girl and her father creep closer.

Mongrang nods. His hands are clenching and unclenching at his sides. Be kind. Be gracious. Be strong.

"I'm afraid I'll kill them." He admits. And Jaha's brows immediately crease. Ah. Now Mongrang understands why Jaha's here.

"Mongrang!" Great. In the time it's taken for Mongrang to pull himself together: Thing One and Thing Two have made their way across the balcony and are now even closer than before.

"Dear God, they're bold." Grumbles Jaha. And with the way Jaha turns, it almost seems as if he's about to leave and throw Mongrang to the wolves.

Mongrang is about to open his mouth and say something, anything, to make the other stick around for a while longer. Maybe he should start a fight with him—

But before he gets the chance, Jaha turns to Mongrang, and in the corner of his eye, he can see the toad and her father halt their movements.

"Mongrang, may I have this dance?" Jaha asks, voice like honey. He holds his hand out expectantly. His eyes betray him, though. Get me out of here. Mongrang instinctively reaches to take it, and Jaha grabs his wrist and tugs him away.  

"This is torture. You owe me in blood for this." He grumbles, before interlacing their fingers properly and leading them down the grand staircase, uncaring of the hundreds of eyes locked on them. Mongrang is pretty sure he sees one of the guards stationed at the entrance do a double take.

Truthfully, even Mongrang is stunned. He's so stunned that he has not yet spoken a word to Jaha. But how could he?

The crowd parts like a sea, erupting in a chorus of whispers as the two men take to the dance floor. Everyone tries to pretend like they're not watching, but they are. He can hardly believe it himself. He's not quite sure this is real life. Out of the corner of his eye, he spies Skylar speaking with Yerenica, who is still in her performance attire. He catches Skylar's gaze, and she smiles. She looks from him to Jaha, and back to him again. She nods.

"Well?" Jaha's icy voice snaps him from his stupor. "Are you planning to lead or must I do all the work?" Right, they're dancing, apparently, how could Mongrang forget when Jaha's struggling abysmally with moving his feet in time with Mongrang's?

"Oh, were we actually going to dance?" He asks, slightly nervous.

"If we weren't, I wouldn't have asked. You should know that I don't commit to things halfway." He glares, it doesn't really have any bite behind it. Mongrang stares blankly.

"But you really suck at this, so I didn't think you..." Mongrang cuts himself off. The country bumpkin had just saved him; he better not mess this up. After all, even he could appreciate help. Thus, he sighed.

"I'll tell you what to do. Just keep up." He quickly plasters on his signature smirk, which earns him a glare. "Keep one of your hands holding mine like this."

But even as he says this, he hesitates for a moment. Reminds himself to breathe. It'll be okay. He then places his palm against Jaha's, lightly. He waits for the inevitable lurch in his stomach, the feeling of maggots crawling under his skin from the touch. But it never happens. He feels fine. In fact, there's a pleasant warmth where their hands meet. That same warmth spreads through his arm and settles in between his ribs.

Mongrang stuns for just a moment, but the way Jaha is focusing on his instructions makes him smile, and he can feel himself relaxing.

Jaha hums, and asks. "You're supposed to put your hand on my waist, right?" Mongrang blanches. Jaha is unimpressed.

"Shit dog, you're an adult. Don't be a baby and grab my fucking waist."

This makes Mongrang relent and place a hand at his waist, pulling Jaha closer to him. He doesn't miss how the other man's eyes widen just a bit, how his breath hitches at the contact. Jaha is stiff and awkward as Mongrang guides him through the steps. Around them, couples dance without a care in the world. In a room full of people, they each have a moment to themselves, carving out their own slice of paradise. But even still, Mongrang can't help but eye their surroundings, looking for the toad.

"Relax." His dance partner breathes in his ear, tone irked. "You're far away from her already."

His words go straight to Mongrang's gut, and he complies. Jaha is right, after all.

Mongrang leads them through the waltz, whispering instructions over the orchestra. Gradually, they begin chatting, easing into the dance. It felt oddly effortless to dance with Jaha. And at some point, Mongrang realizes he's no longer listening to his words. Instead, he's hyper-fixated on the rasp of his voice. 

"Are you even listening to me?" Mongrang's been caught. He smiles sheepishly and shakes his head.

"You're insufferable." Jaha looks at him with an aloof frown. "You never answered my question, you know. How can you distinguish my pissed-off face from my regular one?"

"It's simple, really." Mongrang chuckles. "You make the pissed-off one at me all the time."

Jaha blinks for a moment before a small smile makes its way to his face. "Can't argue with that."

"Hey, country bumpkin? Can I ask you a question?"

"Clearly, you're already doing so." His dance partner frowns. "But go ahead if you must."

"Why did you help me back there?"

"I don't know, I just felt like it." He answers too quickly to be sincere.

"That's not true. If I had tried to attack them, you would've loved fighting me. So why did you keep me in check?" Mongrang quickly added. "And don't try to bullshit me by mentioning something about my ice arts."

"If I tell you the real reason, will you get off my ass?" He says, exasperated.

"Yes." Mongrang says immediately.

"You're not going to like it." He pauses, hoping that Mongrang will back out, but if anything, it seems to make him more eager.

"To be honest." He starts. The music swells. "I saw an expression on you that I'd never seen before." Mongrang is confused now. What is he talking about? "For a moment there… you looked afraid."

Mongrang tenses. At this rate, his heart is going to leap from his chest and roll across the floor. 

Would Jaha pick it up? 

It'd be better not to think of that right now.

"Country bumpkin, are you admitting that you study my face too?" He grins, regaining his composure. Jaha stomps on his foot.

The dance ends and the alcohol must be getting to Mongrang's head because before they part completely, he brings Jaha's hand to his lips and kisses it gingerly. He's kissed the back of so many hands before, but this is the first time he's done it out of genuine desire. Mongrang doesn't miss the flush across Jaha's neck and ears, and an emotion that Mongrang barely recognizes flashes across the other's face. It takes him a moment to realize that the country bumpkin is embarrassed.

"You—" He starts to say, but Mongrang sees a flash of brown hair and a ghastly green dress. His heart drops.

"Seriously?!" He whisper-yells. Jaha's gaze follows his eyes to the form of the woman near the edge of the dancefloor.

"Ignore her. She's not even looking over here." Jaha urges. "Focus on me." Mongrang obliges. His eyes really are stunning. "Okay?"

"Alright." Mongrang sighs. How can he say no to him? "Are you sure you can't scare her off?" Mongrang looks at him, almost pleadingly. Jaha laughs at this.

"Oh? Do you think I'm scary, shit dog?" He smiles. It's brilliant. And all of a sudden, it's just the two of them again. Souls twirling, twirling, twirling under the glittery ceiling.

"Terrifying." Mongrang plays along with a smile. "You frighten me more than anyone else I've ever met." The words tumble out, soft, genuine. And if only Jaha knew just how dangerous Mongrang finds him to his heart.

Jaha looks at him fondly, like he's the stupidest person he's ever met.

"Want to get out of here?" He asks. Mongrang nods. Jaha starts to move, and Mongrang is afraid that he'll let go. Please don't let go. But Jaha simply grips his hand tighter and drags him away from the dancefloor.

--

Now it's just the two of them.

The two men stare at each other for a moment. There's a pregnant pause, and Mongrang is pretty sure neither of them breathes.

Mongrang doesn't know why he does it. Perhaps it was the absurd amount of red wine he'd polished off over the course of the night, staining his lips blood-red. Or was it the two shots of glorified lighter fluid he poured down his throat? 

Could it have been the way that Jaha's hair seemed to glow in the silvery moonlight as they waltzed? People had stared; spoken about them in poorly concealed whispers; judgement heavy on their tongues. They danced in spite of it all.

Maybe it's the way that Jaha looked at him, and only him with those big clear eyes, in a way that made Mongrang want to claw them out -if only to keep them forever.

Gods. The man is beautiful. Mongrang knows this now and mentally chastises himself for not noticing it sooner. For never truly taking a moment to just look at him.

Something warm and pleasant settles in Mongrang's stomach. It heats like liquor, but it doesn't burn. Whatever it is claws its way up to Mongrang's chest and settles comfortably between his ribs. He's coming to the startling realization that it's not only the alcohol that has him intoxicated.

Mongrang still can't get over the way his skin buzzed as they interlaced their fingers and twirled away from the covetous man, and his imprudent daughter, and all of their respective responsibilities. He can't get over the way he felt when their hands touched. There was no urge to tear off his skin, to retire to the bathrooms and scrub himself raw. That was new. All of this is so new.

Mongrang doesn't know why he does it. All he knows is that he makes a decision he can't take back. 

He steps forward and lightly presses Jaha into the smooth stone wall, and Jaha looks at him with those ridiculously pretty eyes. The ones that held the stars themselves. His lips are parted in shock, and Mongrang thinks they look exceedingly soft and–

You know what? Fuck it.

Mongrang leans down and captures the shorter man's lips, guiding them into a tentative kiss. Jaha freezes, and goes completely rigid, hands flying up to press against Mongrang's chest. 

Mongrang makes to pull back. Worries that he might have gone too far. Gotten too greedy and ruined what has objectively been the best since who knows how long ago.

And there's that static again, threatening to drown out his thoughts. I am no better than that girl.

But then.

Then.

Jaha's fingers catch in his shirt, and he kisses him back. 

"Don't say I never did anything for you, shit dog."

Mongrang's heart soars, and he can't help the relieved laugh that escapes from his lips, right into Jaha's mouth.

The kiss quickly turns bruising. There's fury in the way their lips move together. They fight each other, even in this. Grabbing at each other's clothes and dragging their war-torn hands over every tiny bit of exposed skin. There is violence in everything they do.

Because what are they if not killers at heart?

© yeri (@yerrenica) ⬦ do not repost, copy, translate, nothing. lawd help me. possible part two coming.... smuut.... the only thing I'm apparently good at.

[space-blue]

may we know what is the crumbs 3 wip? 👀

Aha! It's the 3rd chapter of the fic A Trail Of Crumbs whose concept I adore but fell out of love with when I stumbled out of the Avatar fandom.

It follows Recom Miles Quaritch after the events of the film, lone survivor back on base and wrestling with the increasing dread brought about by a series of 'crumbs' he picks up on over time. RDA staff say and do weird things. The way he's treated seems odd. Ah, and his fucking custom watch. The tattoos they all have... Stuff doesn't really add up.

The goal of the fic was to explore the nature of the 'soul drives', how edited recom memories are, and the growing realisation that Miles isn't anywhere near his old human self, not any more than any other Marine with a similar background.

It was pure vibes of Blade Runner, artificial memories, created as a sentient tool unaware of their own artificiality beyond the obvious, etc.

In the end, I think I explored the concept better in this short comic in Mansk POV.

Chapter 3 crumbs is the incomplete conversation between Aslan and Miles, hinting at past Miles/Parker Selfridge. I stuck to dialogue only towards the end so it grows barebones, but I'll put what I have under the cut for the curious because I honestly don't think I'll finish this unless Avatar 3 makes me its bitch again.

'Why did you come back to Pandora?'

'Well, we landed in fanfare, as you can imagine.'

Yes, Miles can well imagine the media shit-storm so politely labelled fanfare. There's a part of him he's not particularly proud of that is glad his own death allowed him to skip this particular shitshow. He'd been, after all, the man in charge of operations at the time. Had pulled rank and everything. The media would have vivisected his career, his entire being. It's unlikely to have been much kinder to other RDA personal, returning with their tails between their legs.

'And in the middle of all this, my family...' Aslan gnaws on their lip, their faraway look snapping back to Miles with sudden intensity. 'We weren't really friends, you and I. You weren't one to hang out with the "science pukes", right? You'd know about my family if you had. I used to complain quite vocally whenever I got a comm from them. The old vent, you know. Anyway, let's say they were there, at the landing pad, waiting for me. In the middle of all that... fanfare.'

They look through the blinds, over the blighted landscape of concrete and metal, crawling with bots and shivering with heat and ship exhaust fumes.

'I signed up for the next mission over.'

Miles nods politely. He knows the type of family they're alluding to. He's met people who worked on the Mars terraforming program off world, because restoring Uganda's water table wasn't far enough of a getaway. Pandora's one of the furthest frontiers known to mankind. Different appeal to the science pukes, who generally arrive thrilled to go pull up grass, but dysfunctional families are universal, and to many RDA workers, the distance is a bonus.

He goes to say some platitude, that he understands, because really, he does. But Aslan cuts him off with a sharp hand gesture.

'Can we cut the crap, General? I mean Miles. You're not interested in my family, and you're keeping me away from the deeply fascinating samples I've come all the way here to put under a microscope, so let's just talk.'

Miles is struck by the sudden realisation that he's got no easy segway ready to start on the whole RDA conspiracy thing. He turns a few sentences over in his mind, growing discomfort flattening his ears to his skull. Should he threaten Aslan? Ask plainly? He's burning to cut the crap, as asked. But Aslan is also the one who'd gone to great pains to arrange a believable meeting between them, who'd seeded fear into his mind.

The manual had held no hint when he consulted it. The term soul drive had an asterix to an appendix that wasn't in the book.

'Something bothering you?'

Miles smiles tightly. 'You can tell?'

'You have a long way to go before you obtain a Na'vi poker face. I suggest you stay away from the Thursday games.'

To hell with it. It's not like he expects he'll make it past the court martial, the way things are going.

'Why do your people tattoo us?'

'You flatter me if you think me this involved, but that happens on the ship over, with a crew well out of my jurisdiction.'

A deflection. He'll be damned. 'I'd appreciate an answer,' he says, putting steel into his voice. 'Of the straight kind, too, if you can manage those.'

'A jab at my sexuality? Too easy. Is the tattooing what's bothering you? Really?' Aslan's smile is knowing, the light in their eyes dances with unwholesome mischief.

'Let's say that I've tried and failed to find a better starting point.'

'All right then. Let's do a short test. Answer my questions fast and truthfully.'

Miles relaxes. 'Sure.'

'Year of birth?'

'2104.'

'Do you have a son?'

'...Yes.'

'What was his mother's name?'

'Paz Socorro.'

'What year was she born?'

'I...'

'Am not sure?'

'I don't think we discussed it, but—'

'You had her file. She was one of yours, wasn't she? Surely you remember how old she was?'

'I think—'

But Aslan doesn't let him catch his breath. 'Who was Parker Selfridge to you?'

Miles sits straight, ears point to attention now. Will Aslan also reek of fear if he answers 'friend', no matter how much of an overstatement the word might feel? Heck, they asked for fast answers, so he says, 'He wasn't exactly my boss, but he was the Head suit in charge.'

'I need an honest answer,' they say, rasping a knuckle on the table.

Miles has his jaw hanging. What do they want from him?

'Do you recall leaning in his doorway?' Aslan continues, hardly slowing down. 'Poring over maps together?'

'Well, we...'

'Do you remember the way he laughed at your jokes? You leaned into the corny dad humour and he loved it. Do you remember your mug?'

'Yes.'

'Do you remember how you got it?'

'...Selfridge? Wasn't it Paz?'

'That's a question, so I'll take it as a no. Moving on to—'

'All right, all right. You've made your point.'

'What point do you think this is?'

'My memories are incomplete.'

'No, Miles.' Aslan sighs and sinks into their chair. 'Your memories are edited.'

It's somewhat depressing that of all the emotions he feels in that moment, surprise is not one of them

'Look at it this way. The machine scours your neural pathworks, and bounces memories. But it can't recreate the events that got you there, and it can't recreate what you blocked even from your own wakeful memory. Things you've forgotten, things you've hidden under too many layers, things you've trained to look away from.'

'So we're missing chunks?'

'Yes, all soul drives are inherently incomplete. That's why the technology isn't widespread. But that's not it. When you're in the machine, they can trigger memory chains. It helps map out... Look, it's hard to simplify, especially since it's not my specialty either, but they can snip out entire sections, like cauterizing a thought beyond surface level, or blot out all emotional reactions to a concept.'

'Are you saying... Do you actually mean the RDA edited the story of my life like a fucking home movie?'

They shrug. 'Yeah. That's the gist of it.'

'That in the contract I signed?'

'Of course not. Come on, colonel, you worked private long enough to have seen this coming. What? Do you think they'd give a fuck if you had issues with your situation?'

Miles rubs a shaky hand over his eyes, trying his best to remember the sound of Parker's laugh. 'Are you— Are you saying Selfridge and I were close—'

'Close is a good euphemism.'

'—and they erased so much of it, I freaked the shrink out by referring to him as a friend?'

Aslan tuts. 'Bad move.'

Miles gives them a sickly sweet smile. 'What a shame nobody warned me about the nature of this assessment!'

[catierambles]

Null Ch.11

Pairing: Incubus!Charles Brandon x Anna Williams (OFC)

WC 1259

Warnings: Eh? Minors DNI 18+ ONLY

@brattymum96 , @ouroboros113 , @peaches1958 , @summersong69 , @henryownsme , @fvckinghenrycavill, @raccoon-eyed-rebel

Anna was still sitting on the couch, Charles’ arm across the back of her shoulders while the guys still talked among themselves. It was getting late, but she wasn’t tired and Charles was enjoying having his friends over so she didn’t want to kick them out. As she sat there, though, there was an odd feeling and she looked up from her phone at nothing in particular.

“I’ll be right back.” She said, getting up from the couch and heading to the downstairs bathroom. “Fuckin’ finally!” They all looked over at the exclamation and Anna came back out from the bathroom. “Sorry.”

“Everything okay, dearest?” Charles asked and she nodded.

“Oh yeah, my period just started, is all.” Anna said, “Now my hormones will find their goddamn chill. Well, somewhat. Can still get knocked up the first couple days.”

“What’s going on?” Sy asked and she waggled her hand at him.

“It’s fine, don’t worry about it.” She said and he looked at Charles. “Should be over before the party, never lasts more than a couple days for me.”

“I know what’s going on.” Mike said with a knowing smirk. “I had to take a course in endocrinology when I was going for my gynecology doctorate. Get a little hot under the collar a couple days out from your cycle?”

“It’s fuckin’ annoying, is what it is.” Anna grumbled, sitting back down again.

“I thought you didn’t feel that.” August said with a slight scowl.

“No, I don’t feel sexual attraction towards any one particular individual. This is my hormones making me want to bang in general, not bang any one particular person. Like I explained it to Charles, it’s my uterus’s last ditch effort in getting me pregnant before the egg jumps ship.”

“It’s not uncommon and the length and severity varies from woman to woman.” Mike said simply. “It can also be mixed with odd food cravings, irritability, short temper, those kinds of things.”

“Mood wise I’m pretty steady,” Anna said, “I just get invasive pornos running through my head at random moments.”

“So you just randomly think about fuckin’?” Sy asked and she nodded. “I can see how that would be annoying for someone like yourself.”

“Have you thought about going on birth control to regulate it?” Mike asked, “Would lessen the symptoms for you by evening out your hormonal levels.”

“Thought about it." She admitted with a shrug, "Probably do a three month pill pack seeing as the patch made me itch and I hate needles."

"Could get an IUD." Mike suggested.

"Nah, they don't sedate or give any kind of anesthesia when inserting them and I don't feel like being in that kind of pain." Anna said and Mike blinked at her.

"They don't…are you telling me they force open a woman's cervix raw?" He asked and she nodded. "What the fuck. Maybe I should open my own practice. That's barbaric."

"Welcome to the wonderful world of medical misogyny." Anna said, "Where a woman's pain means absolutely nothing and it's not that bad, sweetheart, you're just sensitive."

"Personal experience?" Sy asked.

"Not with that in particular." Anna said, "But I once went into the ER with intense stomach pain, they gave me some Tums and sent my ass home. My appendix burst that night and I nearly died from sepsis."

"Fuck." Sy said and she shrugged. "And your religions call us evil."

“Wait until you hear about the overturning of Roe v. Wade.” She said with a smile that was completely devoid of any kind of mirth.

“Heard about that.” Mike said, “It was all over campus when it happened. What a woman does with her own body is her business, not some old guy in Washington.”

“When are we invading?” Napoleon asked, looking over at August and the demon shrugged, Anna giving a snort.

“You laugh, but he’s being serious.” August said and her brows jumped at him in surprise. “End time gameplan, Legion of us invade the moral plane and take over. From what I’m hearing and seeing about humanity right now, I think you’re due for a good ol’fashioned apocalypse. Lucifer knows we’d do a hell of a lot better job at governing the place. The things you do to each other even we wouldn’t have the stomach for, and not just recently. I lived through the Spanish Inquisition, you want to talk about fucked up? That was fucked up.”

“The Holocaust.” Charles said.

“Pol Pot and the Khmer Rouge.” Mike said.

“Genocide of multiple indigenous peoples.” Sy said.

“If you guys invaded, a lot of innocent people would die, and not just soldiers who are only there because they were ordered to. Civilians. Men, women, children would get caught in the crossfire. You wouldn’t be seen as saviors, you would be seen as conquerors. You wouldn’t be thanked, you would be hated and reviled.” Anna said, “Those who you would spare whatever hardship would die, and that’s the honest truth.”

“War is not without casualty.” August said.

“A war that doesn’t need to happen.” Anna countered.

“It’ll happen eventually, darlin’.” Sy said, “Maybe not this decade or even this millennia, but it will happen.”

“Fuck this got heavy fast.” Anna said, pinching the bridge of her nose. “I’m going to bed.”

“Are you--” Charles started as she got up from the couch.

“I’m fine.” She said and left the living room, heading up the stairs.

Anna was laying in bed when she heard her door open, but she didn’t turn over.

“Darling?” Charles asked.

“I forget sometimes that you’re a demon.” She said, “Yeah, the fact that you’re an incubus doesn’t stray far, but the whole demon thing likes to check out from time to time.”

“The others have left.” He said simply.

“Okay.” She said, “It was nice to meet them, however the conversation ended.”

“They like you.”

“Bully for me.” She said and there was a pregnant pause.

“May I join you?” He asked, his tone somewhat hopeful.

“Sure.” Anna said and heard him come closer before his weight dipped down on the bed behind her. An odd feeling crawled over her skin and when she turned over, she saw that he had shed his human guise, his feline eyes glowing at her softly through the darkness. He reached out, being mindful of his claws, and held the side of her face gently, the pad of his thumb moving over the high of her cheek. Moving closer to her, he pressed his forehead to hers, his eyes closing. There was a moment’s hesitation on her part before she crossed the distance between them, pressing her lips to his gently. His eyes snapped open in surprise before they closed again as he surrendered to the kiss, the hand at her jaw tugging her closer.

“I’ve never…” He said as he pulled away from her, his eyes still closed. “I’ve never felt this way about a human before. I don’t just want to bed you, Anna, I want to know you. Your mind, your hopes, your dreams.”

“You’re wonderfully corny, you know that?” She said and there was a pause before he gave a small laugh. “You want a relationship, Charles, not just a fuck buddy.”

“Yes, I…I think I do, and I want one with you.” He said, “But your life is fleeting while mine is eternal.”

“Then we’d best make the most of what time we have, don’t we?” She said and he gave her a gentle smile, leaning in to press his lips to her forehead.

[tozettastone]

In my reading of YA works for my project, I took the time to finish Legendborn by Tracy Deonn this long weekend. I doubt I'm the intended audience for this book, and there were a couple of moments at which the text kind of lost my attention because of that, but given that, I enjoyed it and I think it's competently written in mostly-unobtrusive (if dramatic), relatively-realist prose.

The core concept around which this novel is arranged is the idea of magical (mythological, folkloric) ancestry. The people who are the first born scions of the knights of the round table now borrow the powers and characteristics of those ancestors. There is a whole secret society court set up around this system, and it protects the mundane world from monsters. It also does a lot of other, more fucked up, stuff.

It would be impossible to comment on this book without discussing that the main character is Black and the novel very much concerns itself with the legacy of slavery in the USA. Even when it's not directly under discussion, it's the elephant in the room. The main character, Bree, enters the world of the round table as an outsider who was never expected to be allowed inside. One of the key ideas explored in this universe is that magical ability represents a secret cultural wealth, and it allows dispossessed people to connect with their ancestors in defiance of the cultural depredations of institutionalised slavery. I expect an Australian adult is not the immediately intended audience for this very US American YA novel, and I don't really feel qualified to comment on this part of it, but it is very central, so I will tell you only that I think that part of the story is satisfyingly delivered and makes good thematic sense within the scope of the novel.

In terms of criticisms, most of them boil down to stuff to which you could respond, "But, Tozette, they're into that in YA!"

One criticism I do think is worth nothing is that Legendborn suffers from what is apparently a YA trend of addiction to categorisation. It ends with an appendix of specific bloodlines and their roles just as Lore did, and you probably need it. There are many minor characters about which it's bloody hard to care, but the major ones all have motives that make sense and characters that are distinct.

It's a good title for you if: you like female led fantasy YA (it is firmly, firmly YA), you aren't going to be a massive pedant about getting the details of The Matter of Britain right, and if you like that thing people do where they develop worldbuilding around the categorisation of particular types of power. Must tolerate present tense!

[tathrin]

What's exactly is an Elf-Lord? I assume that the uncapitalized version is just an elf who holds the title of a Lord.

I don't consider myself any sort of expert on Tolkien's Legendarium (I mean, I haven't even read any of the Unfinished Tales yet, just for baseline starters!) so I am not a good choice to ask this of, tbh. And if you're asking specifically in regards to the way I used it in my fic The Names of My Fathers (which I'm guessing is the case, because I can't think what else I've done or posted recently that involves that particular term; if I'm off-base please feel free to provide more context!) then I should caution you that that was actually the first story I started working on during my recent re-obsession with LotR, and I was sooooo rusty on my Tolkien Canon then that I fucked-up the timeline of the Quenya Ban, for fuck's sake—something I definitely knew better about! So, take the following with an entire shaker of salt is what I'm saying.

Anyway. Elf-lord is a term that crops-up in Tolkien's work (I count seventeen uses in LotR but that's at a quick glance; I may be missing some), but not one that I've ever seen a clear definition on. It seems to be one of those things that falls under a "you know it when you see it" banner. An Elf-lord is an elf of particular power, might, or prominence; someone who can command, whether that be by the strength of their political position, their lineage, or simply their raw power. Someone whom others respect, and whose words carry weight.

Lord, of course, gets used as a term of rank; one could probably assume that any Elf who is called a Lord at any point (Celeborn, for instance) could likewise be described as an Elf-lord—but I don't think it's just a case of "you have x rank, congrats you're an Elf-lord now."

Glorfindel is repeatedly called an Elf-lord, even though he never ruled any lands. He is described to Frodo as being of "a house of princes," so one might claim on those grounds that it's a rank-thing only—but his status as an Elf-lord is also referenced explicitly in regards to the Ringwraiths being "dismayed" to see "an Elf-lord revealed in his wrath," so I think there's a more-than-just-political power aspect to it as well. It's not just about rank; it's also stature, majesty. Power. Any Elf who has a lordship over land or people would be called Lord [name], but would he be called an Elf-lord if he wasn't also mighty on his own merits? Hard to say. (Of course, the fact that those who wield command in Tolkien's stories are almost always people who are mighty, conveniently, muddies those waters a little; we've got aspects of that whole "divine right" thing going on, in a story written by an Englishman! Shocking I know!)

(If you're wondering why I'm only referencing LotR and not the Silmarillion, despite there being way more Elf-lords in the latter, it's because I don't know the Silm off the top of my head well enough to go snag quotes and references without having to actually page through it. Sorry. But we're talking Third/Fourth Age stuff anyway if we're talking about the fic I think we are, so let's say I'm sticking to topically appropriate references rather than being lazy. Shh.)

Anyway. "Elf-lord" also gets used as a comparison term to indicate that someone is particularly great in a particularly elvish way. For instance, after Galadriel arrays him in finery, Aragorn is described like this: "Then more than any king of Men he appeared, and seemed rather an Elf-lord from the Isles of the West." High praise, indeed, and to me the way it's used in that section of the Appendixes is being done to indicate that he is worthy of Arwen, for all that he's a mere mortal. "Not an Elf-lord, but really close! honest!" is basically how it comes off, to me. Likewise Elladan and Elrohir are said to be "fair and gallant as elven-lords." Ergo they do not quite rank the term themselves, because they are peredhil like their father rather than elves, but they are considered to possess comparable greatness.

Conversely, I'm assuming it's not a term that is simply a fancy way of saying elf, because it only seems to be used for elves who merit greater regard than the average. The term is used more than once during the Council of Elrond in reference to some of the elves gathered there to discuss the fate of the Ring in a general way ("What of the Three Tings of the Elves? Very mighty Rings, it is said. Do not the Elf-lords keep them?...I see Elf-lords here. Will they not say?") but not in such a general way as to be referring to just any elves; it seems evident to me that Glóin is using the term to specifically indicate elves of greater-than-average position or might, rather than simply talking about elves as a whole people, although he doesn't specify anyone in particular (since it's a secret who has the Three and he does not know).

Legolas is (unless I've missed an instance somewhere) never referred to as an Elf-lord. When Elrond is discussing who to send with the Fellowship, Gandalf says, "Even if you choose for us an Elf-lord, such as Glorfindel, he could not storm the Dark Tower..." and he says this after Legolas has already been named to the Fellowship as their elvish representative; ergo while once again the text doesn't explicitly state that Legolas doesn't qualify as an Elf-lord, I think it's fair to infer that he isn't considered one; neither Elrond nor Gandalf, at least, think of him an Elf-lord, because they wouldn't have been talking about Glorfindel being an Elf-lord who could theoretically be sent along if the Fellowship already had one Elf-lord in their number.

Indeed, in Appendix E there is a sentence that specifically delineates Elves and Elf-lords as separate, distinct terms: "...the tongue of all those Elves and Elf-lords that appear in this history," Tolkien writes.

So that's how I used it: as not necessarily a specific rank that someone can be given or earn or be appointed to, but as a way of signifying extra respect and might. Hence Legolas's not-exactly-joke that Oropher would probably have called himself an Elf-lord, but that none of the other Elf-lords were likely to have agreed with his claiming the title. Now technically as a king, Oropher would qualify as an Elf-lord...but in that part of the story, I wanted to lean into the lingering bitterness that Mirkwood feels about the disdainful way they feel they were treated during the Last Alliance, and the high price they paid because of it. So, would the Elf-lords who marched to war with Gil-galad have ranked Oropher as one of them, just because he had a bunch of scruffy archers under his command? I mean, they very well might have, even if solely as a gesture of respect—a courtesy title, so to speak. But Legolas wasn't there, so he's just going off the vibes that have endured, and in my take on Green/Mirkwood those vibes are not exactly enthusiastic towards the other elves of Middle-earth; the ones that they think looked down on them and didn't stand by them and left them to fight alone against the Shadow for so long.

Legolas does use the term to refer to his father near the end of the book, when talking about how he's going to ask Thranduil to let him bring some elves from Mirkwood to help spruce-up Minas Tirith; but he says it as "my Elven-lord," rather than just saying "and Thranduil, an Elf-Lord who blah blah..." so it seems in this case to be more about the fact that Thranduil has the rank of a lord over Legolas, being king of Mirkwood, and less that he's an Elf-lord, specifically. Of course, as a king, Thranduil would likely merit the term—but is it one that non-Mirkwood elves would use for their "more dangerous, less wise" kinsmen sitting out there in the half-feral spider-tree kingdom? Hmmm, maybe; he is a king, even if he's not going around tearing down walls with his willpower and chasing the Nazgûl out of Dol Guldur by force of his shiny presence alone...but I think it also probably depends on the situation. If we were talking about "mighty Elf-lords" like Galadriel and Glorfindel? Maybe not so much. If it were a discussion of various elven leaders, including him on behalf of Green/Mirkwood, then he'd have a better shot.

So that's how I see it, anyway. As with any term without a precise definition, there's wiggle-room to interpret it in different ways, clearly. You may look at it completely differently, and that's fine! But you asked for my definition, so there you go.

Oh, also re: capitalization...yeah, that's just called me being inconsistent with capitalization, because Tolkien capitalizes pretty much EVERYTHING and I...don't. I put it down to reading too much other fantasy that doesn't capitalize every use of Elf and Dwarf, and the inconsistency of species capitalization across spec-fic in general. I should capitalize it in Tolkienian fanfiction, because the source material does; but that doesn't come naturally to me when I write those words (as you'll notice when you read this post), so sometimes I remember to do it and sometimes I don't. Sorry for the confusion!

*I invite anyone who knows more about Tolkien minutia to chime-in with their greater knowledge on the Elf-lords subject btw!

[skaruresonic]

>>article is entitled "How to Advocate for Native People" >>inadvertently peddles blood quantum Yeah. Advocacy. >.>

...it's fucked up how often people portray mixed 1/4th Natives as the quintessential Pretendian. I'm sure people like that exist, but I'm also in that category. Me, who: = tries not to step on toes because I know I pass as white = who still nonetheless experiences racism and discrimination for being Native, if on a much lesser scale than more "clockable" Natives. (Although having your identity erased is not a privilege. And even if you're white-passing, the minute you admit you're Indian, people feel entitled to casually say racist remarks to your face because they assume you're "cooler" with it somehow. Idk how that particular calculus works out, but racism isn't exactly rational)

= who is busting my hump learning our very difficult language because we don't have any more Elders to teach us, and somebody has to carry on the language until we can raise fluent speakers. (That's why our program is called Nęyękwaʔwętaθkwáhskek - "we will carry on the language") = who spent their adolescence grappling with feeling like the cultural equivalent of an appendix: worthless and useless. It was only by hanging out with other community members that I began realizing that most of that mindset came from internalized racism. Community members who aren't assholes don't actually think that way about you, = who is slowly trying to come to terms with what it means to be mixed in a world that would rather not have you be Native at all and treats you as Basically White(tm) based on nothing more than how genetics decided you should look, = who comes from a family history of cultural trauma and assimilation - and by that I mean is descended from a residential school survivor and slowly reacquiring the language whose intergenerational transmission had been broken by residential school, = who knows for a fact that I am Native despite all of these things, because being indigenous is not centered around trauma, it's about community. Because half of my direct family is Native, and because my tribe claims me, and because I know where I come from.

Native people don't fucking care how you look, that's a white concept. The entire concept of blood quantum was forced upon us to the point where we internalized it, and it's something we need to discard because it does nothing but fracture and weaken our communities. If you go by BQ, which is itself a horrible standard which will prevent me, personally, from having kids on the basis that I can't enroll them and they'll get fucking nothing, not even a voice, then yeah, I'm Barely Native. But Native nonetheless. I'm mixed, assholes, not a pretender. I have to fight for every bit of my culture tooth and nail because colonization took almost all of it away. Don't group me in with "my great-grandmother was a Cherokee princess" people.

[expired-monster-craft-smp]

Blooming Panic hcs because I have literal brain rot but barely any of these are serious and you can tell who are my favs

Xyx

- has no idea what a grilled cheese sandwich is

- like you and Toasty were talking about having them for lunch or something and he goes “what the fuck is a grilled cheese sandwich. Do you,,,,do you grill two slices of cheese and eat it???? Is it just burnt cheese?????”

- you and Toasty are confused too but not with the same thing

- “YOU DONT KNOW WHAT A GRILLED CHEESE IS???????” “no?????” “ARENT YOU A GROWN MAN YOU SHOULD KNOW THIS”

- despite being a lawyer, he doesn’t actually know a lot of basic things

- “wdym I cant put white clothes and coloured clothes in the washer together, they’re both clothes” “…how are you almost 30”

- the eyeliner he’s wearing is actually the same eyeliner he applied 2 years ago

- you know how some ppl go for the crusty emo look?? Yeah, he perfected it

- has never been in the closet, he came out the second he knew so he could make even more jokes

- he wears a fairly large shoe size so he constantly says shit like “well u know what they say about men with big feet😏” “Xyx I’m in the middle of a raid SHUT THE FUCK UP”

- dislikes ham for no reason in particular, he just thinks it’s weird

- used to play the knife game a lot. Like a concerning amount

- hates hair gel cause it makes his hair Crunchy but he has to clean up nicely for work so he sits there and wants to wash his hair so bad but he can’t cause then he just has a weird mullet thing

- has a tongue piercing

- even though he uses “lawyer” words and makes lawyer puns constantly, no one knew his career until he outright told them

- “yeah so im a lawyer” “YOURE A WHAT?? HOW ?!??” “WHO THE FUCK USES THE WORDS PERJURY AND LIBEL IN NORMAL CONVERSATIONS???” “IDK ONION??” “okay fair u got me with that one”

- because only you and Toasty (started having voice calls after Xyx shared his face) have heard his voice, no one else in the server has any idea he’s Not American so they assume he’s American

- likes fairy bread. Like a lot. Maybe too much.

- no literally sometimes it’s all he eats for days. Every single meal it’s just. Fairy bread.

- he flusters so easy whenever someone is being genuine like you can say you want to peg him or smthin and he’ll flirt right back but if you tell him you want to cup his face oh so gently and kiss him slowly he breaks

- well actually if you say you wanna peg him he’ll probably get flustered too but ignore that

- he’s double jointed

- eats whipped cream right out of the can

- has extra teeth from when he was younger and his teeth are also Very Sharp

- makes fun of Toasty for having a peanut allergy

- “I thought u were fruity Toast, why can’t u handle nut?“ “for the love of god please stop” “…do u need to bring an epipen when u suck someone off” “STOP OMG WHAT IS WITH U TODAY” “wdym I’m like this everyday”

- always uses the perfect amount of cologne it’s terrifying, it’s never too much or too little

- got his appendix removed and needed his tonsils removed too but he wanted to keep them so they had to sedate him

- he was Not pleased

NakedToaster

- as implied earlier, they are allergic to peanuts

- he thinks they’re gross anyways so he doesn’t care really

- forgets that they’re really tall sometimes and smacks his head on shit constantly

- “hey, have you seen m- FUCKING SHIT. OW” “…u good???” “Yea sorry I threw my noggin’ into my doorframe again”

- references vines to an unhealthy extent. Even the rare ones that only he seems to know about

- they say the reference out loud and laugh but since no one else knows it they think they’ve just gone fucking crazy

- “ya know, like that one vine?” “No, no we don’t know”

- likes cheez-its but only after 1 am

- half Polish, 1/4 Estonian, 1/4 Russian

- why? Because they look so slavic it hurts and because I said so, fuck you

- likes cheese so fucking much it’s actually disgusting

- lactose intolerant

- only instrument he knows how to play is the fucking accordion but he doesn’t want to admit that so they just say they don’t know how to play any instruments

- avid reptile enjoyer, active amphibian hater

- stoner

- it just makes him feel weightless and warm and dizzy in such a good way so they smoke often but they prefer edibles, especially sweet ones

- gets super soft spoken and cuddly and sweet when high like the best way I can describe it is like subspace and it’s the cutest thing the World

- fairly good singer, often does little duets with Xyx when it’s late and they’re both inebriated in some way

- little spoon (I’m right about this)

- will wear the cat ears he bought as a joke for $20 or more

- probably plays League and mains Machine Herald

- “haha funny machine Russian man says the funny machine Russian man things that’s so silly of him”

- easiest person to fluster, you can say anything to them and he will turn bright red and stutter

- “your hair looks so cute today toasty :)” “hhhhhhhhthank u…”

- favourite drink is apple juice or warm apple cider

- actually has three monitors not two but the third one is only used to display a picture of big Marty at all times

- first time you saw it you broke down laughing and worried him because you looked like you weren’t properly breathing

- they probably have asthma

- got pneumonia once because he was too focused on final fantasy to take care of himself

- Toasty is actually autistic, this is true they told me himself

Quest

- can be worse than even Xyx when it comes to dirty jokes, but most of the time he doesn’t even realize he made such jokes

- puts someone random in the JAIL role every Tuesday depending on how badly behaved you are during the week in the server

- Xyx and Nightowl get this role the most

- likes to paint on skin like he really enjoys painting things like landscapes on someone’s forearm or back or stomach

- has accidentally drunk paint water several times

- whenever he gets a cut or he’s bleeding somewhere, he sucks all the blood off and thinks its a little bit tasty

- “no wonder I get so many mosquito bites, I taste delicious :^D” “what did u just type…”

- hates graham crackers for literally no reason

- takes gym mirror pics and sends them in general chat because everyone thinks he’s really hot

- even BIGLADY keysmashes over the pics

- Quest knows what he’s doing with those okay, but he likes to act completely oblivious

“[pic sent] finished my workout for today! :^) a bit sweaty but feeling pretty good” “ALSJSJSHSHS daddy? Sorry. Daddy? Sorry.” “???? I know I’m like the server dad but what does that have to do with this??”

- good at poker, absolute garbage at blackjack

- only one other than Xyx to beat Onion at chess

- likes celery because of how crunchy it is he just munches on it all day long practically

- the other sever members make fun of him for it because they do not particularly favour celery

- his glasses are always so dirty

- doesn’t drink all that often but when he does it’s almost guaranteed he’ll get blackout drunk. Why?

- he’s a fucking lightweight. And it’s kinda sad how little it takes for him to get absolutely fucking hammered

- thinks fish are very interesting

- likes frogs :)

- this has lead to arguments between him and Toasty, the resident amphibian hater

- “frogs are awesome!! Theyre so cute and little!!” “Are u prepared to die for those opinions? Because frogs are dogshit and I stand by that” “@NakedToaster has been timed out for 5 hours”

- will have quiet/silent calls with Nightowl with some quiet lofi music in the background where Quest does his work and Nightowl does him homework

- Quest loves lofi music and I will die on this hill

- throughly enjoys building 3D models of things

- probably the reason half the server has a praise kink and it’s completely by accident

- somehow always wins at Rock Paper Scissors??? No one knows how he does it

Nightowl

- has mild deuteranomaly (red green colourblindness type where they can usually see most shades of green)

- it’s not usually an issue though tbh and it doesn’t come up much for him in his day to day life

- hates apples and but loves apple slices

- uses kid toothpaste because he hates minty toothpaste

- used to have braces and would change the colour of the bands literally every appointment

- sucks at chess but dominates at checkers like he’s so fucking good at checkers

- has eaten a glass marble once and hasn’t seen it since

- has hundreds of tiktok drafts and most of them are thirst traps

- once super glued his hand to a wall and the fire department was in fact called

- has bpd but has never gotten treatment because he doesn’t know what it is and his mom talks shit about mental health stuff so he never even thought about going to therapy

- owns an Xbox 360 and plays it frequently

- has a massive scar on his thigh from attempting and failing at climbing a tree when he was younger

- is the reason why there is a “horny jail” role on the server

- listens to Kpop and tries to get the others into it the way Toasty tries to get ppl to play final fantasy

- tried sharpening his teeth with a nail file before and his dentist has been suspicious of him ever since

- “your teeth look sharper than they did the last time you were here” “haha that’s crazy…anyway-“ “🤨”

- has dyed his hair every colour of the rainbow but eventually got too tired of the upkeep and stopped

- his favourite snack are gushers

- has an Instagram account where he posts his art and has like 200K+ followers on it

- he wants an eyebrow piercing so bad but thinks it would look weird on him but the second that anyone would suggest it he would cave immediately and get one

- likes bang energy drinks, favourite is the cotton candy flavour

- has mixed bang with vodka once and lets just say he never did it again

- surprisingly steady hands

- really good with kids!!! He loves them so so much and they love him back!!! Used to babysit for family friends and family

- kind of a picky eater

- likes to dip his fingers in candle wax to make a little wax tower and then when it gets to be pretty tall he pops it off, lets it melt, and does it again

- he’s god at math but he’s kinda bad at reading because he’s severely dyslexic

- wears gold shimmer eyeshadow and puts on eyeliner everyday no matter what

- uses tone tags and has learned to ask for clarification when he’s confused about the tone of a sever message

[onemuseleft]

okay, i am SUPER curious about the stabbening. can i ask about that one?

I don't even remember how it started, I'm pretty sure @musicalluna was involved though cause she's a terrible enabler, but I was joking about what would happen if Tim Drake got appendicitis and lost his appendix. And tonsilitis. And the phrase "leave Tim's internal organs alone!" may have come up. And then I was like "you know you can lose most of your liver and just grow it back. Or lose the whole thing and someone can give you half of theirs" and then instead of leaving it as a dumb joke between wives at two am I went ahead and came up with a fic for each internal organ.

The Stabbening is the liver story and it has gotten wildly out of control and is shaping up to be 50k and what is my life.

(The appendix and tonsil stories are much shorter! Sadly the working title is stil "Leave Tim's internal organs alone" and I refuse to post until I come up with something better than that.)

(At some point halfway through all this we were like... at what point do you lose too many organs? And now Dick's going to have that particular mental breakdown because what are big brothers good for if you can't fuck them up a little)

[dedicatedfollower467]

me, writing LOTR/Hobbit fanfic: oh i should do research to see particular dates and timelines and ages! then i can be accurate to canon :)

me: *opens the appendix*

me: *looks at dwarf timeline*

me: *closes book* hey the hobbit movie already said it so i’m gonna reiterate; fuck canon, actually.

[ultranos]

What's you're take on how sexism influences how A:TLA's narrative frames characters? Particularly Azula, but also characters like Hama, Suki, Mai, and Ty Lee? Toph seems to be the one (living) assertive and driven female character who is neither reduced to an appendix to a boyfriend nor framed as evil, so how did she end up getting written in a less sexist way?

I mean, you kind of nailed it right there. Yes, they're secondary characters, but it's still pretty telling that Suki and Mai's character arcs are so tied with their respective boyfriend's. Mai's in particular, with her entire "redemption" hinging solely on "turned traitor for Zuko". Not that she reconsidered anything about FN politics or her own choices. Ty Lee's arc went from a girl trying to carve out space for herself in the world, to not be seen as an interchangeable member of a group to...choosing to be an interchangeable member of a group that further strips away individualization by having all members of the group wear the same thing, have the same face, and have the same combat skills.

That's...an interesting regression.

As for Hama and Azula...well, they're two of the most maligned characters in fandom, and considering how two groups society treats like shit are old people (especially old women) and teenage girls...not surprising. It's very telling that the show chose the corruption storyline for Hama and a redemptive one for Jeong Jeong, Iroh, and Piandao. One could argue that every beat Jeong Jeong has could have been given to Iroh with zero major change, so while I like the guy, the Old Boys Club vibe makes me side-eye the White Lotus hard. Especially since the only other older women we see are frauds (Aunt Wu), weird outcast swamp ladies, a healer (who seems to hold much less respect than Pakku), and Gran-Gran.

And for Azula, well, if I want to put on the intersectional feminism hat, it has not escaped my notice that of course the Asian-coded teenage girl who "didn't know her place", who was not nurturing and especially refused to be content to sacrifice parts of herself for her brother, of course she is the one who has to have every shred of dignity one can get away with in a children's cartoon stripped away from her. It's not enough that Azula loses a battle. No, the narrative has to break her over its metaphorical knee, smashing every possible foundation of her identity. Honestly, if the show wasn't so heavily Asian-inspired, I would bet we'd have flat-out gotten the Icarus metaphor: Azula burned too bright, she flew too close to the sun.

(And then the narrative doesn't even give Azula the dignity of attributing her loss to the correct person. Zuko is always the one who is stated to have defeated her. Last I checked, Zuko isn't a waterbender. That would be Katara. Azula never lost to Zuko.

But no. We can't give Azula the dignity of acknowledging the defeat at the hands of the best fucking waterbender on the planet. Nope, must have been Zuko.)

Which brings us to Toph. You noted that Toph is different from all of the other girls. (hah) She gets to be brash and assertive and driven and talented. The narrative rewards her for it! Gives us Toph as a role model! So what gives?

Toph is 12.

Toph is still a child, younger than all the other female characters. She's a girl-child, not a teenage girl, certainly not an adult woman or old woman. Toph's allowed to be that way because as far as society is concerned, she has time to grow out of it.

[onlydreamofmysoul]

Cardigan (Wolfstar)

I sat down to write a teeny drabble with two lines from the song Cardigan by Taylor Swift. It quickly spiralled into this. (I really love it though).

Set in the cannon universe, cw for mentions of death, injuries and scars. (Nothing graphic though).

I knew you, dancing in your Levi’s drunk under a streetlight. 

“Shh! Pads. you’re gonna get us caught!” Remus half-whispered, his own voice a tad too loud for his own liking but his slightly tipsy state didn’t allow for a lower volume. Sirius spun into him smushing his fingers right up against Remus’ lips, both of them chest to chest under James’ cloak. It was hard to believe the four of them mused to fit under this - now it only just about covered Remus and Sirius even with Remus ducking down to Sirius’ height. 

“Come on Moony, you’re ‘Perfect Mister Prefect’,” He said, punctuating each word of the grand title with his index finger poking into Remus; chest. “Even if we do get caught, you can charm our way out of it.”

Remus rolled his eyes, but followed. The passage was dim and the ground was uneven and to be perfectly honest, they hadn’t yet discovered if this particular passage way had been caved in since they last explored it the previous year, but Sirius seemed sure of himself and that was enough for Remus. If Sirius was the one leading, he’d always follow. 

“Alright, but I’m late on a transfiguration essay, so if Minnie catches us, you’re on your own. I need to save my charm for that.” He said, his tone stern, but all his reserve melted when Sirius smiled up at him and pressed a victorious kiss to his cheek. 

“I take back your title.” Sirius said dramatically, looking at Remus with a smug righteousness. “Apparently ‘Perfect Mister Prefect’ isn’t so perfect after all.”

He pressed his mouth right up next to Remus’ ear just as they stepped out the little secret entrance, ducking under the ivy trellis that hid their little passageway. “It’s a good thing I like bad boys.” Sirius breathed, and Remus couldn’t wait any more, not caring whether the cloak revealed their ankles or not when he pulled Sirius in for a blazing kiss. 

“I love you, you know that, right?”

Sirius smirked and kissed him again. “That seems to be the general consensus.”

Remus laughed and took off walking again, tugging the cloak off as soon as they were far enough away from the school, catching hands and spinning under the soft glow of the lamplights illuminating the path to Hogsmeade. Sirius tilted his head back, still spinning, their hands acting as the axis that centred the entire universe. 

“I love you too.”

I knew you, hands under my sweatshirt, baby kiss it better. 

“Sirius, if you don’t start being more careful, I’m gonna-”

“What?” Sirius teased, wriggling his eyebrows suggestively, looking far too haughty for a man sitting on a countertop, his legs dangling in the air. “What’re you gonna do Re? You gonna punish me?”

Remus pursed his lips to try hide his smile, but gave in, kissing Sirius once briefly.

“No,” He said, pulling up Sirius’ jumper to get a proper look at the gash he had acquired after climbing a tree. Then subsequently falling out of said tree. “But I will send you to Madam Pomfrey and have you try to explain to her that you thought you’d be able to pull off a levitation charm if there was a ‘more extreme sense of urgency’.” He finished, mocking Sirius’ words from earlier. 

Sirius just scrunched up his face playfully in retaliation, before breathing in shakily as Remus coated the cut with a liberal amount of salve, watching in fascination as the skin knitted back together.

“There.” He said, straightening up to stand between Sirius’ legs, pulling down his jumper again. “Good as new.”

“Nah ah.” Sirius countered, shaking his head as his legs locked behind Remus’ back, binding them together. “Gotta kiss it better.”

Remus wet his lips, shaking his head in fond disbelief, but leaned in willingly, feeling the hot slide of Sirius’ mouth against his own cooler one. 

“All better?” Remus asked, panting slightly as they rested their foreheads together. 

Sirius shrugged, hooking his arm more firmly around Remus’ neck. “Close, but not quite better yet.”

Remus huffed a laugh through his nose, but gladly locked their lips together again, the pair fully intertwined as if they had been made for each other. 

(And maybe they had. For what else was the moon to do but love the stars?)

And when I felt like I was an old cardigan, under someone’s bed, you put me on and said I was your favourite. 

“Sirius?” Re said softly, pushing the door to their dorm open slowly. “Are you here?”

“Yeah,” Came a muffled reply. “I’m here.”

Remus stepped into the room, looking first to Sirius’ bed to find it empty. Remus frowned, looking around to find Sirius curled up on Remus’ own bed, his favourite cardigan folded gently around him.

“Hi sweetheart,” Remus said, voice hushed as he climbed onto the bed next to the other boy, noting the red stained eyes and puffed lips. “What do you need?”

At the words, anything that seemed to be holding Sirius together until that point shattered, the raven haired boy collapsing into Sirius’ arms. 

“Re,” He gasped, between his sobs as Remus just pulled him closer. “Why is it possible to love someone who hates you? Isn’t love supposed to be good? If it’s so great, then why the fuck does it hurt so much?”

Remus’ heart clenched. Regulus. 

“I don’t know sweetheart,” He murmured, holding Sirius close. “But it makes us who we are.” He cupped Sirius’ face so he could meet the raging stormy eyes. “It’s better to have loved and have lost than to never have loved at all.”

Sirius just blinked at him. 

“But for the record,” Remus said, touching their heads together. “I don’t think you’ve lost him. He’s just lost right now. But he’ll find his way back to you.”

Sirius nodded, and slumped against Remus’ chest, no longer crying, just breathing deeply. 

“You know Remus Lupin,” He whispered after a while. “I don’t care how long it takes, but I’m gonna marry you someday.”

To kiss in cars, and downtown bars, was all we needed.

“Oh Merlin, they’re snogging again.” Peter commented as he turned his head to spot James and Lily, leaning in for a kiss. Remus, currently with his tongue in Sirius’ mouth heard this, but let Peter discover the other couple in his own time.

“Christ, the pair of you are too. You’re all fuckin at it.” He grumbled. If Remus’ mouth wasn’t already a little preoccupied, he would have laughed. There it was.

“Right, I’m off to find humans capable of holding decent conversation.” Peter muttered and he might have left. He could have stayed and done a jig on the table for all Remus cared, but in this moment, he noticed none of it. What was the poem he had read somewhere? Stars and moths and rinds slanting around fruit. This moment.

You drew stars around my scars and now I’m bleeding. 

“Hey, look at this.” Sirius said somewhat excitedly, rolling away from Remus momentarily and returning with a quill and a jar of ink. 

Remus eyed him skeptically, his arm tucked under his head as they lounged on his bed, the curtains drawn to create the illusion of their own little oasis. 

“I bet I could draw stars on your chest and then your scars could connect them, like in astronomy.”

Remus bit his lip, looking at Sirius’ appraised expression. “I feel like I should say no,” He said slowly, even as he unscrewed the ink. “But go for it.”

Sirius grinned triumphantly and studied Remus for a minute, brushing the quill over his lips as he concentrated. Remus couldn’t help but muse that if Sirius put half as much effort into his schoolwork as he was doing here, he would be top of the class. Finally, Sirius ditched the quill, dipping a finger into the ink directly. 

“I don’t want the point of the quill to scratch you.” He explained, after noticing Remus’ raised eyebrow. Something warmed inside Remus’ chest while something cold trickled over the outside. Remus closed his eyes and let himself focus on the slightly ticklish, but mostly soothing sensation of Sirius tracing patterns over his skin. 

“Done.” Sirius muttered after a while and Remus opened his eyes, raising his head a little to peer down at himself. He looked like some abstract piece of art, covered in black and blue and red and green, scars shining silver between it all. 

“Woah,” He breathed, “That’s pretty cool.”

Sirius grinned, then pointed to a star just over Remus; appendix. “That’s Sirius right there.”

Remus hummed, pursing his lips together, then grabbed a jar of ink, tracing a star a little messily, right over his heart. 

“Nah,” He countered, “Sirius is there.”

Sirius rolled his eyes, but came up to press their lips together. In the morning, they both looked like works of art.

But I knew you, stepping on the last train, marked me like a blood stain. 

“I can’t believe this is the last time we’ll be taking this train.” James said, the four of them standing in a row on the platform, not yet ready to get on. 

“We’ll be back.” Remus said. “Someday, we’ll be back.”

Sirius linked their fingers together. As one, the marauders stepped onto the train. 

Mischief Managed.

I knew you, tried to change the ending, Peter losing Wendy.

Remus just stared at the auror. 

“Mr Lupin,” The man said gently, playing his hand tenderly on Remus’ arm. Remus didn’t know what his name was. It was probable the man had said it but Remus wasn’t listening. Everything had gone dark. “I realise this must come as a shock.”

Remus wrenched his arm back, shaking his head. “A shock?” He laughed a little manically. “No, you’re wrong.”

“Mr Lupin, we have evidence that Sirius Black was the one to-”

“Well you’re wrong!” Remus yelled. Or maybe he had whispered. It was possible he hadn’t even spoken at all, but the words swirled around and around in his head. “I don’t know how, but you’re wrong. You��re wrong, this isn’t right, you have it all wrong, he would never-”

Remus gasped, pressing a hand to his cracking heart as if it would hold him together. “He would never.” He repeated, his voice breaking, tears streaming down his cheeks. When they had gotten there, he didn’t know, but their presence was suddenly noticeable with the cold rush against Remus’ skin. 

“I’m so sorry.” The auror said and then he was gone. And Remus was alone. 

Had it always been this way? Remus alone. Remus with friends. Remus with Sirius. Remus alone. 

Maybe he had made the entire thing up. 

But dreams didn’t leave you feeling like the last kiss you’d ever had was from a  dementor, not your true love. 

It is better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all. He had said that to Sirius once. 

What a fool he had been. 

I knew you, leaving like a father, running like water, when you are young they assume you know nothing. 

“It is believed this was a plan Mr Black had been staging for quite some time now.” A newspaper read. Remus snorted and threw it in the fire. Sirius couldn’t even plan a week in advance. What they fuck did these people know. 

But then, what did Remus know? His love was long lost, Rapunzel in a tower. Remus was no knight. 

But he knew in his heart, none of this was true. He knew. He didn't care what anyone else said, they may have known his thoughts, but Remus knew his heart. 

But I knew you’d linger like a tattoo kiss. 

Sirius’ leather jacket still hung in the cupboard under the stairs. His hair potion, still in the shower. Remus couldn’t bear to see them. He could never throw them away. 

I knew you’d haunt all of my what if’s.

Remus should have fought harder for Harry. 

He should have, he should have, he should have, he should have. 

He should have known better.

What if.

A smirking smile and stormy eyes. Hair held up with a wand. Those same dark strands coiled around Remus’ fingers. 

The smell of smoke would hang around this long. Cause I knew everything when I was young. 

Remus woke up to James’ scream. Except it couldn’t be James. Unless… Had this all been a dream?

James opened his eyes and suddenly there was Lily. Lily and James and they didn’t know who Remus was. 

(Remus had been the first one to hold baby Harry. Before even Sirius. And now he didn’t even know him)

I knew I’d curse you for the longest time. 

Remus hated Sirius. Not for being the notorious mass murderer Sirius Black. But for leaving him alone.

Why is it possible to love someone who hates you? Remus wanted to laugh. His question to Sirius now would be this; Why couldn’t he stop loving someone he should hate.

Chasing shadows in the grocery line.

The students all murmured about the Grimm. The paintings gossiped about little else. Even the staff room had a few words on the subject matter. Remus tried not to let his heart flutter. 

(But his boy was free. And there was a grim on the loose).

I knew you’d miss me once the thrill expired.

Walking down to Hagrid's hut, Remus thought he saw something rustle in the bushes. He stepped off the path and looked closer, barely even breathing as his heart thundered, but the shadows that had lurked were gone. 

And you’d be standing in my front porch light.

“Lie low at Lupins.”

For the first time in twelve years, amber met grey. 

“Re,” Sirius croaked, and Remus shattered. He pulled Sirius inside the door quickly, shutting it and reinforcing all of the charms around his little cottage, drawing all the blinds shut and placing a charm around the area so he would know if anyone approached the house before he finally turned, and there he was. 

And I knew you’d come back to me.

Not Mass Murderer Sirius Black. 

Not even Padfoot. 

But Sirius. Remus’ Sirius. 

“Re,” Sirius said again, “It’s not true, it’s not true.” He said, repeating the words as he shook his head, eyes filling. “It’s not true, I would never.”

He would never.

Remus shook his head too, pulling Sirius into the tightest hug they ever might have shared. 

“I know.” He whispered. “I know.”

You’d come back to me.

Sirius after a few weeks of good food and warmth looked a lot more like the boy Remus had once known, but there was no denying the person with his was now a man. Remus supposed they both were. 

You’d come back.

“I love you.” Sirius whispered one night as they were curled under a blanket, Remus reading as Sirius lay on his chest, the position comforting and oh so familiar. 

“Do you think you could ever love me again?”

Remus’ heart cracked as he set down his book and curled his fingers gently around Sirius’ jaw, tilting his head so Remus could look into that swirling sea. 

“Love you again?” He said, his voice nearly cracking in disbelief. “Pads, how could I love you again when I never stopped?”

And when I felt like I was an old cardigan, under someone’s bed, you put me on and said I was your favourite. 

“I can’t believe you still have this.” Sirius whispered, pulling the same cardigan he always stole out of the back of Remus’ drawer. 

“It used to smell like you.” Remus admitted. “But I wore it too much, I missed you too much.”

Sirius smiled, shrugging it on, it curling around his shoulders the way he curled into Remus, tilting his head up and pressing his lips against Remus’. 

“I can fix that.” He whispered and Remus held him close, taking his time. 

(For what else was the moon to do but love the stars?)

[jessie-writes-things]

Too Far From Home

This was a test for the table fic. I always like to do test runs to get a feel for the character's dynamics before writing longer pieces, plus I haven't done anything full-on smutty in a while, so wanted to ease myself back into it. Still not the best, but I hope it's getting better! 😅

Based on a combination of these smutty prompts.

Pairing: King Arthur x Female Reader

Words: 1k

Genre: Smut

Warnings: P/V, fingering. It's pretty tame. There's some dirty talk if you can even call it that. 😂

Notes: There's absolutely no logic to any of this. There is plot and really no editing. Why are they there? 🤷‍♀️ What is their relation? 🤷‍♀️ Where the fuck did that cloth come from at the end? 🤷‍♀️ Was there actually someone spying on them? 🤷‍♀️ Who knows.

There were a million and one places better suited for this situation, but the problem was they were all too far away. So, you made do with a tree, somewhat secluded deep in the woods. Or so Arthur said it was out of bounds from prying, a boyish smirk playing on his lips as he pressed you against the trunk. There was no space between the two of you, and you could feel another trunk growing against your leg.

‘We’re fine.’ No time was wasted as deft fingers explored under your skirt, lifting it just enough for him to catch glimpse of the holder secured around your thigh, dagger still neatly in its little hiding place and you could feel Arthur’s warm amusement against your neck as he kissed you, ‘No one ever comes here.’

His fingers were creeping higher and higher, lips threatening to attack that sweet spot just below your jaw and it was getting increasingly hard not to lose every ounce of control right there and then, ‘Apart from us?’

‘Apart from us.’ Arthur humoured your anxieties, twisted with a smile. He made easy work pleasing you, kissing and licking every single spot along your neck, paying particular attention to the places that made you squirm for him. But his own arousal threatened to get the better of him, reaching the place he had been searching for only to let out a low groan when he found you were already bear for him, ‘Fuck me.’

‘Don’t think that was the plan, but we could always try.’ You quipped but were eating your words three seconds later when two of those fingers pushed into you without a moment's notice, catching your moan with a sharp breath. The last thing you wanted was some perve to catch you because you were screaming, although you were sure Arthur would have no problem with that whatsoever, ‘Bastard.’

His brow shot up, ‘Play nice or you won’t get fucked.’

At this point, you weren’t sure what was worse; getting caught or not having the chance to get caught.

You moved with him, pushing him deeper, fingers curled around his neck as you tugged his lips down to yours, needing anything to mask the obscene sounds spilling from your mouth. Every little movement of his was magic, sending bolts of energy buzzing through your entire being and you knew you wouldn’t last much longer when he found the place deep inside you that turned your knees weak, thumb brushing against the appendix of your thighs at an almost brutal speed.

But you didn’t have time for that. Not here, at least.

Arthur looked near damn offended when you grabbed his wrist and pulled him away. But that look didn’t last long when you brought his fingers to your mouth, sucking the mess away so he wouldn’t have to dirty his clothes doing so. Because God forbid Wet Stick or Back Lack caught wind to anything of the kind. That was a level of humiliation you would never be able to live down.

Not that having your bear arse rubbing against the ruff bark of a tree was any better, your skirt hiked up around your waist, your legs around his, trousers pulled to his knees because any more would just be a waste of time.

And there was no time for niceties, hips slapping into yours hard enough to have you begging for air. You were already so close and he could feel that, the sticky wetness dripping onto his leg and he managed to get the shirt of your dress down far enough to free your breast. The hot midsummer air was nothing in comparison to the warmth of his mouth, sucking and nipping at any exposed flesh he could reach before taking one of your pert nipples between his teeth with enough pressure to have you seeing stars.

A twig snapped. Arthur stilled, still buried deep inside you, turning to look in the direction of the sound.

The woods had darkened significantly from when you first got here, dusk falling fast but from what you could see no one was there. Or at least you hoped no one was there as you guided Arthur back to you, fingers pulled in his mused hair just hard enough to have him gasping into your mouth, ‘You wanted to fuck me here, so fuck me.’

And fuck you he did with a growl rumbled deep in his chest, feeling it against your own and suddenly he was pounding into you like his life depended on it. Fingers gripped at your thigh, your hip, anywhere to keep you from moving.

You didn’t last much longer, not when he was fucking you so well, pulling wave after wave of pleasure from you until you were limp in his arms, mewling softly, his ruthless pace never faltering. Not that he was far behind, a few more thrusts and he was a dead man, spilling into you until it was leaking down your thigh.

Your bones felt too heavy to move and you honestly contemplated if it were worth just sleeping where you were for the night. Dusk had fully set in, casting the woodland in a golden glow, birds getting out their last songs as the air slowly began to cool.

Arthur was the first to pull away, although not far, just enough to give you both back some decency, using the same cloth he used to clean his sword to wipe your legs before shoving it back in his pocket, all the while wearing a goofy smile across his face, ‘You’re never leaving for that long again.’