#i think only that brief clip exists

[cto10121]

Ranking the ‘Romeo Teases Juliette at the Balcony’ Moment From Every Production Because This Is Important, Trust Me

French: 10/10, classic, subtle, and the most romantic. Juliette’s WTF expression when she hears Roméo is perfect and meme-worthy. I also like how aggressively smooth the tease is—Roméo remaining under the balcony and then just walking out normally at the third line of his verse. You’re not fooling anyone, Roméo. I also like how at one point Roméo raises his hand as if to interrupt, but then decides against it (hello, Shakespeare Romeo! So good to see you). And then Juliette is just 🥰 over him, ha #same

English: 0/10. No tease, but worst of all, they begin the song already on the balcony AND with dialogue together, for no good reason!!! Once again: Shame and dishonor on this production. Idaho RetJ has a pretty low bar to clear on that front.

Russian: 8/10, cute as all hell. Russian Juliette at first is mostly just curious, looking around for the voice and HOLY SHIT freakin’ Russian Romeo just leaps out of freakin’ nowhere and she is just “eep!” and just hides behind her balcony railing like a startled cat. Incredible.

Hungarian: 9.99999/10, Rómeó straight-up LITERALLY teases her. I am dead. Júlia had ovaries of steel to have withstood that with just a rueful laugh. That said, I’m a little disappointed that he didn’t stay purposefully hidden like the others for the three lines; that would be so in line with Hungarian Rómeó he’s such a troll. Understandable, though, because of the non-balcony set up they have.

Austrian: 9/10. Still one of the best and most obvious teases, very faithful to the French. Freakin’ Austrian Romeo purposefully hides away from Julia while she is actively looking for him and then the way he charges upstage and soars on the (changed) high notes in declaration…YES. 100000 points to Gryffindor.

Mexican: 5/10, pretty much no tease. Romeo is exposed along the wall and has to prepare himself to even speak to Julieta, poor baby. Unfortunately the editing doesn’t show Julieta’s initial reaction, but she does look so damn overjoyed, d’aww. I forgive it (also the translation is so, so close. Painfully slow tempo, though).

Revival: 7/10. Roméo starting stage right and then scurrying over to the balcony gives such “Don’t let her see me don’t let her see me run run run!!” vibes, I’m crying. That said, Juliette isn’t even surprised here. She hears him and it’s all, “Oh, love of my life’s here, aw, fiddlesticks, my hair’s a mess, lemme fix it.” -.- I know she has limited room to react compared to original Juliette, but c’mon.

Takarazuka: 4/10, no tease either. Takarazuka Romeo just climbs directly (with stairs!!! I swear these Romeos just get lazier with each production). Takarazuka Juliette’s :O is super cute, though, so anime, so points for that. C’mon, y’all.

Italian: 5/10. Romeo opted for the Freudian pillar. -.- I…suppose that can be considered a tease. Either way, this is really borderline between hilariously fun and hilariously awful. The rest of the Balcony was solid, though, minus the unnecessary Shakespeare. (Also, rewatching it, they actually framed Romeo’s verse as a monologue that Giulietta doesn’t hear until almost the very end. Nope. Downgraded for that).

Toho: 5/10. No tease, but we do get Black!Romeo looking adorably 🥰 when Black!Juliette says his name. He hesitates for a moment before climbing the balcony railing à la French (finally!). Juliette is also :O though not as adorable as Takarazuka R&J. So a little extra bump for the cute reactions.

Chinese: 6/10. The latest RetJ! Pretty much a Revival copy, very sweet and laidback. Romeo hides as soon as he hears Juliette, Juliette is just about to go in, but then hears Romeo’s voice. Finds him too easily, though, knows exactly who he is. Lame, but there is something to be said about the lack of drama of it all. Once again, though, Chinese Juliette does the self-conscious fixing-hair thing. Kill it with fire. (Edit: There is actually a second Balcony with a different Juliette, or at least in a different dress. Much better).

[winterzsurprise]

A New Beginning || Miguel O'hara

Pairing: Miguel O'hara x F!reader

Summary: You tell Miguel that you're ready to have a child with him.

Tags: SMUT, NOT BETA READ, breeding kink, unprotected sex, big dick Miguel, creampie, vaginal fingering, brief blowjob scene, soft sex that turned rough later on, Miguel kinda whimpered lol.

Period is gone and came the asexual lil shit who can't write smut anymore lmaooo. I have two other plots just waiting to be finished (something about being paralyzed by his venom and needy sex after a death scare) but aaaaaaaaaaa. This is so shit, I apologize lmao.

mi vida - my life || cariño - honey || mi cielo- my sky (correct me on this please)

“I think I’m ready.”

Miguel didn’t respond for the longest time, focused on frying the vegetables. Clearing your throat you tried again.

“Miguel? I think I’m ready.”

“For what exactly? What trouble are you brewing up again?”

Sensing his dedication towards completing his task, you grew doubtful of your decision of dropping the news to him. 

Miguel, always tuned in to your moods even without seeing you, immediately turned off the stove and turned to face you with crossed arms at your prolonged silence.

“Alright, what is it?”

Now seeing the permanent frown in his face, you wondered if he’s even as ready as you are. Being the leader of the inter-dimensional spider society and a chronic over-worker, you could see him putting his job first as the protector of spider people since he sometimes does it with you.

But you’ve seen how his eyes lingered a little too long on Mayday and Peter B whenever they visited. You’ve seen him replay clips of a future that doesn’t belong to him and watched him mourn over a child that never existed in this universe.

Having a kid with both of your features…

It doesn't seem like that bad of an idea.

“I’m just… thinking about kids you know?”

The twitch in his eyebrow betrayed his uninterested expression. “Oh? What about them?”

“I think I’m ready for one.”

Tensed silence immediately filled the room, locking your throat close as you waited for a change in his stance with bated breath. You saw the surprise flash in his eyes but he made no move to indicate his interest in the subject. 

If it wasn’t for Mayday, you wouldn’t have thought about bringing a child into a world where she'd have parents from two separate dimensions, both superhuman and known as saviors of the world. Not to mention, while being an active crime fighter in your own universes which is not an ideal occupation for a pregnant woman.

Even then, you had your IUD removed a few days ago when you returned to your world for a visit and only today did you guys had the time to bond.

As you linger in the silence, regret starts to crawl up your throat. Maybe it's a stupid decision after all...

His sigh sliced through the thick atmosphere before his voice did. “Are you sure?”

Miguel, no matter how unsure his voice sounded, had a hungry look in his eyes.

“I’ve been thinking about it for so long and... I think I’m ready now.”

You swear you could hear the clock from the living room tick beside you as you wait in anticipation. 

tik!

tok!

tik!

tok!

tik!

Miguel reached behind to remove his apron, crumpling them like a paper ball and tossing them to the side before crossing the distance between the two of you with one large step, hands surging to cup your cheeks to pull you in for a deep kiss.

You melted in the soft plushies of his lips, hands rising to tangle themselves into his hair. 

His hands wandered down to your rear, tapping it rapidly and you jumped up to wrap your legs around his waist before proceeding to walk blindly to the bedroom, relying solely on muscle memory.

Miguel’s lips melded with yours smoothly with years of experience, his taste familiar in your tongue. Your fingers combed through his hair, tugging him closer as the door opened behind you.

It didn't take long before you hit the softness of your bed. His body dwarfs yours in every way and the realization never fails to send jolts of pleasure down your spine.

There's greed and desperation in Miguel's hands as he tore through your shirt and bra, freeing your breasts that pebbled with goosebumps from the cold air. Despite the hunger and rush in his movements, his touch is the softest it has been in a long, long time since the needy sex from months ago after a death scare.

His fingers found your stiff nubs and pinched them, sending sparks crawling over your body, stirring your nerve endings awake. Miguel's lips parts from yours to pepper kisses down your skin, leaving warmth in its wake.

You quickly made work of his top, pushing it over his head before he latched onto your skin once more like a bloodsucker.

"You're so pretty, mi cielo." He groaned, kneading your mounds together. "I lose my mind just thinking about your tits growing full with milk for our kid." 

You couldn't suppress the shudder racking your body at the mention of having your own child, together. A low moan left your lips and Miguel's hand wandered lower to tug on the bands of your shorts and underwear.

"You don't mind this one, yeah?"

"Rip it off."

He didn't need to hear it twice, the sound of fabrics tearing off into two echoed in the room and plant both your legs on either side of him, leaving you bare for him to see. Sitting back on his heels, he admired his work as he caressed your inner thighs with small circles, a promise of what to come.

"As much as I want to eat you up, I want to see you falling apart my dick more."

You nod feverishly, sighing as deft fingers found your clit to roll in tight circles, occasionally scooping down to spread your wetness around your folds. Heat explodes from your abdomen, spreading across your body as pleasure slowly ricochets inside you.

His finger enters you, curling up to caress the spongy part of your walls and you moan. Miguel spared no time adding another digit inside you, picking up a fast pace and your body arched, hips twisting to follow his ministrations.

But before the pressure in your abdomen builds up, he pulls away to your distaste.

"Fuck…" You whined.

"Stop whining and get on top of me. I wanna see you bounce."

He slipped off of his pants and boxers, tossing it to the side before switching positions with you. You reached down to his hardened length, pumping him leisurely while he ran his calloused hands up and down the meat of your thighs.

You eyed the clear pre-cum erupting from his tip with every pump with fascination. Miguel's hands tensed on your thighs as a warning yet you bent down to lick off it off. A salty taste explodes in your mouth and Miguel grunts, nails digging into your flesh.

"Mi vida..."

"You're such a mood killer." You said, earning yourself a pinch in your thigh and you giggled.

You positioned his intimidatingly huge dick directly under you and with a deep breath, you let the tip sink into you. It's barely in and you're struggling with his girth stretching you wide open. Seeing the struggle in your face, Miguel rubbed circles on your hips.

"You can do it, baby. You know you can take me in."

With the slight pushing from Miguel, you eased him in with a mewl. He feels deeper and fuller this way and you gasped at him, nudging more of him inside.

"Fuck..! You're so deep..! I c-can't—"

"You can and you will. I'll make sure you do."

"P-please... Ah!"

Surrendering your control to him momentarily, he gladly took up the mantle. Your mind grew fuzzy at how full he makes you feel and it pleased Miguel to no end to see you drunk on his cock. Reaching up to your neck, he pulls you down for a dizzying kiss.

You whimpered into his mouth as he gained some speed, nudging the roof of your uterus, keeping your mouth hang ajar, spouting gibberish and noises of absolute ecstasy. His hands roamed your body with the greed of an explorer in a new land yet tender as if handling a feather whilst you tugged hard on his locks.

"You feel so tight around me. God, you feel heavenly." He grunts as he drives himself in your heat.

Your body grew feverish as your heart grew fuller from the softness of his touches and kisses. The knots in your abdomen twisted tighter, your impending climax arriving a little early.

"I-I'm close…"

"Give it to me, come all over my dick. I want it all."

Picking up speed, you cried onto his shoulders as he plummets into you hard. Your hips grew erratic as you followed the intensity of his thrusts, his hands grabbing the globes of your ass to guide your heat onto his. 

"Come for me, cariño."

Your whimpered whispers of his name filled the room as you tip closer to the edge.

The knots in your abdomen unfurl and you come, trembling on top of him with a shout. He grunts as the tightness brought by your end, hugged his girth firmly. His hot pants fanned your ears as your climax encouraged him closer, the sound of his pleasure sent sparks throughout your body and swells your chest with pride.

"Take all of me, baby. You want it yeah? Want me to fill you up real bad? Want me to breed and knock you up?"

"Yes yes yes…! I want it please please please!"

Miguel protectively wrapped his arms around you as he came, exploding and painting your insides white with a deep groan. His arms only tightened around you, forbidding you from leaving.

Flipping you both, he sits up to stare at where you both connected with lust clouded eyes. Pulling out, you groaned at the feeling of his seed pulse out of you and Miguel clicked his tongue.

"You're wasting them."

Scooping them up, he plunged them into you and your thighs twitched from the intrusion. You let your eye close as your soul slowly settles back into your body, exhaustion weighing your eyelids shut.

The sound of wet squelch of his fluids mixed with yours burned your cheeks and you forced yourself to focus on the feeling of his fingers plunging his seed back in, pleasurable albeit a little painful.

Miguel halts, only to bring your legs up to your shoulders, stirring you awake from your momentary rest to meet the wicked gleam in his dilated eyes as he pinned your thighs down and loomed over you.

"Don't even think of sleeping tonight or tomorrow. We haven't even started."

[bakugoushotwife]

Daddy's Home For Good

a/n: this was requested by one of my lovely followers privately, and I absolutely love the idea of whipped daddy gojo just insanely in love with his wife and the idea of being a dad soon! so enjoyyyy. this is a part two but can be read as a stand alone.

part one : daddy’s home

pairings: satoru gojo x fem!reader

cw: lactation kink, pregnancy, descriptions of pregnant body, reader was curvier to begin with, fingering, nipple play, brief childbirth i guess? unedited as always.

wc: 3.3k

It blew him away, really. How quickly the urge to be a father came on, how good it felt to act on these needs with you, and how successful his attempts turned out to be. When you came to him with all those positive pregnancy tests, he didn’t think life could get any better. This truly was the highlight of his life, and anyone that knew the man that existed pre-you would absolutely cackle at the sight. Satoru Gojo, buying baby clothes and bibs and strollers to take his son around town in, to show off the latest member of the Gojo family tree. 

It was almost ridiculous. Every time, on his way home from grueling missions or a packed day of training those kids he loved so much, your husband came home with some sort of accessory or necessity for the baby boy you were growing for him. He always had that signature satisfied grin on his face, his eyes wide with pride and love. He just can’t wait to see your reaction to these onesies, he knows the colors go perfectly with the nursery scheme. He picked out the paint for the room as meticulously as he picked out these onesies—with all of his love and care in mind. He looked around to see the empty living room, figuring you were either in your shared room resting, or doing some more nesting in the baby’s room. He sighs happily, slipping out of his shoes and putting his keys down, that shit-eating grin still adorning his features as he waits for you.

You—his most precious wife, glowing and beautiful with that bump of yours. He just can’t help himself, Satoru has always lacked impulse control and the way you waddle out from the bedroom to greet him makes his chest warm with emotion and his dick pulse with another one. You were eight–almost nine– months along, his son inside you causing your breasts to grow two cup sizes, though they were already massive. Your hips had widened even more, your hair and skin seemed to shine brighter. You were mesmerizing, the perfect image of a mother. You grin happily, resting your hand on your growing stomach while you make your way over to him. You were the reason he got to be this happy, and he would pamper you in every way because of it. The next Gojo boy could arrive any day now, and he could barely wait.

“My beautiful woman!” He cheers upon your approach, holding up the shopping bags filled to the brim with clothes and pacifier clips and little shoes and anything else you can think of when it comes to a baby’s needs. His smile spreads wider when he sees your forced surprise. You were impossibly sexy like this, stroking your belly and leaning against the couch as he pulled out the dinosaur onesie he was most proud of. He loves the soft look in your eye as you look at him, the adoration you have can only mirror the kind he holds for you. 

“Look at all this, Daddy spoils us.” You giggle, shaking your head as you examine all the clothes and toys your over excited husband brought home. You couldn’t wait to give birth at this point either. You thought you looked horrendous, sweaty and swollen at all hours of the day. You can’t get any sleep because of your size, and no clothes were comfortable. You loved being pregnant but…you also loathed it once you got this big. “Haru is so lucky to be your son, yeah?” 

Satoru beams at this, nodding his agreement. “Oh but of course, nothing but the best for my loves.” 

 You can’t help but admire him this way. He’s so in love with you and the prospect of a family, he can’t stop himself from bringing home an obnoxious amount of gifts for you and baby both. This far into the pregnancy, as the days draw closer to Haru being on this side of the world with you, your anxiety increases as well. It was such a relief to have a husband like Satoru by your side. He took care of everything, leaving you to rest and take it easy, reading your books and preening about as you wish. It seems he had the inevitable nesting instincts, keeping the house clean and making all the meals for the two of you. 

He would always say he had to keep you healthy since Haru was sucking out all your nutrients. He had surprised you honestly, doing all this research to keep you comfortable. Half the gifts he brought home early on were suited for you, the highest end maternity clothes and body pillows—though he preferred you use him when he was home. He made sure the cleaning products he used were all non-toxic and safe for you to breathe, once again completely surprising you during the earlier months of your pregnancy. He even brought his students in to meal prep freezer food for the recovery, that way Satoru never had to leave your side and could give all of his attention to you and your newborn son. He was so beautifully excited to be a father, and you were so content to be the one giving him children. As long as he kept this treatment up, you’d continue to pump out Gojo’s until he wanted to stop. 

Which didn’t seem to be on his mind at all. Seeing you like this right now, swollen and fatigued from all your hard work, he wanted this all the time. It was such a dominant and possessive and honestly out-dated thing to desire so deeply, to keep you pregnant and at home caring for all the other babies all day long, but fuck this would never get old. Your giggles as you pull out yet another adorable little outfit for your son, the sweet way you bat your lashes up at him to say thank you, the darkening patches spreading across the cloth of your t-shirt…it all made his body break out in a sweat, a need to please you growing in his gut. 

You hear his shaky breath, looking up at him to see his chlorine colored eyes darkening steadily, and his hand covering his crotch. 

“Sato? What’s wrong?” You ask, your sweet voice sending shivers down his spine and making him blush in embarrassment at the same time. You were much too big to try to accommodate his sexual desires, much less, it’s wrong that he’s so turned on by you leaking breast milk in front of him. 

He shakes his head, giving you a nervous chuckle and waving off your concern. “Oh, nothing, wifey. Don’t worry.” His eyes flicker over your form, stuttering around your chest before they meet your worried ones. 

You notice, of course you would notice. He knows you’ll think he’s a pervert for sure now, even though he most definitely was and you most definitely already knew that about your husband after the years of marriage and dating. You gasp once you see the dark wet stains in your top. 

“Shit–I’m sorry, that’s been happening here recently—I think it’s a good thing but uh, I’ll go get changed, I’m sorry—”

He grabs your wrist before you can spin around and head back to the bedroom. His brow is furrowed, and his other hand comes to hold your chin. He seems even more upset than before. 

“Don’t ever apologize to me…that’s what’s gonna feed our son, I never wanna hear that again.” He mumbles, eyes darkening again as they fixate on the damp markings. His hand lets your wrist go, coming up to brush his thumb across the fabric. It gives you a chill, your nipples have always been far too sensitive to his touch, now more than ever. You breathe in sharply at the feeling, and he bites down on his lower lip. 

He, as always, is far too sensitive to you as a whole, now more than ever. Your little gasp encourages him to keep going, maybe the idea wasn’t so horrible after all. He brushes his thumb against your hardened nipple now, watching your face closely. The moment is so quiet and delicate, he doesn’t know if he should speak, to excuse or explain himself for this. You look down at his touch and then back up at him, and his pupils expand. He likes it, he wants to see more of your leaking tits, you realize. 

“Ohhhh…” You grin as you understand his earlier strange behavior. “So Daddy likes Mama’s leaky boobs, huh?” You tease, a cute little smirk displayed on your face. God, sometimes you were too much for him. He was trying to stifle these urges, to respect the mother of his unborn child more than this—but you’re making it impossible. His breathing gets a little shakier with your taunts, and he ashamedly nods his head yes. 

“Don’t be shy, Satoru.” You purr his name like always, pushing his big hand harder against your chest. “It’s cute…you love everything about makin’ me a mother.” You coo, your other hand reaching for his cheek now. He leans his face into your hold, tremendously vulnerable now that you’ve caught him. Though, you don’t seem disgusted by him, so maybe there’s hope. Especially at your last sentence, it seems you understand him in a way he didn’t even quite get. Why would he be craving the taste of your milk right now, the sight of your pretty chest dripping with the nutrients his son would soon need? Because he caused all of it? Yeah, he understands now. His cloudy blue eyes finally meet yours again, and he nods. 

“Mhm, can’t help it, angel. You just look so hot like this, and I just wanna make you feel good..” He says, tunnel visioning back to your chest. He slips his hand out of your grip, opting to slide them under your shirt instead. You nod slowly, your breath catching in your throat when his warm palms cup your heavy tits. It’s so sensitive, they feel so weighty and full, you can’t help but moan a little bit as he massages them. He gently pushes you back into the couch, helping you get comfortable on the broad cushions. He knew he wouldn’t be able to fuck you the right way, but that was the least of his worries right now. He wouldn’t be able to carry on unless he saw you, unless he tasted the food that would help his son grow big and strong like him. 

You’re blissed out immediately, just from the relief of his touch. He supports your heavy tits in his hands, softly stroking over your wet nipples with his thumbs. His cock jumps with your every moan. He thinks its hot, the way you move your hips still, wishing he could fuck into you and do this at the same time. It makes him smile, how needy you became within seconds, and he wonders if you had thought about this too. He regretfully lets go of your chest, supporting them carefully until they rested against you. He didn’t want to cause any pain, no no. His only job was to bring relief and pleasure. 

He didn’t even understand how good it felt to be fondled and worshiped like this. He kneels between your legs on the floor, looking over your gorgeous pregnant body leaning perfectly against the couch. He pushes your shirt up–one that actually belonged to him–but god it worked perfectly on you now. The shirt rests above your engorged breasts, revealing your fully naked form to him. He shivers. He knows with your size as of late, it’s hard enough to put on the t-shirt. Pregnancy was such a gift. Here you are, your belly huge and perfect, the veins on your chest more pronounced, your nipples more pink than usual and dripping with liquid. He moans aloud, just from the sight of you. 

You giggle at the sound, heat licking up your body. As ugly as you thought you looked these days, your husband never thought you looked better. You reach around blindly for him, unable to see him from the way you were leaning combined with the massive bump in between you two. He hums, leaning up a bit so you could grab a gentle fistful of his hair. When he leans up enough to make eye contact, you nearly laugh again. He’s under a spell, his eyes frenzied with desire. He looks at your chest again, slick and sheeny and your nipples just aching for some relief. 

“You want me to suck on you, Mama?” He asks with a smirk, his hands rubbing circles into your stomach as he eagerly awaits your response. 

“Please Daddy, miss your mouth so much, everywhere.” You huff, tugging on his hair to pull him closer to your needy breasts. He won’t make you beg. That’s the least he could do for his gorgeous baby mama. He hums, his tongue parting his lips and his eyes focused on yours. He leans in and licks the wetness around your nipples, groaning at the sweet taste of your milk. His large hand gently massages the fullness of your neglected breast, his tongue flicking over your pebbled bud for more of your essence. You moan and whimper, wiggling around helplessly. He was amazed by your sensitivity, your back arching off the couch when he wraps his lips around your nipple. 

He moans, your milk falling in drops in his mouth. His eyes flutter shut, your moans were impossibly sexy and his cock was starting to hurt. He knew he couldn’t use you like that, so he just ruts against the bottom of the couch, suckling on your tits like he was the one who needed the nutrients. 

It felt amazing, the wet and warm relief of his mouth sucking out some of the pressure was too much, you could feel your pussy leaking your normal fluids all over the couch cover. “Oh Daddy, you’re makin’ me feel s’much better~” 

He nods, swallowing everything he’d collected thus far to swap to your neglected one. He sees you reach for your pussy, though with the size of your stomach, you can’t reach. He chuckles softly, taking it as a sign of your permission before he swats your hand away and replaces it with his own fingers. He circles your clit, making you gasp and part your legs even more for him. His mouth closes around your unused bud, and your whines are like a symphony. He knows you’re going to cum soon, and from the way he ruts against the couch…he will too.

You’ve done your research, you know that orgasms and nipple stimulation can lead to your water breaking but with everything else you had tried to induce your labor lately, you didn’t think this one would work. You tried the exercise ball, you ate dates, you even tried eating spicy foods but all for naught—your son seemed to be as stubborn as his father. 

So when you’re screaming and cumming hard just from Satoru suckling your chest and his minimal pressure to your clit, the extra rush of water is hardly noticed. Innocently, Satoru thinks maybe you squirted from such a naughty act. He’s brainless for the moment anyway, his vision blackened as he busts in his pants, all from the pleasure he brought to you and getting to indulge in one of his fantasies. He’s panting, laughing at himself for cumming untouched. He stands and kisses your forehead, letting you get your breath back as he steps off into your bedroom to change and bring you a towel. 

  “I hope that made you feel good, angel, you’re out here embarrassing me.” He chuckles, crouching to wipe you up. 

You go to respond, giggling, when the sharp pain cuts you off. It felt like a period cramp, but much more intense. You had had these all day, convincing yourself it was another Braxton-Hicks instance, but you knew. In your heart of hearts, it was time. 

“Satoru–”

“What’s that look for babe? You look like you’ve seen a ghost–”

“Haru–he’s coming.” You blurt out, eyes wide and face paling several shades. He does the same, hands flying to his hair in shock. 

“Right now? Oh my god—” He’s running around immediately, calling Megumi to come watch the cats and calling Shoko to meet you at the hospital and sprinting to the nursery for the hospital bag before he’s back with clothes for you, dressing you with shaky hands. “It’s really time!” 

You nod, checking the bag while he puts your pants on, sliding your feet into sandals. “It’s really time. Oh my god, Sato..our baby is coming!” You squeal in between bouts of contractions. 

He gives you a broad smile, gently helping you to your feet. He slings the hospital bag on his shoulder, the plan for Haru’s arrival having been in place for weeks. He’s a mess of nerves as he tucks you into the car, making sure for the fifteen-hundredth time that the car seat was installed correctly before he finally gets in the driver's side. He keeps a protective hand over your stomach the whole time, frowning in sympathy every time you endure a contraction. 

Part of these nerves are his excitement, his relief that his strange inclination ended up inducing your labor, and his overwhelming desire to meet his son. “Our baby is coming.” He echoes, a whisper as the hospital comes into view. 

8 hours later, little Haru Gojo makes his first appearance into the world. He’s beautiful, and strong, and certainly makes his presence known with his loud cries and haughty grip on his father’s thumb once he’s been cleaned up and given back. 

Satoru is in awe. His son, this tiny little bundle of blankets laying in his arms, the creation of him and the woman he loves so dearly. Eyes of the same shade of blue look up at him, smiling. The boy coos loudly too, babbling and reaching for his father’s face. Satoru sits next to you on your bed, utterly in love. “He’s perfect. Thank you, my angel.” He says, carefully leaning over to kiss your temple. 

You smile softly, exhausted but thrilled at the same time. You love the tamed look in your husband’s eyes, a new kind of softness invented specifically for his child. He cuddles the boy close, holding you in his other arm. His family, just the start. His heart is so full, and once again he’s surprised that he could feel so intensely. He watches you rest against him, your eyes tired and full of love for your son—the Gojo family. 

“Thank you. You gave him to me.” You remind, reaching your hand out to smooth the white peach fuzz sprouting on Haru’s head. He scoffs at you, and the baby starts to writhe towards his mother. 

“Oh gag, that’s the easiest job in the world. You’ve gone through so much just to give me this little boy, hush and let me worship the ground you walk on, please.” He insists, letting his fingers trace the tiny nose and lips of his little son. He smiles at Haru's puckers and squirms, knowing he was probably hungry. He gently places him in your arms, his strong chest helping you sit upright. He smiles, watching the magic that is you feeding his child. “Looks like I’ve got some competition..” 

You slap his shoulder and roll your eyes, giggling at the first of many dad jokes that Satoru had no doubt researched as well. He just sighs lovingly, wrapping his arms around you and supporting all your weight, keen to wait on you hand and foot until you are fully recovered—and even then. He’s beyond grateful for this life. Maybe all the pain and heartache was worth it. He gets to call himself a husband and now a father, a future he had never imagined for himself. He owes it all to you, the woman who quite literally birthed his dreams. 

“I’ve got more where that comes from so…stay on your toes, Mama.”

[sameschmidtdiffname]

Slip

Mike Schmidt x Gender Neutral! Reader

Summery: At some point or another, the words slip out. It's just that, naturally, you're an idiot who can't pick the right moment.

Tags: No use of Y/N, no specific pronouns for reader, night terrors, disassociation, attempted comfort, miscommunication, brief non sexual shower scene, unintentional harm, anxiety, sweet ending. (fr this time, I'm not pulling a 'Repentance.') Slight spoilers for 'Petals On The Wind' by V.C. Andrews.

Notes: I had a vision and I tried. Pls give me mercy.

                     ▪︎◇{¤♧■♧¤}◇▪︎

The night air is sweet, fresh with the smell of citrus from the soap I had used earlier that evening in my shower mixed with the damp smell of the dew forming on the grass and the leaves outside. The curtains shift slightly as the air spills into the dark room, the only light born by a small lamp clipped to the cover of my book as I read quietly.

Beside me lays Mike, facing the ceiling and looking as peaceful as he ever could. It was a relaxation that doesn't come to him in consciousness, too busy with thoughts I sometimes am not privy too. But I don't pry. I've heard most of the story from him and from Abby, and he is allowed to grieve the past alone. He knows I am always available to help him.

It had been a long day for him. He didn't need to tell me, it was obvious by the way he'd sat at the kitchen table, thinking he was alone and hands buried in his hair. I hadn't meant to spy on him, having just slipped out of my shower. He wasn't crying, but his face was pale and dreadful. The bags under his eyes a dark purple that they hadn't been earlier at dinner, and the haunted quality of his stare had increased in an alarming manner since I'd left him. Had he moved since dinner? Abby was in her room, her voice trailing quietly down the hall as she hummed to herself behind the closed door. The overhead yellow light directly above Michael made him look like a painting of doom, covered in shadows with sharp edges as dark as his thoughts.

When I guided him to bed he wouldn't talk to me. Not when I removed his shirt to change him into something clean. Not when I opened the bottle of pills he'd been able to relax on for the past couple weeks. And not when I held a glass of water to his lips, his mouth only moving to take a long drink before I guided him onto his back, where he stared at the ceiling quietly while I stroked his hair, watching him carefully until he drifted away into a drugged dream of obliviousness where hopefully he could find the peace he needed.

More often than not I read before bed. Usually Mike would lay his head on my chest, his eyes reading the same bits I would and commenting on something here or there, once in a while spoiling the next paragraph for me. But I never minded when he did, it was always an accident.

It did get to the point where Mike imposed a limit of two chapters a night, knowing I could become so enraptured in a story I wouldn't even pay attention to the world around me until I finished it, usually with the early light beginning to peak through the branches outside and create dancing rays of sun along our bed. It wasn't really a rule, more so a concerned request. There was no punishment if I didn't comply, if I deprived myself of sleep reading all that would exist as a reprimand is my own exhaustion. Mike would always silently pick up on this, more gentle with me and luring me away from my nightly ritual with his arms wrapped around my tired body, fingers combing through my hair and his even breathing coaxing me into the sleep I needed until his alarm would wake us, still wrapped around each other and warm in the morning glow of a new day with a new chapter. And recently I realized it was something about him I loved. Though I dare not say it out loud. Not yet.

I'm only a handful chapters into this book. It's one that I've read before, an ironic favorite from when I was younger and snuck books home that I'd borrowed from the woman next door after playing with her granddaughters. The subject of the novel was taboo, Gothic horror I would hide under my bed away from my mother's eyes until she would lay in her own bed, allowing me to click on a light and read until school the next morning. It's been years since I've revisited it, and this copy I had bought at a local thrift store for only a quarter with an excited smile, causing an amused look on Mike's face as he'd watched me.

"Shouldn't you read something you already own?" He'd teased while we walked out of the store hand in hand, Abby leading the way to our car.

I'd rolled my eyes, smiling as I checked for cars coming through the parking lot with no regard for little girls.

"Am I not allowed to spend a quarter on my passions?" I said.

"You absolutely are. I'm just wondering how you're going to read everything," he said with a small squeeze of his hand.

The answer is by drinking a cup of tea and working through the book in one sitting as he lays next to me, no work ahead of me for the next two days that would demand proper rest. No limitation able to stop me now. I'm a few hours into my plan when I notice his leg jolt beside mine, no movement otherwise.

I glance at him quickly, seeing if he's woken with a start. His eyes remain closed, lips parted slightly in sleep and otherwise seeming fine. So I resume my book, flipping to the next page to start chapter eleven.

Halfway through chapter thirteen, Mike gasps. Loud and quick, causing a cough to escape him. I slip a finger inbetween my pages, turning to face him and worry stabbing my chest as I wait for him to choke and thrash frantically. But he doesn't. He remains still, his pulse visible near his adams apple as his breath quickens slightly. I watch him, waiting for any signs of distress. But he remains still in sleep, and reluctantly I return to my book once more, having decided it was just a dream.

Finally, at the early hour of four o'clock his hand reaches out, nails digging into my thigh desperately in a way that's painful against my bare skin, raking down and surely creating a trail of blood in his wake as a short, startled yell of Abby's name pierces the air, his body going ridged. And then he's still, body shaking and eyes wide open in confusion, darting around the room as though he cannot place his environment in his still drugged state.

"Hey," I say softly, abandoning my book and turning to face him, unsure if I should touch him or what I need to say to tear him away from the horrors of his mind. "You're okay, you're awake now."

If he hears me he doesn't give any indication, his breathing so quick and unsteady I'm scared he'll knock himself out from hyperventilating.

"It's okay, it was a dream," I tell him. I place my hand apprehensively on his chest, feeling his heart slam against the cage of ribs below my touch. "You're awake now."

His head turns slightly towards me, but he's still panicking, his hand gripping my thigh hard enough hard with nails he hadn't meant to let grow out for the past couple weeks that I have to make a conscious effort to not whine in pain.

He's saying something, quiet and mixing with his irregular breathing as his other hand grabs my hand upon his chest, pressing it tightly against him. But I can't make it out, I can only hear fragments of 'sorry' and 'take.' And the words only blur more as he starts sobbing beside me, the noises he makes terrifying as he struggles for air.

"Let's sit up. Come on, let's sit up," I say. I'm close to panic myself, trying to find his shoulders to pull him up in fear of him choking in such a state. But his hand is too tight around mine, and trying to take it away seems to only cause further distress, his teeth gritting and nostrils flailing as he tries to breathe in as much air as possible. I manage to get one arm under his shoulders, wrapping it around his body and pulling us both up. The shift of his body seems to make something click, his hand suddenly releasing my thigh as he gasps once more, eyes seeming to show recognition of something.

"You're home. We're in our room, Abby is down the hall," I tell him.

"They'll come here, they knew where we live," he says in a rapid but finally coherent voice.

"Who?" I ask. He's scaring me, making me want to join him in my own hysteria. But I don't show it, the pain throbbing in my leg giving me a point of focus to keep my voice even. "No one's coming."

"My aunt- she- they-"

"She's not coming over, no one's coming to take Abby," I tell him, stroking him arm and trying to shift my body to face his. "Everyone's home and safe. I won't let anyone go."

This seems to hit him, his shoulders relaxing slightly. He looks at my face, staring and trying to focus on me.

"I won't let anyone go anywhere," I repeat gently. His shoulders relax, his body leaning towards mine.

"You don't have to worry," I tell him. "I'm here."

His head lands on my shoulder, hand still pressing mine tight against his chest as his arm finds my waist, body wracking with sobs.

"It's okay. Slow your breathing," I say softly, my hand finding his hair and holding him close against me. "Focus on me and slow your breathing."

He's trying, I can tell by the way he gasps against my chest in even tempo that he's trying to regain his breath. His skin is hot against mine, body wet with sweat. Maybe I should get this shirt off of him, take away the sticking cotton and allow his skin to feel the cool morning air against it to prevent overstimulation. Or maybe the sudden change would throw him into more distress. I don't know what to do, what to offer.

"Do you want me to distract you?" I ask. At this he lifts his head slightly, a small 'what?' Asking for me to repeat the question. "Do you want me to distract you?" I repeat, anxious I've said something wrong.

He seems to think for a moment, his heart still beating at a concerning rate.

"How long have you been reading?" He finally asks, eyeing the book I'd practically thrown to the edge of the bed in my panic.

"A few hours," I say. "Started reading when you went to sleep."

He nods, going silent once more for a few more minutes. I focus on his hair, how some curls wrap perfectly around my fingertips, how soft his hair is even though he doesn't take proper care of it.

"Is it any good?" He asks softly, his mouth against my neck as he tries to relax.

Okay, talk about the book. Book with dead parents. Ah, fuck.

"Not... particularly," I admit. "The first one was better."

"Yeah?" Mike asks. "How so?"

Well, Mike. This is a V.C. Andrews novel. So there's an unsettling amount of incest that serves a horrifying point that I don't think you wanna hear about right now because that's gonna take several hours for me to explain. I wish you'd asked sooner.

"...questionable decisions," I decide is how I'll phrase it.

"Sounds like me," he mutters against my skin.

"I promise you it isn't," I mutter back, trying to think of what to say next.

Mike doesn't say anything, still breathing hard against my skin but finally gaining a steady rhythm. His body shakes less, my fingers gently combing through his hair as I finally speak again.

"It's something you'd laugh at if you felt better," I feel stupid, useless as I try to bring him back to me. But it seems to work, his shaking decreasing as he focuses on my words. "The main character is... dramatic, and... passionate."

I feel his smile against my skin, his fingers stroking my waist. "Oh?" He asks.

"Mm-hmm," I say. He hums, waiting for me to continue. And I'm not sure if I should.

"What's the plot?" He asks. Not something you should hear in your state, Michael. Lots of people die.

"It's about..."

Fucking half the town out of spite.

"...family."

That's one way to put it.

"And... doing what's right."

By burning a house down.

"And taking care of those you love."

Well, at least that point is accurate.

He seems content with this, pulling me down onto the bed once more and keeping me close.

"Are you okay?" I ask him carefully.

"I will be," he says softly. "Thank you. For caring."

"Of course I care," I say with a small laugh of nervous relief. "I love you."

Oh.

Oh.

Oh motherfucker, no.

"What?" Mike asks in a small voice, his body going still, mine going stiff.

Goddammit.

We've been together for about a year. And this is a normal point to finally say the words to each other, a sweet moment of realization and commitment that I'd been wanting to have. And I'd been trying to find the right moment, wanting to say it while he serves pancakes in the morning that he douses in syrup because he hates them dry. To say it when he pulls me close at night, taking a deep breath as he smells my hair. When he falls asleep on the couch or with his head on my lap. And maybe he's wanted to say it too, the way his eyes linger on me when I spin around the room with his sister, or when I fix her hair before walking her out the door, or when I slip out said door to return to my own home only to find myself back here the next day anyways, unable to stay away.

But this is the wrong moment. A moment of fear and terror and I have been selfish enough to dare utter such words that he may not even reciprocate while he's in such a vulnerable state. Shit.

"What did you say?" Mike asks, pulling away to look into my face, suddenly awake and clear of any fog that had been torturing him.

I can't speak. I can't tell him. What if he doesn't feel the same way? Or worse, what if he says it back in a desperation for approval after such pressure has been placed upon him to respond. Or what if he convinces himself he feels the same way only because I do?

"I- Shouldn't-" My head is shaking, eyes wide in worry as I try to think of a response.

"Shouldn't?" He says in the most heartbreaking voice.

"No!" This is all wrong! It all sounds wrong.

"Oh," he says quietly, eyes casted downwards.

"No, wait a minute. This is wrong-" I stutter, my hands shaking slightly.

"I heard you the first time," He says flatly, eyes avoiding mine.

"I'm sorry," I blurt out. "I didn't mean to say anything."

"Then stop saying things," He says sharply, pulling away and turning to face the room.

"I'm not- I can't-" One of the ways Mike and I understand each other is by the way vulnerability makes us choke, gagging on sincere words for fear of rejection and becoming fools. And this time is one of them, even if I'm fighting against it. The silence is too long as I choke on my own tongue.

"It's fine," he says. He stands from the bed, not looking back at me. "I'm gonna take a shower."

I open my mouth to speak, my mind urging me to extend my hand in explanation. But he walks quickly, opening and shutting the door before I can even begin to put the words together in my mind. And I'm alone. With no one but my book to offer comfort.

I try to read. Try to focus on Cathy's piss poor plan that ends with her toes broken because of her terrible husband that she married to avoid her adoptive father. (Don't ask.) But all I can think about is what I should have said. And what Mike must be thinking. Of course he misunderstood me, his mind still racing from adrenaline and nightmares of losing his sister, addled by his sleep medication that would still be in effect. Vulnerable situations are already tricky with Mike, who'd lost his family young and had been forced to create his own stability with no comfort or care returned to him until the past few years when he finally began to create a new inner circle. It was understandable that he was gun shy around this sort of topic. And his already darkened mind earlier today? What a horrible day for a moment like this.

It feels like an eternity, but it must have only been about half an hour when Mike comes racing back into the room. Wet, towel crudely wrapped around his waist and holding up his hand as he rushed towards the bed.

"There's blood on here," he said. "Who's is it?"

I squint as I try to look, reaching out for his hand. He offers it quickly, and at the sight I remember. My thigh. Earlier when he'd gripped it so hard, nails digging in. I can see the blood underneath his nails, dark and most likely having just been noticed by him.

"Earlier when you were upset you grabbed my thigh," I say. Within seconds he's on the bed, ripping the sheet off of me and dripping water all over the place. It's not exactly a pretty sight, cuts from where his nails had dragged and sunk into me. His eyes go wide, cheeks turning pink with shame.

"Jesus," he says. "I didn't mean to."

"I know, you were scared," I say. "Don't worry about it."

"Let me clean this," he says, moving to stand from the bed.

"Mike, we need to talk," I say, grabbing his wrist. He doesn't stop, trying to pull his arm free.

"After I clean this."

"No, now," I say. My voice sounds so much sharper than it should in a situation like this, like a command rather than a request. But he finally stops his rush, his eyes meeting mine as he stands still, gripping the towel around his waist as he contemplates.

"I left the water running," he finally says.

"Clean me in there," I offer thoughtlessly. He raises an eyebrow at me but doesn't question it, tugging me up by my hand and not letting go as we walk to the bathroom in silence.

The water stings on my cuts as Mike kneels in front of me, his body between my slightly parted legs as his hands wash me carefully, lathering soap and working at my thigh with careful concentration. 'It's been ten minutes. Say something, dumbass,' I think to myself.

"I love you," Mike blurts out suddenly. His hands don't rubbing soap onto my thigh, and his eyes don't meet mine. "And you don't have to feel the same way, but you should know that I do."

There's another long moment of silence, dread filling my chest.

"Why are you saying this?" I finally ask. He looks up at me with an unintentional glare.

"What?" He asks sharply.

"Are you saying this for me or for you?" I ask. His brows furrow.

"I don't know what you mean," he says.

"Earlier I said I love you and that was a mistake-"

"You don't need to remind me."

"No, my timing was a mistake. You were vulnerable," I say quickly, sliding quickly down the shower wall to join him on the floor of the bathtub. "Are you saying this because I said it or because you mean it?"

Realization seems to finally sink through, Mike blinking at me slowly.

"So, you love me?"

"I'm sorry that I was an idiot earlier-"

"But you love me?"

"I've been trying to say it for months, but I couldn't-"

Mike's kiss is hard and clumsy, teeth clicking together and making us both draw away in a fit of stupid, teenage like giggles from the way he'd tried to be romantic and jump on me, my face now covered in the orange scented soap from his hands.

"You need to lead with that next time," he says, laughing and covering my face in quick kisses without care that he's smearing the soap onto his face too. "You had me scripting our conversations for the next month in here."

"I was trying. You know I can't- that-" I can hardly respond between his kisses, tasting awful but so sweet I can't help but want more.

"I love you," he says. Then he says it again, and again. Like a dam has been broken and he can't stop the river spilling forth. "I love you."

"I love you too," I finally say, relieved and melting into his touch under the warm stream that he drags me under, holding me close to his body.

Later, as we lay in bed, I finally tell him the real plot of my book, to which he says "I take it back, get out," before dragging me under the covers to repeat his devotion again and again until we can't say it anymore. Coherently, that is.

                             ¤▪︎{♧}▪︎¤

I'm gonna be fr, I haven't been happy with my writing lately and that's mostly due to my packed schedule. This is a draft I've been working on in bits and pieces for the last couple weeks when I've had a spare moment at work, and honestly will probably regurgitate at some point in the future when I have the time and energy to get more detailed with this concept in a more detailed fic. But for right now, I did want to put this out as a drabble. So, I hope you enjoyed it, and I promise I'll try to get some more properly fleshed out content out soon for y'all <3

Taglist:

@cassiecasluciluce @gh0u1ishly @joshhutchersons-slut @schmidtsbimbo @sugarevans @wompwompwomp57 @jhutchissupercool . Thank you for your support pookies!!! <3

               •▪︎Masterlist▪︎•

[sminiac]

💌 — Sohee hours because everything about him has me clawing at concrete with bare hands

Bf!Sohee who loves recording little clips of the two of you together on his phone whether you’re out on a date, coming to visit him at dance practice, smoothing out his shirt whilst kissing brief words of encouragement into him before he goes on stage, or you’re making up a game on the plane to keep each other from falling bored he’s always wanting to capture small moments together for him to look back on. With his line of work and the almost constant presence of cameras he thinks “Why not?” And drags you out to the nearest place he could get his hands on one. The vlogs would all be posted to a private account that only you and him follow, and it wouldn’t be anything grand or contain super complex editing— it’s simple, sweet, the rawness of it, the inside jokes, sweet words, tears, and picturesque views that’ll always exist as a reminder of the love that continued to flourish even under troubling circumstances and long days spent separately from each other due to schedule conflicts.

Ex: The type to fall asleep watching them every night while he’s away because he needs to at least be able to see your face or hear your voice, ugh. He just loves loving you :,( You’d also switch between one another when it came to editing the videos, but Sohee would much rather take on the task as he likes going through all of the footage, getting to relive the moment through his screen, cheeks aching from how hard he smiles seeing you, his pretty girl. He can’t help but: “isn’t she so cute?” when showing his members little clips.

Bf!Sohee who I think is so first love coded, the long conversations over the phone that drag into the early mornings spent just trying to figure one another out, eager to witness an untouched side of you that no one’s been lucky enough to have. Gets so flustered whenever you remind him that you’ve “never done this before.” whether it’s that first warming kiss that’s cut short by nervous laughter as you both run out of breath, or he’s got you eased on top of him with shaky hands, whispering soft reminders that this can stop whenever you need it to. He’s just so… optimistic, when you’ve had your first disagreement that ends in a few tears and a bruised ego he’s always so reassuring that he isn’t, couldn’t possibly be upset with you, he’ll find it in his own words while explaining to you that this was a normal thing to happen in relationships, you weren’t always going to get along, or be so openly pliant to each other and that’s okay, because being able to return from those tougher moments with the bond you share prioritized over any insecurities is all that mattered.

Bf!Sohee who can’t have you on set when they’re filming because he either gets so easily distracted by you which causes him to constantly break eye contact with the camera or he starts getting a little too into touch with this recently introduced concept, is often at the receiving end of soft smacks against his shoulder, reminded to “take it down a notch.” And “We get it you have a girlfriend, now pay attention.”

Ex: He loves goofing off with you during his breaks, pulling out his phone he quickly acts as the man behind the camera, urging you to take his place with loud cheers and laughter, “Wahhh, you look so good my love! Keep going!”

Smut below the cut! MDNI.

Bf!Sohee who is so obedient when it comes to you, you’re requesting that he send you a little something over messages with audio and visuals included? You got it, anything you want.

Ex: Definitely the type to get restless legs when he’s close to cumming, thrashing around as he’s struggling to upkeep his pace that’s got him close to mounting the edge, seeking your permission in a hasty slur of whines :b his mouth full of your name the whole time, just misses you so much, needs you so badly. Sweet boy :(

[cuckoo-on-a-string]

Civilian Asset 3.

Polyamorous/femme/female reader x multiple

Summary: Things go from bad to worse.

Master List / Prev chapter

Warnings: 18+, Mild/brief self harm (over-washing), language, peril, first aid/wound care, discussion of terrorism, emotional break downs

Tagging: A couple folks have asked about tagging. Unfortunately tagging breaks my posts, so I don't keep lists. But I DO reply to each comment on each chapter when I post something new. So it's like a hand-written invitation delivered by butler to your inbox.

A/N: Thank you for your continued support! I hope you enjoy this chapter. Barely edited, but made with love. Keeping chapters short for quicker updates, so that Soap teaser I dropped will actually be in 4. My bad.

3.

You can’t think beyond my face hurts and I thought I died.

The men to either side have you packed in tight, shoulders pressing against yours, knees bumping with every sway and turn. All four of the soldiers keep their eyes on the passing landscape and the road leading through it. The men only speak to make note of potential tails, to confirm or deny the presence of new threats.

You left London a while back, and you’re in the patchwork of expanding towns spilling out beyond the green belt by the time you regain enough sense to notice.

You see very little. Fewer houses. More fields.

None of it really sinks in. The inside of the car smells like gun oil, sweat, and a coppery stink you know rises from your own clothes. Your own skin and hair and empty nail beds.

You let yourself disappear for a while. For maybe an hour, you let the static blanket your mind like snow. It’s like floating on the top of the lake, and if you break that surface tension, you’ll drown, so you let it blind your senses instead. So long as no one notices you, you don’t have to exist. You tell yourself it’s just for a minute, just for a bit, just until something else goes wrong and you have to remember pain, and fear, and whatever else makes up your life in the moment. The protective blur stretches on forever, and you lose track of time.

An itch pulls you back into your body. Eyes on you. Someone watching.

You glance up, and you meet death’s gaze in the rearview. There are eyes, but no face. Only a skull. For a brief instant you think of trying to jerk awake, like you would in a falling dream, because maybe the reaper isn’t real, unlike every other horror of the day. But then you notice the cloth beneath the bone and the military headgear.

It’s just a man in a mask, the one in the front passenger seat with the rifle you noticed as you piled in behind the Scotsman.

Skull-face blinks slowly, twice, confident you won’t look away while his eyes are closed, patiently enigmatic as a cat.

The SUV turns sharply onto a gravel track, and Skull-face turns back to the window, like he didn’t just stare you down through the mirror.

The uneven jolts as the tires dip into grooves and potholes drives away the last of the static. And you blink, eyes still on the mirror, trying to come to grips with reality.

What the actual fuck?

Around the bend, a farmhouse creeps into view. It sits low over the green turf, unassuming apart from old leaded windows that make it look too much like something out of a cottage core mood board for the situation. This isn’t a space for men with guns and tac vests.

But the man in the bucket hat taps on the brakes, nods, and says, “Ghost, Gaz: clear the house.” He doesn’t change gear. Doesn’t park. Even now, he’s ready for an ambush.

You don’t think the men who grabbed you were capable of thinking that far ahead. They did find the original safehouse, though, so maybe you should be a good civilian and keep those thoughts to yourself.

The Brit who clipped the zip ties off your wrists and helped you out of the warehouse pops out with a “Yes, sir.” So does the grim reaper up front. The doors slam shut again, and the two move in concert, guns raised, sights fixed on the windows and door as they approach. The man in the mask takes point, rushing through the door the instant his colleague turns the knob, and they disappear inside.

You’re uncomfortably aware of… everything. Your breath. The ants roving under your skin. The two men still in the car with you. It’s impossible to sit still, and you peer around your enclosure like a gerbil in a hamster ball – technically safe but in no control. The wind stirs the bushes at the edge of the driveway, and you imagine people behind them who move like your escorts. Cold. Efficient. And they’re already too close.

Your neck strains as you try to see through all the windows at once, struggling to catch a glimpse of doom before it drags you under.

“You broken?”

The leader, the man behind the wheel, must be addressing the Scot. It only registers he’s talking to you when you find said Scot watching you, too. There’s more room in the back now, but you still feel crowded and exposed in a horrible, nonsensical mess.

And – oh, right, the man is talking to you.

“Hey.” He doesn’t look through the mirror. He physically turns, arm over the back of the seat, so he can look you in the eye as he asks again, and his words come slow to your adrenaline-scoured brain. “Are you broken?”

You flounder. Puzzled. That… means what? You’re missing context. Is what broken? No bones. They didn’t – technically – hurt you that badly. Everything will fix itself in time. It could’ve been worse. You know that, even if in the moment all you want to do is sprint to the ends of the earth, find a blanket, and curl up in the darkest corner at the edge of the map.

Is he asking if you’re functional? If you can make it through debriefing?

That must be it.

And, fuck, you’d physically fight all four of them at this point if they tried to stop you from passing on the intelligence you’ve literally bled for.

“No.” You’re surprised by your own conviction (and how little your voice shakes). “Not broken.”

There’s an actual twinkle in his eye – and really, how dare he? – but his approval and the uptick of those bushy, bearded cheeks is the right kind of ridiculous in the moment. The Scot huffs beside you, but you don’t have the bandwidth for any more smirks, twinkles, or other bullshittery, so you keep your eyes forward and hope to fuck someone will tell you what to do. You can only hop between so many distractions before you miss a step and fall into a heaving mess on the floor.

“Good,” says Captain Fishing Hat. He turns back to the wheel just as Skull Face comes back.

The burly man signals, and as the boss finally turns off the engine, he opens the door and reports, “House is clear. Gaz is setting up for debrief.”

Gaz, then, must be the youngest Englishman. The Scot shifts, subtly ushering you out, and you scoot along as instructed, letting the men more or less herd you across the yard, through the door, into the kitchen. They keep their heads on a swivel, and that doesn’t help your nerves. Not at all. But they don’t give you time to stop and angst over it, either.

You find yourself in the kitchen, guided to one of four wooden chairs around a square table. It’s covered in tech. A black case sits open on one of the other seats, and the empty foam imprints inside match the boxes, cables, and laptop before you.

“Ready, Kyle?” Fishing Hat asks.

“Nearly, Captain,” Gaz replies. “Working on the connection now.”

So, Captain Fishing Hat is an actual captain. You aren’t shocked. Maybe in shock, but not surprised.

But as you sit where you’re told and watch the screen illuminate, a realization dawns on you. You won’t be debriefing to these men. Someone else at the other end of this connection is waiting for the whole story, and fear flutters to life in your gut like a startled pigeon. Loud, awkward, probably diseased.

What if you’ve misjudged all this? What if it’s a ploy? The enemy of your enemy is not always your friend, and the proper authorities aren’t the only ones hungry for the information you carry. Stiffening in your seat, you prepare for another fight, lifting the prickly guard you let drop as you knelt in the back of the SUV, clinging to the Scotsman’s tac vest.

Just as you’re glancing at the window over the kitchen sink and wondering if you jump high enough to break through the glass before any of the men grab you, a face appears on the screen, and the woman says your name.

You recognize her. Or at least her voice.

It’s the woman from the phone.

You physically droop against the back of the chair, gasping in relief.

Fuck. Fuck.

You’re going to be okay.

“Glad to see you in one piece,” she says.

“Me, too.” A rasp taints your voice, and you feel the phantom pressure of an arm crushing your trachea.

“Kate Laswell,” she introduces herself. “This is a secure line. Go ahead and tell me what you know.”

It’s easier than you expect. You’ve been thinking so much about everything you need to say, turning over pieces in your head, putting it into clearer words, ordering it by importance, that now it just flows. You lean forward, desperately ready to spill. But just because you’ve gathered everything into a coherent thread doesn’t make it any less painful to acknowledge. It’s like tugging up a string of barbed wire from your gut, pulling it out of your mouth inch by inch. You worry if you have to stop, the blades will lodge in your throat.

The woman is clearly a pro, though, and she saves her questions.

You list names first: people in American alphabet agencies with ties to a particularly violent white supremacist group. If there’s any chance they could be listening, she could end the call and try again in a secure location. But she must’ve guessed something was off when the official safehouse she sent you to was compromised. This time she’s prepared, and she lets you continue.

There’s a bomb, a new alliance with ultranationalists, someone named Makarov. It’s a test. To see if the American terrorists are as good as they say, if they’re worth Makarov’s investment. There’s a promise of more if they get the body count Makarov’s set (thousands).

The man whose blood you’ll always feel, slick between your fingers as you confused the thump of the nightclub’s base with your own pulse, kept his cover long enough to get the details of the attack. Date, location, time, target. He didn’t live long enough to give you more. He gave you what he thought was most important. You hope it’s enough. You hope it’s worth it.

Laswell thinks for a minute, then asks, “Did the men who kidnapped you indicate they knew how much of this information you possessed?”

“No. They, uh – that was the whole point, I think.” You lift you hand, so she can see the missing nails. “They wanted to know how compromised they were before they shot me.”

You say it so quickly it only clicks after it leaves your mouth. They were going to shoot you. You knew that, but away from the rough hands and zip ties it feels surreal. People like you don’t get shot. People like you have car accidents and a few too many fast food dinners for your general wellbeing. But the gun against your head was real. It’s a true thing that just happened, and that means people like you do get shot. Every safe, calm moment in your life looks like a lie, a skewed carnival mirror in retrospect.

People like you get shot.

People want to kill you.

You may still get shot. That’s why you’re in this safehouse with four heavily armed men.

Time isn’t the endless resource you imaged yesterday morning. It isn’t a solid path with clear, expected landmarks with which to gauge your progress. It’s ice, and the patch under your feet spiderwebs with ominous cracks.

You realize Laswell is speaking again.

“- handle the situation Stateside. Your current location is one of my private safehouses. Not on any list. Totally secure. I think it’s best to stay there and treat it as your base of operations for now, Captain.”

The captain, leaning over your shoulder to get in frame, nods. He’s too close without touching you, but no one’s indicated your part in this is finished. So you stay put.

“Rog,” he says.

“The attack is our chief priority, but closing the active cell in England and following their trail back to Makarov is a close second. I already have taps being set on a few of the names on that list.” Laswell says your name, and she clearly tries to soften her war face, but she’s all business right now. “I’m leaving you in the custody of the 141, under Captain Price.”

He gently claps you on the shoulder, like he’s assuming command. “Understood. Keep us in the loop, Kate.”

“Roger that. Keep your heads down. Stay safe. Over and out.”

The feed cuts out, Gaz – Kyle? – closes the laptop, moving the chaos out of the way as the Scotsman appears with a first aid kit. None of the soldiers leave space for an awkward pause. They all have a mission. Somewhere to be. Something to do.

The captain pulls a second chair up beside yours, meeting your gaze with another of his disarmingly charming smiles that crinkles at his eyes. As he and the Scot begin sorting through the kit, he says, “We’re overdue for introductions. Captain John Price.”

He holds out his hand, and you tentatively accept it in a piss poor handshake, but his smile doesn’t break, and he gestures at the Scotsman. “That’s Sergeant Johnny MacTavish, or Soap.”

The sergeant waves with a handful of cotton pads and disinfectant. He points into the corner, where Skull Face lurks. “Grumpy bastard in the corner’s Ghost. He’s a lieutenant. If you were curious.”

No one offers his real name, and you swallow down every question with a vengeance. The names make them seem real, concrete, and you seize the lifeline they’ve thrown.

You make eye contact with the last man, trying to prove you aren’t a sack of potatoes in human skin and have an actual, working brain between your ears. “And you’re Gaz?”

He smiles, reaching over the table to shake your hand in a way that makes you double down on your bet that he’s the youngest. Certainly the least jaded, even if he’s every bit the soldier the others are. “Sergeant Kyle Garrick, yeah.”

Ghost pushes off from the wall and heads back towards the front door. “I’ll take first watch.”

Whether he’ll be watching the road from a sniper’s perch or chilling by a window, you can only guess, but his captain gives him another nod, and off he goes. Sociable as an alley cat.

“Let’s see about that hand, then.” Calloused fingers rasp along the underside of your wrist as the captain lifts your hand into the light. He arranges it carefully on the table, keeping his touch gentle so you don’t feel the raw bands of irritated skin where the zip ties bruised you.

It isn’t like you’re resisting. The bloody nail beds don’t look right, and you’re struggling to believe they belong to you at all. There’s an experiment where people develop an artificial connection to and fear for an artificial hand. You feel like you’re in an opposite test. Your eyes say the hand on the table belongs to you, but it doesn’t feel that way. If the captain sawed it off instead of gingerly spraying antiseptic ointment over the exposed nerves, you might just shrug it off.

The bandages hurt, though.

The pain tugs at your gut, and you rejoin your whole body with a shudder. That hurts, too. You take a deep breath, and your stomach aches. Your free hand squeezes into a fist, and the scabs on your knuckles crack open. When tears flood your eyes, you can only imagine what new agonies they’d summon if you let them fall, so you blink furiously and pretend your eyelashes aren’t so wet they stick together.

As his captain finishes treating your hand, the Scot – MacTavish, Johnny, Soap, whatever the fuck you’re supposed to call him – takes a seat on the table, pinches your chin, and puts one of those little cleansing pads he’d been fussing with to work. It stings like a bitch, and you flinch despite your best efforts.

Still holding your chin, he angles your face up and blows over a series of cleaned scrapes on your cheek. The tiny breeze might as well be a hurricane. It knocks the soul from your body, and you go entirely still, befuddled.

“The fuck, Soap?” Gaz asks.

The Scot huffs, getting back to work with a fresh gauze pad, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “You’re supposed to blow on cuts,” he grumbles, like he’s trying to sound gruff to make up for the accidental sentiment. “So they don’t sting.”

It makes you want to smile. You can’t remember how right now, but maybe you’ll think back to this moment and smile about it later.

“Thanks,” you say instead.

Soap has not forgotten how to smile. “You’re welcome, bonnie. Let me put a butterfly plaster on this, and you’ll be fit as a fiddle again.”

A nice thought, and maybe true for a soldier like him, but every screaming inch of your body informs you this is a lie.

The captain taps your knee, pulling your attention back to the fading crinkles at the corners of his eyes. He lifts a finger and leads your gaze from side to side, leaning in close to see if your pupils are the same size. “Doesn’t look like you have a concussion. Are you hurt anywhere else? Any risk of internal bleeding? Cracked ribs?”

Gaz, seeing your confusion (because how the fuck would you KNOW if you were bleeding internally?) offers some helpful context. “Did they kick you in the stomach? Any sharp pains in your chest when you breathe?”

Did they kick you? You can’t really remember. Probably. It’s all a furious blur of motion and panic.

“I’m not sure.”

It’s the truth, but it’s a bad one. The captain nods as a wintery flash passes over Gaz’s face. “That’s all right. Let us know if you notice any unusual swelling or new pains, yeah?”

“Okay.”

One more big smile – a bit forced, definitely for show – lifts his whiskers, and he climbs out of his chair, pulling it out of your way.

Gaz steps up to lead you out of the kitchen. You feel like a football – always under someone’s control, being run by one teammate to the next. But what else is there to do to, really? You follow him up a narrow flight of stairs to a pokey hall on the second level. There are three doors, and the first you pass has three twin beds crammed inside. The second is smaller but only holds two beds. And the last door leads to a bathroom. Gaz, clearly used to safehouse etiquette, fishes a washcloth, towel, and little bar of soap out of the deep, dark depths of a cupboard too high for you to reach.

He sets them on the counter in a tidy pile and says, “You really shouldn’t get your bandages wet for forty-eight hours, but I bet you feel like hell. Washing up a little with just the sink might help.”

His big brown eyes fix on you, too soft and looking for some kind of confirmation you’re okay without getting in your face.

Are you broken?

Fuck. They’re all trying to make this normal. What happened isn’t their fault, and they’ve surely seen worse. They probably don’t have to babysit damaged goods after the fact very often, though. The least you can do is try to make this normal for them, too.

“Like a bus ran over me, backed up, and ran over me again.” You think for a minute and add: “Might’ve been some Nazgul, or cave trolls, or some other shit, too.”

The soldier snorts. A grin catches him by surprise and turns his whole face bright. The effort was definitely worth it.

“Tolkien? I like it.” As he moves out of the bathroom, he points at the smaller bedroom. “Take whatever bed in there you want. Since one of us will be on watch, we probably won’t need the other one. Give you a bit of privacy. Try to get some rest, yeah?”

You can’t imagine how you’ll fall asleep, but you act like his suggestion is as reasonable as it sounds.

“Of course.”

He leaves you alone.

You soak the washcloth in tepid water and peel off your shirt. There’s a countdown of little tasks in your head, ways to delay the inevitable. How long can you linger over the soap and cheap terrycloth? What if you just lock the door and keep wake sitting on the cold floor?

Then you notice your reflection.

You haven’t thought about what you look like. It’s less your face staring back and more a collection of hurts, and you struggle to find yourself through the bruises and bandages.

Everything aches, throbs, or stings. You’re so scared you want to smash your head into the counter just in case it’s like in the movies, and time rewinds, letting you wake up in bed at the hostel with a clear head and free day to play tourist. You know how to do that. Always going, doing, seeing. Always a task, a plan, an idea.

Now your hands are empty – apart from that one fucking piece of glitter you can’t get off between your thumb and forefinger. It winks in the light, and you scrub at it in a frenzy. You clean everything in a rush, too rough with your bruises, but you’re on the verge of a breakdown, and you don’t want to fall apart in anything resembling a public space.

It’s all been too much for too long.

You open the door carefully, peek up and down the hall, wary of minding eyes. Then you nearly trip over your own feet getting into the smaller bedroom.

Door shut.

Shoes off.

Everything else stays on, every layer between you and the world outside a blessing as you bury yourself alive under a stiff, scratchy blanket that probably came from a secondhand shop two decades ago. Your breath catches when you breathe in, like you’re choking on the stuff you need to live. The air bubbles out in gasps. Painful. On the verge of sobs. But that would be too loud. You must be quiet and still or something awful will find you again.

It's a good thing tears are silent. You soak the flat pillow with them, hiding in the dark under the covers.

Impossibly, you do sleep. It takes a while, but your body screams for rest, and it pulls you deep as you cry yourself out into nightmares of voices arguing just behind your head, and eyes that send beams of light around shadowed walls.

[likealittleheartbeat]

hey! i really enjoy your analysis of aang and zuko's relationship, and i was just wondering if you have any thoughts on this:

when aang considers what he's afraid of the most, he doesn't just see zuko - he sees the blue spirit. why do you think his fear is linked to that mask? zuko was the most amicable towards him when he put that mask on, and was hostile every other time.

Ooooh!! This is such a rich and meaty question!! And it's something I've wondered about but never dove into before.

I guess there are a couple of questions we need to explore. One, do we want to begin to analyze this from Aang's perspective or the series' themes, which, when put together, should offer us the fullest idea of what the intent might be? If we begin with Aang's perspective, then the next question we need to next ask what is Aang's view of Zuko and/or the Blue Spirit at this point in the narrative? My worry about beginning at that intimate level is that we might miss possible connections that a thematic understanding might facilitate and may, like many fandom analyses, leave it at a character level when, in fact, the characters exist to serve larger philosophical purposes, especially in a show like ATLA.

So, we'll return to those questions about Aang after we visit some questions about the broader themes here. We know for a fact that the team did a lot of research into Eastern philosophies that they had to then pack down into 24 minute episodes, preserving a surprising amount of complexity not in the words but in the actions and visuals. The 2 part Crossroads of Destiny episode is probably the most evocative of this practice. The four-way fight scene is celebrated for the way it masterfully shows character development through fight choreography. Then, Aang's crystal chamber he forms to master the Avatar State is a direct reference to a statement about pre-enlightenment in one of the foundational texts about Japanese Zen for American Buddhists, "The Three Pillars of Zen." The rapid explanations of the seven chakras with Guru Pathik might seem like a a skimming of Tantric beliefs based on the brief statements and processing, but it's another prime example the way ATLA suffuses meaning beyond the script.

What more can be said about the Earth (also called the Root or Muladhara) Chakra, then, that the show might reflect without stating it explicitly. Guru Pathik explains that the Earth Chakra "deals with survival." Is there any subject more prescient than that for our protagonist, the single survivor of an otherwise all-encompassing genocide? Other accounts of this chakra that I can find explain that it's at this chakra that one can observe that their base needs are being met--enough food, enough water, etc. There seems to be a subtle witnessing to the effects of PTSD here then. With this chakra untouched, unopened, and out of balance, Aang within his mind has been living in a state of emergency without knowing it, believing himself at a core level beyond his consciousness to still be under immediate threat even in moments of peace like his meditations throughout the opening of his chakras. "Your vision is not real," Guru Pathik points out, not to say that no danger exists for him in the world but to illuminate the immediate reality surrounding his person.

The memories and visions that flash during the sequence hint at how fear conceals deeper realities and thus possibilities. I'll start with the clip of Katara sinking away from the first episode of Book 2, "The Avatar State." The Earth Kingdom General performed this cruelty after many other attempts to force Aang into suffering to gain the Avatar State. Believing he lost another person he loved, the state was triggered despite the actuality that Katara was unharmed. The fear of her loss overwhelmed Aang, and even her safe return could not assuage his traumatic response. The Blue Spirit incident forms a striking parallel to this event, in that case. Aang felt himself helpless and in danger only to discover the opposite: the seemingly malevolent force freed him from danger. Further, that Blue Spirit Mask concealed Zuko who, by the end of the series, will be revealed (to himself and) Aang as an ally and a friend. The shadowy image of Ozai, then, connected with these two fear-inducing semblances, can be seen then as perhaps the ultimate foreshadowing of Aang's ultimate success in pacifying Ozai. Put in the context of this chakra and the other two visions, it frames the Firelord as a facade meant to induce terror and distance, when in reality, life and humanity still lay behind the horrifying megalomania.

Concerning the Blue Spirit element specifically in the series, I want to explore one more factor within the series before getting back to Aang's character relationship in this moment. Blue has a running symbolic theme within the series that seems especially relevant here since it played a huge role in a highly symbolic part of the directly previous episode, "The Earth King." As Zuko rides out his psychogenic fever induced by releasing Aang's bison and abandoning his Blue Spirit mask, he is confronted in his dreams by a blue dragon voiced by Azula and a red dragon voiced by Iroh. I felt really confused by these two would-be shoulder angels for the longest time (literally until I was sorting my thoughts out to write this) because Azula's blue dragon is the one who entreats Zuko to rest, which even in Grey Delisle/Azula's clearly threatening tone--she even ends the temptation by saying "sleep just like mother!"--seemed to be what Zuko needed to do as opposed to the red dragon's exhortations to get out. I could see how sleeping might also refer to accepting his upbringing without thought, but why blue? The layers upon layers of possible meaning overwhelmed me.

I posit that blue in the series, especially when put in relationship to red/orange, as it is in the dream sequence, the dynamic between the water tribe and the fire nation, the fire of zuko and azula (especially the final agni kai), and the energy-bending of Aang over Ozai in the finale, ought to be read as Yin (making red/orange yang). Yin is passive, retractive, and receptive, which makes the invitation to rest by a blue dragon make perfect sense. Yin is also feminine in nature, hence the association with both Azula (whose blue fire and lightning becomes especially interesting to explore under this understanding) and Zuko's mother in the dualistic dragon dream. If you know anything about yin and yang, you know that it's key tenet is ever-changing coordination of yin and yang within one entity and with relationships between entities rather than the privileging of one above another. The two dragons in Zuko's dream, while seemingly in opposition to one another, are actually seeking, like the bumper stickers say, "coexistence" of their dispositions.

Now, back to Aang's vision of fear over the Blue Spirit. The red that overlays everything is specifically a reference to the Earth Chakra, which is symbolized by the color red. But the fact that he has one fear of Katara, the pinnacle of blueness/yin in the series, dying, and another fear of the Blue Spirit, a de-flamed (read: emasculated) Zuko attacking him that are then overlayed by this Earth Chakra red, a color otherwise used to portray yang (masculinity, activeness, expansion, and repulsion) and the fire nation in the series, suggests that his fears are specifically about within holding onto yin nature (symbolized by his grasping for a disappearing Katara) without being entirely overwhelmed by it (in the image of the fear he felt as the Blue Spirit approached his imprisoned body). And all those fears are intensified when living in such a patriarchal, or yang-skewed age and society, which gets depicted through both the final image of Ozai, the ultimate patriarch within this world, and the red coloring.

I promised I would get back to the characters, and after that hopefully illuminating thematic expansion, we can hopefully get at the core of what's going on here for Aang personally and what it might mean for him to be picturing Zuko with the Blue Spirit mask as a fear. I want to put this moment into context with Aang and Zuko's relationship at this specific moment. Aang hasn't seen Zuko since he watched him cry over his uncle in the ghost town after Azula struck him with lightning as a diversion. That was ten episodes prior (and more than 6 months time if you were watching the show in real time as it premiered; May 26th-Dec. 1st). The next time Aang sees Zuko, two episodes later, they are glowering across a crystal prison cell at one another with antipathy as they're embraced (a gesture I can only remember from the fantastic black romance film Love & Basketball, and in a gay context that is clearly referencing that moment in L&B, in the Norwegian teen romance series Skam). Right before this scene, Aang readily agrees to co-rescue Zuko and Katara with Uncle Iroh despite Sokka's protestations. Nothing seems amiss with Aang, no obvious belligerence toward Zuko until he sees him. Zuko has barely seen the airbender this whole season, and the one moment they encountered one another, Zuko was attacking Aang's attacker rather than him. Why is Aang expressing anger toward Zuko in the crystal chamber then? It's a rare expression from Aang even when we look at their more antagonistic interactions from the first season.

Here's where this vision of the blue spirit Aang envisions as he opens his earth chakra might enliven his characterization and his relationship to Zuko. We get two pieces here. His attachment to Katara and the queer implications of his partnership with the Blue Spirit/Zuko. And they are inseparable.

I don't feel that I need to especially dive into the attachment to Katara since it's been a pretty big component of discourse within the fandom, both in general analysis and more specifically relating to the (literally historic) shipping wars between zutara and kataang that emerged after the series came out originally. What I'll say here is that the first vision that Aang has as he addresses his root chakra points to his fear of losing her and what she represents pretty explicitly and, as I suggested earlier, also provides its antidote in the realization that accepting/surrendering the fear of impermanence reveals its simultaneous illusion. Katara wasn't actually harmed and wasn't truly lost when the general subsumed her into the ground. Aang has to let go of her as a permanent fixture that he'll always be able to see and know entirely (not, as many have interpreted it, let go of loving her). He'll also have to let go of saving her and the world of so many others she represents, which is as much a pressure and role Katara and others put on him as Aang yolks himself to.

Part of this acknowledgement of Katara's impermanence as a living being and a romantic possibility is addressing the others in her life who pose both danger and attraction for her. Zuko embodies both of these things simultaneously. The aggressive stare Aang launches at Zuko in "The Crossroads of Destiny" can be understood through this lens. The Eve Sedgwick's concept of the triangulation of male homosocial desire between romantic rivals was one of the foundational ideas of queer theory. It's so well-established as to be a meme among the tumblr crowd. The show even references the history of these literary homosocial tropes in "The Avatar and the Firelord" as Sozin and Roku's tight-knit youthful friendship is slowly rent apart at the event of Roku's heterosexual marriage, which thus begins the imperialism of the Fire nation.

Except that Roku and Sozin aren't romantic rivals. And Zuko's obsession with Aang begins sans Katara. And, as you pointed out, if the romantic threat is Zuko, it ought to be Zuko in the Earth Chakra vision instead of the Blue Spirit? Well, those all exist because ATLA is not a tragedy for homosocial relationships, and it's hard for me to explain how groundbreaking that was.

You see, the show theorizes homosociality differently. If Aang is required to let go of Katara, he has no pivot point, no object (because women shouldn't be objects for male fodder!) to connect with and compete with a rival male, so he has to look directly at the desire of another male for him and, therefore, face the fears that he might have similar desires. I said above that the Blue Spirit is an entirely de-flamed Zuko, which I then paralleled to emasculation. One could even go farther to call it a kind of symbolic castration (Firelord Ozai losing his firebending at the end of the series certainly demands this kind of reading). These aspects ignite fears about lacking masculinity which then cause reactions, which make men avoid accepting any thoughts and behaviors associated with vulnerability and homosexuality invoked within themselves or by others.

I think Aang, in his way, is confronting these fears but not from the angle of someone raised within a homophobic or misogynistic culture. His openness to Zuko and the potential of connection to him is ripe from the first time they meet--"you're just a teenager" connects them without any intermediary. He comes to understand the rigidness of the environment he's in, though. He feels like he's being forced to choose between a yang/masculine role he plays with Katara, who at this point in the series though growing out of it and certainly not a fault of her own making still sees him as her savior and depends on him to save her and the world through metaphysical mastery and the repulsion of evil, and yin/feminine role he plays with Zuko, who finds Aang in and forces him into positions of elusion, surrender, and passivity, while requiring his compassion and forgiveness. When the Blue Spirit comes swinging his swords (read that with all the innuendos you want lol) at a shackled Aang, it's the ultimate expression of Aang's potential for submissiveness because, not only is he entirely helpless but the one who could harm or save him in that scenario is another who is not participating in the expected power of fire/yang/masculinity.

I think everything in the show says this is attractive to Aang--that he remains with Zuko immediately after their escape from the fort, that he reflects on the Blue Spirit as he opens his chakras, that a reference to the conversation that followed their escape that Zuko makes halts him in his tracks when Zuko asks to join the team. Zuko's Blue Spirit persona means a lot to Aang, a scary amount, and my point is that it's this fear of the meaningfulness of their encounter as two men who are not the masculine paragons they are supposed to be which Aang faces as he opens his chakra. As much as he wants Katara, he wants Zuko. He fears he'll lose Katara and he fears he'll lose his life to Zuko. These are the dichotomies he's tackling as he processes the Earth chakra.

Aang eventually opens the chakra, but that's only to say he acknowledges and surrenders his fears to a destiny and understanding beyond his control, not that he necessarily learns how to address and solve all the conundrums contained therein. We know he chooses his attachment to Katara at the end of the episode to obtain power over the Avatar state but perhaps we could've been clued into this choice by noticing he has not chosen Zuko with that initial glare Aang gives him. Aang hasn't found a way in his chakras or his heart to hold both Katara and Zuko at once, so he chooses Katara and expresses a newfound jealousy and rivalry toward Zuko (not that Zuko's at his best behavior at this point, but it's Aang who initiates the exchange).

By the end of this season, Zuko abandons the Blue Spirit mask and Aang loses his life for prioritizing Katara and a yang-centric mastery of the Avatar state. The next season involves all three of the protagonists finding more internal balance between yin and yang for themselves and accepting mutually reciprocal feelings for one another that allow them to escape the kinds of patriarchal tropes that have dominated Anglo- literature for centuries. The ability of this brief sequence to highlight so many of the series' central revolutionary themes speaks to the depth of the show and the way it invites the audience to think about rich subtext rather than pedantically hammer us with morals will just continue to be the gift that keeps giving from this show.

Thanks so much for asking! Didn't know how much I missed doing a deep dive into this kind of stuff.

[joanofexys]

now that youre done with school, im setting up camp here (your inbox), hope you dont mind.

soooo

i need you to yap about merrrick and jude's relationship

okay okay so,

firstly i'm so sorry i took so long to get to this i had to vist with like a million people and people kept dropping by the house for some reason to give me money

you are also so so welcome to set up camp in my inbox, you can even build a little house here if you want

anywayyyyyy Jude and Merrick

So Jude's a golden child and Merrick becomes a media darling partly because oh my god a fox went pro and they're not a complete disaster and also partly cause he's an attention whore and he ate it up once he went pro

So yeah they meet officially when Merr's 25 and Jude's 26. Jude makes court and they're eyeing Merr but ultimately decide to pass on him. He's a good player and he's good in front of a camera but any of his coaches past or present would tell them they don't think he's a good fit cause of the shit he's carrying and the pressure being court would put on his shoulders.

They had of course met in the past for college exy events but really had no reason to interact and didn't pay much attention to each other at the time

So yeah they meet when team USA is sort of eyeing Merr/scouting his still unnamed pro team and somehow ended up striking up a conversation (Jude saw Merr's tattoos and decided to compliment them and start rambling about/showing off his own). Jude asks for his number for completely professional reasons, obviously, and it largely starts with Jude texting him random shit at the weirdest times and Merrick either not responding or giving odd as shit answers because he doesn't know how to text. So Merr gets passed up on being court and Jude teTchnically has zero reason to keep in touch with him because they're actually not going to be teammates but now he's going a little bonkers. He's watching games, he's watching interviews, he's watching that one thirst trap edit that has a clip of Merr pouring water over himself after a game. He pulls back on the random texting a bit but still tells him good game and checks in regularly and well when they end up in the same area for an event it only makes sense to ask him to get coffee.

At the end of the night they end up in Jude's hotel room just sitting on the bed. Merr asks about Jude's scars, at the end of the day he's a fox, he's used to it but still curious, and Jude answers honestly. Merrick thanks him and offers nothing in return. And it's okay. A Fox and Trojan is an odd combination and for the moment they're content with what they have. Merr's glad to have finally made a friend after the foxes and well he doesn't know what Jude gets out of it but he's glad that it seems to be enough.

They go their separate ways, keep in touch sporadically, and keep a close eye on each other's careers. Team USA takes gold that year and Merr's team does well enough to keep him going and stop him from falling back into bad habits. They both tell each other good job, Jude's hand hovers over the call button, and Merr types a million sentences unsure of what he wants to say.

After that Jude has to sign with another pro team and he signs with Merr's. They're not the best team or the biggest but they're consist players, solid, and slowly working their way up the ranks. Jude has his pick of the litter and no one really knows why he chose that team when all his court teammates went on to one's with much better chances of winning but he seems happy with his choice so they don't push it.

Seeing Merrick on the court this way and how he interacts with his team is completely different from the Merrick he's seen in their brief moments of existing together. Merr's aggressive on the court, he hits hard, and in practices he doesn't tend to care much for the fact that he's often pissing off his own teammates. Off the court, in locker rooms and at team meetings he's not outright rude but he's not making any active effort to make friends and it's obvious his teammates aren't either and they've likely never tried. So Jude pushes. It starts with press duty together and they develop a good banter, a strong back and forth, and if the press adored them separately then they love them together.

It's furthered by Jude joining him for his workouts and for drills. They start running together in the morning. Jude never asks him what's wrong enough with him to have made him a fox. Merrick never brings up his scars again. They talk about movies and music and local places that Merrick has never visited and Jude is excited to see. Jude stops bringing up local bars and the club the team loves to frequent after the third time Merr goes oddly silent in the middle of a conversation.

Then Jude starts complaining about how his dog is across the country staying with his family cause the only apartment he could find at the time doesn't allow pets. Merr mentions his place does. Jude doesn't push. A few weeks later Merrick comes up to him in the locker room after practice and tells him if he wants his dog out here and can find a way out of his lease that Merr has a spare room.

So they become roommates. And they have to set ground rules. Merrick's rule number one is no substances in the house. Merr doesn't even keep over the counter pain killers, he'll call a team nurse if he needs them. Jude tells him he takes prescription medication for his adhd and depression. Merrick asks him to keep them in his room and expects that to be the end of it. This time Jude pushes. He figures he's given and Merr owes him nothing but he might as well ask if he can take a little in return. Merrick doesn't give him everything, doesn't give him much at all, but he admits he's struggled with addiction in the past. That he's been in rehab, he's clean, but he prefers not to take the risk of having anything around. That even if he's not tempted he doesn't like the reminders. Especially since he was living alone.

They fall into a routine and Jude asks for a little bit more over time. They have the same nights off so now they have movie nights. Stevie (Jude's dog) starts to join them on morning runs. She learns she likes Merrick's bed more and Merr learns that too when he's woken up by her nudging his arm one night waiting to be pet. He walks her back to Jude's room every night for a few weeks before he gives up. They switch off cooking and eventually start to cook together. Merrick will ask Jude questions. How has therapy worked for him? What does he do to cope? Has talking about things really helped? Jude answers and asks questions in return. Do you have someone to talk to? Do you need me to listen? Tell me something about you?

They become friends long before they're lovers. They like to exist together before they choose to be together. And something odd about them just works. I can't really articulate it well myself.

I don't know when they cross that line quite yet. I only have bits and pieces of what Jude learns about Merrick and when. But it all comes together, slowly but surely. Merr introduces Jude to Wymack instead of introducing him to his dad. Introduces him to Bee instead of his mom. Jude brings him home to California, they roadtrip so they can take Stevie with them and have a great time. Their team makes it to semifinals and they end up kissing on camera and falling down on the court holding each other, kissing each other over and over again. They hold hands in public and let the paparazzi take photos, they answer all the questions after games, and they make their own posts addressing it all. And it's truly time to wrap this shit up though there's much I could delve into I think and if there's any specific questions I will happily answer them but they end up as two very content dog dads to one very spoiled Stevie

[agendabymooner]

RUSH || DR3 SMAU + FIC SERIES: a masterlist

f1 masterlist: a - n o - z

daniel ricciardo x ofc (lester alessandro)

summary: lester alessandro, before she was a bassist of a eurovision winning band, was a daniel ricciardo fan. it was too bad they didn't get to know each other well until monza 2021.

content warning: MY VERY FIRST SMAU SERIES (that's a trigger warning on its own), use of explicit language, 16+ rating

rush series (x måneskin member!ofc)

honey (are u coming), smau: how lester alessandro got blocked by daniel ricciardo before meeting him in monza 2021. (h)

own my mind, fic: it took lester almost six italian grand prix races to come across daniel ricciardo once more. sure, she was hesitant to speak to him regardless of the fact that she was his fan but the mclaren driver was certain he’d rather cause a stir in the f1 community with her after his win in monza than celebrate his victory with a lot of people. OR the second close encounter between the two of the most unhinged people of f1. (g, h)

read your diary, smau: it's 2021 and everyone thinks that lester and daniel are dating. lesson learned: never underestimate a fan's investigation skills. (g)

mamma mia, smau: an interview with jimmy fallon gives a brief idea of how lester and daniel came to be. (g)

mamma mia (again), smau: a youtube playlist was created to compile clips of danny talking way too much about his beloved girlfriend (f)

gossip, smau: everyone thinks lester's only here to be a formula one girlfriend with a bad reputation. it's not her fault she's confident. (mc, hc, h)

kool kids, smau: lester and daniel are going to new york to see a musical... while babysitting their "kid" (feat. lando norris) (g, h)

timezone, fic: lester wasn't normally like this, but she's more than willing to pay twice the price just to get to the next flight to where he wanted her: his arms, her home. (hc)

if not for you, smau: messages exchanged between lester and others as she takes care of the wolff children and an ex with the poorest decisions to have existed. (feat. lando norris, max verstappen, charles leclerc and characters from a story) (f, g, h)

baby said, smau: many tweets are posted that they don't often mean. their fans thought that his marriage proposal was one of them. (f, g, h)

supermodel, smau: how not to cry when you're talking about the man who'd give you the wedding that you dreamed of? (f, g, h)

rush series: wedding special

london bridge, smau: the alessandro-ricciardo wedding week is nothing of a peaceful week, and the monday only proved that thought right. (feat. f1 drivers) (f, h) - wedding special 1

fergalicious, smau: the grid singles need to touch some grass… or in lando’s case, go swimming. (feat. f1 drivers) (h) - wedding special 2

l'azienda di famiglia (e le donnole dell'isola), smau + fic: the alessandro family arrived and lando and george found themselves alone with two of the sisters. (feat. lando norris and george russell) (f, g) - wedding special 3 ♡

rush series: mrs. ricciardo special

part of you, smau: mrs. lester ricciardo asks her followers what to get her husband for his 35th birthday. little did danny know, she’s already got one ready to surprise him (f, g)

when emma falls in love, smau: as her pregnancy progressed, lester ricciardo made sure that her sanity wouldn't go the other way as she posted a thread of journal entries talking about her pregnancy. (f, h)

slipping through my fingers, smau: beau ricciardo was his dad's carbon copy and his mom's little heartbreaker.

here comes the sun, smau: despite having a red bull driver dad, beau ricciardo - or "little par" - is converted to tifosi, thank god for his full-italian mother. OR lester ricciardo's one year old son and his chaotic dad attended a måneskin concert when the bassist returned to the stage after almost two years of absence. (f, h)

pocketful of sunshine, scenario: beau ricciardo turned one and what's a good way to show his personality besides from showing it in front of an irwin? ★

[sizzlinbaconpeach]

Melded Memories

Just a Valenfield fanfic that has been sitting in my drafts for probably close to a year. I thought I'd share.

There was something cathartic about watching the flames envelop and scorch the pictures. It was slowly becoming easier to let go. He wasn't sure if it was the campfire smoke or the memories that stung at his eyes more, but he knew that either way, he was thankful the darkness of night and the campfire smoke obscured him from everything - like he only existed in this small bubble of light radiating from the logs - that now helped him erase and ease the pang in his heart.

He plucked another photo from the top of the opened box and paused to glance at it, the flames in his periphery trying to lick it out of his hand.

A small smile curled his lip as he gazed at their faces, the picture emanating pride and happiness from a moment in the past. But that's what photographs are - a frozen memory, a momentary clip of time that can never be reclaimed or changed. Only destroyed, so that memory might fade into the folds of obscurity, becoming harder to resurface in your mind the farther in time it travels. Isn't that what he was seeking? Didn't he want to forget it all? So why did he hesitate?

His thumb grazed over the photo, it was a rare relic before Raccoon City's destruction. He just so happened to have it developed before he left for Europe. And he's kept it ever since. But it was time to let go, time to let her go. He allowed himself to steal one final glance, to retreat into those memories just once more. They were both so young and had won the Skeet Shooting Competition as a team, together, just like they had always done. It had been her first time demonstrating all she had learned after their multiple lessons together at the shooting range.

He was initially doubtful if he could really teach her anything, as something like improved marksmanship usually came with practice. But he would have been a fool to turn down the opportunity to spend time with a pretty woman who was interested in something that he was good at. Great at, really. So when she mentioned that she was frustrated with her poor aim, the words just fell out of his mouth to invite her to the shooting range. He half said it because he never thought she would actually listen to his silly suggestion. But she accepted, was even eager and excited, which made him beam like an idiot. Those smiles seemed so mockingly optimistic now.

An intense guilt gnawed at his stomach; regret and deep sadness followed. He was naive to think they could walk away unscathed from this job. And stupid to believe he could protect her from it.

"Jill, stop!"

The awful reality replayed over and over again, like it was stuck on repeat. The pressure of her kick against his chest was fresh in his mind, like he could feel it ripple through him, clattering his insides around.

"I'm not going to hurt you!"

But that didn't mean she would do the same. With her weight against him, pinning him to the ground, and hands firmly clasped against his throat, he locked eyes with her. Eyes that were spilling over with emotion.

It was too much. For a brief moment he wanted to let her win, he wanted her to be able to rid herself of that tormented echo. Let her falling tears stab him like knives so that she didn't have to suffer anymore. But as he looked at her face, her twisted and crying face, he couldn't let this strip away another piece of her. He managed to break her grip, quickly flipped her off of him, and rushed for the door as it slammed shut between them. He could hear her thrashing around on the other side, that echo still driving her into a frenzy.

"I'm afraid there's nothing more we can do, Chris. Jill is not the same after everything she's been through. I - I think it best if you two... didn't see each other anymore."

"Where is Chris? Where is he? Is he okay? I want to see him! Please!"

"Jill, I want you to take some deep breaths. We just have to get the i.v. back in." The nurse tried to calm her with a firm but warm voice.

She saw the thick trail of blood running down the length of her arm, her palm tainted with the red blotchy stain. Her fingers felt sickly wet and uncomfortably sticky. Not again. She looked to the floor and saw the red drops leading to marks on the ground, that were smears of an indicated struggle. Please not again.

Her mind felt like it was on fire, in a daze and thick with a burning smoke. Her head was so heavy she barely had the energy to raise it. Her eyes felt like they wanted to retreat back into her head to try and find relief from the ache all over her body, but there was no relief. More tears fell out of her eyes as the needle pierced her skin.

"I'm not just going to give up on her like that!"

"No one is suggesting that she is a lost cause. Just... just that she needs -- distance. Your presence seems to be a catalyst to her worst symptoms. There has been an obvious pattern. We feel it would be best for the safety of yourself, Jill and all staff, if you refrained from seeing her until we can come to a better solution."

Those words were perhaps what he needed to hear, no matter how difficult. He would do anything to help Jill in whatever way he could. Like travel half way across the globe to fight through countless abominations to find her, with the scars to prove it, just as he had done in Africa. Scars. Just like he had done when pulled that torturous device off her chest. He would do anything, right? Even if it meant... Were the doctors words the truth? Was he the catalyst?

"Chris! Don't --!"

He loved the sound of her laugh.

I can’t--! Don’t say another word!"

He watched as her head went back in amusement. She tightly gripped his arm, which she only did when he said something to really make her lose herself. They always created a symphony of joy together - something that was needed every now and again to balance the stress of what they were doing - much to the annoyance of some co-workers. Their laughs used to even have Wesker threaten to move their desks. They were always a great source of relief for each other.  

Could he go back to those long days of not hearing her voice? Or those restless nights with her whisper in the wind? He closed his eyes tight and rubbed them, his grip firmly stopping at the bridge of his nose. At least this time he knows that she is alive. Or is she?

Her pale skin and lackluster eyes tried so hard to show how resilient she was, tried in vain to put up a strong front. But Chris knew. She couldn't hide that from him, despite her best efforts. He could see that what she had endured had worn her down, taken pieces of her that she would never get back. There was a deep ache in his heart. And it burned Chris alive. It burned in his stomach. And it burned the back of his throat when he thought about it long enough. Knowing there was little to nothing he could do to help ease her struggle. Swallowing hard knowing he was the reason for it.

Chris gripped the armrest of the chair, turning his face toward the window, not able to make eye contact with the doctor who was so patiently waiting for a response. The sound of strained wood snapped in his ears.

"For her."

He watched as their faces bubbled and morphed, melting into monstrous tortured expressions, until the flames only left a gaping hole of nothingness. Something he felt was closer to the truth. How cruel fate can be. How much this job had taken from them. They would never be their plucky, rambunctious, adventurous, and wide eyed selves again.

The big crackles of the fire reminded him of the sound of gunfire.

"I can see their faces, Chris."

The phone startled him from his sleep - something he was thankful he finally slipped into. He glanced at the clock, the neon numbers reading back 1:12am. A sigh escaped his throat. 2 hours. He was finally able to sleep for 2 hours. He reached over and picked up the receiver, covering his eyes with his other hand. Was Forest drunk again?

Chris caught himself as he responded with a hello. It couldn't have been Forest. He was lost that awful, awful night. A night that stole the rest of Chris' nights away.

"Are you alright?" He shot up in bed, even he could hear his immense concern.

"Yeah, yeah, of course. I'll be right over." He fumbled to grab an over shirt and his keys, "keep the light on, it helps. I should be there in 10 minutes."

He quickly gave himself a once over in the mirror, attempting to fix the hair that decided to stand at attention in his sleep. He quickly tied up his sneakers and headed out the door.

He practically ran to her apartment, wanting to shorten the, at the time, unbearable separation. What a fool he was to think those 10 minutes felt like the longest he had ever experienced in his life.

"I'm so sorry. I know - I know it's already so late --" She started as soon as she opened her door. Her eyes looked red and puffy, like she had been crying.

As he walked in, every single light was turned on in her small apartment. The bathroom light with the fan whirred in the background, the fluorescent buzzed overhead, and even the TV was turned on but muted.

He placed a comforting hand on her shoulder, "hey, hey. It's okay. I was already awake."

"I didn't know who else to call..."

Chris' voice was soft, "don't worry. Here, sit down." He pulled one of her kitchen chairs out.

"I - I..." she sighed as she tried to piece herself together, "I just couldn't. I can't anymore. You know what I mean?"

He took the seat next to her, "well, yeah, as soon as you tell me."

That got a smile out of her as she dipped her head down. A hand coming up to her forehead.

"I know, I must sound so jumbled right now, I'm sorry."

He glanced at her shaking hand and reached out to rest his own on her arm,

"it's okay. Take your time."

Jill's big blue eyes shined with gratitude, as if a giant weight was lifted from her shoulders, "thank you. Thank you for coming." Her voice was a little shaky.

He gently squeezed her arm with a smile then looked around, "I see you took my advice. Though the electric bill will kill ya."

"Oh yeah?" she smiled and then sighed with relief, "but you're right. It does help."

"Yeah." He didn't mean for his response to sound so resounding in it's understanding, but maybe that would comfort her more. To know that she wasn't the only one who was afraid of the shadows and the haunting darkness of night.

His eyes weren't fixed on anything in particular but the images in his own mind, "sometimes the rain makes it worse..."

"Yeah..." He could see a chill run up her spine. "I can see their faces, Chris."

"Me too." He scooted his chair over next to hers as he wrapped his arms around her, "I see them, too. You're not alone, Jill." There was a slight break in his voice.

"Don't be upset, Chris."

She had passed out on their weekly run together. She had insisted on going, even though Chris had his doubts that morning. She looked pale, even paler than normal if that were possible. He tried to assure her and persuade her to do their exercises another day, but she could not be deterred. So he tried to adjust his pace, and she was able to maintain that for a while, but he started to notice her breathing becoming really labored, so he suggested going into the park to do some squats. She was barely able to get out her feigned 'I'm fine', before Chris could see what was about to happen. He was thankful he was standing right next to her to catch her fall.

"How long was I out?"

"About half an hour."

Jill somewhat rolled her eyes as she turned her head away with a heavy sigh, the hospital grade pillow under her head made a noise as the crisp linen rubbed against itself. She was clearly struggling with her new limitations and it frustrated her to no end.

"It's getting longer..." she softly added with a sad voice.

"What do you mean?" Chris crossed his arms over his chest while tilting his head to intently listen.

Jill continued to stare up at the ceiling, there was a depression to her voice, "the time. How long I'm out. It's getting longer."

"You've passed out multiple times?" Chris thought he sounded more like a father scolding his rebellious teenager.

She didn't respond. Just continued to presumably stare at nothing, or maybe it was because she didn't want to meet his eye. But her brows were knitted in what looked to be annoyance.

"Jill, why didn't you tell me?" His hands returned to the arms of the chair as he leaned in. He didn't think he did a good job of masking the anger in his voice. It hurt him that she didn't share that with him. And her response was sharp.

"I didn't think it mattered!" She sat up to finally meet his gaze.

"Didn't matter --?"

"I didn't want to be back here! I didn't want to be stuck in a stupid lab like I had been for years!" Her voice was raw, like admitting that broke a piece of her.

Chris fell silent. All words escaped his mind as none would be sufficient enough to ease that truth. He stared at her for a moment before casting his eyes to the floor.

"It should be me laying there. This never should have been placed on you..." His gaze became fuzzy as he continued to look down.

That's all I have - just a hodgepodge of slop. Just a bunch of fanficiton Valenfield love. I had a vague idea of what I wanted to write but then I always get side-tracked and/or forget what my original intention was, haha. Sorry - hopefully you can enjoy this scatterbrained mess!

[marcussour]

Some random thoughts about last night episode:

Loved seeing the Crown Keepers for this 2-part thingy, sad to see them go out like this. I would've loved for this whole storyline to play out over a regular, say, 4 episodes arc of EXU; like, don't get me wrong, I loved this idea of switching parties mid-episode and exploring the other half of the story and how Dorian ended up coming back, but the whole "what they were doing between EXU:Kymal and episodes 92 and 93" felt a bit rushed and condensed due to those restrains.

On a similar note, what happened with Deni$e? I know that having Aimee play 2 characters simultaneously would've been a lot (and also, an incredible power move and probably hilarious). Apparently I misremembered what Deni$e's saw through the portal at her exit in episode 63, 'cause I was sure that Dariax was there in Westruun, but it was more like, she was gonna try and find him, not that she saw him there. Glad that she still got a mention when Dorian reunited with Bells Hells.

Crown Keepers, oh sweet, poor, Crown Keepers. I expected something akin to a bad ending, but somehow they splitting and going their separate ways ended up hurting more than if all of most of them had died, instead of just Cyrus (RIP Cyrus, you delightful himbo with gambling problems).

Something I've been wondering if that we're gonna get some type of Avengers-like team up between the different champions of the gods. I know most people are expecting the big team up to end up happening between Vox Machina, the Mighty Nein and Bells Hells, but this whole idea of the gods talking and taking their champions to join the fight against Predathos got me thinking if we're gonna get some type of god squad EXU going on. We know Opal and Fy'ra are together now and probably on route to somewhere; there's also whatever Morrigan's gonna do now (and is she just an empowered champion but not THE champion of the Matron like Vax, or does she have multiple ones like other gods?). And we know of other champions like Teven Klask and Zerxus for Asmodeus (and come one, who wouldn't want Luis to be back as Zerxus), or Arkhan for Tiamat (tho in this case, considering he's Joe Manganiello's character, and how he was canonized in D&D lore, maybe he's off the table).

On a similar note, it does got me thinking about the fact that Vex, Scanlan, Pyke and Yasha are all champions of their respective gods (though in Vex and Scanlan's case, my guess is that it was only a temporary thing).

Back to the Crown Keepers, sad to see Dariax and Dorian separated. Like, I get the why (tho I would've loved to see Dariax with Bells Hells), doesn't mean I like it. Also, I guess it's kinda telling of Dorian to always make similar exists when confronted with a heavy emotional weight: the way he left Dariax playing in Zephrah felt pretty similar to him leaving the toy floating back in Jrusar when he left Bells Hells. I like the thematic consistency of him leaving a place kinda like a breeze or a gentle gust of wind.

Also, our blue boy is going through some stuff. Seeing him snap like that, love the complexity that Robbie put there, but also, got me worried about some decisions he could make.

Loved the reunion with Bells Hells of course and the brief glimpses of them catching up. Wish it could've gone for a little longer, I get the why (no one wants the live play equivalent of a clips episode).

Excited for next week, and for whoever's gonna be present and the camp in Bassuras and to see if they're going after Ludinus in Aeor or something else (also, I would be shocked if Sam's new character doesn't appear by then).

[1moreff-creator]

Happy Birthday David Chiem!

Usually, for these characters’ birthdays, I do a somewhat half-hearted attempt at a character analysis. But do you think I’m gonna do this for David? Hell no, he’s way too complicated for me to do something like that in this style of post! And I am not making a post that difficult right after that Mai thing.

So, instead, I’m just going to list a few fun facts, because that’s easier. Hope you like it anyways!

(By the way, I’ve always loved that frame of the MV so, so much)

-His birthday lands on “National Book Lovers’ Day”, which says National but is recognized globally. Considering the MV, I’d say that fits. It also coincides with the Annual Perseid Meteor Shower Peak Night, Co-working Day (hah, as if), and get ready, “Hold Hands Day”.

-His profile states he likes ready-make oatmeal. According to the recent Q&A, he can cook, he just prefers not to. This actually fits with quite a few scenes in the series where it’s implied he prefers not to get out of bed unless necessary (mood), such as his brief outburst in the introduction and the several times he’s shown not to eat with anyone else. Though maybe that’s actually caused by him hating people.

-He dislikes expensive things. Kinda based.

-He does TEDTalks, and that’s presumably where he gets his talent from.

-As he stated himself, he has pretty bad bed hair. And apparently, he can summon it at will, as seen in Ch 2 Ep 11.

-His pupils seem to turn into stars whenever he… smiles or puts on a positive attitude? It doesn’t seem to follow a strict logic other than “whenever it looks cool”.

-He has an older sister named Diana. Or, well, that��s what he claims. Footnote 11 of you-know-what may imply she never actually existed. It’s unclear what this means at the moment.

-He seemed to genuinely like Xander, and wanted to be friends with him, as he’d value that relationship more than Xander’s idolatry.

-The secret quote in his page is "I hate you, I hate you, I hate you. I wish you could just die." How nice! This is either talking to himself, or presumably something he'll say to Teruko since their characters do be foiling.

-The quote on Mai's page attached to him is "She forgives everyone." It's the second to last line in the script, before MonoTV's. I have to physically restrain myself from theorizing.

-Some stuff from the Q&As:

*He usually wears semi-formal, 'professional' clothes.

*His blue hair is actually fully natural.

*This is the default sprite for his fuckboy persona:

... But, like, why though. Why's he so sassy.

*Bisexual with a strong female lean. Diversity win! The biggest liar you know is bisexual!

*His favorite color is gamboge (the yellow of his star pupils), stating it’s inspiring; while his least favorite is gray, stating it’s depressing. This could imply he actually likes the cheerier persona he usually puts on more than his real self, or the villainous persona he plays in the trial.

*He handles his feelings badly. We been knew.

*His hair clips were his manager’s idea, to build brand recognition. Apparently David doesn’t like this manager too much, but he puts up with them for the contract. Also, when he takes off his hair clips in the trial, he places them in his PANT POCKETS.

*I’m sure you’ve realized this, but you remember that section of the Q&A where the dev gives details about the family members we had known about from the series (Elliot Cuevas, Felicity Giles, Fuyuko and Natsuko Naegishi, Ryan Moreno/Rosales)? Diana Chiem isn’t mentioned, perhaps further hinting at her non-existence.

*He has an average amount of strength.

*His favorite ice cream flavor is pistachio, because of course it’s pistachio.

*He smells like men’s cologne, but only faintly. Hope you’re happy with that answer, you weirdos (/affectionate).

*He’s American, like everyone else except maybe Teruko.

And now, for his playlist! I kinda already posted this in a reblog to another post, but here it is officially!

+Literature Girl Insane, by Karasuyasabou (I mean, obviously)

+Undead Enemy, by Suzumu and Giga-P (probably his song from the official character playlist)

+Monochrome Mentality, by Riproducer / RIP

+Grey, by QueenPB

+The Distortionist, by Ghost & Pals (CW: Abuse)

+Copycat, by CircusP

+How to Pretend, by CircusP (FNAF pog)

+Echo, by Crusher-P

+God-ish, by PinocchioP

+The Court Jester, by thquib

+DISAPPEARANCE ADDICTION, by Kairikibear

+Wolf in Sheep’s Clothing, by Set it Off

+The Things I Deserve, by Ghost & Pals (CW: suicide)

+All Eyes on Me, by OR3O

+Not Your Angel, by NightCove_theFox (apparently I’m making him into an Alice Angel kinnie)

And, finally…

+Happy birthday! Though he would absolutely despise anyone who tries to sing it to him, I imagine.

[winterstellars]

sins of the son | aemond targaryen

15,179w | aemond x fem!reader (can also be read as nameless oc) | 12.7.22 | part 2 here

Aemond does not know how long she has been in King’s Landing. She could have been living in the capitol for years without him knowing. One day she practically does not exist, and the next, she does. Almost as if she has materialized out of nothingness.

He notices her at prayers first. She sits next to one of his mother’s ladies-in-waiting. While the other girl sits with closed eyes and a bowed head, her eyes are wide open. She stares at the candles that surround the altar, so still that he swears she could be made of marble until her eyelids waver just slightly. He has not prayed since the Gods rejected his pleas for them to restore his eye, so he watches her. Out of boredom. Out of intrigue. They seem to be the only ones present in the sept; everyone else is wrapped up in the Gods. When she catches him staring, she stares right back.

Aegon knows nothing about her—his attentions lie elsewhere, they have never taken an interest in the same woman—but Helaena does.

“Her family sent her here to be legitimized,” she tells him. “She helps me with the babies. Jaehaera loves her.”

He fills in the pieces that his sister is too sweet to say: that a highborn parent with a guilty conscience likely sent her to the capitol to be kept out of sight. It would explain her lack of standing, her relegation to the ends of lines and edges of gatherings. Common, but not really. Noble, but not quite.

When the ladies of the court convene in the gardens for an embroidery session, he catches a glimpse of her. He does not mean to linger, having intended to go down to the rocky shore at the foot of the Red Keep where Vhagar often rests, but he studies her from a distance. The flowers and greenery bob in the wind, obscuring her profile. He can just make out a fern taking shape on her fabric.

Her hand jolts and his heart squeezes in his chest. It feels as though his spying is the cause, even if it is only a needle prick. She brings her finger to her mouth and sucks the blood away. He has to force himself to continue walking.

Flying tends to clear his head. Today is an exception. As Vhagar swoops above King’s Landing, he finds himself thinking about his blood. He has tasted it many times during sparring accidents. He remembers the warmth of it when his nephew slashed his eye out. There was so much of it that it ran down his face and gathered on his lips. He wonders what her blood would taste like. If it would be different from his.

It is evening, weeks later, when they cross paths in one of the lower corridors in the Red Keep. She stands aside for him but does not hide her face as others do. He knows he ought to keep walking. This. . . curiosity is not wise. He stops anyway. One conversation will not harm him.

“My lady.”

“Prince Aemond.” She holds a small bunch of flowers, little pink blooms with petals that seem to open in perfect geometric patterns.

“A gift from a suitor?” He gestures to the little bouquet.

“Oh, yes. I’m positively besieged by them.”

A grin plays at the corners of her mouth. People do not speak to him this way. Servants try to address him in as few words as possible and his family has their set habits: his mother’s clipped sentences that seem to end just short of what she wants to say, Helaena and her little riddles, his grandfather and his careful candor. Wry humor is not their way, and he can remember all too well the years when he functioned as the target of his brother’s and nephews’ jokes. Criston Cole may be a decent sparring partner in the training yard, but he is not much for sparring with words.

“What is it that the Gods advise?” He may not be as religious as his mother, but he has always had a gift for memorizing bits of text. “Let no maiden be tempted by wanton attentions, lest her thoughts become sinful and her flesh tainted.”

“Well, who am I to argue with the Gods? Consider me warned.” She offers a brief, practiced curtsy. “Good evening to you, my prince.”

She has not taken two steps when he calls after her. “I will escort you.”

“That is kind of you, but there is no need.” She points to a door at the end of the hallway, presumably her chambers. “Though I hear the city is lawless, I truly doubt I will be attacked between here and there.”

“As you wish.” He turns as she does, though he pauses and looks over his shoulder until she reaches her destination.

Disappointment settles in his stomach, which he immediately reprimands himself for. At most, he could have insisted on accompanying her and bought himself a few extra moments in her presence. Enough to ask about the flowers or her embroidery. It is trivial, he tells himself. Naturalized though she may be, she is a bastard girl and he is a prince and a dragonrider. The more she sees of him, the sooner he will frighten her away.

When he is trying to fall asleep, he sees her eyes piercing into him from across the sept. His entire body crawls at the sensation of it. She is undoing him, opening him, turning him inside out. He sleeps without dreams and wakes up wanting more.

read the rest on AO3

[krakensdottir]

Thinking about Tennant’s ‘He only has one friend, he can only have one friend’ and how that was true for most of Crowley’s existence, he could barely afford one let alone making any more, but it’s not now and he really needs to have some kind of connections other than Aziraphale.

Also thinking about how Nina in that brief clip just rolls so smoothly with his... Crowley-ness, and doesn’t seem like the type who could be put off by a little demonic attitude. Might even vibe with it.

And finally thinking that Crowley is my favorite noodle boy and Nina, who I’ve barely met, is already the love of my life.

So what I’m saying is I really desperately need a Crowley-Nina friendship. It’s a little late to ask for it (just have to Wait And See) but I’m SO hoping.

[thedrotter]

not-yet-dead-person

silly comic of a conversation in-game i thought was too funny not to make something proper for instead of a doodle ww

(timelapse + wip images (thus silly process commentary in read more if you like artist commentary :3)

i think the sketch looks silly and goofy and funny so i find it important to share with you the mere presence of the faces i drew on it. i drew it on top of the boxes without staying inside its borders because i find my proportions can get wonky if i draw them cropped in a restricted space. and I feel trapped otherwise and i will draw BAD!!! give me spaceeeee to go wild!!!!

the head circles are there for emotional support

very low res speedpaint because truth is the canvas was much bigger than the space where my comic was placed. i didnt account when exporting my timelapse in 720px that that tiny space would look so pixelated ... but it's able to be percieved, so its okay.

(i will now comment on my process and it is not brief sorry)

usually i would try to clean up my sketches and figure out what goes on top before jumping into linework, but since there are multiple panels and drawings i chose to jump into inking right away for the sake of brevity. i just went in with a brush that uses pen pressure and drew what was needed. i added extra line thickness and contrast in areas around the face because it helps direct your eyes there more easily that way.

according to her equipment rei has a chain belt but i only remembered it existed once I was going to color, and i did not like that discovery... I chose to ignore it to maintain my peace. i already have the color palettes for these characters figured out, and i didnt really want to think about a new element at the moment www I tend to overthink those things a lot so i skipped it

the rest is rather straightforward! not that anything else wasn't, but in here i could turn my brain off and sing. linework and sketching require mumbling so i cannot turn my brain off. just block in the characters with a solid color so i can have a mask (something along those lines,) where the color can stay inside. then just color in !!!

Base colors just had slight cell shading on the skin, and for the hair i airbrush a bit of the skincolor in low opacity near the forehead... I'm not sure what it means, but i can look at the faces easier with it somehow. i like the gentle subtlety it adds even if you cant really tell. it makes things look nice.

background was just me blocking in the color of the wall and floor, shade the wall a bit, then slap a noise and free use wood texture on top. work smarter not harder ! yet it took a bit to make it look stylistically fitting with the characters, and even now i think bottom middle panel looks odd. whatever!!!

for the middle panel i thought itd be funny if the background was a solid silly and colorful one to contrast the next panel's sketchy black one. a contrast to how the word widow is seen. on that note my handwritting is not pointy. i gaslighted my hand into thinking that it was indeed pointy in that moment so i could write "not-yet dead person" in letters that didn't seem cute. my hand did not fall for it but it complied anyway

that's basically it! I'm not sure what else i could say that doesn't feel barebones because it really is that straightforward. if you're curious I used clip studio paint for this. only special brush used was for linework (a brush named Lemon Brush), the rest used were just the default. my computer gets the least credit. it was trying to convince me a 20mb file was going to nuke it all the time and hardly let me save multiple times so i do not appreciate it

[miradanii]

Cyberverse series complete!!!

A Review:

If you want a Transformers series that not only doesn't have any humans and later on has a good amount of Cybertron lore and enjoy a series that smooths out over the last few seasons AND AND do a banger job by the finale then I do recommend this series.

Just know it is geared towards a younger audience so it won't be as outwardly dark as Transformers Prime or really deep diving in a character's emotional trauma. It is possible to do that in a 10 minute episode but it's very clear where the shows priorities are in the episodes that were made.

Knowing what to expect made it a much more enjoyable watch that seriously helped those turning point of events caught me off guard.

The fun part I did not expect is when they keep adding more characters to the show, even towards the very end. However, somehow, it just kind of works out. There's the very obvious main characters such as Bumblebee, Windblade, Optimus Prime, Megatron, Soundwave, etc. Yet, this show let so many of the characters they added shine. Even if their screen time is very brief, personally quite a few of the minor characters stuck out to me compared to part of the main cast.

I gave this series a second chance due to a few clips I saw online. Preceptor's comedic falling, Shockwave and his little guys doing a lil dance around Wheeljack, and especially Soundwave doing a funky lil dance with his eventual backup dancers...that got me.

Where I really started liking the series was in Season 1 episode 8. Season 3 and 4 is the strongest in terms of characters and story (I've seen others agree on) but it doesn't feel like a drag to get there once you settle your expectations and start enjoying the show.

More thoughts down below if you just wanna know...

If you've ever passed up on Cyberverse maybe try again. 7/10.

Btw spoilers and personal opinions

I remember season 1 coming out on Netflix in 2020 and I was still in the mindset of wanting a emotionally invested Transformers series ever since I finished Transformers Prime back in Highschool?? (Back when I was able to buy the Shockwave commander figure at Target I think) Robots in Disguise was whiplash of lighthearted fun (I couldn't finish. Bumblebee's design was....hmmm) while War on Cybertron was too dark and overly serious (I stopped in Kingdom. didn't finish). I hadn't considered the comics at that point. So when I began watching Cyberverse, I didn't set my expectations, skipped around and didn't give it a proper chance. Which sucked because I really wanted to get to know Windblade (yes I know there's comics but at the time I didn't have the money nor considered trying to find it online at the time. Last time I did consider getting into the Transformers comics I bought Dark Energon and got really confused because I wasn't sure how many issues back before getting to Windblade's issue. I didn't use reddit nor look up any forms to even find the information of where I should start or read as a solo issue. I do now though. Really enjoying MTMTE).

Cyberverse S1 has a good concept and had moments that caught me off guard but after seeing the entire show if you want to convince someone to watch it they got to really look past that first season. Episode 8 I believe with Blurr and his ENTIRE PLANET DYING and the backstory with Shadow Striker, I felt there werent any good hooks. Even with Windblade as a main character, it still wasnt interesting.

Seeing comments on videos and forms I agree that sort of after season 2, episodes start hitting better and every episode is either a bottle of fun or a oh shit that happened??????

The real turning point for me was in S2 with the Arcee and Grimlock solo episode. I think Cyberverse can write some genuinely fun character interactions. And that was one I kept craving for each season.

The good thing about this show I'd like to make clear is that there are a lot of femmebots in Cyberverse (Clobber being one of my favorites. She's such a delight on screen). However, when it comes to having any autobots on screen, one of my gripes that was it felt like there was a rule of one femmebot per episode or an autobot group mission. They kept switching them out and I know they could at least have Chromia and Arcee go on a mission with Bee, Grimlock and Hotrod or something. During S2 when the Autobots are on their journey back to Cybertron, I had noticed Arcee and Windblade got to a point that they were never on screen at the same time, let alone interact for a 5 minutes or a minute at least. It could possibly be that as characters they aren't close friends with one another but come on. They're stuck on the same ship...It was distracting but by no means was a show ruiner. It was something I happened to notice through the rest of the seasons. Sure there were probably some other interactions I could go back to but I wouldn't have this entire paragraph here dedicated about it now would I? (Oh well, we have EarthSpark so that need is fulfilled).

Stand Out Characters That I Personally Gravitated To In No Particular Order:

Clobber: Her side conversations with Lockdown stuck with me. Being a character who didn't want to fight but was always ordered to and eventually joined the Autobots. She's so cute.

Soundwave: The writers gave him a lot to work with and it shows. His reaction to Hot Rod getting the shit beat out of him in the finale was so excellent as a call back when they were forced to work together during the Quintesson invasion. They hadn't had any episodes with any notable interactions since then but I felt like it was a smart choice, though it took me a second to remember why. Soundwave Superior. Rip.

Grimlock/ and Arcee: I just really like their dynamic and the show kept giving me crumbs after their own solo episode together. Out of all the friendships in Cyberverse, this stood out to me the most. They had really good vibes I'd love to see more of in other iterations of Transformers. Arcee was one of the front characters in the opening so I was surprised they didn't put her in as many episodes as they could have.

Dead End/ and Astrotrain: That was also another dynamic I really liked and had very small crumbs for. Gotta love a ship pissing off a grumpy character. Why do they hate each other? Who knows but it's funny and I can only imagine more...

Dead End is a new character I gravitated towards right away. I wasn't sure if it was a popular character or not in the Transformers franchise as a whole. I love a character that is unexpectedly smart in a selfish kind of way. He didn't give me "evil vibes" which the majority of the Decepticons were giving off in the show. Man just wants to live. Like Lockdown, he was really caring towards his fellow Decepticon, Clobber (which now I remember I do also like their interactions too. Seeing if they need to deactivate Shockwave comes to mind). Dead End is also is a very funny reactionary character towards the rest of the cast during the 3rd season. In the finale, he's become a bit more of a background character after Astrotrain died (rip Astrotrain :(((), but at least Dead End has a nice development on not choosing the option to save himself for once (In part one of the special I was sort of shocked they didn't give him a line about hating parades. I mean we see he doesn't like it, but that's just a me thing).

Megatron: Still made him a pretty complicated character, I just wish I had more episodes to see it.

Shockwave: I'm always a fan of Shockwave but I felt bad completely forgetting he offed himself while I kept wondering where he was before the Meteorfire and Cosmos. Oops.

Hot Rod: After I got used to his "dude bro" voice I was enjoying his development and becoming a main character in the 3rd season. I was wondering if he would ever become Rodimus Prime at some point other than having the temporary paint change but I mean I guess if you know then you know. He was a good central character with the team he has to work with. Made it a great change of pace.

Sky-byte: I cant help but laugh he has the Skeletor voice. The episode where he and Jetfire are introduced I really thought it would be an episode where the Decepticons and Autobots really see they shouldn't be fighting due to the insane amount of constant planetary damage their war with each other causes. But they didn't. So it landed in parody territory. I have no idea whether it was because it was time or intentional. But yeah Parody territory. Also later on after the peace treaty you don't see Sky-byte or Jetfire interact with each other in obvious friendly terms. I find this hilarious when I noticed Sky-byte was getting more screen time.

Wild Wheel: This man is the background after his solo episode. We're close to the end of the series and Cyberverse sneaks in a Western. As if Cyberverse wasn't already insane as it is. The good thing about his episode as it answered who was in one of the lost pods from season 1 aside from Grimlock and Bumblebee. AND Optimus is a sick shot.

Meteorfire and Cosmos: AUSSIE AUTOBOT. I guess it answers what other shows Cybertronians watch beside Cube??? Somehow also a banger solo episode. It's so silly and there's a random ass scene that is now in my core memory. The show may say "Bumblebee's Cyberverse Adventures" but it was an episode where a new character that eventually goes into the background steals the show. Also Cosmos was very cute. She's toe to toe with Weird Al Cosmos for me.

Perceptor: The character with one of the clip compilations that steered me towards watching the show. He is incredible. What a guy. Has an exceptionally high tolerance for his arm getting ripped off, going blind, and falling really far distances.

Teletraan-X: He's just a little guy, and I like his attitude. I was happy seeing him again in the finale with Windblade.

Tarn: I now know who Tarn is. Wowza scary guy.

Overall I'm glad I watched Cyberverse. I do agree it's underrated. I had a lot of fun watching, maybe I'll draw Dead End one of these days.

Up Next. Transformers Beast Wars...which I already started. I'm on episode 3.