#given what he is going through

[parisoonic]

its not my fault i keep playing against Daniel Day-Lewis mfs

[egophiliac]

the lovers, reversed

(aka I'm still freaking out about Jou)

[e-vasong]

Interview With the Vampire (2022-) is one of the best adaptations of anything ever because it is clearly made with so much love for the original text but it also is very open about critiquing the books while also existing in perfect, constant conversation with it. every change made is a strong writing choice on its own, but it is also made 10x stronger when viewed not just as an alteration of the original but an evolution.

louis being black and a brothel owner rather than a plantation owner is a really fucking smart idea all by itself. but it also directly furthers the differences in worldview between louis and lestat from the books. daniel being older, smarter, keener - much more obsessed with the truth - is an excellent conceit on its own, but its even better when we know that this is round 2 of the interview. he's learned from the awful way the interview went in the books, and now hes here for the truth. devils minion being a dance that arguably stretches decades (even if there wasnt a chase arc in the 70s!) only heightens their game of cat and mouse. armand being an adult physically and also being a POC is fucking inspired, both for how it places him in contrast to louis, and also because it allows them to avoid casting a minor in a very sexual role while still keeping the same dynamic (i.e. the frequent infantilization/fetishization of POC, especially asians).

The fact that some people are mad about its adaptation style boggles my mind, because I honestly think this set a new fucking standard for what adaptations should be. I'm insane about it. If they aren't changing the game like IWTV 2022 who even cares anymore.

[rmbunnie]

It's most likely just Starlin trying to get to Jason dying faster because he did not like Robin, but the whole "Jason's spiraling because of his grief for his parents" thing they were trying to spin was honestly really weird, not supported by the rest of the run INCLUDING the parts Starlin wrote, and kinda reads like an unreliable narrator situation because all of the information supporting it is given through Bruce's narration, him speculating on Jason's thoughts and actions.

The plot thread of Jason's grief for his family affecting his behavior shows up like TWO issues after Jason first becomes Robin back when Collins was writing, and gets sorted out after one conversation where Jason gets to confront Bruce about hiding his father's death from him for 6 months. After that Jason is behaving normally until they encounter three predators in a row, and each time Bruce insists that they can't do anything because of The Rules and assorted red tape/diplomatic immunity plotlines. (The sister of a woman who got dismembered actually tricked the violent-misogynist killer who dismembered her sister (and then got his serial killings dismissed through a technicality) into attacking her, and ends up killing him in self-defense, and then Jason's like "seems fair" and Bruce is like "no. it's NOT. we need to follow laws and not take justice into our own hands. which like wtf Bruce! you are a vigilante who just used a custom tank to fight an evil televangelist! who then got ripped to shreds by his followers while you watched!)

Bruce kinda just decides with Alfred that it must be grief upsetting him and not the dozens of brutally killed women and their predatory killers who the law inexplicably protected, (all written by Starlin, so retconning it for DitF like five issues later would be an odd move) but the only text claiming that's why Jason was upset is from Bruce's POV and through Alfred's dialogue. Jason himself doesn't display any signs of grief in the story itself, or even act or speak in a way that alludes to Catherine and Willis beyond looking at a picture of them and smiling fondly while he sorts through their possessions. He kinda just happens upon the box with his mother's info by chance, and is like ok i guess we're doing mom searches now. He was only going for a walk through his old neighborhood, not actively searching out info on his family. When Jason is deciding whether or not to run off without telling Bruce, he considers telling him and then goes "no, all he cares about is being Batman, he wouldn't even understand why I want to see my mom." Which, I mean, "Bruce wouldn't get it" is a REALLY odd angle if the sole motivator for spiraling, then getting benched* and running away to search out his bio-mom, was because he was mourning his dead parents, a thing he notably has in common with Bruce. That statement only really makes sense if he's thinking about a different thing that was greatly upsetting to him that Bruce brushed past, like maybe a combo of hiding the murder of his dad for half a year and allowing several cases involving sexual violence to freely develop body counts in the name of the law.

Lots of people have written about how Jason's stay in the manor might have seemed dependent on being Robin with how he was kinda just scooped up, but (if we're including Detective Comics in our characterization,) Bruce had offered to let him resign from Robin and just live with him (a little late, but still. It's worth noting Batman proper shows Jason afraid and uncomfortable at the thought of Dick taking Robin back, which lends more merit to the housing-dependent-on-Robin-misunderstanding interpretation, but canon is pick and choose anyways.) The lack of trust involved in his choice to search out his mom kinda reads like it was bred by more than that alone, and Bruce's prioritization of the law over the protection of the people it ignores is notably upsetting to him in the prior issues. tbh I really do believe the outcomes of those cases could have informed Jason's stance that Bruce's method of justice is ineffective right alongside his own murder and his experiences in Lost Days.

It would make sense for Bruce to not consider his own actions while he's thinking through things that would upset Jason, because from his point of view the things there that were bothering Jason were the criminals alone, not the way that the methods with which they were approaching their crimes continually led to the perpetrators evading actual justice. During the point in DitF where he's thinking through motivations for Jason's running away because something isn't adding up for HIM, the idea doesn't so much as cross his mind. It would also add another layer to Jason's sulkiness upon Bruce's arrival if he held the belief that Bruce is ignoring the consequences his brand of justice has on victims (and the way it's affecting him to helplessly watch it play out), starts to hope that Bruce actually can understand his thought processes/relate to him when he shows up, only to be told to his face that Bruce is prioritizing his style of justice over Jason again. With the way everything that led Jason to his bio-mom was comically circumstantial and the context of the previous issues, it's kind of the ONLY way Death in the Family makes sense to me. Tldr: I feel like the grief claimed as reasoning for Jason's actions leading up to his death is mainly speculation from Bruce and Alfred and the more textually-supported reason for his erratic behavior and lack of trust in Bruce is the lack of intervention in several sensitive cases that led them to worsen unobstructed and eventually permitted them to escalate into casualties in 2 out of 3 cases.

*Also, side note, but the idea that Jason got benched for the Filipe situation, while perfectly reasonable, is not quite spot on. The Filipe situation escalated into the fight in the junkyard where his dad is crushed by a car and Bruce is all "everything you do has consequences" which is kinda big words for a guy whose lack of action indirectly lead to a girls death earlier in the storyline, but true. Jason actally gets benched because he jumps directly into gunfire while fighting the third set of predators and Bruce starts to worry he's getting a little suicidal with it. He baits a guy into shooting at him on purpose again trying to protect mom prospect number 1 later on in DitF, so Bruce might have had a point with that one.

[dittobooty]

Thinking a lot about how in One Piece there's a continuing theme of self sacrifice that often doesn't meet its end (I won't say always because there are some characters who have eaten shit for a cause). But I just think about how easy it would be to just accept their sacrifice but the narrative won't allow that. Robin, Zoro, Sanji, Jinbe, they've all tried to give their life for the sake of others but they can't because they really don't have to. I think about Robin's "I want to live" regularly. It's so easy to die for someone but it's so much harder to live for them. And living for them gives back so much more than dying for them does. Dying is just a moment but living lets you have more moments and more time to show how much you care and lets you do so much for others. I feel like a lot of other shonen show dying as one of the bravest things you can do but One Piece is so different because it shows you that living is actually the bravest thing.

[wispforever]

do you guys think kakuzu's ever really hard on himself bc of his time in the waterfall and then hidan just unknowingly is himself

bonus under the cut

[wildsaltair]

Stalking Tiger

Pairing: Maximus Decimus Meridius x reader

Rating: M (some non-descriptive spiciness, lots of angst and hurt/comfort)

Word Count: 8.6k

Author’s Note: It's time for some Spaniard adoration! This is actually part of a larger narrative (everything is the same except Maximus was single AU) in which reader is a slave sent to entertain Maximus in the gladiator school, but they end up falling madly in love and kind of living in agony day to day worrying that something will happen to the other. This is a really special story to me, and I hope y'all will enjoy reading it as much as I've enjoyed writing it :)

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

“I fight Tigris of Gaul tomorrow,” Maximus whispers to you. His mouth is right beside your ear, his breath warm on the side of your neck.

His words register with you a moment later, and you stiffen as you consider the implications. Tigris of Gaul is the only undefeated champion in gladiator history, known for his brutality and ruthless efficiency at killing. The thought of your love facing him is frightening, no matter how capable you know he is.

You’ve been lying with your back against his front, his arm wrapped around your bare waist securely, but you shift to lie on your back so you can see his face.

He moves with you and props himself up on one elbow, looking down at you with such fondness that your heart nearly melts. He strokes your hair from your forehead with gentle fingertips, as if he’s forgotten the subject he just brought up.

“Tigris of Gaul?” you whisper back, knowing your eyes betray your concern. “They told you?”

He sighs softly, eyes tracing over your features with care. “Proximo warned me. He fears that it may be a trap from the Emperor. A way to ensure my death.”

You shudder. It’s no secret that the Emperor wants your lover dead, especially as his popularity among the people has grown.

And what would your life be without him? This Spaniard, this indomitable gladiator, has become your whole life. Months ago, you began as a stranger, a slave sent to entertain him for one night, but every time you look in his eyes, you see the love in your heart reflected in him. You are his hope, his peace, his joy, and he is everything to you.

He feels your shudder and draws you close, burying his face in the side of your neck while you wrap your arms around him. Neither of you needs words to communicate in moments like this.

He presses his lips tenderly to the side of your neck, once, twice, three times. His free hand touches your side and strokes your skin comfortingly, as if you were the one about to face possible death tomorrow.

“Are you afraid?” you breathe into his ear, gently stroking his bare back. His skin is so warm, so smooth between the scars.

He hesitates, just breathing against your skin, then his hand slowly slides up the side of your body. “I fear nothing,” he whispers, “except losing you.”

Tears well up in your eyes immediately at the sweetness in his words, the soft passion in his touch. His fingers trace the swell of your chest, the fragile length of your collarbone, the soft column of your throat. He is still nuzzling the side of your face with his nose, his eyelashes brushing your cheek.

These moments are treasures to your lonely heart — jewels you carry in your chest for the endless days when you are apart.

“Do you think Tigris will cheat?” you ask him softly, trying to think of how this fight might be rigged.

He kisses you again, with the pressure of a feather, just below your ear, and a tremble of pleasure runs through your body. “I am sure that the Emperor will have an added layer of danger to the fight. Single combat is too commonplace for an event such as this.”

He sighs when you drag your fingertips down his shoulder blades, tracing the faint notches in his spine. He dips his head so that his forehead is folded into the crook of your neck, his hand lowering to trace your curves again.

“You will win,” you assure him, though your heart pounds at the thought of him facing a battle already slanted against him. “You always win.”

His hand stops wandering and presses flat against your chest, directly over your heart. He can feel it pounding like a drum beneath his palm.

“I will win for you,” he murmurs, pressing his body more firmly against yours when you lay your hands flat on his back. “I will win if only to see you again.”

Again, tears rise in your eyes, threatening to choke any response you might have. He feels the emotion coiling in you somehow, wraps his arm around your waist to pull your bare body close against his. Your legs tangle with his, your arms hooking around his back so you can bury your head in his broad shoulder.

“Let me come watch,” you beg him quietly, already knowing the answer from many similar conversations.

He shakes his head vehemently, arms locked around you firmly. “No, my love,” he whispers. “I do not want to see what your master forces you to do, and I do not want you to see what mine forces me to do.”

“It’s different with you,” you insist, your voice breaking. “A thousand strangers see you fight every week.”

“You are not a stranger. And I would not have you see the side of me that has won me the favor of the people.”

You know the truth of his words, and in all honesty, you do not wish to see him fight. Despite your curiosity, the thought of seeing your beloved fighting for his life in an arena, facing insurmountable grotesque odds, while all around you people cheer for someone’s blood, makes you sick to your stomach. You know seeing him fight would only increase the fear you already feel for him every moment.

You kiss the base of his neck tenderly, and he responds as he always does: with a faint shiver and a sigh of pleasure. “I will honor your wish,” you promise. “But my heart will be with you every moment.”

“I know,” he breathes against your skin. “That is the thought that has carried me through many dark hours.”

Your designated time is close to being over, so you cling to each other with all the passion tethered in your hearts. Moments like these only serve to remind you of how easily all this happiness could vanish, of how fragile and dangerous such a love is. You are slaves, and your moments together can only last so long as the gods are merciful.

So you just hold each other, basking in the warmth of one another’s skin, and the steady beating of each other’s hearts, and the even cadence of each other’s breaths, perfectly in rhythm.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

A roar from the crowd. Deafening, then muted, then scattered, then horrified, then deafening again.

You are perched by the window of your room in your master’s house, your ear closely attuned to the sounds of the crowd in the arena several streets away. You would never violate your promise to Maximus and go to watch his match secretly, but you cannot help listening to the sounds of the crowd to ascertain how he is faring in the fight.

The crowd is chanting his name now, over and over like a refrain. He must be entering the arena.

Spaniard! Spaniard! Spaniard!

They scream his name, yell it like a battle cry. It is a chant, an anthem, a moniker for a fierce warrior and entertainer.

Only you know his true name. Maximus. Only you breathe and whisper and cry out his true name, night after night, cradled in his arms, in the intimacy of his bed, while he looks deep in your eyes and coaxes the sweetest pleasures from you.

And only you have the joy, the privilege of hearing your own name tumble from his lips again and again and again, night after night, when his head falls back and his eyes soften with pleasure and contentment while you thrill him with your own coaxing.

You have been imagining the match in your mind all day, wondering what will be awaiting him when he steps onto the sand. He is such a capable fighter, such an indomitable force, but every man has his limits. The Emperor, you know, will test each of them.

Another deafening shout, his name mingled with the screams of horror and fascination as the match resumes.

Your heart is pounding as loudly as you can imagine that it would if you were in the arena beside him.

You do not know when you will see him next — as far as you know, your master has not arranged for you and the other slaves to go back to Proximo’s gladiator school for at least another week — and you ache at the thought of having to wait that long to see him again. To hold him, to examine him for injuries, to whisper your love to him and feel his body pulsing with life.

You fear for him every day, but these days, the stakes are so much higher, the risks so much greater for both of you.

Another deafening roar shakes the whole street, and you pray silently to every god you have ever heard of that your love is still alive.

How long can this go on? This compassionate allowance to let you and the Spaniard share your love once a week or so? How long can you expect fate to be so kind, so merciful to let you find peace and surrender in his bed, in his loving arms, before one of you is ripped away forever?

Tears spring anew to your eyes at the thought. He could be killed, or seriously wounded and sent somewhere far away. You could be bought as a live-in lover or sent somewhere else permanently.

As it is, Maximus is the most successful gladiator in Proximo’s school and therefore the most likely to be allowed to have you continue coming to him on certain nights. You, on the other hand, have no such power, and your favor with the Spaniard can only last as long as he does.

But what would it matter? If he dies, all your hopes die with him. Your master can sell you as lion bait for all you care, if you have to live in a world without the comfort of your love’s embrace.

The crowd suddenly goes silent, and so does the beating of your heart. Your mind swims with the possibilities. Is he dead? Is Tigris dead? Has something even more unthinkable happened?

Your hands are clenched into fists, your eyes squeezed shut as you wait for something, anything, to give you a sign about what has happened.

The whole world seems to stand still as you wait.

And then, from several streets away, the arena erupts into cheers and screams: Spaniard! Spaniard! Spaniard!

And your heart sighs as you drop into a chair, suddenly exhausted from the strain of worry. The shouts continue to ring down the street, and people outside your window take up the shout as well, acclaiming Rome’s greatest hero since Caesar.

Spaniard! Spaniard! Spaniard!

All their shouts are drowned out by the beating of your heart and the relief that floods your mind.

He lives. He lives. He lives. And you will see him again.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You are thoroughly shocked when a messenger from Proximo comes to you that night, requesting that your master send you to the gladiator school alone.

Your master’s look is skeptical and disapproving, but the weight of gold coins in the purse sent with the message prevents him from making any comments.

You slip through the front gate of the gladiator school in a matter of minutes, heart flying at the thought of what might be happening, why you could have been summoned here alone by Proximo himself.

You’ve heard what happened in the arena, of course. Everyone has been speaking of it all day. Maximus and Tigris of Gaul, evenly matched, fighting ferociously with swords and axes. Man-eating tigers leaping from hidden trapdoors, barely tethered by chains and swiping at the two fighters. The Spaniard, gaining the advantage and winning the match. Then defying the Emperor’s death command and sparing Tigris’ life, to the massive approval of the crowd.

Your heart swells with pride to think of it, as well as worry, as you slip into the main chamber of the gladiator school and wait for Proximo to appear.

Proximo is waiting for you, you discover, assessing you with cold eyes. “What is it that so fascinates him about you?” Proximo wonders aloud, scanning your body as thought he might find something everyone else has missed.

“He cares for nothing but you,” the gladiator trainer continues, pacing with a feigned air of casuality. “Every time I ask him what he wants as a reward for the fame and riches he brings me, he only asks for you. Over and over. Why?” Proximo’s question hangs in the air, weighty like a storm cloud.

You have no answer for him, of course, and he knows his questions are rhetorical. He waves his hand dismissively in the direction of the gladiators’ cells.

“Go to him,” he commands you with an odd air of defeat, as though you have somehow bested him by remaining a mystery. “He has won the day and the affection of the mob. Again. All he asked in return was for you to come to him tonight.”

Your heart soars as you fly through the hallway. The guard unlocks the cell door, and when the door clangs shut behind you, barely a moment passes before you have flung yourself into your love’s strong, welcoming arms.

Maximus holds you slightly off the ground for a moment, his face buried in your hair while he breathes you in. It’s when he exhales jerkily that you feel something wrong.

You pull back slightly, hands resting on his broad shoulders while he sets you back on your feet. “What’s wrong?” you ask, sensing his apprehension.

He shakes his head, gazing deep in your eyes as though he is amazed to see you. “I did not think Proximo would let you come,” he wonders, running his fingertips through your hair gently. “He must have been very pleased.”

“He was,” you confirm. “He said he was willing to offer you whatever you asked. And he was confused as to why you only care about me, instead of anything else he offers you.”

Your love’s brow crinkles into a frown at that. “He spoke with you?”

“Only for a moment. I think I puzzle him — he doesn’t understand what you see in me.”

Your words are light, teasing, but the Spaniard fixes you with a gaze that could melt steel. He tightens his hold around your waist, pulling you close so you can feel his every breath.

“Am I the only man with eyes to see you?” he wonders, leaning forward to press his lips lightly against your cheek. “Can it be true that no one else recognizes you for what you are?”

Your heart warms at his praises, because you know he means every word. Other men, including your master, see you as unimpressive, plain, suited for little more than gladiator entertainment. But to this man, this Spaniard who loves you so much more than his own life, you are a precious treasure whose every movement bewitches him.

You smile in return, and he lets his lips travel over your face — your jaw, cheeks, nose, chin. His tender affections are right in character for him, but you can’t shake your concern.

“Why did you ask for me tonight?” you ask cautiously, eyes closed as he kisses your forehead with the utmost tenderness. “You have never asked for me on a night when I was not already to be sent to you.”

He sighs, resting his lips against your forehead. For the first time, you realize that he is trembling slightly in your arms, as though nervous.

“I needed to be with you,” he says simply, dipping his head to rest in the curve of your neck.

His words worry you. Perhaps his fight with Tigris frightened him more than he is willing to admit aloud.

Wanting to comfort him, you stand on your toes and wrap both arms around his neck, stroking his back soothingly as he breathes into your shoulder. When his breath catches, a pained gasp escaping his throat, you freeze, afraid of hurting him.

“What is it?” you whisper, loosening your hold on him even as he cradles you in place.

He takes a deep breath to steady himself, shakes his head slightly. “It is nothing,” he assures you. He thinks for a moment, strokes your spine with his warm hands. “I just needed to have you near tonight.”

Still concerned, you put your hands on his chest and push a few inches between your bodies. Looking into his eyes seriously, you ask, “Are you hurt?”

He gives you a soft smile, fingers tracing patterns on the sides of your ribs. “I am all right,” he says vaguely, not answering your question the way you hoped.

Still, he does not protest or stop you when you pull out of his embrace and step to the side to look at his back, which seems to be the afflicted area based on the way he flinched at your touch.

When you finally see his injury, you cover your mouth with both hands, eyes filling with tears of horror, anger, and sorrow.

His back is razed with four long claw marks, stretching from his left shoulder blade to his right hip. His tunic, although clearly fresh, has soaked through with the blood, staining the fabric a deep red. A series of small cuts on the backs of his arms, neck, and spine betray more abuse at the hands of his opponent.

Tiger claws. Your love was clawed by a tiger in the arena today, in addition to nearly losing his life to a fierce opponent.

And he seeks your presence as his comfort, you remind yourself. You are his peace, his solace, his only joy.

Your heart swells at that thought, but it aches and weeps at the sight of his terrible wounds, at the pain he must be enduring even at this moment.

He turns to face you, his eyes shadowed but soft on your features. “Do not cry for me, my love,” he murmurs, brushing his fingertips over your cheeks to wipe away your tears.

You shake your head vehemently, pressing your lips together to keep from bursting out in emotion. “How can they do this to you?” you whisper harshly. “You have done nothing, yet they torture you with this terrible pain.”

“The pain is nothing,” he assures you with a gentle smile. “All I feared was that I might die without saying goodbye to you.”

Your heart breaks again, over and over, at the sincerity in his voice.

“You thought you would die?” you ask in a whisper, leaning in to his touch. He is still stroking the side of your face tenderly, but you are afraid to touch him again, to possibly worsen the pain you know he must be in.

He thinks for a moment, eyes trailing down to your lips. “I came closer to death today,” he finally admits in a quiet voice, “than at any other time in the arena.”

So that is the reason for this midnight visit, you realize. A narrow brush with death. The knowledge that he is not invincible. That he could have been killed by a stray swipe from a tiger. Perhaps his first real encounter with fear since he became a gladiator.

Eyes burning with more tears, you squeeze your eyelids shut and reach up to clasp his hand in yours. “I knew something was different about today,” you mutter. “I could sense it, even last night.”

He nods, still letting his eyes focus on your mouth as though afraid to meet your eyes. “The Emperor grows bolder,” he agrees. “More intentional.”

Again, your heart flips in your chest at that thought. The most powerful man in the Empire, with his sights set on death for the man you love.

“I am glad you called for me,” you whisper, opening your eyes to meet his gaze. “I want to share in everything with you — your joys, your sorrows, your fears, everything.”

The look he gives you is so sweet, so tender, so full of gratitude and adoration, that your heart melts again.

He doesn’t speak, just cups your jaw with his hand and pulls you close for a kiss. Not wanting to hurt him, you rest your hands lightly on the inside of his elbows, stroking your thumbs over the sensitive skin. He sighs into the kiss, lips moving gently against yours.

When he tilts his head to rest his forehead against yours, you whisper, “Are you in pain?”

He hesitates, then presses another soft kiss to your lips before answering. “Not unbearably,” he whispers back.

Which is as close to admitting his pain as he will ever get, you know. Knitting your brow in concern, you tilt your head back to look up into his eyes. The top of your head is level with his chin, and he smiles down at you with such fondness and love.

“Let me take care of you,” you request quietly, stroking the sides of his face. He closes his eyes and relaxes into your touch, sighing in pleasure at the contact.

“I did not bring you here for that,” he counters with the faintest smile, eyes still shut as he basks in your gentle touch. “I only wanted to be with you. Do not worry about the scratches; they will heal quickly. Proximo vowed that I would not have to fight again until next week to give them time to heal.”

His words hardly reassure you, and you slowly run your hands down to the sides of his neck. “Let me take care of you,” you repeat, gazing at him passionately. “I want to.”

Your lover opens his eyes, and his expression softens even further. You can sense in his manner that he did not intend for you to care for his wounds, but that he is grateful and pleased that you want to anyway.

“Do whatever you wish,” he murmurs, leaning in again to capture your lips in a gentle kiss, “so long as I am close to you.”

What love could ever be sweeter than the tenderness he feels for you, that in his moments of greatest fear and pain, he longs for your calming presence?

When your lips part, you step out of the circle of his arms, ready to begin your job of tending his wounds. You survey him carefully, looking for any injuries you may have missed when you threw yourself into his arms earlier.

There are a few small cuts on his face and a bruise forming under his right eye, but nothing particularly grievous. You notice a slice across the top of his left hand, but it has been crudely bandaged with a linen strip.

Meeting his intense gaze, you motion for him to take off his tunic so you can get a better look at the tiger’s claw marks on his back. Wordlessly, he does as you ask. Watching him undress is nothing new for you, but when his tunic is off, the damage to his skin is even more obvious. Your throat clenches when you see the deep cuts on his back.

“You will be scarred from this,” you whisper, hands hovering over his back but afraid to actually touch him for fear of increasing his pain.

He smiles softly over his shoulder at you. “I do not mind the scars,” he teases you, “so long as you are here to ease the pain.”

His body bears further evidence of the fight now that you can see his bare skin. Deep cuts on the backs of his arms and shoulders, and one shallow one running down his side. He’s covered in bruises as well, from his breastbone to his ribs. Every time he breathes, you sense the painful movement of his bruised skin.

Another wave of emotion strikes you at the sight of his wounds. Your hand still hovers over him, afraid to make full contact, and he turns his head to look at you.

A moment later, he turns fully and wraps you in his arms, clearly ignoring the pain it causes. You bury your face in his bare shoulder, blinking back tears.

“I cannot stand to see you like this,” you tell him, your heart breaking as you think of all the pain he has borne. “I cannot stand to see what they do to you.”

He lays his cheek against the top of your head, rocking you back and forth in his arms as if you were the one in need of comfort. “They can do nothing to me that I am not fitted by nature to bear,” he promises you in a soft voice, the one that you know is reserved only for you.

You do not bother trying to argue him out of that philosophy, choosing instead to rest your hands lightly against his waist. He does not flinch, but his muscles relax at your soft touch.

Several moments pass in that way, just holding one another close, enjoying the simple pleasure of sharing a quiet moment away from the rest of the world. Your times together are always so brief, so bittersweet, and your heart aches at the thought of having to leave him like this tonight.

I will make it worth it, you promise yourself. I will take away his pain, even if only for an hour.

Without a word, you lift your chin and look deep into the man’s eyes. He gazes back at you steadily, firmly, lovingly. His hands are feather-light on your waist.

Just as silently, the moment passes, and you take one of his warm hands in yours to lead him toward the bed. He follows you without a word, then sits on the edge of the bed when you indicate for him to do so.

His eyes widen in surprise, however, when you do not join him on the bed. Instead, you kneel down at his feet, between his legs, and lean forward to press your lips against his bare chest. Lightly, with the pressure of a breath, you kiss every bruise on his body — from his collar, to his breastbone, to his ribs, to his stomach. He breathes deep and slow while you trail your lips over his skin, never flinching as you take care not to press your kisses too hard.

When you have finished with his torso, you lean back on your heels and take his hands in yours. Still, he looks down at you with such wonder, such abject shock that you are paying these careful attentions to every inch of his weary body.

He nearly shivers when you press a kiss to the tops of his hands, then each of his fingers, riddled with cuts and callouses. All you want to do is shower him with the love you feel, the love you always worry you will never have another chance to express.

Over his palms, his wrists, his sensitive inner arms with pulsing veins, you continue kissing his skin with utter softness. He raises one hand to rest on the back of your head, tangling his fingers in your hair.

Sitting up on your knees, you push yourself to be at eye level with his chest. Another brief moment of eye contact, his gaze searing into yours as your souls communicate without words — I adore you, I lay my entire life at your feet, for the rest of my life I am yours.

Then you rest your hands on his thighs, leaning forward to press your lips and tongue to his neck, right where he is most sensitive.

He does exactly what you want him to do — he shudders from head to foot and draws a quick breath, overcome by the pleasurable sensation. His hand is still gripping the back of your head, and his fingers tighten ever so slightly in your hair.

You still intend to care for his wounds, but right now, all you want him to know is how much you love him, how much you desire to pleasure him the way he always pleasures you.

Passionately, your lips move against his neck, and your whisper is so soft you wonder if he will even hear it. “Show me where it hurts,” you request. “Show me where to touch.”

He is so vulnerable for you in this moment, his body bared to you and his eyes closed, head tilted back while you explore his neck with your lips and tongue. It’s the most intimate position he can be in, with you so close to his exposed throat and heart. No one else sees him this way: no one else has his trust the way you do.

One of your hands reaches up to rest against his chest, which rises and falls more quickly as his pulse accelerates. The faster he breathes, the warmer his skin grows, and you grip his leg more firmly with your other hand.

His own larger hand falls to grip yours there. “Touch me wherever you please,” he murmurs, breathless and shivery. You are thrilled by the way he responds to you, and you can sense that this is what he needs now — to take comfort in your touch, in your love.

“I will be careful,” you promise, nuzzling his neck while your free hand rubs circles on his chest.

He moans, the softest, sweetest sound you have ever heard in your life, and he whispers, “I am at your mercy, my love.”

And, indeed, he is.

You are careful, just as you promised you would be. He seems to finally let down his guard in front of you now, to stop covering up the pain. You can sense it in his ragged breathing, his flushed skin, his faint winces when he leans forward or back slightly.

Wanting to help him release his tension but also knowing he cannot lie back or rest against the wall, you go back to your kneeling position on the floor. While he takes a deep breath, you lean forward again and touch your lips to his stomach. The muscles there are tight, but he softens and relaxes when you press kisses in a trail lower, his hips moving in an involuntary response.

You’ve reached his lower abdomen, reveling in the warmth of his skin and the pressure of his hand on the back of your head, when he stops you.

“No,” he whispers, voice hoarse with strain. A thin sheen of sweat has broken over his skin, and his eyes are glassy as he looks down at you, breathless.

You rest a hand on his waist again, stopping immediately. “Did I hurt you?” you ask softly, heart aching at the thought.

He shakes his head and closes his eyes for a moment. “No,” he assures you. “It feels so good.”

You smile at that, leaning forward to kiss your way down his torso again, but he stops you a second time.

“Not that way,” he insists, and suddenly you realize what he means. He so rarely lets you get on your knees and pleasure him — just him — without regard for yourself. He much prefers for you to reach your pleasure together, both of you achieving rapture at the same time if you can. You’ve gotten into such a rhythm now that you can manage it nearly every time.

You want to ease his pain this way, to focus only on pleasuring him, but he won’t let you — not even when he’s throbbing and aching for you so badly. You should have known he wouldn’t.

“You can’t lie on your back,” you remind him gently, enveloped by the warmth of his gaze as he frames your face with both hands. “And if you straddle me, your cuts might open again. We need to be careful.”

He smiles back at you, stroking your hair. “We will,” he promises. “Stand up.”

You do as he asks, reminding yourself that you wanted to satisfy him tonight, and if this is really what he wants, you’ll give it to him. As always, you are struck by the selflessness of his gesture — he cannot stand the thought of simply using you for his pleasure if he cannot bring the same feeling to you.

He stays seated on the edge of the bed, but he pulls you close to him with his hands on your waist. Gently, and slowly so as not to inflame the scratches on his back, he lifts the hem of your shift and helps you tug it over your head.

Undressing you himself is one of his favorite parts of lovemaking, you’ve discovered. He delights in slowly uncovering your skin night after night, baring you himself, seeing your reaction to his first touch.

A moment later, his hands are gently pressing onto your bare body, gripping your hips to pull you forward. You finally understand what position he is angling for, and you climb onto his lap with his assistance.

And thus are your next moments spent. He drags his lips over every inch of your skin he can reach — your neck, shoulders, chest, collarbones. Every sensitive spot he has memorized, he attends with his tongue. His hands are tender on your lower back while he holds you in place, smiling into your skin each time you gasp and shiver at his touches.

When he finally pauses to take a breath, you seize your opportunity and do the same to him. He shudders in your arms, nearly comes undone for you when you lean forward, touching your body gently against his.

Every breath is in rhythm with each other, every movement perfectly in sync. While you press open-mouthed kisses to the curve between his neck and shoulder, he aligns your body right where he needs you, holding your waist with his strong hands.

He sets the rhythm, and you follow his lead while he moves you back and forth — always in control, even in this position. Sometimes he winces in pain or tenses when he pushes too hard, but he never stops his pace. He leans forward occasionally to kiss your lips or neck, and you let your hands wander over his broad shoulders, his heaving chest.

Unexpectedly, just as tension begins to coil in your belly, tears spring to your eyes. Even in the heat of passion, your lover looks up into your eyes with such sweetness, such tenderness.

Sometimes his eyes flutter shut when he gasps in pleasure, but he always opens them again, fixes his gaze on you while he makes love to you.

What could be sweeter than this? you wonder. To gaze deep into one another’s eyes while you pleasure each other?

There is no shame, no apathy, no indifference. There is only love in his eyes, sheer joy at being close to you, wrapped up in your limbs and heat and affections.

It’s true intimacy, you know, to have each other’s bodies memorized, and to still be content to look so deeply into each other’s eyes.

He reaches his release first, one arm tightening around your waist. He moans again, deep in his throat, and his head naturally falls back, eyes closed, lips parted. You drag your hands through his dark hair, swipe at the sweat on his temples.

He whispers your name, once, twice, three times, opens his eyes and looks deep into yours while he tenses and relaxes in rhythm with you.

You reach your own climax a moment later, encircled firmly by his strong arms, still moving in rhythm with his body, and you only have the strength to lean forward into his embrace, your head tucked into his neck, while you breathe his name over and over.

The moment is perfect, utterly perfect, in a way that only true lovers can experience.

You are still catching your breath when he dips his head against your shoulder, still breathing deep to recover from his intense release.

“I love you,” he murmurs passionately, “with all my heart and soul.”

You try to reply in kind, but his lovemaking has left you so breathless that you can barely make a sound.

But he isn’t finished. “I am yours,” he continues, lips brushing your neck as he speaks in a voice only meant for you. “All I am and ever will be is yours.”

“I know,” you finally manage to reply, breathless and soft.

“If ever I should die without saying goodbye to you,” he whispers against your throat, “know that I died loving you with my last breath, and that your name was the last word on my tongue, and that I will wait for an eternity until my soul meets yours in the afterlife.”

If you were not already overcome by emotion before, his impassioned confession brings you nearly to sobs. Carefully, you wrap your arms around his neck and pull his body fully against yours.

“My beloved,” you whisper, and he sighs softly at your endearment. “I have nothing to give you but my heart, and it has long been yours. My every heartbeat is for you alone.”

In the wake of your passion, sharing every breath and shiver in your close embrace, your feelings seem to spill over like a waterfall, and he kisses the base of your neck to hide his own surge of emotion.

“You are my only joy,” he tells you. “My only peace. My world is cruel and dark and brutal, but your light wraps around me and gives me something to live for.”

“And you,” you say tearfully, “are the sun in my sky. You are the first ray of morning and the last ray of evening. I have no light but you.”

He rests his forehead on your neck and breathes you in deeply. “I am yours,” he repeats, softly, like a prayer. “I am only yours for the rest of my life.”

Your response is to tighten your limbs around him and rest your head against his shoulder. No more words are needed, for you both can understand each other without speaking.

And in this silence, your lonely heart is comforted, his pain is eased, and your love is only sealed further by the sweet assurance you feel in each other’s arms.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

You know you only have an hour with him, so once both of you have caught your breath and taken your fill of each other’s soothing touches, you finally disentangle yourself from him and sit down beside him on the bed.

Just as you feared, the deep claw marks on his back have reopened after your passionate lovemaking, blood trickling down his back again.

“If I thought reopening wounds could be so enjoyable,” the man tells you teasingly, “I would ask to fight a tiger every day.”

You can sense that he’s covering up his pain with the teasing tone. He is shaken — far more shaken than you have ever seen him — but he’s trying to be strong for you.

Sitting beside and slightly behind him, you are kneeling on the bed. You didn’t bother putting your clothes back on, as both of you have become so comfortable with one another that it seems to make no difference, especially since you’ve just finished making love.

Biting back the wave of emotion that threatens to overtake your words, you give a sighed laugh. “You do not need to risk your life for my attention,” you say, only half-joking. “It is yours whether you are clawed or not.”

After a brief look around the room, you find the one courtesy the gladiator school has provided your injured lover: a bottle of liniment. Fetching it from the table, you fold yourself beside him on the bed.

“Face the wall,” you instruct him softly. “I will rub this into your scratches.”

He does just as you ask without hesitation, bracing himself with one hand against the wall. You can sense the tension in his strong frame, the effort it is taking to keep from betraying how much pain he is in.

Tendrils of blood are still running down his bare back, so you first wipe away the blood with the washrag on the table. He gasps at the first touch of your hands, then relaxes a bit at the relief.

“What was the purpose of giving you ointment,” you ask lightly, trying to distract him from the pain, “if your scratches are impossible for you to reach yourself?”

He relaxes a little more, a laugh shifting his position. “Perhaps they were counting on you to be my nurse,” he replies.

You only smile at his words, rubbing the liniment onto your fingertips and beginning to apply it to his skin. The tiger’s scratches are deep, ripping his skin from corner to corner. He tries to hide his reactions, but he can’t keep from jerking a quick breath anytime you press ointment into his cuts.

“Did anyone even look at your wounds?” you ask him, still trying to keep the conversation light but edging toward sensitive territory.

He breathes, deep and slow, before answering, his voice strained. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Proximo had them examine me after he saw how much I bled. The physician said he did not need to bandage me, so he just gave me the ointment to keep infection away.”

Another gentle press of your fingers, and he arches his back slightly in pain. You’ve only just finished tending the first scratch, shoulder to hip, so you pause and lean forward to press your lips to the back of his neck. He sighs contentedly.

As much as you despise Proximo’s gladiator school and its cruel treatment of your beloved, you take a small consolation in knowing that you are the one who gets to care for his wounds.

The thought of anyone else putting their hands on him, of anyone else seeing him undress and touching his body, is distressing to you. You know he is violated in so many other ways — forced into life-or-death situations every day in the arena — but you have always taken comfort in knowing that he does not suffer at others’ hands the way you do.

You push such thoughts from your head. Right now, all you care about is that he is yours, body and soul, and that he craves your gentle touch to ease his pain.

You resume your ministrations to his back, alternating between wiping away his blood and applying the thick ointment to his scratches. He works hard to hide any pain, your only indication being his white-knuckled grip on his thighs.

“Will you be able to sleep tonight?” you ask quietly. He usually sleeps on his back, but that will be impossible until his scratches are healed.

He just nods, clenching his teeth to keep from betraying his pain. You are rubbing ointment into the last of the four cuts, and you notice that he is trembling again, probably from the pain and the exertion of trying to hide that pain.

You finish as quickly as possible, then wipe away the last of the blood from his back. Eager to comfort him somehow, you lean forward and kiss him softly on the back of his right shoulder, where there are no scratches.

The shiver that runs down his spine, and the breathless moan he elicits, are like music to your ears.

“Are you all right?” you whisper, lips brushing his skin softly.

He draws another shaky breath, nods his head. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”

You simply lay your cheek against the back of his shoulder. You long to wrap your arms around him, to hold him close to your body and share your warmth with him, but the scratches make that impossible.

Instead, you indicate for him to turn around again, and he does so, moving slowly so as not to irritate his scratches again. When he is facing you, you begin using the washrag on some of his other injuries.

“Proximo is sending you back into the arena next week?” you ask, dabbing at the cut running down the side of his ribs.

He winces slightly but does not make a sound. “Yes. The Emperor has called for another holiday, and I will be expected to fight in the games.”

You press your lips together. His eyes have fluttered shut, and his hands are still gripping his thighs, all from the pain of you tending his wounds. You can’t imagine him being ready to fight again in only a week.

You say as much to him. “It is as though Proximo does not care whether you can lift a sword or not.”

He smiles sardonically, eyes still closed. “I finished the fight today after being clawed by a tiger,” he says lightly. “He knows I will do whatever I must to stay alive.”

You are grateful that his eyes are closed, because you can’t suppress the worry and sorrow that cross your face at his words.

Every fight brings him closer to his inevitable death, a vicious slaughter to the shouts of a fickle mob.

You bite back tears that threaten to spill over, determined not to burden him with your own pain.

“Who will tend your wounds,” you ask, “if I am not here for the next week?”

He opens his eyes at that, gazes at you deeply, as if suddenly remembering that no fights mean no nights with you.

“I do not know,” he says quietly. “It does not matter.”

It matters to me, you think, but you just give him a sad smile and continue your ministrations. Delicately, you wash the bloodied cuts that form a lattice over his neck and collarbones, then swipe the cloth over his bruises. He winces again when you press the cloth against his chest, and you reach out your free hand to steady him.

“Is it too painful?” you whisper. Your heart breaks to see him like this.

But he shakes his head, biting back the pain and smiling tightly at you. “No,” he assures you as you set the cloth aside. “You have no idea how much it means simply to be with you.”

His gaze swallows you whole, wraps you in an embrace that warms your soul. He lifts one hand to stroke the side of your face fondly, and you lean your face into his touch.

“I do,” you tell him coyly, covering up the wellspring of emotion in your chest. “Did I not just remind you that you are my one joy? My only peace?”

He drags his fingers down your jaw, your throat, the swell of your chest. His eyes follow his fingertips, and goosebumps break out over every inch of skin he brushes. A shiver runs up your spine while he traces his fingertips on your lower abdomen gently, almost without thinking.

He looks up at you through hooded eyes, his lips pulled into a smirk. “You like that?” he teases, dragging one fingertip up the center of your body.

You can’t keep from shivering again, harder this time. The pleasure you just shared with him is still fresh, your skin still sensitive.

“You know I do,” you smile, arching your back. “I live for it.”

With a smile, he tilts his head to the side and continues tracing one finger over your most sensitive areas. He seems weary, you notice, especially after making love so passionately. His attentions are languid, curious, relaxed.

When his fingertips return to your face, tracing the shape of your lips, you raise your own hand and touch his chest lightly. His skin is still warm and flushed, and you press your palm gently over his heart.

It thunders under your hand. At the contact, his eyes close for the briefest moment, his lips parting, but he opens his eyes to fix you with a heated stare.

“It beats for you,” he breathes, swept up in the moment. “Only for you.”

He lifts a hand and presses it against yours, flat against his chest, while he just looks at you with all the love and passion within. Your own heart starts pounding wildly in response, and you impulsively reach for his other hand to press it against your chest.

You sit like that together for a few beautiful moments, just enjoying the familiar rhythm of one another’s heartbeats. One day his heart will stop beating, you remember unwillingly, and you’ll be left alone.

This is the burden of loving a gladiator: never being able to enjoy your time with him fully, because you always have that knowledge in the back of your head.

You push those thoughts aside again, determined to be strong for him the way he’s strong for you.

“It will not take long,” you murmur, leaning forward to press your lips against the corner of his mouth. “You will heal quickly.”

He hums in response, fingertips still tracing quiet patterns on your bare chest. “I will heal as quickly as I can so you can return.”

“Do not risk yourself only for that,” you warn him. “I would rather wait a bit longer than have you go into the arena too soon. You have to get your strength back first.”

“You are my strength.”

Your love bows his head then, resting it on the curve of your neck so he can breathe you in. Your hour is drawing to a close, and you are reminded once again that in his moments of greatest pain and fear, he only longed to be with you.

You can feel his warm breath on your neck, his hot skin burning against yours. The pain is catching up to him, you realize, and he needs to rest now. You know this, but your heart breaks at the thought of leaving him.

“I don’t want to go,” you whisper, tears filling your eyes once again.

He swallows hard, lifting his hand to cup your jaw. He’s still nuzzling your neck, as though basking in your warmth for the last time. “Beloved,” he whispers back, and his voice breaks, and you know that this time you have shared is different, more painful, more precious for both of you.

If only the rest of the world could see the Spaniard this way — completely vulnerable, intimately surrendered to the one he loves.

You trace careful fingertips over his shoulder, down his strong arm, then over his ribs, his waist, while he nestles his face against your neck. You wish you could hold him and comfort him all night, reassure him of your love every moment.

But the guard pounds on the door just then, signaling that your time is over.

He grips your jaw a little tighter, presses a soft kiss to your shoulder, then releases you. If the look in his eyes is anything to judge by, he feels the same bereavement at your parting that you do.

You dress in silence, motioning for him to stay on the bed and not aggravate his claw marks. He watches you thoughtfully, transfixed by every movement as you put your clothes back on.

“Will you send me word?” you ask him quickly, in a hushed voice. “If your injuries worsen, I mean? Or if anything happens?”

His smile is faint, pained, but grateful. “Yes.”

“And you will not rush Proximo to put you back in the arena? You will wait until you are healed?”

“I will.”

You’re dressed now, just lingering because you don’t want to go. The guard pounds the door a second time, but you just can’t tear yourself away.

Taking a quick step forward, you stand before your love, cradle his face in your hands. You press a kiss to his forehead, and when you straighten, he is looking up at you with the sweetest eyes you have ever seen.

His gaze is one of peace, and contentment, and adoration, and tenderness, and longing, and a thousand other soft emotions that he only shows to you.

He tilts his head to the side, kisses your inner wrist as you caress his face.

The door slams open, and the guard loudly informs you that your time is up, but Maximus just holds his lips against your wrist for one more moment, feeling your pulse as it races at his touch.

Then he is releasing you, and you are walking backwards to the door, and even as the door shuts, you can read the message in his eyes.

I love you. I love you. I love you.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~

More of my fanfiction if you're so inclined :)

[bumblingbabooshka]

When the only person who might understand what happened- understand. Not sympathize or empathize or comfort you but understand what happened, isn't there anymore. Or: 'A Man Made Me Do Something I Didn't Want To', for when you can't talk about it or look it in the eye [Patreon | Commissions]

[gingermintpepper]

Obsessed with the way Evadne's relationship with Apollo is described. Obsessed with the way Apollo was especially gentle with her because she was sheltered, hidden away and hadn't had any sort of experience with love prior to Apollo (and due to it being described as her 'first learning Aphrodite's joy' through Apollo', it was probably her first time even being attracted to someone). Obsessed with the way when she runs away, she stops in a violet patch to give birth. Y'know, violets, very famously the flower so strongly associated with Aphrodite that they were used in love potions? Those violets. Obsessed with the way that when Apollo realised his lover was going to have to deliver their child alone, he sent BOTH the goddess of childbirth and ALL THREE OF THE FATES to help and support her. Obsessed with the way that Apollo sends snakes to feed his baby honey straight from their fangs because Evadne abandons their son out of straight primal fear when her stepfather finds her and how the description of that honey is 'sweet venom' [ἰός] of the bees and is DEFINITELY a poetic pair/pun with [ἴον] aka violets and that every single thing about this relationship, conception and birth is a complete and utter fairytale down to Evadne's insanely overprotective stepfather having an immediate change of heart when he learned Evadne's child was an actual, legitimate Son of Apollo and the babe, after being cared for by his dad's honey-fanged snake buddies, was found perfectly healthy five days later swaddled in a blanket of violets (y'know the flowers so strongly associated with Aphrodite that they were used for lo-) and they called him Iamus aka Boy of the Violets which is AAAAAARRRR I AM GNAWING AT MY ENCLOSURE

Iamus was made of love. Everything about him was surrounded by deep and profound love and like, let's not even talk about his whole Thing of when he came of age and was like "I need to find out what my purpose is" and he literally had a Disney Protagonist moment where he ran out into the wilds and was like "Father!! Grandfather!! Tell me what I'm supposed to doooo!!" and then APOLLO FUCKING ANSWERED AND LED HIM TO ONE HIS TEMPLES ENTIRELY BY TALKING WITH IAMUS AND LETTING HIM FOLLOW HIS VOICE FOR THE WHOLE JOURNEY LIKE -

What do y'all know about the kind of SSS tier romantic escapades Apollo had fr?

[serpentface]

Don't get too attached

[fatedroses]

I personally subscribe to the idea that Adventurer Zenos shows his affection and appreciation for his peers in very odd ways (like yoinking the Students' taxes and dealing with their expenses and maybe also paying for some of their expenses but shhh).

[hychlorions]

they match :')

[tackykachowch]

What's so funny about Jinx smelling Vander's jacket to me is not even that it's inconsistent with the story at this point (i. e. Vander is alive so there is no reason for her to smell his jacket, plus she didn't have a close relationship with him anyway), but because we already had a coat for her to interact with that was established IN SEASON 1 FINALE. SHE TOOK SILCO'S COAT OFF OF HIM. WHERE DID IT GO????? And most importantly why Jinx doesn't care about it at all despite her still coming to his office to "talk" with him? Like. You would think that Jinx, who still keeps keepsakes of her lost loved ones, would take some of Silco's things to remind her of him, but nah. We need a stupid thing with Vander and Silco's jackets where she doesn't even properly interact with the right one.

[softchouli]

[starwikia]

suicide cw

look i have been in this area before mentally. it sucks and i wouldn’t wish this on anyone. but, and this is going to sound callous, but i don’t feel any sympathy for james somerton. even if i hope he’s like. not dead. But thats all the amount of goodwill im willing to give him. The more i think about this really, the more angry i am. 

ngl this entire situation is another example of how white people weaponize their mental illness to avoid consequences. Im seeing it in real time.

this man has a continuous habit of using self-harm as a get-out-of-jail-for-free card. in both of his apologies, he has worded his supposed attempts in ways that were clearly meant to guilt people who displayed his plagiarism and overall horrendous history of racism and misogyny. i say supposed because, while i’m not saying those are lies and this would he such a fucked up thing to lie about that i don’t want to think he has, unfortunately, it’s been proven again and again that his word can’t be trusted, as he’s known to lie to try get out of consequences. Hes a proven liar. him lying about this is actually the best case scenario, because no one should go through this entire situation, wouldnt wish this on anyone, but you can only do this so often before people stop sympathizing with you. is this callous? Yeah, but like. I’m actually fucking angry he cant straight up take no as an answer. that this is how he reacts realizing he cant be one of the Cool Kidz™️ on youtube anymore. he acts like he DESERVES a career, like its not a privilege hes lost due to his own actions.

He lied about apologizing and forgiving people, he lied about giving the money to hbomberguy to give to ppl he ripped off (yknow, instead of doing it himself), he lied about the jessie gender situation and rewrote the narrative to make it so he isnt the bad guy, and hes the victim all along actually!

you can’t tell me that supposed last message of his isn’t meant to be a 13 reasons why esq attempt to deflect the blame “look i’m going to kill myself and it’s all YOUR PEOPLES FAULT for not letting me achieve my DREAM of being filmmaker IN PEACE!!! I just wanted Nick’s (the guy who I have thrown under the bus again and again) portfolio up!! Im just being a good friend dont you all FEEL BAD” he refuses to take ANY ACCOUNTABILITY of any of his actions and he IS STILL trying to shove the blame over to other people again.

it’s also pretty ironic people are like “uhhh well hbomber’s fans harassed him!!!” like hbomber outright told people NOT to HARASS JAMES!!! ALSO acting as if james doesn’t have a very real documented history of STRAIGHT UP sending his fans to harass and threaten smaller creators, more notably women, trans, and bipoc creators. especially after he’s stolen typically very personal anecdotes so he could profit from them. so why can he do it but the second people are like “hey this guys an actual piece of shit.” and he can’t handle it suddenly people are trying to white knight his shit? like no he doesn’t get that. he doesn’t get that at all just because he couldn’t handle the consequences of his actions. 

what? were supposed to stay quiet about a man profiting off of other minorities because he wanted to be the spokesman for all gay people? people tried to solve this on a smaller, more private scales for YEARS and he kept doing it. it was clear that the giant public video was the ONLY way to get people to notice. HE WOULDVE GOTTEN AWAY WITH STEALING 87 FUCKING THOUSANDS WORTH OF DOLLARS. HE CANT HANDLE THE FACT HE CANT GET AWAY WITH IT. 

am i supposed to feel bad for the guy who basically threatened a trans woman with the police? i don’t care what anyone says, it’s so fucking obvious that he threatened jessie by implying he was getting the police involved in their conflict. what am i supposed to act like that didn’t happen? are we supposed to pretend like he didn’t glorify nazi’s and outright said that gay people made up a good chunk of the nazis? That he didnt say america joined ww2 bc they were jealous of the NAZIS. WHAT WOULD POSSESS YOU TO FUCKING SAY THAT. but then? He gives women (not even women most of the time, he misgenders nonbinary ppl constantly) shit for writing mlm. are we supposed to act like he doesn’t straight-up sees himself superior and better than people of color and steals their works to put himself on a pedestal? Are we supposed to act like he didnt spit on our elders by saying “only the boring gays survived aids” like man! Fuck you! He BLANTANTLY MAKES UP HISTORY TO PUT HIMSELF ON A PEDESTAL!! HE ACTIVELY TRIED TO REWRITE LGBT HISTORY TO SUIT HIS FUCKED UP NARRATIVES!

yes this sucks ! no one deserves this but no one should be making him a martyr. Thats what he fucking WANTS! He wants to be immortalized as a victim!! (again, supposedly, it was reported hes alive but its not confirmed).

The shit he got isnt near the amount of fucking callous behavior hes done again and again. Again, to drill this point, EVEN IF HE DIDNT CALL THE POLICE HE THREATENED A TRANS WOMAN INTO THINKING HE DID!!! The fact he tried to use a head injury to justify years of the outright ghoulish shit fucking astounds me. Why the fuck did anyone in his life thought it was a good idea to let him TRY to come back. in the end, he had options. he didn’t need to try to make a comeback. HE DIDNT NEED TO FUCKING LIE OR IGNORE THE SHIT HE WAS CALLED OUT ON the reality is, he wanted to come back thinking he could shove it under the rug, was told that no dude, you’re not allowed to be a youtuber anymore. you’re done. you need to move on and went full nuclear. it’s not on anyone’s hands but his own. HES BEEN DOING THIS TO HIMSELF!! But nah man we cant call his shit out bc hell may or may not kill himself. Fuck the other minorities who have the same issues but worse and sometimes BECAUSE of him. This is going to SUCKKKK so bad when other ppl, specifically white gays, are going to weaponize this shit to get away with their stuff.

[fujii-draws]

OKAY! Chatot rant in tags below! Read at your own discretion.