#god i was dying while drawing this for real god bless me i am so talented

[ishibishie]

hello everyone it’s time for a Steven Stone Heritage Post because my mind went back to a SUPER obscure version of the guy that i think 9 people total know of and i need all steven fans to know this info

so! back in the xy/oras hayday corocoro started publishing a manga series about the pokemon trading card game, i think teaching readers how to play? it’s known as “let’s play the pokemon card game xy!” and features some fucking yugioh ass looking redesigns of some core game characters who play the tcg like complete anime protagonists: being an xy focused thing, there’s versions of calem and professor sycamore (lysandre as well maybe? it’s been a while since i’ve taken the time to read the entire thing) but as the oras cross promotion era started, our favorite little rock boy showed up!

there he is! i believe his name is shougo. a version of steven who is drawn with fangs (fun fact: me drawing steven with fangs in my own art is derived from shougo!) and completely missed the mid 2000′s trend of dying the fringes of your hair

shougo seems to speak in a kansai dialect, given he uses the personal pronoun of “wai” in the above panel (this manga is completely free to read on the official japanese tcg site: hence why i haven’t edited the kana out!). he’s shown off as a hyperactive and overly-emotional young boy, which is a really start contrast compared to boku soft ass good boy steven stone. he is probably also wanted in the state of ohio for several war crimes, as the artists had fun drawing him in some panels:

steven could NEVER. i am fairly sure he commit a hit and run against anime asf sycamore on a bicycle.

the artists also had fun drawing him in the opposite way:

given that steven in canon is a very collected, calm, and chill guy, seeing a version of him where he’s SUPER expressive and a lot more brash is really neat! 

thank you for listening to my ted talk. now here’s a funny collage of shougo pics i made to express my love for this fucking feral distant cousin of steven

the manga can be read right here! they’ve also done sun/moon and sword/shield updates with redesigns similar to shougo here (THEY GAVE LEON REAL PANTS. GOD BLESS). didn’t learn shit about how to play the tcg but i’m just here for the steven bootleg <3

[hermanunworthy]

!DNDADS S2 EP34 SPOILERS!

here are my thoughts on the new episode!!! this time im actually writing them out in real time. ive been so so excited for this one

- no normal fact damn. thats okay though will i support

- oh god are they doing this w their comedy personas.

- IM SO NERVOUS FOR THIS STRANGER I CAN ONLY IMAGINE HOW SHES FEELING ABOUT THIS LMAO

- i love how tori didnt even get an introduction to scam it was just like oh yeah theres a guy here named scam likely

- LINK JUST SHOWING GARFIELD ON HIS PHONE lincoln li wilson bless ur soul

- somehow the audio quality of link being on a microphone extra loud makes this so funny

- istg the moment hermie has a line im gonna scream and jump up and down

- ANTHONYS IN FUCKING JOKER MAKEUP????

- THE COMPLETE SILENCE AFTER THE PLANES JOKE.

- i literally forgot that disney movies have anime remakes now in dndads i was so confused for a sec WAIT TORI DOESNT KNOW THIS OMFG IMAGINE HER CONFUSION

- WAS NOT EXPECTING THE SUDDEN TAYLOR ANGST HE WAS SCARED ABOUT HIS MOM DYING AS A KID??? ARE U JOKING??

- honestly though i think taylor opening up like this through comedy makes sense

- link is so supportive of taylor awwww

- BETH MAY PREPARING MISOGYNISTIC JOKES WHILE EXPECTING TO PERFORM FOR A MAN HELPP

- NORMAL IS LAST OH GOD

- OH GOD HES TRAUMADUMPING TOO

- i think its so funny and ironic how scary is the only one who doesnt drop lore about her family in her set

- OHHHH MY GOD THE CHAPARRAL ROAST. OH YEAH. I LOVE THE DIRECTION WILLS GOING W THIS (NORMAL DOESNT GET MAD HE GETS EVEN)

- HERMIE SAID A SINGLE WORD I REPEAT HE GOT ONE WORD IN FOLKS

- WILL IS SO GOOD AT THIS. GOD

- HERMIEEEE

- THE WAY MY FACE FUCKING FELL WHEN HE STARTED DIRECTLY ROASTING HERMIE. OH NO

- "im sensitive about that :[" MY LITTLE GUYYYYY NO

- NOOOOO NORMAL WHAT ARE U DOING THIS IS SO MEAANN THIS IS TOO FAR

- HERMIE IS CRYING???? OMFG NO

- NORMAL TOLD HERMIE HE LIKES HIM!!!!!

- will campos is carrying this entire episode

- GOTHCLEATS????

- IM LESS THAN HALFWAY THROUGH THE EPISODE AND I AM ALREADY LOSING MY GODDAMN MIND

- hermies up now i am so fucking scared. this episode is NOT going the direction i thought it would omfg (not complaining at all im just in shock)

- *applauds hermie along w tori* (I CANT BELIEVE ANTHONY IS DOING THIS W JOKER MAKEUP)

- HE JUST HAS DC JOKES.

- thanks for the existential crisis/aging/suicide jokes hermie i really needed that on my bday 😅😅 /s

- IS HERMIE OKAY????? THERE WAS SM TO UNPACK THERE. I CANT DO THIS

- "im saying were all thinking about how i would be better off dead" IM KILLING MYSELFFFF

- nobody hmu ever again /j i am never going to stop thinking about the fact that hermie is canonically suicidal

- TORI SCORED LINCOLN HIGHER THAN TAYLOR LMAO

- HERMIE LOST.

- i had to take a big ol break just to process that shit. fuck. this is somehow making me even more insane hermie brained wtf

- HERMIE IS TELLING THEM TO JUST KILL SCAM???

- THE FACT THAT I JUST DID A DRAWING OF SCAM AND HERMIE WHOLESOME FATHER SON BONDING BEFORE THIS EPISODE. GOD

- "u dont like me, u idiot" 😦

- MY FUCKINGGGFG FACE RN. I. I

- NORMAL IS TALKING ABOUT MARRIAGE WTF

- IM LITERALLYYY GETTINF OAKWORTHY CONFESSION SCENE. ON MY BDAY.

- HERMIE DIDNT DO IT FOR HIS SCHOOL???

- HE. HE. HE DID ALL OF THIS FOR HIS DAD. HES LITERALLY JUST LIKE ME FR.

- WHAT THE ACTUAL FUUUUCK. OAKWORTHY NATION. WE ARENT REALLY WINNING BUT HOLY FUCKING SHIT

- THIS IS LIKE WHEN GLENN WAS SAYING THE ONLY THING LEFT FOR HIM IS TO KILL HIS DAD THIS IS SO UPSETTING

- ANTHONY ASKING IF NORMAL ACTUALLY GENUINELY LIKES HERMIE. I CANT DO THIS

- GUYS WE GOT AN ANCHOR BREAKING W LOVE BC OF OAKWORTHY. JUST LIKE WE WANTED

- will campos really holding on strong for us. normal is gonna fix hermie if its the last thing he does ig

- THE BABY AT THE BEGINNING OF THE SEASON WAS STEWIE????

- THERES STILL LIKE ANOTHER HALF HOUR LEFT I FEEL SICK

- NICKYS BACK i wasnt expecting him this episode yippee

- THEYRE IN SPACE. AND HERMIE IS THERE. THIS IS THE PERFECT EPISODE FOR ME

- im being so serious guys when i say i think this may be my fave episode of the whole season so far it is boggling my mind and smashing my heart to pieces and im loving it

- "u can be polygamous in space" there are so many good lines this episode

- I LOVE HOW EXCITED BETH IS ABOUT THE TELEBANGLE

- i also love whenever freddie talks about sciencey mathy stuff that i dont understand

- ARE THEY SERIOUSLY ALL MARRYING EACH OTHER??? IS THIS REALLY WHATS HAPPENING???? HELPP

- SCARY SIGNED AS TERRY. W A HEART. YALL.

- THIS EPISODE IS A FUCKING FEVER DREAM I SWEAR

holy fucking shit. what a rollercoaster. so yeah guys i think that was my fave episode of the season wow. what a bday gift to me. herman unworthy is just like me fr. i am going to take an eternity to recover from this.

[yourmypenguin]

Have I kept you waiting for long enough? Hehe i finally got to finish Roman's Vietnamese Traditional clothing, he's lucky I love this one garment so much or I'm blaming him for my bad back. Yes, I did went all out on this and did all the patterns because I am that crazy

[ramblings about the details in the tags >:D]

Logan | Patton | Virgil | Janus

[creatingnikki]

What 2020 has taught me

1. Those things that seem like content for sci fi or pure fiction are actually things that can happen. To the entire world. Like a pandemic. And to you. Like a seizure.

2. Everyone is sad. Everyone is struggling. In different ways and in different measures. Makes no one special. But you still get to feel sad for yourself and be compassionate towards others. But it's also okay to draw boundaries because you're everyone too. Remember, not special? You're sad and trying to deal with it too.

3. Every job you have will not add value to your life. It will not teach you new things or give you people you'll want to stay in touch with. Sometimes some jobs will only be a season of your life. Even if the season lasts for over a year. It's okay.

4. You know how you thought picking a college and picking a major and picking your first job and picking a specific industry were all the career decisions you had to make? Yeah, no. It's never a one time thing. You could have a job as a marketing strategist for two years and then want nothing to do with it. And then you'll have to make another decision and work towards it. So I'd like to call it moves. It's like chess. You always have to make a move. And it always has to be strategic, yes. But the truth is in your 20s it probably won't. Even if you try. And as long as you're trying, you'll be fine.

5. You may have different sorts of friends like the one you only talk to about kdrama with or the one you met when you went book shopping alone and the friendship is all about books really. That's normal. But irrespective of why and how you became friends with them, if you consider them a friend then there has to be this basic sense of care, respect and empathy for each other. I don't care what people want to say. If you're faced with the worst trauma of your life, the least your friends can do is check up on you regularly. On text. And if they don't even do that then guess what? They aren't friends. They are acquaintances. Social media and quick promises make everyone seem like your friend. But they are not. They are just nice people who will be nice to you for specific periods and then wander away like you are a speck of dust floating in their journey.

6. You speak a lot and write and you express yourself and you’re emotionally mature but oh my god. You still hold in so much. You’ve known that at a subconscious level and over the last year people - experts - have told you that. You have also realized that you make your pain and sadness about pettier things because dealing with them, admitting about them, sharing that with your friends, is easier. You do that so that you don’t have to deal with the real stuff. Because it’s so damn painful. And you don’t know how to do it. Yet. Acknowledging is the first step anyway right? I know you’re confused about how exactly to let go of all this pain and sadness and feel lighter, and you know that talking to people really isn’t the solution, but I also know you’re smart enough to figure it out. 

7. Talking about being smart...you know you’re different than others. Better. Special. Smarter. None of these are the right words. And you never voiced this out until this year because you knew it would make you come across as narcissistic. Some would say it’s because you’re an INFJ. But my mother once said that this may be the first time we are consciously living life but our souls are old and so our instinct and the things we know but can’t explain are because this isn’t the first time for our souls. The connections we feel with certain people, the reason we are so different from our siblings who grew up in the exact same environment with the exact same opportunities, our sense of right and wrong...it’s all because our souls learn and grow with each time and that’s why we are who we are. I think that’s probably how I can explain what I have always felt. That I am living in a different universe than everybody but I have to pretend to be in this one and dumb my emotions and thoughts down. Maybe that’s because my soul has lived through thousands of years while most around me are living their 100th life. Or maybe I’m just narcissistic, who knows?

8. You shift between talking in first person and second person but that’s because that’s how you think in your head and talk to yourself and live your life. You ask yourself things and you accuse yourself of things and you apologize to yourself and you comfort yourself. I think that seeps into your writing and the changing of the voices. 

9. You always genuinely thought that you’d not be afraid of dying. And then what happened this October proved you shockingly wrong. I know it’s not so much being afraid of dying but the unbearable pain of knowing what that would mean to your family. So you have to be more prudent and less reckless with your life and the choices you make. 

10. Regret is not something that plagued you but this year the realisation and pain of giving away your favourite books from your own personal collection to people you care about as a show of affection and them turning out to be ass holes or losers has hit you so hard. So, yes. No more of that shit. I really fucking want my copy of The Perks Of Being A Wallflower back. UGH. With the childhood picture of me inside it! 

11. Sleeping at 5 am in the morning stops being fun or romanticised when you realise just how much harm it does to your body and mind. Literally every single disease and disorder can be traced back to a shitty fucking sleep schedule. It’s not just the hours you sleep but also the quality of sleep and the time you sleep at. So yes sleeping for 8 hours is healthy but not if that 8 hours is from 5 am to 12 pm. ‘Not a morning person’ is just another construct of capitalism and you don’t realise how many industries profit from having you believe that and staying up late or all night. Entertainment. Food. Alcohol. Pharma. Biologically and naturally you are a bloody morning person. And you don’t need 3 cups of coffee to begin your day or your phone notifications to get you to open your eyes and brain to wake up. 

12. Sometimes you really have to stop taking people so seriously. I know the idea of treating people as casual friends or entertainment makes you want to fight that concept but you know what? Some people like Pineapple are ever only going to be good for that. No matter how much they ‘grow and change’. So keep them in the background for whenever you want some entertainment or drama. But please don’t clear up your busy schedule to meet them or send them gifts on their birthday. 

13. If you don’t have the fruit juice or green juice within half an hour of making it then you are losing out on its most optimum health benefits. Or when you remove the white stringy stuff from oranges. That’s where all the actual nutrients are.

14. I am privileged and so are most of the people I interact with. The global pandemic has been hell for a lot of people around the world. Health wise. Financially. Losing people they care about. But I was blessed enough to be safe at home and have a job that I could smoothly do from home and not have a pay cut or 4-hour long Zoom meetings. So honestly when my friends tell me 2020 has been bad I have to stop and ask them why? Yes, the crippling uncertainty and anxiety is not something that can be undermined. But most people I know had very great positive life-changing milestones this year like moving away to another country for college or taking their first solo trip or getting married. So I have to ask them. Because I am not going to agree that everybody’s 2020 and pandemic narrative is the same. 

15. Money gets spent really quickly. When I left my job earlier this year because of personal issues, I thought I had enough savings to last me a year. Full disclosure - I mean to last my personal expenses because I live with my parents. But it didn’t even last me 3 months. And so to use money wisely and buy things that provide utility than instant gratification is something to follow. Also buying one pair of really expensive but quality shoes is better than buying 5 pairs of affordable but low quality shoes that will have a very short life and force you to buy more. I know that higher price doesn’t always mean better quality but sometimes it does. And as an adult now I want to do the whole quality > quantity thing even with things and not just people. 

16. Everyone in their 20s went through a crisis of what they should do with their lives and their careers and it’s not unique to the 21st century and the challenges of today. Whether it was Vincent Van Gogh in the 19th century or Sylvia Plath in the 20th, every single person, as brilliant as them went through the torture of making these decisions and living with their consequences. You may think I picked wrong examples for they both killed themselves but you know what? They were the people who really want to live more than anyone. They knew what life meant. And maybe if mental health help was more accessible back then their lives would be longer and more peaceful. 

17. Telling people everything is overrated. You don’t have to talk about every single thing that’s on your mind or that’s going on in your life. The good and the bad and the mediocre. You have to be mindful about how much of yourself you’re giving away. 

18. Re-watch Suits when people at work feel intimidating because the confidence + negotiation tactics that they show can actually work irl cos at the end of the day no matter in what position you’re dealing with people who have emotions and fears and insecurities and desires. You understand how to leverage that nobody can get the better of you. 

19. You belong to yourself. No matter how much you love someone or how much they have done for you or how much you owe them - you belong to yourself. You can’t live your life for someone else. Everyone belongs to themselves first. No relationship, no promise, no circumstance should make you feel like you have to give up your life and make it all about them. If and when the time comes to die for them, go ahead. Take a bullet. Donate that kidney. Write them in your will. But live your life for yourself. And let them live theirs. 

20. Twenty three was a challenging year. When it started you claimed the age 23 sounds boring and insignificant. Guess it proved you wrong. It hurt so much now. But that only means you’ll look back on it later and see how it added so much wisdom and resilience to your being. It doesn’t mean that it makes all the bad things that happened to you okay. Or that you should be grateful to them. Fuck no. It means that you should be kinder to yourself because at the end of the day, your mind and body find it in themselves to deal with whatever is thrown their way. They have your back. It’s time you learn to sit straight. 

[imagine-darksiders]

Old Timer

Chapter 4 - Together again.

-----------

“Eideard?” 

His name tiptoes from your lips in a whispered breath.

You stare at him, your mouth hanging slightly agape and refusing to close, as though the very muscles in your jaw have forgotten how they're supposed to work.

There had once been a thousand things you would have wanted to say to him, if ever given the chance, yet now, in the moment where that chance has actually come about, you find yourself devoid of any words or thoughts.

“You all right there, bonnie?” the maker asks, his lips twitching into a hesitant smile, “Look like you've seen a ghost.”

'A ghost!.... Ha!' 

You'd laugh if you didn't think you might faint at any moment. Instead, your mouth opens with the intention to scoff at the dramatic irony of his statement, but what comes out instead is a strangled sob that causes the maker's ears to tilt down in alarm.

“Hey, hey now...” he utters softly, lifting his hand up towards you, his gaze darting to the tears that have begun to roll down your cheeks, “What's this about? Eh? Did old Cruim scare you? Is it your leg?”

Covering your mouth, it’s all you can do to just stare back and shake your head.

As far as Eideard knows, something truly horrific must be happening to you that would warrant the spilling of this many tears. Makers are seldom known to cry, even under the most terrible, unimaginable duress. 

Guided by something that's not quite instinct, but stronger than a simple urge to help, to fix, he reaches up to his shoulder until a careful finger hovers gingerly just inches from the skin of your cheek. Then, sucking down a steadying breath, Eideard wills himself to close the distance, hardly daring to inhale again as he sweeps the very tip of his forefinger over your cheekbone and brushes away the wet tear tracks that linger there.

To his utmost dismay, the action only makes you start to cry even harder and he quickly withdraws his hand, worried that he'd somehow managed to hurt you.

He has no idea that by wiping away your tears, he'd unintentionally echoed the very last moments you'd spent with the Eideard from your timeline.

He’d collapsed, laying prone in the soft grass. Your tears had mingled with the blood pooling in his clavicle as you knelt on his chest and wailed, your fists pounding above his heart in the desperate hope that you could bully the fading organ into beating strong and steady once again. You'd gone still however, weeping hopelessly when Eideard's thumb swept gently over your cheek and gathered up the tears there.

The memory is a powerful one, and you have to blink furiously until the blurred image of a dying Eideard is replaced by the very much alive maker staring at you with concern lining his youthful features.

You've seen that expression so often, you never thought you'd miss it so much after you stopped seeing it.

All of a sudden, through no real cognitive decision of your own, you promptly launch yourself sideways along the maker's broad shoulder and collide with his head.

Though reflex tells him to flinch, Eideard forces himself to keep still as thin, delicate arms are slung around his face and a warm body squashes into his cheek shortly after.

He's monumentally glad that he has yet to venture down into the village proper. Standing up here next to the entrance, none of his fellows will be able to make out the rosy flush that has shot up into his ears, should they happen to look.

It isn't as though makers are a species for whom intimacy is a foreign concept, but intimacy outside of social circles is a rare and seldom-witnessed occurrence, whilst intimacy between members of two separate species is all but unheard of.

Despite his uncertainty, Eideard's heart flutters at the thought that he's managed to earn this splendid reward and he momentarily forgets that he's supposed to be worried about you, too distracted by the realisation that he has never known a touch so gentle, yet so fierce at the same time. If he dwells on it for too long, he'll probably grow sad to consider how he's lived his whole life deprived of the sensation of hands pressing indents into his skin.

Of their own accord, his fingertips come to rest on your fragile spine and '...Oh,' he thinks as you bury your face even more firmly against him, '...I could get used to this.'

But when a hitching sob suddenly causes you to jerk beneath his fingers, he springs to attention once more and banishes the desire to push his head urgently into your touch.

“I didn't thank you...”

Eideard freezes at the sound of your voice, trembling and small next to his ear.

“What's that you say?” he swallows.

But it's as though you don't even hear him. From his angle, the maker can't see that your eyes are wide open and staring out towards the village beyond, yet you're completely blind to everything happening around you whilst the same, terrible memory plays cruelly in your mind's eye. 

Eideard, laying on the ground, blood trickling from his nose, mouth and even from behind his eyelids, like little rivers running off the face of a mountain. His once pristinely white beard had been so stained with blood, your hands became soaked with it when you clawed your way up his chest, delirious beyond coherency.

“I-I can't remember if I ever thanked you,” you say again in a warbling whisper that causes Eideard's ears to perk up attentively, “For saving us - For... for everything.”

Your slip-up doesn’t even catch his notice, not that you really notice it either, though. 

Another sob catches like a rock in your throat and you turn your face away from the village, burying it into a soft, fluffy beard and letting your eyes dampen the old maker's cheek. A cheek that's warm and flushed with colour, a far cry from the cold, pale cheek you remember crying into at the centre of the valley all those long months ago.

Eideard's familiar smell fills your nostrils as you draw a deep inhale through your nose and let yourself bask in the unplaceable scent that reminds you of wood and soil.

You've missed him.

Shit... You've missed him so much.

It's perhaps a blessed thing that you hadn't said that last part out loud and baffled the maker even more than you already have, because not a second later, his throat rumbles with an uncertain chuckle and he says, “S'this how you thank everyone who saves you from a demon? Or am I just a special exception?”

And just like that, the reality of the situation comes flooding back to hit you with the force of a speeding bullet-train, smacking you from your memories and dumping you unceremoniously into Tri Stone once again.

Lurching away from the maker, your eyes snap open and you tear your arms from his face and sputter out a nonsensical string of sounds, earning a bemused grin from Eideard, who twists his head sideways to watch you raise your hands to your face, covering it slowly as rationality cuts through the haze of shock and a horrifying realisation dawns on you.

This is Eideard. But this is not your Eideard. Not yet.

He has no idea that you're thanking him for so much more than he could possibly imagine.

“I-I'm sorry,” you stammer at last, swiping furiously at your eyes, “I just... wanted to thank you for saving me from the stalker. Yeah. B-but, I didn't mean to, uh, hug you like that. I'm... honestly not sure what came over me.”

His expression softens and he quirks his lips into a playful smirk. “Hmm, well, whatever it was, I hope there'll be more.”

'Oh for god's sake.' Mortally embarrassed, you turn away from him and hope that the heat in your cheeks isn't obvious.

For all he knows, you've just draped yourself across his face like a lovesick fool, all because he saved you from a stalker.

But perhaps most mortifying of all, what really disturbs you, is that Eideard – your Eideard, the kindly maker with the disposition of a doting father – is, or rather, used to be a shameless flirt.

An attractive, shameless flirt.

Oh God... You're fairly certain you flirted back.

And it's Eideard...

Your vision starts to swim.

Just then, an enormous fingertip slides beneath your chin and you find yourself helpless to resist as your face is guided back towards him. Red-tinged eyes meet ethereal blue and for one, jarring moment, the stern yet fretful tilt of his golden brows ages the maker's face enough that you catch a glimpse of the old Eideard hidden underneath.

“Hey. Don't you go hiding that pretty face from me,” he rumbles, “I need to know you're all right.”

Your heart does a somersault.

“I'll be fine,” you slur, swaying on his shoulder, “Think I just need to lay down..”

Eideard's bemused expression quickly shifts to alarm when your body goes limp and you begin to tilt sideways, gradually slipping from the maker's broad shoulder. Fortunately for you, Eideard has always been an exceptionally attentive maker, even at this young age, and without missing a beat, he spins his hand around to capture you gently between his fingers.

The motion jerks you back to full consciousness again and you give your head a shake, blinking up into the pale, blue eyes of a highly concerned maker.

“Think it's time I got you to the Shaman,” he suggests.

Sagging heavily against his fingers, you can't help but agree. “I think that's a good idea.”

You wish you could just disappear, save yourself from the mortifying ordeal of knowing that you've been receiving advances from Eideard of all people.

That's... going to take some adjusting to.

Eyeing the village ahead, the maker turns his focus onto the eastern side, where the lights are dimmest and the gaps between each stone hut are frequent and draped in shadow. He hums pensively and begins to walk.

It isn't that he doesn't want his fellow makers to meet you – but he'd prefer to get you to the shaman sooner rather than later and get your leg tended to....

…

And... though he isn't proud to admit it, he wouldn't mind keeping you to himself just a little while longer.

Slowly, steadily, he carries you down the village steps, casting frequent glances down at you to ascertain your condition. Every time, he finds you staring back at him with a spell-bound look in your eyes.

Glowing under the attention, he spares a moment to waggle his brows at you, relishing the squeak that jumps out of your mouth as you hurriedly avert your gaze.

With a warm chuckle, Eideard returns his attention to the walled garden at the far end of the village – and promptly stiffens at the sound of voices calling his name.

“Eideard!”

“You're back!”

He doesn't miss that you turn rigid in his palm, prompting him to lift you a little higher into the air as he shoots you an apologetic glance, slowing his gait just in time to avoid tripping over a trio of tiny, excitable younglings who appear from nowhere and fall into step around him.

“Where've you been!?” a maker boy shouts, and grinning so widely, his cheeks start to turn red. “Did you kill any baddies!?”

Curious, you lean forwards over Eideard's fingers and peer down, only to find yourself biting back the urge to coo out loud at the endearing sight.

The youngling who'd spoken looks as though he'd barely stand a few heads higher than you and he's jogging backwards to avoid Eideard's boots as the older maker continues to advance cautiously down the path. A mess of shocking, copper hair sticks up from the top of his head, though it's clear that at some point, another maker has tried to gather the unruly mess into some semblance of a braid that hangs down to his shoulders and is sloppily tied off with a blue ribbon. The moment your face pokes out from behind Eideard's fingers, the youngling lets out a loud gasp and nearly trips over his own feet, eyes growing round.

“What. Is. That!?” he exclaims, pointing up at you.

“Mind your manners,” the older maker scolds gently, “It's not nice to point. This is my new friend – Oh.” Swivelling his gaze back onto you, he blinks, looking the slightest bit sheepish. “I don't think I ever did catch your name.”

“Huh? Oh, I guess we never really introduced ourselves properly, did we?.” Scratching at the back of your neck, you introduce yourself. “Y/n. My name’s Y/n.” 

“Y/n...” he repeats in a dulcet murmur, his attention never leaving you, even as he addresses the boy at his feet, “This is my friend, Y/n, Ulthane.”

The youngling's eyes remain wholly fixed upon you and he utters a small 'oooh' of wonder, standing on the toes of his boots to see you better. And whilst you're just as intrigued with the maker-in-miniature, it's his name that catches your ear.

“Wait... Did you just call him Thane?” you blurt, incredulous.

All of a sudden, another voice pipes up from Eideard's left. “He's not Thane, I��am!”

Startled, you glance down to find another maker youngling frowning back up at you and jabbing a finger towards the copper-haired boy. “That's Ulthane. He's my brother.”

With a slow blink, you take in the new youngling as he trots along at Eideard's side.

“No way,” you breathe, letting your jaw drop further and further with each passing second.

Well. It's Thane alright - from the steely eyes that regard you warily, to the walnut-brown hair sticking up from his head like a bird's nest, much akin to his brother's. There's a purple bruise colouring one of his cheekbones, worn proudly, no doubt the mark of accomplishment from a bout of rough-housing with his fellow younglings.

Slowly, with the kind of hesitancy that's fostered from sheer disbelief, you work your lips into a half-smile and utter, “Hi... Thane.”

Flicking his gaze between you and Eideard, Thane fidgets under your stare and drops back a little until he's partially hidden behind the larger maker's boots.

“Ha!” Ulthane jeers, “He's scared!”

In an instant, his brother raises his voice and retorts, “I AM NOT!”

You pick your jaw up and rub tentatively at your forehead, sensing the beginnings of a headache coming on. To think, one day, this boy will turn into the herculean warrior who once bested Death in combat...

“You're pretty,” an airy, feminine voice suddenly pipes up, and you whip your head around and down once again, catching sight of yet another, even younger maker beaming back at you, so small that she's practically jogging to keep up with Eideard's lengthy strides.

“Told you,” the elder in question murmurs smugly, pushing his thumb into your ribs.

Momentarily forgetting about Thane, you flop your jaw around for a few seconds before any sort of thought finally occurs. “Uh... Thanks?” you reply, hastily adding, “Y-you too.”

Pawing her long, blonde hair behind one of her ears, she giggles and ducks behind Eideard and out of sight, though the pitter-patter of her feet mixed between the heavy stomps of his own betray the fact that she's keeping pace close at his heels.

Meanwhile, Thane has finally left the safety of Eideard's shadow and has joined his brother in trying to walk as tall as he can on his toes to see over the older maker's hands, evidently curious about the newcomer in his midst now that your attention has turned elsewhere.

After a moment, he pipes up. “What are you?”

You don't think you'll ever get used to looking down at Thane.

Before you can open your mouth to reply, Ulthane suddenly blurts out a question of his own. “How come you're so small?”

“Um.. well, I -” you attempt, but no sooner do you try to speak than questions begin to take turns flying from their tongues, each fired off far too quickly for you to formulate a single response.

“Are you a maker?”

“Where'd Eideard find you?”

“Where are your tusks?”

“How old are you?”

“Why do you -”

“All right now, you lot. That's enough,” the older maker interjects, coming to a stop at the foot of a staircase that leads up towards the luscious garden you'd seen on your arrival, “I didn't bring Y/n back to the village to be interrogated. Why don't you three wait here while we go and find the shaman, eh?”

Almost instantly, his suggestion is met with a chorus of disappointed moans and objections.

“Aw, but Eideaaaard!” Ulthane whinges, putting a broad grin on your face.

Thane, in the meantime, steps forward to grab Eideard's trouser leg, tugging at it imploringly. “We promise to not ask any more questions!”

You risk a subtle glance up at the maker's face, admittedly curious to find out whether he has always been a pushover, even from an early age. And from the press of his lips and rapidly-tilting brow, it looks as though his resolve is already starting to waver.

“I... I don't mind if they come along,” you suggest at last, earning a delighted gasp from the younglings and a skeptical look from the older giant.

“You sure?” he asks, “Don't want you to be-” Something abruptly tells him that you won't appreciate it if he says 'scared.' So, instead, he mumbles, “- overwhelmed.”

You almost want to laugh aloud. How in the world could you be any more overwhelmed than you already are? You're sitting in a young Eideard's palm, being stared at by a much younger Thane, in a Tri Stone that's twice the size of the one you left.

'Overwhelmed' is a gross understatement.

Instead of voicing that thought however, you simply brush it aside and offer a shrug. “I don't mind,” you say again. And honestly? You really don't mind. There are far more pressing matters weighing on your conscience than a couple of adorable, curious younglings.

Eideard however, still seems hesitant, a direct contrast to the three young makers who, at your words, promptly dart up the steps, with Ulthane in the lead.

“Muria!” he hollars her name boisterously, “You'll never guess what we've found!”

At hearing the confirmation of Muria's presence, your heart soars into your throat but you're quick to rein in your enthusiasm, aware that she, like Eideard, will have no idea who you are.

“We?” you mouth at him, echoing Ulthane's claim.

Eideard's moustache twitches and the corners of his eyes lift up until they're wrinkled with a friendly smile. “Ah, don't mind the boys. They just like to be included.”

Gradually, he begins to take the steps after the youngest maker, watching vigilantly as she struggles to keep up with the brothers, whose legs are far longer than her own.

Sadly, she must have misjudged the distance between herself and one of the steps, because when she leaps up onto it, only half of her boot makes it with her, and there's a heart-lurching second where she begins to tip backwards again, her chubby arms flailing as she tries to propel herself out of losing her balance.

“Careful!” you gasp.

But then, to your relief, Eideard stoops and throws his hand out, halting her fall with the back of his knuckles. “Easy there, Elanya. What’ve I said about looking where you’re going?”

Gently, he pushes her upright once again and she tosses him a bright grin over her shoulder before scampering up the stairs, as though she hadn't almost fallen down them mere seconds ago.

Standing to his full height, the maker watches her all the way up the stairs, releasing a sigh of relief when she arrives at the top with no further incident. Tipping his head down, he's about to begin his own ascent when he catches your eye and hesitates with one foot poised to carry him forward. You're lounging back against his fingers, an elbow balanced on the edge of his thumb and your fist propping up your chin, giving the maker your most knowing stare.

“What?” he asks.

In response, you merely lift your shoulders in a shrug and say, “Oh, nothing. It's just nice to know I'm dealing with a gigantic softie, that's all.” Of course, you've known that all along – but it does provide you some comfort to know that it won't be age that softens Eideard's heart. Evidently, he's always been of a gentler nature than most.

Furrowing his brow doesn't hide the glint of playfulness in his eyes as he begins to take the steps two at a time, shaking his head.

It doesn't escape your notice however, that he never disputes the claim.

[adhd-disaster-willie]

you’re the one that brings the sun; chapter 5/6

chapter 1, 2, 3, 4

warnings: swearing

word count: 2,757

notes: okay so this update took a while because I’ve been busy with school and writers block has been kicking my ass, but I think it’s worth it :)))

---

It was established in August that at least once a month, Alex will receive a phone call informing him to be at Julie’s house in ten minutes for a mandatory slumber party. It’s endearing sure, but he would like some sort of warning other than Luke calling him and saying that if he doesn’t show up as soon as possible, he’ll paint his drumsticks neon green. So that’s how Alex ends up sitting cross legged on Julie’s bed, putting Reggie’s hair into a bunch of tiny braids and watching The Princess Diaries for what’s probably the hundredth time. 

“Lilly is definitely a lesbian,” Flynn says through a mouthful of popcorn. 

Alex hums in agreement and Julie nods. “If only this movie weren’t made in 2001,” Julie says mournfully.

“Y’know I always thought that Joe was gay,” Alex admits. “Up until he dances with the queen.”

Reggie attempts to look up at Alex, earning an offended squeak from the latter. “Really?”

“Yes, now will you please stay still, I only have one more left.”

“Ok but there is no way Mia’s mom is straight!” Flynn says.

Julie seems to mull it over for a bit. “She does live in an old fire station. And artists are never straight.”

“Yea, like Willie!” Luke pipes up, sitting up from his position hanging halfway off the bed. “Willie’s not straight.”

“We should start a betting pool on how long it takes for Luke to bring up Willie,” Alex mumbles, his cheeks flushing pink. He ties off Reggie’s final braid and pats his head approvingly. “You look like a real princess.”

“Do I?” Reggie grins up at him with a bit of a twinkle in his eye and Alex chuckles. 

“No subject changing,” Luke protests. “How’s Willie doing?”

“Still a pining idiot,” Flynn answers with a cheeky smile. 

“I’m trying to watch the movie.” Alex shoves at Luke’s face and slides down off the bed to sit on the floor beside Reggie. 

“You’ve seen this movie a million times,” Luke points out. He leans down so his head is hanging off the edge of the bed and smirks mischievously at Alex, who is pointedly refusing to look at him. “Aleeeex,” Luke whines. “Don’t be a buzzkill.”

“Alice, please,” Flynn says. Alex shoots her a look seeping with betrayal and Flynn raises their hands defensively. “I haven’t seen Carrie in a few days!” They protest. “I need drama.”

“Drama?” Alex asks. “Or blackmail material?”

Flynn shrugs, which only serves to cement what Alex was thinking. “Yea, nope. It’s not like anything has even happened since-” He cuts himself off, realizing his mistake and preparing for the onslaught of questions. 

“Since!?” Luke cries. “Since what?!” He grabs Alex’s face roughly and looks at him with wide eyes. “Since what, Alex?”

“Nothing!” Alex squeaks, wrenching himself from Luke’s grasp. “Nothing! It was- let go of my fanny pack! Julie stop filming!!!” Alex swats at Luke’s hands and attempts to leap forward to grab Julie’s phone, but ultimately fails. 

“I’ll let go if you tell me,” Luke teases in a sing song voice, his grin only growing the more Alex fights. 

“Fine! If you just- sorry Reg the puppy-dog eyes only work on Luke and Bobby.” Reggie sighs in disappointment and Alex finally manages to get Luke off of him, huffing angrily and brushing nonexistent dust from his hoodie. “You’re a barbarian,” he mutters.

“Well?” 

Alex responds to Julie’s prompting with a long-suffering sigh. “You have to promise not to make fun of me,” he says. They don’t promise. The movie is long forgotten as Alex’s friends gather around him, looking all too fascinated by his latest embarrassment. “He well… don’t laugh, ok. He wore a crop top last week and I tripped on my own feet and scraped up my knees.”

Flynn raises an eyebrow. “Nuh uh, there’s more, spill.”

Alex groans, burying his face in his hands. “They got all worried and started putting bandaids on my knees and I almost fainted. Then- please don’t make me say this,” Alex pleads, looking to Julie as if she’s his last hope. She shakes her head. “When they finished lecturing me I just looked at him and said ‘nice shirt’ and ran off. Nice shirt??? What is wrong with me?”

“Wait a minute,” Julie says, gesturing for Alex to pause. “You just… ran off? Where?”

Alex doesn’t say anything. 

“I’ll paint your drumsticks if you don’t tell us,” Luke threatens. The difficulty is that Alex doesn’t doubt him one bit, and knows that Julie has a healthy supply of paint in a drawer just a few feet away from Luke. 

Alex mumbles something under his breath and Reggie pokes him. 

“Sorry what was that? Speak up.”

“Orange, I’ll paint them the ugliest shade of orange ever.”

“I went and hid in my closet!” Alex blurts. “For like an hour. I am never going to live that down.”

“That’s… incredibly ironic,” Julie laughs. 

“I’m telling that story at your wedding.”

“Reginald, don’t even think about it!” Alex kicks Reggie lightly and raises his hand to flip off the other three, who are all dying of laughter. “I hate all of you. I need new friends.”

“Good luck with that.” Flynn pats Alex’s head; he can practically hear their stupid smirk. 

“Fuck off.”

“No.”

---

Alex wakes up with his foot in Luke’s face, one arm thrown over Julie, his face in Reggie’s neck, and a very giggly Flynn perched on the end of the bed taking pictures. He sits up and murmurs sleepily, squinting in the oddly hazy room.

It’s gray and gloomy outside, quite fitting for mid-November, but far from Alex’s ideal weather. He’s always been partial to spring, when it’s not too hot and not too cold and not always cloudy and sad. 

Flynn hops off the bed and onto Julie’s chair, where she spins a couple times before turning her phone to show Alex. “This is gonna be my new lockscreen,” they giggle. Alex stares at the photo, baffled as to how his arm was bent like that. 

Breakfast is heaps of pancakes and fresh coffee (bless you, Ray) that for a moment, Alex considers just dumping over his head. Julie is curled around Luke for warmth throughout the whole morning and Flynn makes a point to gag at least once every 5 minutes. Alex knows she’s happy for them though, they finally got their act together a little over a week ago and at least this is better than the pining. Alex doesn’t say that though, because it will only get him a lecture on how he is not one to talk about pining. 

Alex almost thanks a god he doesn’t believe in anymore when the rain outside doesn’t seem to make any moves into thunderstorm territory. Willie hates thunderstorms. He stays cocooned in a blanket until noon, but eventually Tía Victoria shoos them all out, claiming that Julie will never finish her homework with them all glued to her. 

Alex is sopping wet when he finally arrives at his dorm, sadly no car can go right up to the entrance of the dorms. The first thing Alex notices when he walks in is the candles, and the second thing is the haphazardly thrown together fort in the middle of the room, which he narrowly avoids tripping over. “Willie?” He asks, lifting what he assumes to be the entrance and raising an eyebrow at Willie, who is grinning at him and shining a flashlight in his face.

“Ok, get that out of my eyes.” Alex clamps a hand over the light and Willie sticks his tongue out. “Did the power go out?” Alex asks, worry etching over his face. He can’t have all their food being ruined, with Alex living off his coffee shop job and Willie off of the occasional commission and odd check from his eccentric uncle. 

Willie shakes their head. “Nope.”

“So why the… candles?”

“It’s fun!” Willie pulls Alex into the fort, stumbling back and just barely evading them toppling over each other into a quite compromising position. Willie presses his back against the couch and pats the space next to him. “It’s like you’re a little kid again.”

“Luke used to love making forts,” Alex admits. “We would move all the furniture in his living room and make the absolute worst blanket forts you can imagine. Like seriously, it’s no wonder none of us went into architecture.”

“Really? I can totally see you as an architect”

“That’s…”

“I’m joking, hotdog,” Willie giggles, bumping their shoulder together. He has a tendency to raise his eyebrows when he’s amused; Alex finds it all too endearing. Accompanied with the way their eyes crinkle when the laugh and the soft candlelight leaking through the thin blankets and draping over his features, Alex thinks he’s having trouble breathing. 

“I was drawing you, y’know,” Willie says softly after a few minutes of silence.

“Hmm?”

“The day we went stargazing, I was drawing you. You’re- you’re a good muse.”

“Oh.” Alex’s stomach flutters. “I uh… thank you.” He gives Willie a hesitant smile before turning to focus on the flickering light. His breath feels weighted, like every exhale means something, but he can’t quite pinpoint what. There’s a light breeze whistling through the crack in the door and Alex closes his eyes for a moment, pretending that it’s wrapping around him and holding him close. Alex didn’t get much affection as a child; his parents had always been very stiff. Sure, they loved him, but they weren’t that good at showing it aside from a rough shoulder squeeze and tight smiles so full of expectations. When he came out, even the snippets of affection faded; no more of his mother fixing his hair or giving him a quick kiss on the forehead when he was sick. Two months after his coming out, they just… kicked him out. He came home to find his belongings shoved carelessly into a trash bag or two and that was that. Luke more than made up for the lack of physical affection, but Alex knows that there will always be something missing. 

Wide awake, Alex lets his head fall onto Willie’s shoulder. This time with care and attention, hesitancy. He hears Willie suck in a sharp breath but then the tension melts from their shoulders and fizzles into nothingness. For a moment, there is nothing but them and the pattering of rain against the windows. 

“Lets go for a drive.”

Alex looks up expecting Willie’s usual carefree and impish grin, but he’s taken aback by his wistful expression and something bursts in Alex’s chest. Something that may be instinct and may be just an overwhelming surge of emotion.

“Okay.” His voice is barely a whisper, a single wisp of smoke snaking from a blown out candle.

The air is damp and the rain is coming down hard; Alex reaches a cautious hand out beyond the awning and winces at the downpour. But Willie is wiggling his stupid eyebrows in the way that makes Alex’s face heat and he can’t say no as Willie drags him through the wet grass, shrieking with laughter and going slower than necessary to relish in the water pouring down from the sky in torrents. They’re soaked to the bone and breathless, overflowing with mirth, by the time they reach Alex’s car and clamber into the seats. Right after a brief argument about who’s driving of course. (“You will not be touching my steering wheel with your grimy paint hands, William.” “Says you.”) So Alex is driving. 

Willie has their hands pressed to the window, breath fogging up the glass and sending them into a fit of giggles every time. Alex switches on the radio and there’s a song playing that he recognizes but couldn’t sing along to; something soft and low, like lilting waves. Willie knows it though. And they’re singing. Oh. They’re singing. Alex almost has to pull the car to a stop and put his head in his hands because Willie never told him he could sing.

Willie’s voice is low and slightly raspy, but not in a bad way. Alex knows he’s heard this song before, but he’s 100% certain that this is his first time really hearing it. And it’s beautiful. Or maybe it’s just Willie. It’s probably just Willie. 

Alex brings the car to a slow stop in the parking lot of an odd gas station that always seems to be closed. He doesn’t turn it off though, because he would rather die than have Willie stop singing. He leans his head back and breathes, certain he’s inhaling Willie’s voice. Willie’s voice which is like sparks on his skin, like smoke that crowds his lungs and opens his soul for the very first time. He feels a sense of mourning when the song stops and something else comes on, something peppier and sickeningly sweet. He switches the radio off. 

“I didn’t know you could sing.” Alex isn’t even looking at them; he’s fiddling nervously with the strap of his fanny pack.

Willie smirks proudly. “You learn something new every day.”

“Yea.”

Willie traces a heart in the fog on the window and lets it sit there. Then he unbuckles his seat belt and pokes Alex’s shoulder. “Hey ‘Lex, come on.”

“No.” Alex shakes his head vigorously. “No. We’re already soaking wet and-”

“Hot dog.”

And damn it, the nickname may be so incredibly stupid but Alex has such a weird soft spot for it. He groans dramatically, making a point to wring out his hair, which is already mostly dry at this point. “You’re the worst. What if it starts thundering?” 

Willie shrugs. “I have my noise cancelling headphones. And you can-” they cut themself off. 

“I can what?”

“Nothing,” Willie squeaks. “Please. Please.”

So Alex climbs reluctantly from the car and stands in the parking lot looking far from amused. “You owe me.”

Willie laughs loudly, grabbing both of Alex’s hands and spinning him in an aimless circle, pulling them both into a dance  to music that’s only in his head. They twirl Alex around several times, and Alex is certain that he’s going to actually fall over and faint. Willie raises his face to the sky and squints, letting the rain soak him without care. Alex is in awe and how open and free Willie is, like nothing can ever go wrong and if it does they’ll always be flying. He doesn’t realized they’ve stopped dancing until Willie turns to him with a curious expression. Their eyes rake over his face and Alex realizes he’s staring. But for once, he doesn’t look away. And for the first time, he sees the corner of Willie’s mouth quirk up and their eyes flick to his lips and even linger there for a brief second. 

The rain doesn’t seem to have plans to stop anytime soon, and they’re both shivering and wet and Willie’s hair is dangling in front of his face. Alex reaches out and tucks it behind his ear, both of them holding a breath, waiting. It’s right there, right in front of him, and Alex is inches from just grasping it and clutching it to his chest. Willie takes a step forward so their faces are just inches from each other and Alex can feel their breath against his cheeks. He exhales shakily and raises one hand to cup Willie’s cheek, his touch feather light and afraid. Willie leans into the contact and grins upwards, their nose wrinkling fondly. He gives a silent nod and for the first time in years, Alex takes the plunge. 

Their first kiss is soft and slow and Willie tastes like rain and green tea. Alex smiles against their lips, a breathy laugh escaping his own. He’d think this is a dream, but no section of his imagination could conjure something even a fragment as magical as this. They’re in the middle of a parking lot, cold and wet, and yet Alex feels the warmest he ever has. Alex is hesitant to pull away, but he does, just barely. Their foreheads stay resting against each other, like breaking apart would break them. Then it comes crashing into him. Alex just kissed Willie. He just kissed Willie. And Willie kissed him back! Holy shit!

“Wowza.” Wowza? What the fuck Alex? 

Willie breaks into joyous laughter, throwing his head back and clutching Alex’s shoulders. And Alex laughs with him; he buries his face in the crook of Willie’s neck, his heart full to bursting. Wowza indeed.

---

notes: ...I did say I was thinking about a Willex rain kiss. I actually wrote like half of chapter 6 a while ago so I might be able to post it tomorrow. 

chapter 6

taglist:  @thatsanewflavor @spookiest-sapphic @dovesgrangers @julie-n-phantoms @frostknyte @thegaylink @nervousmiracletrash @crummycassidy @fairygclds @reallyintrospectivepeople @madsmax-37 @swamp-acad @kat-maybe-not @sunsetcurve123 @lookingthroughmirrors @queer-fandom-enby @over-under-through1 @willex-n-waffles @caliibee @stars-soph @herequeerandcantdrinkbeer @nickalicious @andwhenwepart @maizsnex @fanofthepod @heademptynothoughts @thunderstorm-symphony @julieandthephantomsandme @i-spit-on-fire

[hope-to-hell]

A Possession, part three: Dissolution. August Walker x Henry Cavill. Warnings for the entire fic: possession, dubcon (possession-related; our hero never asked for this), mentions of past torture (prior to story events), some degradation, praise kink. Roughly 6k words altogether. Section heading titles largely pulled from whatever music I was listening to at the time. This is it: the last chapter. A little smut, a little angst. Nothing lasts. Part one is here, part two is here

—-

Shake, shake

—-

Somehow, impossibly, you make it more than a week without touching him. And somehow, you figure out a way to exist in the same space. Thank god for quarantine, at least, so you have an excuse to stay at home, to keep this weirdness out of the public eye.

Walker turns out to be a surprisingly competent cook, but hesitates when you ask what his favorite foods are. And despite everything, it’s so hard to shake the feeling of being a host, of providing for your guest, however uninvited he might be. So you make a grocery order and start in on the best dishes you know: pies and roast lamb, hamburgers, risotto, whatever comes to mind when you think of meals you’ve enjoyed. He eats them all dutifully, but it’s not until you hit upon rainbow trout in parchment that you get your first real sigh of pleasure. Huh. You would’ve pegged him for a red meat kind of guy.

And everything you do, everywhere you go, he’s there, watching. Considering. Ten feet away.

It’s like this. One evening he braces one hand against the wall of the shower and drops his head in a pose you know so well. You don’t mean to look, but Christ, he must want you to. Must, because he draws open the shower door to stare straight at you from under his sopping curls as he fists his cock. Must, because he kicks his legs apart to press hard behind his balls with his other hand. Must, because he hisses your name like a curse when he paints the bathroom floor white. And the whole time his eyes are locked on yours.

“I wouldn’t mind,” he says again, and somehow you find the voice to answer.

“Wouldn’t mind isn’t good enough. You’ve got to tell me you want it.” And you have the satisfaction of seeing August Walker poleaxed, however briefly. He hmms a little, thoughtfully, and brushes past you into the bedroom, water droplets shining on the curve of his ass. His gait hitches as he approaches the limits of separation, and you hurry to follow, clean enough to get by for another night but feeling filthier than you have any right to. And when you slide carefully under the covers, he inhales deeply, like he’s scenting you. He smiles, victorious, in the half-dark as you lie there with both hands fisted in the sheets just like you have for days, but now you know exactly what he looks like when he comes.

Fuck.

He escalates, because of course he does. He waits until you’re soaking up sunshine in the kitchen window, then presses in close to cage your body against the counter. He brushes scarred fingertips down the side of your face, and it’s like your mind has been ripped straight out of your body. You feel him touching you, and fuck. You feel him touching you. It’s the strangest sensation, touches doubling and echoing. Licking into his mouth and tasting your own tongue, pulling him in by the hips and feeling matching bruises rise on your own body. And from the way he surges against you, he must feel it too.

Remember. Your nerves are my nerves. You want me to say it? Here it is, directly from my mind to yours. I. Want. This.

This is the part of the movie where it fades to black, where the last thing the audience sees is the lovers, entwined, maybe a flash of light on a naked thigh. This is the part where the music swells, climaxes, spills into silence.

This is the part where the next scene is either a soft, affectionate embrace or a hasty exit from the bed, a quick redressing and an angsty downtempo tune, maybe a walk in the rain.

This is the part where he starts to rise, where you wrap your hand around his wrist and whisper, “stay.”

—-

Untethering

—-

It isn’t clear, at first, what’s happening. A little extra hair in the drain is easy to explain away; you’ve got two people sharing the shower now. Same with the bruising that appears on his arms, his back, his ribs, because for all he grips at you, you give back in equal measure. And if he takes a little longer in the shower than before, if he seems to spend an awfully long time just leaning back and letting the spray hit him, well, maybe he’s finally relaxing a little.

It’s days and days of rutting against one another, of watching in the mirror as he takes you apart. And he loves it, that grinding ache in his fingers as he presses them inside you. He loves it, and you know because you feel it; you feel an answering ache in your own hands and a twinge in your cock that’s almost but not quite unlike anything you’ve felt before (it’s close, so close, to the first time, when he was still just a voice in your head).

Somehow, it’s still a surprise when he shakes you awake and hisses, “Get inside me. Now.” And when you reach for him, a little hesitant because you’ve had each other in nearly every way except this, you taste something strange and metallic, chilly on your tongue. He’s anxious, desperate. The metallic taste increases in its intensity as he surges at your mouth, licking into you with savage competency.

“Are you—“ are you sure is what you want to say, but he’s pressing lube at you with one hand while trying to tear your sleep pants off with the other, and it feels like he’s got half a dozen hands roaming all around you, and it’s unfair because he knows exactly what this does to you, exactly how you respond to every touch. It’s overwhelming, and soon you lose that peculiar metallic taste in the static that sparks hot down your spine and right into where you swell and pulse with the sudden desperate need of him.

And you want to watch his face, watch those eyes shine in the darkness, want to rub your face against his as you open him but he’s turning away, over, hitching a knee under himself and reaching blindly back for your hand. “Now,” he grits out in a voice like the bottom of a dry well. And it’s too soon, has to be, before he’s demanding two and then three fingers and then “godfuckingdammit, that’s enough. Get in me already.”

And when you press into him it’s, fuck, for a moment your vision whites out and you are nowhere, hurling aimlessly through a great expense of nothing, and it’s simultaneously the most terrifying and exhilarating thing you’ve ever felt. Is it like this for him? Can’t be, he’s always so controlled, so precise. It’s impossible even to think like this,

I’ll think for you. Don’t worry, just act.

so you don’t think, and when you return to your body it’s to find yourself draped over him, clinging, rolling your hips like a ship in a storm. Desperation doubles back and builds on itself until you feel as though if you don’t come right now you will die. And you don’t want to die, but you also aren’t sure what the rules are, so you try to withdraw and that’s when his hand closes around your wrist, hard and tight and don’t you fucking dare.

And that’s it, that’s all it takes, his touch and his blessing, before you’re spilling inside him in long shivering pulses. And even then, even when he clenches so tight around you it’s like he’s pulling all the blood from your body, he doesn’t let you go.

You stay with him, in him, until you soften and slip free, and when you wrap an arm over his belly he lets you. He feels warm, as relaxed as he ever gets, and most of all relieved. “Better?” you ask, and in return he twists his neck, rolling his shoulders back till he can reach to kiss you. It’s soft, but almost mathematical in its precision. And he still tastes like metal.

—-

Waves and light (how bold I was)

—-

He’s stopped sleeping. In the night you reach for him and find the bed cold. He’s there, of course, ten feet away, staring out the window. He’s all hard muscle, luminous in the moonlight, a demigod or an avenging angel. He turns and tilts his head, and you can see his breath hang frosty in the air. You wake in the morning to find him still standing at the window, and for a split second you could swear the light passes right through him.

He’s stopped sleeping, and he hovers a little closer than he used to but he doesn’t touch, not until you sigh and tell him to “get over here. C’mon. I don’t have to touch you to know you’re worried about something.”

So you enclose him in the circle of your arms, bump your face against his scars to feel that little spark, that staticky sensation from nerve damage, to feed him the pleasure that touching him brings. You breathe softly, saying nothing, until he relaxes by degrees.

He smells like blood, but then again he always does. Chaos and death are embedded into every fiber of his being. If he were to shed his skin, to slither pink and naked into the world as a man reborn, maybe it would be different. But he is who he is, and you are who you are, although tangled like this it’s sometimes hard to tell the difference. One of you sparks a slow-burning arousal, the kind that takes hours to come to a head if it does at all, a slow soft yearning. You sigh into it, nuzzling at him a bit, feeling your stubble scrape across his cheek. Like this, you can almost forget who and what he is.

And he hears you, huffs a little. What I am doesn’t matter anymore, not outside these walls. And I—

He sucks in a breath, harsh and wet, sucking air up from your lungs. It burns, scraping bloody up your throat.

Metal again. And pressed against him like this, you can catch the echoes of fear, of a strange sort of dissolution. Light through greasepaper, snow drifting through broken windows. Shoulders straining against his jacket. Blood and bone and a lonely valley. Trying to breathe but the shards of his ribs dig into his lungs—

Oh.

Oh fuck. You realize, then, that he’s dying, pulled back to that moment. None of this mattered in the end; all it did was delay the inexorable march of fate. You can almost see it happening, scars brightening and blooming into wounds, bruises rising where he hit the ground. And you hear it too, the slow scrape of metal across the floor, the heavy tread of boots and a soft susurration of fabric. She’s here.

And it’s strange: you’d expect her to revel in this, finally capturing this soul that’s eluded her for so long. But it’s almost like she’s trying to be comforting. Things fall apart. Entropy comes for us all, in the end. And you got more time than most.

Listen, I don’t want to you have to go. His fingers tremble against yours, coppery fear blooming heavy on your tongue.

I’m not unkind, you know. It’s just the way it has to be. Think of this as a gift. Better than falling apart piece by piece, isn’t that right?

Is it? Maybe, with more time, you could figure something out, maybe if he took just a little more, a few of your years, you don’t need that much time, you could spare him that—

No. Hey. We. We had a good run, didn’t we? Just, remember me. Please.

He’s terrified, pulse rabbiting in his chest, fingers clutching yours as the scythe descends. And you feel it when the connection breaks, tension dissolving as he fades, the cruel hard core of him pulling free from your chest. Your hand is your hand again, grasping at nothing. He manages a smile, almost, shimmering through a film of tears. Hey, listen. I—

And then he’s gone, nothing more than motes of dust in the air, as you blink hard, trying to pull him back into your sight.

—-

Epilogue (the last thing inside the box was)

—-

You see him sometimes, a flash of cold eyes in the crowd or a particular way someone has of standing. You listen to the wind, and watch frost crawling up the windows in winter, and you miss him.

You return to the world, you smile and wave and show your teeth. It’s not a real smile, not quite, but you’ll get there. You always have.

You bake trout in parchment, and American biscuits, and you eat alone.

On a wintery afternoon you climb aboard a packed train, mercifully anonymous in the crowd. Your bare hand brushes against a stranger’s. You feel a spark, pins and needles, like a waking limb.

[titleknown]

God, I remember. I heard the screaming in the distance, it sounded like a cacophony. An entire menagerie dying and burning and falling apart at once.

But, when I got there, I didn't see anything but raw, wet, carrion.

But it was still screaming. And then it started to move...

-Anonymous kaiju scientist.

-------

Who is this heinous horror? Their name is Headhunger (Because god bless dumb pun names) and more on them past the break!

Most hopes that the arthropods would confine themselves to that "bridge" island were quickly dashed, as most non-formicidae creatures quickly made a beeline off of "Bug Island". Apparently, even in the kaiju size-class, ants are still the terror of the arthropod world.

One of these is this ambush-attacker, Headhunger. They don't really appear to need "nourishment;" at least not as consistently as they seem to hunt, which leaves one curious about the motivations for such behavior, but as psychic contact has not been established, this is unknown.

They are relatively small and fragile, but powerful, with a deadly acid-beak and powerful limbs that can wrap around other kaiju in a death-grip. But, their real ability is on their back. Specifically, in the horrible wad of dinosaurian carrion therein.

While they do eat most of the prey they liquefy, they always manage to keep the skull fully-fleshed, seemingly specifically for the sake of attachment to this "wad." Their carapace exudes fine nervous tendrils through the heads, leaving the bones to rot, but allowing some organic tissues to be preserved in a manner adjacent to "life."

This allows it to operate the tissue like a macabre puppeteer. While there are some other bones, it appears to prefer mostly skulls seemingly for the purpose of both additional bite strength for defense against much larger kaiju, but also so they may "scream," mimicking the response of wounded prey to draw secondary kaiju near.

They do not actively attack humans, and seem to prefer residing away from settlements, but the filaments in their back will easily; automatically entwine humans who enter, even when the creature is "at rest". More flesh for the scream factory after all...

If you wanna catch up on the previous history of this setting, here’s Year 1 and Year 2 archived on the Wik for the newbies!

And, as per usual with Kaijune, this abhorrent assassin is free to use as you see fit under a CC-BY 4.0 license so long as I; Thomas F. Johnson, am credited as their creator!

And, if you wanna support me, maybe check out my Patreon, or even just send a Ko-Fi my way! Every penny is appreciated, and I am eternally grateful for those who donate!

Or, if you wanna commission me for a pic like this, my commission info is thisaway!

Shoutout to Adori_A on Pillowfort for inspiring me to do an assassin bug, after that "assassin bug with dinosaur carrion" kinda wrote itself, though shoutout to Adori also for inspiring the whole "back of horrible screaming skulls" gimmick!

[steve0discusses]

Yugioh Ep 34 S4: The Boys (and Mai) are Back in Town

OK, back to the writing table! It’s been a while! So I made the mistake of like...scrolling down on the playlist when I realized...

This duel is like 6 episodes long (7 even? It’s a lot) and like...yo I have no idea if we’ll finish this season in 2020! Damn you 2020. Damn you.

But wtv, what I like about this side project of mine is that I don’t have to rush things, and I can really spend the time with each episode and just...enjoy the moment. So often I watch a whole series in like half a week and then it’s like...I don’t get to enjoy it. This series I’ve enjoyed for years now. That’s kinda neat. So...we’re gonna be slow...but lets just enjoy this weird ass anime moment together. 2020 deadlines are all fake anyway. I’m not even sure if 2020 was a real thing that happened or like...an alternate universe opening a door and letting through just so many terrible ghosts. We might never know.

Last we left off, everyone has decided to hallucinate Dartz’ terrible backstory.

Unfortunately we have NO darts in the past. Was really hoping to see at least one darts reference in this entire season, just one darts board on his wall. But alas, we will not have a Season Zero death darts match with Dartz. (Man I need to get back to Season Zero. And FMA. And a lot of things)

I feel like if I watched the original version there would have been some things different. First off...what ocean? Second off...well, we’ll get to that. There’s some things I think were changed for English TV.

Including censoring the nude people like it’s James Cameron’s Avatar.

Fun fact did you know that James Cameron’s Avatar was supposed to be ass naked and that they were supposed to have like 8 cat nipples? Yeah.

Man, that movie was a mistake. I’m so glad we all decided to collectively forget James Cameron’s Avatar.

(read more under the cut)

The actual locations of anything in Atlantis does not match up with it when it’s zoomed out. We have giant cities, we have sprawling wheat fields, and we have...THIS situation. This active volcano next to...pine trees?

I feel like they wanted it to feel vaguely Pompeii, since I know people like to put Atlantis in the Mediterranean. Maybe? Maybe that’s what they were going for here?

One of my top ten favorite Yugioh plot twists ever was finding out this episode that this snake who has no limbs somehow created these...rocks...that all of our main characters have been wearing and obsessing over this entire time.

And so this is my theory, this is the thesis of my Yugioh college paper. These rocks are turds. There’s no way these rocks aren’t turds. There’s no way this snake didn’t poop out a bunch of glowy magic stones and then stuff them into a volcano.

THE ROCKS WERE TURDS THE WHOLE TIME.

God bless, Yugioh.

Seto spends this entire episode groveling that he isn’t playing cards that will absolutely kill him. Like Mokuba, Seto isn’t happy until he’s cheating death.

(I really wish we got more super past future tech. I love that type of concept art. Instead, we just got a lot of flying boats--the same boat that I think the team flew on in S1 when they went to Seto’s video game universe.

So those boats are 10,000 years old? They existed in the 10,000 year old Pangea, huh?

Neat.)

Anyway, lets take a gander at Princess Zelda circa Ocarina of Time.

SUPER princess Zelda, and I know it’s not 1:1 but damn it feels so much like a late 90′s Princess Zelda outfit to me. Check out that PURPLE. That low poly circlet. The random ass sword. The thick ass belt. 

Also check out this super dead family.

Yo so this is a 00′s thing, a period of time where we liked to tell stories like LOST, with just a bunch of random ass plot twists in flashbacks instead of just...telling a story from start to finish. And can be a great and fun way to do it--but at the sacrifice of actually making me care about these characters while they were still alive.

Like I would have maybe cared about Chris and Ironheart dying if I had known that Dartz was killing his whole family? With...lightning strikes? But alas, these dumbasses decided NOT to tell us they were royal. It’s so strange both from a logical perspective and a storytelling perspective.

Man...missed opportunity, IMO, but I can see why they did it. The wanted the ‘Gotcha!’ I feel ambivalent about it, honestly.

And who am I kidding, people are still doing unpredictable plot twists this. It’s a way to tell a story. Is it the most impactful way? No. It’s...it’s a gotcha!

It’s at this point in the story that things start ramping up, but it’s not clear if it takes place over years or just a couple hours. People just start going a little cray and turning into Monsters.

Straight up, though--did they turn into monsters that already existed and are modern Duel Monster cards, or are the monsters from modern Duel Monsters cards actually descendants of Atlantis who were once human?

They don’t say, actually. Maybe...maybe every card was a human once. That would be a freakin weird Yugioh twist if Kuriboh was like a 45 year old dude.

PS Dartz was married...soak that in.

ROMANCE ON YUGIOH ALERT.

Love it every time. She was there for like...half a second, and Dartz was like throwing so much shade about how “only the people with evil in their hearts were turned” and it’s like...

...dude that’s your wife? OK then. I can see you guys got along real well.

Anyway, so long to the ship of IonaxDartz, you were here for even less than the amount of time that Seto dated Blue Eyes White Dragon in a hallucination, which kind of sets a new record for us.

This might be the shortest-lived ship in all of Yugioh and they have a 12 year old daughter and what I assume was a 12 year marriage for that entire time.

that is if they...HAD the concept of marriage 10,000 years ago on Atlantis Pangea island. Maybe?

I mean they might have not had the concept of dating and marriage yet because he gets over this like immediately. The show will never hover back to that time Dartz watched his own wife turn into a creature. We have no idea if he was like “OK honey lets uh...let just get you a haircut and maybe no one will notice?” We have no idea how long he was desperately trying to remain married to the beast that was no longer human and was also trying to eat everyone else in his court. We just don’t know.

Dartz just had a lot of other things to think about. He’s been King for like...a year...he’s only 21...he’s just doing a bad job at everything.

(Biden opens Pres Trumps bedroom in the White House come January and it’s juts full of glowing green evil golf balls) (OK that was my last 2020 joke I swear to you) 

Anyway, Dad is here, but it’s a little too late to really do anything with the situation. Everyone is worshiping little snake turds. What can you really do about that?

One eye golden, the other eye, the color of a glistening Leviathan turd.

After the rest of the surviving royal family was chased out of the castle, Dartz decides to just wave his hands around a lot.

I’m not entirely sure what Kings do...never really had one...but I think they’re supposed to do more than wave their hands at a crowd like the Pope. Like...everyone’s dead right? Like everyone?

Who’s he talking to?

Meanwhile, Chris and Ironheart decide to revive some monster tablets to get some real actual duel monsters to do their bidding.

So apparently some monsters are in the tablets, and other’s have just always been here...and...

They didn’t know violence but they did have the cards?

There’s a lot of vague stuff they didn’t feel like ever writing, because it would have probably been boring to write about. I guess we’ll just let our imagination fill in the rest and ignore all the inconsistencies. It’s a kid’s anime. well........kind of a kid’s anime. A lot of people have died this episode and I don’t even know how to add it to the death count.

How many people live in Atlantis? I dunno.

Are the inhabitants of Atlantis even dead, or are they just turned into Monster cards? I dunno. Clearly the Great Leviathan wasn’t awoken this first battle so...did all those souls get returned? I dunno.

Either way I’m not gonna bother the death count about it because I just do not know if they died, and since it was neither an implied death or an on screen death...I dunno.

Just feels like a bit of a translation snafu--where maybe they couldn’t kill that many people on English TV, so they were like “AND IT’S A DRAW!” but also...it could be canon to both versions. The leviathan didn’t work the first time, maybe no one died? I dunno.

In this shot, PS, Raphael just gently backs up out of this flying plane, and it looked really funny to me. I probs won’t cap it because it’s split between two other cuts, but just...they just kind of moved that sprite to the right really slowly, no animation, it was great.

Dartz decides to end the backstory hallucination, and we get introduced to a new twist--a better twist than that last one, that’s right, all our boys are cards!

Including this asshole!

Been a while since our boys have been cards! Man, I miss Bakura!

Yes, I looked back to earlier episodes this season to see what was going on with Pegasus’ new look. I think what happened is that it’s always been this shade of gray purple--but when you put purple next to it’s opposing color (which is yellow colors) it looks even MORE purple. It’s just how color works. Love color theory. mm. Good stuff. Good purple hair.

I can’t wait until Yami kills Yugi for the 3rd time in one season.

Anyway, that’s all for now, and like always, here’s a link to read these in chrono order.

[basicsofislam]

ISLAM 101: Muslim Culture and Character: Morals And Manners: Perfection and Modesty

Question: It is stated that the devoted souls who will realize a new revival are supposed be no different than ordinary people. On the other hand, they are continuously encouraged to be the cultured people who represent the best way by personal example. How can we strike the balance between these seemingly conflicting aspects?

Answer: If we evaluate the issue from the perspective of guiding others and conveying the Divine message to them, it is essential to believe that the following two qualities constitute the “must” of this path: targeting perfect standards along with adopting an understanding of nullifying oneself. For being able to convey relevant points to others and making an impact on consciences by God’s grace, it is essential to make an effort to be well-equipped with the knowledge and practices of faith, as well as possessing humility and modesty, and viewing oneself as an ordinary person among other people. Any attempt to guide that is not based on knowledge and actual spiritual depth will not evoke any trust in those being addressed. Word polluted with arrogance and pride will never diffuse into hearts; and even if they do, their effect will never be permanent. Consider the works of Bediüzzaman: He highlighted how serious a problem ignorance was. On the other hand, he also emphasized that arrogance has become a widespread disease in our time.

Two-Winged Spirit of Guidance, with Knowledge and Humility

Let us expound on these two aspects a bit. In order to achieve a thorough representation, a Muslim, first, needs to “read” very well the contemporary age, social structure, contemporary events, and Divine principles operating in the universe, and then interpret them correctly. On the other hand, a Muslim also needs to know religious commandments and what they mean in our age, and thus become a “child of the time.” Otherwise, so many truths will be victimized by their poor representation, and their values will be condemned to seem worthless in the eyes of others. As everything depends on knowledge, it is very important for Muslims to express their own values well. What we mean by knowledge (ilm) here is not having information about a particular subject as it is commonly used in our day; it is the knowledge based on an evaluation of realities with their internal and external dimensions, which can help us draw a conclusion and deepen in knowledge of God. In fact, it is not possible for a believer to make any individual progress without such knowledge, let alone guide others. Until the moment people are equipped with knowledge, including knowledge of God, they will not be able to refuse their carnal self, and not be able to rid themselves of confusion and instability. Individuals who do not solve the problems of their own heart and mind will have real difficulty conveying the truths of faith to others; unaware, they will probably resort to demagogy and dialectics. Until the moment they overcome the doubts and suspicions in their own mind, they will not be able to avoid faltering at their statements. For this reason, we firstly need to have insight into our own matters, knowing them deeply, with their spirit, essence, background, and basis. After that, we need to feel and sense in our conscience that, with the initial theoretical knowledge we have, we can attain knowledge of God (marifah), then love of God through that knowledge, and then zeal and yearning for God through their totality. If we can truly make these ingrained in ourselves, and behold in our heart and mind a picture of what comes out of our mouth, then we can be saved from having inner conflicts and falling into contradictions. For this reason, those who wish to guide others and share the beauties of their teaching with others must definitely do everything they can to have a profound and multi-dimensional knowledge that will be pleasing to God Almighty. However, mere knowledge does not suffice for conveying the message to others. At the same time one needs to be conscious of the fact that these very important inspirations and gifts are pure blessings and bestowals of God Almighty. As Bediüzzaman points out in The Letters, all of these blessings can be compared to a fur coat presented by a king. Their value should not be overlooked. On the other hand, we should never give up the consideration that they do not essentially belong to us. That is, what we need to do is to direct the appreciation to the One who truly deserves it. If we can attain this perspective, we will have started opening the doors of modesty, humbleness, and humility. Thus we will have realized the truth expressed by Imam Ali ibn Abi Talib: “Live among people as one of them.” And this means combining absolute humility and perfection. Ingraining this feeling and thought in ourselves depends on acknowledging the True Owner of everything we possess, and making our conscience accept the fact that we are nothing.

I would like to reiterate one point I previously made. If we were to be asked to put aside what essentially belongs to God and stand before Him with what remains, nothing would be left, I think. For this reason, what befalls on us is constantly being oriented to him in humbleness, modesty, and humility. As a matter of fact, it can be said that these points are related to the wisdoms behind the command to pray five times a day. Standing in awe of God five times a day at prayer is an expression of submission to Him. As bowing before God is a form of modesty, prostrating oneself before Him is an expression of humbleness; it is a person’s closest state to God Almighty, as related in a hadith. Actually, the time of prostration is the moment when a person is freed from one’s own self and dyed with the hue of manifestations from Him. That is, you reach such a state of “I” during prostration that, this “I” is nothing but a work of His manifestations. Then, closeness to God depends on a person’s nullifying oneself.

The Most Modest Person

As it is stated in the Qur’an: “Assuredly you have in God’s Messenger an excellent example to follow…” (al-Ahzab 33:21), the Messenger of God presented the best example in every respect in all of his attitudes and behaviors. The Prince of both worlds was honored with the Divine address “I would not have created the existence, had it not been for you.” In the words of the poet Necip Fazıl: “He, for whose sake we exist.” As his blessed light was the first light that appeared in the realm of existence, he is the most perfect fruit of the tree of existence. In other words, the light of Muhammad is the seed of the tree of universe and the ink of the pen of Divine Power that writes this “book of universe.” And he is the curator in this great exhibition of the universe. In the words of insightful scholars, the Prophet is a person who was gifted with the beginning and end of wisdom, with respect to the knowledge of the Divine. By God’s grace, every kind of problem was solved in the hands of that blessed settler of problems. He is the teacher for everybody to learn how to evaluate the world and its contents with the eye of wisdom. In addition to being such a distinguished person, God’s Messenger, peace and blessings be upon him, is at the same time a monument of modesty and humility. When somebody addressed him as “our master,” he expressed his protest for such address—even though it was true. At another case when the following Divine command was revealed, “So wait patiently for your Lord’s judgment, and do not be like the companion of the fish, when he called out choking inwardly (with distress)…” (al-Qalam 68:48), he stated, not assuming superiority, “Do not prefer me over Yunus ibn Matta.” At another time, he told someone who felt overawed before him “Do not be afraid, I am the child of a woman who ate dried meat.” During the construction of the Prophet’s Mosque in Medina, he carried two bricks on his back while others carried a single brick. While they needed to cook during travel, as all of his Companions contributed to it, he undertook the task of collecting firewood; he always made an effort to not avoid at any kind of responsibility. So the most perfected guide, under whose blessed feet the stars were like a stairway, combined such opposite virtues in his person, and thus he reached into souls with his most perfect and trustworthy example. Then what befalls believers should be faithfully following the footsteps of that perfect guide.

[purplerose244]

Heya everyone, real talk for a sec?

Today is my birthday!! 💜💜💜

and without giving away my actual age (I'm a lady, ya know 😉) I can easily tell I'm about to graduate from University and this is a pretty important moment.

Yes I still watch freaking lego spinning ninja

Yes I have no intention to quit (NINJA NEVER QUIT MOTHER... freaker? 😅)

I think, who less who more, we all remember the very first episode we have ever seen. I said this many times, for me it was Never Trust a Snake. The trigger that made me think "this is worth to have a look at" was the elevator scene: the blue guy waiting and almost falling asleep while crap happens outside. I remember being so confused and amazed 😂

I enjoyed the serie until the end of season 2, which I genuely thought was the last one. I forgot about it for a while, ignoring Chima mostly because nothing of it made me want to watch it for real (I did a few years later, and it's good? Not on Ninjago's level, that's a fact, but still interesting and with pretty landscapes. I think the hate on it was a little rushed, but if you actually watched it and still don't like it then it's cool 👍)

I came back after season 4 was out, and at that point I knew a lot of crap already happened. In this period I got a liking on Kai and he's still my fave, my flame babe ❤ I watched a few episode of Rebooted and ToE just to see it it was worth it continuing the serie (spoiler: SO WORTH IT) then I decided to give it a try, without much enthusiasm though.

Then it happened. Season 5. POSSESSION.

I remember seeing some pretty poorly made leaks around about Lloyd being possessed and a blue and maroon ninja, things I thought were coming next season. I saw on Cartoon Network the spot for the new episodes in my country (I live in Italy, come andiamo? 🇮🇹) and I thought "Oh, I thought ToE already came out in Italian, I guess this is the official release"

Now, imagine this girl, waiting for the first episode of season 4, expecting just another day in Ninjago... and gets Winds of Change completely random. And we know how that episode ends. Believe me, I did not sleep that night 😱😱😱

The funniest thing? Possession aired in Italy first, so even if I was dying inside over knowing if my Lloydy baby was okay (I started to use baby in that moment, that's how i know I'm into a show) there was no way to see the episode in original. I was forced to wait next week, hoping and praying that flame babe was gonna save green been (that's also the moment those two's BrOTP became my jam ❤💚)

And this, my boys, it's how I fell in love with Ninjago ❤❤ Still am, and cannot wait for more! There is something unreal thinking that Possession really brought my emotions out, and now we are waiting for season 11. Like, sounds like yesterday, but it's been YEARS.

At last, I just wanted to thank you all. I feel like I belong to the Ninjago's fandom more than any other fandoms, and even if we are not perfect, I see a beautiful reason to stay every day 💜

I'm gonna thank a few people but whoever is reading this and belongs to Ninjago, love ya pal 😉

@evelinaonline I think we haven't known each other a lot, but to be honest I think you're such a good and pure person I'm just happy I got to know you. Also your Bruise fics are so good, sometimes I just read them again 💙🖤💙🖤 (curse you AO3, I wanna give more kudos!!)

@alena-1987 You are a really cool person, full of ideas, and I love chatting with you. Sorry I'm really busy lately but as I said, I'm gonna graduate and it's a hard period. But thanks for sharing your time with me 😊

@jayzx535 I feel like I should thank directly the people that partecipated to the Ninjagozine, but it's also about being a splendid person, always understanding and open. Also admiring queen Skylor is an honor that can be shared 🧡🧡 I'm adding @gbellatheartist because she's also amazing, super supportive and I love your art a lot 👌

@floydgarmadork I don't think we have talked much, but I always find your funny posts and reblogs on my homepage and I can't help it 😂 You're super cool, I hope you know that 👍👍

@askkaiflame @ookamihanta @speedythecat @valerei @ask-pining-bruise These absolute gods and goddesses (sorry I think you are mostly girls but I prefer to play safe 😅) have all my admiration, every single drawings of them make my day. Thanks for descending from the Olimpus to bless us

And at last, people I follow that deserve to know how much I appreciate them! @fudgingart your art is really nice! 😙 @incorrect-ninjago love your funny posts 😂 @headcanonninja your headcanons are 👌👌 @blue-black-sora such an adorable art 😍 @regaltempo it's been a while but once someone tagged me in a post explaining why I shouldn't ship a certain ship (that really got me upset, it's something I hate), and regaltempo took the time to ask if I was okay. I still remember, and I thank you for that 😊😊

I think that's it, I'm ready for another year of Ninjago! My dear fandom, I'm older but this daughter won't leave the nest just yet 😎

All of you, have a wonderful day! 💜

[thelonguepuree]

Eleven Stars Over Andalusia

I. On our last evening on this land On our last evening on this land we chop our days from our young trees, count the ribs we'll take with us and the ribs we'll leave behind … On the last evening we bid nothing farewell, nor find the time to end … Everything remains as it is, it is the place that changes our dreams and its visitors. Suddenly we're incapable of irony, this land will now host atoms of dust … Here, on our last evening, we look closely at the mountains besieging the clouds: a conquest … and a counter-conquest, and an old time handing this new time the keys to our doors. So enter our houses, conquerors, and drink the wine of our mellifluous Mouwashah. We are the night at midnight and no horseman will bring dawn from the sanctuary of the last Call to Prayer … Our tea is green and hot; drink it. Our pistachios are fresh; eat them. The beds are of green cedar, fall on them, following this long siege, lie down on the feathers of our dreams. The sheets are crisp, perfumes are ready by the door, and there are plenty of mirrors: enter them so we may exit completely. Soon we will search in the margins of your history, in distant countries, for what was once our history. And in the end we will ask ourselves: Was Andalusia here or there? On the land … or in the poem? II. How can I write above the clouds? How can I write my people's testament above the clouds when they abandon time as they do their coats at home, my people who raze each fortress they build and pitch on its ruins a tent, nostalgic for the beginning of palm trees? My people betray my people in wars over salt. But Granada is made of gold, of silken words woven with almonds, of silver tears in the string of a lute. Granada is a law unto herself: it befits her to be whatever she wants to be: nostalgia for anything long past or which will pass. A swallow's wing brushes a woman's breast, and she screams: “Granada is my body.��� In the meadow someone loses a gazelle, and he screams, “Granada is my country." And I come from there … So sing until from my ribs the goldfinches can build a staircase to the nearer sky. Sing of the chivalry of those who ascend, moon by moon, to their death in the Beloved's alley. Sing the birds of the garden, stone by stone. How I love you, who have broken me, string by string, on the road to her heated night. Sing how, after you, the smell of coffee has no morning. Sing of my departure, from the cooing of doves on your knees and from my soul nesting in the mellifluous letters of your name. Granada is for singing, so sing! III. There is a sky beyond the sky for me There is a sky beyond the sky for my return, but I am still burnishing the metal of this place, living in an hour that foresees the unseen. I know that time cannot twice be on my side, and I know that I will leave— I’ll emerge, with wings, from the banner I am, bird that never alights on trees in the garden— I will shed my skin and my language. Some of my words of love will fall into Lorca's poems; he'll live in my bedroom and see what I have seen of the Bedouin moon. I’ll emerge from almond trees like cotton on sea foam. The stranger passed, carrying seven hundred years of horses. The stranger passed here to let the stranger pass there. In a while I'll emerge a stranger from the wrinkles of my time, alien to Syria and to Andalusia. This land is not my sky, yet this evening is mine. The keys are mine, the minarets are mine, the lamps are mine, and I am also mine. I am Adam of the two Edens, I who lost paradise twice. So expel me slowly, and kill me slowly, under my olive tree, along with Lorca … IV. I am one of the kings of the end And I am one of the kings of the end … I jump off my horse in the last winter. I am the last gasp of an Arab. I do not look for myrtle over the roofs of houses, nor do I look around: no one should know me, no one should recognize me, no one who knew me when I polished marble words to let my woman step barefoot over dappled light. I do not look into the night, I mustn’t see a moon that once lit up all the secrets of Granada, body by body. I do not look into the shadow, so as not to see somebody carrying my name and running after me: take your name away from me and give me the silver of the white poplar. I do not look behind me, so I won't remember I’ve passed over this land, there is no land in this land since time broke around me shard by shard. I was not a lover believing that water is a mirror, as I told my old friends, and no love can redeem me, for I've accepted the “peace accord” and there is no longer a present left to let me pass, tomorrow, close to yesterday. Castile will raise its crown above God's minaret. I hear the rattling of keys in the door of our golden history. Farewell to our history! Will I be the one to close the last door of the sky, I, the last gasp of an Arab? V. One day I will sit on the pavement One day I will sit on the pavement … the pavement of the estranged. I was no Narcissus; still I defend my image in the mirrors. Haven't you been here once before, stranger? Five hundred years have passed, but our breakup wasn't final, and the messages between us never stopped. The wars did not change the gardens of my Granada. One day I'll pass its moons and brush my desire against a lemon tree … Embrace me reborn from the scents of sun and river on your shoulders, from your feet that scratch the evening until it weeps milk to accompany the poem's night … I was not a passerby in the words of singers … I was the words of the singers, the reconciliation of Athens and Persia, an East embracing a West embarked on one essence. Embrace me that I may be born again from Damascene swords hanging in shops. Nothing remains of me but my old shield and my horse's gilded saddle. Nothing remains of me but manuscripts of Averroes, The Collar of the Dove, and translations … On the pavement, in the Square of the Daisy, I was counting the doves: one, two, thirty … and the girls snatching the shadows of the young trees over the marble, leaving me leaves yellow with age. Autumn passed me by, and I did not notice the entire season had passed. Our history passed me on the pavement … and I did not notice. VI. Truth has two faces and the snow is black Truth has two faces and the snow falls black on our city. We can feel no despair beyond our despair, and the end-firm in its step-marches to the wall, marching on tiles that are wet with our tears. Who will bring down our flags: we or they? And who will recite the “peace accord,” O king of dying? Everything's prepared for us in advance; who will tear our names from our identity: you or they? And who will instill in us the speech of wanderings: “We were unable to break the siege; let us then hand the keys to our paradise to the Minister of Peace, and be saved…” Truth has two faces. To us the holy emblem was a sword hanging over us. So what did you do to our fortress before this day? You didn't fight, afraid of martyrdom. Your throne is your coffin. Carry then the coffin to save the throne, O king of waiting, this exodus will leave us only a handful of dust … Who will bury our days after us: you … or they? And who will raise their banners over our walls: you … or a desperate knight? Who will hang their bells on our journey: you … or a miserable guard? Everything is fixed for us; why, then, this unending conclusion, O king of dying? VII. Who am I after the night of the estranged? Who am I after the night of the estranged? I wake from my dream, frightened of the obscure daylight on the marble of the house, of the sun's darkness in the roses, of the water of my fountain; frightened of milk on the lip of the fig, of my language; frightened of wind that—frightened—combs a willow; frightened of the clarity of petrified time, of a present no longer a present; frightened, passing a world that is no longer my world. Despair, be merciful. Death, be a blessing on the stranger who sees the unseen more clearly than a reality that is no longer real. I’ll fall from a star in the sky into a tent on the road to … where? Where is the road to anything? I see the unseen more clearly than a street that is no longer my street. Who am I after the night of the estranged? Through others I once walked toward myself, and here I am, losing that self, those others. My horse disappeared by the Atlantic, and by the Mediterranean I bleed, stabbed with a spear. Who am I after the night of the estranged? I cannot return to my brothers under the palm tree of my old house, and I cannot descend to the bottom of my abyss. You, the unseen! Love has no heart … no heart in which I can dwell after the night of the estranged … VIII. O water, be a string to my guitar O water, be a string to my guitar. The conquerors arrived, and the old conquerors left. It is difficult to remember my face in the mirrors. Water, be my memory, let me see what I have lost. Who am I after this exodus? I have a rock with my name on it, on a hill from which I see what's long gone … Seven hundred years escort me beyond the city wall … In vain time turns to let me salvage my past from a moment that gives birth to my exile … and others’ … To my guitar, O water, be a string. The conquerors arrived, and the old conquerors left, heading southward, repairing their days in the trashheap of change: I know who I was yesterday, but who will I be in a tomorrow under Columbus’s Atlantic banners? Be a string, be a string to my guitar, O water! There is no Misr in Egypt, no Fez in Fez, and Syria draws away. There is no falcon in my people's banner, no river east of the palm groves besieged by the Mongols' fast horses. In which Andalusia do I end? Here or there? I will know I've perished and that here I've left the best part of me: my past. Nothing remains but my guitar. Then be to my guitar a string, O water. The old conquerors left, the new conquerors arrived. IX. In the exodus I love you more In the exodus I love you more. In a while you will lock the city's gates. There is no heart for me in your hands, and no road anywhere for my journey. In this demise I love you more. After your breast, there is no milk for the pomegranate at our window. Palm trees have become weightless, the hills have become weightless, and streets in the dusk have become weightless; the earth has become weightless as it bids farewell to its dust. Words have become weightless, and stories have become weightless on the staircase of night. My heart alone is heavy, so let it remain here, around your house, barking, howling for a golden time. It alone is my homeland. In the exodus I love you more, I empty my soul of words: I love you more. We depart. Butterflies lead our shadows. In exodus we remember the lost buttons of our shirts, we forget the crown of our days, we remember the apricot's sweat, we forget the dance of horses on festival nights. In departure we become only the birds' equals, merciful to our days, grateful for the least. I am content to have the golden dagger that makes my murdered heart dance— kill me then, slowly, so I may say: I love you more than I had said before the exodus. I love you. Nothing hurts me, neither air nor water … neither basil in your morning nor iris in your evening, nothing hurts me after this departure. X. I want from love only the beginning I want from love only the beginning. Doves patch, over the squares of my Granada, this day's shirt. There is wine in our clay jars for the feast after us. In the songs there are windows: enough for blossoms to explode. I leave jasmine in the vase; I leave my young heart in my mother's cupboard; I leave my dream, laughing, in water; I leave the dawn in the honey of the figs; I leave my day and my yesterday in the passage to the Square of the Orange where doves fly. Did I really descend to your feet so speech could rise, a white moon in the milk of your nights … pound the air so I could see the Street of the Flute blue … pound the evening so I could see how this marble between us suffers? The windows are empty of the orchards of your shawl. In another time I knew so much about you. I picked gardenias from your ten fingers. In another time there were pearls for me around your neck, and a name on a ring whose gem was darkness, shining. I want from love only the beginning. Doves flew in the last sky, they flew and flew in that sky. There is still wine, after us, in the barrels and jars. A little land will suffice for us to meet, a little land will be enough for peace. XI. Violins Violins weep with gypsies going to Andalusia Violins weep for Arabs leaving Andalusia Violins weep for a time that does not return Violins weep for a homeland that might return Violins set fire to the woods of that deep deep darkness Violins tear the horizon and smell my blood in the vein Violins weep with gypsies going to Andalusia Violins weep for Arabs leaving Andalusia Violins are horses on a phantom string of moaning water Violins are the ebb and flow of a field of wild lilacs Violins are monsters touched by the nail of a woman now distant Violins are an army, building and filling a tomb made of marble and Nahawund Violins are the anarchy of hearts driven mad by the wind in a dancer’s foot Violins are flocks of birds fleeing a torn banner Violins are complaints of silk creased in the lover's night Violins are the distant sound of wine falling on a previous desire Violins follow me everywhere in vengeance Violins seek me out to kill me wherever they find me Violins weep for Arabs leaving Andalusia Violins weep with gypsies going to Andalusia —Mahmoud Darwish (1992), trans. Mona Anis, Nigel Ryan, Aga Shahid Ali, Ahmad Dallal

[thecloserkin]

fic rec: Are You Mine? and I Want Some More by PoetHrotsvitha

fandom: Assassin’s Creed: Syndicate

pairing: Evie Frye/Jacob Frye

word count: 54k and 50k respectively (one is a direct sequel to the other)

Is it canon: yes

Is it explicit: this is the most explicit material i have thus far reviewed on this blog

Is it endgame: yesssss

Is it shippable: yes

One thing you guys should know about me is I don’t read a great deal of smut. I don’t actively avoid it either, and I for sure consume more smut in the context of fanfic than in professional published fiction because I feel the following quote in my bones: “It wasn’t that friendship needed to be sexualized, it was that erotica needed to be … friendship-ized.” So when I stumbled on this fic that is 80% smut stretched over the thinnest pretext of plot, based on source material I have zero familiarity with, what did I do but fall headlong for this pairing and this story. Bless you, anon who brought Fryecest to my attention, and praise the Lord for modern AUs where knowledge of canon is not mandatory.

Jacob and Evie Frye are twins born into an Assassin family and raised by their exacting taskmaster of a father to take down the Templars. There’s no Templars or Assassins in this modern AU of course, just Evie’s looming A-Levels and their absent academic of a father. Evie’s still the golden child, of course—she’ll follow in their father’s footsteps and get her Ph.D. Jacob is the problem child. He’s already fallen in with the Wrong Crowd, he’s impulsive, he drinks and gambles and mostly solves problems with his fists. His relationship with their dad is hella strained. And because this is supposed to be PWP the author wastes no time in ratcheting the sexual tension up to 11 by having Jacob pick Evie up from her posh school on his MOTORCYCLE, each of them pretending not to be so turned on they could have combusted from desire by the end of the ride. Cool cool cool.

Their relationship begins barreling in a dom/sub direction almost from the word go. Evie is one thousand percent the take-charge, Type-A personality, so the idea is that she needs to relinquish that control in the bedroom, and Jacob is the only one she trusts to dominate her. Because they’re twins and they balance each other out adfkdfkdfjdkfd. The scene in the beginning where Jacob tells her not to button up her blouse while she’s making breakfast, and she actually listens to him instead of ignoring or insulting him, holy shit that was hot. It starts so small but eventually he’s got her wearing a wireless vibrator to class and begging for her “punishment” when she takes it out without his permission because it was too distracting.

I imagine this is what the 50 Shades of Grey phenomenon was about. I haven’t read 50 Shades of Grey myself, but I’ve interacted with people who rave about it and clearly got something out of those books, bad as they were. I’m not trying to compare the quality of this story to 50 Shades of Grey—it’s lightyears superior to that dreck—just that when I finished this fic I had the dazed realization that this was why people read smut.

There’s a throwaway line in Jacob’s internal monologue where he muses “they seem to be going about this backwards,” because he’s buying flowers for her the day after fingering her to a screaming orgasm, and yes I am 100% here for this trope. Ffs he sits with her in the library to keep her company while she studies! He waits for her/escorts her to her one hundred and one extracurricular activities! He’s a really immature 17-year-old and he’d never dream of doing this for anyone else, but when it comes to Evie he becomes suddenly sweet and thoughtful and solicitous. He’s constantly pausing in the middle of sex to ask for her enthusiastic & affirmative consent and reminding her to use the safe word. At the same time he’s madly jealous when anyone else shows a flicker of interest in her and he regularly makes her admit he “owns” her during their role-play. They are each other’s firsts which for some reason is really important to me in these kinds of they’re-teenagers-exploring-their-sexuality setups. This is Evie hitting up the lingerie boutique in preparation for their FIRST WEEKEND GETAWAY:

“I’m going away for the weekend with my-” Evie almost stumbled on the word, “-boyfriend.” What a strange concept.

I AM TRASH FOR THIS INCEST TROPE i love the way she stumbles over that word. Bc that’s not the box that Jacob occupies for her, is it? He’s much more than that. I love the way she alternates between begging him to put it in her cunt and calling him a prat and a shitheel; just because he’s the love of her life doesn’t make him stop being her insufferable little brother. You know what else I’m trash for? ALL the sneaking around tropes. One time while sexting with him in a storage closet at school she’s busted by one of the teachers and only barely has time to lock her phone before he confiscates it.

So the first fic ends with their dad finding the sexts and nudes on Evie’s phone, disowning them both, and Evie choosing to go to University of Edinburgh because their dad knows too many people at Oxbridge. The twins get a flat together and it’s happily ever after. Except no! In the sequel it’s ten years later and Evie and Jacob have returned to the house they grew up in to say goodbye to their dying father, and they’re ESTRANGED OH NO WHAT HAPPENED. Evie has a four-year-old in tow. We find out in fairly short order that the kid is Jacob’s, but Jacob doesn’t find out the truth until we’ve sent him through the angst wringer. The fic is about how they grieve and reconcile and how Jacob learns to parent, and this one is actually like 60% plot and I think I like it even better than the first one. This author’s note really spoke to me:

I’ve read a fair number of sibling incest modern AU fics in a few different fandoms and they all tend to end at “and then they ran away from their families and lived happily ever after/epilogue of sexy fun times possibly with the introduction of hey they've had a kid!”. And I mean I love that, don't get me wrong. But I guess I’m also weirdly preoccupied with the part about what comes after that, because it always seemed far too dreadfully simple an outcome. Normal relationships are rarely that easy, so why would these be? Then again I'm probably putting too much thought into a porn fic, LOL.

DEAR @poethrotsvitha, THIS IS A SIGNED PETITION TO PLEASE NEVER STOP OVERTHINKING THE PLOT OF YOUR PORN FICS. Like, nobody starts fucking their brother unless they really mean it, because the risk of the relationship going pear-shaped and the two of you still being stuck in each other’s orbit because there’s no “breaking up” with family? That’s a big risk. And also why incest pairings feel so high-stakes and I am trash for them, obvs. One of the reasons the dom/sub dynamic is so integral to their relationship was because Evie had a tendency to dictate to Jacob what he “can and can’t do,” and he understandably chafed against it sometimes. It’s what led to their breakup five years ago. And so him taking charge in the bedroom is a kind of counterbalance, and there’s a scene in this fic where she lets him role-play a noncon situation as a way to partly soothe his jealousy.

To a large extent it’s their son who brings about their reconciliation, but their son is also a hyperactive little git who throws a monkey wrench in their sex life, so now instead of hiding their relationship from their dad they’re tiptoeing around a four-year-old. And the big character development that happens on Jacob’s part is him recognizing that Thomas is Evie’s #1 priority now, and there comes a moment where he has to make a difficult decision to prioritize the two of them in his own life, too (by quitting his job and ending a toxic relationship). The other thing I really liked was how Jacob thinks ruefully he could have gone a another round if he were ten years younger, which he’s not, but Evie seems satisfied and that’s what matters. The recognition that he’s not a teenager anymore, and doesn’t have the stamina of one, but he’s also more mature and this time he’ll be able to give Evie what she needs? Oh, my heart. Like I said I loved them being each other’s firsts as teenagers but this, this second chance they’ve got as adults, this is beautiful.

Ok so this is Evie begging Jacob to fuck her in a closet in the middle of their dad’s funeral service??!:

“Please, I just need to forget. Just for a little bit- I need to forget, please-” Oh, God, this was a terrible idea. A terrible idea that she would die before she stopped- she felt like an addict after years of sobriety, pushed by stress and grief to needing that all-consuming high that she'd never quite been able to forget. Her fingers worked at his belt, pulling it open, unbuttoning his trousers to draw the heel of her palm along where he was already hard. “Evie,” he rasped, shuddering against her touch. “Shh,” she said, tucking his pants down enough to pull his cock free, giving it a few firm strokes. “Shh.” If they talked, it would be too real. It had to be rushed and frantic, to feel like it was just the once, to ease the ache in her chest.

And this is after they finish (“if only it could have lasted forever”):

Silently, she turned to let him zip up her dress … There was a warmth against the back of her neck as she felt him draw her hair aside and press a kiss to the sensitive skin, hesitant and uncertain.  "Thank you," she breathed into the darkness, listening to the click of his belt as it slid back into place.  He just sighed, leaning his forehead against her shoulder, saying a million things without speaking a word. 

LEANING HIS FOREHEAD FOR A MILLISECOND AGAINST HER SHOULDER OMFG I AM DECEASED

Ok so to return an earlier point: When you want a canon incest happy ending in a modern setting (as opposed to if you’re both Targaryens) the most popular option is run away and live as an unrelated couple, which necessitates cutting ties with everyone you’ve ever known. This may be more or less difficult depending on the quantity and quality of those ties; unless this is Flowers in the Attic and you’ve literally been locked in the attic for years there’s bound to be people you care about other than your sibling so this is a monumental ask. The Fryes choose option B, “living openly as siblings and keeping the incest on the dl”. This option is not without risk, of course, since exposure is always a possibility, and Evie has to put up with the other moms at Thomas’s preschool eyeing Jacob like a piece of meat. Still, it means Thomas gets to bake cookies with his grandmother, who would not have let Evie and Jacob back in her life if they flaunted the truth. I mean, it’s not that she doesn’t know her kids are fucking, it’s just that a don’t-ask-don’t-tell policy allows everyone’s relationships to remain intact:

She seemed to be struggling to get the words out. “Is Thomas…” There were a few ways that this question could go, as far as Jacob could see, and he didn’t particularly want to deal with any of them. He leaned against the counter, palms rigid against the cold surface. “I’m really tired, Mother.” “I know. I just…” There was a terrible pause. “Are— are you and Evie…” Still facing the toaster, Jacob closed his eyes. He couldn’t muster a lot of fake outrage, but he planned to deny everything anyway. He didn’t care about how plausible it was. It was easier for everyone that way, especially Mother. Before he could open his mouth, though, Mother’s chair scraped back. “Actually, never mind. It’s nothing. Don’t worry about it.”

Every Wednesday Evie (who’s moved back in with her mom) leaves Thomas with his grandma and goes to “book club” which is really date night at Jacob’s. And the two of them get right up to their old tricks:

When he gave her just the slightest nudge upwards with his hips, she finally let a broken whisper rasp out. “I can't- I want- please-” Jacob clicked his tongue. “You know what I want you to say.” She twisted her neck around again, and he could see that her eyes were now glassy with longing. “Huh?” “It's simple— just ‘My greedy cunt belongs to my brother’. “ “I will not."

The process of turning that initial “no” into a “yes” is scorchingly hot so there you go, I love these two, I love this fic, I have definitely seen the light and I'm ready to embrace smut.

[ifridiot]

ok but imagine this: lieberpool. Imagine david not knowing what to think when frank comes back to the hideout with a red-suited body riddled with so many holes david can see through the guy. Imagine his surprise when the body gets up and starts talking. David and wade bonding over hideout pancakes and synthpop bops. Imagine wade sneaking david out to tag along on his hits. Imagine franks face when wade and david come back at 4 in the morning and david is covered in other peoples and just fine

Dude, I’m not even going to try and say I haven’t been rolling this vague ship concept around for a while. lets take ‘er for a spin.

The Start of a Good Porno

Warnings: Blood and Injury, Wade being Wade, Suggestive Dialog

It’s a hair past three AM when David’s phone buzzes. It should irritate him, but he’s just laying alone in the dark imagining what a full night’s sleep is like anyway, so having Frank call is more an excuse to start the day than anything.

Rolling out of bed, he thumbs the ‘accept’ icon, muttering a tired, “Yeah?” and getting the exhausted, exhilarated panting that he expects. Frank sounds like he’s hauling something heavy, and David can only imagine him, shitty burner phone tucked between shoulder and ear, hoping David picks up. “What’dyou need, Frank?”

He sounds more awake that time, and he’s a little surprised at the breathless chuckle he gets.

“Got a guy you need to talk to,” Frank manages, and then, grunting, speaking away from the receiver, “Stay fuckin’ put, idiot.”

It’s too early for this bullshit. It could any hour of the day, David thinks, and it would be too early for this bullshit.

But what the fuck, right? He’s divorced, he’s got no social life left to speak of, and helping Frank at least lets him feel like he’s not completely dead. So he’s on his feet, grabbing jeans and sweatshirt, looking for his damn hat to cover the hair he keeps meaning to get trimmed but can’t seem to find the drive to actually deal with. “Where?”

“Second closest to you.” He can hear the twist of Frank’s smile, that grim and somehow mocking expression. “Wouldn’t want you to have to walk far at night.”

“Fuck you,” David says, but he’s smiling too. He knows the place Frank’s referring to, knows all the boltholes and hideaways Frank’s got the city because half of them he helped set up. After all, if he’s going to get calls at ungodly hours, he might as well be able to find the places and make himself useful. He shoves his phone into his pocket, turns a slow circle in his tiny apartment, and nabs his hat from the far side of his bed, tugging it over his hair in an effort to make the wild curls less obvious.

It’s not a bad night. Morning. Whatever you call it when midnight has come and gone but the sun still hasn’t risen. He moves briskly, covering ground quickly. People tend not to remember you if you move like you belong, and David’s spent long enough pretending to be dead to know how to get around without attracting attention. He’s more worried about Frank, honestly; he knows he won’t lead anyone anywhere because he’s not the guy out there shooting thugs and crooked cops. People chase Frank; no one is looking for David.

All told, it takes less than twenty minutes to get to the rundown tenement block Frank’s rented space in. David has been here a few times, first to set up a computer array (he gave Frank a list of what he needed and didn’t ask how Frank came about the components, just installed everything) and then a few times to run some info or track leads Frank couldn’t muddle the old fashioned way. Or didn’t have time to muddle.

Either way, he’s heard dry coughing from one other room several times, and once the hair-raising laughter of someone either exceptionally stoned or experiencing a sharp mental break from somewhere above them. It’s the kind of building that will, sooner or later, be bought up for cheap by some real estate group and torn down to make way for more fashionable, expensive accommodations, whether the people already living here could afford to leave or not.

He expects -- always expects -- Frank to be waiting, some poor schmuck bleeding all over the shitty carpet, maybe tied to one of the chairs, maybe under gunpoint. Once the schmuck in question had been half dead and, in Frank’s words, “a decent bastard”. David didn’t know what happened to him after he’d finished getting the information from him that he’d needed to finish the hack job Frank had assigned him, but it was kind of hard to imagine Frank rolling up in that shitty van to the ER.

David learned in the year he spent playing a dead man that it was better not to ask questions you didn’t need an answer to.

This time, he’s beaten Frank. That’s fine; it gives him time to get the computers running. Sometimes he misses that basement, eternal damp and all. At least down there the computers were always live, and he didn’t have to worry much about Frank fucking them up because he was always there and Frank knew better than to touch shit he didn’t understand.

Here, who knows how often Frank hides out? How much of the time is this collection of computing equipment just left on its own, perfect for some junkie looking for an easy score? He likes to think no one would dare break into one of Frank’s places, but then again, if the intruder doesn’t know who’s place it is, it doesn’t rightly matter does it?

He’s listening for the rattle of the doorknob, expecting Frank to be injured or dealing with someone live enough to give some measure of trouble. His heart is tight -- all this time and this bullshit still gets him nervous and flighty -- and when the window squeals open he whips around where he’s standing just in time to watch a dark bundle tumble through the window. Frank climbs in after, stepping neatly around the ominously still bundle, mouth set in a grim line. It’s Frank’s ‘my patience is wearing thin’ face, and the body -- David’s pretty damn sure it’s a body -- is covered in a lot of red.

Some of that is fabric, but David knows plenty of it is blood; Frank’s smeared in plenty of it.

Without really thinking, David moves to try helping Frank get the guy off the floor, and Frank irritably waves him back, moving to get his arms around the man. He’s limp as a rag doll, and he’s --

“Holy shit, Frank, did you cut his leg off?”

This leaves him in a sort of muted shout, because he’s aware enough to know that he can’t be shouting here, even if most of the other tenants are unlikely to stick their noses into someone else’s business. Run-down place like this, no one wants to call the cops.

Frank gives him an evil look, and David realizes that the guy he’s hauling up is also missing a hand on the same side. He’s wearing a mask, and it takes David a minute to place the mask before he sits heavily in his computer chair, cursing under his breath.

Deadpool is infamous enough that David knows at least some of his business. Not enough to have a full picture, but enough to know a willing team-up with Frank was unlikely. David doesn’t really want to be around when the supposedly unkillable mercenary comes to and tries to skewer Frank from dragging him here.

But he is here. So that’s that, he guesses.

That’s what being alive is, isn’t it? Being afraid of dying.

“You know, I feel like I shouldn’t have to be the one to explain to you that dragging home crazy immortal murderers is a really above-and-beyond way to get us both killed.”

Frank crosses his arms and rolls his eyes, Deadpool deposited to leak all over the ratty leather couch. “He wanted to come. Stay here, I gotta go get… uh, the rest… out of the van.”

He laughs at whatever scrunched up face David makes, and David flips him off. He’s pretty sure when Frank says ‘the rest’, he doesn’t mean more people. And sure, David’s been around his share of dead bodies at this point, but it’s not exactly like he’s had to worry about any of them coming back to life while he’s alone with them.

But Frank, as ever, gives him no room to argue; he’s back out the window and rattling the fire escape like he’s looking for extra attention. All David can do is sit and stare and hope Deadpool stays dead until Frank’s back.

Which, of course, means he draws a sharp, rattling breath two minutes later, sitting up and clawing at his mask with the hand he still has. He hauls it up over his nose, revealing enough of his face for David to figure out that everything he’s read is true as far as the disfigurements go -- the skin shown is waxy and scar-riddled and pale, and he gulps air like he’s been drowning.

Then he starts trying to sit up, looking around the room. “God, wow, what a sty. Please, please tell me he doesn’t make you live here. God, he probably does. Don’t worry, scared little computer man, I’ll talk to him.”

It’s a lot, really, and somehow David finds himself chuckling. It’s not as nervous a sound as he expects it to be, and the mercenary bleeding all over the couch and floor grins, all crooked teeth and honest pleasure at having gotten a laugh.

“So where’s Himbo Rambo gone? Pretty sure he didn’t make you carrying me inside.”

“Frank?” David doesn’t know why he looks for clarification -- who the fuck else could that be? “He, uh. I think he went to get your, uh. Leg? Maybe?”

"Aw, bless his heart, he actually grabbed it? So much faster than waiting for it to regrow. Hi, I’m Wade, Deadpool, I’d offer to shake your hand, but only horse thieves shake left handed.”

Maybe it’s the absurdity, or maybe it’s the way the man reclines back on the couch and crosses what’s left of his right leg over his left, but David finds himself laughing again. It’s even easier the second time, and Deadpool -- Wade -- looks downright smug about it. “Is there anything I can, uh, get you?”

“Oh my god, I’m gonna ask Frank if we can trade minions, you are already so much better than Weas.”

“Uh.”

“Jokes, haha, we love to laugh. I know you’re not a trading card, and Weas would suck at helping Frank. He barely helps me.”

“O-kay,” David drawls, not sure anymore about the giddy bubbling in his chest. Exhaustion is a hell of a drug, he supposes, and the rapid banter from a guy missing a significant portion of his limbs is probably something of a shock. He turns his chair back toward the computers, sifting through files until he finds the project documents he’d put together surrounding the case Frank was supposed to be prioritizing now. He can hear the rattle of the fire escape, more subtle now, and after a second Frank comes in through the window again, something bundled up in the fabric of his coat.

It makes David grimace, and as Frank drags the window shut after him, jerking it down sharply against the resistance of the ancient frame, the room seems to bloom with a butcher-shop smell David is regretfully familiar with.

“Oh Frank, I figured I’d have to buy you dinner first,” Wade says, and when David glances at them, Frank is scowling, on his knees in front of Wade, one hand wrapped with business-like authority around the merc’s severed leg, the other pushing his legs open to give himself room to work. “Though I gotta say, you getting on your knees on the first date is super good fanfic material. I hope the readers are enjoying themselves as much as me.”

So the thing about him being absolutely insane is clearly as true as the rest. David can’t imagine anyone making that kind of joke with Frank, and he’s not even going to try addressing the ‘fanfic’ comment.

“Shut up,” Frank grumbles, and sits back on his heels to start peeling the leg out of the section of costume that had been cut off with it.

Wade presses a hand to his chest, mock offended. “Are you worried that I won’t reciprocate? I’ll have you know I am a very generous lover and there are people who would pay to get my mouth--”

“Wilson, I will break your goddamn jaw. Zip it.”

“And then how will I tell Micro here -- please god don’t let that be some kind of foreshadowing size joke -- all about the pretty tech you need him to hunt down?”

“I assume you know how to write.”

“Oh, witty repartee from the man who mostly just grunts in his Netflix show! I love it. But sadly no, not left handed, and since I don’t see Ms. Michigan falling out of your badass leather duster, I’m going to assume I’m expected to just wait on that to grow back.”

Really, David’s not sure if he’s even meant to be keeping up in this. Listening to them is like being an extra in a film, like he’s not important enough to have his own lines. It’s both irritating and a little soothing -- he’s not exactly sure he wants to be a main character in this situation.

“Just tell him. I want to get this done some time before the end of the fucking world.”

“I love when you get all grim-dark, baby, it’s a real mood elevator. You sure you don’t wanna just trade blowies and call it a night?”

Frank makes noise that promises violence, one hand moving to sweep over his face. David knows whatever patience Frank’s got left is fraying by this point, and decides he might as well speak up.

“What’m I supposed to be looking for?” He asks, and feels weirdly trapped when Deadpool turns his attention on him, like he’s no longer interested in Frank ripping the fabric away from his thigh. He doesn’t let himself look away, although he really wants to, and the merc grins. “I mean, if it keeps him from stabbing you, probably better to just tell me. I wanna go back to bed sometime tonight.”

Wade shimmies on the couch until he’s sitting straight, make Frank growl in frustration before getting up to go fish something out of one of the narrow closet in the hall. David’s not terribly surprised when he comes back with a roll of duct tape, but he’s more focused on the merc as he starts describing the tech that Frank was interested in. He knows, of course, no actual technical terms, so is reduced to gesturing vaguely with his stump and his hand, describing colour and function and the exact way the device had exploded when he had shot it.

“It was like it made everybody else think they were somewhere else,” Wade says by way of wrapping up. “Somewhere bad, if the screaming was any judge, which it usually is. Where’d it take you, Frankie?”

Frank made a vague noise, lips pressed together, eyes on his work as he tried to get Wade’s leg back in proper place, taping it carefully. Obviously not something he wanted to talk about, which was, honestly, par for the course with Frank and unpleasant situations. He preferred to bottle everything up until it exploded, violently, out of him.

“Anyway, I figure it’s probably some kind of brain fuckery, cause a lot of that shit doesn’t work on me. My eggs are already scrambled. But it wasn’t just brain stuff cuz some guy got for-real gutted, and usually psychic visions don’t do that. And there was no evil Professor X in that little box, either.”

David has already turned and started searching. He has a few vague ideas about what the device could have been and whole might have made it. “And the thing you blew up, was it… streamlined, I guess? Did it look like something you could make at home?”

“Nah, it was super sci-fi sleek, very high tech. I wouldn’t promise ‘mass-produced’ but if there was an Evil Villain Market this would be like, in the artisan crafts section.”

The room goes quiet, just the sound of David typing and Frank tearing short strips of duct tape, and eventually Wade starts humming. It takes David a second to place the song, before he recognizes it as ‘We Found Love’. His brows slide up, because that’s an odd choice, but he focuses on following the data, between the goons Frank had been after tonight, they guy paying them, and the various shiny new bits of tech that could feasibly manage what Deadpool had described.

When Frank meanders over to his side, he can feel the agitation drifting off him like a cloud. He wonders if Frank has any new injuries he’s covering up with all the anger and irritation he’s projecting, and decides that’s probably Frank’s problem if he has. If Frank wanted help getting patched up, he’d ask.

It takes almost fifteen minutes before David finds anything promising, and by the time he’s pointed out the connections and given his obligatory words of caution, it’s almost 5 AM and Frank is moving to climb back out his window, keen to follow the lead while it’s fresh.

“Well if you gimme like, two hours to get in running shape, I’ll come with,” Wade says, trying to get to his feet and failing. There’s a few creepy nubs starting to form from the mess at the end of his right arm; the beginnings, David guesses, of a new hand. “For real, by the time we get where we’re going I’ll be rock steady. I’m a great meat shield. Come on, Frank, let’s be buddies, I’ll spring for tacos after!”

Frank gives him a hard look and says, “Next time, don’t get half your limbs chopped off ‘n we’ll talk.” Then he’s gone, the fire escape rattling and Wilson crosses his arms and openly pouts.

David feels a little weird, and strangely a little bad about the merc being stuck. The idea of leaving to go back to his shitty, lonely apartment is supremely unappealing, and feels kind of bad given that Wade would be stuck here alone. And anyway, David doesn’t want to leave anyone alone with the computing array. This one is more complete than any of the others he’s put together for Frank, and Deadpool seems like the kind of guy to break shit out of boredom.

Or spite.

“You want breakfast?” He asks impulsively, moving to the tiny kitchen. He kept the pantry stocked with non-perishables, never knowing when Frank would end up shacking up here. “I can do, uhhh…” he opens the cupboards and peers in, frowning. “I can do pancakes?”

That gets the merc to perk up shockingly fast. “Pancakes are almost as good as murdering violent apocalypse-nudging bastards. Syrup?”

“Yeah, I got syrup,” David says, pulling the ‘just add water’ mix out of the cupboard and heading to the sink to try eyeballing the appropriate amount of water. “I got instant coffee, too, if you want.”

“You are really the full package, huh,” the merc says from the couch, reclining again. When David looks at him, he grins openly. “Usually I only get breakfast from people I’m paying or am sleeping with. You expecting a check?”

Why that makes David start to blush, he doesn’t want to examine. It’s a joke, the implication is part of the joke. He looks back to the pancake mix, like he needs to watch the bottle as he shakes it to combine powder and water. “Cash or credit,” he says.

“And me without my wallet. Now there’s a good start to a porno. Micro and the One Armed Merc. Honestly, we gotta get you a better code name if we’re gonna make this work.”

[realitv]

EPISODE SIX REWRITES: DONAR THE GREAT.

NOTE: The N*zis will hereby be a local mob. It’s the fucking 20s. I don’t know why they did that. I don’t want to know why they did that. I’m not keeping that in and I’m not acknowledging that as anything more than a shitty, awful fucking choice that really had no business being in there. There’s a lot to unpack in that, and none of it is good. The odd subplot of Technical B.oy recruiting Columbia, Actual Propaganda Creature, was pretty clearly written with Media in mind. Columbia, personification of the USA, was historically a pretty strong propaganda tool and now currently survives via Columbia pictures. Media really did get Columbia, huh. Technical B.oy should have been recruiting Vulcan, Hadúr, Luchtaine et cetera for technology and weaponry purposes during the war. It literally felt like the writers wrote this with Media in mind, and then realised they’d overwritten them. 🤷 Obviously y'all don’t have to go along with this specifically but I say DEATH OF THE SHOW, DEATH OF THE AUTHOR BAY-BEE! 

  IT’S A SEEDY, SMOKEY THEATRE: a hallowed hall where patrons dress up, dress down in ERMINE AND PEARLS to forget their troubles for the night, to believe in something bigger and better than they are. Art deco gilt reads AMERICA: 1929; a world on edge, a tipping point. A bullshit, razzle dazzle show that’s rehearsed and played to death to an audience that adores CHEAP THRILLS. No soul; just some sort of temple to the GLORY DAYS that were long since dead and gone. Applause, please! They’ve been watching. Of course they’ve been watching. Centre stage in a plush booth that reeks of cigarette smoke; the static always comes with them. Radio white noise and the snippets of talk shows filtering through the big jazz band and it crackles within the ears of patrons. Reminds them, tells them: GO HOME. SIT DOWN. LISTEN. LISTEN TO ME. That little brown box with the glowing little dials; the voice America woke up to. They’ve been watching for a while now; a regular devotee from the big leagues come to bless them with their appearance, their presence; people are drawn to them like flies to honey and when they applaud, when they smile, the theatre does too; rows and rows of teeth on display and Wednesday has the nerve to appear with a drink in his hand. IT’S ON THE HOUSE.   “And if I said I don’t want it, honey?” ALL THE DRAMA OF A TALK SHOW HOST! Accented syllables and vowels drawling into the beginnings of a Transatlantic accent. The Mass Media is RADIANT; glowing; spotlights upon that bleached head of perfect curls and it lights up their face; the beginnings of wires and mainframes only just starting to grow through flesh and ink. I GIVE IT AS A GIFT TO YOU. “And I said I don’t want it. See now, I don’t much approve of you and your ilk taking up space in my domain like this.” Another drag from their cigarette. Smoke spiralling into Wednesday’s face and when they laugh, the room fills with the grainy sounds of a radio jingle. “Using my voice like that! Naughty, naughty. IT IS NOT MEANT FOR YOU.” The smile fades, melts from their expression and it leaves them frigid, leaves them cold and sure. Wednesday’s one good eye burns. “I AM THE MESSAGE. The message is the future. I am not for you.” NOW, NOW, MY DEAR. YOU FORGET, WE DID NOT NEED YOU BEFORE. WE DO NOT NEED YOU NOW. THE PEOPLE WILL FORGET. THE PEOPLE WILL MOVE ON, AND YOU WILL BE OBSOLETE. Forgotten. THERE’S NO NEED TO GET ANGRY. “I was there when they wrote your stories into the Edda, when they carved your image into stone. I was there for a great many things, Al. And now, you are on my stage, using my voice. Maybe I’ll stretch my legs, and go see The Law. Tip him off, since this place just ain’t up to snuff. Or, I let you talk: I’ll take my payment later. Do we have a contract?” The white noise presses in; their eyes meet, a steady beat of silence before he nods. WE HAVE A COMPACT.

  CUT BACK TO PRESENT DAY BLACK BRIAR: The World and GENERAL ORGANA at the War Table, the right hand pushing pieces across the map. THE WAR HAS STARTED. World’s voice echoes; General Organa pausing in their ministrations to cast plasma gaze to them. “And no one has realised it. A train crash in Chicago.” A piece moves across the board. “An armed robbery in Rhode Island.” Another. “Poisoned lobster in Nashville.” Eyes meet. They mirror each other; glance for glance, smile for smile; Leia leans in close. “They have been quiet, despite all of this. Are they building THE DEATH STAR?” NO. THEY HAVE SCATTERED, AS I SAID THEY WOULD. ONE BY ONE, THEY WILL FALL. “Of course, Commander. I only wish to do my part to SERVE THE ALLIANCE.” Silence. AND YOU WILL. OF COURSE YOU WILL. YOU BOTH WILL.” Cut to General Organa, brows furrowed: The World beckons; like a shadow, they follow; a quick, purposeful stride, hands pressed to the small of their back to the sidelines. Social Media sifting through images: SWIPE RIGHT? SUPER LIKE? HEART REACT? COMMENT, TWEET, HASHTAG OVER IT! A soft ‘ahem’ from World and the noise dies; turning around to face Commander and General with wide eyes. YEAH? Nervousness, how unlike her. Leia’s gaze burns. BOTH OF YOU MUST MAKE READY FOR THE BROADCAST. “Affirmative. All preparations have been made: I am ready when you are.” I NEED MORE POWER. Two sets of eyes facing the other piece in the puzzle to find it lacking. OUR NEW FRIEND IS COMING. THEY HAVE ASSURED ME: YOU WILL BE READY. Their shadow covers her; drags away as World exits stage right. Two voices left alone; Leia stares, stares, stares. It’s empty, it’s cold; flat. Social Media holds it, twitches: it’s the same numinous dread The Boy had etched into their features whenever the General came calling. “IT’S A WONDER YOU’RE STILL ALIVE. More power. This is child’s play, but then again, YOU’RE A LITTLE SHORT FOR A STORMTROOPER.”

  AMERICA: 1933. THE THEATRE IS CRACKING, YELLOWED: prohibition may have ended but Great Depression left everyone hungry. THEY ENTER IN SILK AND RUBIES: rosy cheeks and the smile of a Hollywood Starlet. Flushed, ALIVE! Hollow eyes stare at them with RAVENOUS hunger and when they laugh, the world tints with static; PRE-CODE MASTERPIECES and biting social commentary. Standing against the backdrop of an abandoned stage and despite themselves, their feet move; tap, slide, swivel; IS IT THE CHARLESTON? Some new crazy song and dance number? TUNE IN! WATCH THE LATE NIGHT PICTURE SHOW! Snapped out of it; a slow, slow clap echoing; spotlight dies and they stand stock still. I DID NOT THINK I’D SEE YOU BACK HERE, MY DEAR. “Mister Wednesday.” A curl of their lip, hopping down from the stage and it’s a quick one-two step. “I’ve come for my payment. We have a need. We’ve had our eye on Miss Columbia. You remember our terms: I LET YOU SPEAK. Now, I want my slice of the pie.   “Hasn’t it been ages since I saw you last, honey?” YOU. YOU AGAIN. Eyes flitting between Wednesday and The Mass Media; tightening the sash on their robe and drawing it to a close under prying eyes. “I thought you’d have been happier to see lil’ ol’ me again after all this time. I’m real sorry about how the Great War ended up, but you know how it is. Mister Money decided LIBERTY SELLS, and THAT’S A WRAP! Centuries of mythos overwritten by another Goddess. She’s doing fine, by the way. All of us are.” Silence. It falls thick and heavy and the world around them buzzes with white noise. “Cat got your tongue?” WE’RE DOING FINE. A pout. “Oh, now, see here, I just hate liars. Can’t stand ‘em! It’s why I got all these new ethics and standards in place. And you, honey, are violating those. Look at you, you look like someone who just crawled out of the DUST BOWL.” And she looks down. Looks at her faded, out of date clothes. The mouldering room around her. Media takes another drag from their cigarette; lounges in the settee that’s falling apart and grins. “You’re just surviving, sweetheart. The people will forget. Then you will die, and I’ll look back on the beautiful legacy we had together, all that teamwork through the centuries and say to myself: ‘If only Miss Columbia had listened to me!’ There’s something coming. We can all feel it. I want to give you your place back, I want to move forward with you. I’ll even put you in the pictures, then you’ll never die.” It’s served on a silver platter, tied with velvet ribbon: how can any God resist? WELL -- I -- Wednesday holds up a hand. SHE’LL THINK ABOUT IT, GIVE YOU AN ANSWER SOON. “Well, don’t keep me waiting, honey.” A languid sigh; standing in a smooth motion as they moved towards the door. “--I’ll be seeing you on the studio lot.” 

  EVEN DYING MALLS HAVE EYES: grainy CCTV footage near a repair chaos picks up a tremor, something not quite right: Wednesday’s spear, carved with runes; near repaired. A black and white eye presses forward, stares. The screen goes blank with a bzzt.  RED ALERT. The noise echoes; lights flashing; World and their right hand ROD SERLING come back by popular remand; finger hovering over red button and the World pushes down to bring an awful silence. WHAT WAS THAT? Social Media scampering in; out of breath. IT’S SO ANALOGUE. As was everything within the space. WE ARE AHEAD OF SCHEDULE. “--I was not aware that we were on one.” A sideways glance; World and Serling’s eyes meet; electricity flavours the air. THEY HAVE CARVED THE RUNES INTO THE SPEAR? “Yes. IT IS MAN’S PREROGATIVE TO CREATE THEIR OWN HELL: and we, I believe, HAVE JUST CROSSED INTO THE TWILIGHT ZONE.” 

[smollandtoll]

HC: Sid + Anna First (OT3)

So, in a universe in which Anna decides early on in her career that she wants to be a sports journalist, and also decides that if she truly wants to be the top of her career/internationally recognised she’s going to have to go to America and work for ESPN or some other major sports news conglomerate (and we’re definitely not saying that we think that north america is the be all end all for sports in the world because that’s ridiculous but slide along with us here as we have no idea what we’re talking about).

So she studies English, and moves to the states maybe enrolls in college there, starts working her way up. Probably ends up in the metropolitan area (NYC, Philly, Boston, DC), flowing through all the hockey and football and basketball circles for various sporting events, reporting on them.

She and Sid meet through mutual friends.

Maybe after the concussion but before Sochi. Their first date is actually a business meeting, they’re getting coffee to discuss a plan of attack for a profile she’s writing on him probably - he’s wearing all Penguins gear and giving off his best mannequin/robot impression and she’s trying to be 100% hard hitting JOURNALISM. But then they find themselves laughing helplessly at the way Sid spills his coffee and Anna mixes up a word or two (it reminds him of how endearing Geno is probs, he also definitely considers for A HOT MINUTE that he should set G & Anna up maybe).

He probably is deeply interested in how she came to be in the sports business, considering she’s a long way from home and so knowledgeable? Like her looks are one thing, but her SPORTS BRAIN … #sidnerdboner. They’re both super driven, and Anna is smart and funny and sharp as hell, AND she can talk hockey and keep up, and Sid is just like so sincere and a little goofy but also charmingly serious, and they just like each other. They talk for LITERAL HOURS. The coffee shop they’re in probably has to shoo them out when they close and they’re both horrifically embarrassed at how off-track that meeting got when they look around and the place is basically empty.

They both walk away thinking about each other. If he’s honest with himself Anna makes Sid think a lot of Geno. Both tall hot Russian brunettes, smart, funny, take no shit while also giving you shit- and Sid’s definitely been somewhat conditioned to be into Russian accents. He knows how to keep it on the DL in the locker room, but, he’s thought about it. And Anna’s gorgeous, of course he’s thinking about her for a bit there. But, y’know, Sid’s not one to walk away thinking he’s got it in the bag; he probably thinks they just connected well and he’ll hear from her when the article comes out and the little crush will taper off with distance.

So then Sid finds out that Anna has handed off her interview notes with him to someone else in the dept she works with. Sid is completely not there for it, like “But why?! You worked so hard!”

Anna: Can’t be professional and date you. It’s a conflict of interest. Sid: ...date? Anna: Just waiting for you to ask Sid: Oh! Um! For sure.

Sid definitely thought she was out of his league, and maybe would be better off with Geno. Someone more confident and flashy, who knew how to buy her jewels and surprise her with designer shoes and take her on luxury vacations to appreciate her completely aesthetic and not-at-all-practical swimwear. He got a little lost in her instagram one time, SUE HIM HE’S A RED BLOODED MALE AND SHE LOOKS LIKE THAT.

So, he was not prepared for her abrupt interest in him at all...but he likes her too and well, he can’t date Geno...so maybe this is like a healthy middle ground. She reminds him of G so much in addition to everything that’s great about her, and this way he gets the best of both worlds maybe. Y’know, sublimate the one crush into the other.

So then he does ask her out, and they continue to have riveting sports conversations, and Sid appreciates her wicked sense of humour and how familiar she feels. He feels like knowing Geno has been his cheat sheet for knowing Anna, there are things she wants and does and complains about that he’s heard before and has already figured out solutions to, and he’s heard all about Russian women and what they’re into over the years (not that these stereotypes are all true but like, there are cultural differences!).

Sid and Anna are also both SMOKING HOT and have athletic, aesthetically pleasing sex (as much as sex can be aesthetic) that Sid is so INTO BECAUSE HER LEGS NEVER END. He’s so into her natural beauty, her ability to look sexy in one of his oldest hole-iest hoodies and a penguins cap with little to no sleep, face puffy, and her emails open on his breakfast bar. She’s all messy hair and gorgeous tan limbs in his kitchen, and he feels luckier all the time for having her. And Sid - we all know Sid is good boyfriend material; dedicated, honest, funny, hot. Listen, it’s good.

Anna gets along with Sid’s parents, his sister. She definitely gave Taylor hat & hair style advice when dealing with a feminine face that has a strong jawline. She understands EVERYTHING about hockey, including his need for routine or for her to disappear occasionally. His heart stutters when she trash talks baseball players and pinches him after games where he missed easy shots. He loves it, she truly understands and never lets him have an inch.  BASICALLY SID IS HEAD OVER HEELS.

Of course he’s super nervous about introducing her to the guys ESPECIALLY GENO. He’s pretty sure everyone is going to tease him about finding female!Geno and Geno is going to have THOUGHTS because he and Anna will have a connection that Sid cannot understand or access. He’s #nervous.

Geno finds out he’s dating a Russian woman and for the most part IMMEDIATELY HEARTILY APPROVES because Russia best. But then you know he starts really pressuring to meet her. Geno and Anna don’t know each other at all in this universe, she was never a Russian media personality and he’s super famous so their paths never really crossed.

When they do meet it’s at some team get together BBQ. Sid’s been taking Anna around and introducing her to all the guys, and even though they all knew about her they’re still drawing some looks because Sid, damn. You can tell just by looking at them how gently smitten they are with each other. G’s obviously one of the first intros bc let’s be real, he hasn’t let it go since he found out and introducing Anna to anyone other than Flower or Tanger or Duper first would definitely earn a fine. They start chatting and there’s a bit of a nervous charge in the air but Geno is nice and says hi in Russian, and they find out they know a bunch of the same people in Moscow. All those weird woodwork mutual friends. And that takes them into a little chat about Moscow and their favourite places there that Sid can’t really contribute to.

Anna just looking back and forth between them and giving Sid searching looks and as they walk away like, “Your friend seems nice! Malkin’s a big name in Russia lately, I wasn’t sure what kind of man he’d be!”

Sid Thinking: Oh god they have so much chemistry Geno Thinking: ...Oh fuck I am SO INTO MY BEST FRIEND'S GIRLFRIEND Anna Thinking: Everyone is so nice! And hot! Zhenya is so tall. Sid is so thicc these boys are #blessed

Anyway just imagine Geno watching Sid and Anna chatting and laughing together, making the rounds. Sid’s arm just super casually around Anna’s waist, both of them laughing with Cath and Tanger. He would be lowkey jealous of them both and confused about why seeing them together makes him feel like shit. He’d go home with images of them together running through his head, Sid thumbing her hip, the way they leaned their heads together when talking, the arch of their throats laughing, the look in their eyes when they looked at each other.

Just imagine all the events and nights out Anna and Geno find themselves chatting amiably in Russian at. Sometimes they get talking about Sid, one of the many things they have in common, about how they met and funny stories about him. Anna telling Geno one time "well, this is just good timing, I've established my career and I'm ready to get married and be a mom?" softly, while gazing fondly over at Sid and licking BBQ sauce off her thumb.

G is just DYING because Sid's got that plan to like not have kids until he retires but LIKE MAYBE SHE'LL CHANGE HIS MIND. BUT SHE SHOULDN'T HAVE TO, HE SHOULD JUST WANT IT. A woman this perfect longing to carry his children??? He should be so lucky!!

Geno would always slink home a little miserable and lonely and self-pitying - flicking through his phone’s contacts thinking to organize a hookup but being too depressed to even do that. He’d get a little petty and mad the way G gets, “Sid doesn't even really care about getting married, not lonely like me, not that desperate for another person, he'd be fine on his own! It's not fair!”  He can’t believe how jealous he is but also just can’t get over it.

(It’s easier too to think he’s just jealous of Sid because Anna is amazing, but sometimes after too many vodka shots he can acknowledge that he thinks about Sid with Anna as much as he thinks about Anna with Sid - in the way you can when you know you’re not going to remember the realisation in the morning)

He'd be so terrible about everything, so unreasonable and so jealous of them both, just in a mood for months. He’s not very good at hiding his own feelings for other people’s good. And Geno’s moods affect every part of his life. Sid would probably try numerous times to ask him what's up, maybe eventually would have to sit him down in both friend and captain capacity and be like, ”G are you mad at me? What’s been going on with you? Your penalty minutes are off the charts.”

He’d keep getting brutally shut down and their relationship has NEVER been off like this. They GREW UP TOGETHER, Sid knew Geno was all bluster usually, but when he sat him down solo he usually cracked open and let Sid scoop out and sort through all his tremendous emotions. But now being shut out like this was painful and threw him for a loop. And of course Anna hears all about it, witnessing all of Sid’s bewildered hurt and confusion.

Then eventually Anna would have ENOUGH and be like "fuck this guy for making you feel like shit and also this is wreaking havoc on both your seasons!!"

Sid: I maybe just fell a little bit more in love with you

So she secretly goes to yell at Geno in a language he'll understand. Anna rocking up to his house and being like "So #1 fuck you, #2 what is your PROBLEM?"

Geno: YOU ARE MY PROBLEM! Anna: you don't like me dating Sid? You think I'm not good enough for him? Geno: NO. THAT'S NOT THE PROBLEM Anna: So you're jealous of him then? Geno: Also no Anna:  You're jealous of me then. Geno: NO Anna: SO WHAT IS THE PROBLEM Geno: BOTH. BOTH OF THOSE THINGS.

He might break into big ridiculous angry tears about it, just months of his own bottled up feelings and emotions he hasn’t been able to vent to ANYONE exploding out. Anna just looking at him with wide eyes for a moment before ushering him further into his own home and setting about making some tea.

Is there some comforting arm patting and texting Sid under the table? Maybe. But mostly Geno realizes what’s happening and gets his shit together enough to shoo her out of his house after profuse apologies and promises to get it together and start acting like a professional. Hopefully it’ll give him some time to curl up and lick his wounds and try to actually get his shit together.

But you can’t exactly put that cat back in the bag, and Anna goes back to Sid, who is so earnest and concerned, sits in his impossibly broad lap and asks if he’s ever thought about fucking Geno. They would look at each other in stunned silence for a few beats too long as a flush slowly rises in his cheeks which gives her her answer.

Sid like “I...I thought about setting the two of you up when we first met. You reminded me of him so much, and I couldn’t have him…but I could have you.” Followed by a rush of reassurances that of course he wants her and she’s his priority that she shuts down with a kiss. They maybe sit there like that for a bit with their foreheads together, just thinking about it.

More than fucking then. A relationship. A great love.

She would probably mull it over for a few days, scrolling through Geno’s instagram where he’s displayed his tender beating heart for the entire world to see. He loves animals, and children and his family. He’s not bad looking at all, the sheer size of his hands make her press her thighs together deliciously. She probably consults his birth chart and considers if she could handle two competitive, headstrong Leos, let alone one who is paired with a Tiger’s stubborn ego. She’d think about all the ways it could work, all the things they like about each other, and also about all the ways it could get fucked up and ruin everything. These things are complicated.

In the end she decides it’s not up to her, it’s up to them. So she bullies them into a sit-down with each other, locking them in the yard with enough food and beer to last the afternoon but promising she would only let them in when they’d worked out their problems and feelings and had come to a mutual decision about how to move forward. Neither of them had even known that the other had any feelings or interest like that; there’s a lot to talk about. And when they’re ready, they knock on the patio door so she can come talk too.

Of course the only real option is to move forward is as a triad, and Geno is not nearly noble and self-sacrificing enough to suffer through his own miserable lonely pining future for the sake of preserving a loved one’s relationship like some Canadians we know. So they agree this can work and move forward, and Anna immensely enjoys the addition that Geno makes to the relationship, spoiling them both with the kind of romance that didn’t come naturally to her or Sid, insisting on dinners out and sunny vacation spots. Also he has impeccable taste in lingerie and she enjoys taking him shopping to surprise and fluster Sid with later. Geno gets both of them, and to push his way in the middle on the couch and be annoying during quiet couch reading sessions, and to argue in favour of puppies and babies, and to smirk at Sid when he walks in on Anna’s legs around Geno on the kitchen counter. And Sid, he just gets everything he’s ever wanted pretty much.

IT’S A WIN ALL AROUND. OT3.