#i didn't proofread this at all

[pictureofdoriaaaaaangay]

chaotic book ramble so I can stop spiraling into the abyss: dark academia books you've heard of and probably already read edition

I need to talk about books I love to stay sane please stand by <3

Bunny by Mona Awad. I love this book SO MUCH. it's beautifully written, the characters are all unhinged women, there's murder, there's creation, there's a creative writing class. it drips with insanity and eroticism. reading it is like living a fever dream. you can picture the events of the book perfectly, but could never hope to explain it to anyone.

The Secret History by Donna Tartt. this book is the entire world to me. I love the characters [they're all terrible and irredeemable people], I love the story [they kill a man then they kill their friend and also worship Dionysus], and I absolutely want a friend group just like the Greek class [to reiterate: they are all walking red flags]. it's a book you have to read once, then again, and again, just to notice more and more so you can analyze it and make deductions. at the end of the day, it goes beyond the age-old "moral implications of murder" and delves into "moral implications of love". don't ask me how many times I've read it. that's my red flag.

If We Were Villains by ML Rio. it was only recently that I read this over the course of twenty four hours, and I honesty have yet to recover. I'm not a Shakespeare girlie, but I still loved the way his work was so inherently and intricately woven into the story of the iwwv characters. it was transcendent. it was a tragedy, it was a love story, it was a comedy. it depends on your perception of it, I suppose. but I digress - it's a really good bloody book. expect the ending to make you cry.

The Picture of Dorian Gray, by our lord and savior Oscar Wilde. this, technically, can't really be classified under the textbook definition of "dark academia" since there's not exactly any academia (can Harry even read let's be honest here), but it goes in this list because VIBES. this is one of my favorite novels of all time, and another one I've read one too many times for it to not be a red flag. I mean, the name of my damn blog is my red flag. I love it so much. it's got everything, from art to obsession to murder to gay people to the most heartachingly profound lines you've ever read. I mean, why wouldn't you read it if you haven't already?

These Violent Delights by Micah Nemerever. this one snuck up on me. towards the beginning, I wasn't sure if I'd like it, but by the middle, I was hooked. by the ending, I was shooketh. reading the author note, I was sitting silently in abject horror. more gay people, more obsession, more murder - what else do I have to say?

this has been a chaotic book ramble. thank you for being here <3

[mangobug]

Alenoah is so goddamn appealing to me for the same reason i like aleheather: they're both enemies/rivals with a tension. However, what makes alenoah so much more interesting to me is the fact that Noah just would not visibly care about, or outwardly acknowledge, Alejandro's advancements. When Alejandro flirts with the other contestants, he easily throws them off or (in Heather's case) pisses them off, turning them into putty in his two hands. When he attempts to throw Noah off, though, it doesn't (visibly) have an effect on him, and it bothers Alejandro because Alejandro always has the upper-hand, around both women and men. It makes Alejandro feel almost humiliated when Noah brushes him off or shoots back sarcastic comments in response to his flirting. Noah barely even bats an eye. But Alejandro can't bring himself to stop when he finds Noah as a person so interesting. Alejandro loves debating with Noah and adores his snark and intelligence, and this adoration drives him. He makes it a goal of his to somehow really fluster Noah or throw him off his game like he does with the other contestants, which has proven to be quite a difficult task. But Alejandro isn't a quitter.

In reality, Noah enjoys the playful and teasing banter just as much as Alejandro, even if he seems uninterested, because it's entertaining to be debating with someone of similar intelligence. Alejandro's flirting, though, does actually throw him off, just not in the same way it does to other people. Noah is entirely (and rightfully) convinced that Alejandro's flirting with him is just a part of his slimy, slippery, eel-y personality, and a sad attempt to rid of Noah in order to further himself in the competition. And Noah is nothing if not stubborn, so even if he feels his stomach twisting into a knot every time Alejandro compliments his brown eyes or his hooked nose or his impressive intelligence or his interesting personality or even the peaceful, curled position he sleeps in—Noah will always just nod his head and respond with a doubtful "sure" or a sarcastic "thanks, honey."

And if Alejandro were to hear about how Noah views his persistent advances, then he wouldn't deny it, because in the beginning that was about half of the truth. He did want to use this new challenge to knock a few opponents out, and if reaching his goal would not only prove to Alejandro that the cold-presenting bookworm had a heart that could be tamed but would also get him out of the way and push Alejandro one step closer to his imminent victory, then, well, that's a win-win for Alejandro. That isn't all the reason though because, against all of Alejandro's big ego, he does actually quite like Noah. This "like" didn't mean the same in the beginning as it did in the end. Because it didn't start with Alejandro wondering if Noah had had anything to eat that day or if Noah had any pets or what Noah's favorite book was, or even if Alejandro could borrow that book Noah was reading once he was done.

Against all of Alejandro's wishes and expectations, he finds that between the two of them, he is the one who has been getting flustered. And it is downright embarrassing, because Noah doesn't even do anything. Well, except for all of the things he usually does. He makes his sarcastic comments and argues with Alejandro just as he did before, but now the details are so much clearer. It's like every feature of Noah's has been enhanced, including his features that previously Alejandro would have considered flaws. His forehead was rather larger than average, but Alejandro has decided that it fit his face and personality and that it was only natural for a head to be big enough to store all the fascinating knowledge and wit that Noah had proven to have. And that pimple just below his right cheekbone, well, that is just time's beauty mark, a proof of growth and maturity that was one feature of many on his face that showed that he was very alive. He found an adorableness in the way Noah uncurled from his sleep and rubbed his eyes first thing after a long night of rest, and he felt a burning discomfort in the unmistakable image of Noah curling into Owen's nap for a makeshift pillow later that day. Alejandro felt electricity course throw his veins and his hands become shakey and clammy at every short lock between ivy and coffee irises. He felt his heart beat a thousand miles a minute each time he stood next to the other, and he would feel it speed up ten times fast at every sarcastic comment the other would make.

Alejandro found himself staring.

Alejandro finds himself studying his face, gauging his face for reactions whenever he makes a joke, and he finds himself way too excited when Noah cracks a smile at it. One time, Alejandro had made Noah laugh. Belly laugh. Gasping for breath laugh. A laugh so full of joy that Alejandro found himself smiling. Not from the contagiousness of Noah's laugh nor from the humor of the comment he had made about Duncan, which, truth be told, he couldn't recite on the spot even if he needed to because his memory had been wiped and replaced with this. Rather, he was satisfied that of all people, he could make Noah laugh like this (and Owen.. he supposes.) That night held for him some distasteful news, because how could Alejandro be the one melted into somebody else's palms?

Noah had noticed the sudden change in Alejandro's behavior, but it'd be a lie if he said he knew why it happened. And if anyone were to tell him why, he would deny it, because not only was it obviously not true, but he also didn't want it to be. The idea of someone as slimy, slippery, and eel-y as Alejandro even daring to approach him was for one, unfortunate, for two, terrible, and for three, impossible. But he couldn't help but ponder why this change had happened. Just why was Alejandro so... fidgety? He was running his hand through his hair what felt like every five minutes (Noah heard him curse under his breath once in spanish, likely at the realization of the inevitable accumulation of grease by the end of the day due to the excessive hand-to-root action), he kept unbuttoning and buttoning the top button of his shirt (Noah heard him mutter once, "is it too scandalous undone?"), and he wouldn't stop playing with his fingers, cracking and popping them, pulling and intertwining them—not that Noah was always watching his hands or anything, because he wasn't, but it was just such a drastic change to Alejandro's usually confident demeanor that you must be a fool to not notice it.

Alejandro did not notice—how could he be such a fool? Developing a crush on an opponent with a million dollars on the line? Pathetic.

The night following Noah's laughing fit, Alejandro found himself staring at Noah's sleeping form. Alejandro had noticed the way he usually sleeps, which would be creepy if Noah didn't have such a noticeable way of sleeping. He curled up to sleep, upright or on his side, and it was pretty cute. His eyes observed the way Noah was curled up against Owen's side, face resting into the other's fat. Ah, right. Owen. Alejandro felt a scowl creep up on his face when his eyes shifted to the blond's face—only to immediately divert his eyes, because Owen was already looking at him. He heard Owen laugh, which made his embarrassment double—embarrassment? I don't get embarrassed.

"Don't worry, Al." Gross. Al. "Noah doesn't know, so your secret is safe with me."

Alejandro blinked. He looked back at Owen, although reluctantly. "...Secret?"

Owen laughed again, and Alejandro was getting worried that he would wake Noah as he watched the smallest of them bounce against Owen. "You know, Al. Your cute little crush on Noah! He's smart and all, but he kind of sucks with love. You can take as much time as you want before you tell him. But between you and me, I think he likes you, too."

Alejandro's mind blanked. Crush? "Uh. My what."

Owen's face turned confused as well. "Oh... Do you not? Oops. Forget I said that about Noah."

Alejandro wished he could think of a decent response, but, what?

"Uh... No, I wouldn't say you're wrong. I just... didn't know myself."

"You—" Owen laughed again, this time making Noah groan in his sleep.

"Ugh... Owen. Stop, 'm trying to sleep." He said, not even opening his eyes.

"Sorry, buddy." Owen giggled, "Al's just pretty funny."

Alejandro glared at Owen, and the other shrugged.

"Sure." Noah groaned, adjusting his position before quickly falling back to sleep.

"Wow! How could you not know, Al? You're always looking at him and talking to him, 'n stuff. It's like Tyler and I aren't even there! And you're so nervous around him. I didn't know someone as cool and confident as you could get nervous around anyone. It makes me proud to know my little buddy could do that."

Alejandro nodded. "Hmm. You're right... Maybe that is the case."

It was a silent agreement between the two that it was their business and no one else's, an agreement that Alejandro wasn't too confident that Owen wouldn't break, but it was enough. Alejandro couldn't decide what was more shocking, an agreement between him and Owen, or the fact that he actually liked Noah in a more than just curious way. Looking back on what Owen said though, he thinks an Owen and Alejandro alliance is much more surprising.

[adrinktostopyourthirst]

literally shaking, convulsing, after reading your work, oh my goodness. my favourite is your metal arm drabble, your miiiiiiind—literally blacking out as we speak, send help, immediately. now, i had a thought:

bucky with a pillow princess, but like, kind of laying her down as a pillow princess, he just wants to make her feel good, because i know this man eats pussy like his life depends on it, like it’s so vital, he’s totally addicted.

i hope you’re doing well, please take care of yourself. and i hope this ask isn’t obnoxiously long; i did get carried away here. only because you’re the bestest!

I loved writing that drabble so much and I'm so happy you liked it!! I'm sorry for being gone and taking my time to answer your asks, but I do have a lot to say about this...

You felt a certain pressure to service Bucky. Not because of anything he did, he never made you feel pressured with anything. But after everything he’s been through and being so emotionally and intimately neglected, you wanted to show him the other side of it. You wanted him to lie back and go cross-eyed with pleasure. You wanted him hissing and groaning and whining for more. You just love it when his face contorts and relaxes violently as if unable to choose between pleasure and relaxation. Selfishly, you fucking love that.

But Bucky doesn’t really understand how you think pleasuring you doesn’t give him nearly as much pleasure, if not more. When he pulls at his own cock, he imagines you coming around it and squeezing his come from him, he imagines grinding into the mattress with his face buried between your thighs, he imagines his other hand knuckle deep inside of you until you drool. Bucky’s fantasy is always of your pleasure. Specifically, the pleasure induced by him.

He likes that you put up a fight, however. Bashfully slapping or shoving him away, writhing in the sheets as he positions you in a way that he knows is comfortable for you. He’ll be firm and gentle, pretending like it isn’t the easiest thing in the world to manhandle you. He likes spreading a wide hand over your belly to keep you down and then… tease.

Kissing, biting, tracing, nudging everywhere but where you need him. With knuckles and lips and fingertips and the tip of his nose. Nipping with his teeth as he watches you clench around nothing and until slick drips down between your legs. That is when you become pliant like he wants you.

Oh, he loves eating pussy, but he enjoys it so much when you just… take him.

“That’s it,” he’ll murmur and nudge his nose over your clit, making you shudder. “Just how I like it. Let me have my way with you for a little while…”

You can only whimper, knowing the only way to get what you want – what he made you want – is to take everything he gives you. Allow him to enjoy eating your pussy more than you enjoy having your pussy eaten. And then, you feel his tongue. Sliding through your slick and curling around your clit, before the small nub gets sucked between his perfect lips until the nerve endings swell with need.

Oh shit–

“Good girl,” he whispers and wraps his entire mouth around you, groaning into your folds as his arms wrap around your thighs and pull you up to his mouth further.

He once had you like this under a table at a deserted restaurant, where you tried to push his head away and fought for your life to keep some modesty about you. He enjoyed that too, but–

The low moan that leaves you on a sigh has Bucky pressing his hips into the mattress with a choked grunt. His ministrations sound so wet and filthy, it spurs him on even more. His tongue slips and his lips tingle with something like adrenaline to push you further. Your flesh dips where his fingers grip you and he groans at that, too.

He’s not sure if the heavy breaths he hears are yours or his, doesn’t know if your hands in his hair pull him closer or push him away. He chooses to believe you pull him closer– and he doubles his efforts, making you gasp with a high-pitched whine. Oh, you are heaven on his tongue…

And then, you say something that has Bucky smirk wolfishly.

“More.”

He peers up, marvelling at your heaving chest, your swollen lips and glowing skin. He makes an inquisitive noise and knows you’re fully in tune with him when you repeat yourself on the last of your oxygen.

So his finger breaches your entrance and you sigh in delight, clenching around the digit gratefully. You sink down into him and Bucky’s heart swells, his brain shutting off. He’s not going to feel sated with just one orgasm. He needs all of them. He wants you begging for more, yet unable to do so. He wants to burst with all the things he wants from you.

His eyes flick towards the clock on the nightstand and he smiles at himself. 7am. That is plenty of time. Plenty of time to make you soak the sheets, move you to the couch, eat you there while he washes the sheets, and then move you back to the bed where he will worship you until you’ve lost a day to laying in the pillows and taking him.

Your moans raise in pitch, breaths coming to you with more difficulty. He slides another finger in to add to his first, skating over that spongey spot and causing your thighs to tremble.

“Right there, huh?” he mumbles and presses soft kisses to your clit as his fingers explore inside of you. “You going to come for me? I want you on my tongue, okay? I want you to come right on my tongue so I can lick you up. Let me lick you up, baby. Let me taste your come.”

He doesn’t know where the filthy words come from, but the contortion in your face tells him you’re exactly on the same wavelength as him, and it drives him insane to know how much you love the idea of him drinking you up as you come for him.

His nose circles your clit as his tongue settles right along his fingers. “Good job, sweetheart. Come. Right now.”

[old-skyguy]

Look.

Ace Attorney fandom.

I know why people don't like Turnabout Bigtop. I am among the people who dislike Turnabout Bigtop.

But I GET why people like the case. I'm not going to be one of those annoying people who just blindly dump on it because I hate those mfs too.

Thing about Bigtop isn't that it sucks. Thing isn't the weird grooming stuff (though that is a huge part of it). It's not that it could've been good.

It's that - in my personal OPINION - it could have been *great*.

I think it had the potential to be one of the best third cases in the trilogy. It had everything; a fun and goofy setting fit for a pretty dang goofy lawyer game - where the environment itself had jokes and quips and one-liners and mishaps and tomfoolery written all over it, it had the previous case introducing a very interesting and important plotline that gave background for one of the more well-loved characters while also introducing an equally fucked up and lovable new one who was a child forced into a shit childhood of naivete in a CIRCUS with another character who was very naive and childish - whose interactions could have been funny and cute and reflective of said shit from the previous case (seriously she becomes such an important character in the 4th case, WHY would they not include her in this one for some character development? How did they fuck up letting a CHILD explore a CIRCUS?? That would have made the interactions flow MUCH better).

They had a pretty good, sympathetic killer imo, a morally dubious victim, an asshole of a client (who was pretty flat admittedly in-game, but I like his weird, topsy-turvy reasoning for it in the anime. Also, I think Max being kinda a dick would have bode well for the themes of Farewell since most of his clients up to this point have been like...nice? Not nice, but sympathetic, but him having to defend someone who's innocent but a prick would have shown him that just because someone is an asshole, doesn't mean they deserve to suffer for it and that they have the potential to grow as people, which is almost a complete foil to what Matt was. Ultimately, I would have loved the contrast of them as clients and I think it would have also served as character development for Phoenix, especially with his low-empathy tendencies).

They just didn't think that far ahead. They just didn't execute it well enough. They just decided to make three of the adult characters fight for the hand in marriage of a teenage girl. (Bat's part of the story was actually kinda good if he was just YOUNGER, I think him doing that for Regina would have been a stupid thing someone in the circus would do to impress their crush. Damn you Ace Attorney and your weird treatment of underage girls!!)

It just flopped and that's ok.

Even though it kinda sucked, it can still mean something to me.

Also I'm a Moe Curls apologist. I liked him, shut up.

[ghnosis]

*rips bong* (this is my bong in case you're curious)

so some of you have asked me, over the course of the 80-someodd interviews I have so far conducted, why I am doing my PhD on Ghost.

tonight a participant asked me in a manner that sort of finally clicked for me - because I assume all of you live inside my head with me and know why I do everything.

Rose, why are you doing your PhD on Ghost fandom?

when I was 12, American Idiot by Green Day came out. I lost my mind immediately. Green Day were my first hyperfixation. I promise if you ask about "Green Day Girl" to people I went to high school with, they would remember me. not only did Green Day teach me about the Iraq War, and American progressive politics in general, they also taught me, a bullied and weird child, what it meant not to give a shit. someone thinks I'm wrong/bad/inferior? cool! I don't fucking care. "now everybody do the propaganda," etc.

if I kept talking about everything I learned from Green Day, we'd be here all night. but. Green Day *also* taught me that music didn't have to sound like pop, or like country. that music could be written because someone felt something. that music could be used to express rage, a thing I felt in spades.

so from Green Day, my door is blown wide the fuck open and I get to learn about Dead Kennedys, about David Bowie, about Nirvana.

the other thing I know I love, back then in 2004, is learning. and teaching.

fast forward 15ish years, give or take (or pack me a second bowl and I'll tell you the middle), and I'm looking, halfheartedly and in a bummed-out manner, for a PhD program. I have my master's, I didn't like the experience, but I want that Dr. I've been presenting at conferences and doing some piddly academic writing on video games and the use of games in education, and I'm on a listserv for other people writing about games. I get an email from someone at Falmouth University about a PhD program there in "Dark Economies." who's listed on the email? none other than Tanya Fucking Krzywinska, my number one academic girl crush (in my subject area. my actual number one is a historian)!!!!!!

so I read this email and it's talking about the intersection of the occult, video games, and heavy metal. as I said, I've been writing about video games. one of the things I'd been writing about was a certain thing that happened in that industry ooooh, 14 years ago now. something in my brain slots into place.

the occult: I know what that is. occult rock, certainly. I maybe could squeeze in some punk or pop punk. the goffik. we got some MCR.

heavy metal. well, I'm a punk girl through and through, but I used to date that guy in the metal band and have seen Slayer et al multiple times live. sure. I can occupy that world. wait a minute. Ghost.

video games. the thing I'd been writing about, specifically the mistreatment of anyone who wasn't a cis guy. you know what that sounds a lot like? sounds a lot like going to metal shows with my ex. WAIT A FUCKING MINUTE. GHOST??? on TUNGLE DOT HELL???

so I log my ass back on to this website and I look at you, at all of you beautiful people I'd been reblogging ass wobbling gifs with for years, and I said "oh my god. are they me? is whatever is going on in there just a bunch of me's, except it's Ghost not Green Day?

are all of you finding the most beautiful thing there is to find, namely, empowerment and freedom, in the goofy Satan band music band? was it the heaviest thing you had heretofore encountered? did it crack open a yawning chasm in your soul? were you hurting in ways you didn't know how to articulate? are you learning what it means to take up space, to demand rights for yourself and for others, to truly let your fucking freak flags fly? are you feeling the stirring in your heart that only comes from religion (read: witchcraft) or from seeing the most important band in the fucking world live, in the flesh, singing TO YOU, sweating FOR YOU? if you are, I think we are fucking important and vital. I think that we can tell our stories and make a bunch of other weird little girls realise that they, too, have rights - including to transition.

cos immediately in doing this research I found out - you're also NOT me, in some really important and specific ways. maybe being AFAB in the US isn't part of it. maybe it's bigger than that. and I feel so lucky, so truly fucking blessed and lucky, to have gotten to speak to over eighty of you beautiful people, to have been trusted with your stories. to learn what makes YOU ache in your soul and how it is different to but also the same as mine. I have to stop now I'm gonna cry!!!!

[hylaversicolor]

the big eva and ocelot meta, or: how to use religious iconography and symbolism in a godforsaken, cunt serving, and incredibly transgender way

this meta started out as a way for me to learn more about ocelot by looking at eva. and then it turned into the opposite, i guess. because ocelot never, ever speaks directly about his motivation, except for one time at the beginning of mgs2 when he says he’s glad sergei noticed that he’s abandoned mother russia, and even then he hides through ambiguous wording and camera angles. (x) everything else we learn about ocelot is from other characters or is obfuscated by conflicting personas or both. we know why he does what he does (he was obsessed with big boss, eva says) yet he doesn’t state this in his own words. but you can use eva to analyze ocelot, and vice versa. during mgs3 they are both mysterious philosopher agents with ties to the book of genesis sent to help snake on his mission, often with nearly identical dialogue. (x, x) so in mgs3 when eva says “snake, huh. well, i’m eva… are you here to tempt me?” we can assume ocelot feels something similar. when eva says “don’t die on me” at rassvet, we’re meant to remember that moment when ocelot says the same thing to snake in the sewers, many scenes later. and when eva says “when i’m riding, the wind hits me so hard that it hurts. that pain keeps my mind off the pain of having to be someone else. it's not easy always fooling myself like this. it's only when i’m on the bike that i’m free to be the real me.” it’s in the back of our minds when ocelot also rides a bike later on. of course they are not exactly alike; the bike means something different to eva than it does to ocelot, and besides, ocelot is younger, less experienced, more hotheaded. eva, for all her cleavage, is reserved.

taking a detour for a moment to address the ocelot drag king thing that went around twitter recently. shinkawa and kojima noted that mgsv ocelot’s design was meant to inspire such questions from the player “like ‘is that a man or a woman, a woman dressing as a man’ kind of thing,” or “something like takarazuka” (x), japanese western-style theater “with all-female performers” (x). here’s a passage from jennifer robertson’s “the politics of androgyny in Japan: sexuality and subversion in the theater and beyond,” describing tarakazuka:

The femininity embodied and enacted by the musumeyaku serves as a foil for the masculinity of the otokoyaku. Much of the training of the Revue actors involves learning a vocabulary of gendered gestures, movements, intonations, speech patterns, and the like. An otokoyaku, for example, must stride forthrightly across the stage, her arms held stiffly away from her body, her fingers curled around her thumbs. In contrast, a musumeyaku pivots her forearms from the elbows, which are kept pinned against her side, constraining her freedom of movement and consequently making her appear more "feminine." In keeping with the patriarchal values informing the Takarazuka Revue, musumeyaku have represented the fictional Woman with little if any connection to the actual experiences of females. The otokoyaku, however, have been actively encouraged to study the behavior and actions of men offstage (as well as in films) in order to more effectively idealize men on stage, be they samurai or cowboys. Personal or contrary motivations and desires aside, both musumeyaku and otokoyaku are the products of a masculinist imagination in their official stage roles. (American Ethnologist, August 1992, vol. 19, issue 3, pg 423)

if, like all things with ocelot, we take this concept and run with it to eva, then ocelot is the takarazuka otokoyaku and eva is the musumeyaku. it’s all a performance. it’s all camp.

ocelot performs masculinity. he is (arguably) a gay character who lives and breathes his own interpretation, informed by the spaghetti westerns he watched and absorbed as a teenager, of the most idealized embodiment of western masculinity in existence: the american cowboy. his movements, his bravado, his persona are all exaggerated in mgs3. but his performance is also a mask behind which he hides his true self. ocelot physically conceals his whole body; his red gloves are his trademark. eva, by contrast, shows off her body. but while ocelot hides himself by hiding his skin, eva hides herself - crucially - by showing skin. and while ocelot's whole Cowboy Thing is him performing a fantasy version of masculinity, the opposite is true for eva. she is performing femininity just as much as ocelot is performing masculinity, only instead of playing a western cowboy dandy, she’s doing an over-exaggerated femme fatale. they are both acting. they are both camp. ocelot’s masculinity is rooted in westerns; eva’s femininity is, presumably, rooted in whatever charm school training the philosophers must have given her.

this juxtaposition informs the way their roles play out throughout the course of snake eater. ocelot can go off and do whatever; he has more freedom by taking on the persona of a man. eva is more limited in her performance, confined to a pseudo-caregiver role. she must support snake, care for him, give him food items. during the interrogation scene she is the one who is forced to step in and intervene, because out of all the players in the room, the personality she’s crafted for her role is most suited to sensitivity to snake’s torture. (x) she uses her vulnerability to exploit her enemies, turns people’s preconceived notions about her against them. ocelot and volgin both underestimate her; when she successfully evades volgin on the bike, and bests ocelot in hand to hand combat, these are not traditionally feminine activities, yet they are the things she truly excels at. also ocelot has had everything put together for him, even if he doesn’t see this. (x) he has been given incredible privilege at a terrible price. eva doesn’t even have that privilege. she is working to support snake completely on her own.

yet even though eva is unfailingly on snake’s side throughout the game, helping him, giving him items, often physically close to him, seducing him, etc., she betrays him in the end. ocelot is the opposite. he is farther away; he often watches rather than intervenes when snake is in trouble. it’s not obvious that he’s been on snake’s side the whole time. and yet by the end of the game, where eva (who had gotten the closest to him) betrays snake, ocelot (who had been farther away) does not. this speaks to mgs3’s theme of “there is no such thing as a timeless enemy” - also because after the events of the game, snake and eva (though parting ways as enemies) end up as allies again, and eva and ocelot, who had been enemies in the game, become allies as well, and remain allied for life.

ultimately, due to eva’s role being confined to a traditionally feminine one in mgs3, ocelot emerges as a more compelling character. behind that femme fatale persona, though, there is a lot going on. a lot of it, i think, relates to the way eva was raised as a charm agent. as a result of her philosopher training, she can only think of human relationships in absolutes. she equates sex and love in her mind and cannot conceptualize ambiguity:

eva: do you love her? snake: no, nothing like that. eva: do you hate her? snake: does it have to be one or the other - love or hate? eva: between a man and a woman? you bet. […] eva: you were interested in the boss. snake: she was different. eva: really? how do you feel about me? snake: i should be asking you the same question. eva: me? i can fall in love - if it's part of the mission. even with you.

this is meant to be a callback to mgs1, but it’s also eva in her element, in action, working. she unzips her top as she says these lines, revealing her breasts. there’s some meta commentary here about eva fooling or charming the player, using her own sexuality as a weapon, but still being objectified nonetheless because kojima wrote her to do this. in the context of the game, yes this is eva acting of her own accord, molding her appearance and mannerisms to appeal to her target, but she is doing so as a result of philosopher training. this isn’t eva’s true self, not really. the only place she feels free to be her true self is when she’s on her bike, with the wind hitting her so hard “that it hurts.” we see eva performing increasingly risky bike stunts as mgs3 goes on. i think the stress of playing her role only continue to increase as time went on throughout operation snake eater. but not because of being forced to fool john: i think she took some pleasure in that. rather:

eva: the boss was the only one i couldn't fool. she was the only one who knew i was a fake. she told me everything. why did she open her heart to me like that? at the time, i couldn't understand it. but now I think I do. snake, she wanted you to know the truth. she chose me to tell you. that's why she saved my life. i’ve lied to you so many times, but not this time. my orders from the government were to obtain the legacy and to eliminate everyone who knew the truth about what happened. in other words, I'm supposed to kill you. but i can't do it. not because we loved each other. and not because you saved my life. but because i made a promise to the boss… and i intend to keep it. i just wanted you to know. and… you have to live.

because the boss was the one person to understand her, to look at her and see that at her core, she, like ocelot, is the embodiment of a 404 error. but this lack of self, or lack of recognition of the self, ironically, is what makes her human. the boss looks at her and instantly sees that the only way she can feel anything at all is to ride her bike so hard that the wind hurts her. she sees the pain of having been transformed into a blank slate by the philosophers, ready and willing for anyone’s preconceived notions of femininity to be projected onto her, because the boss went through the same ordeal - but unlike eva, whose earliest memories are presumably of philosopher charm schools, the boss did not start as a blank slate. she had a life, a personality, a family first, and had all that taken away in order for higher powers to reduce her to something malleable and ready to be manipulated for the sake of nations and empires. the boss is eva’s connection, her lifeline from the sterile, casually cruel world inhabited by the children of the philosophers, to the emotions and the messiness and the nuance embodied by the rest of humanity. and this connection goes doubly deep because the boss probably encountered eva in one of the philosopher charm schools while searching for her own son, who she knew had to be at a philosopher facility too.

and by choosing eva as the one to pass on her message to snake, the boss gives eva’s life new meaning, a renewed sense of humanity. in eva’s mind now the boss and snake are connected. she is part of that love the boss had felt for snake, and she inherits it by proxy. i don’t think she loved john as a human being, at least not during mgs3. even after mgs3, i don’t think she comes to understand this connection that the boss and snake had, but she still clings to it. and i think that, just like ocelot who was far away and fixated on snake, once eva is the farthest away that she’s ever been from snake at the end of mgs3, now she becomes fixated on him too. just like ocelot, snake represents humanity to her. their connection is less about love and more about trying to make sense of her own emotions, her personhood. the boss endures and haunts eva into perpetuity because i think she is a reminder of what eva could have had.

big mama: your father never wanted you. i’m sorry. human life isn’t meant to be manipulated like that. i knew that. but—i wanted you.

eva allows her own pursuit of humanity to convince her to do inhumane acts. we know ocelot joined the patriots to stay close to john (the same reason he eventually joined foxhound). eva joined the patriots, i think, because staying close to john brought her closer to the boss. that, i believe, is the reason she wanted the kids so badly. eva in mgs4 is motivated by guilt. we can see that she takes in war orphans as the leader of the paradise lost army (ironically facilitating the creation of more child soldiers, and perpetuating the vision of the philosophers even as she’s trying to dismantle their legacy). in mgs3, eva and ocelot are a pair of young philosopher spies aiding naked snake. in mgs4, eva and ocelot are a pair of aging ex-patriot spies from another time forcibly dragging the past along with them into the present. they both mistake solid snake for naked snake in semi-lucid moments; they share similar last words; they both are ultimately killed by foxdie. they kill and steal and lie and torture and maim, but in their minds it’s all out of necessity. take this analysis of paradise lost by john leonard:

The hostility of Chaos raises troubling questions about God. If God is good, all-powerful, and the ultimate source of matter […] how can we account for the existence of an evil Chaos? An evil Chaos would suggest either that God is not good or that he is not all-powerful. Many critics try to get around this problem by arguing that Milton’s Chaos (despite appearances) is not evil but good. (Introduction, Paradise Lost, Penguin, 2003)

zero, by mgs4, is the alpha and the omega. he has surpassed the limitations of his moral body and become an all-seeing, all-knowing system of AIs: in the metaphor of adam, eve, and the snake, zero is god. we can see that eva feels somewhat complicit in this transformation: “zero created the patriots to manage and control the american state […] but i am partly to blame. i bear some of the guilt for creating the organization.” ocelot’s feelings are less apparent.

back to the beginning of this essay: ocelot only explains himself once throughout the entire game series, and while he does, the camera conceals his face. importantly, his red gloves are gone in mgs4. his black gloves show us that this isn’t ocelot anymore. but since his fingers are uncovered, we can infer that ocelot is in there somewhere and he is speaking his truth. so when liquid says “cigars… father's favorite.” that’s really ocelot (with the cigar blocking his face…there’s so much in that) saying “cigars…john’s favorite.” when liquid says, “snake, we were created by the patriots. we're not men: we're shadows in the shape of men. […] the patriots saw fit to create us, and in doing so became our only raison d'etre […] so long as we both live, the world will not know an age of light […] the only choice left to us is death." that is ocelot saying “when i saw what the patriots had done, my only reason to exist became to take them down.” when liquid screams “do you see this, zero?” that is 100% ocelot saying, “watch us, zero, we’re going to undo everything you did to john.” and when liquid gives this odd, regretful glance after the confrontation at the river, (x) i think that is ocelot reacting (albeit late) to eva saying, “adam…” a scene prior.

john: ocelot and eva wanted two things…to bring me back to life, and to end the patriots. […] for me, and for them […] nothing was more important.

in the words of steak bentley, mgs4 shouldn’t have been about big boss. (x) i agree. forcing everything to connect back to big boss and to zero shrinks the universe, imbues the story with this weird predestination, makes everybody’s contributions to the plot feel less significant, weakens both mgs4 and mgs3 in hindsight by showing the writers’ lack of faith in their new material.

but you can also look at it in a meta sense of ocelot and eva saying “this story’s not done yet, i’m still going to get revenge on big boss’s behalf. this is going to be about big boss whether you all like it or not.” metal gear solid 4 is really the story of two people who loved big boss so much and carried so much guilt over the part they played in zero’s betrayal that they created this entire overly convoluted plot to make john relevant again. the irony of it is that if they had just let him fade into obscurity (the first time, after snake eater) the LET project might not have even happened at all. by mgs4 i think they both recognized this. and yet they continued to drag it out - understanding, i think, on some level, that they were doing it all essentially for nothing. and through eva and ocelot’s actions, john ends up getting….not exactly a redemption, but at least closure. i don’t know if it’s warranted or even deserved, but he gets it nonetheless. and still eva and ocelot spend most of their time away from big boss and die without seeing him again. the thought that john would be able to survive, that he would endure and live and reconcile with solid, get one final moment of “i understand.” at the boss’s grave - this kept eva and ocelot going for decades.

by the start of mgs4, for eva and ocelot, everyone else is gone. john is out of their reach, the boss has been dead for fifty years, they killed the rest of the patriots themselves after zero betrayed john. the kids that eva had wanted, too, are no good, since liquid is already gone and solid needs to die in order to bring the cycle to a close. the only way they can access their own humanity (that ocelot had found in snake and eva had found in the boss) is through clinging to each other.

big mama: naturally, ocelot and i planned to free [john] from zero's prison. we enlisted naomi hunter, an authority in the field of nanomachine research, into our organization. and we used frank jaeger to kill dr. clark. ocelot tortured the DARPA chief, donald anderson - also known as sigint - to death…and made it look like an accident. […] with para-medic and sigint dead, zero was the only one left. but we, too, paid a price. i lost ocelot. ocelot wasn't fighting for the pentagon, or the russians. and certainly not for zero. he was fighting for big boss. he idolized him.

[b1gwings]

today's dndads was so fucking good and people are making good points about the parallels and cycles of Henry not being proud of Sparrow, and then Sparrow not being proud of Normal which is all so real and heartwrenching. I also noticed something in addition to that when they came back from the past and he started to walk into the woods.

I haven't been able to stop thinking about last episode when Normal said something to Scam about "I can't be around another adult who thinks they deserve to die." The twins are the main adults in his life that think like this, especially with Lark's whole "if someone's going to die for this, it's going to be me" attitude. One of my friends told me about a really good post they saw (although they couldn't find it :( ) about how this is an effect of the adults in Normal's life not wanting to take accountability. They want it to be fixed, but they'd rather die to punish themselves instead of stick around to help fix it.

Normal is sick of this behavior and this seniment. Lark, Sparrow, and the other kiddads ROYALLY fucked up everyone's life -- even though it's their fault Normal would rather see them do something about it. Which makes a lot of fucking sense? He's been around this his entire life, and since learning about Code Purple it's just gotten worse.

Which is why him trying to just walk out into the woods struck me as so interesting. Obviously, baby Normal was not responsible for releasing the flesh monster onto D.A.D.D.I.E.S HQ just like Lark was not responsible for releasting the Doodler. The way I see it, Lark blames himself wholeheartedly for this whole mess. Sparrow too. Their self-hatred only festers into an immensely heavy guilt. It's hard to get out from under those huge feelings. And, yeah, it would be easier to just die -- to punish themselves for fucking up so bad -- than having to figure out a way to fix it. It feels hopeless.

Normal has a moment with that guilt in this episode. He fully believes that it's his fault Code Purple ever happened, and that guilt makes him feel like he needs to isolate himself. It's the same principle of wanting to avoid whatever fucked up shit comes after. Normal can't help but feel that hopelessness that runs in his family -- he's not good enough for these awesome, helpful people because all he's done so far is fuck things up. And despite resenting this behavior from the adults in his life, he falls back into it. Because what is he supposed to do? He's just a kid who messes things up no matter how hard he tries to fix it. Why would his friends even want him around anyway? They're the ones who are actually saving the world.

I just really love the way dndads works with cycles. There are so many and they're all so good (and heartbreaking).

[smallandalmosthonest]

Eyes meeting from across the room and buddie (or buddietommy) from the prompt list 👀👀👀

pick a prompt any prompt

[buddietommy - an alternate version of the bachelor party, ~2000 words, rated E]

Tommy had been officially released from standby at midnight, and half an hour later, the bachelor party was shaping up to be the best night of Buck's life.

Now that his boyfriend - his boyfriend! - was matching him and Eddie drink-for-drink, Buck's burning-in-the-background anxieties about planning the perfect party had melted away. Sure, Chimney wasn't there, but Tommy was, and Eddie was, and all these random strangers were, and no one was mad at him. No one was disappointed in him. No one was saying he Bucked it up. In fact, no one was calling him 'Buck' at all - Eddie had been calling him Tubbs all night (excluding the third round of shots, when he'd called him 'cowboy' with a dopey grin), and Tommy was, as always, calling him -

"Evan," Tommy groaned, his breath hot on Buck's neck. "You're killing me, kid."

Buck grinned. They were in the middle of the dance floor, being bumped into on all sides, and Buck had his arms wrapped around Tommy's neck, his suit jacket lost somewhere between drinks six and ten. Buck had dragged Tommy through the crowd, pulled him close, slipped his thigh between Tommy's, and danced the way Buck 1.0 danced. Slowly, purposefully grinding his hips to the baseline, letting his chest brush against Tommy's teasingly, refusing to break eye contact while letting every lascivious thought show plainly on his face.

It felt weirdly good, surprisingly easy, to slip back into this - but it was better now, because he was older, and knew so much more about who he was and what he wanted, and because it was Tommy. Tommy, who wasn't a petite woman interested in Buck's bulk and little else - it was Tommy, who was even bigger, who could haul Buck into his arms without a sign of exertion; Tommy, who had been interested even when Buck was a babbling, awkward idiot who made a fool of himself on their first date. Tommy, who was attracted to him before he even knew Buck was practically a sex god.

And now, he got to remind his super hot pilot boyfriend that Buck was, in fact, something of a sex god.

Buck leaned in, letting his whole front plaster against Tommy's, running one hand through his hair and licking a long stripe up the side of his neck; he could feel more than hear the low hum of pleasure deep in Tommy's chest.

"I'm killing you, huh?" Buck murmured into his ear. "I'm not even doing anything. I'm just dancing." And as the chorus hit, Buck ground into the crease of Tommy's hip, making no effort to muffle a breathy gasp of pleasure at the delicious friction.

This was fun - this was what Buck was used to, in some ways. He was used to being the one to drive someone else crazy, to take control, to set the pace - but at the same time, this was all new.

Because Tommy loved to let Buck take the reins, but he also loved to take them back.

His hands tightened on Buck's hips, and he spun him around without letting him pull away - Buck's arms slipped from Tommy's shoulders, and suddenly his ass was pressed against Tommy's hips, and Tommy's mouth was on his neck, and Buck felt very exposed.

"Just dancing?" Tommy growled. "You're practically humping my leg, baby. You're showing off. Putting on a little show..."

Buck bit his lip, tilting his head, silently begging Tommy to go to town on his neck the way they did when they were alone. Tommy, never one to miss a cue, immediately pressed wet, open-mouthed kisses over his pulse point, which got Buck from mostly-hard to diamond-hard in the span of five seconds. The Buck 1.0 reflexes had him still grinding to the beat, his hands resting on top of Tommy's, and he could feel the hard line of Tommy's cock through all the layers of fabric.

"Show off," Tommy breathed, dragging his nose along the shell of Buck's ear. "Come on, baby, let's show them how pretty you are." And then his hands were slipping off Buck's hips to grab his wrists, and then Tommy was lifting his arms up, bringing his hands up to tangle in Tommy's hair.

Buck thought he felt exposed before, but it was nothing compared to this. Tommy dragged his hands down Buck's triceps, skimming along his armpits, and Buck gasped, half-ticklish, half turned-on.

"I'm so sweaty right now," Buck said, not yet drunk enough to forget that he was wearing a white t-shirt and had been drinking and dancing for hours and a quick glance down at himself showed that the sweat was soaking through in a line between his pecs - he could only imagine what his underarms looked like.

"You are," Tommy agreed, his hands splayed high on Buck's ribs, his hips driving them along as one song morphed into the next. "And you look so fucking pretty like this... Hard and sweating and desperate..."

Buck bit back a moan, eyes rolling back as he let his head fall back onto Tommy's shoulder.

"I'm not the only one who thinks so," Tommy said, skimming his teeth along the corner of Buck's jaw. "Look at him, baby. Look at the way he's watching you."

Buck forced his eyes open, blinking in confusion, scanning the dance floor -

And then he saw Eddie.

Eddie, across the room, leaning on the bar, his beautiful brown eyes locked on Buck's. And the look on his face...

He looked like he wanted to eat him alive.

"Oh fuck," Buck gasped, his legs going weak.

"Mhm," Tommy hummed. "He's been staring at you this whole time, baby. I don't think he could look away if he tried."

"That's - " Buck swallowed. "That's not - Eddie doesn't - "

"Doesn't what?" Tommy asked innocently, and one of his hands slid down, down Buck's side and came to rest on the front of his hip, drawing the eye to where Buck's cock was straining against his zipper, and fuck, Eddie's eyes dropped down to follow the hand, obvious even across the room. "Doesn't want you like that? Oh, Evan. Baby. Don't be silly. Of course he does."

"He's - " But Buck couldn't get the words out, because Tommy's other hand was dragging across his chest, palm and fingers dragging along his nipple, and he was twitching under Tommy's hand, losing the rhythm of the music, and he couldn't look away from Eddie, from the way Eddie was biting on the inside of his cheek, clenching and unclenching his fists, gaze fixed on Buck's hips and Tommy's hand - "He's straight," Buck said automatically, because Eddie had to be straight.

It turned Buck's whole world upside down if he wasn't.

Tommy took Buck's earlobe between his teeth and pinched his nipple through his shirt at the same time, and Buck jackknifed in his arms, fists tightening in Tommy's hair, back arching, driving his ass back towards the pressure of Tommy's hips, and Eddie -

Eddie's mouth fell open, and his chest heaved, and holy shit. Holy shit.

"Hm," Tommy hummed, all faux-innocence, too composed, far too composed for what a mess he was making of Buck. "I'm not too sure. But hey, why don't we find out? Why don't you go over there, and you ask him to join us."

"I - " Buck's brain was offline. "What?"

Tommy nuzzled his neck, the hand on his hip drifting below his navel, the hand on his chest coming up to hang, loosely, around the base of his throat. "You're going to walk over to him. And you're going to lean in close, so he can hear you. And you're going to say Eddie, do you want to join us?, and when he says yes, you're going to bring him over here to me, and then I'm going to let him take you apart."

"Oh my god, Tommy - "

"Go on, baby," Tommy said, slipping his hands off of him and untangling his hands from his hair. "Go get him." And he gave Buck a gentle but firm push.

The Buck 1.0 swagger was gone. This Buck - 4.0? - was dripping with sweat, hard enough to cut glass, and could barely hear the thundering beat of the music over his own pulse ringing in his ears. His legs felt weak beneath him, and he all but stumbled over to Eddie, who was watching him the whole time, not moving.

Buck stopped less than a foot away.

God, Eddie was beautiful.

Even like this, even drunk and probably exhausted, he was the most beautiful person Buck had ever seen. That realization had struck Buck the moment he laid eyes on Eddie, half-dressed in the 118 locker room, and had struck him again and again and again over the last six years. Buck had seen this beautiful man clean-cut and well-polished, he'd seen him covered in soot and mud and blood, he'd seen him asleep and drooling, bruised and battered, dressed to the nines - Buck had seen it all.

He'd never seen Eddie look like this.

Eddie Diaz was staring at Buck like a wolf stared at a lamb. His pupils were blown wide, making his bright brown eyes look dark and bottomless, and his lips were softly parted, a gentle expression that was in direct contradiction to the way his fists were clenched so tight Buck could see the veins popping on the backs of his hands. He was still leaning on the bar, but every line of his body was tense, ready. Waiting.

Buck couldn't do this. He couldn't cross this line. This was Eddie, his Eddie - he couldn't risk this. Couldn't handle it if he made this offer, and Eddie turned it down, turned him down.

But the way he was looking at him...

Buck just stood there, pulse racing, mouth dry, making no effort to hide what he was feeling. He knew Eddie could read him like a book anyway.

After what felt like an eternity, Eddie closed his mouth, and swallowed. "Hey, Buck," he said simply.

"Hey, Eddie," Buck managed.

"Do you need something?"

And Eddie was asking so much when he asked that question.

And Buck just - answered him. "Yes," he said, barely audible over the music. "I - I need you."

Eddie took in a deep breath - Buck could see his chest rise with it. "You have me," he answered.

And then Buck was leaning in, taking another step forward, and he could smell Eddie's sweat and deodorant and traces of the cologne he only wore on special occasions, and when Buck put his mouth next to his ear he could smell Eddie's skin and his shampoo, and it was so easy, standing that close, to say "Do you want to join us?"

And standing that close, it was impossible not to get closer - it was like a magnet in his chest, pulling him in, and he was bracing his hands on the bar on either side of Eddie and he was pressing their chests together, and when Eddie nodded, Buck couldn't see it, but he could feel his chin against his shoulder, could feel Eddie's ear against his cheek, and then Eddie was gently, tentatively putting his hands on Buck's waist.

"Are you sure?" Buck asked, because he had to know, because he needed this to be real, not just the tequila or -

"God, yes," Eddie said, so earnestly that it shattered every last wall Buck had built around his heart, and god, he loved him. He loved him so fucking much, and he'd loved him for so fucking long -

"Can I - ?" And Buck turned his head, and it was magnets again, and he was kissing Eddie Diaz.

And he was home.

Even with tequila and beer on their breath, even in this noisy bar under neon lights, even though the bachelor never showed up to his bachelor party, even dressed in their cheesy pastel suits - it was perfect. They fit together the way Buck's bones fit under his skin. Eddie's mouth was hot and soft and his hands were gentle and sure and Buck clacked their teeth together because he couldn't stop smiling because it was Eddie, and he loved him.

Eddie pulled away first, breathless, dragging his mouth away but trying to press his body even closer, but Buck had him pressed tight up against the bar and was not about to let him go anywhere. Eddie mouthed along Buck's jaw, panting against him, and Buck was just about to tilt his head, to offer up that sensitive spot under his ear, when Eddie froze, and his already-hard cock twitched against Buck's hip.

Buck leaned away, slightly, and saw Eddie staring, wide-eyed and flushed, at something over his shoulder.

He turned, twisting in the circle of Eddie's arms, and saw Tommy.

Tommy, leaning against the second bar, drink in hand.

Tommy, sweat plastering a single little curl onto his forehead, smirking that same knowing smirk that he brought out when he pinned Buck down and made him beg.

Tommy, his boyfriend, who was so beautiful and kind and patient and sexy and confident and honest and -

Tommy, who had locked eyes with Eddie, and slowly, clearly, lifted one hand to beckon him over.

[td-brick]

Brick being butch actually makes so much sense like even looking outside her appearance, just look at her behavior. A huge part of her character is being protective and kind to people but she's also not insecure or submissive like a lot of people make her out to be, she's assertive and strong when she needs to. especially when it comes to sticking to her moral code about helping/protecting others... like idk i wrote a twitter thread about this literally yesterday and it wasn't related to her being butch it was just me being annoyed at how people portray her in fanon but i think a lot of what i explained also relates to what i'm saying here/her being butch. at least in my eyes. IDK!

[becca-alexa]

Movie Magic

Steve Harrington x Fem!Reader

Summary: You're at Steve's for a movie date - what could go wrong?

Word Count: 1.7K

Content Warnings: fluff, fingering (f receiving), no use of [Y/N]

Author’s Note: bored and overwhelmed with school!and what better way to work off my stress than to keep writing this stuff? feedback and comments appreciated!💗💗

    In any and every situation, Steve Harrington loved to touch you.

    Steve had been starved for affection since his childhood, his parents oftentimes never present enough to give him the love he ached for, the love every child deserves to receive from their family; he’d taught himself to live without such things, believing that their behavior was the norm, and that it was those he considered to be overly-affectionate that were strange. 

    As a teenager budding into young adulthood, he’d finally discovered how wrong his family had been.

    The first form of love he’d found was with Nancy - an eros love, however fleeting their relationship had been. He’d also learned of heartache, which made the love all the more powerful.

    The second form, he’d found with Robin - philia, or ‘platonic with a capital “P”’, as she would so often tell everyone. It was a warm kind of love, a safe love, a nonjudgmental and welcoming love that he basked in whenever they were together.

    The familial love - storge - he’d been searching for, he’d found in the kids - and in Eddie, of all people, although he’d be loath to admit it. Their friendships meant the world to him, and if it meant putting his own life on the line a second time to guarantee they’d all live to see tomorrow, then so be it.

    And the fourth kind of love, pragma… Well, that he found in you.

    Steve had been smitten with you since the first time you’d wandered into Family Video.

    You’d walked up to the counter; Steve, sorting through stacks of cassettes underneath, sprang upright at the sound of your voice, his eyes wide at the sight of you - a new face, a breath of air in the occasional staleness that came with living in a small town. You smiled at him, and he smiled in return; to his surprise, you asked him for directions, still too new to Hawkins to know which way the local Piggly Wiggly was. Steve had done his best explaining things to you, and you had thanked him as you left, giving him a shy wave goodbye through the store window.

    Robin nearly gagged at the way he’d melted after you’d left - and she’d teased him mercilessly for months about it.

    About you.

    You’d gone back the next day, this time actually in search of a video, Steve nearly leaping over the counter in his haste to get to you.

    “Hi.” he breathed, his smile more lopsided than debonair, hair falling over his forehead.

    “Hello again,” you replied, eyes clear and bright as you take a step closer to him, pointing at the rack of recent releases behind him. “Any recommendations?”

    He explained every movie, every plot point, every surprise twist or frightening scare that might deter one from renting a film - and Robin, looking on, arms leaned over the counter as she pretended to flip through a catalog, swore she’d never seen Steve do so much work.

    He pulled a few boxes from the shelf - his favorites, since you’d asked for suggestions. You stared at the boxes in his hands, lip caught between your teeth as you tried to decide which one to pick - and when your hands brushed his, he nearly jumped at the jolt of electricity that shot through him.

    Judging from the look of bewilderment on your face, you’d felt it, too.

    In any and every situation, Steve Harrington loved to touch you.

    Whenever he saw you, he’d long for some sort of contact with you; with your frequent visits to the shop, it was only natural that you’d befriend them, and eventually you just started spending your free time with the pair. It began with a poke; Steve had leaned his hip against the counter, listening to your excited raving about Cyndi Lauper’s newest single, nodding every once so often. He stared at your hand, at your seafoam green nail polish, and he couldn’t help himself.

    He poked your finger.

    You didn’t miss a beat, your conversation continuing on as though nothing had happened. But, much to Steve’s delight, you’d poked him back.

    And, from that point on, you were both inseparable.

    Poking turned to tapping, which turned to grabbing, then holding. As the scalding summer days drawled on, your friendship with Steve deepened - perhaps a bit too quickly to some, but perfect for the two of you. One day, working alone at the store, he had sworn to move things forward - to take the risk, praying you wouldn’t turn tail and run.

    He asked you out.

    You said yes, much to his surprise - and unsurprisingly to everyone else.

    As a friend, Steve Harrington was caring, kind, warm; his comforting aura was what had initially attracted you to him. But, as a boyfriend? 

    In any and every situation, Steve Harrington loved to touch you; to hold you, to brush his hand against yours, to press the softest of kisses onto your hair, your eyes, your cheeks, your lips.

    But, you quickly learned that he especially loved to touch you.

    Seated between his legs atop his couch, you leaned back against his chest, head on his shoulder as he wrapped his arms around you, the movie you’d picked out playing on the large television. You try to focus on the movie - God knows you try - but the feeling of Steve’s rough hands moving over your thighs dominates your mind, your thoughts. You sneak a look at him, only to find him actually watching the movie; his hands continue to move over you, squeezing your softness, fingers wandering beneath the hem of your skirt, moving higher… Higher…

    “Steve?” Your voice is hoarse, your mouth dry, tongue sticky. “What are you-”

    “Just watch the movie.” His voice is soft against your ear, low and rumbling in a way that vibrates through your chest. You nod, swallowing against the tightness in your throat as his touch burns trails over your skin.

    You feel his fingers brush over your underwear, and he makes a quiet noise to get your attention.

    “Can I?” Steve asks, fingers tugging at the elastic hugging your body; you nod, face aflame as you lift your hips, pulling off the offensive thing in a single motion. And, unsure of where to put it, Steve takes it from you, sliding the lacy things into his pocket - for later, he answers with a kiss to your cheek before turning you back to watch whatever scene was playing out on the screen.

    You feel his hands roam over the inside of your legs, trailing close to your core. With a quiet gasp, your eyes flutter shut as you feel him drag a finger between your folds - up, down, up, down, stopping every few strokes to rub agonizingly slowly over your clit.

    “S-Steve-”

    “Keep watching.”

    Your body thrums in anticipation, and you have no choice but to do as he says.

    He continues on with his teasing - there’s no other way to describe what he’s doing - and you quickly feel yourself melting in his arms. As he kisses the shell of your ear, lips trailing over your flushed skin, his other hand moves to join the first, working in tandem to unravel you. You catch yourself grinding your hips up into his hands, and you barely catch a moan before it slips through your chapped lips.

    He rolls your clit between his fingers, maddening, electrifying, while his other hand presses into you, his fingers coated in your essence. Soon enough, the quiet, wet sounds of his fingers working your pussy fill the room, a sinful backing track to the movie you were supposed to still be watching. Your head rolls back against his shoulder, your breathing heavy, eyes fluttering closed as waves of warmth crash over you.

    “Eyes on the TV, sweetheart.”

    He pumps his finger into you, adding another, and you hear the softest of groans from him at how you squeeze around him, pulling him further into you. The hand at your clit speeds up, slows down, stops altogether before picking up at a dizzying pace - and the feeling drives you nearly to the brink of insanity, the familiar tightness of your release already coiling in your stomach.

    “You like this, don’t you?” Steve huffs against your ear, his own breathing labored as he works you toward your peak. “You like it when I touch you like this? When I get you soaking wet?”

    You nod, your mind a haze of pleasure; you moan aloud as his fingers curl themselves inside of you - and you know you won’t last much longer.

    “S-Steve, fuck…! I-I’m-” You cut yourself off with moan, one loud enough to be heard over the rising action of the film - rather, what you assumed to be the rising action.

    Neither of you were paying attention, anyway.

    You’re panting now, Steve’s name a prayer on your lips as your nails leave crescents in his arms, your eyes clenched shut as you feel yourself begin to come undone; the feeling of him everywhere is too much, too intense, and you let yourself fall into him.

    “C’mon, baby, cum for me. Cum on my fingers.” You feel Steve lick a stripe up your neck, kissing you, his words burning themselves into your flushed skin. “I want to feel you - please, baby…”

    You scream as the thread snaps, your body arching off his, his thick fingers buried deep inside of you, working you through the ecstasy. He presses kisses wherever he can reach, whispering praises into your ear; you can hear the smile in his voice, the pride he reserves only for you.

    “So good to me, baby… So sweet…” Pulling his hand away, he makes quite the show of licking his fingers clean, your flushed face burning impossibly redder, the sight making him smile as he readjusts you against him. He pulls out your panties, offering them back to you - of course, he does so purely out of courtesy, already knowing you’d refuse them. You settle yourself, burying your head in the cozy warmth of his chest.

    “Should I rewind the movie?” Steve asks, sounding almost sheepish as he reaches for the remote - and you laugh, taking the remote and tossing it aside before jumping to your feet, pulling him up with you as you lead him to his bedroom.

    “I’ve got a better idea…”

[thinkin-bout-milgram]

Triage: Initial Thoughts

Hello! Venus back at it again with the 4-5 AM theory time! This time we’re looking at Shidou’s second MV, Triage! 

I’m going to be going through my various thoughts on everything as usual, going point by point to analyze each thing. I’ll be referencing Triage, his first MV Throwdown, and the always-fast audio drama translation by @onigiriico​! 

Alright, let’s do this!

Shidou’s kids died immediately, but his wife had a chance to live.

I’m basically just going to give a quick play by play of what I think happened in the video.

Surprise, Shidou has kids! And a wife, but we figured that already. They’re all very cute and all until they fade out like ghosts pretty early on. Before that happens, though, I think that, chronologically, the opening sequence of Shidou walking with some groceries happens first.

He’s just going about his day, walking around, having a great time. He’s intending to take stuff back to his family and cook dinner or whatever he usually does that we see in the cute scenes.

Then, though, he gets a phone call. He answers it (this is the untranslated “Kirisaki desu” part; please let us know if you find a full translation of what he says on the call there!) and we move on to the next scene. However, later, at 1:57, we hear the line die. I think that this is probably Shidou getting a phone call from the hospital. He sounds casual in his initial response because he probably assumes it’s work related, but once he hears what happened, he drops the line and immediately heads over.

I think Shidou’s kids must have died immediately because of Throwdown. Throwdown has absolutely no references to his kids (though he does mention liking children and stuff like that in his first audio drama, which now kinda stings) and, were he also trying to save them, I’m sure there would’ve been at least some references. 

I think it’s far more likely that, whatever happened, both his kids died immediately, but his wife was in a condition where he could still try to save her. That’s when Throwdown occurs. Shidou probably focused intensely on trying to save his wife as a way to cope with the death of his children. Then, after his wife officially died, it really hit him that he had nothing left, and he was forced to process it. That’s when he started feeling all the guilt and wishing for death. 

This isn’t really relevant, but my best bet is a car crash. It seems like a likely and viable way that his kids could’ve died instantly while the wife could’ve kept living. As a minor note on that, he’s also walking back with groceries, which could indicate that someone else (the rest of his family) might’ve had a car. I don’t remember if Shidou mentions anything about driving or anything like that at any time, but if I had to call a method of death right now, that’s what I’d go for.

NOTE: I do want to disclaim this by saying it’s also possible that one of his kids was the flower person in Throwdown. He gives a receipt to one of his kids, so that could make some sense. I need to go back and compare the flower person in Throwdown with the people in Shidou’s family now that they have appearances. I also need to reread his first audio drama; he says something about it being fitting that Es is judging him, which could check out if his crime relates to trying to save his kid instead. If I am wrong and it was one of his kids that he was trying to save, then everything about what I’m saying still checks out; just swap everything I say about his wife with one of the kids.

Shidou purposefully showed us the least forgivable parts of his crime in Throwdown.

Looking back on it, Shidou painted himself in an awful light in Throwdown, and I’m sure it was intentional. After all, he was trying to get us to give him a guilty verdict. If you say that a prisoner like Muu might have been altering what part of her story we received in order to get her desired verdict in the first round (innocent), Shidou could absolutely do the same thing with a guilty verdict.

He doesn’t show us any of the context of his loved ones and how much he loved them; that was all stuff we had to read between the lines of. We see him butchering plant after plant only to end in horrific failure without ever seeing him succeed at anything surgical. (He still should’ve hypothetically been saving lives while doing all of this; it’s not like he was ONLY killing people.) 

He even shows us the horrified reactions of the loved ones of patients he killed. I can only imagine that he would do that if he was trying to spark a negative reaction in us.

In contrast, this MV is very straightforwardly showing how the day he lost his family went for Shidou and directly examines what verdict Shidou wants (more on this later). I think, therefore, that this is probably a much more honest view of the situation than Throwdown, at least in terms of how Shidou perceives the truth. 

Shidou is constantly plagued by the guilt of what happened.

The simplest way to explain this is with this image: 

When showing Shidou’s family turning to ghosts, he views the man that he used to be as dying with them. Shidou, as he was, is dead. Still, what happened clearly still impacts him. That’s pretty obvious, but I’m talking down to the details. He mentions kids and liking them in both of his audio dramas. Further, take this lovely image: 

Pancakes. Shidou made pancakes for his kids. In BOTH Minigrams 3 (Pancake) and 24 (Pancake: a Second Trial) Shidou is directly shown talking about pancakes and their relation to children. He really wants Amane, the young child, to try some. It seems like he used to make pancakes for his kids before they died. He’s very clearly not recovered in any sense. That’s not surprising, but it’s still something to point out.

Triage takes place almost entirely before and after Throwdown.

That sounds a little confusing, but all I mean is that Throwdown is completely isolated from this MV. Some parts of this MV happen before the events of Throwdown; those are the ones featuring Shidou’s wife and kids, as well as the ones where he simply looks younger. The other parts are clearly looking back at the same time frame, but are from Shidou’s present perspective, here in Milgram. Those are the ones where he reflects on his verdict or directly addresses what verdict he wants.

Most directly, I think the part at 2:14 indicates this. Shidou, looking back on the death he caused (knives in the pomegranates and other food, dead flowers, receipts from the surgeries that we also saw in Throwdown), says “I want to be INNOCENT / I want to live.” That’s him, in the Milgram prison, right now, coming to terms with the fact that he actually, genuinely wants to live right now.

In the audio drama, he’s clearly conflicted. He still says that he wants to die, that he wants to atone for his sins and that dying is the only way he can make it up to the people he killed. He also, though, says that, at least for right now, he wants to live. Futa and especially Mahiru are on death’s door, and there’s no telling what other injury might occur. He believes he’s essential to saving lives within the Milgram prison (and I think he’s 100% right).

He even directly references this in the song lyrics, talking about “extracting the fang.” The fang is clearly Kotoko, given that Milgram has referred to the damage Kotoko does with fang imagery before and given that that’s what he’s currently healing. He has to be the one to save them because he’s the only one who can; as a result, to save lives, he has to care about his life right now. While he’s still unsure of what final verdict he wants, he knows that he needs to stay alive, at least going into trial 3.

VOTE: INNOCENT

Personally, this one’s a no-brainer. Es theorizes in the audio drama that Shidou only harvested organs from braindead patients, and though he never outright confirms it, based on his responses, it seems to me like that’s true. That means his crime isn’t as severe as we initially thought it was.

Additionally, he’s right; he is indispensable to us right now. He outright says in the audio drama that if he stops giving Mahiru care, she’ll die, whether or not anything else happens to her. That basically tells us that voting Shidou guilty means Mahiru dies. That’s not good, and I’d rather avoid prisoner death when we think it’s possible.

I also just don’t think it’s smart to change verdicts on him here. If we decide that, after all is said and done, we can’t forgive Shidou, we should do that with the third verdict. Here, we want to leave both options open. Right now, Shidou is torn between wanting to live and wanting to die. If we switch to guilty, we’ll ruin any chance he has at recovering a will to live and a will to atone through any means other than death. If we want to preserve the option of forgiving him in the end, I think we have to forgive him here. We can debate whether his actions were forgivable or not in the last round.

[fritzes]

ok, now that I’ve calmed down here are my objective, purely tennis-based observations about the draw:

wta:

swiatek has a really, really rough draw. kenin in round 1 is the worst luck, she’s a former ao champion and she just took out coco in round 1 of wimbledon. in round 2 it’ll be collins or kerber, which isn’t awful especially considering she just beat kerber at the united cup and has only lost to collins once. then she could meet svitolina in the round of 16, who beat her in the wimbledon quarterfinals. and of course, her nemesis ostapenko is lurking in the bottom half of the quarter, but she would have to get past azarenka first which is a tall order at the ao. so yeah, not looking great for iga but it isn’t by any means a lost cause

things aren't looking great for vondrousova either, ever since the us open her results haven't been very good and she's been struggling with injury. her draw looks manageable until the round of 16 on paper, but if her body doesn't hold. up I could see her going out to navarro. in the round of 16 she's probably gonna be stuck with either azarenka or ostapenko, and I don't see her winning either of those matches

ajla tomljanovic is also in this nightmare quarter, and we could see her beef with ostapenko get rehashed in the second round. if that match does happen though, it depends on ostapenko's level, not tomljanovic's. if she's on, ajla doesn't really have a chance, but if she has an off day then its anyone's match. ajla could single-handedly save iga's sanity

rybakina/pliskova as a first round matchup is really interesting, there's way less "servebots" in the wta than the atp and yet two of them are against each other in the first round. I think pliskova's movement (or lack thereof) will sink her, elena should win this match pretty easily. she has a pretty good draw, I don't think there's anyone in her half of the quarter that can really pose a threat

the bottom half of rybakina's quarter is really interesting. pegula vs zheng is the projected round of 16 match, but if raducanu can stay injury free (and that's a BIG if) she might be able to make a deep run. I don't think she's gonna get past zheng, but there's a chance. if zheng/pegula does happen, it's probably going to be a very close match

daria kasatkina is also in this quarter. she's really good at playing to her seed, and I think that's what will happen here. I don't think she'll lose before the round of 16, but I don't think she'll beat rybakina

the projected semifinal of swiatek vs rybakina has a lot of potential, but they have to get there first. honestly I'm really confident in elena making the semis but iga is going to have a much tougher time

and now to the third quarter, which is completely ridiculous. gauff vs sakkari is the projected quarterfinal, but in this quarter we also have: linette (who was a semifinalist last year), wozniacki, haddad maia, garcia, osaka, and fernandez

that being said, gauff has a pretty decent draw. her first big challenge is potentially fernandez in the fourth round. they’ve only played each other once at the french open juniors, which coco won. I think coco will win this match because, especially now with her improved forehand, she’s a lot more well-rounded and complete than leylah. of course, there is the possibility of osaka in the round of 16. if she gets past garcia (who has been in a bit of a slump lately) I think naomi can absolutely get there, which will be a major challenge for both her and coco

as for the top half of this quarter, I’m going to make a bold prediction and say haddad maia is going to be a quarterfinalist. sakkari is the projected quarterfinalist, but her mental block at grand slams is definitely holding her back. she lost in the first round of the last three slams she played, and while I think she can make a bit of a dent here I don’t think she’ll go that far (I would love to be wrong). I don’t think wozniacki and linette will get past haddad maia either

sabalenka couldn’t have asked for a better draw. there is no one I can see that could maybe pose a threat until samsonova in the round of 16, but even then I think aryna can handily win that match. in the quarterfinals she will most likely play jabeur or krejcikova, both of which are winnable matches. honestly, aryna’s biggest opponent in this quarter is herself. she's dealing with the pressure of defending a grand slam title for the first time ever, and it’s definitely possible that the mental side could make her game worse. this is absolutely aryna’s quarter to lose

for the top half of the quarter, it’s probably going to be jabeur vs krejcikova in the round of 16, unless andreeva manages to pull of a massive upset. both of them have the potential to beat sabalenka in the quarterfinals (especially ons), but if aryna plays like she did last year I don’t think they’ll beat her

the projected semifinal is a rematch of the us open final, which could definitely give coco the edge because aryna will probably be thinking about that match (and how she lost it from a set up). that being said, either of them can win it, I think they’re pretty even in terms of level right now

interesting round 1 matches: swiatek/kenin, kerber/collins, rybakina/pliskova, linette/wozniacki, garcia/osaka, samsonova/anisimova, vekic/pavlyuchenkova 

atp:

oh boy this first quarter is… something. at first glance, it looks like djokovic is going to win. and yes, djokovic is probably going to win this quarter. I honestly think that the person with the best chance against him here is ben shelton. he lost in straight sets at the us open, but I feel like he’s improved so much since then and I do think it’s possible. is it probable? absolutely not, and all logic points to novak djokovic winning this quarter

the bottom half of the quarter can be anyone’s. tsitsipas is projected to win, but he’s been struggling with a back injury that seems really serious, and drawing berrettini first round definitely isn’t helping. I don’t think tsitsipas is going to make the quarterfinals, but there isn’t really a clear person to take his place. any one of berrettini, fritz, or musetti could be a quarterfinalist and that would make perfect sense. if berrettini is in form, a deep run absolutely isn’t out of the question, but I’m not sure if he’s going to be at his best. fritz, by all means, should be able to make the quarterfinals, but his mental block at slams is very real. he did make the quarterfinals at the us open so that probably helps, but knowing his grand slam history I don’t have a lot of confidence in him getting to the quarters. musetti has been so insanely up-and-down lately that I don’t even know what his chances are. if we’re getting the lorenzo that has beaten djokovic, then he can absolutely make the quarterfinals but if we’re getting the lorenzo from any tournament in the second half of last season, it’s not gonna happen

this is jannik sinner’s quarter to lose. if he retains the form of his life from the end of last season, then there isn’t a single person in this quarter he should lose to. now, it’s been a while since the davis cup and obviously form wears off. plus, his history in best-of-five matches isn’t great, and the lot of the hype around jannik is very much due to recency bias (I say this as someone who is absolutely biased towards him). still, his draw looks pretty open and he should be able to take advantage of that

the projected quarterfinalist is rublev, who has never won a grand slam quarterfinal, jannik has a winning record against him. in all honestly, I think it’s more likely that de minaur will make the quarterfinals. he just had an insane run at the united cup, he’s finally in the top 10, and he has the crowd behind him. however, he is 0-6 against sinner and it’s unlikely that he can beat him. however, it is worth noting that before beijing, jannik was 0-6 against medvedev and is now 3-6 against him, so anything can happen

the projected semifinal: sinner vs djokovic. this will be the big test for sinner: can he beat djokovic in best-of-five? I honestly don’t know the answer (I know what I want the answer to be of course, but I’m trying to be realistic). djokovic is definitely the favorite, but I wouldn’t count jannik out at all

let's just call the third quarter what it is: chaos

the projected winner is medvedev, and all things considered this is a pretty great draw for him. he’s always really good at the ao and not very upset-prone unless he’s playing korda, who isn’t in his quarter this year. his first challenge will most likely be dimitrov in the round of 16, and then either hurkacz or rune in the quarterfinals. dimitrov will be a really hard matchup for him considering the form he’s in, and dimitrov won their last meeting. that being said, grigor isn’t always the best at dealing with pressure against players ranked higher than him, and I think medvedev will use that to his advantage. for the quarterfinals, both rune and hurkacz have the potential to beat him (especially hurkacz, the fast courts will really help him out) but medvedev is definitely still the favorite

like I said, the other quarterfinalist is probably going to be rune or hurkacz, but I could see fils, safiullin, and maybe even shapovalov making deep runs. I think if rune’s stamina holds up it’ll probably be him, and we have yet to see him play at a grand slam with his ridiculous coaching lineup so who knows

and now the last quarter. much like sinner, this is alcaraz's quarter to lose. I think the biggest issue for him could be paul in the round of 16, but when you compare carlos’ matches against paul in toronto and cincy, it’s clear that he learned from the loss and I think he can definitely win that match. either of the likely quarterfinalists shouldn’t trouble him too much: he just beat zverev at the us open, and ruud has never beaten him. ever. this is a really good draw for him and if he can capitalize on it he can easily make the semifinals

the top half of this quarter is all going to depend on which casper ruud shows up. if we get the ’22-23 roland-garros and ’22 us open casper ruud, then I have full confidence in him making the quarterfinals. if we get the casper ruud from pretty much any other grand slam, then he’s. Probably going to lose to purcell in the second round. if he isn’t in-form, then unfortunately zverev will most likely be the quarterfinalist, I just can’t see lehecka or norrie taking him out

I don’t think I can even predict the projected semifinal. alcaraz and medvedev are 1-1 in grand slam semifinals. this is arguably medvedev’s best slam, but we haven’t really seen prime alcaraz at the australian open since he was injured last year. either of them could win this and I wouldn’t be surprised

interesting round 1 matches: murray/etcheverry, mannarino/wawrinka, shelton/bautista agut, tsitsipas/berrettini, tiafoe/coric, de minaur/raonic, safiullin/griekspoor, auger-aliassime/thiem, sonego/evans

[doctorbrown]

MCFLY JULY ‘24 ⸺ 「 24 / 31 * OUT IN THE DESERT 」

January—March 1943

From the moment he’d been visited at the university by Oppenheimer with Groves in tow, the latter a looming, intimidating presence towering over him in his uniform compared to the amicable and even friendly disposition of Oppenheimer, he’d felt the cold bite of the Sword of Damocles pressed against his neck, digging deeper and deeper with each day he’d been left in purgatory, waiting.

He feared he’d lose his head before ever hearing the official outcome of his new employment.

When one of his colleagues had approached him about a week and a half after their departure, informing him that he’d received a call from the FBI asking some questions about him, Emmett’s heart stopped then and there and he was absolutely positive he’d seen the moment his head was severed from his neck, rolling down the hallway.

Twenty long seconds later, when his senses had returned to him, he learned that the sensation was just dizziness and he was still firmly intact.

Three weeks later, the hell had ended. To say his official acceptance onto the project was a weight off his shoulders would be an understatement. Emmett breathed a long sigh of relief, nearly giddy with the excitement that he’d come through the process relatively unscathed; his frayed nerves were the only real casualty of his stint in purgatory.

Why the outcome should have been anything other than this, he couldn’t say, but that didn’t stop his mind, already having latched onto the mystery and thrilling scientific intrigue that Oppenheimer had offered, from conjuring up the what-if possibilities while unseen hands manipulated the course of his life. He’d never been in legal trouble, no criminal record, his father was an incredibly prominent and well-respected, if feared and disliked, member of the community, and his academic achievements had been exceptional.

But now it was official and the part that should have been the most daunting brought him the most joy. Two months was more than enough time to wrap up his affairs in California nicely.

His courses at the university would be discontinued and his students would be disseminated out into the other professors’ courses. The small home he’d been provided here would go back to the university and whatever he deemed unimportant to take with him to New Mexico would be discarded. The head of the department wished him well, and after a brief exchange steeped in rumour and hearsay, he’d left, returning home to pack up the last of his things.

How fascinating that an entire life could be stuffed in a couple travel bags.

—

When Emmett returns to Hill Valley, tugging the last twenty-three years of his life up the pathway to the mansion he hadn’t seen in almost five years, it is his mother’s joyful cries that greet him, her hands that all but pull him through the door, and her voice that fills the living room as she sits down, harmonising with the song of time played by his favourite Grandfather Clock.

Emmett, the doctor. Emmett, the scientist. Emmett, her son, doing his part for his country, whatever that meant, because it was secret, secret, secret—all so very secret all he could say was “I can’t talk about it but I have to travel to get there”—and while she looked ten years younger, radiant with motherly pride, his father scoffed and harrumphed, making his opinion known in no uncertain terms.

You would’ve done better for the war as a soldier, not some damned-fool scientist.

‘But at least maybe you’ll have a chance to be useful. Do something good.’

This time, his father’s barbs do not sting. They strike at him from all angles, jabbing at his skin but never piercing, and he lets them fall to the ground at his feet, unwilling to have this argument again, as they did for so many long nights in his youth. With the prospect of unforetold scientific progress right there at his fingertips, he could find it in himself to forgive his father without a fight. He didn’t understand. He wouldn’t let him spoil this.

Science—science was the future. And they would see.

His departure comes as quick as his arrival, his mother asking when he thinks he’ll be back in California.

“Soon,” he says, unable to give her any definite number, pulling at the hope this project is supposed to bring. “When we’ve won the war.”

Alone, he arranges to have himself and his entire life brought to San Francisco, where he’ll meet the train that carries him to the future.

—

San Francisco to Santa Fe.

Emmett spends most of his time in comfortable silence, watching the touches of humanity upon the land slowly and slowly being stripped away. Pavement gives way to dirt and grass and unsullied earth and the towering buildings of the cities sprout leaves and stretch up to the heavens, basking in the afternoon sunlight.

He remembers the itinerary—cryptic instructions written on a packet of papers shoved into his hands and the explicit instructions to allow nobody else to see the contents of this folder. Emmett doesn’t think he could forget it if he tries, burning a hole in the inner pocket of his overcoat, searing his chest even through his clothes.

More often than not, he tries to imagine the stage that will hold what is supposed to be the greatest scientific advancements of the last three centuries—what we’ll be doing here will be the culmination of the last three centuries of physics. Don’t you want to be a part of that?—I want to take on this challenge—only to imagine something even more fantastical than its predecessor every time he tries.

A fully functioning laboratory and city do not just spring up overnight in the middle of the desert, but Oppenheimer had said it would be ready in time, and Emmett found himself almost immediately assured by that, half-convinced that Nature itself would bend to that man’s charm.

Perhaps, Emmett thinks, a flutter in his stomach equal parts dread and excitement, it just might.

What else would require some of the greatest scientific minds to gather in one remote location under the strictest security imaginable?

The possibilities lull him into a dream-filled sleep.

—

They’re waiting for him there, just as they said. Two large uniformed escorts that Emmett easily has several inches on tower over him, usher him into an ordinary old car—grey, unassuming, rather mundane, actually, but when discretion is key—and expertly fit an entire life into the boot.

As if they’ve done this before.

Clement and Rosario, Lieutenant-Commander and Lieutenant, respectively, as he’s come to learn from the intermittent conversation, were the ones assigned to bring him to the site, get him through security, and make sure everything went off without a hitch.

Emmett watches, his face all but pressed against the window in the back as the landscape overrides the thoughts about this project that have been playing on a loop since he first alighted the train back in California. The desert is beautiful, nothing like the views in the city, and maybe he views the wide open area through the tinted lenses of lingering boyish romanticism for such an environment, but there is a rough, rugged beauty to it all in reality that Emmett is pleased to know for himself is not just a result of the films.

He must have said that out loud, because the younger of the two—or the one Emmett assumes is younger, given the softness still present on his face that looks out of place with the gun strapped to his hip—Rosario, says, “Yeah, isn’t it? Beautiful place out here. Shame we went and ruined it.” Before Emmett can ask what that means, he just says, “You’ll see.”

He does see, almost immediately.

This complex—‘Welcome home, Doc,’ Clement jokes in that gruff voice of his—looks more like a prison dropped in the most remote location they could think of, where they’ll work and torture them until they get what they want or die trying. That fence must be ten feet high, topped with barbed wire, and Emmett wonders how many scientists they know of that are athletic enough to even attempt scaling a wall like that.

They preferred to scale theoretical hurdles, not physical.

The cold feeling of dread slithers up his spine. He dismisses it the moment they reach the security checkpoint, telling himself he’s being foolish—the military is involved; everything with them is cloak-and-dagger.

Processing takes an eternity, and Emmett feels a rush of dizziness he can’t quite explain when a thick set of papers are pressed into his hand, followed by a white identification badge that has immortalised his awkwardness in a frozen snapshot of time.

“Housing information’s on the first page. You’ll get used to the layout. Keep that badge with you at all times, Doctor Brown.”

[thrilling-oneway]

okay so Light Up the Fire ramble. specifically about Taiga. I get what he did was a total dick move but at the same time I don't think he ever really let himself properly process his grief over Nagi's death.

Think about it. Just after Nagi died he moved out of the country, away from where RADder had done everything. RADder was extremely important to both him and Nagi (and also Ken) and he completely left where they'd built their entire lives around when he lost Nagi. Not to mention that as far as An was told, he's been touring with his dead younger sister. That's gotta hurt in itself, but the fact that he just left seems to me like he just didn't want to face it at that point in time, aside from the fact it was a convenient cover up so An didn't find out.

Then when he came back. Literally one of the first things he does is offer to take Kohane under his wing. It later becomes apparent (Kick it up a notch) that Kohane's performing is very reminiscent of Nagi's and you start to wonder, is that why he chose Kohane to mentor? Did he see his sister in Kohane this entire time? Oh and one of the other first things he does upon returning to Shibuya is lie to An about Nagi being alive so you know. He's having a great time /s

And then he keeps pretending that his sister isn't gone for months. He's known she's been gone for years but he can't let An know. That's just, not good. It's not healthy for him or anyone really but you can definitely see how it affects him. He's gotta pretend his sister is fine while mentoring kids who are trying to surpass her final event, or his last proper memory of her that doesn't involve her being in a hospital bed on the brink of death.

The thing is, when you put it in perspective with the fact that he clearly never got over Nagi's death, you can understand why he doesn't want VBS to surpass RAD WEEKEND. RW was his sister's final event, everything they worked for culminated with that event, RADder was forced to disband and they went out with a bang to celebrate Nagi's life and evrything that they had achieved. The event meant a lot to him, to his sister, and he doesn't want a bunch of kids trying to trample over it. He's not even wrong that VBS will never be able to put on an event that feels the same, RW was special because it was a sendoff for Nagi, you can't just replicate that.

What he did was wrong, dropping the bomb on An and everyone else and then immediately crushing their dreams was cruel. But you can really understand through that that he isn't ready to let go. It's outright stated in the event even. One of Nagi's final wishes was that they would inspire and hand off their legacy to a new generation, and even back then when she said it, he didn't understand why she'd want to do that. This was their moment, this was what they'd worked for, and this was the end of the road for RADder, and they ended on an unreachable high. So why was Nagi so willing to hand it off? This was her legacy, this was what she was going to leave behind and she was going to let some random kids snatch it up and run with it?

It's obvious that Taiga never processed his grief properly. We don't know too much about his time overseas other than that he became pretty famous and successful in the music industry, but the fact that he left his home behind for years after such a tragic event just seems like he was avoiding it? And then when he goes home and actually has to face it, he faces it with vitriol and anger at a bunch of kids who literally looked up to RADder, they didn't know about the truth of RW, they didn't mean any harm. But he definitely sees that they are harming the true message and feeling behind RW and he doesn't want them to take his sister's legacy. Even though this was one of the only things Nagi wanted when she passed, a new generation, he's so fixated on the fact that RW was the end of his sister that he's. keeping it to himself essentially. It's selfish but in a grief-striken way.

So fair enough but jeez man don't make 6 teenagers have a breakdown because you never let yourself process your grief that's fucked up.

[stabbyfoxandrew]

also hi. me and jess ended up binge watching iwtv s2 yesterday.

[vllergy]

emerges from the ether for 5 seconds before vanishing again--i don't post here often i go through phases, the moon has phases i have phases whatever but i've been playing a lot of b@lders g@ate and while i don't think i'll ever feel comfortable writing canon character content (maybe h@lsin??? g@le??? who knows) this one NPC interaction had me by the throat. feat: tw: canon courtesan/sex worker NPC, kink!reader, second person narration since the game is like that, hunky sneezy drow man, honestly a lot of build up for little payoff im sorry idk what happened. i also don't know the word count im useless (dialog is in-game dialogue up until the lil time skip to his room, then it's all me baybbyeee)

The drow is one of the most handsome you’ve ever seen. Not that you expected him to be ugly, of course. The fabled drow twins of Sharress’ Caress are known far and wide for their talents as well as their beauty. Its just, seeing them in person is quite different from sustaining on mere rumor alone. Sorn Orlith, as he introduces himself, is rather muscular for a drow. He stands nearly a good head taller than you with a broad, brazenly defined chest. His outfit is nothing more than a metal cage topped over his heavy shoulders and flared out down his sternum like witch’s fingers, pointing towards an abdomen taut with muscle.

His long skirt rides around his hips but you can still see the shadow of indents against bluish-gray skin there, as if they are inviting you to take a closer look. They likely are. Nothing about his appearance is not meticulously crafted to draw you in. From the slight sheen on his lips that are plush and naturally the color of ripe blueberries, to the way his wintry hair is falls effortlessly back from his face in perfect waves. He is a vision, and yet his eyes are not cold and imperious like you might expect. They’re warm. Inviting. Somehow kind, despite what kind of debauchery goes on in a place like this. 

You ask him how he ended up here in the first place. Apparently, the Underdark isn’t kind to male courtesans. Also, he was bored.

“The entirety of drow culture is obsessed with bondage beyond reason. While such activities have their charms, I yearned to reach greater depths.” He gives a dazzling smile. “And there is no society on this planet more laterally, imaginatively and confusingly depraved as that of Baldur’s Gate. Although of late, I do feel I’ve seen everything. Perhaps you’ll show me something new?”

Your throat goes dry. 

“I’m…glad you’re happy here,” you manage out. 

Sorn laughs, but not unkindly “I’d have to restrain myself far more than any play-bindings do if I worked in another field. This is a place where I can be myself boundlessly.” 

His arms widen, emphasizing the violet taut flesh of muscle in his shoulders and biceps. You do your best not to stare.

“There are so many who come to me speaking of a fixation that no one else has ever been able to share with them…” he leans close, “And never will again. 

He smells of bergamot and brandy. It’s intoxicating. “A once in a lifetime moment of passion. Every day. What could be better? Don’t you want to try it?”

You do. And he can tell. His grin widens, almost wolfish. 

“Trust me, you don’t want to miss my signature Menzoberranzan Love Trick.”

—

With the door to Sorn’s private room shut, you feel a sense of calm overwhelm you. The room is beautiful—long enough to be someone’s home, crystals and plants glowing in every corner, a bed surrounded by flowers, shadows in all the right places. It looks like it was plucked free from the most beautiful parts of the Underdark and brought here to Wyrms Crossing. It feels comforting. Safe. 

“Now, are you going to tell me about this little secret of yours? Or would you prefer to keep me in the dark?”

Sorn’s voice startles you and he slips a hand around your waist, nosing at your neck as he comes from behind you. He releases you at the reaction, but doesn’t make a show of it. He’s masterful at what he does. Reading his partner, gauging their comfort level, adjusting and maneuvering as necessary. Your blushing cheeks must give you away because he gives you an encouraging smile instead and reaches for your wrists.

“Come, let us sit first. I find it’s easier to talk like that.”

He leads you to the foot of the bed. The sheets are luxurious, obsidian satin, and the mattress sinks with your weight. He sits close, angling his body towards you, but not so close as to crowd you. Your knees touch. You can see his breath flexing the hardened muscles of his torso and chest as he lingers there, expectant but not impatient. His hands cover yours in your own lap.

“It’s perfectly all right to be nervous,” Sorn continues, “But I assure you, your secret is safe with me. And not only that, it is *treasured*. I meant what I said earlier. There is very little that surprises me these days. Should you present me with something unexpected, I will be noting more than delighted.” 

You avoid his eyes, despite how gentle they are. You’ve never said this in front of anyone. But he’s right. Odds are, there are multiple someones in Baldurs Gate who have stranger interests than you. Sorn has likely indulged them all and without complaint. As he said downstairs, he rather enjoys this aspect of his work. Still, your tongue is in knots as you work up the nerve to say it. Your eyes travel up from his chin to his perfectly shaped mouth, the cupids bow of his lips and then finally the long, aquiline shape of his nose. It’s a fine nose. Prominent on his face and somehow as elegant as the rest of him, it captivates your attention for a moment. 

When you realize you’ve been staring for a moment too long, the confession rushes out of you in a breath, “Sneezing.”

Your face feels like it might explode from the heat. Sorn blinks. You expect him to laugh, or tell you to leave the room, or some other horrible outcome but instead he merely tilts his head. His hands give yours an assuring squeeze.

“And what about it do you like, my love?”

You lean over with a groan. You truly cannot believe you’re having this conversation—but his warm chuckle sends something fluttering in your chest and you gather the courage to straighten back up again and look him in the eye.

“I’m…not quite sure, I just know I enjoy it,” you say carefully, “And when my partners do it.”

“Mmm,” he says, contemplating, “So you’d like it if I sneezed for you then?”

Your lips purse, holding the answer hostage in your throat. You nod helplessly instead. He laughs again and releases one of his hands to brush a knuckle along your cheek.

“Look how red you are, it’s positively darling. Was that all, little bird? That was what you were so afraid to tell me?”

You nod again, nearly in tears. It’s off your chest now and it feels incredible, but it’s also freeing in a way that makes you feel raw and exposed. He’s being so kind about it that you’re not quite sure how to react. Emotions clash together, warring for dominance inside the confines of your skull. 

Sorn seems to understand immediately. His hand skirts below your jaw and tips your chin up as he leans forward and captures your lips with his own. It’s a simple, nearly chaste kiss. So featherlight and innocent that it feels like the sun peeking through the clouds. “Shh, shhh,” he soothes as he pulls away, “I think it’s wonderful. I will say it’s the first time I’ve encountered it, but I think it’s quite endearing.” He pulls away a little further, leaving you breathless. His white smile gleams. “And what an exciting challenge besides!” 

He releases you fully and stands from the bed, his hands on his hips. He looks about the room, brow furrowed in concentration. You’re still a little dazed from the kiss, wondering how he manages to taste like brandy and sweetwine and smell as good as he does while also trying to get your brain to stop swimming. You blink a few times to get your bearings as Sorn stalks to one of his shelves.

“Now, the only trouble is—“ he starts as he rifles through a few things, “There isn’t much that makes me sneeze, I’m afraid.”

Your stomach wilts a bit. Perhaps it was too much to hope that this strapping drow would have a terrible allergy to lavender. Though, to be fair, he hardly looks like the type to be beset by anything so pedestrian. Sorn is so maddeningly put together. From his perfect hair, meticulous ensemble and finely crafted expressions, he is clearly a man that keeps up appearances. Decorum is important to him. Should he ever be laid low by an allergy, you imagine he would fight it with the all the dignity and stoicism he so proudly displayed. 

Still—you didn’t work up all this nerve just to get here and *not* have anticipated something like this happening. Shyly, you let your fingers linger over the vial in your pocket. 

“I…may have something that will help,” you say.

Sorn turns from the shelf with what looks like a raven feather in his hand, his eyes bright. He looks positively delighted at the news.

“Oh I love when my clients come prepared,” he says, “You are a dream.”

“We could try that first, though,” you say, gesturing to the feather. There’s definitely something to that idea and it’s already stirring a feeling in your belly that has you shifting on the bed and your heart rising. There’s no possible way Sorn can know this, but somehow you sense he does, because his eyes sharpen their focus on you and his grin goes syrupy. 

“Lovely,” he comments and returns to your side. As he sinks back into the mattress, he gestures a hand. “Is here all right? Or would you like to do it somewhere else?”

“Here is fine,” you choke out. The idea that this is happening, really happening, is making your brain turn to lightning. You can hardly wait. 

He holds out the feather to you, “I assume you’d like to do the honors?”

You nod. The feather has little weight to it, and it’s gorgeous up close. The black shimmers with hues of purples and blues in the low light, glimmering in the reflection of your eyes. You run your eyes along the length of it and then find yourself starting at Sorn again, heart in  your throat.

“Is it… all right if I touch you?” you ask. You lean forward, hand with the feather outstretched, but think you may need to position yourself a little closer and brace yourself on his shoulder to get a good angle.

“Darling,” he laughs. He suddenly seizes your wrist and brings you closer, lowering his voice near your ear. “You can do whatever you want to me.”

You gulp as he slides back, demure and innocent as if he hadn’t just made goosebumps appear along your arms and thighs with his words alone. A nervous smile paints your lips and you do finally take his shoulder in your hand. You’re kneeling almost into his lap at this point and to support you, he draws an arm around your back. It’s so intimate you’re almost dizzy with the closeness alone, and you haven’t even gotten to—

The feather brushes at the corner of his mouth and his mouth twitches in a smile. Even just that response alone makes your heart race. From there, you slowly move it up to the indent above his mouth, and then his septum. He wrinkles his nose, skin avoiding the stimulation on instinct before he wrests his control back. He smiles but says nothing, allowing you to continue. 

You draw the tip of the feather around one nostril. It quivers in response, but otherwise, Sorn’s eyes remained focused on you. You test a bit farther, drawing slow, soft circles. There isn’t anything for a few seconds, and then he starts to blink, irritated tears prickling in his eyes. He sniffs a few times and then has to cough, politely turning his head away on instinct as he does so. “Apologies,” he says and then grins, “What a strange sensation.”

“Are you all right?” you ask. 

“Very much so,” he nods, “Please, continue.”

You do, but to mixed results. You’re certainly irritating his nasal passages, but sadly not enough to make him sneeze. After a few minutes of attempting, all you’ve really done is making him cough and cry irritated tears. Disappointed, you’re about to give up when he takes your wrist again, holding the feather inside his nose.

“W-wait,” he says, “I had it for but a moment.”

Your heart stutters. Carefully, you twist the feather as you had been a moment earlier. His eyelashes, pale as new fallen snow, sweep his cheeks and a breath catches on the roof of his mouth. The hand that was around your wrist falls slack, fingers drifting down towards your elbow.

“Yes, I feel it,” he whispers. 

His grip around your back tightens and he draws in another breath. His eyebrows crumple and hoist upwards and his nose practically twitches. 

“Hh—hiiyh—“ 

As his expression snaps, you pull the feather away just in time. His head wrenches away as the sneeze whisks through him. 

“Hi-ISSHh!” 

It’s a spartan, nearly soft sound. Wet, given the amount of torture his nose has been put through for the last few unproductive minutes, but otherwise without frills or embellishments. It’s a very honest sneeze you think, but perhaps one he was not entirely prepared for. By his clenched teeth you think he might have held back at the last moment out of some sense of propriety. The way he lightly touches the backs of his knuckles to the underside of his nose in the aftermath and gives a delicate sniff further enforces your theory. 

Still, it was a sight. 

“Blessings,” you say, enraptured. 

Sorn recovers quickly and smiles at you. 

“Did you—snf—enjoy that? I am sorry it took so long.”

Your red cheeks are enough of a glowing recommendation, but you nod anyway. Feeling a little braver, and a little desperate for him now that you’ve seen him lose control the once, your hand slips down against his abdomen. The warm skin there flexes against your palm as he breathes in. He hums a soft noise of approval and clasps his hand over yours before leaning in to kiss you. There’s just the briefest moisture in the kiss, only you would ever notice it, and it sets your brain on fire. 

“Perhaps we should try your method instead,” he suggests when he pulls away for a breath, kissing a line across your jaw and to your throat next, “It might be more…productive.” 

You feel dizzy. His hand skirts along your thigh and meets the joint of your hip, squeezing with enough pressure to make you moan. 

“If you’re sure,” you say, “It can be…strong.” It’s only fair to warn him, after all. Everyone reacts differently, but you’ve never not seen it work on someone.

“All the better,” he hums against the hollow of your throat, nipping softly at the skin, “I simply won’t have you leaving here disappointed.”

You shift upwards to get access to your pocket. Sorn discards the sodden feather and watches with curious, eager eyes. When you reveal the tiny glass vial, he smirks. 

“I see,” is all he says before nodding his head toward the collection of pillows at the head of the bed, “Let’s get more comfortable first, shall we?”

Moments later, you’re lying side by side, both propped up by pillows and surrounded by the soft glowing plants and crystals that make a canopy of the bed. Sorn holds himself up on an elbow and examines the vial that looks comically small in his much larger fingers. You lay your cheek against one of the pillows and stare up at him, still feeling your heartbeat pound in your ears. You’d thought this would have gotten easier after seeing it happen once, but the idea of seeing it happen again is almost worst. Now that you know the sound, know how his lip curls a little, how his eyes flutter—all you want to do is see it more, see him unravel.

“So, just a pinch of this?” Sorn asks. He seems more curious than anything. Like he doesn’t quite totally believe that whatever is in there is actually going to be able to make him sneeze.

“Mhmhm,” you say. 

He grins and sets to work. A hefty pinch between his thumb and forefinger is gathered and then quickly—and in a rather sophisticated manner—snorted up one nostril. It doesn’t seem to cause him any harm like you worried it might, and he merely clears his throat once it’s over and brushes his hands off. 

“Oh, it’s lovely,” he comments, “Almost medicinal.” 

You can’t answer him because you can’t breathe. You’re waiting for something. Anything. A flicker of his expression, a quiver of his nose, something to indicate that the powder is set to work. But nothing happens. Sorn merely looks back at you questioningly. 

“When does it start to take effect?” he asks.

“Usually right away.”

He frowns, “Oh. Perhaps I should take more?”

You saw the amount he took. It was already sizable. Any more and you’d be concerned for him. You quickly shake your head, “No, I wouldn’t. Maybe it’s just…slow to start.”

Sorn huffs, his disappointment mirroring your own. He sets the vial aside and turns back to you, pulling you flush against his body. That’s still nice, sneezing or no. Every hard angle of him presses against you and the heat of his skin makes you shudder. He kisses you deeply and you can still smell the slightly earthy scent of the powder on him as you return it. 

“I’m terribly sorry,” he murmurs close to your mouth, “I’ve done nothing but disappoint you tonight.”

You blink up at him, “That’s not true!” 

He sighs and tucks a bit of your hair behind your ear. “It is, but I promise you, I will make it up to you. We still have plenty of time, and there are other things we can do, besides.”

Sorn dips an arm under you and pulls you flat against the bed, hovering over you. He grins down at you and starts to remove your top. 

“Is this alright?” he asks softly.

You nod, nearly choking on your want for him. Everywhere he uncovers bare skin, he lavishes in kisses until you’re bare from the waist up and the two of you are flesh against flesh. His skin sears yours with warmth. He trails fingers down your sternum and then down to your bellybutton, then lower. 

“You are a delightful little thing,” he says. His voice is velvet, and his warm breath paints down your ribs as he follows the path of his hand. 

You feel the gasp as much as you hear it. It’s a sudden, reckless thing—so quick that neither of you are prepared for it. Sorn’s expression flinches for just a moment and he barely has time to turn his head to the side before a sneeze completely overtakes him—misting your side in the process. “hh-EDSHHH’iuh!” 

You’re stunned. Sorn looks like he might be too, if not for the telltale signs of another impending sneeze close behind the first. He shifts and places a hand on your hip as he sits up a little. You watch as his upper lip curls over bright teeth and his nostrils flare once before he wrenches away from you successfully this time. “hhHH’RRSCCH!” This one is stronger than the last, more voice to it. It shakes him and you by extension on the mattress.

“Bless you,” you say, but he shakes his head. His hand squeezes your hip gently as if to say ‘not yet’. “Hih-ih!”

His fist goes to his mouth before you can stop it, and he squelches the last sneeze into submission. His eyes cinch shut and he bends at the waist, shoulders trembling as the colossal sound is contained to nothing more than a whisper. “hHh-nGXST!” 

He opens his eyes, though somewhat warily. As if he’s not sure the tickle is quite gone yet. He gives a cagey sniffle and blots his knuckle under his nostrils, “Goodness.” Then, he turns to you and finds your gaze positively enraptured. He smiles. 

“I suppose it does work ah-after all!” He rubs at the tip of his nose for a moment and then flutters his eyes, “I do hope you’re ready for more because it seh—seems…” 

Your hand goes to his chest. You feel the swell of his breath deepen, the warm feeling of his skin moving under your fingers. Sorn seems to get the idea because his palm reaches up to cover yours. His fingers wrap around your palm as his breath continues to snag. You catch his eyes just for a moment before they slide back. 

“hHH’RRSCh’euh!” He trembles under your touch with the force of it. He lifts his head just barely, eyebrows canted desperately, and then pitches downwards again, spraying your arm with abandon. “hh’AEEShhh’ah!” 

“Such a tickle,” he says breathily as he recovers. He gives a wet sniffle and smiles at you, but it’s hazy, the look in his eyes already distracted by the mounting itch. But he doesn’t seem bothered by it. If anything, he’s enjoying the newness of the sensation. The break from monotony. 

His nostrils flare and he releases his hand to rub his knuckle against his septum once more. 

You feel a little bold for asking, “Are you all right?”

He nods, smiling. He tries to hold your eyes but the tickle steals his concentration once more. 

“Quite!Just—hh…sn’tsCHh’eeze-hhHH! H’RRSHC’hu!” 

You reach your other hand up to stroke through his hair and turn him a little more towards you as he prepares for another. He resists at first out of instinct alone, but adjusts in the moment it takes for the sneeze to have its way with him. As his breath snaps, he ducks his head in the space between you and releases it into your lap. “hh”hRRRASsh’chu!” 

“Bless you,” you say, smoothing back his hair. You crawl into his lap and he welcomes you without hesitation, securing your thighs around his hips even as his head tilts back for two more with barely a breath in between. He ducks them between the two of you but there isn’t much space. His hands clench against your thighs with each outburst. “hh-eHH’SCCHE’uh! h’RRSH’ue!” 

Blearily, he looks up. He’s dazed. Sniffly. His cheeks are indigo and the area around his nostrils is too. You kiss him, because he just looks so stupidly *kissable* and he murmurs a laugh against your mouth. 

“It is quite comforting thatyou find me attractive in such a state,” he sniffs once you pull away. 

“Very attractive,” you remind him.

He smiles, and continues smiling even as his expression flickers again. “Ah, one-hh more perhaps,” he says.  He raises a hand in front of his face and a rather tired sounding sneeze ripples through him. “hH’EDShh!”

“Bless you.”

“I don’t thhhink I’ve ever snhheezed so much in my life-hh!” He leans his forehead onto your shoulder and does away with using his hand to cover, opting to simply hold onto your hips and let the sensation take him. “hh’UEHDSHH’iu!” You stroke his bare back and feel his ribs expand beneath your fingers before tightening twice in quick succession. “hh’NGXT! nG’ssT!” 

He clears his throat after and lifts his head back up, adjusting you on his lap. “Ah, I should have asked, do you prefer if I hold them in or let them out? Often I don’t know which it will be until it happens but… perhaps I could try…try to—”

His eyes roll and he turns his head, giving you a clear view of his twitching profile. “If I could juhhst get through a sehh’ESsch!—sentence!” 

“I don’t mind either way, I just don’t want you to hurt yourself if you hold them in,” you say to try and spare him. 

“Oh, darling, it takes much more than that to hurt me,” he wriggles his nose handsomely and turns back to you with a devilish grin. His eyebrows raise. “And lo! A full sentence! The effects must be wearing off.” He sniffs experimentally and for the first time, his eyes don’t get hazy in the aftermath. 

You feel disappointment sink your heart like a stone. It was bound to wear off eventually. But before you can even lament the course of events, he pats your thigh and shifts you off his lap. 

“Come, where’s the vial?” 

You blink. Surely he doesn’t want to do more of that?

He seems to know exactly what you’re thinking because he taps the bottom of your chin and winks.

“Oh, we’re far from finished, love. Ready for round two?”