#how many more times are you gonna butcher their characters?

[gloriousburden]

i think they should make a movie where the writers actually like thor and loki

[for-a-longlongtime]

Little Beast

Written for @perotovar 's writing challenge 'An Offering of Frith'. The P Boys they had planned were already taken, so I asked for Santiago Garcia and got Fenrir assigned! Pairing: Santiago 'Pope' Garcia x Francisco 'Catfish' Morales Word count: 18.5K Warnings: Explicit, 18+ only, MDNI. 🏳️‍🌈 (DDDNE) DARK fic, AU. Extreme angst from A to Z. Lots of violence (guns, knives, beating, kicking), swearing, hate crime, homophobia (repeated use of a slur), abuse, repeated assault and murder, kidnapping, many mentions of blood and injuries, raiding, (body) horror, nightmares, substance use/abuse (alcohol, cocaine), smoking, arms trafficking, sex work, mental health struggles, trauma. M/M pairing, frotting, masturbation. Norse mythology meets Santi + P Boys meets magic realism in Colombia in the early nineties (so: Narcos related references like Escobar, the Castaño brothers and the Cali cartel).

A/N's: Written in Second Person - not reader insert, but Santiago's POV (aka you are Santi). Not gonna lie, this one is A LOT; writing it turned into some out-of-body experience. More about the gods & characters (and thank you’s) in foot notes.

main masterlist | read on AO3

Bogota, Colombia. 

You’re five years old and your name is Santiago. The house you share with your brothers and parents is small, deep in the comunas, and most people know where to find it. Lots of them will stop by, because of papi’s work, sometimes very early in the morning or really late at night. When you ask what kind of work he does, mama hushes you, and your brother Jay looks away. Your brother Joel however will quietly stare at your dad - too calm, while his eyes are so angry.

You’re seven years old and you still don’t know what your father’s job is. Not a teacher, or someone at the market. Not one of the guys who cleans up the trash on your corner. For a while you thought that maybe he was a butcher, because mami was often cleaning the blood from his clothes. “It stains so bad.” But you’d never seen him in the market, selling his wares.

Every few weeks he is gone for a long time, and often the police will visit the house, which always makes your mom cry.

Every now and then a new face will show at the house, asking to speak to your mother. The girls are always very pretty, dressed in bright colors. The guys often have shiny guns; some of them will let you hold it when mami isn’t in the room.

You see your father all the time when you’re waiting with her at the store. Often he’ll wear a funny looking hat, and sometimes his face looks different. But you know it’s him, always, by the smile and wink he gives you. When you tell mami, she never sees him and starts crying again, so you stop telling her about it.

Jay doesn’t come home often anymore. When you ask Joel if that is your fault, if you made him cry too, he shakes his head. “Don’t worry about it. You’re okay.”

You’re not sure if you are.

When it’s your eighth birthday, your father suddenly shows up with presents that make you the envy of your friends. Boxing gloves, a large pocket knife - that your mom right away tries to take away from you -, and you all eat so much dulce de leche cake.

You wake up in the middle of the night because you hear your father arguing. The loud bangs that follow are unmistakingly gun shots, and you find one of the casings the next morning near the front door. When you ask your mami about it, she gets so angry that you run away from home for the afternoon to hide, until it gets dark and she’s had the drinks that make her happier.

When you got the boxing gloves, you didn’t know that they would also give you more time with your father - but they do. He teaches you how to throw a punch, how to avoid an attack, read someone’s body language. When to attack someone if you need to defend yourself. Which parts of the body are most vulnerable, and where to stab somebody to make them bleed out quickly.

He’s proud, always, as he tells people about how good of a fighter you’re becoming. “Takes after me.” You don’t - not really, but you do your best to make him continue to believe that. Until you start to believe it too and knock out a guy who is twice your age.

When you’re ten, they try to burn down your house. You don’t know exactly who ‘they’ are, but you’ve heard the name El Gran Señor Lorenzano often enough to know that you should fear him.

The first time it happens, your dad is just in time to stop the fire from escalating. The second time, he’s not home, so you do put out the flames together with Joel.

The third time starts with a flaming bottle being thrown through a window, and as you all stare at the sight, the door gets knocked down and men with masks on their faces storm into the house

Your father runs away, seems to escape the men somehow. Your mom is hysterical and won’t listen to anyone, not even when the tall guy hits her in the face, and you want to beg her to not cry because you know it makes men more angry at her. Not even with your fight training do you stand any chance, and all you hear when somebody shoves a bag over your head and drags you outside and into a van, is your brother’s voice - Joel yelling at you to not fight the men and just protect yourself.

You’ve been away from home for almost a year when you turn eleven, to the point that you don’t think of it anymore as an actual place you can go to. You think you’re still in Bogota but you’re not sure. Sometimes they make you get in a truck again, or a car. Almost always you have to hide; you know that they don’t want people to see you. Sometimes there are other people, or even kids, and you’re pretty sure that you’ve seen at least a dozen dead bodies over the past months.

It’s when they send you to training camp that you realize there’s no way they’re ever going to let you go. The training unit is not the army, but it feels like a military group somehow. Maybe this is like the guerilla fighters you’ve heard about, defending your country.

This time you fight without the boxing gloves, using only your hands or sticks, just like the other kids your age are also being trained.

There are five of you, and Ramiro explains to each of you how to get to the location. The white powder isn’t heavy, tightly packaged in plastic, and every step of the way to your contact person you’re terrified of losing it somehow. You know the consequences - have seen the boys who were shot in the head, and the ones who weren’t lucky enough to die so quickly.

The man who is waiting for you is tall, fat and smells like grease and blood. You don’t remember much of what he says, your heart thumps so loud that it feels like it’s inside of your ears as you accept the package he hands you in return.

You’re one of the four boys who make it back.

Gustavo, the fifth boy, shows up two days later. His lifeless body is covered in bruises and blood, and when someone dares to ask what happened, the answer is that rats will be dealt with accordingly. “Exterminated.”

After three nights of solid nightmares and another mutilated body that’s found outside as a warning, you stop trying to think of ways to escape.

You’re almost twelve when you meet Francisco.

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He’s quiet and keeps to himself, but he’s not shy. When some of the older boys mistake that for fear, deciding to taunt him, he doesn’t respond initially. Only once the biggest bully steps right up to him, a sneer on his face, does Francisco lift his eyes to him and stares him down - and you can feel the tension.

You see the twitch of Francisco’s jaw, and even before the other guy takes a swing you know this is not going to end well for the bully.

It’s impressive how fast the new kid tackles his attacker to the ground, blood streaming from the boy’s noise as he scrambles to get away. But Francisco’s hand closes around his throat, keeping him pinned down. In a flash you see a piece of glass held against the boy’s neck, and that’s when you know for sure Francisco learned to fight the way you did. Your father’s voice echoes in your head, “If you stab someone there, it’s all over.”

You want to be his friend.

Not because he’s a good fighter; he’s far from the only one around here. It’s because he seems to be one of the few kids who doesn’t want to fight, just like you.

By the time you’re twelve, you and Francisco - Frankie - have become inseparable. You know that he’s never known who his mother is and that his father was recently killed by Pero Tovar, one of Lorenzano’s most feared men.

While the other kids try to get their hands on cigarettes, or booze, Frankie is just interested in books.

You like watching him read. On the very rare occasion that nobody else is around, he’ll often read something out loud for you. Mark Twain. Something about going to heaven for the climate, and hell for the company.

The first time Frankie reads that aloud, you have your eyes closed while listening to his voice. It makes you think of the ‘business’ your dad would do, or the way Lorenzano’s men would refer to ‘the company’ and ‘the big boss’. Bullet casings and dried up blood, the smell of your mami cooking beans with pork, and how some nights you fell asleep listening to her cry when your father still hadn’t returned home.

The second time Frankie read those words to you, about a year or so later, you realize it isn’t about going to hell for the work you do. It’s about not being alone in hell since you’ve got someone by your side.

The runs you’re sent on to drop off the product are not that bad at first. It’s a relief to be able to walk the streets, not be holed up inside or be in training.

Most of the kids that work for the cartels still live with their families in the comunas. You, Frankie and the others don’t have that freedom.

There are curfews to follow, gun practice, different kinds of training. It’s not the army, but it might as well be.

There often is discussion about the ACCU, Autodefensas Campesinas de Córdoba y Urabá run by the Castaño brothers. But when one of the other boys mentions FARC, he’s immediately silenced with a hard slap to his face by the instructor. “Those fucking communists. They’re the problem, you understand me?”

Pablo Escobar, however, turns out to be one of the few topics that’s welcomed for discussion by your instructors. Sometimes you have to think of the prayer candle your grandmother would light at the small altar in her living room, the framed picture of Escobar on the wall almost as large as the one of your late grandfather.

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Frankie is the only person you confide in, and you listen to the stories he tells you about his father. In return, you tell him about your brothers, Joel in particular - but the nightmares you have that night are enough to stop you from bringing them up again. It’s better not to think of your family; keep them locked away in small boxes in the back of your mind, where you can pretend they’re okay.

You’re both still not sure how you ended up here. When Frankie points out Tovar one time in passing, you recognize the man with the scar on his face as one of your dad’s frequent visitors. And the person who tried to kill him that night they took you away.

You’ve been getting some attention from the girls, but it’s nothing to the amount that is directed at Francisco - not just the girls in your group, but even during a drop-off in the brothels at times.  That’s how you’re both urged to ‘take some time with a girl you like’ when you join Juan for a drop-off. While you’re fucking a brunette who is a few years older than you are, Frankie is getting busy with a pretty red head on the other side of the room. You try to sneak a peek every now and then, but you know you have to be careful. If anyone catches you looking, you’ll get your ass beaten up - but you still can’t keep your eyes off him. 

The girl - Rosa? - under you moans, calls you ‘papi’ as she asks you to fuck her harder, and you do so. She’s tight and wet around your cock, and pretty, and you like her small tits, but your head is too focused on not openly looking at Frankie, making it hard to come. Once you do, Rosa kisses your cheek as she gets up, gives you a towel and she tells you she’s gonna clean up. Frankie finishes up not long after that.

When you’re both waiting in the dark alley out back for Juan to wrap up business inside, sharing a cigarette with Frankie, you can’t help but ask him. “Was it good?” You’re hoping he says no - that you’re not the only one who barely got off. Because maybe you’re not the weirdo if there’s at least one other person who feels the same, who isn’t thrilled like you know the other boys would be. “The girl.”

Frankie shrugs as he inhales the smoke, closing his eyes. “She was friendly. Nice.”

You wait for more words, but they don’t come from Frankie. So you try to force your own words out. “Yeah. Friendly.”

When Frankie opens his eyes again, he looks tired and conflicted. Unsure perhaps. He lifts the cigarette to his lips again, and your guard is down too much to stop your eyes from following that movement. 

His mouth.

Fuck, now you’re really hard. 

“We’re friends, right?” Frankie’s voice is hoarse, and somehow that sound makes your dick throb even more. 

You nod, then clear your own throat when you realize it’s not really all that clear in this dark street. “Yeah, of course,” you manage, trying to remember how long it’s been since you two met. Four, five years?

More of Frankie’s lips around the cigarette, and more tiredness in his eyes. Perhaps the uncertainty in his expression is more like the fear you’ve had beating in your chest now for half an hour already.

“Good.” Frankie nods, and before you can ask him why, he pushes you back against the brick wall, covering your mouth with his. You groan softly, your breathing suddenly so fast as he kisses you in a way you’ve never experienced before - in a way that, until now, you’ve never wanted to kiss anyone.

The sigh that escapes from Frankie’s mouth into yours is quiet, but you can feel the relief in his body when you kiss him back, feel how he grabs your hips and presses closer against you. You’re so hard that for a moment you can’t think straight, not until you feel him grind his cock against you, and then everything just goes electric in your head, because he’s just as hard as you are, and there is no time, because anyone can walk in on you two right now. It’s such a fucking dumb thing to do here - or anywhere.

He whispers your name, making it sound like a question, and when you nod and suck on his tongue, his hands slip from your waist to your ass, grabbing you tight and oh - fuck. Fuuuck. 

It’s not even a minute of desperate kissing, panting, the uncomfortable but so fucking good rub of his cock against yours through your clothes, and before you know it you’re whispering his name too, the word turning into a plea, because please, Francisco, please - and then it’s no longer just rubbing against each other, it’s Frankie actually fucking you against that wall, right through your clothes, neither of you breaking the kiss until you both come just like this. Right in your pants, not even having put a hand on each other’s dick, just pressed so closely together while you’re drowning in the taste of his mouth.

“Hey, assholes. You ready to go?” 

Juan’s loud voice booms through the alley, and Frankie immediately lets go of you like he’s been burned by fire. He moves several steps away, nearly tripping over his own feet, and the fear in his eyes is as loud as the fear beating inside of your rib cage. 

You drop down to one knee and tug at the laces of your sneakers, pretending you’re tying them, giving you just a few more seconds to catch your breath before you need to look Juan in the face, who seems completely oblivious about what he almost walked in on.

“Shithead. Took you long enough to keep us waiting.”

You’re both eighteen when someone catches the two of you. Your hands and mouth on Francisco in places they shouldn’t be, and his hands and mouth all over you. The fact that you’re both still fully clothed is probably the only thing that saves you from a much worse treatment. 

You beg them not to hurt him, tell them to give you the beating twice, even swearing that you were the one forcing yourself on Francisco. 

Somehow you manage to convince them, and it’s the comfort of knowing Frankie isn’t hurt that helps just a little against the abuse. Against the ringing in your ear which lasts for almost a week, the bruises on your ribs where they kicked you. You let it happen, know that it would be better if you didn’t fight back even though you could probably take out at least three of them. It would be one thing if it were just some guys bothering you - but a few of them are part of the leadership, and there’s no going around that. 

You see the anger and helplessness in Frankie’s eyes, the way he balls his fists and looks like he’s ready any moment to tackle the guys. But you know there’s no point in letting him get in between them and you, because you know better than to show any sign of weakness.

It is only once the tallest and older guy grabs you by your jaw, his other hand undoing his dirty pants, that you fight back. In less time than it takes him to growl “let’s see how good you suck my dick”, you kick out another guy’s legs from under him and swipe his knife, knocking your assailant down in the same move. 

“You want me on your dick?”, you yell as you grab him by his balls, jerking his pants down roughly so his dick and balls flop out. Your knife is against the base of his cock before he can even blink, and you stare him down, pressing the razor sharp blade against his skin and not caring if it draws blood. “Dare me,” you hiss at him as you spit into his face. “I’ll fuckin’ cut it off you right now.”

The other men jump you before you can slice into the man’s sweaty pale skin, just a hair away from cutting off his pathetic excuse for a dick and shoving it into his mouth to choke on. Frankie meanwhile has had enough, now launching himself at the biggest men who are holding you back - and if these were any normal circumstances, you’d welcome the help. Instead you just shake your head, begging for him to see that you’re dead serious about not wanting him to interfere.

“No,” you mouth wordlessly, then gasp out loud as you bite your lip until you taste blood, working hard to swallow your cries as someone pulls your arm behind you and breaks at least two of your fingers. There’s no way you’ll give them the satisfaction of hearing you cry, so you just stare at Frankie until you trust your voice to not crack. “Fish, get out. Go back. I’ll be-...”

“Fuckin’ fag.”  

Someone’s steel toe boot lands in your stomach, startling you with the hit of pain, and this time you yell at Frankie as they drag you away - that it will be okay, that he has to lay low and look after himself. The same way Joel had yelled at you when they had ripped you from your home and thrown you in the back of a van.

“You need to be smarter.”

The voice is suddenly so close that it makes you wince. Especially after having been locked up in silence and darkness for two days, without anyone coming to let you out or even say a word to you. “Please, just stop, okay?”, you manage as you get up to your feet, leaning against the cement wall as your head won’t stop spinning. “I haven’t done anything since. Can you…”

“They feed you?”

You stare at the man who interrupted you, trying to focus on the vague outline of his body as you can see - no, feel - him move closer through the darkened cell. “What? Who are…”

“Esdras-... Ezra. I asked you something, boy.”

“No. They didn’t.” You raise your chin up in defiance, even if he can probably not even see it. “I’m fine.”

The stranger hums, pushing some food into your hand. “You need to stay strong. Get stronger, and smarter.”

You can’t help but shove it right into your mouth, and by the time you’ve swallowed all of it your stomach is already hurting. It was a stupid move, and you usually know better; small, slow bites are the best way to eat after having gone without for a while. But the hunger and loneliness had gnawed at you these past two days, making it hard to think straight.

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You’re locked up for a week, but Ezra keeps showing up daily with food. With conversation, too, even if it’s mostly him talking. It remains unclear how he fits into the organization you’ve been with for years now. When he mentions ‘El Gran Señor’, you suddenly remember Lorenzano, the fires at the house, your father as a fading face in the crowd. 

After they took you away, your father never showed up anywhere again for you. Not in your dreams either. You wonder if it’s because you failed him, because you didn’t fight well enough - even though Joel told you not to fight, keep yourself safe. Maybe if you’d been more like Jay, this wouldn’t have happened. 

You only get a decent look at Esdras’ face once. 

His eyes remind you of Francisco.

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Once you’re finally released and sent back to the barracks, it takes just a few hours for you and Frankie to sneak off somewhere. When he kisses you, both of you pretend to not notice the tears that are flooding your eyes. 

Out of that cell, his warm body under yours, it really sinks in what you’ve known deep inside already for months, despite knowing the risks and consequences. 

There’s no way you can ever give this up. Give him up. Not even if they try to beat it out of you.

When Ezra shows up one night, standing at the back of the communal dining area, Frankie tenses up in the seat next to you. He nudges your leg with his foot as he continues eating, then draws your attention to the other side of the room with a barely noticeable flick of his index finger. 

Even when you tell him this is the guy who gave you food when you were locked up, he won’t take his eyes off Ezra. Frankie has always been taller than you, broader, and when Ezra passes your table you can tell by the way he sizes him up that Frankie has already considered at least three ways to take him out.

“Santiago. Tell your guard dog to stand down.”

Slowly you close your fist around the fork you’re holding, your anger right under the surface, but the smirk tugging at Ezra’s lips makes it clear that his words were a test rather than a challenge.

“I can train you. An hour every night. You’re good - but I can make you great.” Ezra nods at Frankie without taking his eyes off you. “If anyone besides him finds out, we’re done and they’ll probably take you away.” 

“And do what?” Francisco is still staring at Ezra, and you’re sure he’s figured out at least one more way by now to take him out. 

“Kill me,” you say, with zero doubt about that outcome, at the exact moment Ezra also says, “Kill him”.

Frankie’s eyes narrow immediately, the muscle in his jaw flexing as he tries to control himself. “What if he says no?”

“He won’t,” Ezra replies simply, at the same moment that you nod and tell him you’re in.

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Ezra is a study in contrasts. He speaks like someone from Francisco’s books, with a slight accent that makes him stand out as much as his blond patch does, and often more candidly than most people are expecting. It’s only much later, when you hear him speak to an American guy, that you realize he’s likely not from Colombia.

“The origin of my story is fairly irrelevant, Santiago.” He waves off your question when you ask him about himself. “Besides, people are never quite so hard pressed to go find Parson on a map.”

He’s worked for Lorenzano for many years now, initially a mercenary who became one of the people highest up in the system. The nickname most people use for him is The Judge, or, if you are to believe the most wild stories about it, La Venganza - The One Who Brings Retribution. 

Lorenzano and Tovar primarily run the organization, neither of them shy about the opulence and violence around them. But Ezra is a third pillar whose sober green-brown clothing often makes him blend in anywhere. Anything but quiet, but focused on other things than his two partners. He’s not keen on having a public face as he prefers to move quietly, getting both the impossible and the unspeakable done.

Most people fear him and it doesn’t take you long to figure out why. The man moves and fights like a killer, striking without hesitation, and you can’t help but wonder if he has had military training. He was right about what he had told you at the start - he did make you better and stronger, in physical combat as well as verbal expressiveness.

Frankie notices it too, even only a few weeks in. “When you get back here, you always look like you’ve been fed,” he remarks one night as you sit on the rooftop with him, gazing out over the thousands of city lights sparkling in the dark sky. “He said yet what he wants in return for all the teachings?”

You shake your head. “I’m sure that’ll come later.” And see, that’s something you still haven’t learned in all those years. It’s hard to look ahead when you don’t know what to expect and don’t have something specific to look forward to.

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You’re still eighteen - or so you think, because it has become impossible to keep track of the days - when you realize that you actually love Francisco. 

As you slice the throat of the guy who tries to attack him, you know that you would do anything for him. It doesn’t matter that it takes you hours that night to wash your blood soaked clothes.

Your mother was right all those years ago. Blood stains are hard to get out of fabric.

Once killing becomes a regular thing of your work for the syndicate, so do the nightmares. It’s not like you didn’t have them before; they’ve always been there, ever since Lorenzano’s men took you away from home. But this time you keep seeing the faces of the men you’ve killed; sometimes one by one, other times all of them together in a room. 

They keep coming back, unwilling to let you rest. 

Sometimes they try to speak to you, other times they can’t. Occasionally you need to kill them again, but their screams get drowned out by Frankie yelling for him - but you can never find him, see him.

You see your brother Joel every night that you dream of the people who died by your hand. 

Half of him looks normal, even though he’s older now: a man instead of a boy, still several years ahead of you in age, and you wonder if this is really what he looks like now. The other half of his body he keeps out of your sight if he can help it, turned towards corpses or soon to be dead bodies that are bleeding out. 

You know he tries to not show you that side of him because it scared you the first time; it was still Joel, but mostly just bones and muscles and tendons, someone who stands half in the world around you and half in the underworld. Worse than a ghost. But still Joel.  

Every time you see him, he tells you to keep yourself safe. “It’s not your fault.” But unlike when you were little, he doesn’t try to tell you that you’re fine. You both know that you aren’t.

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Others also notice how good you’ve become over the past year. How training exercises are a breeze for you, how much faster you are at tactical planning than most others. Now you’re eighteen, both you and Frankie are being watched carefully to see if you have potential to move up in the ranks - something Ezra had already mentioned and prepared you for. 

“Beat them at their own game, little beast. You’re smarter than almost any of them.”

At first you hate the nickname, because it feels like he is mocking you. But that was not Ezra’s style; he is always upfront and open, at times to a fault. Too many years in this place have made you hyper vigilant and protective, quick to attack with bared teeth and intention to take the other person down. But around him that’s not necessary. So you reluctantly accept the nickname, work to do justice to it.  

Once they start sending you off on serious engagements, you find that Ezra tends to be in charge of many of them - the raids, the more undercover missions, occasionally dealing with conflict among stakeholders rather than just being there to clean up a mess. It’s not surprising that you and Frankie work well together in the field whenever you’re teamed up; you both know each other so well, including limits and strength, to the point that you can easily anticipate each other’s moves, and that puts you front and center for effectiveness. 

On the rare occasion the two of you are split up in different teams, Ezra is always assigned to Frankie’s group - something none of you comments on. They’re not exactly on friendly terms with each other, particularly to Frankie always being cautious, but then again they don’t need to be. The mutual respect is reassuring, especially because you’re sure Ezra knows there’s more going on between you and Frankie than the syndicate allows for.

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The next time you dream of Joel, there’s a black wolf cub playing at his feet, gentle and even tempered, playfully nipping at Joel’s fingers. When he sees you, he immediately bounces over to smell you, then happily paws at your legs - just like he’s just any other stray puppy, excited to get your attention and become familiar with your scent. His joy is contagious, and it’s not long until you’re sitting down on the ground to play with him, where eventually he falls asleep in your lap.

When something in the darkness catches your eye, the pup stirs almost immediately from his sleep, picking up on your body language. In the blink of an eye he’s put himself in front of you and Joel, suspiciously eyeing the wisps of smoke that curl from the darkness. He growls low, baring his small fangs as he tries to make himself bigger than he is to face the unknown.

Joel hushes it gently, assuringly. “Little Beast, you’re okay.” When both you and the cub simultaneously look at him, you wonder which one of you two he is talking to. 

Even if the days have become more bearable and lighter since you met Francisco, you still don’t think you’re the one who is okay - and sometimes you wonder if you ever will be again.

Ezra fights dirty. 

Knives, guns, hand-to-hand combat; he always has an extra card up his sleeve somehow. But it’s not the moves or weapon mastery you learn from him that make you better and faster. 

It’s the resilience he teaches you. Clearing your mind, striking without hesitation. Thinking ten steps ahead and not giving away what your next move is. You’ve seen him out on the streets or during raids, and unlike Lorenzano and Tovar he tends to hang back, take a moment to take in the scene. While they go in guns blazing, often blasting an actual path through people to get what they want, Ezra is more deliberate. If he can take out just a single target to get the job done, he’ll opt for that - he knows that other syndicate members will deal with the rest of a DEA team, guerilla fighters or a competing cartel. 

He’s also one of the few in leadership who makes calculated decisions regarding the location that he will take out a target. You’ve seen Gilberto kill more than a few sicarios by simply showing up at their houses - no regard for any wives, children or elderly people who either get into the crossfire or are witness to it. But Ezra will always opt for a much cleaner kill; out in the street, in a bar or at a roadstop when it’s least expected. If it didn’t all come down to the same thing - killing people and moving coke or arms -, you would almost call it more ethical.

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One night, you hear the pup whining before you see it - a low, unhappy sound that chills your blood. It takes too long to find him in the darkness, and you’re tripping over things in front of you, something telling you it’s probably for the best that you can’t quite see what or who they are.

You finally find the pup when his eyes open and look right at you, the golden pupils and white of his eyes a stark contrast to the darkness around you. As you kneel down to examine him, you see the golden cords wrapped around his fur, and a wave of terror washes over you. He didn’t just get tangled up in them; somebody deliberately put those bindings on him. 

You hush him softly as your fingers slide over the cords, trying to find any knots or weak spots where you can start prying them off him. “I’ll help you, okay? We’ll get you out of this.” But as you do so, the wolf starts wriggling around, his sharp teeth snapping at the cords around until they all break and disappear into the darkness, along with the rest of your dream.

“I’m moving to Cali in a few weeks.” 

Ezra offers you a cigarette, and you take it from him, your head working overtime as you digest the news dropped on you. “Shit. Alone?”

He shakes his head, sharing his lighter with you as he brings his own cigarette to his lips. “There are some relocations happening in the structure of - well. You’ve seen it out here,” he gestures at the city you’re overlooking from the hill you’re standing on. “The Army is withdrawing support from ACCU. Some new government people are acting surprised about the Field Workers Self-Defenders ties with the Castaños, which is bullshit. But dynamics are changing in Córdoba and Urabá, which also affects Cali.”

“Does that mean-...”

“Do you want to come along, Santiago?” Ezra blows out the smoke before he looks at you. “You can stay here, of course. Nothing much should change aside from my… influence.” You both know that means Lorenzano will make the decisions, and that without Ezra’s influence, life becomes a lot more unpredictable in the syndicate. “But Cali will give both of you the opportunity to move up. Be in charge of operations, eventually.”

You don’t miss the casual reference of ‘both’ that he uses, and you feel relieved that you don’t have to ask the question out loud - if Frankie would be able to join you, too. Part of you wants to say no, because leaving Bogota would also mean leaving behind the scraps of life you remember before the syndicate kidnapped you that night and roped you into their organization.

“Think about it,” Ezra interrupts your thoughts before you can respond. “Your choice to make, your consequences to bear. I know you never asked for all of this - neither of you did, of course. But owning your choices and what results from them makes all the difference.” 

When you ask Frankie later that night, he doesn’t hesitate for a second. “I’m in.”

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The move to Cali is uneventful in a good way, and the new living space is both brighter and larger than Bogota. Some things don’t change though: there are still about ten of you per sleeping quarters, but at least the beds are better and the facilities aren’t as old. 

It surprises you how it feels a little easier to breathe. You hadn’t expected it, but there’s a relief in just seeing the city as it is - not thinking about who had died on that corner, which house is a drop off spot or a brothel, or where you’d gotten beaten up. Even when you know it won’t last long.

The warmer weather means longer evenings outside, too. New spots that you and Frankie discover, where there’s just enough privacy to be together for a few minutes. You kiss him in new alleyways, let him press you against the wall behind a quiet church. Let your hands roam and grab when you’re on the rooftop and you’re sure that nobody is around. 

It’s never enough, and the waiting in between opportunities is torturous. Sometimes it takes weeks until you can take him in your mouth again, have him slide inside of you, or when you can fuck him - rushed and hard and frantic -, leaving marks that were made within minutes but that last for days as dark bruises on your hips and shoulders and thighs.

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Your nightmares remain the same in Cali as they were in Bogota. A constant every single night, at times in different settings than before, matching the buildings and streets of this new city. 

You dread all of them, but Joel’s presence in those dreams makes it manageable. Even when he’s not around, the wolf cub is always there with you. Protective and affectionate, at times bigger than you - but never intimidating.

Part of you wants to tell Frankie about your dreams. Not just about the cub, but Joel too. You just don’t know where you’d even begin to explain it without sounding insane.

Ezra gives you more space those first couple of weeks in Cali, training only every other day with you, then informs you that you and Frankie will be joining him on an assignment out of town. You’ve done this before and know that lodging is always together with leadership in the same room. Except this time that seems to be different.

“It appears there has been a miscommunication. They didn’t have any rooms with two beds, only singles,” he informs you, his face uncharacteristically neutral as he hands you a room key. “You two are across the hallway from me and will have to share a bed.” 

Your jaw nearly drops as you stare at him, and you can feel the disbelief radiating from Frankie, too. But Ezra pretends to not notice it as he turns away. “I trust there will be no disappearing, Little Beast. You know the fatal consequences of that.”

The room is shitty, there are only three channels that work on the tv, and there’s a concerning smell coming from the toilet if you don’t close the lid completely. The bed is a full size though instead of a twin, creaks every time you move, and has some threadbare sheets and two thin pillows.

It’s perfect.

It has never happened before that you and Francisco had more than half an hour of privacy to yourself in a locked room - let alone nine hours in one that also has a bed.

You fuck so, so very much that night. 

It’s deliriously intoxicating, having each other in every possible way you can imagine - and a few more ways you hadn’t even considered before. By the time it’s 5:30 am, neither of you can move anymore. Sore, exhausted and beyond spent you fall asleep, curled up against each other.

For the first time in eight years you don’t have any dreams, let alone nightmares.

The newness of Cali lasts about three months. By then, the city has gained the same marks and blood all over it that you had left behind in Bogota; the drugs, fights, but this time there are also bombs. 

It’s a lot more damage than you’re used to, the number of victims making your stomach turn when the news reports on it later those nights. Some of the other guys are thrilled when they see the result of their work on tv, bragging about it, but it sickens you every single time.

It’s bad for you, but it hits Frankie even harder. He has lost family and friends in the past because of bomb attacks, and you know that when he wakes up at night screaming, it often tends to be exactly that which replays in his mind.

You’re both used to helping each other through hard times, but you see his eyes become more distant as the weeks pass. You do what you can, from stupid jokes to trying to find him new books, but you can’t help but feel it’s your fault.

Maybe he wouldn’t be in such bad shape if you two had stayed in Bogota.

Maybe you did this all wrong.

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Frankie is fast. Really fucking fast.

Not when it comes to running, although he does well if needed. But it’s when you see him behind the wheel of a truck, with Ezra, you and a handful of other guys, that you realize just how good he is. Driving a getaway car, chasing down another truck through the city, diversion techniques. You don’t know where he even learned them, because it’s not that often that any of you get to drive. 

It’s Ezra who decides that this is going to be a regular thing for Frankie. “I want you as our transportation guy next time we venture out on an endeavor,” he says, eyes sharp as he observes Frankie switch gears, avoid a child who runs out into the road, then rev the engine to catch up with the other vehicle in your party. “Are you interested in cars?”

Frankie just nods affirmatively, his eyes locked on the terrain in front of him. You can’t help but chime in, also realizing this could mean that the two of you won’t be assigned to different teams anymore. “His uncle had a garage, so he grew up in it. Learned how to work on cars before he was eight,” you offer. 

It earns you a warning look by Frankie, who is clearly not thrilled about you offering that information - but you know it only helps his case. Ezra only asks things for a reason, and you know it would not be to fuck Frankie over. “He really knows his shit.”

“Good. That will get you far.” Ezra pulls out two guns, checking the ammo, then suddenly looks at Frankie like he just got a bright idea. “Francisco. Did you ever fly a helicopter before?”

This time Frankie actually takes his eyes off the road, and you can tell by the twitch in his jaw that he’s very hard trying to not show his enthusiasm. You know him well though, and his eyes suddenly look more radiant than you’ve seen in a long time.

“Not yet. But I bet I can with some training.”

The first time they put you in charge of a raid, you end up puking behind a bush once everything is over. More than just a few bodies are scattered across the property that’s about to be set on fire, and that’s not new - but being the leader of a raid hits so much harder than any time you had to merely participate. The only relief you have is that you don’t need to deal directly with the losses, or gather the money and drugs. 

When one of your men calls you over, he points his rifle at the three kids huddled against each other on the back porch, and you can only get yourself to look right at them once you feel Francisco’s hand on your back.

“Not worth the trouble,” you inform the guy who called you over, ignoring the way your stomach turns, and you turn back to the children once he has left. A six year old girl is the oldest of the kids, her eyes blank as she holds a baby in her lap and a four year old boy pressed against her side. Something about that look in her eyes reminds you of Joel - not the brother you grew up with, but the one in your dreams with that side he tries to show you as little as possible. 

“Are they dead?”, she asks you, still not showing any emotion despite the crying boys clinging onto her, and you nod. Whether it’s her parents or someone else she’s referring to, none of the adults in the raided house are still alive. 

She nods back at you, no sign of surprise on her face. “Please don’t hurt the boys,” she then says, sounding so much older than her age. “They didn’t–...”

“We won’t.” 

You breathe in deeply when Francisco speaks for you, then reach for the wad of money that you had put into your pocket a few minutes earlier. Stealing from El Gran Senor always ended badly, but these raids were the only options you had to get your hands on anything of value. 

The girl flinches when you reach for her, and once again it’s Frankie who reassures her. “We’re not gonna hurt you.”

“Do you know how to get to the village?”, you ask her as you put the money in her hand. She nods, and for a moment you could swear that you see a wolf cub staring at you from the trees. “Find someone to help you. Don’t show them the money.” You bite back the words of apology that are on your tongue, knowing that they won’t help or would even be believed. “You can do it. Be brave.”

“We have to go.” Francisco’s voice is tight but decisive, and you nod as you let him tug you along, back to the men who have loaded up their cars with all the valuables they could gather. Drugs, money, guns. 

Like the next raid will be. And the next. And the next.

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“You exceeded expectations, little beast. A mission well planned and executed. Congratulations are in order.” The look on Ezra’s face is one of pride as you debrief him. As he scribbles down some more notes to wrap up his report, you hesitate for a moment, considering one last thing.

“There were three kids.”

Ezra’s eyes flick up at you much faster than you expect, but then he shakes his head. “It appears that you are mistaken about this,” he says as he resolutely puts away his paper and pen. 

“I saw them. I…”

“You’re exhausted.” Ezra’s voice cut you off sharply, the tension in his jaw suddenly clear and reminding you of Frankie. “I appreciate you doing the debrief at this late hour, but you should probably rest. There’s nothing more I need for the final report.”

You know when to take a hint; know that the walls have ears, too, so you take the dismissal in stride. The walk back to the barracks is short, and most of the other guys are already fast asleep as you get in.

Francisco’s bed is only a few feet away from yours, one of about a dozen in the room. The moonlight offers just a small stream of light into the room, and as you start to take your clothes off, you can feel Frankie’s eyes on you. You’re both showered and cleaned up hours earlier, but somehow you still feel the smoke in your lungs and ashes on your skin, like some kind of phantom feeling.

Frankie watches you quietly as you strip down to your underwear. He knows that you’re aware of him looking at you, and you swallow hard when you see him shift under the blanket - see his hand move down to touch himself.

There’s no privacy here - there never is, maybe even less so than there was in Bogota. But at least there’s this, knowing your bed is just a few feet away from his. Being able to see glimpses of him in the moonlight. His hand moving further down, still under that blanket, and when his eyes close momentarily you know he’s got his hand on his cock. 

You get into bed and pull the sheets up over yourself, laying on your side so you can still see Frankie. When his eyes flutter open again, you slip your hand into your underwear to touch yourself too, and you see his eyes flick over your body as he realizes you’re joining him. 

It’s hard to control your breathing, especially when it’s so quiet at night, but you’re both experts at this by now. Hungry eyes focused on eachother in the mostly dark sleeping quarters. You pretending your fingers are his - him pretending his fingers are yours. It’s not much, but it’s something; anything to make you feel alive during nights like these. 

Frankie is in your dream.

And Joel is looking at him. 

Right at him - both Joel’s living half as well as the one that is in decay. It chills you in a way that’s so startling that the fear grabs you by your throat out of nowhere.

This isn’t supposed to happen. Frankie isn’t supposed to be in any of your dreams that are also occupied by Joel. It happens all the time that you hear Frankie scream in your dreams, but it is always separate from where you are - like he’s in a different space and the sound just happens to carry.

Not now. At least he’s not screaming, but he and Joel are looking at each other from a distance, before Frankie’s glance meets yours. Full of questions. 

You try to keep your voice calm, but you hear the trembling when you speak. “Don’t take him from me.” 

You don’t know how you would do it; prevent Joel from taking Frankie with him the way he does with the other people, the other bodies. All you know is that it can’t happen.

“I never would.” Joel shakes his head. “Besides, he’s a warrior. And she wouldn’t allow me to. She’s the one who owns his head.”

“What does that even mean?”, you ask, suddenly noticing the woman behind Frankie. She’s taller than he is, dressed in a style that seems very out of place, not in the least because of the brown fur that’s a prominent part of the outfit. But something is familiar about her.

When she puts her hand on Frankie’s shoulder, he glances at it for a second before he brings his eyes back to you.

“Nothing for you to worry about,” Joel says, and you shiver from the cold wind that blows past you.

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By the third raid you lead, you understand why Ezra assigns you to these missions. You’re good at planning, leading your team, getting the work done, taking down the people that need to be eliminated - but you’re pretty sure that it’s really about the children. 

There never is any mention of them in the information you get beforehand; those reports are only about the adults, the snitches, dealers who don’t hold up their end of the deal, or the sicarios who have taken wrong steps. And you’ve seen what happens at other raids. Many of the others won’t hesitate to shoot a child, use them as collateral, and you don’t doubt that there are situations that end even worse than those two options.

You quickly develop the habit to let the others chase the targets while you - and most often Frankie too - will explore the premises to find any children. In some cases, they’re barely teenagers, the fear in their eyes clear enough to indicate that they are in the wrong place at the wrong time. Other times, they’re infants, toddlers, held close by siblings who are barely older than them.

Getting them out becomes a priority for you, particularly when after every mission you see Ezra’s relief when you make a subtle remark about any kids. There’s a lot he can’t say out loud, not just because of his position in the syndicate, but also because wiretaps have become frequent these days. So you keep it very brief, often will only mention it when the two of you are alone - a quick update on what happened to the kids.

“She was brought to her older sister.” 

“They ended up at the neighbor's house.”

“Someone knows where her other relatives live.”

You always swipe money from raids when given the chance, stashing it away in an air vent in your sleeping quarters that only you and Frankie know about. But as the raids occur more often, each leaving behind an even bigger impact than the one prior, you start to put most of the money in the children’s pockets before whisking them off to safety.

It never stops feeling like you’re trying to fix a broken dam with a band-aid, but it feels like the best possible option. Especially when you think back of how you landed in this position, and how you’d been taken away from your home. In an ideal world, you could decide to defect – find a way out for you and Frankie, take the money and run. But throughout the years you’ve seen that almost every single person who attempts to get out of this world will end up dead; not just murdered, but tortured first, before it’s all inflicted on the people closest to them, too. 

So you run the raids. Find a way to get the kids out. Have nightmares - then repeat. And repeat. And repeat some more.

The problem is that you’ve gotten really good at this.

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The next time you see the tall woman covered in furs, you’re not dreaming. 

It’s the middle of a raid, and you and Frankie are chasing down a guy who is trying to escape from the rooftop. He jumps over to the next building, and Frankie is about to leap the same distance between the roofs, when you suddenly see that woman right next to him. 

Calmly she puts her hand on his shoulder and Frankie stops abruptly, turning around to look behind him with a bewildered expression. “Santi, we-...”

A terrible scream sounds from the other roof, and when you look over, you see your target scrambling to hold onto something, while the roof shingles under his feet are slipping away. With a loud noise, the foundation of the roof falls apart, yanking the man’s body down with brute violence and you hear him scream more until a loud bang silences him.

“Fuck,” Frankie croaks, staring at the destruction, and you grab his untouched shoulder tightly, needing to feel him under your hands, that he’s really still here by the grace of not having made that same jump as the man did. “I think he’s impaled.”

The tall woman on his other side looks right at you, then nods as she steps away, disappearing into thin air in that same move. 

These days, when Tovar and Lorenzano make a stop in Cali, it happens more often than not that one or both of them will talk to you; an extremely rare occurrence for somebody in your position. 

Sometimes they’re there for a debriefing with Ezra, other times one of them will remark that bigger things are waiting for you in the near future. Trying to find a balance between doing the work that’s expected from you and keeping your head straight has become increasingly difficult, and you’re not the only one struggling with it.

Francisco oscillates between extremes most of the time. As a co-pilot, he’s mastered skills that very few in the syndicate actually have to offer, not to mention his skills when it comes to engineering and fixing up vehicles. Flying clears his head, grounds him in his body in the best possible way it seems. But once he’s back on the ground, especially when they need to go on raids and he’s dealing with anything but transportation, you often see him shut down and try to dissociate, something that’s hard to bring him back from. It gets even worse during moments when he decides to partake in the cocaine that’s always easily available.

A year later, you still haven’t figured out a way to get the two of you away from all of this. The money in your stash isn’t enough, and you know Lorenzano has men everywhere across the country - there was no way to make it anywhere without being shot in the head sooner or later. So you work. You learn from Ezra. You take the praise. And the nightmares - during the nights and during the days - keep getting worse.

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Leaving Cali happens in a rush, with none of you expecting it - including Ezra. ‘Reassignment to a rural area’ is the official message, which in practice means a camp right in the middle of the jungle. 

“We’re here to take out those fuckin’ communist guerillas,” was the more extended explanation that everybody who relocated from Cali to officially join ACCU. Also known as ‘Peasant Self-Defenders of Córdoba and Urabá’, the group had been founded by the Castaño brothers after their father was kidnapped and killed, in retaliation to the left-wing Marxist guerillas. ACCU was knee deep into the drug trade, and, as you had discovered years earlier, a lot of people fighting for them got here the same way you and Frankie had.

FARC, the Revolutionary Armed Forces of Colombia known as the guerillas, stood out because they did employ tactics like kidnapping, but weren’t involved in the drug trade. Instead they fought for ‘social justice and the rights of the poor’, which in practice meant a whole lot of enemies.

“These aren’t the usual raids,” Ezra told you in the first couple of days on the ground, as he’d been filling you, Frankie and the others in on the different stations, people in charge, and what to expect. “This is a lot of combat, sometimes involving hostages.”

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‘A lot of combat’ is an understatement, as you and Frankie find out right from the start. The amount of assault rifles was overwhelming, as were the number of casualties per week. No more flights for Frankie for the time being, now mostly driving trucks of various sizes. What perhaps is the worst of it all is the complete and utter lack of privacy, even by the low expectations you already had.

With all the communal areas even more exposed than in Cali, there barely was any opportunity to sneak off. Here, finding a good hiding spot meant doing so in the jungle, risking death, because the odds were too high that you’d run into FARC members.

At times there were reports coming in from the major cities. Whispers about a pact between the DEA and some narcos, competing cartels. American reports on what was happening in Colombia, which often had barely anything to do with what was really going on. Rumors about the commies having grown massively in numbers. Everything is urgent, all the time, but now with a constant threat of being hit severely worse than would be the case in the city. 

Sometimes you wonder if you and Frankie should’ve stayed in Bogota all along.

The second time you dream of the wolf cub in bindings, you immediately notice something is wrong - even before it cries out for you. This time they look like proper chains, the metal scraping against the cub’s fur and skin, and your first thought is that these are going to be much harder to remove than the first ones.

They’re also not merely restraining the wolf; this time it has properly been captured, the chains secured to a palm tree like the ones you see every single day around you. The pup howls, clearly more agitated this time, and you hush it gently, petting his fur while examining the restraints. “What keeps happening here, buddy?”

“Trusting the wrong people has consequences.”

You look up when you think you hear Joel’s voice from nearby, except it’s not him - but your father leaning against another palm tree, his face solemn as he looks back at you.

Your FATHER?

The wolf cub growls, and this time it’s not the usual angry growl of caution that he tends to make — it’s more like a snarl, layers of rage and destruction underneath. It yanks hard at the chain that has him tethered to the tree, sharp teeth biting at it until the chain breaks, and before you can do anything, it bolts over to where your father is standing, leaping up to attack him viciously.

You wake up screaming so loudly that you wake up all the others in the sleeping quarters, only calming down somewhat once Frankie physically shakes you out of it.

Going back to sleep turns out to be impossible, and it’s only after you try to skip sleep for the next two nights that your body finally caves in, knocking you out into a deep sleep, while you’re exhausted and scared of the dreams that might come back to you.

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Choices have never been an option with the syndicate. Either you do what you’re being told, or chances are that someone puts a bullet into you. That’s how you find yourself leading a team that is much bigger than you’re used to, not to mention with more challenging missions than you’ve done before.

Running drugs or arms in a city is pretty easy - even collecting it by force, or dealing with money. When raiding a building, there’s always a clear plan beforehand: assign people to specific spots, have a backup plan, keep the escape routes in mind, and make sure there’s enough ammunition.

Taking over a small FARC outpost is an entirely different thing. The unpredictability of the jungle, poorer communication methods, and with sightlines often being blocked, it’s not all that straightforward to take out a group of guerillas.

If it hadn’t been for Ezra’s training over the past years, you wouldn’t know where to start. But as always, you adjust - particularly with Frankie by your sight. The outpost gets conquered, another group of armed fighters elsewhere is taken down. But the guilt you were sort of able to remedy in Bogota and Cali, by helping to get some of the kids out, gnaws at you constantly here in the jungle. When twelve year olds are as heavily armed as you are, and even more eager to put a bullet in between your eyes, there’s not much of a chance to find some redemption.

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Just because Ezra is a good killer doesn’t mean he’s comfortable with it, you’ve noticed. You can see it eating away at him, just as it does with you. He still talks plenty to you about everything, but you can tell the isolation out here in the jungle is getting to him as well.

“I did a lot of work as a freelancer, Little Beast,” he replies when you ask him one day while you’re training with him. “I’m a floater, and some might say a merch, but I’m not merely a hit man. To be completely candid, this situation out here has… proven to disappoint.”

You want to ask him if he’s ever thought about getting out, but you don’t dare to - not with the lack of privacy around you. It’s not like you expect him to just offer you a way out; you know it’s not that simple, but throughout the years you’ve considered every possible option. Being here in the jungle has led you to consider defecting and joining FARC’s side, but you’re not naive enough to believe that will be a solution in the long run.

The one thing you’ve been able to keep secret out here is the money you’ve saved throughout the years. You carry it on you most days, as there is no proper hiding spot out here, carefully folded into a small pocket bible as that’s the one thing that won’t get searched during inspection.

Sometimes you try to remember the prayers your mother would say as she’d ask for help and protection. Even when you’re pretty sure none of her saints would listen to you, after everything you’ve done.

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Something snaps inside of you when you find Frankie doing coke.

He swears it’s not a common thing, that it has only happened ‘two or three times’, that one of the guys - that bastard David - just offered it to him to be able to make it through a mission he was dreading. You know Frankie has been struggling, has just as many nightmares as you do, and the complete lack of privacy here is making it so much harder to find moments to sneak away and find a moment of peace together. But you also know it always ends very badly when anyone starts doing coke to be able to make it through the days.

The next day it’s hard to control your anger - not at Francisco, but at everything regarding ACCU. You make him stay back in the camp, despite his protesting, leading your team on an afternoon attack, and the blind rage that takes hold of you in the heat of the battle is all consuming. It takes less time than expected to carry out the siege with your team, with more casualties due to wrongly estimating how many rebels you were attacking, and just when you shoot their leader you suddenly realize David is on your left, fighting someone else.

Fucking David who gave Francisco that coke.

You aim your gun without even thinking twice and shoot him straight through the head.

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Tovar is not amused when he finds out David didn’t make it. “He was one of our best. What the fuck happened?”

“I’m not sure. Didn’t have eyes on him.” You calmly look at him, giving him an opportunity to respond, and you know that you’re too good of a liar to give anything away. When he doesn’t say anything, you continue with the rest of your briefing. News spreads fast through the camp, and by the time you catch up with Frankie that evening, you can tell by the look in his eyes that he knows. Of course he does. He’s the only one you’ve never been able to lie to.

Ezra also doesn’t ask you what happened.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━���━

When you were younger, running around with Joel and Jay in the neighborhood, your grandmother would always be the one to tell you boys to get home before dark. “It’s not that I don’t trust you - I don’t trust others to not get you into trouble,” she’d say.

You trust Frankie when he told you he wouldn’t take coke again. But now, you understand what your grandmother meant.

David’s buddy Arturo is the next person who offers some coke to Francisco, clearly hoping to make a deal. When Frankie turns it down, he keeps pushing, then eventually tries to persuade you.

You give it six days. Then, when you’re out in the field, you send him into a situation that you know is going to get him killed. He gets ambushed by two kids who take him out with their knives. Even though you could’ve taken down both of them with your rifle, you don’t shoot, and you see the relief in their eyes as they run away.

Arturo is still breathing when you check on him, but your own knife quickly deals with that before anyone else finds him.

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This time when you dream, you don’t see the wolf cub in chains. It’s you who is tied up, and after struggling in disoriented panic, you realize that you are the wolf. Thick dark fur where there should be your arms and legs, claws instead of your fingers, but the overwhelming feeling are the bindings wrapped around all of your limbs and the rest of your body - so thin that you can barely see the golden shimmer, but so sharp that it feels like it’s made from razors, pressing into your skin. 

You can’t scream - or howl -, you can’t even move. And all you see in front of you are Lorenzano and Tovar, each heavily armed, dragging your human body along with them up a mountain, leaving a trail of blood on the rocks.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“I want them all DEAD.” Tovar nearly spits the words out at the group of you, banging his hand on the table with the map that has several FARC camps drawn onto it. “All of them. I don’t know how the fuck they got their hands on the product, but if it doesn’t all come back here…”

He’s terrifying like this, especially because you know he won’t hesitate to act on his threats. Somehow FARC had gotten a hold of internal intel, it seemed, not only being able to avoid being attacked for almost a week now but also having confiscated a massive amount of Lorenzano’s cocaine that was being packed and processed at a nearby facility.

The first two missions that week are done from the sky, and unsurprisingly Frankie is the co-pilot. You have a select team that goes up in the air with you and Ezra, two of your crew each armed with a M60E4 machine gun and one person with a Mk 153 SMAW launcher. It’s not your first time running an attack with this kind of artillery from the sky, but it still makes your stomach turn to see the damage that’s inflicted, the only small relief being that at least it’s not happening up close like would be the case with a ground attack.

On the third day, it’s back to the ground with your team, and you manage to overtake a building that holds at least half of the missing cocaine. At least half of the FARC fighters that are assassinated are still practically kids, who had been repackaging the drugs in the building. You and Frankie, as always, try to focus on the adults rather than the young teens, and at the end of the day you see Ezra’s expression is similar to how you feel: not just empty, but hollowed out.

Whether it’s the exhaustion setting in or bad strategizing, you’re not sure, but on day four the mission goes awry, and your team barely manages to pull through. Tovar is with the group though and aggressively moves in on the remaining cocaine that someone finds, but seeing how a large amount of it got shot up during the attack makes him absolutely furious. Eventually, he splits the team, sending half of your crew back to your camp with the repossessed drugs, while you have to do another sweep of the premises to make sure everything got covered.

It’s when Frankie pulls open a side door that seems to have been overlooked, and you step in with your gun ready, that you stumble into her. She’s young, younger than you, bruised and bloodied, but what stands out the most is that she’s pregnant - and very far along, it seems. It’s extremely unusual to come across someone in her position, here out in the jungle, because you all know that FARC does not exactly allow any of their fighters to start a family.

You see the hysteria on her face as she realizes that she’s been discovered, know she’s about to scream and fight, so you move on instinct, putting your gun behind you as you hush her and urge her to not yell. “You’re okay, you’re okay- I’m not gonna hurt you, alright? We’re not…”

She stares at the both of you with wide eyes as she nods, and you hear Frankie curse behind you. “Fuck, Santi, no – they’re gonna fucking see her, man. This place is going to get torched in five minutes from now.”

“Please, don’t hurt my baby, I’ll do anything.” She’s sobbing, on her knees now, and you turn to face Frankie as your head is working overtime.

“But we can’t– she’s pregnant,” you say to him, and he nods sadly, his jaw clenching as you can see him think. You curse, peering outside to check if anybody is watching, then close your eyes as you say a quick prayer. Please let this work. Not for me, but for her. “You need to get to the others and tell them it’s clear,” you tell Frankie as you nod to the front of the building. “I’ll get her out of here and to the back of the premises. Just tell them… something, okay? I’ll join you soon.”

“I don’t fucking like this.” But Frankie nods and disappears back outside, while you help the girl to her feet and explain to her how you’re gonna get her out.

“You can’t make a sound. You can’t trip. If they catch us, we’re both dead, okay?”

She nods as tears are rolling down her face, then tries to take a few deep breaths to calm herself. Meanwhile you listen closely to what’s happening outside, hear Frankie’s voice louder than usual - but not exaggerated - as he’s calling out to some of the team members. There’s no time to overthink matters, so you grab the young woman’s hand as you tug her outside, making sure to keep her covered with your own body as you rush her towards the trees that are at a small distance from the building.

Your heart is thumping so loudly that you feel like everybody in the vicinity must be able to hear it - but finally you get her there, pushing her behind a palm tree as you press the handle of a small knife in her hand. “Stay out of sight until we’re gone. Not a fucking sound,” you hiss at her, and she nods again at you, tears brimming in her eyes. She mouths a silent thank you before you turn around, and you don’t look back as you rush back to the property.

Somehow you manage to make it back to the front without raising any questions. Tovar is directing some people around, distributing gasoline, and mere minutes later the whole place is on fire. You’re exhausted, and not fully aware of how you all get back to the base camp, where you do a quick briefing with Ezra, then go find your sleeping spot in the tent to pass out even though it’s still early.

You wake up by Frankie sitting down on your makeshift bed, his hand on your back briefly as he hands you a plate with food. “Told them you got hurt getting back here and needed to rest,” he says, and you’re so grateful that you could almost cry. “Good job.”

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The next two days Ezra puts you, Frankie and the team on rest, giving you the opportunity to catch up on sleep and deal with the bruises and injuries most of you have. Then there is patrol duty, and you’re separated into pairs to guard between your camp and the other ACCU location. It’s hot, as always, but the vegetation mostly offers some shade which makes it more bearable.

Once you’re at least twenty minutes away from your camp, you tug Frankie behind a large tree and kiss him, unable to go on any longer without feeling him against you. You can feel him sigh in relief as he returns your kiss, his tongue eager as he takes over your kiss and presses you against the tree trunk.

“I thought this week was gonna fuckin’ kill us,” he whispers, and you nod as you brush his curls back, twirling a few around your index finger. You want him, in each and every way, but at the same time you feel so utterly drained that you can’t even imagine doing more than kissing and letting your hands roam for now - and you can tell he feels the same way.

You stay like that for a few minutes, just kissing each other, glad to have the slightest bit of time together. The tiredness ebbs away eventually, comforted by the touch of his body against yours, and just when you start to feel his hands drift lower, you realize that you need to stop this now before it gets to the point that neither of you can dial it down anymore.

“We gotta get going,” you make yourself say, and he groans softly, not happy about it, but he lets go after giving you one more deep kiss.

The path to the other camp is mostly easy to follow as you’ve walked it so many times before, a few tree trunks in the way here and there, and eventually the scenery around you changes, going up a hill to higher ground. Francisco talks about the helicopter maintenance that’s scheduled later this week, and you’re glad that they’re keen on keeping him in that aviation position - he really is good at it and still enjoying it, a welcome change from most of the field work.

You halt when you suddenly hear a sound that isn’t common around these parts, and you look around at you try to locate the sound. “Did you hear that?”

Frankie shakes his head. “What?”

“I heard a… Almost like some kind of howling.” You stop abruptly at the edge of the path, grabbing Frankie’s arm as you stare at the sight thirty, forty - maybe fifty - feet away from you, at the bottom of a steep slope. Surrounded by the lush rainforest vegetation stands a large adult wolf, eyes locked on you but not showing any signs of intending to approach you. You blink repeatedly, for a moment wondering if you’re making things up. “You see that?”

You stop abruptly at the edge of the path, grabbing Frankie’s arm as you stare at the sight 30 or maybe 50 feet away from you, at the bottom of a steep slope. Surrounded by the lush rainforest vegetation stands a large adult wolf, eyes locked on you but not showing any signs of intending to approach you. “You see that?”

Francisco gives you a questioning look, then follows your line of sight. “No. Somebody there?”

“The wolf, Frankie.” You have a hard time taking your eyes off the animal; you’ve never before seen one in real life. Meanwhile Frankie is looking at you as if you’ve grown three heads.

“A wo-… Santi, there are no wolves in Colombia.”

“Yes there are, look.”

Frankie smacks the back of his hand against your cheek, the frown on his face growing deeper. “Oye, pendejo. There’s nothing over there. You sure you’re okay?”

“No,” you say absentmindedly as the wolf tilts his head, and for a moment you wonder if it will attack you. Then you hear it; the sound of branches breaking behind the two of you, several pairs of footsteps, and you realize the wolf is not a threat but a warning. And for some reason you can’t explain, you just know that one of the guys behind you will be Tovar.

You take a deep breath as you take one more look at Frankie, drinking in every detail of his face and presence next to you. You wish that you could kiss him one more time, but you don’t dare to risk it.

“Something is very wrong, go back and find Ezra,” you say quietly, and you see his eyes widen as he reaches for his gun, but you stop him immediately as you shake your head. “No. You can’t win this, I’m so sorry - I love you.” Then you shove him, hard, so he trips over the edge and falls down the slope of dirt and vegetation, towards where you saw the wolf moments earlier.

You turn around while you pull out your spare gun, shooting down the guy closest to you without even blinking, then aim at a second and third person. You’re determined to do as much damage as possible to give Frankie a chance to get away.

Tovar’s eyes are dark and furious when they meet yours, and within moments he has overpowered you, dragging you away from the edge of the slope as he bangs the metal of his gun against your fingers. The pain is so sharp and hard that it makes you scream, and you drop your guns involuntarily, blindly reaching for your knife.

“You son of a bitch,” he hisses at you, but your fingers close around the hilt of your knife and you sink it into his leg with all of your strength, before you get hit over the head and lose consciousness.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When you regain consciousness again, there’s arguing, loud banging against things, and yelling happening all around you. It takes effort to focus when you open your eyes, but finally you can make out some of the faces around you. Tovar, unsurprisingly, a gun in his hand as he’s leaning against the wall. Lorenzano, also armed. And surprisingly - Ezra. On the floor, half kneeling, and with Lorenzano’s gun pressed against his head.

“You made him this way!” Lorenzano practically spat at him, looking like he’s about to have an aneurism out of rage, but Ezra merely looks at him all calm. “You… you conspired. With those faggot boys. And now you’re trying to take me-…”

Tovar cleared his throat. “Us,” he said sharply.

“Yeah, and now you’re trying to take us down,” Lorenzano continued, moving the gun from Ezra’s temple to his forehead.

“I’m afraid I must interject. I did no such thing, boss. Neither did Sant–” Ezra’s words are cut off as Lorenzano hits him hard across his face, and you wince at the sound of what possibly is a broken nose.

“Don’t. Lie. To. Me.”

Ezra takes a moment to compose himself, then shakes his head again, wincing as it seems to hurt him. “I am not a greedy man. You of all people should know that after all this time.”

“Then how did those fuckin commies get their hands on that stash?” Tovar speaks up, looking irritated. “They clearly had intel. Not to mention that ambush the other day.” He wanders over to you, and you groan as you try to sit up on the floor, but your hands are cuffed behind your back and your ankles also tied together. “And you. You let that whore escape the other day. Did you really think you could get away with that?”, he sneers. “Did you deliver Esdras’ messages to her or something?”

Your head is spinning as you’re trying to follow the conversation even though the pain is making it hard to listen and speak. “I didn’t do — I never tried anything like that,” you manage, trying to keep your eyes open. “Please. You have to believe me. Ezra never…”

Tovar grabs you by your neck, pressing his gun up against your chin. “We found your money stash,” he hisses. “Do you know how many of your comrades were eager to speak about the shit you pulled in Cali and Bogota? Letting people get away from raids while they should’ve been six feet under?”

You fight the urge to argue that it wasn’t just people, that it was mostly children and some women, because you know that’s not gonna help your case. “I’ve done as I’ve been told to do. All of my missions. Every single one of them was successful and profitable…,” you wince when you hear Tovar take the safety off the gun, and you close your eyes as you speak faster, trying to focus more on convincing him. “Ezra was just training me so I would be better working for the syndicate. That’s all, I swear. He never… we wouldn’t.”

“What about your faggot boyfriend, huh?”

“What about him, gentle man?” Ezra speaks up before you can even begin to think of an answer. “He didn’t do anything. Neither of them did, nor did I. If we had, you’d have concrete evidence, my friend.”

Tovar ignores his words, and you feel the gun barrel press even harder into your chin. “Where is he? That pilot boy.”

“I don’t know,” you say honestly. Clearly that’s not a good enough answer, because a moment later you’re kicked in the stomach and collapse, gasping for air. “God, I swear, I don’t…”

“Are you religious, Santiago?” Lorenzano walks over to you with slow, menacing steps. “Because you’d better pray to your god that they won’t carry you out of here in a body bag.”

Nausea rolls around your stomach, and you brace yourself for what you know is going to be another kick or punch. You manage to hang in there at first, but when another blow lands on your head, your dizziness quickly overtakes you while the sound of an electric tool whizzes in the background. You hear Ezra scream as the smell of burnt flesh fills the room, and then everything goes dark again.

It’s so dark.

You’re not sure where you are, but you know you haven’t been here before. It doesn’t feel like a dream either, not with the briny ocean air that you smell all around you.

Painfully slowly the darkness begins to clear eventually, showing that you’re standing somewhere high up on a cliff. There’s a man near the end of the cliff, his back turned to you, dripping wet like he just got out of the ocean. 

It’s your brother Jay.

This is the first time you’ve ever seen him in a dream. You know it’s him, even from the back, and even if that looks nothing like how you remember him. When he turns around to face you, something wells inside of your chest and crowds your throat - tears of fear or relief, it’s hard to tell. You just know you’re exhausted, and in pain, and bleeding profusely.

Jay reaches out to you, seemingly offering something he’s holding, but when you take a step closer to him you see it move and realize it’s an animal. A snake, or - no, a sea serpent, biting its own tail, immersed in water that Jay is able to hold in his hands somehow. 

“Brother. It is time. Come join me.” You hear Jay say the words, even though his lips don’t move, and you notice that his eyes are swirls of blue and white. Like waves in the ocean, or a stormy sky.

You know this is Jay, but none of it feels like when you’ve been seeing Joel in your dreams. Something is seriously wrong. 

All of a sudden the choked up feeling in your throat turns into a sharp, blinding pain. It’s like someone jammed a knife into it, or a sword, that goes all the way up to the roof of your mouth. The taste of blood takes over your senses as an alarming amount of it begins to pool into your mouth.

“Were you not looking for me?” Jay’s voice grows louder while the serpent in his hands grows bigger, wriggling in the water. Again offers it to you, stepping even closer, and the ocean smell grows stronger. “Come. Take its tail out so he can breathe and live.”

The words are a bitter irony since you’re nearly choking on your own blood. You feel delirious, your head spinning as you’re already nauseous from the pain. Right when you’re about to reach out and grab the creature from Jay, you hear someone screaming behind you - loudly. 

It’s Frankie. And it’s not even the screams that you would normally hear in your dreams with Joel. This is much, much worse. It reminds you of raids gone wrong, sicarios going after you, and that time the both of you almost died falling off a roof. It’s the kind of screaming that’s full of despair instead of just fear, only rivaled in intensity by the sudden sound of a helicopter that you can’t see. It’s so foreign in this setting that it shakes you out of your delirium, just long enough to see three men step out from behind Jay’s back. 

Tovar. On the right. Teeth bared, the scar on his face looking an angry red color, a M16 in his hands that’s aimed at Jay’s head.

Lorenzano is standing behind Jay, the expression in his eyes dead and vacant as always, with a barely concealed sneer on his face. There’s a Beretta in his hand that’s aimed at the back of Jay’s head, and for some reason you know that if there’s anyone who wants to kill Jay - it’s gonna be Lorenzano.

“Little Beast.”

Your attention gets pulled to the left of your brother, where the third man stands: tall, a familiar shock of blond in his hair, green brown clothing. Ezra. Unarmed and chillingly calm in contrast to Lorenzano, Tovar and your brother, he extends his left hand to you.

"Every moment of our lives is filled with choices, Little Beast. Your choice and your consequence to bear."

“BROTHER.” Jay’s eyes flash in anger at you, the blue of his pupils turning almost black. “Do not ignore me. Come join me. Kill him as it has been prophesied in word and song.” 

Somehow you know ‘him’ isn’t about the men on either side of him. It’s about Lorenzano, still behind Jay, now staring at you as his finger rests against the trigger of his handgun. But before you can respond to Jay, something soft pushes firmly against your leg, followed by the low warning growl of your wolf cub.

You can feel the bindings around the cub before you even look down. It’s like they’re chaining you too, the pressure thin and sharp around your chest and legs, feeling both impossibly delicate and permanent in how strong they are. For a second it shifts your focus of pain away from the blade that’s still lodged into your throat and mouth, but as the wolf cub looks up at you, you can tell that you’re not going to be able to help him with these bindings - and it feels like the biggest failure.

The cub isn’t deterred though, his eyes locked on Jay as he grows loudly at him, and you wince when you feel the wolf’s claws scrape over your leg - you know it doesn’t intend to hurt you, it just wants to protect and be close to you. 

Jay furiously yells at you, the expression on his face asinine and enraged, and Lorenzano suddenly no longer standing behind him. So you don’t think - you just reach out for the hand Ezra is offering you, clutching on to him for dear life as you also swoop up the wolf pup in your other arm. 

The screams of your brother turn into the roaring sound of the ocean, overtaking all the other sounds around you, and you watch in horror as water starts pouring from his mouth in excessive amounts, in the same way you feel blood pouring from yours.

Jay’s fingers wrap themselves around each side of the serpent, scraping over its scales as he pulls and pulls and pulls with all his might. It doesn’t work initially, nor the second time - but the third time proves to be a charm at last. He forcefully rips the snake’s tail out of its mouth, releasing a loud hissing sound from the creature as it contorts and starts to grow bigger.

Several claps of thunder sound in the air at the same time, and as Ezra’s hand closes around yours and pulls you over to him, you see the assault weapon in Tovar’s hand has turned into a massive hammer.

When the hammer hits Jay, the flash of lightning on impact is almost blinding, cracking his skull, and Jay screams as he throws the serpent at his attacker. The creature immediately wraps itself around his calves, and when its teeth sink deep into Tovar’s leg, it pulls a scream from him that rivals all the other deafening sounds around you. 

Tovar stumbles away from Jay and the snake - four, five, six steps, and when his eyes meet yours, you feel another wave of nausea rolling through you.The rage in his eyes when he sees you with Ezra is terrifying, and his path abruptly changes and he moves towards you, one step followed by another. But as he takes one more step, he suddenly pales, grabbing at his leg where the serpent bit him moments earlier. 

The creature still has its fangs sunk into Tovar’s leg, acidic looking venom now dripping out of the wound, and it seems like all of a sudden Tovar realizes that this is not something he can beat. 

He is a tall, broad man, his right hand still gripping tight onto the large hammer - but when he falls, you can tell there is no way that man is getting up again. The massive hammer hits the ground, making everything shake as a crack forms into the ground, zipping from left to right as more additional cracks happen faster than you can even count.

Then, the tip of the cliff just… breaks off. A moment of complete destruction, happening much faster than seems possible, because within seconds it just plummets all the way down, dragging Tovar and Jay along with it. So fast that you don’t even hear them scream; the only sound you hear is the massive thud as everything crashes down into the ocean, being swallowed up whole by roaring waves that pull it down into its depths to never be seen again.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

This time you're not sure that you are even fully conscious when the room around you comes into focus for a moment. The air smells metallic, like blood and burnt things, and the floor around you is red.

"Little Beast," you hear Ezra gasp, and you want to look at him, but the darkness pulls you under again.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Everything around you turns red. Dripping with blood, which then turns into bright orange flames, leaping up to the sky like it was their only purpose in life. But the wolf cub is now taller than you, wrapping its tail around you and Ezra as he tosses you onto his back.

You scramble to hold onto his fur as you grab Ezra’s shirt, making sure he won’t slide off. But then you see his right arm is missing, he’s bleeding out all over the three of you - and you don’t know what to do.

“It’s the consequences, Little Beast.” Ezra is calm as ever as he looks at you, the blond streak barely visible in his hair as it’s also covered in blood. “The choice was mine to make. Certain actions ferment the threat of appropriate reactions.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━ 

Somewhere there’s the sound of guns. There’s screaming, and then you hear a voice that you’d recognize anywhere. 

Francisco.

“Is that…” Ezra’s voice is shaking, unable to talk without wincing and gasping from pain. “Fuck. Frankie?”

More gunshots sound and just when the door is slammed open, you once again lose consciousness, your head hurting so much that you wonder if this is the end of it all.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You’re cold.

Everything is white, but you can still smell the flames.

You know the fire is finally gone when the white begins to weigh heavy on you like snow.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

When you open your eyes, brought back to consciousness by the sound of the wolf cub whimpering against you, there’s a large wolf standing across from you two. Not black, like your cub - brown, like the color of trees, and Frankie’s eyes and hair.

Francisco.

You black out again. 

When you finally come to your senses again and open your eyes, there’s a small arctic fox standing next to the brown wolf in the snow. It raises its head when it sees you move, then looks at something behind it in the distance.

It’s only when you see the bloody knife in the crisp snow in front of you that you realize it’s no longer lodged into your throat, and that there’s no blood pooling in your mouth anymore.

Heaven for the climate, hell for the company. 

“Frankie.” His name slips from your lips as you start to cry, and the wolf cub whines softly, now  curled up against your chest. His paws are bloody, and you’re not sure if it’s his blood or yours, nor where the large piece of bloody meat came from that’s staining the snow between you and the brown wolf who is still standing in front of you.

Brown fur.

Brown curls.

The tall woman in front of you is covered in brown furs, keeping her warm against the snow. She kneels down in front of you as she picks up the piece of bloody meat and puts it in her pocket. Then she reaches out of you, and as you feel the wet brush of her hand on your forehead, pushing back your hair, you feel yourself starting to lose consciousness again.

“Oh.” Her voice is light, tingles like icicles, and she laughs softly, sounding surprised. “Yes. You really are his.”

There’s even more blood than before. Your hands, all the way up your forearms. In your mouth. Hair.

Frankie’s face. His legs. So much blood, and he’s crying.

Someone’s dismembered arm lays on the floor, not too far away from you. You try to figure out if it’s yours, but everything hurts too much - you’re just not sure.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

You’re not sure how you make it to the truck, delirious from blood loss - you just know that somehow you do, Francisco’s hands on you almost the entire time. Once you’re in the vehicle, you promptly black out, coming to your senses later while Frankie drives the truck like he is possessed, several guns in the passenger seat next to him.

You want to ask him what happened - how he found you, and where Ezra is, but every time you think you’ve found the words to ask him that out loud, you black out again, and again, and again. Sometimes you wake up screaming, other times the pain throughout your entire body and head is almost too much to stand - but each and every time, there’s Frankie’s reassuring hand on you.

Somewhere between reality and dreams, or maybe even a worse place than that, you’re drowning in a river of foaming blood. The current is rough, making it incredibly hard to hold on anything  as you try to hold onto rocks, a tree trunk, and anything else that’s near you. 

The pain in your head is stabbing, overwhelming, and you can’t tell if the blood around you tastes the same as the blood in your mouth - whether it’s both yours, or if some of it is Frankie’s, or maybe even Ezra's.

After what seems like hours it starts to rain, while you’re still trying to stay afloat. At first you’re convinced it’s going to be the final push that’ll make you drown, but somehow as the rain mingles with the bloody river, it starts to dilute the thick red blood little by little, until eventually the blood has disappeared and there’s only water surrounding you, while the sun breaks through the clouds, warming your skin at last. You grit your teeth as you try to make it to the shore once again, and this time you’re successful, finally getting your body out of the water as you lay down into a wheat field, the wolf pup suddenly by your side.

You lurch up when the truck Frankie is driving comes to an abrupt stop, gasping for air as you’re jostled into consciousness for a moment. The wolf cub whines softly, licking your face, and you can’t figure out if you’re actually in the car or in that field next to the river. You hear voices somewhere nearby, and when somebody talks who is clearly not Frankie, the pup bolts up with his teeth bared.

That’s when you see the horse in front of you, just a few steps away, his dark brown coat looking almost black as it shines in the sun. You don’t understand how it’s possible, but you can swear that the horse smells like freshly baked bread and some grain alcohol - maybe it’s whiskey. The horse slowly starts to change shape, and eventually looks like a man wearing yellow aviators and tight jeans, standing there with a cocked hip and an expression somewhere in between annoyance and concern.

“Peña,” you hear Frankie say, but some part of your brain struggles to accept that name for the man. 

“Freyr,” you mutter as you close your eyes again, burying your face against the soft fur of the wolf cub curled up against you. You’ve seen that man before, you just don’t remember where. Bogota? Medellin? Maybe talking to Ezra? Fuck - Ezra. Where is he? Is he still alive? “Esdr-...Tyr.” Your head hurts so much that it feels like it’s going to explode.

“Santiago. You’re going to be okay.” 

Your eyes fly open when you recognize Joel’s voice, so nearby that for a moment it feels like he is right next to you. Until everything goes black again.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

Every time you dream of Joel, you ask him.

Every time you ask him, he has no answer for you.

“He’s not here, Santiago.”

“Please. You must be able to find out somehow.”

“I don’t know where Esdras is, hermano.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The medication that Javier and Frankie got for you makes it hard to focus on anything, but at least it keeps the pain away. It makes the nightmares worse though, so you find yourself desperately trying to stay awake. 

This is what you understand: 

You’re at the El Dorado airport in Bogota, with Francisco and Javier Peña, who is a DEA agent. The three of you are getting on a small plane that’s headed to the United States, but you’re not quite sure where. At some point, you’ll be testifying anonymously about Lorenzano, Tovar and the rest of the syndicate.

“Ezra set this up a year ago,” Javier tells the two of you as he hands you each a passport and some paperwork. “Residency and work permits. The rest will come.” 

Francisco is staring at him, looking just as confused as you are feeling. “I don’t understand.”

“Ezra is an American citizen. Was.” Javier hesitates, and you can tell by his expression that the man genuinely doesn’t seem to know whether Ezra is still alive as he looks at you. “When Frankie found you two… well. He should tell you about that some time. But Ezra sent him to me, so I got things moving. Most of this was already set up.” 

“Why?”, you manage to ask, and Javier sighs as he takes his yellow aviators off.

“Insurance policy. I know Ezra wanted out, but he didn’t quite seem to think that he would survive that,” he then says. “He figured that if shit hit the fan, at least you two could get out and start over.”

You close your eyes, trying to process the words, but it’s impossible to understand. The idea that Ezra is probably dead is just as unbearable as the thought of what state he might be in if he is still alive. 

“Did he lose his arm?”, you ask, and you don’t recognize your own voice - but you can tell the words sound slightly hysterical. “Frankie, where…”

“You should rest. Both of you,” Javier gently but firmly interrupts you, then gives you some pills and a bottle of water. “These will help. You’re safe for now.”

The woman, Lydia, apologizes for the small apartment, saying that’s all she was able to arrange on such short notice. Javier and Francisco assure her it’s perfectly fine, and you can only nod, your tongue and brain still heavy from the medications.

Once Javier had checked all the entrances and exits, feeling good about how secure it is, he leaves you and Frankie alone, saying something about Lydia picking up groceries and clothes for you soon. Only when he’s gone, you’re able to take in the apartment. Lydia may have apologized for its size, but to you it feels like a palace - and you can tell by the expression on Frankie’s face that he feels the same way.

Somehow it reminds you of your childhood home, and when you two sit down at the small kitchen table, you suddenly don’t feel twenty-two anymore but only ten years old at the most. You’ve never had someone give you a place to call home, even if it would be temporary. Hell, you’re never even been in a place that had locks and was intended for only you and Frankie, with exception of that one motel night a long time ago. 

You watch Frankie get up from the table and grab two glasses, filling them from a bottle of water in the fridge - the only thing that’s in there. As you drink from it, you take in his appearance. He looks as exhausted as you feel, some cuts and bruises on him, but not as many as you have fortunately.

He lets you look at him, the soft smile on his face indicating he understands you’re still loopy from the drugs, then touches your hand softly as he gets up. “This looks nice,” he says, gesturing around him, and you laugh without meaning to - because if there’s one thing Frankie normally doesn’t do, it’s small talk.

“Shut up, pendejo,” he says as he rolls his eyes at you, but you can tell that he doesn’t mean it. “I just mean - well, this is fucking huge.”

You shower together, mostly because you can’t stand up straight without swaying, but you realize that you quite like it. The water is hot and plentiful, neither of you having soap or anything, but just washing the dirt off your skin already feels like a blessing.

“I can walk,” you object when he seems inclined to help you to the bedroom, and you do so, ignoring when you almost fall twice. The sheets seem old but are so soft against your bare skin, and you drift off so fast while you hear Frankie moving around and letting someone inside the apartment. When he returns, it’s with a small pile of clothes and a bag with deliciously smelling food.

You’re both starving and eat mostly in silence, still trying to understand what happened in the past forty eight hours. When your eyes become too heavy, you curl up under the sheets and breathe a sigh of relief when Frankie does so as well. His naked body is so warm against yours as he wraps an arm around you, laying against your back, and you both fall asleep this way.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

“America.” A smile tugs at Joel’s lips, and for a moment you’re not sure if you are actually dreaming. Everything indicates that you are, except for the way Joel looks. There is no decaying half to his face, or his body - he’s all in one piece, standing in front of you. Even looking relaxed, which is not exactly a characteristic you associate with him. 

There are no dead bodies anywhere near the two of you. 

Nobody is bleeding out on the ground, or screaming. 

It should be comforting, a relief, but after so many years of always having dreamt of Joel one way, your brain is struggling to understand what’s happening.

“Are you okay?”, you ask Joel, feeling stupid asking the question when he’s clearly looking better than he has before. “I mean…”

“You don’t have to worry about me, Santiago.” The expression on Joel’s face softens further, looking almost wistful, and suddenly you know with alarming clarity that this is the last time you’re going to be dreaming about him like this. “You got out.”

━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━━

The footsteps down the hallway are firm and moving closer to the room where you and Frankie are seated. He gives you a short nod as you both get up from the chairs, standing straight as you wait for the door to swing open.

A tall blond man dressed in uniform enters the room, and you can tell that it takes him just a second to size up the two of you - make a quick judgment about what he sees too, probably. 

He closes the door behind him, then walks over to shake your hands briefly. He gestures at the chairs you were seated earlier as he takes a seat of his own, behind the desk.

“Mr. Garcia, Mr. Morales. My name is Captain William Miller. What can I do for you?”

A/N II: I need to give a nod to @oliveksmoked’s incredible 'Nothing That We Need' (Narcos x Supernatural with Javi x OFC) and @ohforficsake’s The Margay' (Frankie x Audrey, POC OFC) which ended up influencing this fic a lot, and are both absolute must reads. Finally, thank you to @sin-djarin @lotusbxtch @qveerthe0ry @mountainsandmayhem and @magpiepills for all the support and feedback (and letting me cry when I needed to for many reasons). Dividers by @saradika!

Here’s a little overview of Santi + the PPCU characters in this fic, plus and the Norse Gods that Erin assigned to them. Click on their names to go read the other Frith stories written by some amazing writers! @perotovar, thank you so much once again for organizing this incredible event, love you so much!

Santiago Garcia → Fenrir. Most famous of all the wolves in Norse Mythology, bringer of Ragnarok a.k.a. the end of the world. Joel Miller/Santi’s brother → Hel. Goddess of death and guide to the underworld.  Jay/Santi’s (oldest) brother -> Jormungand. The serpent banished to the ocean, will rise at the end of the world. 

Francisco Morales → Skadi. Goddess of winter, skiing, bow-hunting, and mountains. Ezra / Esrads → Týr. God of victory, law, and justice.

Maxwell Lord/Lorenzano → Odin. The All-Father. God of wisdom, magic, war, death and trickery. Pero Tovar → Thor. God of thunder, lightning and the protection of humankind. Max Phillips/Santi’s father → Loki. The Trickster God of mischief and chaos. Javier Peña → Freyr. God of fertility, harvests, and peace. Rules over weather.

main masterlist | follow @longlongtime-updates for updates

[elysiaheaven]

KC cast when breakup with their s/o!

THIS WAS A PAIN TO WRITE!!

KC cast when breakup with their s/o! This could be ooc for some characters! ^^

Ronin- The Devil's Butcher

“Hey, so…” you started, your voice barely above a whisper. “Can we talk about us? Like, seriously?”

His eyes sparkled with mischief, and he straightened, stepping closer. “What’s there to talk about? I thought we were having a blast!” He leaned in, his tone dripping with irony. “You know, living the dream, fighting against the mundane, embracing our tragic romance like the protagonists of some angsty novel?”

“Ronin, stop joking around,” you pleaded, trying to inject some seriousness into the moment. “This isn’t funny. I’m serious.”

“Aw, but where’s the fun in that?” He cocked his head to the side, the grin never leaving his lips. “You know I thrive on the ridiculousness of it all. Why break up with you when I can just keep toying with your emotions like a cat with a mouse?”

Your heart sank, confusion mixing with frustration. “You think this is a game? That I’m just some toy for you to play with?”

He stepped back, letting out a soft chuckle, his eyes glinting with a twisted delight. “Oh, sweetheart, you know you’re much more than that. You’re like… my favorite game. But maybe I’m just getting bored of playing.”

“Bored?” you echoed, disbelief flooding your voice. “You can’t be serious.”

He shrugged, the casualness of his movements almost mocking. “Oh, I’m dead serious. Think about it. You and me? It’s like the best horror movie plot twist, isn’t it? The classic ‘I can’t handle your intensity, so I’m gonna ghost you’ moment.” He tilted his head, pretending to ponder, then added, “How about we make it a dramatic exit? It’d be so much more entertaining.”

A lump formed in your throat. “So you’re just going to throw this away? Everything we’ve built?”

“Built? Ha! We were more like a rickety shack on the edge of a cliff, darling. All it takes is one little push to watch it tumble into the abyss. And honestly? I’m just not feeling the adrenaline anymore.” He looked at you, his eyes piercing but playful. “I mean, how many more times can I listen to you tell me to stop joking before it gets boring?”

You felt your heart ache, each word cutting deeper. “You’re breaking up with me because you’re bored? Because you think it’s a game?”

“Pretty much.” He smiled, the devilish glint in his eye never fading. “But hey, it’s been a hell of a ride, hasn’t it? Maybe we’ll meet again in some alternate universe, where I’m not such an asshole.”

After the breakup, Ronin maintains his usual devil-may-care attitude, plastering on that signature smirk and making dark jokes to anyone who’ll listen. However, inside, he feels a swirling storm of regret and fear, a feeling he rarely acknowledges. The laughter and playful teasing mask a gnawing worry about the void left in his life.

His love for the theatricality of life makes it hard for him to admit he’s hurting. The post-ironic lens he views the world through twists everything into a dark joke, making it hard for him to understand his own feelings. He chuckles to himself, thinking, Is this the part where I dramatically reflect on my life choices?

Ronin realizes that he enjoyed the challenge of corrupting and rebuilding you, but now it feels like a game lost. He’s torn between his pleasure in manipulation and a deeper, unsettling craving for genuine connection. The thrill of twisting your mind now feels empty without you there to play against.

He finds himself haunted by memories of your time together, often replaying conversations in his mind. The little things—your laughter, your exasperated eye rolls at his dark humor—sting more than he expected. The thought of you moving on fills him with an irrational panic.

In an attempt to distract himself from the ache, Ronin immerses himself in his "work," spiraling deeper into his more devilish tendencies. He takes on riskier jobs, pushing his limits and living dangerously, thinking it might fill the void. However, each time he looks into the eyes of his victims, he sees glimpses of you, and it only deepens his conflict.

Alone at night, when the chaos quiets, the mask begins to slip. He stares at the ceiling, reflecting on what it means to be "the Butcher." The irony isn’t lost on him; here he is, a killer yearning for something real, grappling with emotions he deemed beneath him. The image of your face haunts him, and he wonders if he pushed you away because he feared his own growing attachment.

Ronin feels a sense of freedom in being alone, yet it frightens him. His nature thrives in chaos, and the loss of your vibrant presence leaves him feeling empty. He fears that if he opens up to the idea of missing you, it might lead to a vulnerability he’s not ready to face.

He engages in his twisted thoughts, he reflects on whether he could have manipulated the situation differently, wondering if he should have pushed back against the fear instead of giving in. His mind flirts with the idea of reconnecting, yet he recoils, convinced that his devilish nature could never let him be truly vulnerable with you again.

Ronin begins to write poetry, scribbling down his thoughts in a dark notebook. Each line drips with irony, masked in the guise of self-deprecation and humor, but they reveal the heartache he tries to hide. In those moments, he questions if he’s become the very monster he sought to control, lost to his own games.

In the end, he knows he’ll keep cycling through this madness: flirting with danger, toying with the idea of reaching out, all while holding onto the mask of the devil he has carefully crafted. But deep down, the conflict remains—he misses you more than he’s willing to admit, and the fun of corruption no longer feels like enough to fill the chasm you left behind.

After the breakup, Ronin maintains his usual devil-may-care attitude, plastering on that signature smirk and making dark jokes to anyone who’ll listen. However, inside, he feels a swirling storm of regret and fear. maybe... He will mask it. It's been easy for him...

It's just another tragic love story!!

Ronin slouched in his chair, a scowl etched across his face as he tapped his phone impatiently. Angel had been the only one to check in on him since the breakup, her concern unrelenting even as he tried to distance himself from anyone who might dig deeper. He didn’t need pity; he was the Butcher, the devil in disguise. But the screen lit up with her name, and against his better judgment, he opened the message.

Angel: Hey, just wanted to check in. Have you been okay?

He scoffed at the screen, fingers hovering over the keyboard, hesitant. Didja think I care? Nope.

The response felt empty even as he hit send, and he leaned back, arms crossed over his chest. A part of him relished the chance to brush her off, to maintain his devil-may-care image. But there was a gnawing doubt creeping in, an itch beneath his skin.

Angel: You don’t have to pretend with me. You know I care about you, right?

He rolled his eyes, dismissing her concern as he replied, So fun. The sarcasm dripped off his words like poison, but as soon as he hit send, he felt a hollowness settle in his chest.

He wasn't usually like this to angel..

As he stood up from the seat, he felt the weight of the world pressing down on him, the playful bravado fading with every step. He walked to the mirror, the harsh light exposing the cracks in his carefully curated facade. His heart raced, pounding like a drum in the silence.

Staring at his reflection, he felt a tremor in his hands. The smirk, the bravado, the devilish charm—none of it felt real anymore. In that moment, the mask slipped, and he let out a shaky breath, tears welling up in his eyes.

Even the devil can cry, he thought bitterly, feeling the warmth trickle down his cheeks. He’d buried his heart at Angelwood, thinking he could forget that it ever existed. But the truth was, it was still there, dormant but never gone, lingering beneath layers of irony and cruelty. It throbbed painfully in the wake of your absence, a constant reminder of what he’d lost.

The irony twisted in his gut; he had reveled in his chaos, played the part of the heartless killer, but beneath it all, he was just a man. A man who let himself feel, and now, that feeling was tearing him apart. Each drop of sorrow felt like a nail in the coffin he’d built around his heart, and no amount of darkness could extinguish the light that had once burned so brightly for you.

He took a step back, the reflection in the glass warping under the weight of his emotions. The devil might have loved too deeply, too fiercely, and now he was left with nothing but echoes of laughter and moments that would haunt him like shadows.

Ronin wiped at his eyes, anger bubbling up to mask the pain. Get it together, he thought, but deep down, he knew the truth. He missed you—more than he’d ever let on, more than he’d ever wanted to admit. The heart he thought he buried was alive and well, and it ached like a fresh wound.

V- Batman

You stood with your hands in the soil, tending to a row of young saplings. The scent of damp earth filled the air, a familiar comfort you always found with V. But tonight, something felt different—colder.

He stood nearby, watching you in silence. His arms crossed, his sharp, unreadable gaze fixed on the plants you were nurturing so carefully.

Finally, he spoke, his voice low and even, like a blade drawn slowly from its sheath. “We need to talk.”

You glanced up, wiping your hands on a rag, sensing the weight behind his words. “V, what’s going on?”

There was a pause—one of those long, uncomfortable silences he often wielded like a weapon. His expression remained stone-cold, but his fingers tapped lightly against his forearm, betraying the tiniest flicker of hesitation.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said at last, “about us. About what I want. What I need. And… I shouldn’t have weaknesses. Not like this.”

The words hit like a sudden frost settling over the warmth of the greenhouse. You frowned, feeling something twist uncomfortably in your chest. “What are you talking about? Weakness?”

He exhaled slowly, as though every word had to be calculated. “Loving you is a liability. You make me…” He trailed off, narrowing his eyes as if admitting the truth to himself was almost offensive. “Vulnerable.”

You blinked, a knot tightening in your throat. “So what, you’re saying you care too much? That it’s a bad thing?”

He gave you that familiar, detached look—the one that always frustrated you because it made you feel like your words were being weighed and found lacking. “It is,” he said matter-of-factly. “If I care, I’ll hesitate. If I hesitate… I lose.”

“Lose?” You stepped forward, trying to make sense of the walls he was building. “V, this isn’t some tactical mission. This is us. You don’t have to fight me like I’m the enemy.”

He didn’t move away when you closed the space between you, but his posture stiffened—like he was bracing himself, fighting the urge to soften. His gaze flickered briefly to the plants behind you, and something about the way he looked at them made your heart ache. He had always admired your ability to nurture life. Maybe that was part of the problem.

“Don’t you get it?” he murmured, the faintest crack slipping into his otherwise steady voice. “You’re the kind of person who brings things to life. And I’m… I’m not built for that. I’ve spent my whole life trying to eliminate threats, avoid attachments. If I let you stay, I’ll start—” He stopped himself, jaw tightening. “I’ll start believing that something good can last. That I could keep it.”

“And that scares you.” Your voice was soft, but it wasn’t a question.

He gave a small, bitter smile—barely more than a twitch of his lips. “More than you know.”

You reached for him, but he took a step back, the movement as deliberate as the rest of him.

“This isn’t about you,” he said quietly, but with finality. “It’s about me. I need to be in control. Of myself. Of everything.”

“So what?” you asked, anger creeping into your voice. “You’re just going to walk away because loving me makes you feel human?”

He didn’t answer right away. For a moment, the silence stretched between you, heavy and suffocating. Then he gave a short, almost mechanical nod, as if he’d already accepted the conclusion long before this conversation started. “Yes.”

The word was sharp and precise, like a scalpel cutting away what remained of your relationship.

You stared at him, the anger dissolving into disbelief. “That’s it?”

His gaze softened, just for a moment—a fleeting crack in the armor he wore so tightly. “I wish it could be different. But this… this isn’t who I’m supposed to be.”

“V,” you whispered, hoping, praying for something—anything—that would prove he still felt what you knew he did.

He looked at you for a long, agonizing moment, as if memorizing your face, storing it away somewhere deep inside where even he wouldn’t be able to touch it again. Then, in the cold, measured tone that defined him, he said:

“Take care of the yourself.”

And just like that, he turned and left, his footsteps quiet and steady, as if the weight of the world didn’t press down on his shoulders with every step.

You stood there, rooted in place, surrounded by the life you had nurtured together. But the warmth that had once existed between you was gone, replaced by the cold absence of a man too afraid to let himself love.

After breakup

After the breakup, V seems completely unaffected to anyone who looks at him. He keeps his composure—his face neutral, his voice flat. But in reality, every moment feels heavier than the last, as if the air around him thickens with regret. He doesn’t say it aloud, but your absence clings to him like a bruise, slow to fade.

He throws himself into routines: feeding stray animals, taking care of his birdies

V starts taking longer and longer walks at night, finding solace in animals—creatures who don’t demand emotional explanations or try to decipher the complicated labyrinth of his thoughts. He prefers their company now; they don’t pry. But every time he comes across a familiar place where the two of you once spent time together, the ache sharpens in his chest. He curses himself for noticing. He curses you for lingering, even when you’re not there.

In his mind, the breakup was the logical choice. You deserved someone softer, someone better suited for a future with gardens and pets that didn’t come with the looming shadow of death. His cold detachment was supposed to make things easier for both of you—cleaner. But it didn’t. Not for him. No matter how much he tries to rationalize it, the feelings linger, gnawing at him like ivy curling through the cracks of his armor.

V was drawn to your nurturing side, but that also terrified him. You made him feel safe, and that safety was unsettling. What kind of monster finds comfort in someone so good? You balanced the chaos in him with quiet strength, but that only made his darkest impulses feel more dangerous in comparison. Loving you made him feel seen—and he hated that more than anything.

V drafts messages to you late at night, only to delete them before they’re ever sent. “How are the flowers? The white ones should bloom this week.” He knows you’re better off without him. Still, his thumb hovers over the send button sometimes, just long enough to remind him how easy it would be to drag you back into his world.

He convinces himself that he’s done the right thing. But when he sees you smiling with someone new—someone who fits the life you deserve—it’s like a knife twisting in his chest. His expression doesn’t change, but his hands clench so tightly his knuckles turn white. If he were any less disciplined, he might’ve killed them right there. He tells himself it’s jealousy, but deep down, he knows it’s grief.

The animals he cares for—strays, birds, the creatures that flock to him—pick up on his sadness. A stray cat curls up in his lap, sensing the heaviness in him. He brushes his fingers over its fur absentmindedly, realizing for the first time that animals understand heartbreak better than most people. It’s a strange kind of comfort, but not enough to fill the space you left behind.

On nights when the loneliness becomes unbearable, V sits in the garden under the moonlight, staring at the plants the two of you nurtured together. He tells himself it was inevitable, that he had to let you go. But sometimes, in the quiet hours of the night, he wonders if it was all just fear. Fear that you’d unravel him completely. Fear that someone as good as you could never truly love someone like him.

V doesn’t believe in sentimental nonsense. But you were the closest thing he’d ever come to a home. He knows now that even the coldest creatures crave warmth—and he found it in you. But instead of basking in it, he let his fear drive you away. And now, all he can do is live with the knowledge that he traded his one chance at happiness for the hollow comfort of control.

He repeats it like a mantra—It’s better this way. But the words feel empty. As he tends to the plants alone, surrounded by the animals that will never ask the questions he can’t answer, the truth settles in: Losing you wasn’t just painful—it was the kind of mistake you can never undo.

Misaki- The baby

You can tell something is off the second Misaki steps through the window , a familiar grin plastered across their face but… it doesn’t reach her eyes. There’s a weight she’s trying to hide behind that goofy, energetic exterior, but it slips through the cracks—just enough for you to notice.

“Heyyyy! Guess who’s here!” she singsongs, throwing her arms up dramatically, like this is some routine. Like everything is fine.

But you know it isn’t. You can see it in the way their hands fidget with the cuffs of her sleeves, how their gaze darts around the room, never quite landing on you. She’s stalling.

"Misaki," you say gently. "What’s going on?"

She drops onto the couch, kicking off her shoes in that chaotic, carefree way of hers. But the moment she speaks, you hear the tension threading through her voice, coiled tight like a wire ready to snap.

"So," she says with a forced grin, "you ever, uh... just know when something's not working? Like, you’re throwing everything at it—your whole heart, even—and it’s still like... hmmm... maybe this isn’t it." She laughs, but it’s sharp, brittle. “Yeah, so… that’s kinda what I’ve been thinking."

Your heart sinks. “What are you saying?”

She makes finger guns, like this whole thing is a joke. Like it’s not ripping her apart inside. "Ding ding ding! Breakup, baby! You win!" Their voice is too loud, too bright, and it makes your chest hurt because this is Misaki, hiding behind humor like it’s armor.

"Misaki... stop joking. What’s really going on?"

She freezes, and for a second, you catch the flash of something raw in her eyes—panic, maybe. Fear. She rubs at the back of their neck, suddenly looking smaller than usual despite their big personality.

“I mean it,” she says, softer now. "I’ve been thinking... and I don’t think I can do this. I love you. I do. But I don’t think I know how to be with you." their voice cracks on the last word, and she tries to cover it with a shaky laugh.

"I thought maybe if I acted normal, if I kept being goofy, I could pretend it was fine. But it’s not fine, and I can’t keep faking it."

There’s a long silence between you. You search their face, looking for something to latch onto, some way to fix this. But she won’t meet your gaze—just stares at their hands, as if they might hold answers she can’t find.

You want to say something, anything, but before you can, she stands up abruptly, forcing a grin. "Hey, no hard feelings, okay? We had a good run! And honestly, who else would put up with me for this long? You're a saint." She laughs again, but this one sounds more like a sob.

"Misaki—"

"Don’t," she interrupts, holding up a hand. "If you say something sweet, I swear I'll lose it."

You can only watch as she grabs their stuff and heads toward the door, moving too quickly, like she’s afraid she’ll change their mind if she stays a second longer. She pauses with their hand on the doorknob, finally glancing back at you with a crooked, bittersweet smile.

"Take care of yourself, okay? And... eat something that’s not ramen for once, idiot." Her voice wavers, but she gives you one last grin—bright and broken, just like them—and then she’s gone.

Misaki keeps up their bubbly, chaotic energy around others. They crack jokes, flirt, and prank their friends even harder, desperate to keep things light. But the more they joke, the hollower it feels. It’s all performance, and they know it—hoping that if they pretend long enough, the ache in their chest will fade.

At night, when they're finally alone, the mask slips. They lie in bed, scrolling through old texts, hovering over the call button but never pressing it. They stare at photos of the two of you together until their eyes blur with tears. Without anyone to laugh with, their humor shatters, leaving them to drown in silence.

Some nights, they're furious—angry at themself for not making things work, for ruining something good. Other times, they direct the blame toward you in petty ways: If only they tried harder… But beneath it all, Misaki knows the truth—it wasn't anyone's fault. And that truth stings the most. It was theirs...

Misaki starts calling random friends or coworkers during missions—anyone who’ll listen, even if the conversation is meaningless. They just need a familiar voice to fill the silence, laughing too hard at jokes that aren’t even funny. It’s not you, but it’s the closest they can get.

They still cook elaborate meals, even though it’s only for themself. Sometimes, out of habit, they set two plates—only to realize halfway through and shove the extra one back into the cabinet with trembling hands.

The worst moments are when they catch themself about to say something only you would understand—a dumb inside joke, a shared quip. They pause mid-sentence, force an awkward laugh, and change the topic. But every time it happens, it feels like a tiny knife twisting deeper in their chest.

They dive headfirst into anything to keep busy—missions, side hustles, parties. They flirt harder, act sillier, laugh louder. But nothing sticks. The more they try to drown the feelings, the heavier the emptiness becomes.

Even on the brink of falling apart, Misaki will still be the one wiping a friend's tears and giving pep talks. They’ve always been the goofy, reliable one. Showing their hurt feels like admitting defeat, so they bottle it up, letting it fester inside.

When they finally stop moving—standing in the shower or waiting for water to boil—the thoughts creep in. They’ll remember a tiny, stupid detail about you—how you liked your eggs, or the way you hummed that one song—and it breaks them all over again.

They’ve convinced themself that you're better off without them. They’re probably happier now. This is for the best. They repeat it like a mantra, hoping that one day it will feel true. But it never does.

A tiny part of them still hopes you’ll reach out. Every notification makes their heart race, even though they know it’s foolish. And every time it’s not you, it feels like a punch to the gut.

They make light jokes about the breakup to friends, brushing it off like it was nothing. “Ha, relationships are overrated, right?” But if someone lingers too long on the topic, their laugh falters, and they change the subject as quickly as they can.

Misaki acts unbothered—they smile, wave, maybe even throw out a playful joke. But the moment they’re alone, they crumble, staring at their reflection in a window or a mirror and whispering, Why wasn’t I enough?

Misaki keeps telling themself they’ll bounce back—I’ve been through worse. I’ll survive this, too. But deep down, they know that some scars never truly heal. And this one? It’s going to stay with them for a long, long time.

Angel-Heartsick

Angel sits across from you, her usual radiant smile nowhere to be found. Instead, her lips are pressed into a tight line, and she’s nervously tapping her foot—a rare crack in her poised demeanor. You know something is coming, the weight of unspoken words hanging between you like a storm waiting to break.

She takes a deep breath, brushing a hand through her perfectly styled hair. "Okay, listen, this is… really hard for me, but I need to say it." Her voice wavers, not from uncertainty, but from the effort of keeping herself together.

"It’s not you. I swear it’s not. And, ugh, I hate how cliché that sounds," she huffs, forcing out a laugh that doesn’t reach her eyes. "I just… I’ve been thinking, and I feel like I’m dragging you through something you didn’t sign up for. I try to be this fun, easygoing person, but you’ve seen what’s underneath. The spirals. The breakdowns."

Her fingers fiddle with the edge of her sleeve, a nervous tic you rarely see. "I thought I could handle everything. Work, us, my brain… But I can’t. And it’s not fair to you." She pauses, her chest rising with another heavy breath. "You’ve been… amazing, honestly. But I don’t think I know how to be what you need, not when I’m still figuring out how to take care of myself."

Her eyes shimmer, but she fights back the tears, refusing to let them fall. "I thought maybe if I tried harder, if I just kept pushing, we could make it work. But now… now I think I’d only hurt you more in the end."

Her voice breaks slightly as she continues. "I care about you so much. Too much. And that’s why I have to let you go." The words hang in the air, sharp and final, like the snap of a closing door.

She reaches out, briefly touching your hand before pulling away like she can’t bear the contact. "You deserve someone who can be fully present, and I need to be alone for a while. To figure things out, for real this time."

A bitter, self-deprecating smile curls her lips. "Maybe one day, when I’m not such a mess, we can find each other again. But right now? I think we both deserve better than what I can give."

Angel puts on a brave face for her followers and fans, continuing to post her usual cheerful content, but inside, she feels like she’s crumbling. She hides her heartbreak behind edited videos and vibrant filters, desperately trying to convince everyone—and herself—that she’s okay.

When the cameras are off, she often finds herself lying in bed, scrolling through old pictures and messages from you. Late at night, when the world is quiet, the tears come. She stares at the ceiling, feeling the weight of her choices pressing down like a heavy blanket.

Even when surrounded by friends and fans, she feels a profound sense of loneliness. Their laughter and cheers fade into white noise, and all she can think about is how they don’t know the real her—the one who’s struggling, the one who misses you deeply.

Random moments trigger memories of you, whether it’s a song playing in the background or a dish you both loved. Each reminder feels like a fresh wound, slicing through her carefully constructed facade. She’ll smile on the outside, but inside, it feels like everything is unraveling.

Editing videos becomes a bittersweet task. Sometimes she’ll leave in bloopers or comments about you, only to cringe afterward and cut them out. It’s a constant battle between nostalgia and pain, and she often wonders if she’ll ever be able to look at those memories without hurting.

Whenever she starts to spiral into her dark thoughts, it feels like a tidal wave crashing over her. She worries that she’ll never feel “normal” again, and her thoughts race with anxiety, self-doubt, and regrets. On particularly hard days, she feels trapped in her own mind.

Angel throws herself into her work, often taking on extra projects and collaborations to keep her mind occupied. But deep down, she knows it’s a temporary fix; the happiness it brings doesn’t fill the void left by you.

She reaches out to friends more often, craving their presence but feeling guilty for leaning on them too much. Her internal monologue battles with the fear that she’s becoming a burden, and she hides her real feelings to avoid dragging anyone down with her.

“I’m Fine” - The phrase becomes a shield against probing questions, even though she’s anything but fine. When friends ask how she’s doing, she forces a smile and replies, “I’m fine!” but she can feel the cracks in her voice.

Her manic episodes return with a vengeance, and she feels like she’s on a rollercoaster of emotions—sometimes feeling hopeful, other times spiraling into despair. It’s exhausting, and she struggles to keep up with herself.

She finds herself typing out messages to you, only to delete them before hitting send. The urge to reach out is strong, but the fear of rejection and the pain of facing reality keeps her from doing so.

Her dreams are filled with memories of you—happy moments twisted into something bittersweet. She wakes up in the middle of the night, heart racing, clutching her pillow and wishing it were you.

Despite everything, there’s a part of her that clings to the hope that things might change. She often daydreams about a future where she’s healed, where you could be together again, but that hope feels more like a curse than a blessing.

Angel tries to channel her emotions into creative outlets, like painting or journaling. It’s cathartic, but she often finds herself stuck, unable to translate the whirlwind of feelings into words or images.

[t0ast-ghost]

Hmmm mmmmmm I have so many boys thoughts and since I’m not sleeping tonight I guess I’ll write them down:

(Spoilers for the Boys season 4. Don’t cry over spoiled milk show! Go watch it for yourself)

- Truthfully I didn’t like Hughie in the second episode they just made him (super forcefully) bring up his mom. I did really like all his other bits though especially the stuff we’re getting into with a-train (really hope they actually go through with giving him plot, since he’s supposed to be the main character and all that or whatever)

- every time a character got close to another I legitimately asked if they were gonna kiss

- butcher is my wet cat sad puppy murdering babygirl, he’s slaying this season by actually communicating and I hope it stays that way

- This is the second time I’ve seen Jeffrey Dean Morgan play a horrible person willing to weaponize children for their cause… and he’s good at playing that part (I feel they gave his character a lot of what Butcher was in the comics)

- I really do like what they’re doing with A-Train

- I really do hate what they’re doing with Annie and Firecracker, I get they have to have personal conflict but this feels shallow and although it’s believable that this grudge would last I think there should have been more thought put into the stakes of their relationship (Curry and Moriaty’s acting was so good for the bit where Firecracker threatens her but the stakes are so low and the hatred in the writing doesn’t feel built up enough for her to have that big of a reaction to the threat)

- Going back to Hughie and his mom, I think Quaid’s acting for the bits with his mom were phenomenal, I could relate to his frustration and his sadness was palpable. I think a lot of their moments didn’t feel great and I couldn’t put my finger on it but the conversation about how her depression lead to her leaving felt like the truth finally came out and now it’s hopefully going to feel a bit more like things are moving forward for them

- I’m a little surprised they actually had a character like splinter. Simply because he felt straight out of the comics, and I know how much they’ve veered away from the comics. I really liked the scene where Butcher got to take out a bunch of them simply cause he got to be good ‘ol Billy Butcher

- Homelander has me on a roller coaster because I was going to write a post while watching about how they write him really well in a mindfuck kind of way because you slowly start realizing you’re relating to his character and you can understand his actions, and right before I wrote that post he told the deep to suck off a train and I stopped dead in my tracks. I was legitimately scared in that moment because that also felt like something out of the comics but the difference is that the tv show wouldn’t or at least didn’t go through with it

- Homelander this season is even more brilliantly acted, and seeing him with Sage is a new interesting experience. I was trying to figure out Sage’s motivations and I thought I knew but really I didn’t know because I was trying to say she was fighting for a cause. That is wrong. She is constantly manipulating the people around her but it is solely to benefit herself and her happiness. Yes, she helps Homelander and is honest with him because that is the best way to keep herself happy and alive. She’s smart enough to know that manipulating him or trying to agree with everything he says will be a dead end. She’s still trying to please him and is ultimately playing by his rules but she’s the smartest player because she knows being inauthentic will only end up losing you power, and if you’re on the end of two hot glowing red orbs anyway, why not at least have an actual say

- The gore is going well so far. I’ve appreciated it. Especially the beetlejuice-esque scene where Kimiko has her face torn off and you only see the back of her head and the reactions

- Ryan has so many good scenes. His scenes with Homelander are punctuated by quiet, you can hear every thought screaming through, but what would saying any of it actually accomplish? His scenes with Butcher are so heartfelt, I’m glad they’re finally able to talk. But Ryan still dealing with his grief and guilt is heartbreaking. And on top of that him thinking that the closest person to his mom seemingly hates him and would never want him adds so much to the emotional confusion that he’s experiencing. He obviously needs to leave Homelander, but he still doesn’t want to leave his dad which makes sense because this is currently the only source of love he has from anyone and it was promised unconditionally (even though it is very conditional)

- Frechie’s gotta tell that guy that he killed his family but I was really glad they gave him a boyfriend. I forgot that him and Kimiko weren’t a thing so I got really excited that Frenchie was getting to be awesome and polyamorous. I am glad that Kimiko has asserted that they are friends tho

- I am so intrigued by the brain worm

Thoughts upon second rewatch:

- Opening could’ve been bloodier or more horrific. They toned it down :( but the flesh and blood melting off that guys face was pretty good. And the Todd scene is pretty horrific.

- The way Ryan and Homelander speak in unison about people being ants is so telling, and makes sense with the later context of Homelander wanting Ryan to be an exact replica of himself

- The way that Ryan in this season is so focussed on fear, because he is scared but the people around him won’t admit to that, so when Butcher finally communicates with him and tells him that he’s most afraid of dying without making amends I think that finally gains Ryan’s trust back

- They really are changing Butcher’s character, he’s not just ‘do thing to get thing and it’s justified by the end result’ he’s finally thinking about the people around him and considering them even if the results aren’t fast. He doesn’t give the info to Vick, he doesn’t drug Ryan, and he’s really trying to help even if he is still being a shit about it

- The talk between Vick and Homelander in the opening is sooooo good cause of HL’s little voice crack, he’s losing it

- KIMIKO PAINTS HER NAILS!!! they’re blue :)

- I feel like Hughie’s hatred towards Vicky is forced upon him. Like I guess he hates that she lied to him (but if he thought about it he’d realize that it’s reasonable for her to want to hide her powers especially since she’s been shamed about them for most of her life) and I get they have very different views with her under vought’s thumb and all. But since they’re recruiting A-Train I’m wondering if there’ll ever be a bit of a redemption for her cause I feel like wanting supes to be allowed to live like normal people is not a bad thing, it’s just that she’s working with people who view supes as superior

- “He killed that poor cunt in broad daylight, and they fucking cheered.” Alongside Homelanders “I save people, they cheer. I fucking kill people, they cheer.” is like, they both understand this fact. Homelander will get what he wants no matter what and Billy wants to take him down a notch. Same as always and yet so many changes.

- I missed that the acid that Hughie threw on Vick was Frenchie’s creation the first time around. Also missed Hughie’s failed pep talk, I love that loser. I didn’t miss that no one else is able to understand Kimiko, which sucks

- I want Karl Urban and Simon Pegg to be in the same room again but that’s just my star trek fan talking

- Is that the first time Hughie and Butcher properly hug in the series?

- There’s a weird obsession with phones this season. Especially with hanging up on people. Also an obsession with “no/yes, sirs” which I think is them upping the show of power dynamics

- I thought that octopus sounded familiar. It’s Tilda Fucking Swinton.

- “He always knew he was destined for greatness, because he came from greatness.” Good job guys. I see your little joke

- I did not notice that all the guys setting up Firecracker’s stage were splinter who is played by Rob Benedict (Chuck in Supernatural)

- One of the background noises at the Truthcon mentions an “Alex Jones look alike contest”

- When Ryan throws Koi against the wall in other shows that would be his turning point. The point in which there’s no going back for him. So I’m really glad that it’s just the point in which he needs to talk to someone, that it really does upset him. Unfortunately he goes from one horribly emotionally repressed man to a slightly less emotionally repressed man who is dying

- I hope whoever that person that Kimiko knows turns into a new found family member

- M. M slowly realizing why Butcher was such a bitch to everyone on the team. And it’s because no one listens. Ever. Unless you’re actively threatening them in one way or another

- I don’t know what that bloody metal rod in Sage’s room means even after a rewatch. So I guess I’ll find out.

- Closing thoughts; bring in more A-Train and Hughie moments (also get people to call him Reggie so I don’t have to write A-Train every time)

Hughie has weed in his desk

If y’all wanna talk about this with me (especially after reading all that) feel free to do so

Uhhh more thoughts here

[polaris-stuff]

Hey Noffy again

These last three episodes. Honestly I am still in shock.

As someone that was in the middel all the time. Right now at least the fandom seems United in being pissed (at what part certainly different, but i don't see anyone really liking this arc)

Right now...I don't think I gather my thoughts enough to say anything about the track the celestial family's arcs are going. Just that I am disappointed.

I am trying to find a way they can safe this arc.

Wich lies with that last but in the mgafs episode. The 'this all feels very orgistrated, moon losing his mind. Killing bloodmoon'. Or something along those lines.

If based on that. There is a sort of 'virus' reveal that some people have been speculating. I want something else to happen.

It still needs to hurt. That earth and lunar gave up on moon. Like it's the virus that made it all so quick and violent? (If that's what they are going for)

But still keep that part of the angst? I dunno. Something along those lines (still don't want old moon back without new moon. Answering for whats going in or the family trying to help. )

Gosh and I hate that sun wasn't here. People saying he needs to make a decision and then he isn't here?

I am afraid of next episode and what they are gonna tell sun. Sun is gonna be so utterly broken.

Uugh I think I am gonna join everyone in the fanfic reading.

I am still holding a sliver of hope they can fix this.

Or more I WANT THE SHOW TO FIX THIS.

I have not been in this community long. (Got introduced just around when Bloodmoon came back. ( A little before that))

I have not interacted with people much except in comments on ao3. Or asks where I can be on anon as I can't use my main. Or in the comments of threads.

But the people have been kind to me. Even if I held a different opinion. I've seen the joy this show gave. The art that it creates. And I am scared this arc is gonna destroy all that. Because people lose motivation because of this arc.

I really really hope not.

I hope the show brings it back. I hope they can do something. Even if for right now it feels like shit.

-noffy

I missed your asks, Noffy 🥺💖

Tbh I had no idea people were speculating about a virus until yesterday, and honestly, if it all ends up being about a virus (or the Ruin virus on Moon) I'll still be so upset. Because I won't be able to stop thinking about how Moon changed a little, became more aggressive and his family abandoned him at the first "No, I don't want help."

This whole arc only confirms the worst fears of all Moons: they will never be loved. They will always be the bad guys. << Which is btw what New Moon feared and talked to Earth about in therapy.

This arc feels rushed, gross, and not only did destroy the family, Moon's entire development was thrown in the trash. They butchered Moon's character. How are they going to fix this? Why tarnish the name of one of the show's protagonists so badly? Someone they're going to need later?

And you know what I hate more than everything? Sun doesn't know anything about what's going on. Puppet went, told him "you have to make a decision", Sun couldn't do it and Puppet went and sent Moon into space. Without authorization from Sun. And I hope Sun is really upset about it in the next episode.

Oh! And by the way! Earth comparing Moon to the creator felt like a stab in the back. The creator is a horrendous being who killed children for his own benefit, who does horrible experiments, and who planned and killed many people. New Moon has never killed anyone, New Moon was always helping his family, New Moon bought a house so Sun could have a place to relax, New Moon helped make Earth's new body with love, New Moon was so concerned about Lunar's well-being (when Eclipse came back) that he asked for and helped build a bodyguard for him.

New Moon was there ALL THE TIME for everyone.

But no one was for him.

I propose that the entire fandom pretend that this arc never happened :3 💖

[thatfruityb1tch]

GRRM blog post should have been way worse.

With the amount of bullshit that HBO keeps putting him and his work through he should have given away their entire future plans. He should have thrown in a couple of swears here and there. Hell, he should have cussed out everyone's entire family blood line. And yes, I am aware that there was no way that he could do that because he would be buried in lawsuits but it is very interesting to know all of his thoughts on what HBO is doing to his life’s work.

If I was George RR Martin no one would be able to hold me back. Maybe I'm just a violent person but I personally would've pulled up to R*an C*ondal's house for a quick "chat". I would have actually been sued so fucking bad that the crippling debt that they left me to rot in would’ve left me with no choice but to publish Winds Of Winter. But alas, I am not George RR Martin. And honestly, mad respect to the guy. His work, an entire separate universe that he created in his mind throughout several years is being disrespected, butchered and abolished because of some egoistical pricks. The book - unlike ASOIAF books - has already been written and the events in it established. Now, I know some of you feel the urge to argue that it's "Maester propaganda" and that "we don't know if the events in the books is actually what happened" but guess what, history books are written the same way and Fire & Blood is meant to be perceived as a history book. Unlike real life history though, F&B is fictional and it's much better to stay on the safe side and take everything as it was written instead of actively trying to outsmart the original creator.

All the show writers had to do was write the dialogue and some additional filler scenes. The main events and character dynamics should have been left untouched. And yes, while the “Evil Stepmother” trope may be overdone it could have still had a ton of potential given that in this case, both the stepmother and the stepdaughter are power-hungry women driven by ambition and their own self-preservation and not one of them should be rooted for. That was the appeal of the original story. In the books both sides are evil and have done horrendous things. Now the show runners just decided to take the blacks and make them out to be the underdogs and Rhaenyra the new (old, technically) Daenerys. It makes no sense. F&B was written to show how the Targaryens were all inevitably driven to insanity and none of them are good. Some were murderers, some tyrants, most were sadists and some of them were depressed from simply being born Targaryen. F&B was meant to show how Daenerys was better than her predecessors and would have never gotten along with any of them but the damn show runners decided that no, Rhaenyra is gonna be the protagonist, the “hero” and everyone else can go fuck themselves.

Don’t even get me started on how C*ndal handled B&C. It was still a horrifying scene, of course, there’s no denying that, but it left me with a bitter taste. R*an C*ndal claims that in the books, how the murder of a six year old child is described was “green propaganda” and it was “just not that bad”. They specifically had a portion of that episode following B&C so the viewers would feel as if they were on a heist and root for them, hoping that they wouldn’t get caught. How insane do you have to be to call the murder of an innocent child “propaganda” and try and make us “root” for the murderers? That is disgusting.

How many more times are there going to be directors who take an already established book world and meddle in it to make something that is barely recognisable? Don’t they understand the disrespect they show to the authors of these books? They may as well spit in the authors face, it’s all the same. They’re just showing that no author should sign them the rights to adapt their work because inevitably it will just be made into a plagiarised fanfic version of the original book. I would not be surprised if in the following years more and more writers will refuse to make a screen adaptation of their work because directors and show-runners cannot stop themselves from making their mark. They’re just pissing in a corner, hoping no one notices but the stench is there and it’s revolting and it’s ruining a perfectly good carpet.

[skyeblue8]

𝐋𝐨𝐫𝐞 𝐎𝐥𝐲𝐦𝐩𝐮𝐬 𝐯𝐬. 𝐇𝐞𝐥𝐥𝐮𝐯𝐚 𝐁𝐨𝐬𝐬 (𝐂𝐨𝐦𝐩𝐚𝐫𝐢𝐬𝐨𝐧𝐬)

Whether or not you're all familiar with the Webcomic, Lore Olympus is an award-winning comic created by Rachel Smythe that's essentially about a modern retelling of the Hades and Persephone myth with various other Gods and references in it, and what not. And, assuming you have a critical eye when it comes to writing, it's has become wildly disliked and even hated by a lot of critics and former fans due to the butchering of myths and gods (and a religion), unlikeable characters, poor character design, poorer handling of sensitive topics like SA and racism, and overall the author's inability to listen and take critism that would've helped her improve.

The reason I bring this up at all is because I have the nagging fear that Helluva Boss and, by extension, Hazbin Hotel, are going to be doomed to fall into the same pit of failure as Lore Olympus is, mainly due to a nagging pattern that I've noticed between the two:

The Writers. The two are relatively close in age and, in my opinion, immaturity in writing as evidenced by the various plot inconsistencies, character treatment and development, and poor world-building established in both media. On top of that, however, both have a significantly bad reception to criticism of their work in any way, shape, or form. We've seen this before in how Viv herself states that she's been told that she can't take criticism well since she was 17.

Now, it's one thing to have these claims as a teenager, it's another to have them as a fully grown adult and not learn to mature past this issue by now. The number one issue with ignoring criticism for so long, especially in your very popular work, is that eventually, it's going to show. Sooner or later, many of your fans, regardless of how they felt about your work prior, are gonna notice small flaws that gradually become bigger and more glaring the longer they are ignored.

Time and time again, this issue has arisen in Rachel Smythe's work, both in design:

As well as writing...

Speaking of which, I'm beginning to see a similarity in their writing issues in the fact that, evidently, neither creator had/has any set plan for how their stories are gonna be told. Readers of LO have seen that from the frequent additions of various, random plots with the previously established plots having not been concluded in a meaningful or tactful way, and we see this with Vivzie and Season 2.

Going off this, both Vivzie and Smythe show blatant favoritism towards their main characters or love interests that prevent other characters from having their own development (i.e., Millie), as well as keeps the main couple from having any sort of flaws that the audience would perceive as truly bad, thus removing any nuance to them.

We see this in Persephone and her character:

And we see the same with Stolas and Blitzo, mainly in regards to Stolas' past and situation with Stella, as well as Blitzø's own past as we're made to constantly feel bad for him despite him not being the victim. It's made worse since we've yet to know what he did to every single person he's wronged, but, for that, I'm willing to give the benefit of the doubt until we see more of Season 2.

Lastly, and probably the most glaring thing for me, both Smythe and Vivize take inspiration from real-world religions (RS –> Greek Polytheism; Vivzie –> Christianity/Demonology). These religions are both widespread in their popularity and, thus, are important to millions around the world. Because of this, both should surely have a sense of obligation to not bastardize the stories and characters they referenced in their work and/or should make their likeness relatively similar to their original works so others who know of it are familiar with the characters.

Both creators have failed to do so at some point in time and have gone so far as to push the blame on their audience rather than admit fault and work to improve.

Viv with Beelezbub

And Smythe with Persephone and the other gods/Goddesses:

Worst yet, both use social media as a means of weaponizing their fanbase against those who have a few critiques about each work of media. Now, what I can say for Viv is that the severity of these issues hasn't fully hit her yet, whereas Smythe, despite her awards, is feeling the brunt of her poor writing choices from former fans and readers. While Helluva Boss is more new and doesn't hold as much overwhelming significance to me, I've been with Hazbin Hotel since the beginning before the pilot even aired.

It's because of this that my greatest concern is that if Viv doesn't start seeing through these issues within Helluva Boss and, really, herself, then both shows may be doomed to fail, without Hazbin airing in its entirety. Worse yet, it would be a major blow for fellow indie creators who look up to her as an inspiration, so I really hope she doesn't reach RS's level of infamy in her work. 🙏

*PS: For a better Lore Olympus's viewing experience, I recommend this:

[izel-scribbles]

FINALLY FINISHED MY RELISTEN YIPPEEEE I HAVE THOUGHTS (not including the new ep sadly)

oh my goodness. john's s1 voice. i know everyones always talking about it but omg. he sounds like a used car salesman or something i love him

THE BUTCHER BOTH INVOLVED IN ONE OF THE FIRST EPIS???? not by name obvi but "he died quite gruesomely" i completely forgot about that ghsdnflkj

im gonna be honest i skipped ahead to part 6 last relisten but hearing the first few again was so cool

"more writing in polish" wow!! it me!!!! polish!!!!

s2 was. wow. ough. fjaslkdj.

that was actually when i painted the kiy,i was just relistening to those during art class

the vibes were immaculate

godddd i forgot how painful part 18 was

and 19 for that matter

i can't even begin to coherently word my emotions about part 20

arthur's poem. the poem. but also "i am clawing my way towards a better version of myself!" aSLKJDL

john and lilly john and lilly joHn and lilly jaohnd alihdl ully

i also skipped 21 + 22 last time because i couldn't bear the yellow parts they made me too sad BUT i soldiered on this time around

yellow,,,, he sounds like john when he is curious about humanity

like all the cruelty and intimdation drain away and he just wants to know what evrything means

LARSON SLDKFJLSK I NEED TO HIT HIM WITH A SEMI TRUCK I NEED TO RIP HIS ORGANS OUT I DESPISE HIM WHY DOES HE HAVE A SOUTHERN ACCENT. HE ONLY GOES TO MASSACHUSETTS AND NEW YORK. URFLKS I HATE HIM

KAYNE TOO BUT THATS ANOTHER THING

s3 in general had me shellshocked-soldier-memeing in the hallways at school

part 24 i thinkw as when arthur said "i killed myslef for a voice in my head. do you know how mad that sounds?"

AND HOW YOU CALL IT MADNESS KEEPS RANDOMLY CROPPING UP JSLKDJ

ughhhhh part 26 i can't

i was bawling in the bathrooms (in spirit)

and 27,,,,, 28,,,,,

THEN PRELUDE <3333333

MY GORGEOUS WIFE

I HADN'T HEARD HIS VOICE IN TOO LONG JSLKJFLKSJDLKJLKJDLK

why must i be this way about the middle aged irish serial killer. cmon now brain what the hell

anyways. i need to draw lilith too

scratchhhhhhhh

oscar. hmm. might be understanding why everyone loves the sad little gay priest more and more

he has his charms i suppose

john during s4 slkfjl;jlajsdl;fjasrigofecrjaksmlfekjs

relate to him a normal amount sure mhm

NOELLLLLLLLL I LOVE NOEL hES SO EVERUTHGING

GODDDDDDD

i would do unspeakable things to be the waitress he calls doll in one of those episodes

i need him in ways that are detrimental to feminism /ref

i will never be normal about part 40. both my wives dying in the same episode

i had a whole chunk of dms where i raged about how much i loathe, abhor, and despise kayne for that

MALEVOLENT HAS SO MANY MARVELOUSLY EXECUTED CHARACTER DEATHS. THE BUTCHER WAS NOT ONE OF THEM. IT DID NOT MOVE THE PLOT FORWARDS WHATSOEVER. WHY??!?!??!?!?!?!?? HARLAN WHEN I FUCING GET YOU

why would you kill our coolest antagonist??????? literally never getting over him :(((

the part 41 divorce got me ripping my hair out on the bus

trying so hard to keep a straight face when all i want to do is scream and throw shit

john doe trans allegory my dearly beloved <333

part 45..... hrngslkjdf

so so so excited to hear 46 you guys have no idea

[necrotic-nephilim]

thank you for the tag, @sasheneskywalker!!!

rules: answer and tag nine people you want to get to know better and catch up with.

favorite color: it changes regularly, but currently, a dusty/greyish purple

last song: Maps by The Front Bottoms

currently reading:

Butcher & Blackbird by Brynne Weaver is my current fiction read and i *hate* it with my entire being. don't read it.

Postcolonial Astrology: Reading the Planets through Capital, Labor, & Power by Alice Sparkly Kat is my current non-fiction read and so far, it's very good

i'm reading a lot of comics at the moment, but my main read is Manhunter (2004) which so far, is very good, i highly recommend. i'm also planning to read Midnighter (2007) and Black Widow (2014).

currently watching:

The Acolyte has been my most recent fixation so that's just on loop rewatching over and over in the background. a lot

i've been watching Pennyworth which is far better than i expected it to be, i'm really enjoying it

i also started Invincible, which i've been enjoying

idk if it counts but i've rewatched Madame Web a concerning number of times in the past few days.

currently craving: i'd kill for an Italian Cream Soda from tea2go rn

coffee or tea: tea. i used to be a big coffee person in my teens but my chronic illness doesn't like caffeine and it *really* doesn't like coffee so i just drink tea now, but i do love tea

hobby to try: the unrealistic hobby i'd like to get into a fanfiction binding, but that takes materials and resources i do *not* currently have. i think a more realistic answer is i've been meaning to get into marvel comics more.

current au: tbh the main AU i'm working on is a Lance Brunner-centric Post-Crisis fic where i'm completely rewriting his origins to make his death as Robin more significant but still something no one talks about, leading to the ressurection of Jason also reviving Lance and Jason going on his little spree, having no idea he's not the only dead Robin. i've figured out all of the backstory and how i want to characterize Lance, but the actual plot of the fic i'm still working out. i'm leaning toward Lance/Dick as a ship, but i haven't decided. i have so many notes and ideas though and i think it's funny to take a random one-off character from a random 60s comic and actually turn him into something substantial and how he'd shape the Batfamily. trust me i'm so close to infodumping about it here everyday.

i'm also working on a *really* messed up unhealthy Damian/Tim fic, where Damian purposefully breaks the timeline so Tim was never Robin and Damian was the third Robin instead. but when Bruce "dies" Damian realizes he has no idea where to start with finding Bruce so he has to go to a civilian!Tim for help, who has no idea the timeline was changed or that he was ever Robin in a different world. it's gonna be fun and fucked up and full of Damian's jealousy complex over Tim.

i don't know if i can come up with nine whole people to tag for this since i'm still new here but i can try: @searchforahero @divine-dominion @kevin-day-is-bi @kerakeriza @deepwithintheabyss

@maryshellyswife @alicemaem @justmyshittyspace @sandmanwhore and yeah that's all i got.just tagging some mutuals/ppl i see on my posts a lot!!!

[ragingstillness]

The Boys thoughts 4x5:

Homelander’s conversation with Ryan: felt realistic to his character but also yikes (as always). Acknowledgement of his manipulation of Ryan +1 Acknowledgement of his own trauma +1 Equivalence of his experience as a deeply privileged white man to slavery -100

Ryan getting the PA to slap the Snyder parody: one of those delightful moments that The Boys does so well where I feel both positive and negative emotions about it. Do I think the Snyder dude deserved to be slapped by his PA? Absolutely. Do I think it’s a good thing that Ryan thinks the ultimate penance is receiving corporal punishment? No I don’t. I do like that Ryan actually let the victim do the punishment and receive the apology rather than white knighting about it. And of course I am deeply aware of how ironic it is that Homelander is helping Ryan stand up for sexual harassment victims when Homelander raped Ryan’s mom in a similar power imbalance situation.

Genuinely feel sad for Ashley that she lost her Ben Shapiro parody submissive (at least partially because I found it hilarious), but she got him back and that felt very earned.

I knew that Ashley and A-Train did more to Homelander’s apartment! Haha I can’t wait to find out what it is.

Man no one is having a great time or talking about it this episode.

Always happy to see more Esposito, love him as the ultimate traitor. Just betraying everyone left and right.

Not super fond of how they’re making it seem like Annie was wrong morally for beating up Firecracker. For falling for it? Sure. For reacting with anger? No.

Big fan of the V-ed up animals. Hysterical and very fun.

“Do you even know who Annie is anymore?” Um has more time passed that they’re showing? Because didn’t Annie decide to use the Starlight name again like two episodes ago?

I like that we got to see Hughie solve a bad situation on his own this time. He’s really coming into his own. Also, I like that we got another chance to say goodbye to his dad. Still sus that Hughie’s mom knows what V is.

Finally we got to see some of Simon Pegg’s comedic chops too. Him spinning around inside that guy had me laughing like nothing else.

Butcher taking that scientist captive? Honestly that doesn’t feel so much like a return to the dark side as just something his character would always be willing to do. Lest we forget he kidnapped Translucent, tortured him, pumped him for information, and would have killed him if Hughie didn’t get there first. I do feel like he’s relying less on other people which is a backslide from his character development but true to where his character was in the first season too.

Not a lot of sister sage the episode, glad to see she saw through firecracker’s fake inclusion attitude. I do feel like she’s growing closer and closer to dropping Homelander as an ally, something I suspected she would do from the minute they teamed up.

No Colin but I’m sure that’s gonna bite them in the ass.

What are the rules of Victoria’s headpopping? We saw her do it a little but there were many more opportunities. Does she need to charge up? Line of sight? Eye contact?

I agree that Victoria turned her daughter into a monster but only because she taught her not to value human lives and also because she turned her into some version of Parasyte: The Maxim.

Not a fan of Frenchie turning himself in. That’s not going to do anything, now they’re gonna have to break him out, and this show’s morality was never black and white enough that it could look at his actions and be like “you finally did the right thing”

Man when they all meet up with Hughie again he’s gonna have some stories to tell.

Side note: I am utterly amazed that now the secret of Compound V is out that no other country is sending like every spy in their arsenal to steal some. Considering how easily Hughie and the Boys can get it, it isn’t very difficult. Take one look at the nuclear arms race and tell me that every country in the world wouldn’t be quietly declaring all out war on Vought to get their hands on some.

[compact-turtle]

How would Atticus be like with a Mexican reader?? I just wanna call him, “mi amor, guapito, hermoso, mi corazón” !!! All the cute names. Teaching him Spanish, how to dance, cook, and usual customs.

It would be super cute just him asking what does the name ur calling him by mean and u say some lovey dovey shit. Also the fact that we kiss on the cheek for greetings. *gasps* or how he is pretty isolated so he’s either gonna have to get comefortable with random family pulling up or reader giving him an ARMY of kids. Just so that they don’t get lonely cuz family is hella important!

"Mi amor, where's the salt? I can't find it" You called from the kitchen, "I need it to finish making dinner."

"Reckon I saw it sitting in the spice drawer."

-Atticus strolls into the kitchen. He notices you standing near the counter looking for the salt. Quickly, Atticus rummages through the nearby spice cabinet. Without missing a beat, the salt is located. He slips the salt into your hands.

-You thank him then continue cooking. For a few minutes, Atticus just continues to watch you cook. The smell lingers in his nose and his mouth began to salivate.

-A small sense of curiosity began to bloom inside him. Multiple times, he remembered that you would call him mi armor. He couldn't figure out what it meant. Were you unhappy with him? Is this why you called him that?

"What'd ya call me earlier, Doll? Me a-more?" Atticus asked.

"Its mi amor, Atticus. It just means my love in Spanish."

"Hm."

-Atticus comes up behind you. His arms slither around your waist. Slowly, small kisses are littered all over your face. Your nose, cheek and forehead are all claimed by his lips. Not a single inch is spared.

-You laugh as he buries his face in your neck. His warm breath tickles your neck. As you try to squirm out of his hold, Atticus tightens his arms around your waist.

"Let go now. I haven't finished." You say as you playfully pushed his arms away.

"No."

----

-He would love pet names in a different language. It makes him feel so happy that you thought of him. He'd try to learn Spanish to give you one as well. (Honestly would probably butcher it and give you something that sounds funky. You'd totally have to correct him and teach him what it really means).

-Would eat up telenovelas and get super invested in them. At the end of the day, he would pull you into his lap and you would watch it with him. Theorizes about future plot points and characters with you.

-Struggles to make food with you. He can only cook an omelet, oatmeal and potatoes. However, Atticus really enjoys your cooking. He finished it every time and always asks for more.

-Super lost when it comes to your culture. However, he understands with time. You just have to be patient and explain it to him slowly. Would enjoy participating in it with you. sees himself as special since you took the time to integrate him into your culture.

-----

-At first, he wouldn't like being around someone else's family too much. It gives him anxiety because it reminds him of his own messed up family dynamic with his parents.

Also, having to many people around. He's not used to it. Eventually, he'd come around after repeated exposure. Even grows on the children in the family. Comes to learn that not every family dynamic is abusive or hurtful.

-Would be super nervous to have his own kids. A little afraid that he might turn out like his father BUT knows better. He's a bit strict with them since he wants them to learn discipline. However, reminds them about how much he loves them through his actions. (Ex: taking them on special bonding trips)

-Absolutely adores when you're pregnant. Gives your stomach little kisses and wants to listen to the baby. Tries to cook all your pregnancy cravings (fails but A for effort) Messages your feet and back.

-Refuses sex. He's really afraid it'll hurt the baby somehow. Only does it when you coax him into it. Very gentle and constantly asks for reassurance.

----

[dootznbootz]

Which Greek mythology character would you like to see talked about more?

OHoho. you all already know this.

It's Penelope.

And I am being so fucking serious about it. I'm also sleepy and angry and mother nature is stabbing my gut so I'm putting a lot of my emotions into this ask.

BUT her fangirling, angry, bitchy rant of mine, I will save for the end. (and I'll explain it more down there) Not gonna lie, I will probably be mean. Don't take it too personally. (Some folks I know genuinely love her and have stuff for her. Y'all are fine :D )

I have many other characters I wish would be seen more, but hers rant is ooooh. it's been boiling angrily for a long time and this is the perfect ask to let loose.

Take note: This is more about characters who I feel are either underrated and/or not really given love. It's a whole other can of worms about characters who ARE given a lot of attention but are either fandomized to the point of being unrecognizable or people just...really see them wrong.

Ariadne:

A young princess who helped out Theseus to end the cycle of violence against the youth of Athens. Despite the fact that she was going against her family by helping Theseus she did. When he left her, for whatever reason, she was rescued by Dionysus. In which these two have a loving and healthy marriage. There is so much potential here and it makes me sad that she gets butchered and/or just ignored.

Danae:

She was locked up by her father because of a prophecy that happened anyway. She is now pregnant with Zeus' child. She is then locked into a chest in which she is sent floating in the sea. She washes up on Seriphos. Her son is sent on an impossible quest in order to keep her from a forced marriage. Her story is inspiring and ugh sdkf j badass mama! ;~;

Telemachus:

Got that right here :)

Sthenelus:

Fucking love this lil hotheaded cheerleader man. Go boy, go! He got yeeted by Athena from the chariot. Diomedes and him tell each other that they love each other. Tells off Agamemnon for mocking Diomedes' and his dad. He was a child soldier alongside Diomedes. I love this weird lil guy.

Hephaestus:

It makes me sad how people only see him as the "cuck" of Aphrodite and Ares. (no hate to them. do not hate either of them) He's badass in his own right! He does that bigass fire in the Iliad! And one of my favorite scenes in that epic, is him welcoming Thetis! I think he's neat :D

Hebe:

Ganymede isn't the only cupbearer on Olympus you know.

Menelaus:

I love me a goofy wifeman...But if that's all you see him as, I'm sad. What about the sealy man? (aka him wrestling a god for a while and making him tell him answers) The exiled prince? The younger brother? The angry charioteer who yelled at Antilochus? The man who interfered with his brother's letter to his wife to warn to not bring their daughter? Being the sweet uncle figure for Telemachus? (he and Penelope get a lot of the same treatment in a way. with the whole "just the spouse" ;~; )

Psyche:

I think she's pretty popular, but shout out to her anyway :D Because I love her story a lot.

And last but absolutely not least,

Penelope

Heads up once more, but I'm going to be so fucking mean right now. I'm very tired and runnin on 4 hours of sleep and my tummy hurts. This is all over the place and I'm sad.

I think some of you treat the fact that Odysseus is (rightfully) obsessed with her and adores her as if that's HER personality trait... as while it's adorable to see him simping over her as he does, she's not just there for him (and me) to simp for. In the same vein, I think some of y'all only see her for her love of Odysseus and nothing more. Some folks don't see her as anything more than what she is for Odysseus.

AS IF HER HUSBAND ISN'T JUST AS INTERTWINED WITH HER AS SHE IS WITH HIM!

And yet, there is so much stuff with him about the other people in his life. The other Achaeans, Polites and Eurylochus, Athena, etc. You know Penelope has people in her life other than her husband and her son, right?

Even stuff that's just her, it's usually her weaving the shroud...That still ties back to Odysseus. If you wanna have her weave, maybe have her weave something happily. Maybe her chatting with Anticlea or Athena while she does! Or Helen! or her sister!

There's the saying of "the characters respect women but the author does not" and I'm noticing that a LOT in this fandom. I don't think it's intentional, but it's very telling with what people prioritize in their creations how they feel. (and no, I'm not talking about Homer. He wrote incredible women.)

I'm not saying you're not allowed to have favorites. But even if Odysseus IS your favorite, if you have Penelope so one note or with such weak characterization while having so much for Odysseus, FOR THE MEN WHO HE IS NEAR... It's just really telling.

I've even seen some shit with "Well, there's not much to do with her." as if y'all don't make OCs with less. I've seen people give Astyanax, an AU baby, more characterization than her. (Have him alive in your AUs but if you give him more character than Peenlope, I am side-eying you so hard.)

It genuinely pisses me off how overlooked she is. I hate how her tags are basically empty (honestly? I might start tagging my silliness for her correctly because it has so lil.)

Hey, why do followers of the other tags show up but not for #penelope of ithaca? It's clearly because she has SO many followers/fans that she broke tumblr! Especially with the fact that you can scroll all the way to the bottom pretty quickly! /sarcasm

(btw, before you say something, I know there's no consistent tag for Penelope. I follow many of them. #penelope odyssey is kind of the best bet I believe. #penelope of sparta is mostly about that new show that's coming out and hyping about it. still not about HER. #penelope mostly has some bridgerton character. so yeah. Not much on tumblr)

(shoutout to the artists who got their art on front of the tag! That's exciting! I'm being a mean bitch right now but that's fun and exciting!)

I hate how people see her as so one-note. I hate how she's often just "Odysseus' wife". MOST CONTENT OF HER IS HIM SIMPING OVER HER. (that's something I'm guilty of too! I plan to fix that soon. I have so many wips and so lil time and too high of personal standards because since she has so little content of her, I WILL make it good. I'll TRY to make it good.)

EVEN HEADCANONS! SO MUCH OF FANDOM STILL ONLY HAS HEADCANONS THAT HAVE TO DO WITH ODYSSEUS OR TELEMACHUS. GIVE ME SOMETHING ABOUT HER CHILDHOOD. GIVE ME LIL QUIRKS SHE HAS. What does she struggle with? What's her favorite color? Does she like dancing? ANYTHING.

Feelings about how fandom sees her are also summed up by this and this. (Edit: This one too. She's not even dead in the Odyssey but people act like she doesn't exist until Odysseus is there.)

...Do you see my problem? Just one of my problems?

So many people genuinely read the Odyssey and just see her as the "crying wife". People diminish her character and her intelligence all the fucking time. You wanna know something I've noticed? PEOPLE ONLY TALK ABOUT HER INTELLIGENCE WHEN ODYSSEUS IS THERE. Like with how she tricks him and how she tricks the suitors. Nobody talks about the moment when Athena appears as her sister in her dream and she is immediately like "hey, if you're some god, is my husband still alive?" she clocks her as Athena RIGHT AWAY.

People constantly forget her violent thoughts against the suitors! Or when she sasses Telemachus and Euryclea. When she scolds and threatens the maids. (she's not always nice y'all!) Do you really think Odysseus would be obsessed with someone who isn't on his level?

We all know that he loves her. BUT WHY?! "Because she's smart like him." Yeah, we know. WHAT ELSE?

They are Likeminded! Thinking and acting alike! You know how fun that is?!

Homer, you absolute mad lad genius. You made her a mystery to the narrator, Odysseus, and for some reason, people see that as her just being a straight up mystery. You wrote her so wonderfully and so complex with how she is so sneaky in her own way that people are literally tricked by her as readers as well!

Or sadly, more likely, people fucking blackout when she's in the scene and there's no Odysseus. 🙄

Look, even if you have Penelope be the "braincell" who keeps her husband in line, MAKE SURE SHE'S NOT ACTING LIKE ODYSSEUS' FUCKING MOM. They're both grown ass adults for fuck's sake!

Also...please...PLEASE have her be more than a prop for the men around her. I've read some things that could literally have her be replaced by Euryclea, as Penelope is sometimes just used as a sounding board.

I'll be even more bitchier. Even in the OT3 she's commonly in. It wasn't a NOTP until I noticed most creations of that ship was just "Odysseus and this person for 6000+ words... Oh, and Penelope making an appearance in the footnotes." If it's an OT3, they all love each other right? Where's the PenDio fics/art, cowards?

I have a weird theory about how people treat her that way. (other than fandom prioritizing men)

So there's "girlbossing" and "uwu sad victim" that fandom can never seem to leave. I think People do this with Helen and Clytemnestra and that's why THEY are "blorbo-able". (not saying they shouldn't be but they definitely get more love than Penelope)

Helen, despite not always being a victim in her story, has been through so much. Kidnapped and some people blame her for it (irl and some people in canon do blame the war on her). Very easy to cling to. I cling to her too! (she's on the "UwU always victim. tragic blorbo" end)

Clytemnestra, is a victim in the sense that she's a grieving and angry mother and wife. And so she killed Agamemnon. Her violence and anger is seen as "girlboss" despite all the horrible stuff she also did to her children. (she's more on the "girlboss" end)

Penelope, is not a victim to the same degree as Helen nor does she murder anyone (how could she? it was 108 people against her and the Odyssey shows that the suitors' parents were enraged. Even Odysseus was skeptical he could beat them.)

She's not on either end of the "scales" for people to find her "blorbo-able". She doesn't murder her husband or the suitors by herself or is a victim to them in the same way Helen is.

And that's just for people who know her husband didn't cheat. I think with people who think Odysseus did cheat, they hate her because "she let it slide". That she's "weakwilled" for knowing her husband went through literal hell and wanting him to be happy and safe.

Idk, It's a little lonely being one of the few "Penelope crazy" blogs.

I sometimes wonder if people kind of come to my blog in a "Hey, can you love her for me? Can you think about her for us?" as I have seen very little on her childhood for example. It's STILL mostly in relation to others.

It's not even the "sharing ideas" that bugs me. it's the feeling of people not wanting to come up with headcanons/ideas for her OUTSIDE of canon.

"She was in Helen's shadow." Okay, well, how did she feel about it? What did she do about it? Did she hide away? Did she internalize that? Did she find that freeing? To not be the center of attention?

Stuff like that. Dive DEEPER. PLEASE

It makes me happy that people love my Penelope as I love her too, clearly. But I really fucking hope you love the CANON Penelope too. If you think I made Penelope "better" or anything like that, then leave. She's already fantastic on her own.

I want to talk about her more. I want her to be seen more.

[deada55]

Kloktober 2024 day 1: Your Favorite Character

A little glimpse of the future.

The roof of a crumpled hangar was held aloft the rest of the shambling NuHaus, which was as posh of a residence as anything could be in the everlasting waste. Around it grew a shantytown of tarps and rope made from black skinnyjeans to house the army, simply because they had been too exhausted to move. Still, without many provisions, a fierce and snappy economy in the encampment meant that Dethklok’s spacious digs were the limit of their wealth. They sat around a table made of crates and a sheet of heavy plastic from the bed of a truck, surrounded by a motley crew of makeshift chairs, most of the time.

“Murderface, I’m gonna kill you. I mean it.” Pickles hands were ruled by tremors these days, but the grip that he had on a tomato jar of hooch was well-controlled.

“Just a sip, man! You fuckin- you get all the booze we get!” 

“That’s because Pickle don’ts feels good!” Toki felt fine; he was putting pillbugs in a little box with little nature-y bits arranged like dollhouse furniture. “Gots all fucked up sobers. Not evens canned paints…”

Skwisgaar was plucking at makeshift strings on a tinny cigarbox guitar made out of a muffler. Metal. The tuner ran out of battery a while ago, so he superglued it to a couple of dog bones and made a shitty clip.

All Nathan did was grunt and watch a line snake through the shacks and huts carrying poles with white flags flopping in the sandy gusts. Four or five makeshift caskets, one of which was a sealed commercial trash can held sideways for a child, were carried on soldiers. Together, the processional headed north out of the encampment, over a shallow ridge of broken earth, as a snow of falling ash blew in.

“Nathan?” Pickles flicked the metal lid off his jar and took a fat swallow.

“Yeah?”

“Takes the picture, it lasts longer!” Toki shouted over Pickles and giggled.

Nathan turned away from the window and back towards the center of the room, flat. “We don’t have a camera.”

“I-“ Pickles couldn’t get a word in.

“Ans no powers, no amps, no phones,”

“No more, what’s it do,” Toki rose from criss-cross-applesauce to a kneel, neglecting his pillbug palace. “Brr— the ring?”

“Tokis—“ Skwisgaar tried to correct his rendition of their old ringtone under the conversation.

“No calls,” offered Pickles.

“Or getting called by our fuckin’ parentsh!”, Murderface chortled.

Pickles tossed a scraggly, singed dread off of his neck. “Yeah! Now we don’t have to watch their stupid DVDs, or listen to them go on and on on the phone.”

“We don’ts have to know wheres they are and whos they with all nights long durings the working week!”

Toki was rubbing his legs with the palms of his hands. “We don’t even know if theys alive, ha-ha!”

Nathan sighed.

So what if his parents were dead?

He dug deep into his pockets until he found a battered Ibuprofen bottle and pulled out two 2mg Xanax. He leaned over the table and snatched the jar while he ground the pills between his teeth. He swished the drink in his mouth and finished whatever was left in it. 

“Nathans?”

He didn’t realize he was breathing out of his mouth until his own spit came down the wrong way, down his throat already butchered with a slowly disintegrating tablet and vinegary jail booze. He choked until his eyes stung. How long? He couldn’t catch his breath, just hold it. It forced its way out like a sob. 

“He’ms gonna pass out-!” Skwisgaar didn’t even bother standing up. An object in motion stays in motion.

When Nathan’s chest hit the edge of the table, he took it with him to the ground. The empty jar smashed on the dirt beside him.

“Schit!”

[restesdelune]

*A Richonne Content Rant*

> Comin' Soon on Restes de Lune ?

Hi TWD fam, Richonners, gals, guys and theys

I've been editing like crazy but the youtube algorithm won't let me post my 20min edit of HRWB #3 - Next World Lovin' (A day in the life of Rick Grimes) without butchering my work. Looks like I won't be able to finish this series with a bang like I hoped.

So here's a load of stills to give you an idea since for now, all my hours on it just went down the drain. I still want to share something though, as I know others are just like me :) Maybe I'll share snippets, bits by bits... :(

Here's the first part

Idk, looks sexy and funny to me! ^^

I still don't understand why so many channels can host whole scenes of the show online, HD scene packs and longer edits and seem unbothered (good for them!) but I can't ?

Whyyy Ô Whyyy ?

My Richonne rabbit hole originally started with an Ultimate Edit From the prison to Alexandria. It was right after watching The Ones Who Live as it was released and I needed to go back and re-experience Richonne all over again. Unfortunately, it was too long of an edit and my hardware could not keep up...

That's when I took on smaller endeavours, exploring the origins of Richonne further from behind the scenes. I love listening to Danai talking about her work. So many actors tend to respond quite superficially to questions about their characters, Danai has such a profound understanding of Michonne, it shows both on and off screen and I'm here for all of it.

Then, I've explored more behind the scenes with Andrew and Danai's chemistry, and how it showed and still shows up on screen years later, and have many of us hooked, locked in a love chokehold everytime we see Rick and Michonne gazing into each others' eyes. That's how HRWB #2 came to become Dandy On Set and Off.

Yes, I'm fluffy like that and have no shame about it :)

Anyway...

I'll still try to edit further HRWB#3 and share it with you what I can, but I need to cut back my Richonne hours and find new ways to engage with the fandom if I can't find a better solution.

My series How Richonne Was Born was supposedly a lighter prelude to the deeper and more interesting work I want to share (see The Ones Who Love Live On teaser). Might take a while though, as I work too slow for the algo, so don't hesitate to sub to check me out here, on youtube and twitter to follow the work.

And yes, I'm gonna get even fluffier with these ones, and a lot more political too. Fingers crossed!

I still plan to share everything I wrote (essays and fanfic), it will only take yet a lot more time and creativity. Maybe I should just forget video and do a podcast? Just brainstorming in the tumblr open...

If you're into any of it let me know, feedbacks and advice are welcome! I may have started this on a whim but I found people along the way, and it's always easier when we're not alone and have support, right?

My posts about

"The Last Grimes"

The Michonne effect

Mother Michonne

**** See You around and Happy Shipping ****

[the-cult-of-riley]

Sleeping With Ghosts (Act One: Chapter One)

Simon 'Ghost' Riley x Female OC

[[Masterlist]]

A/N: So, I hope Simon doesn't come across as out of character or anything in Act One. Just as a reminder, this is Simon and not Ghost. In my opinion, he doesn't become Ghost until after the Mexico incident and after his family have all been killed, which hasn't happened yet.

I've got a few different Ghost stories on the go and it's fascinating to me how many different facets this man can have depending on the circumstances. With this story, he learns to love and winds up married before he's Ghost which obviously changes things. This Simon is very different to one of my others who never had that and then has to learn to deal with feelings as Ghost. The man's brain is just fun to dive into and to watch how things change when I switch things up.

Act One starts off… well, it starts off horny, not gonna lie lmao Act One and Act Two have very different vibes as you'll come to find out.

Nine Inch Nails - Closer

(Help me) I broke apart my insides (Help me) I've got no soul to sell (Help me) The only thing that works for me Help me get away from myself

I wanna fuck you like an animal I wanna feel you from the inside I wanna fuck you like an animal My whole existence is flawed You get me closer to God

2006

The sky was dark and murky, a light dusting of rain starting to come down. The kind of rain that was so fine you barely felt it, yet would soak you anyway. Simon was glad to be sitting under the roof of the bus stop. The bus had almost ten more minutes to get there and he was already impatient. For the millionth time, he asked himself why the fuck he didn't get a car, wasn't like he couldn't afford one now. 

Being back here always set him on edge. He hated Manchester, it just held too many bad memories for him, yet something about it was just inherently… home. Not to mention he wanted to be close to his mum, to Tommy and Beth. The girl was pregnant now and he felt something stirring in his chest at the idea of his baby brother being a dad. That was all he ever wanted for him, to have a good life, and now he was freshly married to the love of his life and expecting a child. Simon was happy for him. Happy and maybe secretly a bit jealous. He knew he wasn't built for that though, just wasn't in the cards for him. 

He heaved a sigh as he glanced around, watching as cars moved passed in a blur. It wasn't exactly the same piss poor area of Manchester he lived in as a kid, the military paid far better than the butchers did. He could afford an apartment on the outskirts of the city centre now. Could afford one in the city centre if he wanted it but he really loathed being around so many people. He'd always been antisocial and with a childhood like his, who could blame him? But now at 23 years old, after seeing and doing things in the military that most people couldn't comprehend… well, he didn't feel human half the fucking time. 

With another deep sigh, he brought his arm up, pushing his navy blue jumper sleeve out the way so he could see his watch. 8 more minutes. He wondered if he should just walk home, never one to enjoy the wait for anything. He wasn't too far. Tommy had invited him out for a drink and he'd picked a pub near the city centre. He reckoned he could get home in under 15 minutes if he walked, but then movement caught his eye and he lazily glanced to his left. 

A girl was hurrying down the pavement through the mist of rain. She had on a black dress that screamed ‘night out’. It looked shiny, like some kind of satin that clung to her in all the right places. She was a tiny thing yet her body was the perfect hourglass, the dress only highlighting it with its thin straps and its neck that was dangerously low. She had long brown hair tumbling down her shoulders in waves, the colour a stark contrast to her skin that was as pale as snow. 

Instead of the ankle breaking heels he'd expect with a dress like this, she was wearing combat boots. Docs, he noticed, when she got closer and he saw the yellow stitching. As she got nearer, he saw the glint of a nose ring and could see a few tattoos dotted along her pale skin. Fuckin' hell. She was so… different. 

It had been a while since his interest had been piqued. He'd resigned himself to just one nighters that meant nothing when he was on leave. Nameless faces from bars when he was out of it. Pretty enough to get his dick going but not interesting enough to stop him from sneaking out in the morning and never speaking to them again. 

He expected the girl to walk right past the bus stop, anticipated the glorious view he knew he'd get from behind as she did. But instead, she turned into the bus stop, hair dripping wet as she shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. She plonked heavily on the bench beside him, leaving some space between them. Her scent floated over to him then and he was powerless to take a deep inhale. Fuckin' hell. There was something fruity like peach or apricot, but there was also vanilla and something deeper, darker. Something so alluring that he shifted in his seat and cursed himself. He hadn't been laid since his last leave and he blamed the lack of human touch for the stirring in his jeans. 

He cast a sideways glance at her, his dark eyes taking in her trembling form. He noticed a few things up close then that he hadn't seen in her approach. Like the tear tracks down her pretty cheeks and her red and puffy eyes. Bright blue they were. Like the ocean in some far off country when the sun hit it just right, but they were marred by the red surrounding them. He noticed then how her right arm, the one closest to him, was covered in what looked like fresh bruises and a graze down her forearm that was slowly oozing blood. Something quick smacked him in the chest as a barrage of memories struck him like a freight train. 

“You in trouble, sweetheart?” He asked, his voice low and she whipped over to look at him. Those pretty blue eyes flicked over his face rapidly, taking him in, sizing him up. Then they settled back on his own dark eyes. Fuckin' hell. When was the last time someone had looked at him like that? He wasn't sure he'd ever been looked at with whatever this look was but it was stirring something deep inside of him. His eyes darted to the arm she'd fucked up and her eyes followed, realization crossing her face as she did. 

“Oh… no, I fell over,” she replied with a shake of her head. Her voice was soft, sweet sounding and despite the situation he found himself in, his treacherous brain wondered what it would sound like moaning his name. He didn't realise he'd turned into a touch starved sexual deviant. 

“Heard that one before, love,” he countered with a raise of his brow and it caused her to snort, amusement dancing across her pretty features. 

“No, I really did fall. Tore out of the club like a bat out of hell and tripped over. Bouncer was nice enough to help me up,” she murmured, giving him a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.

“Not nice enough to patch you up though, yeah?” He asked sardonically and her smile brightened into a more genuine one with amusement once more. 

“Guess not,” she shrugged as she turned to look back out at the road. He watched her sombre face for a little longer before his eyes drifted back to her arm.

“You’re bleedin’,” he muttered, pointing out the obvious. She glanced at her arm before shrugging again carelessly. He sighed to himself before he shifted, grabbing the bandana from his back pocket. 

He gently took her arm, making her eyes snap to him, watching him curiously as he held her forearm. It gave him an excuse to touch her. Fuckin’ hell, she was soft. He also got a glimpse at some of her tattoos now. On the inside of her forearm were three cards. Tarot cards or whatever the fuck they were called. He had no idea what the cards meant but there was Death, Three of Swords and The Tower, all of which looked not very positive and made him wonder why the fuck she had them inked onto her skin. He had to admit that the artwork was pretty nice though. He felt her pretty blue eyes boring into him as he started to wrap the bandana around her forearm where it was bleeding from the graze. It was silent and he tried to think of something to say, wishing he was more social so he could actually get to know her a little better. 

“You ever wonder what the point is?” she asked after a long moment. He was taking his sweet time tying the bandana off, wanting to prolong the contact he had with her. 

“The point of what?” he asked curiously, eyes flitting to her morose face.

“Living. What's the point in everything, why are we here? What's the point?” she asked with a frown and he felt something tugging deep in his chest.

“Should I be worried you're gonna fling yourself off a roof, love?” he asked warily, finishing tying the knot in the bandana. His hands left her skin then but he stayed facing her. She heaved a sigh that even he could feel the heaviness to as he watched her carefully.

“I’m not gonna kill myself. I just… everything's miserable, you know? I came out of the womb with the umbilical cord wrapped around my neck. Almost died. Mum always told me it would have been better if I would have, maybe that was a sign,” she muttered and the words made a deep ache pinch inside of him. She said it so matter of factly and a frown etched onto his face. 

“That's pretty grim,” he remarked, unsure of what to say. He wanted to comfort her but he had a feeling she didn't want comforting. She laughed then and it startled him. A genuine laugh that felt like bells chiming all around him and making his inside feel like they were about to turn into outsides. She smiled up at him and he suddenly felt unable to breathe. Fuckin’ hell. 

“Grim should be my middle name with the life I’ve had. Just found out my boyfriend of four years has been cheating on me with my best mate. So now I’m out of a boyfriend and a friend,” she was still smiling but this time more mockingly and she turned her eyes away from him. 

“Whoever he is, he's a fuckin’ tosser then. What kind of arsehole would cheat on a girl like you?” he asked with a shake of his head. It annoyed him to think. Whoever this dickhead was, he didn't deserve her. That bright smile graced her face again then and he found himself wanting to bring it to her face more often.

“A girl like me?” she asked with a cheeky glint in her eyes. It made his heart thump wildly against his ribs as he looked down at her. 

“You're beautiful,” he said simply, watching as heat seemed to sweep up her entire body. What a pretty colour pink was on her cheeks. She let out a breathy laugh as she turned away, a bashful look on her face that melted off in seconds.

“Not beautiful enough apparently,” she replied with a shrug. He wanted to argue with her. Wanted to tell her that she was more than beautiful enough and the guy was just a  piece of shit. Yet the words died in his throat, struggling to comfort a stranger at the bus stop.

“The relationship was a mess anyway, I should have seen it coming. It got to that point where we stayed together because it was more convenient than to split. We were just going through the motions. But my best mate? It's a slap in the face having both of them sneak about like that. It's the lies that bothers me the most, you know? Probably for the best anyway, the sex was miserable,” she rambled with a huff and he chuckled at her. 

“That right?” he asked with amusement and she glanced to him with that pretty smile and eyes that spelled trouble.

“Mhm. Never had an orgasm with him, can you believe that?” she asked and he blinked dumbly at her for a moment as his brain registered her words. He hardly expected her to come out with something so personal. 

“Never?” he asked, sounding incredulous. This arsehole was bringing shame to all men with this bullshit. It wasn't hard to get a girl off, he had no idea how some guys had problems like this. 

“Never. Had to fake it the entire time and it was so boring. He never wanted to try anything. Probably ‘cause he was doing it all with Jessica,” she said the name with a mocking smile and a roll of her eyes before her face turned miserable once more. 

“What kinda stuff did you wanna try?” He asked. He was curious, he wouldn't lie about it. Wondered just what naughty things the girl wanted to get up to that her miserable wet blanket of an ex wouldn't allow her to. But he also didn't like that sad far away look on her face so he figured they could keep the conversation going in this direction. 

She glanced at him then with that pretty pink hue back on her cheeks and a demure look in her eyes. He could practically see the cogs whirring away in her head as she contemplated telling a random stranger at the bus stop about what she wanted to get up to in bed. 

“I won't judge, love. Promise,” he added, hoping to ease her worries. His curiosity was getting worse with each passing second, a more primal part of his brain just itching to know what she wanted, wanting to know just what she liked. 

She looked away again, pursing her lips for a moment before she blew out a breath. 

“It's nothing… too kinky or whatever. I just didn't get to try anything. Wanted to start easy, I guess. Wanted to try dirty talk, or more like someone talking dirty to me. Guys being vocal, words or moans… it always got me going a bit, but fucking him was like fucking a corpse,” she huffed and a chuckle got pulled from Simon's throat. 

“And I've always wanted to try… being submissive. The idea of a dominant man in bed appeals to me. Spanking, hair pulling, a bit of choking… But not like degradation or anything, my self esteem is too battered for that,” she snorted self deprecatingly and a smile tugged at his lips at her admission. Little lamb wanted to play submissive, did she? He shifted where he sat, hoping to conceal the bulge forming in his jeans at the thought of her submitting to him like that. His hands wrapped around that pretty little throat as he impaled her on his cock over and over. Fuckin' hell.

“Praise, then?” He asked, dark eyes boring into her and watching as she nibbled on her plump lower lip. Her blue eyes locked on his at his low and gravelly tone, something sparkling behind them as a shy smile curled her lips.

“I've never been praised in bed but I think I'd like it. Like a cat getting head rubs,” she grinned impishly and it was so endearing that he had to temper the urge down to kiss her.

“You wanna be called a good girl, is that it?” he asked, unable to hide the sinful undertone to his voice as he leaned closer to her. He felt the energy shift between them as he blinked lazily at her, like a lion basking in the sun and watching its prey. She looked at him with those pretty doe eyes, lips slightly parted and he watched how her eyes drifted to his lips before floating back up to his eyes. She nodded, the dusting of pink still sitting prettily on her cheeks.

“Words, sweetheart,” he drawled, a surge of something primal stirring inside of him at her little intake of breath at his words.

“Yes,” she admitted softly, seemingly unable to take her eyes off him. He was painfully hard now, his cock pressing uncomfortably on his restrictive jeans.

“You wanna be my good girl, love?” he purred, dark eyes swirling with so many promises if she agreed. Jesus, he wanted her to agree, more than he wanted anything in his entire life. He wasn't quite sure what had come over him.

“Yes,” she murmured breathlessly, “please,” she added and the smile that graced her face was devilish and he once again felt unable to breathe. Fuckin’ hell, I’m in trouble.

A noise he could only describe as a growl rumbled in the back of his throat as he reached out, his large hand gripping her jaw as he leaned down and crashed his lips to hers. Her hand fisted his jumper as she leaned closer, melting into him in a way that pleased him deep inside. His grip on her jaw was firm and his other hand snaked to the nape of her neck as he fisted her hair, tugging it a little. 

She let out a gasp that jolted through his entire being and he took the opportunity to slide his tongue inside her mouth to really taste her. She relented to him instantly, allowing him control as he explored every inch of her mouth. He could taste the cheap whisky she’d had back at the bar and he’d never liked the taste more. He lapped up every bit of her he could, allowing it to set his body on fire before he had to pull away, only for the sheer need to breathe. 

He was breathless when he pulled away and she looked dazed, her pretty eyes blinking up at him like she was somewhere else. His thumb stroked her cheek gently and it brought a smile to her face that had him melting all over again. Her eyes drifted to his lips before back to his eyes and this time, she was the one to lean up, capturing his lips. It was more tame and a lot slower than his desperate kiss but no less sensual. He let her explore him this time, loving how her hand splayed over his heart as she pushed closer to him. He pulled away when he heard the tell tale sounds of the bus down the road and he moved away from her, flashing her a sinful smile as he stood,

“Comin’, love?” he asked her, raising a brow. She flushed pink, taking his hand as she stood.

“I hope so,” she murmured wryly and it startled a laugh of him which only served to make her face light up.

“Fuckin’ hell,” he snorted, shaking his head fondly at her. He tugged her closer and she fell into him, one hand still wrapped in his as the other went back to his chest. His eyes darted to the bus as it got closer before back to her radiant face. 

“You'll definitely be comin’, sweetheart, I promise you that,” he assured her, giving her a serious look. 

“You seem confident you’ll get an orgasm out of me,” she grinned cheekily at him and he licked his lower lip, loving how her eyes darted to the movement.

“I’ll get more than one outta you,” he smirked and she snorted a soft laugh, eyes twinkling at him.

“That right?” she asked, sounding amused like she didn't believe him. She’d damn well find out. 

“Mhm. I’ll get at least three outta you,” he grinned wickedly and her eyes widened as she swallowed thickly. He already knew just how he’d be getting those from her too.

“Three? Are you serious?” she asked slowly, like he was stupid.

“As a fuckin’ heart attack, love,” he murmured and her cheeks flushed. The bus pulled up then and he led her on, paying both their fares for them before leading her to the back where no one was sitting. 

She sat close to him, hand still in his and he was glad she hadn't tried to take it back. He had this deep desire to be as close as possible with her and he still didn't understand it. He never did this. He did impersonal fucks after getting drunk at a bar. Going back to their place so he could slip out before morning without having to speak to them. Hell, sometimes he couldn’t even be bothered with that and just fucked them in the alley outside or the fucking toilets. He didn't do whatever the hell this was, yet he couldn't bring himself to stop. He just wanted more. The bus started moving again and he glanced to her as a thought occurred to him.

“Name’s Simon, by the way. Thought you should know since you’ll be screamin’ it soon,” he drawled, leaning closer to her. She laughed, amusement and mischief dancing across her face as she blinked up at him.

“Does that line usually work?” she asked cheekily and he scoffed, trying to look offended but it was hard when she was making him smile like a fucking psychopath. 

“Dunno, never used it before. Did it work?” he asked with a devilish grin and she giggled at him. It was such a precious sound that he wished he could record it and play it over and over when he was overseas in the deepest trenches of war. Her tongue swiped over her top teeth and she looked deep in thought for a moment, her body leaning into him even more and allowing him to drink in her scent.

“I’ll give you an eight out of ten for trying,” she smirked and his jaw dropped for a minute, eyes narrowing at her.

“You're givin’ me a participation award?” he asked slowly and she snorted, flashing him a pretty smile.

“The good girl line was way better,” she shrugged with a grin and he leaned in, unable to help himself. Who the fuck was this girl and why was she making him feel this way? His lips ghosted hers and her breathing hitched, making him almost purr in delight at her reactions to him.

“Never told me your name, love,” he murmured softly, rubbing his nose against hers teasingly as she tried to chase his lips for a kiss.  

“Charlotte,” she supplied and he finally graced her with the kiss she was after. Her lips were so soft against his and he loved the way she clung to him, gripping his jumper when he kissed her like this. He broke away, nipping at her lower lip and dragging a moan from her that should have been shameful on the back of the bus but neither of them seemed to care. 

“Charlotte,” he repeated, testing how her name tasted on his tongue. She seemed to light up at hearing it coming from him though. Pretty little thing was so responsive to him, he couldn't wait to get her into bed.

Looking up, he saw his stop coming up and he stood, leading her by her hand again to the front of the bus. She went willingly, her other hand curling around his arm as the bus swayed and jostled her. He glanced down at her, so small but yet fitting perfectly at his side like this and he felt something light up deep in the recesses of his hollow chest. She looked up and gave him this sweet smile. As if he wasn't some random stranger she met at the bus stop. Some random guy that was bringing her back to his place for a good time. She looked at him like she’d known him her whole life, like they'd known each other before. Looked at him like he meant something. 

He was brought out of his thoughts by the bus stopping, the door opening with a screech. His heart was hammering with anticipation of what was about to happen. Never in his life had he been this excited to fuck someone. Not even when he lost his virginity to some older girl in school he couldn't even remember the name of. This whole situation had him feeling so unlike himself, but he didn't hate it either. He felt like he was being sucked into a black hole and he was just allowing it to happen. He just hoped he could hold on long enough to enjoy the ride.

[stackslip]

you're inspiring me to rewatch 2003, it was my favorite between the two when i watched them but I forgot most of it in the decade since. also you're good at highlighting exactly how mangahood doesn't work. I actually watch 2003 before reading the manga and I remember thinking the ending of

it's really fucking frustrating to me that people basically closed ranks around Brotherhood as the 'real one' and dismiss 2003 as a regrettable mistake/error in the One True Canon. I've always really loved that 2003 and Brotherhood diverge it's such a unique collection of art

also I want to rewatch the two sequel movies (Milo's and conquerer of Shamballah) god I love bleak writing

i have never watched the second movie but i remember really enjoying conquerors of shamballah. granted, i was like, 14 then lol. there was a lot that i didn't catch in fma 2003's themes at the time, but same as you, i watched it before i read the manga (and i finished the manga before watching brotherhood) and i remember even then i was disappointed by some of its aspects. then in my early 20s i was like well manga/brotherhood is better bc it's better executed (as like. a mid shounen lmao) and bc it has greedling (i do still love greedling, if only bc i looove body sharing as a trope), but i still thought 2003 had lots of good aspects and couldn't understand how people went from "fullmetal alchemist is one of the best animes ever" to "fma 2003 was a mistake and all bad and stupid actually and its female characters suck compared to mangahood which has MUCH better female characters" (i was thoroughly unimpressed by fma's base female characters. loved mei and lan fan but come on they were hardly given so much depth). not to mention how disappointed the manga version of the homonculi were. like i remember when sloth in the manga was first introduced being SO disappointed.

in retrospect, i think mangahood's status as The Best Animanga Of All Time when even at the time i liked it most i found it..... decent to good at best, and quite overrated, has made me sour on it quite a lot. like it felt impossible to talk about anything i disliked about it bc despite having such a highly praised status, people get irrationally angry and defensive over any criticism of the manga or brotherhood's themes and story. they'll either claim its depiction of genocide and fascism is really good, or when you criticize it they'll go "well it's a shounen, why are you criticizing it for being a shounen!" (i think shounen can do and engage with these themes thoughtfully! and i think if you're gonna use these themes and depict genocide so viscerally you got a duty to do it right to the end or at least TRY to do so). it's when i started rewatching clips of 2003 and being really impressed by the clips, and how much they held up if not actually blew brotherhood out of the water. and it's also my own maturing in terms of politics and understanding of fiction that made me even more open to what 2003 was doing even though i remembered it did fail in some aspects! like, i don't think as a 14 year old i much understood the nazi thing, and as a young adult i was like "eh that was a bit weird" but it's in the past few years in my criticizing of what brotherhood and the manga fuck up that i suddenly realized "oh. 2003 was actually saying the quiet part out loud instead of using this as an aesthetic for its world!"

i was unsure how much 2003 would hold up on a rewatch tbh, and there ARE clunky if not bad parts. making human barry the butcher a serial killer who dresses as a woman to get his victims is............ a choice. it's very typical 90s/2000s transmisogyny and even though it's only one episode it left a real bitter taste in my mouth. the anime filler episodes are not nearly as strong as the main plot episodes (even when they have anime-only content!), though i appreciate the effort to make them thematically relevant to the series and make many of the anime-only characters direct parallels to ed and al. they clearly saved the animation budget for important parts, and it suffers in some episodes (i am fine with that, i watched lots of mid 2000s anime who had the same issue. not everyone can use its budget allocation and limitations like rgu). i don't like the end of the one episode where the tomboy kid suddenly becomes feminine at the end bc she's happy now lmao.

but from episode 1, it's already so much more committed to some of the themes and ideas that harakawa evoked as flavour or background but barely dug into. she was making a fun action shounen with a large, lovable cast, and that's..... fine. it's just not interesting to me, at least outside of greedling's whole thing. it's got SUCH a melancholy feeling to it, it feels like it's digging into the literal guts of arakawa's world and characters. i also actually really appreciate that while it keeps touches of humor, it wayyyyy tones down the gags that are there every four pages or so--arakawa can make it work in the manga, but in brotherhood it's near unbearable how you can't one one serious scene without someone doing something goofy.

i will say, a little thing that i REALLY in 2003 like that's pretty personal is the way the alchemical circles are drawn and used. this might sound weird, but the way i learned about fma's existence was when i was i think 9-10 years old and bought a french anime magazine, and it had a whole part on fma 2003 including a two page spreader detailing the alchemical circles and their uses. it was my first ever impression of fma and i loved the look and feeling of them. there was something occult and dark about the way they were presented in that magazine that coloured my experiences when i watched the anime on a fan page in 244p max with terrible fansubs