#insects against empire

[parasolemn]

[Image description: The first image is a digital painting of Visual Calculus' skill portrait in Disco Elysium. Text reads: "VISUAL CALCULUS - The cold sea breeze stings your face as you step on the boardwalk. The body is gone, but something still lingers in the air. And high above it, against the stars..." End text. The portrait then fades into a dark night sky. The second image continues from the first with the same night sky. Text reads: "VISUAL CALCULUS - A luminous wheel of pleasure and all things bright, its wooden frame creaking in the wind. Twelve red cabins form a circle that stretches from the engines below to the flocks of seagulls up in the sky. INLAND EMPIRE [Medium: Success] - The mirage looks both sad and glorious in the mist, like an insect trapped in glass." End text. Green and blue lines from Visual Calculus' portrait twist around an orange, blue and purple projection of a ferris wheel. Behind it, the sun emerges in a bright burst of colour. Harry Du Bois looks up at it, amazed; Kim Kitsuragi looks at him in concern. Text reads: "YOU - 'You don't see it?' KIM KITSURAGI - 'See what?' The lieutenant looks around uncomfortably." End ID]

[ptseti]

They won’t teach you in school that in Ethiopia 1896, the Ethiopians trained Lions to capture the soldiers of the enemy and fought side by side with Cheetahs, bees, and lions.

Ethiopian soldiers with their fighting lions. The Ethiopians went to war with dangerous animals and insects such as bees, wasps, lions, or cheetahs trained to capture the soldiers of the enemy camp, which enabled them to win all the wars of colonization against them and to be the only country in the world to have never been colonized. At the battle of Adwa Ethiopian warriors skilled in sword fighting called Shotel destroyed the invading Italian soldiers in hand-to-hand combat.

The Battle of Adwa was the climactic battle of the First Italo-Ethiopian War. The Ethiopian forces defeated the Italian invading force on Sunday 1 March 1896, near the town of Adwa. The decisive victory thwarted the campaign of the Kingdom of Italy to expand its colonial empire in the Horn of Africa.

The Ethiopians surrounded the Italians for two weeks and, upon Empress Tayitu's advice, cut off the fort's water supply. The Italian commander agreed to surrender if they would be allowed to leave with their firearms. Menelik agreed that they could leave the garrison unharmed.

[pparacxosm]

dearly beloved

(tashi duncan x fem!childhood best friend!reader x patrick zweig; artashi wedding; nonlinear narrative; tw infidelity but then wrong fandom; tw obsessive dysfunctional relationships but then wrong fandom; tw patheticism but then wrong blog; oakland!tashi truthers i’m sorry; florida!tashi truthers ((if there be any)) you’re welcome ! ; uno mentioned twice for some reason; unromantic romance; callow sapphic pining; tw nascent menstruation; y2k teenage girlhood; it’s always patrick zweig at the scene of the crime; ((the crime is unrequited devotion)); tw a little bit of body shaming kind of; but then general tw for excessively derogatory banter; sorrow shared is sorrow doubled; cake shared is just good cake; tw atlanta™)

‘Love is awful. It’s awful. It’s painful. It’s frightening. It makes you doubt yourself, judge yourself, distance yourself from the other people in your life. It makes you selfish. It makes you creepy, makes you obsessed with your hair, makes you cruel, makes you say and do things you never thought you would do. It’s all any of us want, and it’s hell when we get there.

So no wonder it’s something we don’t want to do on our own.

I was taught if we’re born with love then life is about choosing the right place to put it. People talk about that a lot, feeling right, when it feels right it’s easy. But I’m not sure that’s true. It takes strength to know what’s right. And love isn’t something that weak people do. Being a romantic takes a hell of a lot of hope. I think what they mean is, when you find somebody that you love, it feels like hope.’

The Priest, ‘Fleabag’ (2016—2019) Episode 2.6

It strikes you that Tashi Duncan has always had a strange way of talking about her own wedding, as if the whole event is a starstrewn chrysalis. Something transformative, that will make of her an airborne creature, carried off by the lightness of her being.

She looks fucking beautiful, of course.

Sleek and exacting, draped in silk crêpe de Chine, like a white bullet. Tashi Duncan, the bride. Heavenborne starshine, all wrapped in tender clouds, just as she should be.

But then you’ve always thought so.

When she rehearses her aisle walk, golden gazelle legs glissading her across the hotel room carpet, she speaks of herself as if she were a rare and fragile insect.

She says, “I feel my bones changing,” her hands on either arm of the makeup chair you’re in.

You sniff, eyes flicking over every part of her. She is so close, bent over you, but she’s blurred at her edges on account of your gushing tears. You’re weeping. “Your bones?” you all but wail, face twisting in sorrow as the tears sluice harder.

Your left eyelash dangles wetly halfway off your eyelid.

You’re melting like a fucking witch, because her dress reveal came before the setting spray, and now your palms are soused in foundation. You keep wiping your face to keep from bemiring the butteryellow satin of your bridesmaids gown.

You weep more than Pam, as Tashi floats around the room.

She is radiant as sunlight on water.

Tre and Tevin holler, spirited, scattering around the room in all directions, like a great empire has collapsed. Okay, Tashi! they whistle, We see you!

And you weep and weep.

And now, her amber knee, faint scar, peeks from the slit in her silken, sweeping skirt and knocks against yours.

Her arms are lithe and lustrous and they bracket you within the amalgamated cloud of her meticulously curated Big Day fragrance. She floods your body.

She’s nodding softly. She is haloed by bloodwarm morninglight. You feel too pathetic to even be looking at her. You feel worse, even, when her delicate fingers coast poetic down your arms, and she takes your hands into hers.

“Hey,” she says softly. Squeezes your fingers. The flesh of her soft and fragrant as rosepetals. Her smile unfurls like a star going nova. “You’re crying so much,” she laughs.

“Of course, I’m crying,” you choke out, a watery gasp wafting her gorgeous face. “Pauline hates me.”

Tashi spares a glance over your shoulder, where her makeup artist is leaning against an ornate dresser, chewing the edge of her thumb and seeming generally engrossed with her phone.

“Oh, honey,” Tashi’s manicured thumbs caress tender circles over your knuckles. Then clicking her teeth softly, “You are making her do her job twice.”

“Oh God,” you sob, your head dropping heavily onto the crushed velvet cushion of the chairback. “Don’t get married.”

Tashi's smile turns soft and commiserating.

“Babe.”

“T.”

Tashi places your hands gently in your lap. She swivels your chair so you’re facing the vanity mirror.

The sight of yourself festers your misery like rotting flesh. You look like a smeared oil painting. Your lashes clump like eldritch spiders. Your face is smeared and swollen and gleaming wet. Your lower lip trembles.

Tashi glows behind you in a tragic pastiche of a solar eclipse.

“I can’t do this,” you blather past the clot in your throat. Mucus bubbles from your nostrils and trickles to your mouth. You swipe at it. You sniff again. “I’m gonna mess up your wedding.”

Tashi’s warm, slender fingers trace your collarbones. In college, you used to give each other lymphatic drainage massages.

“You’re gonna make my wedding.”

This makes you tear up again, in earnest.

The tissue of your nose is raw and sore. You moan a broken lament. Her thumbs drift in gentle ellipses along the slope of your shoulders. Her warmth seeps into you.

“Do you remember what you said to me,” Tashi asks, “When I got engaged?”

You swallow, coughing around a flower of phlegm. She leans down, resting her cheek against the top of your head. Her hair spills over your shoulders in velvet sunbeams.

You blink at her reflection. Her eyes wash you in tender flame.

“‘Dear God, please, no’?”

It is staggering, at thirteen, to stand over a limp, bloodstrewn body.

You are traipsing through the halls, summoned by weeping, and, when you peek into the loo, the dense miasma of sweat and antiseptic is pervaded with something stannic and fetid.

Tashi Duncan, splayed across the tile of the corner stall, clutches her tummy with death’s desperation. The athletic uniform of Blue Vista High garbs these young girls in floaty skirts of daisy white, which Tashi now thinks is fascinatingly deplorable.

Unfamiliar and unprepared, her eyes gleam with tears. Her heart pummels in her chest to the same faraway thunk, thunk rhythm of the tennis balls striking the clay courts outside.

The world seems to have turned against her. Her clothes are drenched red, and her body is betraying her. Tashi, twentyone months your senior, is a late bloomer. Here is her inaugural encounter with the inevitability of womanhood.

So, you encounter this horror film tableau. Tashi Duncan, bloodstrewn and splayed. You don’t feel nausea or concern. You’re thirteen. You’re mildly reproachful, if anything.

“Um,” you say, a bit too loudly, “I have a tampon. If you want?”

“I want to play tennis.” She writhes. “My match is in twenty minutes.”

You swing your backpack off your shoulder, clutching it in front of you and digging clumsily into the front pocket. “Well, you need a tampon.”

“I’ve never…” She seems halfcoherent. You don’t have great faith in her ability to sweep across a court. But she catches the tampon with an easy agility when you toss it over.

There’s an odd, blithe immediacy to girlhood. You drop to your knees and play gynae. You introduce yourselves somewhere there. Your hair’s pretty; Where did you get those pins on your bag?; Do you think Mr Cleven’s kind of cute? Yeah, no, me neither; Is it in yet?; You’re not supposed to feel it, can you feel it?

“Aw, what?” you whine at her insistence you disrobe and give her your clothes, “For how long?”

“Like,” she gestures frenetically with her hand, “Twenty minutes.”

You hum, ambivalent, but doff your skirt. And they get anal about you guys jumbling formal uniforms with athletic uniforms, so she takes your shirt, too, and you wear hers, the navy nylon collared tee with the Blue Vista crest stitched to the breast.

You sit pantless on the toilet seat, reading her Princess Diaries paperback.

She wins her game, apparently.

Her mom drives you home. She brings a fleecy pair of Tashi’s Powerpuff Girls pyjama bottoms, which fall past your ankles. Says, call me Pam, honey, when you say, thank you, Mrs Duncan.

You keep her shirt, and her pants, and you still smell her womb.

She hits you up on AIM that night.

Mr Cleven is cute, she sends. He looks like Dawson Leery.

Then, But he’s THE WORST !!!!!!

And then, TLC or Destiny’s Child?

And things go from there.

When Christine McVie starts crooning for mercy, you think you’ve officially had your fill.

You have taken bridesmaid, like you took best friend before that, like you will one day take doting aunty to their gilded brood.

At times, it feels like there is no limit to what you can take.

But the very concept of a First Dance feels like a vaudeville satire portending a dire omen. You refuse to dance into hell—you just can’t do it. And you can’t watch them squeeze your heart to bloodpulp between their flush, swaying bodies.

Though you suppose that may be symbolic. Beginning as the end.

Hot red spilled upon her white regalia. Will she still let you splay and clothe her? Or does such proprietary now fall within the purview of his husbandly duties? All set to ‘Say You Love Me’.

You take it all. On the chin, lying down. You take it. You take four consecutive champagne flutes to the gut. You take deep breaths. You take yourself out of the girdling throng of devoted onlookers as the music starts. You take no prisoners. You take your leave.

You are weeping again.

You try to catch your tears as they fall. You think you owe Pauline that much.

The veranda is lit by scattered amber lanterns and the weeping moon. Each stone pillar stands sentinel to the maelstrom of revelry within. Things are hushed, here, but so much colder. You miss her warm fingertips against your skin. You miss everything. Shadows stretch across the tiled floor in languorous arcs.

You smell the sea.

You find a dark corner and sink into it, bracing yourself on the balustrade as you crouch to your haunches. Your body aches with the force of your suppressed sobs. Your shoulders tremble and your heart mewls with anguish.

You miss the sound of footsteps, so the voice does surprise you.

“One wedding that’s a funeral.”

You laugh, sort of. Damp and congested. You try to daub the tears away. “Ha,” you sniff, “Yeah, no, I—“

You stop.

It doesn’t seem the least bit real.

Let’s leave aside the fact that he’s The Ex Boyfriend. He shouldn’t even exist in this fucking stratosphere anymore. And that’s why he seems elusive, ghostly, even now. Emerging from the shadows like a demonic apparition.

You know Art and Tashi don’t really talk about it. They have a peace to protect. You cannot say the same of yourself.

Because in the unbroken silence of your dreams, there is a whistle. A sharp, clear necklace of sound, tightening around your throat, tugging forward. And even earlier, at the ceremony. A malevolent spirit in the room seemed to say, I won’t be ignored. And here he fucking is.

A horrid little laugh builds up in your throat, until you can’t keep it down any longer.

You laugh. It comes out like a savage chortle. Patrick stills, five feet away from you. His eyes are sad, a little surprised, and, yes, repelled.

Repelled by you and your laugh.

Suddenly, all you feel is helpless anger. You’re angrier than you’ve ever been, angrier than when they were together, angrier than when Art swooped in to take his stillwarm seat, angrier than all those times you had to be quiet and eat humble pie. You’re furious that the woman you love has jettisoned her last name, like a shorn chrysalis. And you’re livid that you have to deal with this asshole, this piece of shit pretty boy you’d thought you’d seen the last of, who is standing in front of you, on this moonlit veranda, trying to share in your mourning. He’s fucking insane.

So you say it, out loud, but not too loud, because you don’t want to make a scene. You certainly don’t want Tashi to see him.

“You’re insane,” you scoff, gaze vast and glossy with shock, “You’re fucking insane, I knew it! I knew you were fucking insane! I told her you were fucking insane.”

You’re surprised at the viciousness in your voice. The blue in his eyes has become washedout, almost white. You can see tiny red capillaries blooming around the iris in the dark.

To his credit, Patrick has never left you hanging in your ferocity.

His brows are hoisted in defense. He gestures wildly into the reception hall, “I’m fuckin’ insane? He’s fuckin’ insane! And he’s marrying her!”

He’s all big words and movements like this is fucking Seinfeld.

You upheave yourself to a tremulous stand. “You’re both fucking insane,” you say darkly, though, at the moment, you feel a bit deranged.

Your vehemence startles him a little. Something imperceptible changes in his mien. Like he’s standing straighter. His eyes shine like glass. You’re bizarrely reminded of those National Geographic documentaries where lions size each other up before a fight.

But then his shoulders slump, and he nods, and you are almost incredulous at his patheticism. “Okay,” he breathes. He seems tiny. “You look nice.”

You blink, shifting.

You clear your throat. “Thank you. You don’t.”

And he doesn’t. He’s wearing a T-shirt and athletic shorts. And he looks vaguely showered for once, but there’s still something faintly noxious in the air he emanates.

“Yeah, well,” he shrugs, “I wasn’t gonna dress up for a wedding I wasn’t invited to.” A pause. “That’d be weird.”

For a moment, you are sure you tripped on a rock out here, and cracked your skull open on a pillar, and all of this is a stage play happening in the most masochistic corner of your mind. You have never been so disbelieving of his inanity.

“Oh, yeah, that’d be weird!” you say, eyes still wide and marginally manic. “That’d be crazy, for sure. If you dressed up for the wedding you weren’t invited to.”

He fills in the blank there—always could, for his part—that he’s shown up to the wedding. He gives a feeble chuckle. He looks awkward, really, which is… fucking something.

“When are they gonna cut the cake?” His voice is small and tentative like a child’s.

“You’re not getting any, you cow.”

He looks sincerely wounded at that, his eyes casting downward, and it borders on pitiful. But the sympathy stirred feels like a small lashing, like punishment for your lack of decorum. There is something contemptuous in that pitifulness.

You know an athlete’s body is his wound.

But you can’t bring yourself to say sorry.

You just lower your hackles with a visible exhale, which he seems to recognise as safe treadspace.

“Why are you crying?” he asks.

You snort. “Why are you here?”

He connects those dots, too, the perceptive bastard.

He clears his throat, hands in his pockets, rolls back and forth on his feet.

He stares at the ground. “You gotta say a speech?”

“Yeah, but I probably won’t.”

The ocean rushes. Luther Vandross thumps faintly from beyond. First dance is over, apparently.

Patrick peers up at you, like he’s debating saying what he’ll say next.

“Wanna go get a drink?”

Tashi jumps on the balls of her feet. Her waifishness is often a screen hiding an impressive amount of energy. PE is competition in its purest form. Every time she manages to wrest the ball from the opposing team she feels invincible. She is invincible. She dribbles the ball quickly, ponytail swishing in the air as she runs towards the goalpost.

From the corner of her eye she registers movement. She’s always hyperaware of her surroundings. That’s why she notices you sitting down in the stands, two other little girls (in the way that a year—which is all the time sundering you two—can feel like a decade when you’re fourteen) on either side of you.

One of your friends doles out UNO cards, and it is clear it is the other who had suggested this place of loitering, because she has her gaze trained conspicuously on a boy in Tashi’s class.

Tashi pivots. Makes a pointed throw. The ball goes past the goalkeeper into the net. Her team cheers. She checks to see if you have borne witness, but you are too busy stewing over your dealt cards.

She runs over to you. You look up when you hear her barrelling up the steps of the bleachers with a haste that makes them shudder.

She slides in between you and Vidya, who is unperturbed on account of her intently watching Jai Gill pretend two basketballs are his tits and siring great gales of laughter from his audience of other fourteen year old boys.

Tashi slips a lanky arm around your shoulder.

“Hey, you,” she says, “Why didn’t you come say hi?”

You feel weird and diminutive and caught in a weird way, because Essence is looking upon her from your other side as though she is a seraph who has descended and deigned to grace you with her presence.

(Essence is in under13’s tennis, where it is wildly regarded that the girls who do under14’s tennis are the coolest people ever).

“Uh,” you drawl dumbly.

“You’re my friend now,” she squeezes your arm, pulling you closer to her side, “You have to say hi.”

Tashi seems to preen beneath the attention of these little girls, with a poise remarkably incongruous for fourteen. It feels a stark juxtaposition to the girl you’d seen, wailing, wet, and splayed in her own nascent womanhood.

You’ll come to think this a lot. Tashi Duncan, the impenetrable infanta. She tries not to show any inkling of vulnerability, if she can help it.

That’s why you always remember. You’re always recalling that blood.

And so part of you that is purely little girl thinks, I saw her first.

Even though Adidas singled her out as showing great promise. Even if Patrick Zweig won her number, and Art Donaldson, in some primevally spurning way, will have her as his bride. It was you who saw her, truly saw her, for the first time. Weeping in her own carmine deluge in a girl’s bathroom stall at Blue Vista High.

And, if you saw her first, shouldn’t you get to keep her?

You cannot bear to see her be wed.

What you’d really said, when she told you she was engaged, was a frayed and hollowed: Congratulations.

Dear God, please, no came later. It came clawing rotten from your throat like the undead, while you curled in on yourself yourself like a woman wounded, in the dark, beneath your covers.

“Dear God, please, no,” you’d whispered, lachrymose.

Your first dream, as it were, takes place on the shore of Virginia Key Beach, twenty minutes south of your neighbourhood in Allapattah.

It doesn’t look real, though.

It’s more like a film set.

That could be due to the fact that you haven’t been home in a year or due to the fact that Tashi is there, and she hasn’t been home in longer.

But you know it’s Florida because the air’s so thin and friable in California. Like the sun hasn’t fully seeped through. You know it’s summer because there’s crickets chirping in the trees behind you.

It’s dark, but the moon is bright, and, without looking, you know Tashi is just behind you, sitting on a rock halfsubmerged in the water. You’re sitting in the water right by her. You can feel her presence on your arm as you lean back. You guys are stripped to your bras and panties, like you always were. Her hair is curly.

There might have been more happening; you have a vague impression that there was talking at some point in this dream, but the details fade in the minutes after waking up. What you do retain is distressing. 

You are saying something when you are suddenly supine, and you see that Tashi is atop you, straddling you, though you cannot necessarily feel any weight of her. She doesn’t even feel warm. Her skin against you isn’t a temperature, it’s a sensation. Buzzing, like the vague shock of an electric socket.

“Hi,” she says, her voice low. 

And you’re about to say something, and then you are silenced. You wake up soon after your lips meet.

The dream haunts you for a week, until you go to a party and find a boy and kiss him instead.

The dream is not a revelation, not by a long shot, but you had thought they were a thing of girlhood. And, too, you thought Tashi was impenetrable to such things as your little desires. You’d thought, for a wretched moment, that you could be normal about a beautiful girl.

And you’re usually better at controlling yourself.

You usually can go about your day without suddenly remembering the image of Tashi leaning in.

When you do find a boy that Saturday—a short, slight, facetious boy with glasses and a charming smile, who prides himself on being a silent, occasionally witty observer the same way you do—you talk with him and laugh with him and kiss him and feel the world right itself. Nothing has changed, and nothing will change, if you can just get a fucking grip.

You go another few weeks without incident, until there’s another dream.

A few others.

Tashi chalks up your odd behavior to anything from exam season to homesickness. You let her.

No one knows about these dreams, with one exception.

Patrick Zweig figures you out embarrassingly quick.

All it takes is one night on the town, the three of you. A couple hours watching you replenish and rotate her moscow mules and vodka sodas and ace pineapples with a surgeon’s precision. Like forecasting weather. And he feels sure enough in his conclusions to corner you as you’re emerging from the putrid bathroom of the dive bar and say, “You got it bad for Tashi, don’t you, kid?”

You are on the drunk side of tipsy, at this point, and you blink a few times before you remember to zip your fly and respond.

All you come up with, for your part, is a weak, “Sorry?”

Patrick smiles. It doesn’t seem particularly mean, but you don’t presume to know him well enough to bet on it.

“I’m just saying,” Patrick says slowly. “Seems like you like her an awful lot. Kid.”

Your gaze goes bonehard. You don’t like him. You don’t like that you can smell his nausea-siring wintry cologne. You cannot conceptualise the scent, but it can’t be natural. He is so pretentious, he probably has it shipped from Marseille or somewhere.

He’s cracked open your ribs and plucked a raw nerve, just to watch you writhe. And there’s that obnoxious little smile, only half his mouth. Though not outright hostile, it’s not friendly.

You open your mouth. But you are so furious, you’re unable to speak. What’s more infuriating, Patrick patiently waits for you to find your words.

“Well,” you say, steadying your feet like you’re prepared to brawl this guy, “What are you gonna do about it?”

“Not a goddamn thing.”

And you must look surprised, because Patrick laughs.

“May these be the worst of our days.”

The pub is a dive, just a short stumble from the wedding venue. The air is dense with the acerbic musk of piss and spirits, danker than the worst of times. It’s a visceral contrast to the beauty of the union, and it’s one of which you both feel deserving.

You sit on a slightly cracked stool at the mucky wooden bar. You nurse a beer, and a broken heart, and Pat is on his third scotch in as many minutes. The bartender keeps giving him these nervous glances.

He gurgles out a pfft as he tips his glass to you, “Yeah, and the best of theirs.”

You regard the middle distance with a sort of weary disgust. A miserable guilt. You know what he’s portending. It’s all downhill from here. But you cannot deny that these are not unkind heights from which to fall. Garlanded by intricate golden sconces casting pristine white marble awash with warmth and love. You two cannot wish them ill in a way that even means anything.

“Fuck, they’re so happy,” you moan, “We suck.”

You feel your lungs grow achy. You are drowning in selfpity and selfpity’s lesser endearing cousin, envy. Patrick seems to bear it better. He releases a noise. A laugh maybe; a bitter, bloodaddled thing.

“Hey, I think the one of us wearing the bridesmaids dress places significantly lower on the Ultimately Fucked Over scale.”

He spins his glass around on the sticky tabletop. The scraping sound makes you envision ground bonematter.

“This colour wouldn’t suit you,” you mumble, swinging your beer idly by its neck.

Patrick’s brows seem to knit at this.

“Yes it would,” he grumbles.

“I always hated you.”

He quirks a brow, looking at you askance.

“I don’t think that’s true.”

You make a face. “It is.” Your eyes close for a moment, as though envisaging which set of words would spurn him best. “And he’s better for her than you.”

Patrick’s mouth parts into a slackened smirk. He laughs again. “And you think you’re better for her than both of us.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Always the bridesmaid…” he singsongs.

You feel your skin heat with something sore and cloying.

“Oh fuck you.” Your eyes roll as well as they are able without you getting vertigo. “I fucked her last.”

His smile grows like a burgeoning parasite. His head is still hung between his shoulders, but he peers up at you through the dark veil of his lashes.

He tongues the inside of his cheek like he’s suppressing laughter, like he now thinks it wouldn’t be kind. “No kidding.”

You frown at this, at his amusement.

“What, you don’t think I fucked her?”

Patrick shrugs. Hums vaguely.

“Wow,” you scoff.

“Not in, like, a homophobic way, or—“

“Wow.”

He snorts. “I’m sorry.”

You shake your head. “You’re not.” You swig a mouthful of beer, relishing faintly in the acrid aftertaste. “And I’m not either. Fucked her after you broke up, licked you clean out her pussy, you’re nothing.” You stand up and close the distance between you, stumbling into him, your forehead thunking against his as you draw the word out childishly. Nothingggg-uh.

He chuckles noiselessly. “Oh yeah?”

You straighten clumsily, leaning back, but you’re still stood between his open legs, and you brace your hand against his thigh. “Yeah,” you say.

Patrick narrows his eyes at you. He inhales a breath with an air of the long since victorious.

He gives it a moment before he says it. You’re lifting your bottle to the seam of your lips.

“I fucked her two months ago.”

You slam the green glass against the bartop, eyes wide as canyons as you turn to look at him, your forgone sip dribbling down your chin. “What?” you enunciate sharply.

He leans back in his chair, raising his hands as if shirking blame. But something wicked gleams in his eyes.

You scoff. “Bull. Shit.”

He tilts his head to the side, resting an elbow against the bar, his gaze flickering between your face and the beer trickling down your neck.

He shrugs. Hums.

Your eyes search his face frenetically. Your fingers claw into the flesh of his thigh. “He doesn’t know?”

Now, something like guilt manages to sniff him out. He glances off obliquely, his throat working around a swallow. His expression is hard to discern. Swimming between guilt and a strange sort of defiance.

“Wow,” you drawl protractedly. You’re almost impressed. “You’re an ass. You said that because you wanted to make me feel bad, you wanted to one up me, like you get points for fucking her—“

“A game that you started, by the way.”

“Hey.” You lean into his space again, finding his eyes with a sniper’s determination. “Hey. You’re a piece of shit.”

His jaw works against his skin.

“Uh-huh.”

“No, you are. You are, and you know it.” Your nails embed themselves in his thigh, your other hand coming to place a finger in the hollow of his chest. “Because no matter what,” your voice is low and gravelly now, “You’re done. You’re out. I’m in.”

You lean back to look him over, as though admiring your work, but he only wears a plaintive, resigned sort of smile.

“You think that’s better?”

His voice is so soft as to seep like smoke down your spine. Your nails unearth themselves from his skin. You have not drawn blood, but morning bruises would not startle him.

A long few moments pass.

“This is what you do now, you’re all profound?” you murmur.

He shrugs, a rueful simper on his mouth. “Eh,” he hums dismissively.

You sigh. Remove your hands from him and stumble back onto your stool.

“You’d look like shit in this dress,” you say, at length.

“Maybe.”

You tip your beer into your mouth, even though it has run dry.

There’s a bit of a moue on your face. You trace the sticky outlines on the tabletop, focusing intently on the grooves. “I look amazing in this dress.”

“You’d look amazing out of it.”

Your brows furrow. You look up at him. “Dude, what?”

Patrick blinks. He seems genuinely surprised.

“Aren’t we gonna…?”

“No, what? Why would you—?”

“Oh, I just—“

“What?” Your face is skewed confusedly.

“Because we—“

Your phone trembles against the bar.

“Hold on,” you say, and then, grin growing, “Darling Ms Duncan,” you croon melodically as you hoist the device to your cheek.

Her verdant meadow laughter on the other end. “Donaldson,” she chuckles. You can hear the vague commotion of the festivities ensconcing her.

You frown.

“Don’t hurt me, Starshine.”

“You missed your speech.”

You gasp, your voice going all light and airy the way it does when you’re feigning guilt. “What?” you drawl, “No…”

Tashi cottons on, and you can hear her teasing smile as she indulges you, “Oh,” she hums in fauxsympathy, “Oh, yeah, uh-huh.”

“No way,” you grouse softly, “I’m so sorry.”

“Come back before we cut the cake,” says Tashi, “Where are you, by the way?”

“Oh, I’m in a bar, you won’t believe who I ran into.”

“Who?”

Patrick steels to alertness in front of you, shaking his head in abject alarm.

You smile.

“Patrick Zweig. I think we’re gonna have sex tonight probably. Compound our sadness. It’ll be really pathetic.”

Patrick looks at you like you’ve walloped his puppy.

Tashi is silent on the other end. You know well the firm, seraphic way her face has set in anger.

“That’s not funny,” she says, and it occurs to you that, if what Patrick’s told you is true, then it really isn’t funny.

You bite your lip. “Oh.”

“That’s—“ she takes a breath; you can picture the heat wash off of her. She can be very purposeful with her emotions. “Hey, listen,” her voice has softened, “Please come back.”

“Okay, Ms Duncan.”

“Come back and eat the cake, you chose the cake.”

A simper slithers over your lips. “We chose the cake.” Your husband was somewhere sticking his prick in a green juice, you don’t add. “It’s kind of our cake, in a way.”

“Well,” Tashi hums, unconvinced, but you can hear her smile.

“Yeah, I’m coming, worry not, my dear. Save me a dance.”

You drop the phone.

Patrick is still looking at you like the apocalypse has been announced.

You roll your eyes.

“Put your dick down, she didn’t believe me,” you say. “Because you showing up to her wedding would be crazy.”

He chuckles dryly, but you do not miss the relief in his bones.

He cocks his head wryly, “Not really, considering…”

You stand up again, elbow leaning on the bar, your temple against your knuckles as you gape at him, sort of mystified. “You’re not bullshitting me,” you say, the corner of your open mouth quirking up incredulously, “Like actually.”

Patrick shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Where?”

“Atlanta.”

“Fuck!” You smack your hand down on the table, looking around as though to share in your disbelief with a makebelieve audience. “And since then, have you…? With anyone?”

“Dude, that was two months ago,” he says, like you’re a bit slow, or perhaps like he’s offended by the notion, “Yes.”

You click your tongue. “Ah, shit. You should’ve said no. Would’ve sucked you off, seen if I could taste her.”

Your hip ghosts absently against his spread open knee.

“You can still try,” he offers.

You shake your head, stifling a smile. “Nah.”

“God, we’re the worst.”

“You’re the worst.” You let your smile divulge itself.

“We should get married.”

“Fuck no.”

Patrick lets himself look putout by this, eyes going downcast. You’ve always thought his smile—really his whole face—looks vulnerable, like soft bread. He looks like the perfect sad boy, the victim rather than the perpetrator.  

“Oh,” says Patrick.

You hit him in the arm. “Don’t do that. You know it’d suck.”

“I don’t think so, actually,” he muses.

“What do we have in common? Like, sincerely. Besides her. You can’t build a marriage around a person who isn’t in the marriage.”

He makes a face as though to say this is an evidently incorrect statement. He gestures vaguely in the direction of Art and Tashi’s wedding venue.

That gets a laugh out of you.

“Oh, you pathetic asshole.” You steady yourself on his thigh again, this time with your fist. “No one has mentioned your name once today.”

You know it’s a low blow.

He returns your smile, though his is sad and weird again. They’ve all forgotten about me, it seems to say, Maybe you’ve forgotten about me, too.

Ugh, you think. Fucking Patrick who can’t stop being fucking neglected by everyone.

You clear your throat softly. “See? You don’t wanna marry me.”

Patrick lets out a depleted sigh, like he, too, is not so thrilled with the notion. And you’ve heard better proposal stories. He looks like a Labrador who’s figured out he has to go to the vet. He kicks the edge of the barstool with his sneaker.

“I do. I still do. That was fucked, but I still would.” He looks angry and lonely and resigned, and a little happy too, weirdly. “We should have one of those, ‘by the time we’re thirty—’”

“Thirty?”

“Fifty.”

You like how quickly he bends, in that moment. It has you picturing flower arrangements. But you narrow your eyes, a wry gleam to your smile.

“I think I’ll still have a shot, at fifty.”

“I won’t,” he says, with the smile of the recently condemned.

“I think you will, actually.” You regard him sort of pensively. And maybe it’s a bit clinical. “I think age is gonna humble you. And then you’ll be fifty and grey and, like, penitent. Plus fifty’s still virile, generally. And I’ve heard good things about your situation down there. Just—“

You push off the bar, your fist leaning down more heavily on his thigh as your other hand comes up to his forehead, as though checking his temperature, before sweeping upwards and pushing his hair back. You’re on your toes—further on your toes, considering the heels—assessing his hairline closely, your nose grazing his forehead and your hips certainly slotted between his.

Patrick makes an insincere attempt to push you off. “Hey, what—“

“Did your maternal grandfather have hair?”

He hesitates, “What, my mom’s dad?”

“Mhm.”

He feels that breath against his brow.

“To this day,” he shrugs, “But he’s an asshole.”

“That’s good news.” You lean back.

“That my gramps is an asshole?”

“No, the—“ You gesture to his hair again, “That’s how you know, I think. If you’ll bald. Is your maternal grandfather.”

“You think? Didn’t you do health science?”

“Didn’t you do fuck all and doesn’t everyone hate you?”

He seems unharmed, if enchanted, by this persistent claim.

He points again in the general direction of the wedding beyond the brick wall of the bar.

“They may hate me. You don’t hate me.”

You follow his finger like everything between you and that marble dance floor will collapse, and you will be given a clear view of that proprietary, knowing way Art Donaldson holds her as they dance.

You look back at him. “You really seem to believe that. It makes me concerned.”

“For me?”

“No, for myself. I don’t like that I’m putting out such false vibes.”

He is charmed by this verbiage.

He laughs, like he’s still unconvinced. “Okay.”

He holds it against you, of course.

He doesn’t do a goddamn thing, as promised, but he holds it against you.

Patrick doesn’t like the college parties, but he manages. He doesn’t like feeling like an interloper, really. Doesn’t like that Art and Tashi have this fully functional ecosphere in which he cannot take root—like he’s some sort of invasive strain of alien vegetation.

As soon as he can, Patrick excuses himself from the purgatory of social interaction with whichever set of strangers Tashi calls her friends. He extricates his arm from around her waist and catches your eye as he goes to stand, mimes taking a drink, and watches with relief as you narrow your eyes but push out of your chair and head toward the bar. You order four shots of something.

“You’re lasting longer than I thought,” he says as soon as he’s close enough to you. He takes one shot—vodka, he thinks as it slides down his throat—then another from the bar top. “You were making that face, though.”

You scowl up at him. You know exactly what he’s talking about. “I was not.”

Patrick snorts. “If that helps you sleep at night. I know I won’t be sleeping.”

He bites his lip and does a crude mimicry of delivering backshots with his pelvis, his hands holding an imaginary set of hips, and you suddenly feel beset with a strange nausea. You defeatedly slide toward him another one of those shots.

“What’s the point of her having you as a friend if you aren’t going to support us?”

“I bought you three fucking shots,” you say. You quickly throw the last one back before he can get at it, because, by now, you at least know Patrick well enough to know he’s nearly about to make a grab for it. 

He grins. “Kid, if Art had won that game, I’d make my pass at you ten times over.”

That’s enough to turn the nausea into chunder, and you quickly push past him and book it to the bathroom as it blooms up your throat.

You see your tendons as racketstrings, as you crouch over the toilet.

Taut and crossed over one another inextricably.

He’ll always have that over you, the tennis. You never had the tenacity for it. But it means he has a whole other way to upset her, too.

You take comfort in the fact that Tashi is quick to stand and take you into her arms when you reappear, halftorn, wrung out. She’s happy to take you back to your room, and nurse you for the night.

Patrick doesn’t begrudge. He’s fine to let you have your little pleasures. She’s still his, is the thing.

You’re confused about the Art Donaldson of it all.

He has a warmth in his eyes. And a mischief and a validation. He’s like Patrick, in that he watches—he watches very closely. But where Patrick has always seemed content, in this strange, visceral way, to take what he can get, Art feels like he’s waiting for… something. He’s sort of always fighting with Patrick, but they’re taking care of one another, strangely. He has this weird, symbiotic desire to know more about Tashi and Patrick’s relationship, which—well—you’d be canting to pass judgement.

Grey, grey skies out the windows of Tashi’s dorm room. It’s the most neutral space for you all. Bundled in jackets and hats on beer runs. Fingers freezing as you sit on the floor and play UNO, bumming and trading all of Patrick’s cigarettes because it’s all you can think to do. It rains all day. Patrick tucks his fingers under Tashi’s thigh, kisses the corner of her mouth.

Art has a cold, passes it on to Patrick, and now you’re all incubating it in this cloistered space that soon becomes littered with used tissues and cough drops and tornopen packets of TheraFlu.

Patrick is glad to help no one feel left out. He announces as much—I don’t want you guys to feel left out—with this quizzical simper, as Tashi places down a wild drawfour and declares blue. And maybe she’s doing something foul and saccharine like looking right into Pat’s eyes when she says that.

“I don’t think you have any blues,” says Art, sliding four cards from the deck, wearing his own quizzical simper. “I think you just want us to think you have blues, I think you’re playing smart.”

You can tell by the way Patrick grips his beer bottle that he thinks Art is flirting with her.

There seems to be an odd, prophetic thought you two share.

If the two of them—Tashi and Art—were to get married, they would have golden brown babies like Renaissance cherubs while you and he sat in the dark with the rest of the godless degenerate art.

So, in some way, perhaps, you’d seen it all coming.

When Patrick picks up the phone, shoves it between shoulder and ear, and takes the sorelyneeded, sweetyolkdripping, heavily hotsauced bagel sandwich out of his mouth so he can mumble, “Yeah?” he does not expect the first words across the receiver to be,

“Hey, you fuck. I have your shit.”

Patrick rolls his eyes and takes a large bite, craning over his open palm to keep egg and cheese off his Puma shirt. This is a time when brands like Puma still want Patrick Zweig wearing their shirts.

“Uh-huh,” he says.

“You know, this feels like Christmas. Do you know that? This feels like Christmas day for me. You think you’re this special boy who can have whatever he wants. You’re bullshit. The bell tolls for thee. Your ex, I should note, has bent over and spread her cheeks for me.”

And you feel a way, about the coarseness of your words, the fissures in your mouth. But this isn’t about demeaning Tashi. It’s about flaying him.

“Dude.”

“Her beautiful, soft, floralscented cheeks.”

Patrick hangs up on you, which feels like how you imagine the President feels after election day.

You wait for him to call back.

It’s less than a minute before your phone shudders. He puts you on speaker.

“Are you done?” he says.

“Dude,” you say, “Never ever. Never ever ever.”

“How much for shipping?”

“Fuck you, coward, you’re still in town.”

There’s a revolting, wet sort of noise as he chews. And it is between these chews that he says, “You want to see me, then? Make sure I’m miserable?”

“I don’t need to see you to make sure you’re miserable, your whole life is miserable,” you say.

Patrick chuckles, the sound garbled by his food. It’s not the noise that makes you recoil from the receiver. You are more disgusted at the prospect of him being fed. Okay, sure—you, in your sadism, have been picturing him gaunt and desolate on the floor. And perhaps you are unmoored by how coherent and gutful he sounds now.

It’s harder to hide sorrow in your eyes. Maybe you do just want to see his eyes, and make sure.

“You’re real classy, kid, I think I’ll miss you most of all,” he swallows. “Where d’you want to meet?”

When you return to the reception hall, the cake is still unsevered and the music has gone slow. Otis Redding, ‘These Arms of Mine’.

Tevin keeps a clammy hand on your midback, the other slackly holding your fingers up.

You’re blinking brine from your eyes and sniffing shallowly. Tev’s giving you a chary sort of look, slightly frowning. He clears his throat.

“If things don’t work out with Lainey, I could marry you.”

But he doesn’t sound too keen on the idea. Which you think is a bit comical, because you've smelled his room, and you've seen him in braces, so, ostensible case for grooming aside, even you're not so desperate.

Still, you squeeze his shoulder lightly through his blazer. You clear your throat, roll your eyes. You let this child sway you side to side, and think of yourself at seventeen, varnishing Tashi’s toenails and daubing them clean with mephitic acetone. Over and over. Trying every colour. One time, you forgot to open a window, and the fumes had you two flaked out on the carpet.

“That’s nice, Tevvy, how’s that promposal coming along?”

In the bar a dozen minutes off campus, you slide the sloppily taped Amazon box across the table.

A microcosm of his pathos condensed into 18 x 12 inches. Each item in isolation meaningless, but altogether painting an intimate lithograph of a man discarded. All tender and immiscible.

Jacket. Toothbrush. Edgefrayed leather wristband. An old iPod with cracked plastic. A pack of cigarettes, crushed and reformed. A small bottle of aftershave. A few crumpled receipts. Unbranded notebook. Expensive fountain pen he probably stole from the bank. A plastic cardholder and a wallet, both empty. A pack of gum.

It feels a bit stupid that Patrick should come all this way for a couple knickknacks. You could have just let him Venmo you for the shipping, and it may have hurt his pride all the same. But you take pleasure in knowing that he was hoping you wouldn’t be the one to meet him here.

“How’s Tashi?” he asks.

You give a small, malicious laugh.

The predictability dissolves none of the abject carnal rapture there.

Of course it’s why he came. He wants to know all about your (singular) dear Ms Duncan. He still has a glimmer of faith that she will change her mind. Even though you both know the girl well enough to know that’s not a thing she does too often.

If you hated him, you would tell him that Tashi is thriving. Healing like a child of God. She’s a new woman, never better, can’t wipe the smile off her face.

But maybe you don’t hate him that much after all.

“She’s a fucking wreck. Moping, crying in the lecture halls, shouting your name in the rain. It’s pathetic.”

A twinge of a smile crosses Patrick’s face, the petty bitch.

“You know I meant her knee,” he says, then takes a sip of his beer.

You cross your arms on the table, then retract them with a wince once you feel how sticky the wood is.

“I don’t know,” you say while rubbing some gunk off your elbow. “I don’t know that, Patrick. You know I think you’re a raging assface.”

Patrick raises his eyebrows. “Have you guys ever fucked?”

His faith, glimmer as it may, is not without its fractures. He has a needling, bonechewing suspicion that this may be the last time you two ever see one another, that you occupy the same orbit. So he thinks he’s allowed to ask.

You just glare at him in cold annoyance. Probably fantasising about smashing his beer bottle over his head. Patrick is familiar with the expression.

“Patrick, please don’t talk to me that way.” There’s violence in your voice that’s probably not just aggrieved feminism.

He knows you’re a woman mutilated about Tashi. He considers saying something even shittier, but what’s the point? You’re not a threat to him anymore. He’s out of the running.

“Fine. Have you guys ever made love?”

Before you can bite his head off, he raises his hands in defense.

“Not trying to be disrespectful, or suggest you have casual pussy and not committed long term lesbian relationship pussy. It’s just… if I figured it out.”

There’s a moment of quiet.

“And, y’know, if she’s single and clearly in a bad place, maybe it’s worth… taking advantage.”

You are at once shocked and maybe even appreciative of his forthright shittiness. It gives you slight confidence, despite yourself.

Call him oldfashioned—or, well, remarkably progressive—but he’s rooting for you kids.

You’re both the perfect combination of hot and insufferable. Stupid and insane.

He knows you weren’t lying; Tashi probably is a wreck. It sometimes makes his tongue go metallic, the thought of her rendered so still and helpless. Maybe it’s better he only got a glimpse of that anguish.

So he’s been ousted, that’s fine. That doesn’t mean you need to dump the baby out with the bathwater. He knows she needs someone.

You sigh. “I’m getting a drink.”

You stand and walk toward the bar. You return with the same beer he’s drinking. He wonders if you got it just because it’s the cheapest, or if you actually like it.

“We never did anything,” you say, picking at the moist label with your thumbnail. “Well. We did everything. But not that.”

Patrick nods. “There’s time.”

“She’s hurt.”

“She’d be lying down.”

She is lying down.

The sky goes gold in Allapattah.

You’re by her desk, looking over her colourcoded portfolios and notebooks and Stanford paraphernalia and assorted photos and inspirational posters. You smile amusedly as you trace your finger over a WINNER cheer banner and a Never Give up, Give 100% Instead! placard.

“Mom says stay over for dinner,” Tashi mumbles, rifling through a Teen People. “Should I ask for ‘Writing’s On The Wall’ or ‘Fanmail’ for my birthday?”

“Mmm...”

You pick up her Girl Scout badges, look them over.

“Put them back in the same order!” Tashi warns, unable to help herself. But she’s spent a lot of time sorting them.

You look up. You give her a blithe, nervous smile.

You shuffle to the bed and knee onto the mattress, collapsing into her. The two of you an interwreathed coalescence of tepid girlskin.

“I have ‘Fanmail’,” you mumble into the skin of her neck.

You hear Tev and Tre roughhousing like dogs in the living room.

She gets you alone in a small, ornate sidehall before the ceremony.

She slides her arms around your shoulders and hugs you tightly. Her skin is soft, balmy and fragrant as summertime honey. The flowery milk aroma of her hair imbues you.

“You remember Ozymandias?” she says, withdrawing and placing her palms upon your shoulders. There is a conspiratorial twinkle of glee in her eye.

“… The poem?” Your brows draw in with a vague scepticism.

Your throat is still fleshtender with the sobbing. Your eyes moist and caustic. But your makeup, for Pauline’s part, looks great. You’re determined to maintain your ramshackle semblance of civility for as long as possible.

Tashi kneads your skin. “Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!”

She clasps your shoulders and spins you around so your back is against her, and you stumble shakily to keep your strappy gold stilettos off her satiny white train. Her arms slink back around you, her thumb caressing the faint protrusion of your collarbone. You feel the sly grin on her lips as she creeps her fingers beneath your hair, sweeping it away and pressing her mouth softly against the gossamertender skin beneath your ear.

“That’s what I’m going for,” she whispers, making a flourishing sort of gesture with her hands in front of you, as if mapping the splay of a billboard. “A grand, glorious, eternal, and yet ultimately doomed endeavour. Something that stands tall and proud, resplendent and beautiful, but, in time, all turns to dust and fades into nothing but a vague memory.”

You shudder with laughter, the bare skin of her chest heated against that of your shoulderblade.

“What?” Tashi giggles softly against the shell of your ear.

“Nothing,” you grin, shaking your head.

You like, in fact, the tender morbidity of her words. That there is a melancholy in her hope. This union, like any, may well be ephemeral. Tashi Duncan, your romantic realist. You hope those are her vows. Wouldn't that throw the kid for a loop.

At the altar, you set your gaze heavenward, determined not to weep once more. This way, the sorrow has nowhere to fall but back within you. And so you do not even see her, as she flows down the aisle and embarks upon her ethereal odyssey.

You don’t think you’d have even been able to take it, anyway.

To bear witness to her metamorphosis under hallowed eaves.

But you feel it. The transience of power. Nothing beside remains.

Pam drives you two to Virginia Key Beach every Sunday after service at the COGIC. You are dithering, at first, about shucking off your clothing. The sea is such a vast, living thing. Nothing like a poky stall in the school bathroom. But, by week three, your Sunday best is sandstrewn, and you and Tashi are giggling things of cotton panties and training bras and seawater.

The waves feel giant and warm.

It fills your mouth and nostrils. The ocean envelops you. The water lifts you up. She mounts your back and drags you under. You laugh so hard you choke a bit, coughing up salt. She laughs even harder as she slaps your back unhelpfully. Her head is bent over yours, ducking to check that you’re okay, but she’s still simpering impishly. The next wave pulls you under and your lips brush against her lips, almost by accident.

You hear her small, hiccupy gasp.

You can feel the way her fingers scrabble against your shoulders. She sinks her little nails in. That Thursday, you had painted them blue.

You lie in a nest of towels afterwards, exhausted and depleted, like children after a bath.

You reach out with your hand and take a few of her wet curls between your fingers.

“When I’m tennis famous, I’m gonna marry Justin Timberlake,” she murmurs, resting her head on her arm, still panting.

“Can I be your flower girl?” you say, running your fingers through her hair.

You were a flower girl at your aunt’s wedding last Summer. You found the job so enchanting. All the doting gazes, the petals between your fingers. It doesn’t occur to you to want for more, at this time.

“You can be…” she mumbles, peeking at you over her arm. “Everything.”

It’s a strange, untenable idea, a thing not named. There are things you cannot be.

But you understand completely. “You too.”

“I wanna be a butterfly,” she hums to herself. “And fly away.”

Your lips twitch. “With Justin?”

Tashi’s face glows a little. “With you.”

Like all Floridian nights, the one of the wedding is humid. You can picture the way the feathery curls along Tashi’s hairline will start to rouse. You can picture, too, the way Art Donaldson’s stupid nose will caress that soft hair, how he will breathe her in. You don’t much want to picture anything beyond that.

There is so much moonlight to see by. It spills across Patrick’s skin in soft luminous beams.

The sand is damp between your bare toes, the satin of your dress growing wet beneath your bum. You are ensconced by a warm, saline squall.

The sea laves the shore like a hungry tongue.

The cake is a pistachio sponge, bedaubed with rosesuffused cream, the layers laden with a tart raspberry treacle, and the frangible ivory of white chocolate. You filch two slices, wrap them in monogrammed serviettes. A&T. Awful and tragic, he had joked bleakly as you clumsily took off your shoes on the foreshore. Agonising and traumatic, you’d offered. You went back and forth like this for a bit.

Patrick’s cigarette gilds his face in a copper glow. His eyes are trained pensively on swathes of sea foam.

Your phone garbles between your feet. Hums—bleary, melancholic—with Amy Winehouse.

And now, the final frame. Love is a losing game.

The cake is good. The cake is fucking amazing. You’d said that, at the tasting. Fuck, this is amazing, had been your honeyed moan. It was enough for Tashi to make the decision. You feel bad, now, lapping frosting off your fingers in her absence, your sugarcoated teeth.

Patrick blows the smoke away from you, disperses the acrid cloud with a fan of his hand. The wind will waft, though; sweep some of that fetor back to you. And all you do is breathe.

Selfprofessed, profound…

Patrick spares you a glance. Then does gawping a doubletake.

“Fuck, you’re not crying.” He sniffs deeply, his hand swiping roughly the wet skin of his cheek.

Your eyes widen.

“Oh, shit, did we start?”

He breathes a dilapidated, spitladen laugh, scrubbing harsh his cheeks with his fingers.

The heavy rivulets keep cascading. Washing his skin.

“Yeah!” he scoffs wetly, sweeping his wrist beneath his nose, sniffing again.

You stifle a rueful simper, wiping your fingers off on the napkin. “Ah, fuck, sorry.”

He gives another watery laugh.

“You’re a dick,” he grins.

And then you’re grinning too, though your brows quaver with concern, “No, oh my God, sorry! I cried a lot earlier.”

He’s shaking his head, freshets of tears still trickling down. “You’re an ass, I can’t believe—“

“I’ve never seen you cry,” you smile, something like wonder misting your eyes.

He chuckles, his cig singeing down, the smoke pirouetting upwards.

“No one has.”

You beam, but your shoulders tense with guilt. “Fuck!” you giggle, rumpling the serviette and resting it in the sand, shifting where you sit, and straightening as if centring yourself. “I’m sorry, I’ll do it now.”

“No, you won’t. You’re laughing.”

You laugh loudly, dropping your forehead to your hoisted knees.

“That’s closer than you think!” you say.

Patrick takes a deep, terminal drag of his cigarette—the ember coruscating violently—before extinguishing it in the sand beside him.

“Fuck,” he whispers, dipping his face into his shirt collar and using the fabric to swipe at his nostrils, snivelling more.

Then his shoulders fall. Elbows resting on his knees, hands falling slack between them.

The song starts up again.

For you I was aflame…

The ocean whispers soft susurrations against the beachfront.

You are struck, suddenly, by his silverveiled visage. Your gaze strokes the slope of his nose, the arch of his cheekbone. You are so enthralled by this wet gleam of his milky skin. There’s something about that; about his unencumbered tearflood and the faraway joy of the party.

Before you can stop yourself, you move in.

Your noses bump. There’s a moment where your teeth clack together and Patrick makes an annoyed noise, but it’s quickly replaced by something that sounds more like pleasure as he turns to fit his mouth against yours more easily.

You taste his tears and mouth and tongue. His hand comes to cradle the back of your neck. Your blotchy eyes flutter closed. You dig your fingers into the sand and close your fists around it. You taste the smoke and the cake and the oceanfront. It’s all a bit warm and desperate.

You think of the seaspray, the burgeoning goosebumps on your arms. You think of your mouth, mollified against his own, his hot spit on your gums, his tongue, hotter still, stroking yours. How he tips your head back so your jaw can fall further, so there is more of you available. You think of mouths. Of course, you think of Tashi’s mouth. Her smile in the mirror.

There’s a poignant tremor to Amy’s voice, as she sings,

Memories mar my mind.

And you are struck by this phrasing. And this is, perhaps, why and when the tears find you. And the sobs come soon after.

Patrick pulls away with a damp little noise.

“Oh my God.”

You’re weeping. Your shoulders start to tremble with spasmodic sobs, and you are bawling. Your face swims hot with a mire of tears and snot. He is not overtly repulsed. Well, you would not know for sure, because you cannot see him. But you feel him shift a little closer, and put a hand on your bare shoulder, his palm flushed and calloused. He gives you a few resigned pats.

“This is not what I wanted, for the record,” he says, unbothered by your head falling against his chest. “Because now I’m gonna feel like shit. Thinking, wow, was the kiss so shit that it made her cry like a baby?”

You lift your hands and cover your face, sobbing harder.

“Which,” Patrick continues, thumb caressing idly the sweat-tacky skin of your shoulder now, “I know that’s not it.”

A beat.

“Do you wanna tell me that’s not it?”

“That’s not it,” you blubber, smearing mucus off your lips.

You pull away from him dragging your hands down your face. When you look at him, you’re sure you look a sorry sight. Tender with despair, all messy, smeared, and febrile. You sniff shallowly.

“You were right,” you say weakly, “It’s not better.”

“What’s not better?” His voice, you note somewhere in the miasma of your sorrow, is uncharacteristically kind.

Your lip quivers, “I’ll have to be there when he puts a baby in her.” Your face has twisted in anguish and you are wailing once more, sobbing loud and earnest.

Patrick blinks at you, “Jesus.”

But he pulls you closer again. Turns your body, in fact, so you are leaning back into his raised lap and he is halfway cradling you like a baby. You weep into his shirt, painting it wet and viscid, and the scent of his awful cologne only makes you sadder.

“Oh my God,” Patrick says again, rubbing up and down your arm, and he sounds a bit amused, which is a little fair. “He might not,” he offers.

You snivel loudly and pull back, swallowing your sobs and casting him a disappointed glower.

“Yeah, ok. He probably will.”

You fall hard against his soaked front again, whimpering feebly. Patrick looks down at you.

“Hey, we can do that, too,” he offers now, in a pick-yourself-up sort of tone that juxtaposes so fiercely with the proposition he’s actually making, you nearly laugh. “We time it right, they can be the same age. Then we’ll put ours in the same school as theirs, and teach ours to just fuckin’ decimate the shit.”

And now you are laughing. You’re still teary and frail so it hurts all the same as a sob, but he can see you’re smiling, so he continues,

“Just everything. Fuckin’ grades, boom. Sports, boom. Instruments, boom. Our one’s gonna play two cellos, a piano, a guitar, and an oboe, all at the same time. He’ll use his fingers, toes, and dick,” says Patrick, and he sounds utterly sincere and emphatic, even as he’s sort of smirking now, because you’re laughing even harder. “And we’ll tell him to bully theirs, too. Every day just ‘oh you’re a piece of shit, you’re ugly, your parents’ marriage was doomed from the beginning’, and their fucker’ll be like ‘no I’m not’ and ‘fuck you’—”

You’re tickled, too, by the voice he puts on to imitate these fictitious children. How he talks all low and churlish like he’s instead caricaturing a worldweary pensioner.

“—and ‘I wish you weren’t so much cooler and better than me, and didn’t fuck my girlfriend, and my mom’.”

You make a face.

“Don’t make it weird.”

“Alright, fine. He won’t fuck her,” Patrick concedes, “That’d be fucking legendary if he did, though. But he won’t.”

You are, again, charmed by this, by how easily he yields. It makes you think of a nursery and fresh, boneless toes.

You rest your face on the wet of your weeping on his chest, and you feel a bit humiliated. But this isn’t so bad, as far as humiliations go.

“What if it’s a girl?” you croak, your words halfway muffled by where your cheek is squashed against him.

“Even better.”

“Where would we live? I don’t wanna go to New York, I don’t have the fortitude.”

The worst of your sobbing has waned to stillness, but he’s still rubbing your arm.

“We can shack up in the Midwest. Somewhere chill.” His leg starts shifting beneath you, and you think he wants another cigarette, but he doesn’t move. Instead, “Omaha?”

You shrug. You hated not being in Florida, but still. You shrug. “Sure. And what’ll you do? Coach? Or become like a blue collar fuckin’…” you trail off vaguely. “I can’t even picture it.”

“I always wanted to be a fireman.”

“That’s sexy.”

His laugh, when it sounds, echoes through his chest like there’s a cavern where his heart should be. Which you don’t think is such an unthinkable idea.

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah,” you nod. You clear your throat. “Especially because you could die at any moment. So if we end up hating each other, I can just wait for you to die in a fire, and, that way, I don’t have to murder you. Then our kid doesn’t lose both parents at once.”

He pauses as if considering this. His leg shifts again. “Fuck,” he murmurs after a while.

“Sorry.”

“No, don’t ruin it.”

You clear your throat again. “And a dog,” you say.

“Fuck, yeah, a dog,” he says in his most New Yorkian fashion. Like a traveling salesman who needs you to look at this vacuum and do it quickly. It’s pretty funny. “It can eat theirs.”

You make a reproachful sort of noise. “Not everything has to be—“

“Okay, fine, yeah, just a dog,” he cedes again. The nursery, in your mind, is astralthemed. “Just a dog for the two of us. And our Nobel Prize winning child. I’ve always wanted one named Bagel.”

You think he can somehow hear your mildly scathing New York musings.

“A kid or a dog?”

“A dog.”

“We can name the dog Bagel,” you shrug, as though agreeing to dinner plans, and the tender pulse of a postweep migraine begins to encroach upon you, like the waxing sea. “Can we name the kid Bagel?”

“No.”

The song is still on loop.

Five story fire as you came…

You think of Patrick in sootscuffed bunker gear and a fireman’s helmet.

“Bagel Zweig,” you mumble wryly, your skull beginning to thump with the ache of your patheticism.

Patrick laughs. Lifts you off his knees, unceremoniously but not unkindly, and begins to rifle in his pockets for his Camel pack.

A sudden bout of cheering sounds from the reception, flashing taunting beams in purple hues. You wonder what the fuck they have to be so happy about. You sigh. Perhaps, too, did people cheer, at the mortal fall of Ozymandias. You think about that. That loss of power. That loss.

[loving-n0t-heyting]

so theres this stupid burn against aristotle, that he was so averse to empirical investigation that he credulously repeated biological "facts" like that mayflies have four legs. which is wrong in general (he evidently conducted extensive hands on zoological research, in particular) and at best highly misleading in the specific case of the mayfly: while it has forelimbs homologous to the front legs of six-legged insects, it doesnt use them much if at all for locomotion; iirc, they are used mainly for reproduction in flight. seems like a perfectly good use of "legs" to exclude them

but whats especially funny about this one is that, i mean. its not as tho we are unfamiliar with any other species that have adapted their homologous-to-front-legs-in-related-animals forelimbs for purposes mostly aside from locomotion, right? and what do we call those forelimbs in that more intimately acquainted case?

[hiddenincommand]

The Ruthless Supremacy of Riding Boots: A Symbol of the Alpha Master

Riding boots are no mere accessory. They are the embodiment of absolute power, the unyielding insignia of an Alpha Master who strides through life with unmatched authority and unshakable control. These boots are not crafted for common feet, nor for unworthy souls. They are a weapon, a statement, a throne upon which the true master of all stands—towering above the pitiful, trembling masses who dare to call themselves men.

The Sole Dominion of the Alpha Master

To wear riding boots is to declare oneself a god among insects. Their gleaming leather, their unbending form, and their commanding presence are the exclusive privilege of those who rule with an iron fist. An omega, or any lesser being, would defile such perfection simply by proximity. Riding boots are reserved for the elite—those who dominate, conquer, and break others for their own amusement. They are not merely shoes; they are the instruments of supremacy.

These boots announce the arrival of power, leaving no room for doubt, no space for weakness. When the polished toe enters a room, all heads lower instinctively. When the heavy sole strikes the ground, its sound alone is a command, a warning to every trembling omega to bow lower, submit harder, and beg with greater desperation.

The Formalities of Power

Even among symbols of mastery, there is hierarchy. The choice of riding boots depends on the occasion. For moments of refined cruelty—dinners where subordinates are reminded of their place or formal gatherings where the Alpha Master reigns supreme—towering black boots, shined to a mirror finish, are mandatory. Their immaculate surface reflects not only light but the pathetic, groveling faces of those beneath them.

For the exquisite act of discipline, a more rugged boot may be donned. Scuffed leather and reinforced soles hint at their history—a legacy of crushing rebellion, both figuratively and literally. The heavy tread of these boots leaves its mark, not only on the ground but on the spirits of those foolish enough to require correction.

Then, there are the spurs. Oh, the spurs—sharp, gleaming instruments of subtle and overt torture. For formal occasions, understated silver spurs whisper of control, their gentle jingle a quiet reminder of latent cruelty. But for moments of brutal correction, heavier spurs are chosen. Their weight and sound add gravitas to every step, and their bite against soft flesh ensures obedience laced with pain and humiliation.

Boots as Instruments of Subjugation

The true beauty of riding boots lies in their duality: they are both a symbol of power and a tool of domination. For an omega brought to his knees, they are a stark, unrelenting mirror. Every gleam in the leather mocks his inferiority, every inch of the towering boot a reminder of the insurmountable chasm between master and subject.

When an Alpha Master raises his boot to rest on a sub’s back, it is more than a gesture. It is an act of ownership, a declaration that this creature exists solely for the master’s amusement. And when the boot presses down—on the neck, the spine, or the face—it communicates a single truth: resistance is futile, rebellion is laughable, and submission is absolute.

Spurs, too, serve their purpose in this ritual of subjugation. A tap against the cheek is enough to send a chill of dread through the most defiant omega. A scrape against the skin leaves more than a mark—it imprints the master’s will onto the body and mind of the sub. Each jingle of the spurs, each flash of metal, is a cruel reminder that the Alpha Master’s control is omnipresent and inescapable.

The Legacy of Dominance

Riding boots are not a mere fashion statement; they are a weaponized art form. They are forged for destruction, crafted for conquest, and worn by those who rule without mercy. They carry the weight of history—of generals who crushed empires, of kings who ruled with unrelenting authority, and of Alpha Masters who turned the groveling cries of their inferiors into a symphony of submission.

To wear riding boots is to stride above the petty concerns of mortals. It is to walk with the confidence of a man who knows he is untouchable, invincible, and utterly dominant. No other garment carries such weight, such command, such ruthless authority.

In every step, in every glint of polished leather, the Alpha Master’s message is clear: You are nothing. I am everything. Crawl at my feet, worship my boots, and know that your existence serves only my pleasure.

For the Alpha Master, riding boots are not simply worn—they are wielded. For the omega, they are not simply seen—they are feared. And for all who dare to look upon them, they are an undeniable truth: supremacy is not claimed; it is taken, enforced, and embodied. And it wears riding boots.

[wolven91]

Skin Deep

The crit'yun are an ancient race.

Chitin instead of flesh, feather, scale, or fur. A mind that was vast enough to include all their kind, but also individual minds, all working towards a common goal broken up into hives then castes. They were like ants of old, but massive.

As for the hives, in the deepest, most protected parts of their worlds, there were pools of a biological soup that gave birth to new and needed bodies. There was no 'set' appearance to the crit'yun. If they needed pincers the most, then the creature that crawled from the ominous goop had pincers. If they needed size or bulk, the goop would recede as a titan lifted itself clear of the liquid, allowing it to cascade from it in great waterfalls as it stepped into the galaxy.

The crit'yun had been around since the various races that now dominated the galaxy had begun to crawl from their own primordial soups millennia ago. They watched the galaxy and recorded its comings and goings with a careful eye. Nothing was forgotten, everything was shared. Perhaps once the crit'yun had spread themselves across the galaxy, like a grand empire? But that wasn't the case now.

Their territory with a sliver that spanned several arms of the galaxy. They stayed there, watching and listening to the galaxy that appeared and grew now that they stayed dormant.

But the modern galaxy feared them, even before their most recent awakening.

Not just because they had perfected what was important to the current races, war and weapons, but because they were an antithesis to what was considered beautiful within the galaxy. Skittering. Twitching. Eyes that didn't look like eyes, or none at all, still watched without blinking. Legs and hands that were weapons.

They were judged on their first introduction. The crit'yun were aliens, even to the aliens.

When humanity appeared, it created an almost visible ripple amongst the insectoids. Something new. Something they hadn't seen. Something they hadn't recorded with their incredible minds. Something, that was dying.

Like a locust swarm amassing, the crit'yun, after thousands and thousands of years in isolation and refusal to engage with the wider galaxy; was suddenly abuzz with activity. The galaxy feared the crit'yun despite the diplomats they sent to assure the Galactic Community of their honourable intentions. They avoided crowded systems, sent only the most appealing of the crit'yun to parley when needed, but they were still shunned as dangerous, foreign things.

This was where Max came in.

Max had been in the 'care' of slavers. He was one of the lucky ones. He hadn't even been aware of their foul intentions. They had lied, placed him in comfortable quarters and began their journey towards a buyer before being found by the crit'yun.

"We are still sorry. That this. Was your first step. Sorry, that we, no... you... did not find... ally, friend, family." Chittered the creature. It was the size of a large dog, perhaps a Great Dane? It's red membrane wings flutters and twitched, but the numerous black dots, that Max had come to learn were its eyes, watched him carefully. Its speech pattern was strange, but it sat next to the human on a raised bench of resin that coated the inside of the crit'yun ship.

"It's alright. I should have known, I just didn't... think I suppose?" The human said with a sigh, gesturing with his hand before it fell back down against his knee.

"Absence. No. Lack of knowledge. Ignorance. Not worthy of fault. " Assured the creature as its head tilted one way and then the other.

The human smiled idly, more to the floor than to himself or a crit'yun. His hand, ever moving reach over without thought and rubbed a hand against the almost perfectly rounded head of the alien insect. Although there was no fur there, the distracted human merely felt calmer by the action. It reminded him of his own dog, Max missed him.

It was almost a whole minute before Max turned his head to the crit'yun and blinked, seemingly surprised that he was petting the insect and immediately withdrew his hand.

"I'm sorry! I didn't-" Blurted the human, holding his hands up in apologetic surrender.

"Why?" Asked the creature. It's perfectly round head turning, the beady black eyes rotating with it. It was a perfect impression of a puppy tilting its head.

"I wasn't thinking." Replied the human honestly, lowering his arms once more, paying attention to the creature.

"Ah. This one knows this. Nature. No... Natural action... To act by instinct. True Freedom. Fear no. Fear not. No offence made or received." Confirmed the alien, bobbing its head. Unbeknownst the Max, the instinctual drive it spoke of was its 'purpose'. Every crit'yun was born and made with a goal, a true purpose in life. The broodmother's was to birth and care for their young and vulnerable. The guards was to defend and destroy threats. To this drone? It was to reapply the resin to the ceilings of the crit'yun craft.

Since the human had shown preference to it, it had already been replaced, its purpose was now to stay by the human and ensure it wanted for nothing until the broodmother's craft arrived.

Max gave a smirk as this giant insect spoke in such an odd way, struggling to find the correct words, all the while he had accidently just treated it like a favoured pet. His brow furrowed as he thought about it though.

"How come the translators don't work for you?" The man asked curiously. He was aware that translators normally just adjusted any word heard for the word the speaker meant, in the listener's language. It shouldn't have been hiccupping over the insect's words.

"They do." Replied the creature smartly.

"But you mix up your words?" Pointed out Max.

"Ah. Translators fine. It is mind that is... limited." The insect explained, bobbing on all six legs.

"Mind?" Max was only more confused now.

"Yes. This one. Crit'yun you see with your eyes. Is only drone. Mind limited. In time... We will present acceptable crit'yun to you." The drone explained, speaking the words the broodmother sent through the hive's mind. It was a delicate thing, to speak through a drone, but doable. They didn't normally have the drive to talk or even need to. It was pure luck that this done was a talkative one, often humming to itself as it happily worked. The broodmother could only whisper simple concepts and the drone would repeat them as best it could.

"What does that mean?" Enquired the human. The crit'yun was pleased with the new specie's curiosity but feared that this was the moment they would lose this creature's trust. The crit'yun knew what they looked like, and the diplomat form could only look so much like them before it caused distress.

"We hide. Will hide. What makes us. Robes will hide chitin. Our eyes will be only... One... Two..." Counted the drone, repeating the broodmother's words. Her signal was getting stronger, straining the creature's mind.

"You don't have to change for me you know? I don't mind." Promised the young man.

"You... flinch." Pointed out the drone.

"I'm not going to lie, its intimidating, being surrounded by bugs, but I bet I don't look great to you."

"Clicks for this one. True. Truth is spoken. Very well. When this drone... is returned to the hive. Hive will not attempt... much... to hide selves..." Promised the drone, settling down onto its folded limbs. Tired now.

"Good. I was always told be proud of who you are. And you guys saved my life, so in my book you're alright."

"We wish to record your book. Please present it." Asked the drone, it's mind growing tired now that the broodmother had relinquished her hold on its mind. She was on the ship now. The idea the drone could record new history and present it to the broodmother? As it slipped from the waking world, if it could smile; it would have.

"Oh. Uuhh..." The human said, unaware he was the only one present now.

[r/WolvensStories]

[AO3]

[Ko-Fi]

[whumpster-fire]

"Medieval" fantasy setting that has its "plate armor at a level of advancement that IRL was developed when guns and cannons were a thing but warfare is almost entirely pre-gunpowder" stasis maintained because of dragons. Not generic magical threats or "magic is better anyway," but dragons specifically.

More specifically, the world is in the aftermath of a catastrophic war where dragons were hunted to near extinction, and humanity came pretty close to being wiped out as well. As a result of this, one of the few things that can actually get dragons to cooperate with each other is a country getting serious about firearms development. In some cases there are explicit nonproliferation treaties, in others it's just a general threat of "look what happened to the last guys," but regardless, almost nobody has anything beyond very primitive firearms because to a species that lives for many centuries, a human nation coming within 50-100 years of mass-produced flack cannons is an existential threat. The red line technologies aren't even weapons that are particularly effective against dragons on their own, they're just precursors to things that are.

(And just to be clear, this isn't a "dragons rule the world and want to keep humans in their place" setting, this is a "dragons mostly want little or nothing to do with humans but humans are bad at minding their own business" setting.)

Half of human-dragon conflict is a result of agricultural/herding societies expanding into dragons' territories and replacing prey animal populations with cattle, which dragons would generally be fine with as it results in abundant and easy to kill prey if the humans didn't believe they had an exclusive right to eat said cattle. Even if you come to a reasonable, mutually beneficial agreement there's no guarantee that in a hundred years the original humans' descendants won't change their minds and declare you to be a tyrant, then try to kill you. Most of the other half is a result of humans actively hunting dragons because their body parts are valuable and/or because dragon eggs need strong ambient magic to incubate which usually means building a nest out of enchanted objects and/or magic-amplifying materials. Also from a dragon's perspective a 'peaceful' human society can turn into an aggressive, colonizing, genocidal empire really goddamn fast.

If dragons see humans as insects, they're regarded as the equivalent of an aggressive, invasive, really annoying and sometimes deadly kind of wasp that might create desirable resources if you have them around but they're more trouble than they're worth because they'll build massive nests in your yard and then it's only a matter of time before you get stung for existing in your own home, and also they can chew holes in the walls and swarm-attack you and your children in their sleep. Combine all the worst fearmongering about africanized honeybees and asian giant hornets and you'll have a good idea of how dragons see humans. The reason dragons trying to coexist in proximity to humans are a small minority isn't because most dragons are going "You soft hearted loser, caring about such meaningless creatures," it's because they're going "You fucking idiot, you can't share territory with humans, they'll turn on you as soon as there's a famine or their population gets too big for the land to support you and them. Individual humans can be okay but if you let them build a city on your turf it's a matter of when, not if, it becomes a problem."

[bardic-tales]

Tumblr Games: Writing Share Tag

Thank you so much for the tags: @frostedlemonwriter and @glbettwrites. Your shares were awesome!

Rules: Share a piece of writing you're proud of.

I haven't written much over the last week, since my spoons have been really low. Holidays tend to take a lot out of my family now.

I have been working on a drabble or flash fiction. It doesn't have a title, yet. As always, this is a really rough draft. :)

"As a god," Sephiroth said, his voice was smooth like poisoned honey, "I can offer you something the Celestials or Devils cannot."

"Oh? What can you offer me that the divine can not?"

"Everything." He glided his hand down the smooth sloop of her throat, igniting goosed flesh to rise on her skin. She shivered. "Absolute power. Unlimited wealth. The submission of nations and empires. The Promised Land."

As he lowered himself to her height by bending towards her, his lips hovered close to hers. His breath fanned her cheek and lips, igniting fire within her belly that soon spread throughout her entire body: a burning need to join him on his crusade for revenge against those insects that call themselves human.

"But, most importantly," he whispered, "eternal devotion and unwavering loyalty. You are mine by right, Bia, and I will treat you like the queen you are meant to be."

Going to open this up to the Creators Club as a CC member tag game. Share your work you're proud of.

@megandaisy9 @watermeezer @littleshopofchaos

@kricketbee

@themaradwrites @pinkevilwriter

@serenofroses @asirensrage @aalinaaaaaa @goldenlilium-ocs @glbettwrites

@wyked-ao3 @badscientist @thebadphilosopher @andromedalestrange

@fantastictrashpolice @seastarblue @happypup-kitcat24 @chickensarentcheap @allaboutmagic

@ryns-ramblings @kathaliabloodyrose @riemmetric @andromedaexists @kckramer

@tales-from-nocturnaliss @pastelpinkhobbies @idonthaveapenname @the-bar-sinister @rosesonkittens

@bloodred2023 @kanobarlowe @aquixoticwrites @new-royston-cursebreakers

@rosemirmir @salmonandfox @fablesandfragments @paganmindidnothingwrong @elshells

@viscerawrites @ellowynthenotking @dawsonskyelar @greenapplespider

@edupunkn00b @the-duke-of-nuts @exclawshou @karkkidoeswriting @meerawrites

@theglitchywriterboi @mayarab @memento-morianon @mrsmungus

@pebblesfromtheshore

[satoshi-mochida]

Suikoden I & II HD Remaster: Gate Rune and Dunan Unification Wars adds PS5 and Xbox Series versions, launches March 6, 2025 - Gematsu

Suikoden I & II HD Remaster: Gate Rune and Dunan Unification Wars will launch for PlayStation 5, Xbox Series, PlayStation 4, Xbox One, Switch, and PC via Steam on March 6, 2025, Konami announced. The PlayStation 5 and Xbox Series versions are newly announced.

Digital pre-orders are available now for all platforms except Switch, which will begin pre-orders on September 6. Physical edition pre-orders will begin on August 28.

The following downloadable content is included with pre-orders for the digital edition:

57,300 potch – In-game currency

Fortune Orb – Doubles the experience gained by the character that bears it.

Prosperity Orb – Doubles the “potch” gained when winning a battle with the character that bears it.

Here is an overview of the collection, via Konami:

About

A hero’s destiny is written in the Stars. The legendary Konami JRPGs Suikoden I and Suikoden II have now been remastered in high-definition!

The Story of Suikoden I

A once renowned hero turns into a violent tyrant, and an empire falls into decline. A Liberation Army is rising up in an act of rebellion against an oppressive rule. One by one the 108 stars of Destiny gather to shape the course of history.

The Story of Suikoden II

Our story’s hero and his friend Jowy are members of the Unicorn Youth Brigade, which participated in a drawn-out border dispute between the Highland Kingdom and the City-States of Jowstown. A few months earlier, a truth agreement was signed between the two forces, both of which were happy to see an end to the fighting. However, hidden under the momentary peace the fires of a new war continued to smolder…

Key Features

-Graphical Improvements

Pixel sprites and environment art enhanced with new screen effects including lighting, clouds, and shadow animations Flickering flames, smoldering smoke, the movement of leaves and insects, all add up to a lively in-game atmosphere!

The effects and direction have been redesigned, bringing memorable scenes back to life in more beautiful ways!

-New Character Drawings

All character portraits have been updated in HD. Junko Kawano, who designed the characters for the original version of Suikoden released in 1995, has newly re-drawn all the character portraits for Suikoden I HD Remaster: Gate Rune War.

-Sound Improvements

Field Sound – A large number of environmental sounds not found in the original version, such as the sound of running water in the river, wind, insects, and running footsteps, have been added. You can enjoy an immersive experience like never before!

Battle Sound – All sound effects are now in HD. In addition to the impact of the 3D effects, the realistic sound greatly enhances the dynamism of the battles!

-Game System Improvements

Many new features have been added, such as dialogue log, auto-battle, double-speed battles, etc.

Watch a new trailer below.

Release Date Trailer

English

Japanese

[moonlit-imagines]

Lover. Fighter.

Cal Kestis x reader

warnings:

a/n: im writing im writing im writing im writing (it only works if im procrastinating)

prompt: @sweetjedi: “Lover. Fighter. by SVRCINA Cal Kestis Romantic (unless platonic fits more)”//Lover. Fighter. - SVRCINA

The two of your had past and future intertwined, Jedi ripped from familiarity and forced to conform, cheating death in the process.

Meeting was never in the cards, but against all odds you and Cal crossed paths and saved each other in the darkest of times. Impossible circumstances brought you into a new war, one you’d wished was over for you.

“The Jedi were peacekeepers, I wish I could have experienced peace in my time.” You sullenly explained to Cal when your fingers wrapped around his. “And if you say ‘it’s not too late,’ you’re wrong. We’ve experienced too much war and tragedy for me to escape the nightmares. No matter what happens, Cal, I will only see war.” It broke Cal’s heart to hear you speak of hopelessness, but he couldn’t say he didn’t understand.

“I get it.” Cal squeaked your hand and paused, silence growing solemn. You only heard the chirping of native insects on the planet you camped out on. “I still want to fight…maybe it’s all I know.”

“I never wanted to fight, even when my Master was training me.” You pulled away and stood up from the log you’d been resting on. “I’m fighting now, and that’s okay for now, but you know what? I’m still tired. And every day I fight hard against an Empire that’s fighting harder and I want to quit but I can’t. I can’t because I love you.”

“Y/N, I love you, too, and I’m fighting for you.” Cal stood up and closed the gap between you as you paced.

“I am, too! But how much do I have to lose? Am I going to lose you? Or the crew? Where is the finish line?” You frantically asked rhetorics as Cal pulled you close and soothed you.

“You aren’t going to lose me.” He said, but those were just words—and no matter what he said, it wouldn’t change how you felt after all these years of suffering. How could he promise if you’d already lost everything else? He knew just as well as you that wasn’t guaranteed, but there wasn’t anything else he could say. “Just stay with me. Please, stay.”

“I’m staying.” You mumbled into his shoulder, wrapping your arms tightly around him with tears on your cheeks. “And I’ll do whatever I can to keep you with me.”

taglist: @locke-writes // @captainshazamerica // @gabile18 // @sweetjedi // @summersimmerus // @lady-violet // @simp-legend //

[rainydaydream-gal18]

(The Bad Batch) Crosshair x Reader: More than a Dream

The Bad Batch is finally enjoying some more downtime and even some relaxation after the return of Omega and someone else unexpected.  You feel like you're caught in another dream.

Word Count: 1,209

Warnings: Some angst, comfort, Season 3: Episode 5 Spoilers

Can Be Read as Sequel to: In My Dreams

“Why are you crying?” A thin, raspy voice asked.  It only made the tears fall faster as you shielded your eyes from the waking dream beside you that sat up and gently leaned over you in comfort.

You’d been plagued by false hope too many times before.  You couldn’t bring yourself to meet his eyes in the dark.

You curled up on the soft bedroll as you focused on the sounds of the room.

The ocean waves softly whooshing in the distance outside your open window.  Nocturnal insects were chirring to their heart’s content as they did every night.  A warm breeze tickled your skin and ruffled the curtains draped on either side of the window. 

If not for the continued presence that you felt beside you, you’d think you were beginning to wake from the bittersweet vision.  But he remained.

“I had another dream,” You answered finally.  “It’s…I wanted it to be real.”

There was a pause before the familiar voice continued.  “What was it about?”

“Omega came back safe and sound, and so did you.  You finally returned to us-” The sentence was cut off by a sorrowful sob.  You curled up, trying your very best to stifle it.  A hand curled over your shoulder, drawing you closer to the figure.

“Shh,” he hushed next to your ear.  “It was real.  I’m here.”

You relaxed against his clothed chest and allowed yourself the comfort.  As much as these dreams played your heartstrings like a seven-string hallikset, you couldn’t bring yourself to push him away. So, you clung to the fleeting moment and waited for it to fade into the night like they did every time.

Except it didn’t.  Precious seconds turned into minutes.  The minutes pushed on until you realized that he wasn’t going to fade.  Not this time. 

You dared yourself to look up.  Just one glimpse…

The first thing you saw was moonlight pouring into the room, covering everything in a lovely haze of silver.

And there he was, propping himself up beside you on one elbow while the other arm draped over your form.  His chin was lifted as his gaze was directed to the scene outside the window.  Your eyes followed the line of his jaw, pausing at his cheekbones, and wandered down the slope of his nose to his lips- admiring the shadows that the moon of Pabu cast on his face.

All at once, the memories came rushing back.

You remembered so vividly the moment Omega jumped into your arms after being lost to the Empire for several months.  You recalled the way your heart jumped for joy at her return and the fact that she was safe and sound.

You remembered the way you froze up completely at the sight of him.  Omega’s sheepish tone and Hunter’s suspicious gaze were lost to you as you stared Crosshair down from across the way.  No words came to you for some time.  It seemed to be the same with him.  The two of you spent the entire journey across space in that ship speechless toward each other, only communicating with odd stares.

You weren’t sure how you felt at first.  Of course, you were shocked by his return.  Confused.  And there was still anger toward him for betraying the squad, for betraying his family, for betraying you.

Somewhere along the line, it was just the anger that remained. The odd stares turned into cold ones on your end.  He didn’t return them.  He’d only met your gaze with a sort of prickly silence.

Then there was last evening when the tension finally snapped.  You’d ditched the silent treatment and instead opted for a shouting match; except, it was only you shouting, and him replying through clenched teeth.

Finally, when you’d spent your energy, you exhaled.

He wasn’t asking for anything unreasonable.  He wasn’t asking for anything, period.  Crosshair had been a big part of helping Omega escape, and the kid had spent plenty of time trying to vouch for him to you and the rest of the squad.

The man before you had been severely humbled.  He’d changed, and it was written all over his face.  When you finally began to accept it, that’s when the tears came. There wasn’t just anger: there was hurt.  There was longing.

Crosshair pulled you into an embrace, and you cried into his shoulder.

You recalled your quiet, pathetic plea for him to stay.  You recalled the way he held you tighter, and how before you knew it, you both had curled up on your bedroll together, drifting off to sleep. 

And now, in the late hours of the night, you realized that it was indeed real.  It was truly Crosshair beside you, warm and safe.  His eyes were no longer gazing out at the moon, but instead locked on yours.  His mouth formed a frown as he saw the tears that had begun to well up in yours again.

“I thought it was another dream,” you cried.

 His hand reached up to stroke your cheek as he hushed you again gently.  “You don’t want to wake anyone.”

You gave a nod and buried your face into his shoulder.

“Hunter wouldn’t be so pleased to find me in your room,” he continued, petting your hair.

His comment nearly gave you a chill.  The thought of Hunter finding the two of you there, giving Crosshair that glare of utter distrust and fury and you the weighty gaze of disappointment was not something you wanted to experience.

“He still doesn’t trust me.”

“It’ll take time,” you murmured, voice muffled in his shirt.

“I know.  This wouldn’t exactly be a step in the right direction.  It’s bad enough that the kid can’t seem to stay away from me.”

“Omega sees something in you.”  You sighed sleepily, as a wave of exhaustion hit you.  “And so do I.”

Silence fell between the two of you, and the sounds of the night came to the forefront of your mind again as you began to drift back to sleep.  Crosshair’s breathing and his heartbeat were your lullaby.

Somewhere between the waking world, and your dreams, you thought you heard him utter,

“I don’t deserve it...”

- - - -

The next morning, you awoke to brilliant sunlight in your eyes.  In the heat of morning, you’d kicked your blanket off.  Reaching over to pull it back, you realized that the presence beside you was no longer there.

For just a split second, your heart plummeted.  The question of whether it was all just a dream arose once more, and you found yourself standing there on your feet and staring at the bedroll.

“No, it was definitely real,” you said aloud.  Relief flooded you as you fully woke up and went over last night’s conversation in your head.

As if timed to perfection, you heard the zoom of blaster fire.  It was a single shot, which was that of a sniper rifle.  You headed over to the window, trying to shield your eyes from the bright sunlight.  You squinted to see a familiar figure clad in gray and red down by the beach, taking aim at a target.

A sigh escaped your lips as you watched him fire again.

It was the start of a new day.

[allwormdiet]

Buzz 7.8

Nazi capes fuck off, like fucking for real

Honestly even if Kaiser deigned to tell his people that the Undersiders weren't responsible, somehow I doubt any Empire member would be inclined to treat them with much respect.

Yeah, see, this isn't about the leaks for Hookwolf. This is about the fucking beef over the dog fights.

Not a genius move from the driver, honestly. If you really want to put bullets in the villains that have good defensive capabilities, the last thing you want to do is give up the element of surprise. Stormtiger may not have been able to deflect those shots if he didn't have enough time to react.

Also, does Cricket wield kama? Like, the fucking Japanese farming tool? Are you allowed to join the Empire if you're a blatant weeaboo?

This is a really bad matchup honestly, it's tense to see how close they get to death with these fuckers

Disturbingly evocative and sadistic, but what else is to be expected from fucking Nazis, right

Clever guy

Fuck yeah, environmental takedown

Grue is fucking hardcore. Two shots to Stormtiger's legs and not even bothering to acknowledge Cricket's hostage. Dude does not fuck around when it comes to Empire, the only restraint here is that he's not killing them outright but honestly I wouldn't feel bad if he did. Just dump their bodies into the water, bing bang boom.

Well, okay, I guess Hookwolf would still be a problem, wouldn't he

This Cricket gal is bullshit honestly

So, yeah, now that we've gotten all three of the Empire capes to show their powers, I'll go ahead and say that this fight was stacked against Skitter and Grue from the jump. Hookwolf can't be fought hand-to-hand without being shredded to pieces and insects can't do much about metal flesh. Stormtiger can get bugs off himself no problem and can blast away Grue's darkness. Cricket, meanwhile, has some kinda sonic blast that lets her navigate Grue's darkness and also incapacitate Skitter's bugs.

The fact that they get out of this fight alive is a testament to remarkable intelligence and grit on their part.

This is a brutal slugfest honestly, although the fucking Nazi deserves every second of pain she's getting from it.

It's a little funny that they're having this conversation in front of Cricket. Like "oh yeah it looks bad but she's too busy being a sadist to do any real damage," "oh that sucks ass of her but I'm glad you're not too hurt" and she's laying there with a chunk of thigh missing. She should be embarrassed enough to leave town forever.

Yeah Cricket's busted, but good news is she's taken care of

It's a little funny that they're both stuck stitching each other back up after Brian cut off any romantic options. Like I've seen a lot of works where patching up someone's wounds and putting them back together would have a kind of bloodsoaked intimacy to it, but not here lmao

Also yeah you'd better appreciate Tattletale

These little punks. Love em to bits.

Okay so real quick, noticing Taylor's description of how Regent is talking, and I wonder how grounded Alec is as a baseline. Like I have to imagine that the Heartbreaker Experience doesn't do a whole lot of wonders for learning how to connect to the world around you. Is it an affectation like I've been speculating, or is that just the best he's got for engaging with reality?

I wish going straight for Purity meant killing her, but even without reading the rest of this arc I know the Undersiders don't have that kind of firepower. I can dream, though.

Teehee, parallels

Current Thoughts

I wish Grue managed to kill all three of the Empire capes but I get why he couldn't. I'll just have to hope they all die later.

Awesome that they managed to get the win over those bastards in the first place though, I don't think this is my favorite fight in terms of the beat-by-beat action but in terms of how they have to overcome the disadvantage of enemy powers it feels the best.

[callahanisms]

knight in shining armor

pairing: cullen rutherford x gender neutral! reader

premise: a royal au, featuring cullen as a member of your royal guard.

♡ cullen rutherford, your knight in shining armor since you were young. a righteous boy who grew up into a righteous man, protecting you from dangers beyond the walls of your castle and imperial spies.

♡ cullen rutherford, who was brash and outspoken, who would talk back to his superiors for interacting with royalty when he himself was nothing more than a peasant.

♡ cullen rutherford, a boy punished for rumors untrue.

♡ cullen rutherford, who became a knight and popular amongst your kingdom subjects.

♡ cullen rutherford, who became a hero in the war against an imposing empire that threatened to swallow your country whole. you were a hero strategist and he the heroic knight-commander.

♡ cullen rutherford, who gained a promotion from your father. “any position.” he said. it almost seemed too good to be true.

♡ cullen rutherford, who asked to be part of the royal guard. “nothing would bring me more honor than to protect you and your family, your greatness.”

♡ cullen rutherford, who also got a mabari with his promotion. he was more than ecstatic considering that he’s wanted once since he was a kid.

♡ cullen rutherford, who learns it was you who got him the mabari hound he’s wanted. your act of generosity would not go unnoticed.

♡ cullen rutherford, who participated in many tourneys representing himself. his experience gave him the upperhand against the nobles who had never even stepped foot on a battlefield.

♡ cullen rutherford, who asks for your favor. you smile cheekily and toss him the wreath of flowers. “may the maker smile upon you today.” he notices the wreath has daisies woven within it.

♡ cullen rutherford, who is assigned by your father to watch over you personally especially during the treaty signings. maker forbid something happened to you, the heir to the kingdom.

♡ cullen rutherford, who finds his love for you deepening, a love that has been building since he was a child and saw you all those years ago. he can’t help the smile that continues to form on his face. leliana and josephine are always pointing out his lovesick grin when you’re around.

♡ cullen rutherford, who continues to polish his chess skills. it drives you a little stir crazy that he has only beaten you. 10 to 0 is the current score. you’re determined to win at least one game.

♡ cullen rutherford, who finds you reading up on chess strategies and asking other people that have played him for advice on how to win. it amuses him and he decides to leave you alone.

♡ cullen rutherford, a man who feels pride when you finally beat him. you outmaneuvered him in almost every way. it was a little scary actually how you beat him.

♡ cullen rutherford, who meets you in the gardens at night. it’s just the two of you. alone. no one around. he could hear nothing but your breathing and his own and the gentle hum of insects.

♡ cullen rutherford, a boy who grew into a handsome man. the scar adorning his face added a charm to him. and his eyes were warm, gentle, inviting.

♡ cullen rutherford, whose touch put you at ease and made your skin flush. your heart would pound against your rib cage and it threatened to burst from your chest.

♡ cullen rutherford, who felt like forbidden fruit. you should be dallying someone of your status, someone born into nobility and with titles and lands. he was a man with neither (outside of his current titles, of course).

♡ cullen rutherford, who cupped your face gently. the two of you were so close. so very close. if you moved further just a little...

♡ cullen rutherford, a man surprised when he felt your lips against his. he suddenly couldn’t move, body frozen. he had become putty in your hands, maleable by your will.

♡ cullen rutherford, who kissed you back with such fervor that it felt like you were about to explode. with happiness of course.

♡ cullen rutherford, your lover. a secret affair you had to have. and sure, were you breaking your promise to your father to marry someone adequate? yes. but you knew what you felt and it would never be with any of the nobles that send proposals every day.

♡ cullen rutherford, who is content to be your lover in the shadows of the night. you were his liege. he wanted nothing to happen to you. he understood the responsibility on your shoulder.

♡ cullen rutherford, who always deflects from the rumors and questions surrounding him and his liege. people are talking. it wouldn’t be long before such whispers reached the greater nobility.

♡ cullen rutherford, who is surprised at your forwardness and openness during your name day ball. you ask him for a dance. openly. in front of all the suitors that had lined themselves up for you.

♡ cullen rutherford, who takes your hand and ignores the looks being sent his way, ignores the hushed whispers behind elegant masks and large hand fans.

♡ cullen rutherford, who utterly melts when you whisper to him, “i love you.”

♡ cullen rutherford, a man interrogated by your father because of the rumors of his liaison you. he gives vague answers that only further frustrate your father.

♡ cullen rutherford, a man saved when you enter the room and give your father clear answers. you are firm on your stance and on your love for cullen. he feels flutters in his heart watching you argue with your father. it appears you had become his knight in shining armor.

♡ cullen rutherford, a heroic knight-commander promoted to a member of the royal guard and now, your husband. he says his vows with enthusiasm and love. his whole body shakes with enthusiasm as he says, “i do.”

[dancingaura925]

As an experiencedTM danmei reader, I've come across many genres, and I feel like that the one genre that the SVSSS fandom needs to exploit is the interstellar genre. Why? Because it'd be fucking hilarious. Hear me out:

In the original work, Luo Binghe is - instead of part demon part human - is part zerg part human. Zerg, if you aren't familiar, is basically the interstellar genre's version of reallyyyyyy strong aliens, and depending on the author, can range from actual literal beasts to human-like creatures with insect features to just straight up humans with nice-ass wings, which can then have different degrees of autonomy due to this hivemind they've got with the Zerg Queen. Basically, nobody has any clue on what a proper Zerg should be, but nobody cares :D

In addition, these stories often have a human empire dedicated to fighting against these Zerg. This may include a main planet where the emperor lives and other planets with different nobles, territories, military bases, etc. It almost always has a research lab on the main planet that usually have some sort of dastardly scheme related to the main plot. On top of that, these empires are very militaristic, with mechas and combat and mental power and all sorts of interstellar travel

...

Do you see where this is going?

Once upon a time, Tianlang-Jun (perhaps the descendant from the Zerg Queen) and Su Xiyan (a researcher) fell in love with each other in the research facility. SXY was assigned to TLJ because the research facility wanted to know how to harness the Zerg Queen's power to once-and-for-all wipe out the Zerg race. However, once the two got together, they started to plot how to get out and along the way, LBH was conceived. OPM, the ex-head researcher got FURIOUS and badabing badaboom, you've got SXY on the run before sending LBH to another place to survive.

Fast forward a lot, LBH shows up at the Cang Qiong Military Academy, which is split up in different divisions under different commanders. For LBH, he goes to the Qing Jing division where he is led under General Shen Qingqiu, someone who often boasts of his own mental power and lies and takes other people's credit to get to the lofty position he is today.

When LBH is training, he starts standing out in unusual ways. His physical prowess is through the roof, but his mental power is abysmal, which is bad because that's kinda how you use mechas, and often, physical strength can be enhanced with mental power (kinda like cultivation). So LBH is bullied, harassed, etc, and all the while, SQQ is like "this dude is a beast/derogatory".

Insert a long few years, including a Zerg invasion with none other than Sha Hualing. You go, girl.

When the Empire's Military Academy Tournament (could not think up a name rn) shows up, he's sent to go and instead of being sent into the Abyss, he's sent through a wormhole to a Zerg-infested place, where he learns more and stuff. Wowee!

He comes back with revenge on humans and stuff and integrates both the humans and Zergs under his iron fist. The fight against the emperor takes up like a hundred chapters or whatever.

So that's the OG version. Now, let's insert a millenial mess that is SY as SQQ and see how he handles being in the military. He better put to use that military training Chinese kids are put through.

On the other hand, if you wanted to take a completely DIFFERENT direction, have LBH be a test subject in the lab and have SY transmigrate into a researcher. LBH was supposed to be a human weapon, designed from intentional breeding. SY, knowing LBH will break out and cutely demolish the human race, tries to befriend him, teaches him everything. LBH, despite being a weapon designed to destroy the Zerg race, falls in love. And then he breaks out. Cue drama and kidnapping.

[is-the-king-dead-yet]

The thing is that the Charles portrait can be read as total flattery or scathing critique and the two sides of the mouth quality is what makes it work for 2024.

So it's a monarch butterfly for a king, echoing Elizabeth I's portraits with insect symbols in her jewelry, and symbolizing Charles's environmentalist pretensions. The red is from the uniform and it threatens to overwhelm the individual but the face and hands, the most individual parts of a person, stick out in contrast. So it's about the person wanting to be seen behind the institution. Perfect flattery of Charles's put upon self image.

But the butterfly is endangered (like the institution of the monarchy). The red is the blood shed by Empire, which subsumes the individual and defines his significance to the world because it truly is bigger than this man whose ceremonial role is to distract from it. The hands and face contrast because they're grey and they're depicted with all the ravages of age, creased and lined. The king who is supposed to be a symbol of the "rightness" of Empire is just a withered old man who can't distract from the sea of blood. The man who wants to be seen as more than that role is kidding himself because he's submerged in the blood. A perfect critique of who the king is and what a farce his role - and his awkward relationship with that role - is.

I can't quite tell if the painter means this as a subversion of the commission process or if they meant this as a compliment and missed the other reading, seeing through a lens distorted by the belief that nothing could be wrong with a king. But it really makes the painting work for a moment in time where differing perception of reality is so central to politics and where irony really captures attention. Most of us on some level know the monarchy is rotten but press and art and political ritual haven't yet imagined what will replace it. So the monarchy remains as a placeholder for what will come next, sustained by a discourse that is not totally lying about the monarchy's decadence but which makes no definite move against it either.

[best-habsburg-monarch]

Maria Theresa, Archduchess of Austria, Queen of Hungary, Croatia and Bohemia, etc. reigned 1740-1780

The empress who reformed the empire while having a ton of children at the same time.

Maximilian , Emperor of Mexico, reign: 1864-1867

The last emperor of Mexico who supported liberal reform against the desires of Mexican conservatives.

Propaganda under the cut:

Maria Theresa:

From anon:

- chucked into ruling at age 23. while pregnant

- no prep!!!! Prussia invades Silesia!!! Ministers fucking around for their own provincial interests instead of for the Whole !!!!! and she has to somehow cope with all of this ....

- ALL WHILE being pregnant with Joseph (II) and we know that guy was just as ornery in utero as he was irl

- she's everything! He (Francis) is just ....Ken.

- YAS QUEEN rediversify that gene pool

- originally reluctant to participate in the 1st partition of poland (who wants galicia let's be real)

Maximilian

From: anon

- He loved plants

- He was a sassy man

- He had good taste

- He learned Nahuatl

- He’s cute (I mean look at him)

- He said “gay rights”

- He banned child labour in Mexico

- He gave many rights back to indigenous people

- Bro was wronged by France (haven’t we all?)

- He’s baby

- Got executed, come on, give him this guys 🥺

- He loved to design gardens and collect insects which makes me think he would've loved playing animal crossing

- An outspoken liberal in a period where the monarchy was still quite conservative.

- Vice-Admiral of the Navy who initiated scientific projects and exploration.

- Aesthetic girlie. Collected flowers, painted, wrote poetry, and kept a journal. He would have loved Tumblr.

- (Probably) gay or bisexual.

- Allegedly slapped Franz Joseph for refusing to allow Lombardy to have an elective body.

- Sisi's favorite brother-in-law (and not in a romantic way, fuck you Netflix)

- Refused to take the Mexican crown until a plebiscite had been held because he wanted to be invited by the Mexican people.

- Gave up all of his Austrian titles to go to Mexico because he believed he had made a promise to them.

- Also, his wife was amazing and capable and the amount of pure misogyny that certain historians and biographers have thrown at her is ridiculous. I know this isn't a Carlota poll, but she'd want Max to win.

- Netflix did him unbelievably dirty. Please give him this.

Did you know my man Max repatriated many pieces of Mexica artefacts?

He told Austria to cough up 3 main things that he thought were rightfully Mexican.

1. The Chimalli

2. A codex

3. A letter from Cortez to the chocolate man people seem to call Charles

The Austrians took their time but eventually gave back something

The Chimalli next to max so people know who to thank for it