#it is a surefire way to get himself killed if he doesn't

[rexcaliburechoes]

Scarlet, strawberry, and garnet for an oc of your choice <3

spins another comically large wheel that just reads the name "istorros" (yall i'm not trapped in here with you. you are trapped in here with me. LMAO.)

SCARLET - How do they grieve?

frankly? poorly. but this has a lot to do with how he was raised and how emotions were frequently weaponised against him. the most striking moment when he was one of the darkest moments in his life (in his opinion, a world ending threat has nothing on interpersonal trauma), and a beloved animal companion was killed after he'd barely made mention of it once. he couldn't even grieve; he had to immediately dispose of its corpse and shut down everything lest he be harmed further.

later, he gets better! he'll still refuse to talk about it, but he doesn't shut it down, at least! the bar is six feet under, i know. lol.

STRAWBERRY - What part of them is most like you? Was this intentional?

his trauma and his healing journey reflect mine really closely, hands down. i am NOT nearly as dry and blunt as he is, personality-wise, lol. i'm also not as nearly unsmiling as he is (he's a grouchy ass drow; i don't think most people could be as unsmiling as he is unless they're also a written character).

this is a really funny question to ask, since i've had one other oc a long time ago that reflected me very painfully closely. she was a fire emblem echoes oc, made to be another deep reflection of rigel. no matter how many times i try to have her start to heal from her trauma, she always refuses and gets worse. currently, she's retired and is living peacefully on a horse farm, as content/happy as she allows herself to be.

GARNET - If they had to kill someone, what method would they choose?

istorros is bound to the edicts of tempus, the warhammer, which means he is bound to fight others in honourable combat, and must not turn from a fight. hence, he could rather go about a fight directly, without beating around the bush or any frivolities. he's very efficient at killing, as a result.

however, he's not going to go and fight stupidly, either. most fights are done in a matter of seconds; the longer a fight goes on, the greater likelihood that something will go wrong, and you'll die, instead of your opponent. he'd rather kill quickly rather than draw something out for show.

once upon a time, before he worshiped tempus, and before he escaped the underdark, he would have tried to rely on poisons to ensure kills. but he would always be efficient with it; there's no use in keeping an opponent alive if there's a chance they will recover and kill you when you aren't looking.

he did learn how to poison a person before learning medicine to save them, after all...

[rarepears]

Oh! MBJ "bridenapping" SQH, it sparked an ~idea~

What if instead of MBJ bringing his husband to rest, it's an INJURED MBJ, looking for his Qinghua because he always heals and protects him. But since he's injured, he doesn't really have the cognitive thought process to realize SQH's aura isn't in a safe spot in his internal GPS and doesn't think to go to SQH's house. Just straight to SQH. In the middle of a meeting with most of the Peak Lords, excluding LQG because I agree, nothing would be able to happen if he was there since he'd kill an injured MBJ in an instant.

SQH has a split second to think.

Save MBJ or himself?

SQH tears a reserve teleport talisman he had MBJ make for him so writers choice if anyone knows if SQH did it himself or if the injured Demon Lord did.

Anyways, MBJ tears open a portal, covered in blood and SQH doesn't have much time to think and catches his husband King and has a split second to choose.

EITHER WAY THE GOSSIP!! The An Ding Peak Lord was kidnapped out of a meeting with the Sect Leader and multiple Peak Lords present by a demon.

That'd be terrifying just at first thought. A demon made it past Cang Qiong's wards and Qiong Ding's, all the extra wards in that meeting room alone, faster than all present Peak Lords could react.

Then we have the 2 main gossip chains. Why was SQH taken? Logistics and Love

Logistics for all the info the An Ding Peak Lord has access to since he maintains it all. Prime target for a surefire way to do a lot of damage. If SQH talks, the Demon Lord can get past all the wards and kill, pillage and raze anything in a high profile area.

Love because if they hear he did this super injured, just to collapse onto SQH and spirit him away? The screams from the BL lovers. I bet LMY could belt out a few chapters pretty quick about it lol.

She writes the next love epic, countering HHP's propaganda by accident lol.

Prominently, both SQH and MBJ now know that SQH would save MBJ even when he might/is declared a traitor.

MBJ would feel so much more secure knowing that. Maybe even becomes forward enough that SQH can't mistake the interest.

And SQH just cut off his own path to safety by not letting his sect kill his King.

So now they both get to live with this neat bit of trivia.

Don't really have any other thoughts besides HHPM ends up dead and SQH is Queen in the North by the end. Maybe TLJ gets let out and hears a whisper about a child on the Luo River.

Would be hilarious if Cang Qiong found out that there's a loophole in the Cang Qiong wards to allow in demons that meet very specific conditions... like being a peak lord's spouse, so they don't even realize that Shang Qinghua modified the wards to let in Mobei Jun (and Shang Qinghua doesn't even realize that he could had hacked the wards by getting married instead of spending 6 months painstakingly learning the wards and then learning how to crack the wards.)

Somehow it doesn't even require the peak lord to know that they have a demonic spouse.

[what-have-i-unleashed]

player!killer and anomaly!dust

since these ideas have been invading my brain lately, i feel like i need to ramble about the toxic (doomed) kist potential they have.

imagine the game world of dusttale trying to correct itself ever since the anomaly/virus that is killer entered it. so things in the world start to glitch and don't make sense. a character repeats their lines over and over without stopping. shortcuts stop working properly. character stats inexplicably get messed up. goners start appearing to warn dust and killer about the end of the world. it's nearing its doomed timeline trajectory, and yet dust will not give up trying to salvage his universe. in his mind, there's one surefire way to get everything back to normal: exterminate the virus that is killer.

dust and killer (and the goners and the almagamates) are not affected by the glitches because they are anomalies, glitches detached from the world already. to killer, this means enlightenment and freedom. he doesn't understand dust's attachment to the underground, his dogmatic beliefs about justice and the greater good for the monsters. doesn't dust want to ascend to be something "real", rather than the npcs that the rest of the monsters are? doesn't he want to escape from the control of the player? why would he want to obey to the whims of a dying, boring, constricting world anyway? if dust can't see it, then killer will make him see.

the thing is, dust is a difficult monster to persuade. sure, killer can kill him again and again (chances are 50/50 on who will win anyway). but dust always bounces back, more vindicated in his retaliation and belief that killer needs to be gone. the thing is, when you want to break someone down, you need to be the thing they fear the most. killer is already that, isn't he? he's a future of a sans, of dust's own past. this is what dust could have become. killer is what dust has become - a sans doing the work of the no-mercy player.

"aren't you bored of doing the same thing over and over again? aren't you crazy from repeating all these useless cycles only to reach the same conclusion again and again?... oh wait, you already are!"

and dust - what can he say to all that? is it true? is it not? who cares - the only satisfaction he can have is wiping that smirk off that face. killer knows intimately beings like dust - not only because they were the same person at some point, but also because dust is a control freak with a savior complex as well as survivor's guilt. deep down inside, dust cannot fathom losing. he has poured too much, sacrificed too much, to get this far. and he won't stop - not until he reaches his happy ending, which will never come. so he'll forever be stuck down here, repeating his worst nightmares again and again in a hell of his own making.

the only variable in dust's life is killer. gradually, dust treats killing other monsters as a job - an important yet thankless job that someone has to do. the only kill in which he feels something is of his brother... and killer. with killer, dust is filled with something - maybe it's joy, maybe it's hate, it's hard to tell when apathy is his usual state.

and the thing is, the opposite of love isn't hate. it's the lack of love - it's apathy. he feels something for killer - an attachment, an obsession, a possessiveness. "only i get to kill him", "he's my kill", that's what dust thinks. he rationalizes that thinking of course - killer reminds of him too much of himself, the person he hates the most. but there's that fear every time he kills killer - fear that killer will never come back, leaving dust with his empty broken world and voices in his head. and he fears killer will know it, somehow.

for killer, it's always a game to see who's the winner and who's the loser. it's a struggle for control, with the controller and the controlled. and with the player gone, dust should belong to him now. an eternal playmate, after everyone else has disappeared from his life. and like, it's totally therapeutic to beat up and mess with the guy who reminds you of yourself, right? totally not a self-esteem issue waiting to be explored or anything at all. it's funny how much they match. "look, we both wear red!" exclaims killer as he points to his own red soul and dust's red iris. determination pulls them together, and determination will break one of them in the end, and it's not going to be him. he'll persevere once this world rots away, while dust will be trapped by his own volition.

maybe, just maybe, he'll whisk dust away once the end comes. and they'll find another playground to re-enact their play again. killer will take and take and take, until all they are is dust.

Oh, I will ruin you It's a habit - I can't help it

I will only break your pretty things I will only wring you dry of everything And if you're fine with that If you're fine with that

[weenwrites]

[ Please do not repost, plagiarize, or use my writing for AI! Translating my work with proper credit is acceptable, but please ask first! ]

He initially mistook them for another predacon, but it doesn't take long for him realize that what stands before him isn't another metal titan but rather an organic one. Upon being attacked, he doesn't hesitate to retaliate, but by no means is he seeking to kill them exactly. If they're willing to yield to him, then he will let them live, however if they keep fighting then he's not afraid to put them in their place and assert himself above them.

It would be no surprise if he looked down on the dragon and saw them as inferior. After all, he doesn't have to look far in order to hear some xenophobic remark about organic lifeforms, and also his ego could stand to benefit from being knocked down a little. But in order for him to even begin considering dating them, he'd have to start respecting them and seeing them as an equal at the very least.

So long as they could impress him, whether it be through wits or brains (a mix of both is a perfect surefire way to get him interested), then they'll have his respect. Alternatively if they put him in his place through combat or a battle of wits but still show him respect and courtesy, that's another way to earn his respect guaranteed.

Now if someone were to call him a copy of a real dragon, to say he'd be enraged would be a severe understatement. He believes he's not something as lowly as a mindless, flying lizard. Granted, he shares many abilities with the ice dragon (sure he spews fire instead of liquid nitrogen) but he's superior because not only can he transform, but he's practically indestructible and nigh immortal. It's what makes him a predacon that separates him from being a dragon. But if they can rival him in both strength and wit, then really the only thing he has going for him is his ego and his ability to transform.

[irkimatsu]

Overlord Husk may not be keen on sharing, but his pet has expressed an interest in group sex. Threesomes, foursomes, moresomes, both of them getting to enjoy other people - wouldn't it be fun to experiment?

And Husk does have to admit, being a third-party witness to his pet's pleasure is enticing... he's already watched them masturbating plenty of times... that could work. He has some rules in place, though:

-Any time he or his pet has sex with someone else, the other will be present, whether participating or simply watching. That's non-negotiable. Husk and his pet are a matched set.

-If the non-participating member of the encounter wants things to stop, they stop immediately. Their happiness with the act is just as important, even if they're only audience to it.

-Husk does not hesitate to use his right to tell his pet's latest playmates to stop. You will not hurt his pet. You will not degrade his pet. You will not make his pet call you anything reserved for him. You can play with his favorite toy, but you must remember who they truly belong to in the end. Go too far and he will kill you. (Husk flashing an angelic blade to make his point is fucking hot... ...Husk viciously attacking a bed partner who goes too rough and won't listen when his pet tells him to stop... all that blood... uhm. Where was I again. Anyway)

-Husk also won't invite just anyone into bed with him and his pet; you have to earn his deep trust in other matters for him to even consider making that offer. Asking him directly to have a turn with his pet is a surefire way to make sure you never get a chance to touch them, ever. Don't cozy up to him just for a chance with his pet, either. He can tell what you're trying to do, and he's supremely protective. Earning his trust doesn't get you any other special rights with his pet, though; all partners are the same. You hurt his pet, you die. That's the risk you take.

-Sometimes, Husk is more than happy to simply watch his pet sleep with someone else. Getting this new angle to watch their reactions to pleasure, to focus solely on their beautiful voice, to see for himself all the delicious things they can do with their mouth... his pet is more enticing than any pornography or strip show in Hell. He could sit back stroking himself to their skills for hours. He'll try not to cum yet, though; once their guest is done, it's his turn to step in and show what his pet really likes. They always scream loudest with him, cum hardest, leave the deepest gashes in his shoulders and back with their claws... and their guest has to watch every second of it. Husk loves being a showoff.

-Just as often, Husk will join the fun himself. It's all in service of pleasuring them in ways that a single person just can't do. Sucking both breasts at the same time, two tongues working between their legs, double penetration sandwiching them between two hot bodies and filling them with such intensity... god, anything to make his pretty little thing cum as hard as they need. And if their guest taps out first, Husk is more than happy to finish the job on his own.

-I'm queer as fuck, so I have the right to say Husk's allowed to get off to watching women fucking each other, right? It's not about objectification; he accepts his pet's orientation and wants them to have fun. If his pet takes a liking to one of his dancers and wants to play with her tits, then who is he to judge? And as long as he's not judging, what's the harm in jerking off to it?

-Let Husk get a double blowjob from two hot women who are just as invested in each other as they are in him, tongues caressing each other as they glide over his cock, hands on each others' tits, making out with each other with mouths full of his precum, god please that's sexy as fuck

Husk and his pet are still each others' primary partner, the most important person to each other. All this is simply to enhance their relationship. If it won't bring them closer together, it's not worth doing.

So, yes, even you might have a chance to fuck Overlord Husk's precious little charm! As long as he trusts you. And as long as you're willing to watch him fuck them afterward and make them cum harder than you've ever made anyone cum in your life.

The humiliation's worth it, promise.

[fairytail-whathesays]

hello! if it’s not a problem, can i ask for some headcanons of sting with a veeeryyy hot headed BF who’s also not a wizard? both sfw and nsfw if that’s okay :)

you’re very good at writing and i love how you portrait all the characters so well

Thank you!!!

Being a wizard and using magic is so normalized around Fiore and especially within Sabertooth that Sting's kind of surprised to meet a guy who doesn't have or use magic, let alone date one.

Hot-headed matches well with Sting, especially if they have that upbeat spark that he's got himself. You guys obviously started out arguing or competing against each other, maybe fighting, and you know how Sting loves to prove himself.

Granted, these traits do match up badly with the fact that Sting near-exclusively hangs out with wizards otherwise. Sting has just enough wherewithal to pull you back if you start trying to beef with Orga or Minerva or some shit, bc without the magic, u ain't Natsu and ain't gettin up if they clap you.

If you aren't a fan of wizards in general or don't keep up with wizard culture, then it ends up kind of refreshing for Sting. It probably tripped him up a bit at first, expecting you to know who he was, illustrious guildmaster of Sabertooth and all, and floored him to hear "who the fuck" back.

He's SO DISAPPOINTED AT FIRST like him boasting about killing dragons has never failed to earn a reaction but pretty soon he gets excited about showing you what being a wizard is like. It's even better if you uno reverse card him and drag him into whatever world you're coming from, be that non-magical guilds or just everyday life where people use electricity and shit.

You two probably met at a gay bar. Bonus points if you were the bartender. Double bonus points if you were the bouncer.

Since Sting is so eager to defend or just fight alongside his man, many fights you'd otherwise struggle with get one-shotted. Which probably irritated you after a while and he was asked to back off. He sulked about it for a week.

Unless you are yourself a high earner by some fashion, odds are Sting is richer than you by a good margin. He is a pretty capable wizard who regularly goes on difficult and high-paying missions, so the good news about that is you get treated often. Anything you want, you get without a second thought, you're pretty spoiled.

Rogue vanishes the second you appear, not because he doesn't like you, but because your energy and Sting's energy put together makes him need a nap very badly.

Sting does his best to hype you up the way he would any boyfriend, and he's good at it, only he sometimes lets people think you're a wizard for the fun of it. He's had a lot of fun lying to people about what kind of magic you use and how it can make people's heads explode or other outlandish tales.

NS/FW:

There are two possible outcomes here: One, you put your money where your mouth is and get Sting in Slut Mode pretty easily with that surefire aggro attitude of yours...or Sting discovers your bark is worse than your bite and you get a free domming out of your man.

The 69ing. Good looooooord the 69ing. Y'all be makin' each other dizzy.

Sting's filter is only half what yours will be. If you talk about sex lightly, then he's gonna be ready to brag to everyone around him how good you are in bed. If he's not too hoarse to speak.

So many nudes. You get new snaps daily, always after some attention, because you know he loves that attention.

Sting hates getting dressed after the fact so be prepared to see him walk around in the buff once he's got his breath back.

[kareofbears]

you never gave a warning sign (i gave so many signs)

"Communication, right?" Thomas spits, looming above Newt, and he hates this, hates it so much but he has to pull Newt out of whatever mindset he's buried himself in. It's one thing to raze the world to save Newt—it's another for Newt to be the one to get in his way. "Then talk. Convince me to let you turn into a Crank."

—

Or, a missing scene in The Death Cure where Thomas can't let Newt sacrifice himself. He just can't.

read on ao3 or below the tag :)

It never fails to send Thomas reeling, whenever it happens.

It happened a lot when they were in the Glade, sure. They got along well, very well, even when Thomas had just freshly popped out of the Box and could barely catch his breath with the speed of questions leaving his mouth. But he and Newt weren't aligned yet, not the way they are now. Back in the Maze, it was more political than anything, a system of governing that both of them had to heed. Power structures, hierarchy, Greenie this, Keeper that, order, order, order.

Out of the walls and into the Scorch, the two of them snapped into place. There was no room for hesitation, not when it was just Newt and Thomas (and Minho. They have to save Minho, now). All structure gone, they could only rely on each other to lead a group of terrified teenagers through a desert, Cranks, and a staggering bounty on each of their heads. There were so few of them left, dwindling by the day, that they couldn't afford to slip up. Communication above all else. Minimize mistakes, but when they happen (and they will happen, god will they happen), talk about it. Figure it out. Make sure it doesn't happen again.

Neither of us goes to sleep confused, you hear me? If there's one thing we can control in this hell, it's this. Good that, Tommy?

Long conversations couldn't stay long, not with how fast everything moves around them. So it was something they refined, polished until it was shining.

They learned how they ebb and flow, memorized each other's landmines and remembered not to step on them unless they had to. Learned each other's nervous ticks, every twitch, every frown, what sets the other off and what's a surefire way to de-escalate the situation. They found themselves not needing much to get their point across; a breath, a few words, a pat on the back, a clenched jaw, the quirk of a brow. It was beautifully efficient for them and annoyingly grating for everyone else.

Like this, it was laughable to even try and hide the fondness they had for each other, not when it showed in their every move, every action, every breath.

Once they sorted that out, though, their wavelengths only became steadier, impossibly solid—seemingly parallel lines merged to become one, harmonizing in a frequency only they could hear, a language only they could speak.

Their foundation is something that's second nature to Thomas now, a structure that gives him good footing and the confidence to surge forward, letting him hold his head up high. If he has anything, he has this.

Until he doesn't.

—

Frypan grips his spatula like an instrument of war. “Hell no. You know my rules."

"But I just saw Gally leave with a sandwich."

"Yeah, I didn't feed that bastard for six months and look where he ended up. With some wacky military cult group who wants to take down the government. He gets to have a snack from me, just once."

Thomas sighs, just a little. "Come on, man, I'm starving."

"And what do you think I'm doing right now? Gardening?" Frypan jerks his head at the portable stove with a stock-pot bubbling on top. His tone leaves no room for argument, an assertiveness that only fully materializes in a kitchen. "Dinner's ready in an hour. A little wait won't kill you."

He fights another sigh, remembering how it was Frypan himself who used to sneak extra skewers for him back in the Glade.

It's not that he particularly likes it that people have a different attitude about him nowadays. He's grown to expect the expressions of the people around him, the range of irritated to pitiful. In truth, he knows where they're coming from. He's always been abrasive, but ever since he found out about Newt, it's gotten out of control. Thomas' temper is parabolic enough to be comparable to the Flare; he's snappish and intransigent, a complete nuisance to work with. He's fully aware that he's become borderline unbearable—the interrogation with Teresa only solidified that.

But despite everything, they still put up with it. They love him, he's their friend, yes. But the real reason they put up with it is because they understand why he's turned into this.

Thomas turns around to leave, resigned, when he hears Frypan click his tongue. "Hey." Looking back, he just barely catches a bag of trail mix tossed his way. "Share that with your boy, okay? Don't go ruining dinner just because y'all are spoiling your appetites."

Because everyone loves Newt, some of them longer than even Thomas has. While Thomas may be the loudest to voice it, may be the one who'll always take it too far, every single one of them are doing what they can to help Newt.

Thomas doesn't quite smile, but it’s a near thing. "Thanks, Fry."

"Anytime. Now get."

Newt's waiting for him just outside the kitchen, leaning against the wall, eyeing the bag. "That's not the sandwich I was promised," he says, but takes it out of Thomas' hands anyway.

"Should've been you who asked." They like you better. He pops a raisin in his mouth.

Newt gives him a look before kicking himself off the wall—an action so reminiscent of Minho it makes Thomas ache. "Now, Tommy, we have to work on that confidence of yours."

"Lots of people would beg to differ," he says, waving him off. It honestly doesn’t bother him. He likes Newt better, too.

"Depends on who you're asking." Newt shakes the bag, carefully picking out the good bits. Thomas lets him. "We probably looked real bloody confident earlier."

"Yeah," he says mildly. Thomas watches him pour the almonds back in, feeling himself start zoning out as he replays the interrogation in his head, speeded up like a faulty DVD.

Teresa's in, which is admittedly good. He and Newt talk a big game, but it would be infinitely harder to get into WICKED without her. They need to talk to Lawrence as soon as possible, make sure he doesn't back out of their deal. He also has to talk to Newt, confirm that he's comfortable flying the Berg out with Jorge. All of this is already written down in his leather notebook, written and re-written enough that he can recite it from memory, but it doesn't hurt to think it through one more time.

Without warning, Newt slaps his bicep, pulling him out of his stupor. "I can see those wheels spinning," he chides. "What's in that big head of yours?"

"Nothing." When he receives a dry look, he takes a deep breath. "Nothing yet. I'm just thinking about our next steps."

"Let me guess," Newt throws some cashews in his mouth. "You want to bust into The Last City tonight, have the infiltration take only half an hour long, and have the Flare out of my body in an hour, tops. Sound about right?"

Thomas huffs. "An hour's too long, can we make some edits on that?" Still, he can't help but let his eyes drift towards Newt's forearm. "I want that thing out of you, Newt."

"You and me both, love," Newt mumbles, chewing, deep in thought, and Thomas has to turn away to hide a pleased smile. "It's a lot to worry about. So many players involved in this, stakes are high. Teresa's only the first step."

Taking a deep breath, Newt pushes his shoulders back and starts walking in the direction of their meeting room. Thomas follows close behind.

"Here's what we're going to do," he declares, passing the half-empty bag to Thomas. Their shared footsteps are silent, a habit they fostered in this new life of theirs. Gone are the times in the Glade when they can stomp around all they like. "You and I are gonna work this out, like we always do. Every nook and cranny, every little detail your overthinking brain can think of, we're nailing down. Make this thing airtight before we bust in there, guns blazing and hell raising. Make a plan so good it'll put all of our other plans to shame. Then you're going to your little cot and sleep eight hours straight, snoring loud enough to ruin the night for the rest of us. Good that?"

Something fierce and reverent squirms in Thomas, and an easy agreement is on the tip of his tongue when something makes him stop in his tracks, feet stuttering to a halt.

Newt walks a few steps further before noticing. He turns around, brow cocked. "What's up?"

"We?"

That makes Newt's face scrunch up even more. "Well, if you wanna talk to Gally about this instead, be my guest. Or better yet, invite Teresa, why don't you?"

Thomas doesn't laugh. "We bust in," he repeats, heartbeat in his throat. "That's what you said."

The confusion melts off of Newt's face, caution taking its place. "Yes," he says slowly. "That's what I said."

A silence grows between them, and Thomas is waiting for Newt to say he's joking, that he's just trying to pull a smile out of Thomas. Instead, the silence stretches.

"Newt," he says quietly. "You aren't coming into the city."

Newt's shaking his head before Thomas can finish. "We talked about this, on the rooftop—"

"No, that was different. You wanted to help with the missions, and you have been. You wanted to help find Minho, and you did. You've already done enough."

"Done enough?" His expression is unimpressed. "Well enough that Minho's here now? Well enough that all the Immunes are magically saved? I don't think so, Tommy. We're not done here, not even close. I'm going out there."

Thomas forces himself to take a breath. "The Flare gets worse the more stressful a situation is. Here, let me—" Wildly patting down his jeans, he all but rips his notebook out of his pocket and flips through the pages, ignoring the tremble in his hands. "There, see? 'If individuals infected with the Flare are in constant stress—"

"I know."

"'—it can rapidly increase the— "

"—infection rate of the brain,'" Newt finishes, idly touching his forearm. "I know."

Thomas lets the book fall from his hand with a muffled thud and doesn’t bother to pick it up again. "Okay," he hears himself say. "You know. So you're not going."

Newt takes a step forward, placatingly eyeing him in a way that makes Thomas' chest tight. "Tommy, I'm going. This doesn't work if—"

"We'll make it work."

"You're not listening to me. If you go into WICKED, just you and—"

"We'll make Gally stay with me the whole way. Frypan. Jorge. If you're staying here—"

"Which I'm not, and you're going to have to accept—"

"You're not going—"

"Thomas," his voice is dangerously soft. Thomas flinches away, something vile curling in his gut, the sound of his own name making him sick. "Listen to me. I'm fucking going."

Thomas' eyes shutter close. It feels like his mind shutting down, cortex by cortex as he fails to understand what Newt’s trying to say. For a blissful moment, he’s deafened by the ringing in his ears and the beat of his thrumming heart.

When he finally opens his eyes, all he sees is red.

Grabbing Newt’s jacket collar, he all but drags him out the closest door, taking them to the chapel’s courtyard, unfeeling the cool night air brush against his skin. What was probably once a beautiful garden is practically a garbage dump now. Broken glass is sprinkled on top of dead rose bushes, plastic bags swaying in the breeze. There’s a fountain in the middle, its ceramic cracked and caked in dirt, filled with debris that’s accumulated over the years to the point where it spilled onto the grass beneath their feet.

Thomas doesn’t give a shit about any of it. He drops Newt on the lip of the fountain, almost throwing him in from the force of it.

"Communication, right?" he spits, looming above Newt, and he hates this, hates it so much but he has to pull Newt out of whatever mindset he's buried himself in. It's one thing to raze the world to save Newt—it's another for Newt to be the one to get in his way. "Then fucking talk. Convince me to let you turn into a Crank."

Newt's glaring daggers up at him, and it would normally be enough to sway Thomas. He steels himself and refuses to look away. Not this time.

"Don't you toss me around like I’m some damn shank," Newt says lowly, eyes narrowed. "And you're not letting me do anything. I'll do what I damn well please if it helps Minho and take down WICKED."

Thomas grits his teeth. "Talk. You said it yourself—you know the dangers, you know why you can't just rampage into the city with us. You know better to jump into something so stupid."

"Stupid?" Newt repeats, incredulous. He moves to stand but Thomas pushes him back down, and it makes the flame in Newt's eyes burn brighter. "You of all people don't get to call me that, you bloody hypocrite. How many times have you jumped headfirst into danger without talking to any of us about it? Saving Alby and Minho in the Glade, following Aris in the WICKED compound. And, what, the minute I try to do even a fraction of that, you get all pissy at me?"

"That's different!" Thomas realizes, belatedly, that he's half-yelling. "You know why it's different. I didn't have the Flare, I wasn't sick and getting worse by the minute. You going to the Last City is suicide, Newt."

"Then why did you let me help during the interrogation if you're so sure I was going to be such a nuisance?"

His mouth drops open, bewildered. "I didn't say you were! You helped during the interrogation because it's Teresa—she knows me, she knows us—" Newt scoffs and rolls his eyes, and it's such a petty move that it fills Thomas' veins with thunder. He grabs his shoulders and shakes roughly. "What the hell is your problem?"

Thomas is livid, seething with rage. But above all else, he's shaken. Newt has never been so hostile, so reluctant to see logic. He tries peering at Newt's face, to try and read between the lines that he knows better than his own, but Newt tilts his head away from him.

Is it the Flare? Is it something else?

Is it both?

"You want to know what my problem is?" Newt says, still not looking at Thomas, expression excruciatingly blank. "My problem is that you don't trust me."

Nothing. Nothing could have prepared Thomas for that.

Letting his hands slip, he stumbles backwards like he took a blow to the gut. An uncontrollable laugh slips out of his lips, mildly hysterical. "What?" he manages.

"You bloody well heard me." Newt stands, approaching Thomas step by step with a certainty that makes his skin crawl. "You don't want me there, ruining this operation. You think I'll get in the way. You think I'll Crank out in the middle of it, or attack you halfway through and you have to carry me out of there."

Thomas refuses to take a step back, letting Newt invade his personal space. "You know that's not true," he says, voice hard.

"It's true." Newt's eyes are wild, black, darting all over the place. With every breath he takes, his black veins pulsate in time in a sickening rhythm. "It's true. Say it's true. Say I'll ruin it for everyone."

"No."

"Say it, Thomas."

"Fuck off. No."

Thomas feels it before he sees it. A sudden blow to his jaw, his head jerks sharply to the side as he loses his footing for a moment. Newt stands in front of him, hands still curled in a tight, shaking fist. Apparently, he isn't done yet.

"Say it!" Newt screams, and the sound makes Thomas recoil more than the punch did. "If you don't say it, I'm going, with or without you!"

Thomas doesn’t answer, instead he lets his instincts take over. He connects his fist to Newt’s cheek, feels the bone underneath his knuckles. Newt topples over, lithe body hitting the ground hard. Blond hair blocking his eyes and black lines polluting his neck, he doesn't move for a brief, horrifying half a second.

Time slows down. In that moment, Thomas sees the future: Newt, dead, splayed out on the ground. Or maybe Newt, a Crank, haggard and vicious and stripped of everything that makes him so, so lovely. In both possibilities, he knows, he just knows, that Thomas would be the one to put him in the ground, because he would never let anyone else touch Newt. It would have to be him.

Unable to control himself, Thomas lurches forward to the fountain and vomits, heaving and shaking uncontrollably, the urge to scrub that image from his brain almost unbearable.

A hand grabs his jacket and roughly pulls him back. Thomas lets it happen, his back hitting the grass hard enough to wind him.

Newt clambers on top of him, hand placed on either side of Thomas' head, teeth bared and nearly snarling. "I'm going to the city."

"You can't," Thomas mummers, thoughts still jumbled. "You can't, Newt. You'll die."

Slamming his hand down, Newt grips either side of his face, thumb cruelly pushing into his throbbing jaw where the punch landed. "You don't get to take this choice away from me. Over and over again, you ruin things for me, for everyone. We could still be in the Glade, we could still be safe and ignorant in the facility, if it weren't for you. Minho would still be here if it wasn't for you. You don't want me to die? Maybe consider the fact that it's you who's killing me."

The words glance off of him. Instead, Thomas stares up at Newt, eyes carefully taking in every detail there. Past the ferocity, past the seemingly impenetrable anger and dripping hostility, there's something in his expression that's screaming at Thomas to be noticed. There's something layered there, begging to be found, subtle and invisible to anyone who isn't him.

"Make it up to me, Thomas. Make it up to me by giving me a choice." Newt's chest is heaving, leaving Thomas space to say something. When he doesn't, Newt's face twists even more. "What, no comment? No clever words today? Aren't you the inspiration between the two of us? The fucking wonder boy?"

A hot tear rolls down Thomas' temple, sudden and uncontrollable. It's as if his body figured out what's going in Newt's head before Thomas himself did.

Newt, eyes black with fury, digs his nails in with a vengeance, but Thomas can barely process the pain, his entire being staring intently at Newt’s face. “Give me a choice. Let me do this. If you care for me, if you ever gave a damn about me, respected me as a person and respected me as yours, you’d grant me this.” With every word he hisses, Newt squeezes tighter, and Thomas doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t dare breathe. “Grant. Me. This.”

Then I went and found the tallest wall I could, and I climbed up there and—

It clicks.

When Thomas finally speaks, it feels like his heart is in his throat. It feels like the world is ending. “You’re not planning on coming back.”

For a long, long moment, neither of them say a word. A strong breeze ruffles Newt’s hair like a caress.

Newt leans back and sucks in a deep, shaking breath. His shoulders sag in on himself, and the tight grip on Thomas’ face eases until the pain fades away, replaced by Newt’s thumb gently stroking what he’s sure is a glowing bruise on his jaw. The symptoms had passed, for now.

Thomas swallows, ribcage creaking with swirling, conflicting emotions. Slowly, carefully, Thomas sits up until he’s chest to chest with Newt and pulls him in for a hug. Arms encircle his waist and holds him tight, then tighter. Tight enough that it feels like nothing can get between them. Tight enough that it feels like if Newt’s heart stopped beating, Thomas’ would, too.

—

“The Flare didn’t make that up, did it?”

They’re both leaning against the fountain, the clean side. Cleaner side—the side that Thomas didn’t throw up in. Sitting on the ground, they’re shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, sharing whatever’s left of the trail mix that stayed miraculously sealed in Thomas’ pocket. Like this, he feels a wave of nostalgia, a wistfulness for the bonfire back in the Glade. It’s almost silly, feeling homesick for a place you lived in for all of a week. Can barely even call it a home.

Newt considers his question and Thomas immediately diverts his attention to ripping up the grass underneath them, vaguely enjoying the sensation. These talks always work best when Newt can pretend Thomas is busy doing something else.

“Some of it,” Newt admits. “At least, I’d like to think some of that wasn’t me.” From the corner of his eye, he sees Newt’s gaze flicker at Thomas, no doubt taking in the bruise that’s still blossoming there.

He shrugs, unbothered. Thomas taps at his own eye before nodding at Newt. “Gave you a black eye, in case you forgot. And between the two of us, at least you actually have an excuse to go a little crazy.”

“You’ve always been a little crazy.”

“For you, maybe.” And just to seal the deal, he winks at Newt, poorly.

As he suspected he would, Newt reels back in shock for a moment before laughter bursts out of him. Eyes crinkled and shoulders shaking, he feels himself laugh back a little, on reflex. “There you are,” Thomas says softly. “Welcome back.”

Newt grins back, the remnants of his joy still strewn across his face, stubborn and sticky like honey. “Didn’t peg you as a flirt, Tommy.”

Tilting his head up skywards, Thomas hums, enjoying the sight of a clear, night sky as he lets relief wash over him. “I’m glad I have my Tommy privileges back.”

It was supposed to come out as a joke, but it comes out more vulnerable than Thomas intended. He can’t help it. Back in the Maze, everything was taken away from him, from all of them. The only thing you get back is your name. Every Glader remembers that feeling for the rest of their life. It’s a fierce thing, to be reconciled with a name that you’ve lost when you don’t have anything left. It’s the only thing that’s truly yours.

When Newt called him Tommy for the first time, in that casual way of his, it meant everything to Thomas. It’s taking what’s Thomas’ and making it distinctly Newt’s. It made Thomas distinctly Newt’s.

He knows Newt heard the sting in his voice. Silence blankets them, thick and weighted.

This fight was hideous. Brutally ugly. It’s the kind of argument that Thomas would expect to have with Gally, or Alby back in the day. Hackles rising, knives out styles of confrontations that Thomas had grown used to. A necessary kind of viciousness you have to emulate. But not with Newt. Never with Newt.

If this was any other situation, either of them would have their weapons down by now. Waved a white flag. Not this time.

Not knowing what to do with his hands, he peers into the bag of near-empty bag of trail mix and spots a peanut still in its shell. Pulling it out, he cracks it open and offers it to Newt, who accepts with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas says, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice. Not then, not now.”

Newt sighs, rebuttal surely about to come out, but Thomas shakes his head. “Please. Just let me—I have to get this out.” Straightening up, he fully turns to face Newt, unable to stop himself from glimpsing at his black eye before focusing. “Again and again, you’re here for me. You know my moods, you know how I function, you know what makes me stop functioning. And I thought,” his voice cracks, and he falters for a moment. “I thought I knew you, too.”

“Of course you do,” Newt reaches for his hand, and Thomas takes it gratefully. “Better than anyone.”

“When we were on the rooftop, and you told me about your leg, I convinced myself I couldn’t do anything about it.” He traces the callouses on Newt’s hand absentmindedly. “‘I wasn’t there. What could I have done? I’m here now. I’ll help him now.’ But the worst thought, the fucking worst one of them all,” Thomas’ mouth twists bitterly. “I thought: ‘It’s in the past.’”

“It is,” Newt insists, but it comes out weak. Hollow. A beat passes. “I thought it was in the past, too. I think the Flare must’ve pulled that out of my psyche or something, honestly.” He laughs, the sound brittle. “Like a bloody truth serum now? As if this couldn’t get worse.”

A question enters his brain. It’s one he doesn’t want to consider, a question he can’t fathom voicing. But it’s for Newt. “Do—” he tries, throat closing up. “Do you still want to…to try finding—a tall wall—?”

“No,” Newt interrupts firmly. “God, no, Tommy, no. Not anymore. It’s different now. Sure, it gets hard, but it’s always been hard. No time for breaks. We get lazy—”

“We get sad,” finishes Thomas, a small fraction of his worries fading away. “I remember.”

Newt’s eyes brighten with mirth. “My bright pupil, you are.”

Silence stretches once more, and Thomas passes the time by playing with the peanut shell in the hand that isn’t holding Newt’s, nail scratching against the rough shell, before shoving it in his pocket, not wanting to litter.

It’s not that he’s surprised that Newt is self-sacrificing. They all are. It’s impossible to be so devoted to this cause without eventually realizing that you’d do anything to make sure the mission’s completed. What doesn’t settle well with Thomas is that Newt sees that there are options. Newt, I’ve called a Gathering to see what the others think. Newt, patience, Greenie, it would do you some good. Newt, slow down, Tommy. What are we not seeing?

Time and again, Newt is the one to take a step back and see the bigger picture. He has the disposition of a leader, the ability to make the calls without panicking. There’s a reason why people gravitate to him the way that they do.

But all of that is thrown out the window when it’s about Newt himself.

Newt takes a breath. “I just think,” he says, slowly, like he’s thinking about every word before speaking. “That I should go to the city because it would increase our odds of success.”

Oddly enough, Thomas is almost glad that they blew up at each other earlier. Otherwise, he’s sure he would probably be yelling at the top of his lungs again. As it is, Thomas’ head has been clearer than it's been in awhile. “Well, I for one think that if we saved Minho and took down the entire WICKED organization, but you Cranked out or died, it would be the opposite of a success.”

“Do you really think that? That if we saved dozens of kids and took down the evil bastards, but you lost me, that it wouldn’t be worth it?”

Thomas steadily meets his gaze. “What about if it was me instead of you?”

Something dark flashes in Newt’s eyes, and he turns away. “Noted,” he concedes, jaw clenched. “But on that note, Tommy, you also have to consider that I think I’ll lose my fucking mind if you leave me a on a berg when you’re taking down said WICKED organization.”

“You don’t have to be on a berg,” he argues. “You can be…with Lawrence.” They both turn to each other with a grimace. “Okay, scratch that. But there’s something else you can do.”

Newt taps his chin, faux considering. “Yeah, I think so too. Like letting me go with you into the city.”

Thomas tightens his hold on Newt’s hand. “Newt, please.”

“Tommy,” he warns. “Come on. You have to work with me here. You know you can’t keep me here. I’m not throwing punches this time around, but I’m putting my bloody foot down on this one, you hear me?”

“A compromise?” he attempts, desperately.

“Does this compromise involve keeping me out of the Last City?” When Thomas doesn’t answer, Newt shrugs. “Then I’m not hearing it. No ifs, ands, or buts.”

It’s like the walls are getting tighter and tighter, the open sky suddenly crashing down on Thomas. He knows Newt’s expression—his mouth quirked like he’s slightly amused but the glint in his eyes is saying that Thomas is fighting a losing battle.

Thomas gets up on his knees and scoots over until he’s in front of a surprised Newt. Taking Newt’s hand in both of his own, he buries his face into his wrists, right along where black veins only seem to grow dark and darker. Head bowed and eyes clenched tight, he’s fully aware of how supplicant he looks. “Newt. You can’t die.”

“It’s not like I’m planning on it—”

“No. You can’t die.” Thomas presses his cheek tighter against Newt’s wrists, like he can physically stop him from going. “There’s no point to this if you die. There’s no point to me betraying WICKED and helping the Right Arm, no point to losing anyone in the Maze, no point to any of us being here. I need you to know that. It won’t be an inconvenience to me if you’re gone—it would be the absolute, fucking worst case scenario.”

The image of Newt, Cranked out and dead, unbiddenly comes to the forefront of his mind once more. “If you go, and you turn into a Crank, and I have to kill you—” Bile rises in his throat, but he swallows it down. “If my hands are stained with your blood, I’ll make sure the last thing I do is put a gun to my head. Do you understand that?”

A beat. Then long, elegant fingers pull Thomas’ chin upwards. Newt’s expression is ashen, and for the first time, hesitation laces his features. “I understand,” he mutters. “I understand. But what you have to understand, love, is that I don’t trust anyone else to take care of you out there.”

It crumbles. It all crumbles. Any argument in Thomas’ throat shrivels up and dies. It feels a lot like seeing the Maze for the first time, the way the helicopter pulls up higher and higher until Thomas is forced to see the bigger picture, the reality of the situation.

Because the same way Thomas would move mountains to prevent any harm from befalling Newt, it will be a cold, cold day in hell before Newt would let Thomas suffer.

Newt can’t be convinced. Not when Thomas’ safety is involved.

“Are you sure this decision isn’t because of the Flare?” he insists in a desperate, last ditch attempt to try and sway him. “You know I fucking hate when people use that on you, but—”

"Tommy," Hands grab his face and Newt shakes him, just a little, like he can’t bear to be rougher to him than he is now. Like he knows how much this hurts Thomas and can’t bring himself to add to that hurt. "I'm looking at you, see? I'm looking."

Thomas sucks in a breath and holds it, willing himself not to break. When he breathes out, a gust of wind blows with him, and it threatens to shatter him into a million pieces. Instead, he focuses on how Newt holds him with such a tenderness, such a surety, that Thomas can’t possibly fall apart. The Glue, WICKED had called him, not knowing the sheer truth of that statement.

“Okay.” Thomas relents, nodding to himself. “Okay. You’re going.” Placing his hand on top of Newt’s for a moment, he pulls away to stand. “You’re going, but that compromise I mentioned? That’s fucking happening.”

“Oh, is it now?” Newt retorts, but Thomas is only half-listening.

He jogs back into the building, Thomas scoops up the fallen notebook off the floor when someone coughs to his right.

“Dinner in twenty,” Gally greets tonelessly, peering at Thomas’ face, probably clocking his swollen jaw. “Don’t be late. Fry’ll kill you.”

Thomas throws him a thumbs up without looking, almost running back out, letting the door slam shut behind him.

“Compromise,” he repeats, flopping back down beside Newt and clicking his pen, shifts so that the rim of the fountain isn’t digging into his spine. “What’re your non-negotiables?”

Newt straightens up, brows scrunching ever so slightly. His business face. “No staying on the Berg, for starters,” he scoffs. “I have to be in the city. I have to be with you the whole time.”

As he lists it out, Thomas diligently writes notes, splitting the page into two columns, one for each of them. “The whole time?”

“Whole bloody time.”

He clicks his tongue but writes it down anyway. “For me—”

“Give me the book. I want to make sure you’re not putting random shit in there.”

“Try to actually make your writing legible this time, Newt.”

“Quiet down and get to talking, yeah?”

It’s familiar, the rhythm that they naturally fall into. Sharing each other’s personal space as they take turns writing, discussing how to morph the situation into something they’re more or less comfortable with.

Less, Thomas says. Definitely less.

Come on, Mr. Compromise. Wasn’t this your big idea?

There’s disagreements, inevitable clashing of ideas, many crossed out proposals on the page, but they work it out. They play a classic speed-round of what if? A game where they have two minutes to list out everything that can go wrong, and they take turns giving possible solutions. Some concerns are so ridiculous that it makes the both of them double over with laughter, but some solutions end up being strokes of accidental genius.

Newt, despite being the taller one, leans down to rest his head on Thomas’ shoulder. From then on, he tries very, very hard not to move too much.

Once they finish, they both straighten up after leaning over for so long, stretching out their limbs as they peer over their work. Their handwriting scattered throughout the pages—Thomas’s incoherent scrawl and Newt’s slanted cursive. It does something to him, seeing their shared thoughts and proof of their wavelength on something tangible. A good chunk of the pages have been filled, the earliest pages basically indecipherable but as they flip through the pages, it becomes neater and more organized, until the final draft is polished enough that even Thomas can’t help but be impressed at how much they covered in a short amount of time.

Newt massages his leg, groaning. “I’m actually starving now. A whole new level of hunger. Can you believe that man? We just restructured our entire infiltration plan and he’s still cooking?”

“You know,” Thomas says, standing, working out the kinks in his neck with one hand and offering the other to Newt. “Maybe if you asked the first time, we wouldn’t have beaten each other up.”

“Oh, slim it.” Newt takes his hand and pulls himself up. “That was some good work we just did.”

Thomas doesn’t answer. Instead, he lets his fingertips trace Newt’s wrist until he feels the faint thrum of a pulse. He feels it beat once, twice, three times. Just to make sure. “You’re going to try,” he says, a statement rather than a question. “You’re going to try your damnest.”

Newt rolls his eyes. “We talked about this. Of course I will.”

“If there’s a chance that you can finish the mission, but you end up sacrificing yourself, you’ll say no?”

For the briefest moment, Newt hesitates. Thomas doesn’t dare blink. “I’ll say no.”

“You promise?”

“I promise, Tommy.”

He nods, the movement jerky. “I know I’m insane right now. Or, lately. In general, I’m just—”

“A bloody lunatic?” Newt offers dryly.

“Yeah, exactly, and you knew that already. But if anything happened to you, I’d be—” A danger to everyone around him. Shattered to the point of no return. Begging to be put out of his misery. “—not okay.”

While he speaks, he watches Newt’s expression grow fonder and fonder. Twisting his hand, Newt shifts until they both feel each other’s pulses, feeling how they beat in time with one another. “I have an inkling that you don’t know how—”

He cuts himself off when Frypan yells, loud enough to be heard from every corner of the premises: “Dinner for you ugly bastards! Ugly bastards, dinner time!”

Newt huffs out a laugh and drags Thomas back into the chapel. “Come on, Tommy. Can’t take down evil on an empty stomach and peanuts, now can we?”

Thomas lets himself be dragged along, still thinking, still planning. Arguing against Newt is a losing game, but he can make sure he’s as bubble wrapped as possible going in. Schematics and contingency plans float through his head, flipping through ideas over and over again. He knows

It never fails to send Thomas reeling, whenever it happens.

It happened a lot when they were in the Glade, sure. They got along well, very well, even when Thomas had just freshly popped out of the Box and could barely catch his breath with the speed of questions leaving his mouth. But he and Newt weren't aligned yet, not the way they are now. Back in the Maze, it was more political than anything, a system of governing that both of them had to heed. Power structures, hierarchy, Greenie this, Keeper that, order, order, order.

Out of the walls and into the Scorch, the two of them snapped into place. There was no room for hesitation, not when it was just Newt and Thomas (and Minho. They have to save Minho, now). All structure gone, they could only rely on each other to lead a group of terrified teenagers through a desert, Cranks, and a staggering bounty on each of their heads. There were so few of them left, dwindling by the day, that they couldn't afford to slip up. Communication above all else. Minimize mistakes, but when they happen (and they will happen, god will they happen), talk about it. Figure it out. Make sure it doesn't happen again.

Neither of us goes to sleep confused, you hear me? If there's one thing we can control in this hell, it's this. Good that, Tommy?

Long conversations couldn't stay long, not with how fast everything moves around them. So it was something they refined, polished until it was shining.

They learned how they ebb and flow, memorized each other's landmines and remembered not to step on them unless they had to. Learned each other's nervous ticks, every twitch, every frown, what sets the other off and what's a surefire way to de-escalate the situation. They found themselves not needing much to get their point across; a breath, a few words, a pat on the back, a clenched jaw, the quirk of a brow. It was beautifully efficient for them and annoyingly grating for everyone else.

Like this, it was laughable to even try and hide the fondness they had for each other, not when it showed in their every move, every action, every breath.

Once they sorted that out, though, their wavelengths only became steadier, impossibly solid—seemingly parallel lines merged to become one, harmonizing in a frequency only they could hear, a language only they could speak.

Their foundation is something that's second nature to Thomas now, a structure that gives him good footing and the confidence to surge forward, letting him hold his head up high. If he has anything, he has this.

Until he doesn't.

Frypan grips his spatula like an instrument of war. “Hell no. You know my rules."

"But I just saw Gally leave with a sandwich."

"Yeah, I didn't feed that bastard for six months and look where he ended up. With some wacky military cult group who wants to take down the government. He gets to have a snack from me, just once."

Thomas sighs, just a little. "Come on, man, I'm starving."

"And what do you think I'm doing right now? Gardening?" Frypan jerks his head at the portable stove with a stock-pot bubbling on top. His tone leaves no room for argument, an assertiveness that only fully materializes in a kitchen. "Dinner's ready in an hour. A little wait won't kill you."

He fights another sigh, remembering how it was Frypan himself who used to sneak extra skewers for him back in the Glade.

It's not that he particularly likes it that people have a different attitude about him nowadays. He's grown to expect the expressions of the people around him, the range of irritated to pitiful. In truth, he knows where they're coming from. He's always been abrasive, but ever since he found out about Newt, it's gotten out of control. Thomas' temper is parabolic enough to be comparable to the Flare; he's snappish and intransigent, a complete nuisance to work with. He's fully aware that he's become borderline unbearable—the interrogation with Teresa only solidified that.

But despite everything, they still put up with it. They love him, he's their friend, yes. But the real reason they put up with it is because they understand why he's turned into this.

Thomas turns around to leave, resigned, when he hears Frypan click his tongue. "Hey." Looking back, he just barely catches a bag of trail mix tossed his way. "Share that with your boy, okay? Don't go ruining dinner just because y'all are spoiling your appetites."

Because everyone loves Newt, some of them longer than even Thomas has. While Thomas may be the loudest to voice it, may be the one who'll always take it too far, every single one of them are doing what they can to help Newt.

Thomas doesn't quite smile, but it’s a near thing. "Thanks, Fry."

"Anytime. Now get."

Newt's waiting for him just outside the kitchen, leaning against the wall, eyeing the bag. "That's not the sandwich I was promised," he says, but takes it out of Thomas' hands anyway.

"Should've been you who asked." They like you better. He pops a raisin in his mouth.

Newt gives him a look before kicking himself off the wall—an action so reminiscent of Minho it makes Thomas ache. "Now, Tommy, we have to work on that confidence of yours."

"Lots of people would beg to differ," he says, waving him off. It honestly doesn’t bother him. He likes Newt better, too.

"Depends on who you're asking." Newt shakes the bag, carefully picking out the good bits. Thomas lets him. "We probably looked real bloody confident earlier."

"Yeah," he says mildly. Thomas watches him pour the almonds back in, feeling himself start zoning out as he replays the interrogation in his head, speeded up like a faulty DVD.

Teresa's in, which is admittedly good. He and Newt talk a big game, but it would be infinitely harder to get into WICKED without her. They need to talk to Lawrence as soon as possible, make sure he doesn't back out of their deal. He also has to talk to Newt, confirm that he's comfortable flying the Berg out with Jorge. All of this is already written down in his leather notebook, written and re-written enough that he can recite it from memory, but it doesn't hurt to think it through one more time.

Without warning, Newt slaps his bicep, pulling him out of his stupor. "I can see those wheels spinning," he chides. "What's in that big head of yours?"

"Nothing." When he receives a dry look, he takes a deep breath. "Nothing yet. I'm just thinking about our next steps."

"Let me guess," Newt throws some cashews in his mouth. "You want to bust into The Last City tonight, have the infiltration take only half an hour long, and have the Flare out of my body in an hour, tops. Sound about right?"

Thomas huffs. "An hour's too long, can we make some edits on that?" Still, he can't help but let his eyes drift towards Newt's forearm. "I want that thing out of you, Newt."

"You and me both, love," Newt mumbles, chewing, deep in thought, and Thomas has to turn away to hide a pleased smile. "It's a lot to worry about. So many players involved in this, stakes are high. Teresa's only the first step."

Taking a deep breath, Newt pushes his shoulders back and starts walking in the direction of their meeting room. Thomas follows close behind.

"Here's what we're going to do," he declares, passing the half-empty bag to Thomas. Their shared footsteps are silent, a habit they fostered in this new life of theirs. Gone are the times in the Glade when they can stomp around all they like. "You and I are gonna work this out, like we always do. Every nook and cranny, every little detail your overthinking brain can think of, we're nailing down. Make this thing airtight before we bust in there, guns blazing and hell raising. Make a plan so good it'll put all of our other plans to shame. Then you're going to your little cot and sleep eight hours straight, snoring loud enough to ruin the night for the rest of us. Good that?"

Something fierce and reverent squirms in Thomas, and an easy agreement is on the tip of his tongue when something makes him stop in his tracks, feet stuttering to a halt.

Newt walks a few steps further before noticing. He turns around, brow cocked. "What's up?"

"We?"

That makes Newt's face scrunch up even more. "Well, if you wanna talk to Gally about this instead, be my guest. Or better yet, invite Teresa, why don't you?"

Thomas doesn't laugh. "We bust in," he repeats, heartbeat in his throat. "That's what you said."

The confusion melts off of Newt's face, caution taking its place. "Yes," he says slowly. "That's what I said."

A silence grows between them, and Thomas is waiting for Newt to say he's joking, that he's just trying to pull a smile out of Thomas. Instead, the silence stretches.

"Newt," he says quietly. "You aren't coming into the city."

Newt's shaking his head before Thomas can finish. "We talked about this, on the rooftop—"

"No, that was different. You wanted to help with the missions, and you have been. You wanted to help find Minho, and you did. You've already done enough."

"Done enough?" His expression is unimpressed. "Well enough that Minho's here now? Well enough that all the Immunes are magically saved? I don't think so, Tommy. We're not done here, not even close. I'm going out there."

Thomas forces himself to take a breath. "The Flare gets worse the more stressful a situation is. Here, let me—" Wildly patting down his jeans, he all but rips his notebook out of his pocket and flips through the pages, ignoring the tremble in his hands. "There, see? 'If individuals infected with the Flare are in constant stress—"

"I know."

"'—it can rapidly increase the— "

"—infection rate of the brain,'" Newt finishes, idly touching his forearm. "I know."

Thomas lets the book fall from his hand with a muffled thud and doesn’t bother to pick it up again. "Okay," he hears himself say. "You know. So you're not going."

Newt takes a step forward, placatingly eyeing him in a way that makes Thomas' chest tight. "Tommy, I'm going. This doesn't work if—"

"We'll make it work."

"You're not listening to me. If you go into WICKED, just you and—"

"We'll make Gally stay with me the whole way. Frypan. Jorge. If you're staying here—"

"Which I'm not, and you're going to have to accept—"

"You're not going—"

"Thomas," his voice is dangerously soft. Thomas flinches away, something vile curling in his gut, the sound of his own name making him sick. "Listen to me. I'm fucking going."

Thomas' eyes shutter close. It feels like his mind shutting down, cortex by cortex as he fails to understand what Newt’s trying to say. For a blissful moment, he’s deafened by the ringing in his ears and the beat of his thrumming heart.

When he finally opens his eyes, all he sees is red.

Grabbing Newt’s jacket collar, he all but drags him out the closest door, taking them to the chapel’s courtyard, unfeeling the cool night air brush against his skin. What was probably once a beautiful garden is practically a garbage dump now. Broken glass is sprinkled on top of dead rose bushes, plastic bags swaying in the breeze. There’s a fountain in the middle, its ceramic cracked and caked in dirt, filled with debris that’s accumulated over the years to the point where it spilled onto the grass beneath their feet.

Thomas doesn’t give a shit about any of it. He drops Newt on the lip of the fountain, almost throwing him in from the force of it.

"Communication, right?" he spits, looming above Newt, and he hates this, hates it so much but he has to pull Newt out of whatever mindset he's buried himself in. It's one thing to raze the world to save Newt—it's another for Newt to be the one to get in his way. "Then fucking talk. Convince me to let you turn into a Crank."

Newt's glaring daggers up at him, and it would normally be enough to sway Thomas. He steels himself and refuses to look away. Not this time.

"Don't you toss me around like I’m some damn shank," Newt says lowly, eyes narrowed. "And you're not letting me do anything. I'll do what I damn well please if it helps Minho and take down WICKED."

Thomas grits his teeth. "Talk. You said it yourself—you know the dangers, you know why you can't just rampage into the city with us. You know better to jump into something so stupid."

"Stupid?" Newt repeats, incredulous. He moves to stand but Thomas pushes him back down, and it makes the flame in Newt's eyes burn brighter. "You of all people don't get to call me that, you bloody hypocrite. How many times have you jumped headfirst into danger without talking to any of us about it? Saving Alby and Minho in the Glade, following Aris in the WICKED compound. And, what, the minute I try to do even a fraction of that, you get all pissy at me?"

"That's different!" Thomas realizes, belatedly, that he's half-yelling. "You know why it's different. I didn't have the Flare, I wasn't sick and getting worse by the minute. You going to the Last City is suicide, Newt."

"Then why did you let me help during the interrogation if you're so sure I was going to be such a nuisance?"

His mouth drops open, bewildered. "I didn't say you were! You helped during the interrogation because it's Teresa—she knows me, she knows us—" Newt scoffs and rolls his eyes, and it's such a petty move that it fills Thomas' veins with thunder. He grabs his shoulders and shakes roughly. "What the hell is your problem?"

Thomas is livid, seething with rage. But above all else, he's shaken. Newt has never been so hostile, so reluctant to see logic. He tries peering at Newt's face, to try and read between the lines that he knows better than his own, but Newt tilts his head away from him.

Is it the Flare? Is it something else?

Is it both?

"You want to know what my problem is?" Newt says, still not looking at Thomas, expression excruciatingly blank. "My problem is that you don't trust me."

Nothing. Nothing could have prepared Thomas for that.

Letting his hands slip, he stumbles backwards like he took a blow to the gut. An uncontrollable laugh slips out of his lips, mildly hysterical. "What?" he manages.

"You bloody well heard me." Newt stands, approaching Thomas step by step with a certainty that makes his skin crawl. "You don't want me there, ruining this operation. You think I'll get in the way. You think I'll Crank out in the middle of it, or attack you halfway through and you have to carry me out of there."

Thomas refuses to take a step back, letting Newt invade his personal space. "You know that's not true," he says, voice hard.

"It's true." Newt's eyes are wild, black, darting all over the place. With every breath he takes, his black veins pulsate in time in a sickening rhythm. "It's true. Say it's true. Say I'll ruin it for everyone."

"No."

"Say it, Thomas."

"Fuck off. No."

Thomas feels it before he sees it. A sudden blow to his jaw, his head jerks sharply to the side as he loses his footing for a moment. Newt stands in front of him, hands still curled in a tight, shaking fist. Apparently, he isn't done yet.

"Say it!" Newt screams, and the sound makes Thomas recoil more than the punch did. "If you don't say it, I'm going, with or without you!"

Thomas doesn’t answer, instead he lets his instincts take over. He connects his fist to Newt’s cheek, feels the bone underneath his knuckles. Newt topples over, lithe body hitting the ground hard. Blond hair blocking his eyes and black lines polluting his neck, he doesn't move for a brief, horrifying half a second.

Time slows down. In that moment, Thomas sees the future: Newt, dead, splayed out on the ground. Or maybe Newt, a Crank, haggard and vicious and stripped of everything that makes him so, so lovely. In both possibilities, he knows, he just knows, that Thomas would be the one to put him in the ground, because he would never let anyone else touch Newt. It would have to be him.

Unable to control himself, Thomas lurches forward to the fountain and vomits, heaving and shaking uncontrollably, the urge to scrub that image from his brain almost unbearable.

A hand grabs his jacket and roughly pulls him back. Thomas lets it happen, his back hitting the grass hard enough to wind him.

Newt clambers on top of him, hand placed on either side of Thomas' head, teeth bared and nearly snarling. "I'm going to the city."

"You can't," Thomas mummers, thoughts still jumbled. "You can't, Newt. You'll die."

Slamming his hand down, Newt grips either side of his face, thumb cruelly pushing into his throbbing jaw where the punch landed. "You don't get to take this choice away from me. Over and over again, you ruin things for me, for everyone. We could still be in the Glade, we could still be safe and ignorant in the facility, if it weren't for you. Minho would still be here if it wasn't for you. You don't want me to die? Maybe consider the fact that it's you who's killing me."

The words glance off of him. Instead, Thomas stares up at Newt, eyes carefully taking in every detail there. Past the ferocity, past the seemingly impenetrable anger and dripping hostility, there's something in his expression that's screaming at Thomas to be noticed. There's something layered there, begging to be found, subtle and invisible to anyone who isn't him.

"Make it up to me, Thomas. Make it up to me by giving me a choice." Newt's chest is heaving, leaving Thomas space to say something. When he doesn't, Newt's face twists even more. "What, no comment? No clever words today? Aren't you the inspiration between the two of us? The fucking wonder boy?"

A hot tear rolls down Thomas' temple, sudden and uncontrollable. It's as if his body figured out what's going in Newt's head before Thomas himself did.

Newt, eyes black with fury, digs his nails in with a vengeance, but Thomas can barely process the pain, his entire being staring intently at Newt’s face. “Give me a choice. Let me do this. If you care for me, if you ever gave a damn about me, respected me as a person and respected me as yours, you’d grant me this.” With every word he hisses, Newt squeezes tighter, and Thomas doesn’t move a muscle, doesn’t dare breathe. “Grant. Me. This.”

Then I went and found the tallest wall I could, and I climbed up there and—

It clicks.

When Thomas finally speaks, it feels like his heart is in his throat. It feels like the world is ending. “You’re not planning on coming back.”

For a long, long moment, neither of them say a word. A strong breeze ruffles Newt’s hair like a caress.

Newt leans back and sucks in a deep, shaking breath. His shoulders sag in on himself, and the tight grip on Thomas’ face eases until the pain fades away, replaced by Newt’s thumb gently stroking what he’s sure is a glowing bruise on his jaw. The symptoms had passed, for now.

Thomas swallows, ribcage creaking with swirling, conflicting emotions. Slowly, carefully, Thomas sits up until he’s chest to chest with Newt and pulls him in for a hug. Arms encircle his waist and holds him tight, then tighter. Tight enough that it feels like nothing can get between them. Tight enough that it feels like if Newt’s heart stopped beating, Thomas’ would, too.

“The Flare didn’t make that up, did it?”

They’re both leaning against the fountain, the clean side. Cleaner side—the side that Thomas didn’t throw up in. Sitting on the ground, they’re shoulder to shoulder, hip to hip, sharing whatever’s left of the trail mix that stayed miraculously sealed in Thomas’ pocket. Like this, he feels a wave of nostalgia, a wistfulness for the bonfire back in the Glade. It’s almost silly, feeling homesick for a place you lived in for all of a week. Can barely even call it a home.

Newt considers his question and Thomas immediately diverts his attention to ripping up the grass underneath them, vaguely enjoying the sensation. These talks always work best when Newt can pretend Thomas is busy doing something else.

“Some of it,” Newt admits. “At least, I’d like to think some of that wasn’t me.” From the corner of his eye, he sees Newt’s gaze flicker at Thomas, no doubt taking in the bruise that’s still blossoming there.

He shrugs, unbothered. Thomas taps at his own eye before nodding at Newt. “Gave you a black eye, in case you forgot. And between the two of us, at least you actually have an excuse to go a little crazy.”

“You’ve always been a little crazy.”

“For you, maybe.” And just to seal the deal, he winks at Newt, poorly.

As he suspected he would, Newt reels back in shock for a moment before laughter bursts out of him. Eyes crinkled and shoulders shaking, he feels himself laugh back a little, on reflex. “There you are,” Thomas says softly. “Welcome back.”

Newt grins back, the remnants of his joy still strewn across his face, stubborn and sticky like honey. “Didn’t peg you as a flirt, Tommy.”

Tilting his head up skywards, Thomas hums, enjoying the sight of a clear, night sky as he lets relief wash over him. “I’m glad I have my Tommy privileges back.”

It was supposed to come out as a joke, but it comes out more vulnerable than Thomas intended. He can’t help it. Back in the Maze, everything was taken away from him, from all of them. The only thing you get back is your name. Every Glader remembers that feeling for the rest of their life. It’s a fierce thing, to be reconciled with a name that you’ve lost when you don’t have anything left. It’s the only thing that’s truly yours.

When Newt called him Tommy for the first time, in that casual way of his, it meant everything to Thomas. It’s taking what’s Thomas’ and making it distinctly Newt’s. It made Thomas distinctly Newt’s.

He knows Newt heard the sting in his voice. Silence blankets them, thick and weighted.

This fight was hideous. Brutally ugly. It’s the kind of argument that Thomas would expect to have with Gally, or Alby back in the day. Hackles rising, knives out styles of confrontations that Thomas had grown used to. A necessary kind of viciousness you have to emulate. But not with Newt. Never with Newt.

If this was any other situation, either of them would have their weapons down by now. Waved a white flag. Not this time.

Not knowing what to do with his hands, he peers into the bag of near-empty bag of trail mix and spots a peanut still in its shell. Pulling it out, he cracks it open and offers it to Newt, who accepts with a smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas says, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry I didn’t notice. Not then, not now.”

Newt sighs, rebuttal surely about to come out, but Thomas shakes his head. “Please. Just let me—I have to get this out.” Straightening up, he fully turns to face Newt, unable to stop himself from glimpsing at his black eye before focusing. “Again and again, you’re here for me. You know my moods, you know how I function, you know what makes me stop functioning. And I thought,” his voice cracks, and he falters for a moment. “I thought I knew you, too.”

“Of course you do,” Newt reaches for his hand, and Thomas takes it gratefully. “Better than anyone.”

“When we were on the rooftop, and you told me about your leg, I convinced myself I couldn’t do anything about it.” He traces the callouses on Newt’s hand absentmindedly. “‘I wasn’t there. What could I have done? I’m here now. I’ll help him now.’ But the worst thought, the fucking worst one of them all,” Thomas’ mouth twists bitterly. “I thought: ‘It’s in the past.’”

“It is,” Newt insists, but it comes out weak. Hollow. A beat passes. “I thought it was in the past, too. I think the Flare must’ve pulled that out of my psyche or something, honestly.” He laughs, the sound brittle. “Like a bloody truth serum now? As if this couldn’t get worse.”

A question enters his brain. It’s one he doesn’t want to consider, a question he can’t fathom voicing. But it’s for Newt. “Do—” he tries, throat closing up. “Do you still want to…to try finding—a tall wall—?”

“No,” Newt interrupts firmly. “God, no, Tommy, no. Not anymore. It’s different now. Sure, it gets hard, but it’s always been hard. No time for breaks. We get lazy—”

“We get sad,” finishes Thomas, a small fraction of his worries fading away. “I remember.”

Newt’s eyes brighten with mirth. “My bright pupil, you are.”

Silence stretches once more, and Thomas passes the time by playing with the peanut shell in the hand that isn’t holding Newt’s, nail scratching against the rough shell, before shoving it in his pocket, not wanting to litter.

It’s not that he’s surprised that Newt is self-sacrificing. They all are. It’s impossible to be so devoted to this cause without eventually realizing that you’d do anything to make sure the mission’s completed. What doesn’t settle well with Thomas is that Newt sees that there are options. Newt, I’ve called a Gathering to see what the others think. Newt, patience, Greenie, it would do you some good. Newt, slow down, Tommy. What are we not seeing?

Time and again, Newt is the one to take a step back and see the bigger picture. He has the disposition of a leader, the ability to make the calls without panicking. There’s a reason why people gravitate to him the way that they do.

But all of that is thrown out the window when it’s about Newt himself.

Newt takes a breath. “I just think,” he says, slowly, like he’s thinking about every word before speaking. “That I should go to the city because it would increase our odds of success.”

Oddly enough, Thomas is almost glad that they blew up at each other earlier. Otherwise, he’s sure he would probably be yelling at the top of his lungs again. As it is, Thomas’ head has been clearer than it's been in awhile. “Well, I for one think that if we saved Minho and took down the entire WICKED organization, but you Cranked out or died, it would be the opposite of a success.”

“Do you really think that? That if we saved dozens of kids and took down the evil bastards, but you lost me, that it wouldn’t be worth it?”

Thomas steadily meets his gaze. “What about if it was me instead of you?”

Something dark flashes in Newt’s eyes, and he turns away. “Noted,” he concedes, jaw clenched. “But on that note, Tommy, you also have to consider that I think I’ll lose my fucking mind if you leave me a on a berg when you’re taking down said WICKED organization.”

“You don’t have to be on a berg,” he argues. “You can be…with Lawrence.” They both turn to each other with a grimace. “Okay, scratch that. But there’s something else you can do.”

Newt taps his chin, faux considering. “Yeah, I think so too. Like letting me go with you into the city.”

Thomas tightens his hold on Newt’s hand. “Newt, please.”

“Tommy,” he warns. “Come on. You have to work with me here. You know you can’t keep me here. I’m not throwing punches this time around, but I’m putting my bloody foot down on this one, you hear me?”

“A compromise?” he attempts, desperately.

“Does this compromise involve keeping me out of the Last City?” When Thomas doesn’t answer, Newt shrugs. “Then I’m not hearing it. No ifs, ands, or buts.”

It’s like the walls are getting tighter and tighter, the open sky suddenly crashing down on Thomas. He knows Newt’s expression—his mouth quirked like he’s slightly amused but the glint in his eyes is saying that Thomas is fighting a losing battle.

Thomas gets up on his knees and scoots over until he’s in front of a surprised Newt. Taking Newt’s hand in both of his own, he buries his face into his wrists, right along where black veins only seem to grow dark and darker. Head bowed and eyes clenched tight, he’s fully aware of how supplicant he looks. “Newt. You can’t die.”

“It’s not like I’m planning on it—”

“No. You can’t die.” Thomas presses his cheek tighter against Newt’s wrists, like he can physically stop him from going. “There’s no point to this if you die. There’s no point to me betraying WICKED and helping the Right Arm, no point to losing anyone in the Maze, no point to any of us being here. I need you to know that. It won’t be an inconvenience to me if you’re gone—it would be the absolute, fucking worst case scenario.”

The image of Newt, Cranked out and dead, unbiddenly comes to the forefront of his mind once more. “If you go, and you turn into a Crank, and I have to kill you—” Bile rises in his throat, but he swallows it down. “If my hands are stained with your blood, I’ll make sure the last thing I do is put a gun to my head. Do you understand that?”

A beat. Then long, elegant fingers pull Thomas’ chin upwards. Newt’s expression is ashen, and for the first time, hesitation laces his features. “I understand,” he mutters. “I understand. But what you have to understand, love, is that I don’t trust anyone else to take care of you out there.”

It crumbles. It all crumbles. Any argument in Thomas’ throat shrivels up and dies. It feels a lot like seeing the Maze for the first time, the way the helicopter pulls up higher and higher until Thomas is forced to see the bigger picture, the reality of the situation.

Because the same way Thomas would move mountains to prevent any harm from befalling Newt, it will be a cold, cold day in hell before Newt would let Thomas suffer.

Newt can’t be convinced. Not when Thomas’ safety is involved.

“Are you sure this decision isn’t because of the Flare?” he insists in a desperate, last ditch attempt to try and sway him. “You know I fucking hate when people use that on you, but—”

"Tommy," Hands grab his face and Newt shakes him, just a little, like he can’t bear to be rougher to him than he is now. Like he knows how much this hurts Thomas and can’t bring himself to add to that hurt. "I'm looking at you, see? I'm looking."

Thomas sucks in a breath and holds it, willing himself not to break. When he breathes out, a gust of wind blows with him, and it threatens to shatter him into a million pieces. Instead, he focuses on how Newt holds him with such a tenderness, such a surety, that Thomas can’t possibly fall apart. The Glue, WICKED had called him, not knowing the sheer truth of that statement.

“Okay.” Thomas relents, nodding to himself. “Okay. You’re going.” Placing his hand on top of Newt’s for a moment, he pulls away to stand. “You’re going, but that compromise I mentioned? That’s fucking happening.”

“Oh, is it now?” Newt retorts, but Thomas is only half-listening.

He jogs back into the building, Thomas scoops up the fallen notebook off the floor when someone coughs to his right.

“Dinner in twenty,” Gally greets tonelessly, peering at Thomas’ face, probably clocking his swollen jaw. “Don’t be late. Fry’ll kill you.”

Thomas throws him a thumbs up without looking, almost running back out, letting the door slam shut behind him.

“Compromise,” he repeats, flopping back down beside Newt and clicking his pen, shifts so that the rim of the fountain isn’t digging into his spine. “What’re your non-negotiables?”

Newt straightens up, brows scrunching ever so slightly. His business face. “No staying on the Berg, for starters,” he scoffs. “I have to be in the city. I have to be with you the whole time.”

As he lists it out, Thomas diligently writes notes, splitting the page into two columns, one for each of them. “The whole time?”

“Whole bloody time.”

He clicks his tongue but writes it down anyway. “For me—”

“Give me the book. I want to make sure you’re not putting random shit in there.”

“Try to actually make your writing legible this time, Newt.”

“Quiet down and get to talking, yeah?”

It’s familiar, the rhythm that they naturally fall into. Sharing each other’s personal space as they take turns writing, discussing how to morph the situation into something they’re more or less comfortable with.

Less, Thomas says. Definitely less.

Come on, Mr. Compromise. Wasn’t this your big idea?

There’s disagreements, inevitable clashing of ideas, many crossed out proposals on the page, but they work it out. They play a classic speed-round of what if? A game where they have two minutes to list out everything that can go wrong, and they take turns giving possible solutions. Some concerns are so ridiculous that it makes the both of them double over with laughter, but some solutions end up being strokes of accidental genius.

Newt, despite being the taller one, leans down to rest his head on Thomas’ shoulder. From then on, he tries very, very hard not to move too much.

Once they finish, they both straighten up after leaning over for so long, stretching out their limbs as they peer over their work. Their handwriting scattered throughout the pages—Thomas’s incoherent scrawl and Newt’s slanted cursive. It does something to him, seeing their shared thoughts and proof of their wavelength on something tangible. A good chunk of the pages have been filled, the earliest pages basically indecipherable but as they flip through the pages, it becomes neater and more organized, until the final draft is polished enough that even Thomas can’t help but be impressed at how much they covered in a short amount of time.

Newt massages his leg, groaning. “I’m actually starving now. A whole new level of hunger. Can you believe that man? We just restructured our entire infiltration plan and he’s still cooking?”

“You know,” Thomas says, standing, working out the kinks in his neck with one hand and offering the other to Newt. “Maybe if you asked the first time, we wouldn’t have beaten each other up.”

“Oh, slim it.” Newt takes his hand and pulls himself up. “That was some good work we just did.”

Thomas doesn’t answer. Instead, he lets his fingertips trace Newt’s wrist until he feels the faint thrum of a pulse. He feels it beat once, twice, three times. Just to make sure. “You’re going to try,” he says, a statement rather than a question. “You’re going to try your damnest.”

Newt rolls his eyes. “We talked about this. Of course I will.”

“If there’s a chance that you can finish the mission, but you end up sacrificing yourself, you’ll say no?”

For the briefest moment, Newt hesitates. Thomas doesn’t dare blink. “I’ll say no.”

“You promise?”

“I promise, Tommy.”

He nods, the movement jerky. “I know I’m insane right now. Or, lately. In general, I’m just—”

“A bloody lunatic?” Newt offers dryly.

“Yeah, exactly, and you knew that already. But if anything happened to you, I’d be—” A danger to everyone around him. Shattered to the point of no return. Begging to be put out of his misery. “—not okay.”

While he speaks, he watches Newt’s expression grow fonder and fonder. Twisting his hand, Newt shifts until they both feel each other’s pulses, feeling how they beat in time with one another. “I have an inkling that you don’t know how—”

He cuts himself off when Frypan yells, loud enough to be heard from every corner of the premises: “Dinner for you ugly bastards! Ugly bastards, dinner time!”

Newt huffs out a laugh and drags Thomas back into the chapel. “Come on, Tommy. Can’t take down evil on an empty stomach and peanuts, now can we?”

Thomas lets himself be dragged along, still thinking, still planning. Arguing against Newt is a losing game, but he can make sure he’s as bubble wrapped as possible going in. Schematics and contingency plans float through his head, flipping through ideas over and over again. He knows he won’t get a wink of sleep from now until the infiltration is over.

He’ll rest when Newt’s safe.

he won’t get a wink of sleep from now until the infiltration is over.

He’ll rest when Newt’s safe.

[pepplemint]

Ok here's my Trimax Knives Defense (apart from everything obvious):

wolfwood getting blasted with his feelings while holding a gun to his face describes it as "all I could think about was how much I wanted to live" even as Knives outwardly is looking confident and ordering him around. You can't trust what he says about himself or his own motives.

when he kills he kills everyone instantly, every time. It's not that torture doesn't exist in the series, it doesn't shy away from horrible stuff. Who makes sure to kill in a single shot? Someone who is afraid they won't get a second shot.

we get to see Vash's reaction to stabbing and likely killing Rem being laughing, which is a real defense mechanism in- or reliving traumatic and/or painful situations that is often misunderstood. The fact that the author knows this, and made sure to show Vash reacting like that to killing someone, puts a whole other perspective on Knives manic laughing after the fall.

Speaking of defense mechanisms - fear and sadness being turned into anger is very common with emotionally repressed people. Not being able to process whatever strong negative emotion you're feeling, you will react as if you're being attacked. Whenever Knives is emotionally hurt he takes a moment looking emotional before having an aggressive reaction. That pause is important - it's the truth before the protective mask comes on. These reactions are consistent throughout the entire series. See: witnessing the Last Run, Vash giving him some hard truths, Vash leaving the ark, literally the whole story.

Whenever someone seems to be getting too close in a way that makes him vulnerable or might reject him he violently rejects them first with the most surefire words to hurt them. Yet, when he is the one being left, he is desperate for them to stay. Might be reading into it but this is classical abandonment issues.

He has no clear picture of what a "win" would look like. He feels like it's his only purpose as an independent to make sure their kind can be safe. Thinking Vash is dying as he passed out in the last battle Knives thoughts are "You no longer have to be burned by a reality that is too painful." <- this is how Knives feels. This sentence is almost envious. (And it's extra interesting juxtapositioned with Vash later on becoming a link between humans and plants, to make sure all of them are safe. Because Knives wasn't wrong - but he didn't get it right either.)

He keeps fighting even with no way to win. If he admits to himself he hadn't done the correct thing, he would also have to face what he had done. (See: when he sees the plants positive memories of humans he completely on-his-knees- face-on-the-floor-screaming breaks down.) (And oh, would ya look at that, when he does admit he was wrong finally he kills himself after. Almost as if he couldn't live with the knowledge.)

Final conclusion: Knives is a very scared person who never learned how to process his emotions and who grew a thick mask and a wall around his heart to protect himself, keeping people at a distance. He isn't evil or sadistic or considers himself better. He could have been saved at pretty much any point by forcing him to see a proper therapist

TLDR: Committing mass murder is his coping mechanism, let him be 😭😭😭 lmao

[robotlesbianjavert]

Ten headcanons about spinner please

well you asked so nicely. okay!

10) i think i've already mentioned this in the past and some fics but despite what you expect from someone with reptile associations he's not anymore affected by the cold than any other warm-blooded person. and he knows it's a silly thing to get sensitive about but well when people assume he gets a bit heated!! so to say!!

9) he first learned how to use a knife, and in particular knife throwing tricks, from his mom, who is most of the born and bred country rep in his family and grew up with very little else to do and really needed a cool party trick. between her and toga, knife-throwing is his only surefire way to bond with women.

8) who is the biggest bara rep in league of legends. idk mordekaiser looks promising. in any case spinner's first glimmer of realizing that he is gay was accidentally stumbling upon LoL bara doujinshi, on the internet. somehow the continuing fascination for bara did not translate to real life where he keeps going gaga for weird skinny weirdos with disappointing t&a (UNTIL shigaraki's ujiko-provided glow-up)

7) his backup plan for going to the city after seeing stain on tv if he failed to find and join the league of villains was just to hit all the clubs and get laid. but as a virgin and hikkikomori he was very nervous about this option and was kind of relieved that he could just join a terrorist group instead.

6) i used this one in a fic too lmao. as a kid his claws were filed down regularly so that other kids and the rest of the town didn't freak out and think he was gonna gut them. cuz they're evil. as part of the headcanon of it all he does have weird hang-ups and

5) backseat gamer. like, pathological. much like myself as a child watching my stepbrothers play zelda or conker's bad fur day, he will sit over shigaraki's shoulder (and anyone else's i guess but he's literally so under-socialized he doesn't know anyone else who plays videogames irl. sad!) and be like i wouldn't have done that. you're supposed to go over there. why aren't you using all these cheat codes that i know (they don't work). thankfully shigaraki is cool with this cuz he loves to argue. i actually consider this canon enough given that we have now seen spinner hanging over shigaraki's shoulder as he's playing games.

4) were a tumblr equivalent to exist in bnhaverse spinner would have an account and he would try to be crazy stealth and not have it associated to any other social accounts ever and he would be a hater on it and you could not pay him to commit voter fraud for something against his morals (shipping polls) (he would have voted destiel!! he knows he is cas-coded!!) but he would create so many dummy accounts manually by hand HIMSELF like a hard worker to influence results as much as he could. without paying people. or getting bots. he has a pure hater soul.

3) related to the above spinner is a constant hater online. people ask him what does he ever like and he just regurgitates whatever video essay he watched recently that had a nice thing to say. but his hater stances are 100% original. not to say that he never Likes something about anything but he's dogshit at expressing it.

2) part of his issues is that he was very unintentionally detached from any other of his heteromorph-related family that he could relate to (a lot of the family was probably located in cities) aside from whatever parents or siblings, which contributed further to his feelings of isolation from the community he grew up in, and his heteromorphic traits were just enough more apparent compared to the immediate family that he was more targeted by the community he grew up in. so he's both discriminated and marginalized by the community, and has a harder time finding solace in his family to cope.

1 ) i must once again stand by spinner's hybistrophilia. like really specifically his true fantasy is a cool suave older man who does a lot of serial killing and is willing to take spinner under his wing and say ah i see you have a lot of potential. but then he fell in love with shigaraki. that's how you know it's true love. i guess you can argue that shigaraki is an old soul.

[tea-with-evan-and-me]

Hey, Writer Anon here 👋

We need some excitement around here! Part deux of sick/maybe pregnant gf and Evan coming right up. Enjooooy my sweet, horny she-devils 😈❤️

"Mmm you smell good" Evan's face is buried in my neck. We are laying sideways on the mattress. He's holding both my arms above my head with one huge hand. His long fingers are able to wrap around both my dainty wrists at the same time. Holding them secure. His pelvis is pining mine to the bed. I can feel the fluctuation of his erection as he kisses me, breathes me in, pushes himself between my legs until I groan. That feels the best for me. That pressure of his weight on my hips, the hardness of him hitting me in the right place.

Evan continues to kiss my neck as he gently runs his free hand from my thigh up the length of my torso. I let out a whiny moan as he passes by my pelvis without so much as a detour and he chuckles to himself. "Your tits look so big in this corset top" he says devilishly as his hand reaches my breasts. He gives it a little squeeze.

"Oh, ow!" I yelp

Evan goes still and stops sucking on the skin beneath my clavicle. Leaving a red spot behind. He quickly releases his grasp on my breast. "You ok, babe?"

"Uh, yea. That's really strange. My boobs never hurt like that" I start trying to adjust my lingerie as if it's the culprit.

"Allow me" Evan wiggles his eyebrows at me and starts unclasping the hooks running down the front of my corset. What was I thinking when I bought this? I grumble silently to myself. "We don't need this on anyway." After what feels like an eternity, my swollen breasts are finally free from this monstrosity that I paid an arm and a leg for at Lover's Lane. Wait, swollen? That's what it feels like anyway.

My thoughts are broken by an electric shock of pleasure as Evan swipes his tongue over my nipple. I suck in air through my teeth. I feel him hesitate to continue, wondering if that was a good or bad reaction. I say nothing so he goes in for the kill. He runs his tongue up the underside of my left breast and then wraps his lips around my nipples and gently sucks. He has done this to me more times than I can count. A surefire way to get me ready for him, but this time I gasp and gently take his face in my hands and pull him away. His slick spit on my nipple is not helping as the air hits it. The cold feels like pin pricks.

"I'm so sorry, Evan" I say as I let go of his cheeks. "I don't know what's going on" I cover my face with both of my hands.

"Hey, sweetie it's ok." His words are soft and kind. He brushes my hair away from my forehead and kisses it. "Let's try something else ok?" I shake my head in agreement as I allow him to pull my hands away from my face. He starts leaving a trail of kisses down my torso. When he reaches my core he presses his mouth to my mound through my panties. I groan so loud that he replies with a low moan of his own. My panties are quickly slid down my legs and slung over his shoulder. I feel them brush my leg as they take their final resting place on the floor. Evan teases me with his hot breath and then licks at my clit with the lightest, softest swipe of his tongue. It almost sends me. Already? "Oh, God again!" I cry. He repeats that soft swipe against my clit. "more!faster!please!" The string of pleads rambling out of me. Evan proceeds to make his tongue gently dance over my clit and the surrounding bundle of nerves. My toes curl as loud moans escape from me. I can't hold it back. I don't want to. I let out a whimper that Evan recognizes as me about to cum. So, he stops.

"No!" I cry out

"You want it?" A swipe of his tongue

"Please! Evan..."

"Please, what?" Swipe

"Please lick me"

"And?" Swipe, swipe

"Make me cum, daddy!" I snuck the killer into my bedroom.

With a loud groan he starts the dance of his tongue again. It doesn't take me very long. His edging ultimately unraveling me.

The animalistic grunts coming from me are almost comical as I squirt. I hear him swallow with a gulp. I know all this is happening, yet it feels like my soul has left my body and I'm watching it happen from above.

"Shit, babe. I've never seen you cum so hard" I can tell he feels proud of himself. I'm too spent to talk. I just lay there and let out a lazy chuckle.

"Mm you taste fruity today" Evan says as he walks into my bathroom to clean his face and beard.

I go still as his words echo in my ears "Well, fuck." I whisper to myself.

-----

I wear a hole in the white ceramic tile as I pace back and forth across my bathroom floor. Why does this take so fucking long? I keep sneaking a peek at the slender plastic stick on my bathroom counter resting on a guest paper towel that I thought was so welcoming when I renovated my bathroom last year. It doesn't seem as welcoming with splashes of urine on it. None of that matters, as I have a gut feeling that material things are going to be significantly less important soon.

The three dashes dancing across the tiny screen are taunting me. Each one says it will never stop. "No answer for you!" I say out loud in my best 'Soup Nazi' impersonation. I giggle to myself until I see the dashes stop and words appear. My giggle turns into a gasp. I can't bring myself to look at it. I know the word 'pregnant' is there no matter what, but what I need in my soul more than anything right now is to know if the word 'not' is above it. I have a flashback to when I was in high school and had a pregnancy scare. I almost had a cardiac event when I saw the word pregnant before my dumb ass turned the stick upright and I saw that tiny three letter word above it, freeing me of all my fears. Somehow, I think this time it's different.

With a swift flick of my wrist, I have the stick in my grasp. I close my eyes and flip the stick fully facing me. "just do it you crazy lady" I say out loud.

My eyes pop open.

(to be continued. Heh😈😈)

we have a cliffhanger?!

[vickyvicarious]

"Why not go on?" I asked. She shook her head, and, coming back, sat down in her place. Then, looking at me with open eyes, as of one waked from sleep, she said simply:— "I cannot!" and remained silent. I rejoiced, for I knew that what she could not, none of those that we dreaded could. Though there might be danger to her body, yet her soul was safe!

Somehow, I had thought last year that Van Helsing was bunking down with Mina inside the wafer circle. But it doesn't seem that he is, since here he mentions the fire being outside of it, and later on when they're being circled by the vampire ladies, he attributes his own safety to the holy wafer he is holding up at them, and Mina's to the circle.

This is interesting on a couple of levels, because on the one hand it points pretty definitively towards him not feeling safe resting next to her. It makes me feel like he really strongly suspects he might've been drunk from the night before, or at least that he fears she might do so tonight. And yet, he is also willing to give her all the surefire protection, and rely on only a wafer in the hand for himself. He didn't even make himself a separate circle. I suspect his supply is finally running low and he wants to make sure he has enough for the job in the morning/anything that might have to be done with Dracula, so he's trying to save the rest. That means that him giving up some of his finite supply is a real sacrifice, one which again places her own safety over his own. He's holding true to his promise to protect her to the fullest extent of his abilities, regardless of the risk to himself. If he faltered in his vigilance during the night, he could have fallen prey to the vampire women.

EDIT: disregard the above paragraph, literally right after posting I noticed that he does (and Mina also) actually mention he is in the circle too, haha. Guess I had reason for thinking that before, and this was more a brainfart moment. But actually that raises the question of how much is he trusting her, here. I still feel like he fears her a lot at this point but even after he sees she cannot cross the line he stays within it with her, which is a big show of deliberate trust in a way. Maybe his supply is running low so he doesn't know if he has enough for a second circle, but still. He's choosing to believe in her and to take the best interpretation of her reaction here.

Of course, there's also the risk of wolves for both of them. But he says he is happy because her soul will be safe, even if Mina could be killed by wolves. Is he taking comfort that the vampire women can't get to her? Well, that seems to be the case, but at the same time, it doesn't make much sense because Van Helsing is the one who has repeatedly said Mina is doomed to turn when she dies regardless of what kills her at this point. So I don't really think that's it. I think it's that, not only can the vampire women (or Van Helsing if they turn him, or even Dracula if he returns) not get to her, but also if Mina dies for any reason, if she finishes turning, she can't leave. She'll remain in the circle, and he will at least save her soul from the crimes it would commit as a vampire, by holding her in place and preventing her from ever committing them. None of the other vampires can approach so they can't let her out. The only way she gets out is if someone human helps her (and Van Helsing is the only one around for miles), or if she regains enough humanity to do so on her own (which will happen if they kill Dracula as planned).

Her reaction to the vampire women gives him hope that it's really not too late for her, and later on he takes comfort in her pale and ill appearance, but it kinda seems like he was planning for ways to minimize the harm to her soul even in a worst-case scenario.

[weirdestbooks]

An Unwilling Reunion (Wattpad | Ao3)

Anything in bold represents Spanish. Small reminder that this Haiti is not modern day Haiti, this Haiti is the republic that existed from 1806–1849, as this is the 1822 Annexation of the Dominican Republic.

Recommended by PeachDraws.

The Spanish Empire was well known in Haiti’s continent as ruthless, cruel, and a terrible father. So when his colonies started rebelling, Haiti couldn’t say he was too upset. Watching his empire in the Americas fall apart around him as his colonies began to follow in the footsteps of the United States and Haiti was wonderful.

Haiti’s neighbor had even joined in, as the Captaincy General of Santo Domingo, who had recently been killed and replaced by her son, the Republic of Spanish Haiti. It was wonderful, not being bordered by a colony that could be used by an empire to invade him, especially after Haiti had just spent the past few years divided into two nations. 

However, Haiti was still worried that Spanish Empire, in his rage and embarrassment, would attempt to reconquer Spanish Haiti. Luckily, Haiti had a plan to help prevent that. By protecting Spanish Haiti and his people, Haiti could ensure that they would never become slaves to the Spanish again!

Haiti expected that protecting his neighbor would come with complaints from their former colonizers, but he never thought he would have to argue with Spanish Haiti over his protection.  

“You can’t do this. This is illegal! It violates treaties and my rights as a country!” Spanish Haiti insisted. Haiti shook his head and sighed. Why didn’t he get it? Why didn’t he see that this was the best option for them and their people?

“I know you think that, but trust me, I’m doing this for the betterment of both our people. We are stronger as a united nation.” Haiti said, trying to make him see sense. Spanish Haiti practically snarled at him, the expression forcing the stars bridging his nose to almost bunch up. 

“I don’t want to be a united nation! Especially one that is governed by you!” he said, his anger most likely blinding his judgment. Haiti couldn’t really blame him. Spanish Haiti was very young, and the younger people were always more afraid of change than they seemed. Haiti was sure that once Spanish Haiti passed on, he would look down from heaven and be happy and proud of their nation.

Haiti should make sure Spanish Haiti gets a memorial so their people will know how Spanish Haiti gave his life to protect them from the Spanish enslavers. 

“Come on, Spanish Haiti. I know you are young, only a few months, but you have to see the benefits of our union.” Haiti said, trying to reason with him. Haiti didn't want to have to hurt him, especially since he won’t have much longer to live. 

“How are you so sure you aren’t the one making a mistake?” Spanish Haiti said, meeting Haiti’s eyes. Haiti scowled, trying to remind himself that this poor man was just naïve and could be reasoned with, no matter how frustrating he was making it.

“Because I have the experience of knowing what happens when division plagues our lovely island,” Haiti said, in reference to his time spent divided. Haiti had experience with this, and this child was acting like he was born yesterday. Spanish Haiti snorted, and Haiti pushed down the frustrated emotions that were rising.

This stupid child. Why couldn’t he just see what was right in front of him? Haiti was giving him a solution to his problems, an ally, protection! He refused to see that, a surefire sign that he had the same stubbornness as his mother.  

“Your county was divided. Mine was fine.” Spanish Haiti said, his eyes staring into Haiti’s as a smug smile made its way across his face.

Haiti was glad, at this moment, that he wasn't a father. He doesn't think he could handle dealing with brats like this. 

“It wasn't even yours! It belonged to that bastard, Santo Domingo, and his stupid empire! It was still a colony enslaved to the Spanish Empire! I’m trying to ensure we are free and our people won't be colonies anymore!” Haiti practically yelled. Why didn’t he understand? Why didn't he get it?

“By colonizing me?” Spanish Haiti asked, raising an eyebrow, “You really didn't think this through.”

The accusation stung and caused many emotions to swirl simultaneously through Haiti’s body. Rage, frustration, disbelief, horror, and many more he couldn’t identify. 

“I’m not colonizing you; I'm helping you!” Haiti protested. He wasn't like the long-dead Kingdom of France, the Spanish Empire, Britain, England, or any of them.  

“Funny. The Spanish and French Kingdoms said the same thing when they colonized us. What makes you better?” Spanish Haiti said, his eyes hardening, no longer whining like the child he was, but speaking confidently, like a proper country. He was challenging Haiti, that much was clear, and probably summoning all the bravado he had in the process. 

It was a noble effort. It would be a shame to see him go so determined to protect his people, yet not in the one way that mattered the most, the one way that could protect them forever. 

“I am genuinely doing it out of love for our island and for our people,” Haiti explained. Spanish Haiti snorted.

“Sure, you are. But sometimes people don’t want your help,” he said. Haiti rolled his eyes and waved his hand dismissively. 

“I’m confident your people do, even if you are too blinded by your fear of death to see that,” Haiti said. 

“I am my people, first and foremost. I don’t stand for this because they don’t stand for this. And even if I die, even if I don’t live past today, my spirit will. My people fought and won against Spain. And maybe it’ll take years, but they’ll fight and win against you, too. I am not French, nor are you, Republic of Haiti. I am a Spanish speaker and a son of that part of Europe. You and I are not the same, and I know what happens when someone who is different takes control.”

“I am not like that.”

“A fact you only claim but do not prove. You’re just as bad as the rest of them. Even now, I’m just a prisoner, despite your claims of protection.” Spanish Haiti said, raising his handcuffed hands. 

“You tried to kill me.”

“And I wish I succeeded. If not for my sake but my people’s sake.”

[boinin]

Blue Lock Manga

Chapter 221 scanlation ("Take Me With You") is out and ready for devouring! Going back to a numbered structure for this chapter's analysis. My half-formed thoughts are below the cut.

No chapter next week, due to a break.

Previous chapter analyses

1. How many injuries did that goal (and the shenanigans that lead up to it) cause??

Butt monkey Mandou Sendou, the Ubers goalie and best sharkboi Kurona all get benched this chapter. I'm glad Isagi is cognisant of how demanding he is of Kurona. He calls him his planet/satellite for a reason I guess, but must be exhausting, especially when Kurona doesn't know what he's planning or going for.

Meanwhile, Canoli the Ubers GK might have cracked a goddamn rib trying stop that crazy Kaiser goal. Mad respect, best NPC goalie so far. 💀 While Sendou's... being Sendou (comic relief/a victim of the narrative basically).

I'll say this once and only once:

Bless Igaguri for this, lol (and Neru). But most of all, poor Kurona - you don't have to hurt yourself orbiting Isagi bb 😭

2. Kaiser is done playing.

The reason I got excited seeing the leaks this week is because of how stone cold Kaiser is in this chapter. HE IS SO BOTHERED IT STINGS. Tell me that's not one pissed off catboi right there. Plus, the aura of thorns? Fuckin' sick dude. His ego is coming to the forefront now, and he's less king of the court, more tiger about to pounce.

Ugh, he's such an arse, but I really enjoy him as a character. He looks fit to murder Ness (who's unnerved, no bloody wonder) and all his dialogue revolves around how disgusted he is that he had to serve up Isagi's leftovers.

Imagine. You just scored THE GOAL of the Neo-Egoist League so far, but all you can think of is how badly you're doing in the feud you initiated against your seventeen year old Japanese teammate.

For once, I'm with Ness here. Kaiser what the hell? Just take the W and move on, man.

We saw Kaiser get more serious during the Manshine game, but he's never not been smug towards Isagi. Allow me a segue, as I flick through those chapters.

[[In chp 177, he leers at Isagi that he's losing interest (Isagi: and I took that personally).

In chp 181 he scores the first BM goal against Manshine. He shows the same cat-eyed focus (his version of Predator Eye I speculate), but he's still pretty satisfied with himself.

It's only when chp 182, when Isagi turns around and tells him I see hope in crushing you now that Kaiser starts to second-guess his little game with Isagi. Antagonising the Blue Lock ace is backfiring hard on him, because bullying Isagi is a surefire way of leveling him up.

Still. Even when Isagi sets up Kunigami's score in chp 185, and we get the I'm going to fucking kill you if it's the last thing I do moment, Kaiser's still like 😏 He's not bothered. Perhaps because Isagi's doing a fine job of usurping Ness's role, but not his own.

It's not until chp 202 that Isagi finally, seriously, starts getting at Kaiser. Because at the last minute, Isagi not only anticipated Kaiser fucking with him, but had a back up plan to specifically ensure Kaiser would not take the final score of the game. That's NG11 levels of playmaking, or at least approaching it. Itoshi Sae operates at that level, but he's a prodigy. Isagi's managed to close that gap in several intensive months of training and plays. that's why he's the protagonist 😎

After Yukimiya scores and ends the game in chp 203, that's when Kaiser approaches and proposes that, versus Ubers, they compete on goals alone.

That's when Kaiser starts to take Isagi seriously. And now that we're more than halfway through, you can see Kaiser is starting to worry about his odds of winning the competition he set.]]

I don't know how the BM v Ubers game will pan out. Convention suggests Ubers will win it. Barou is a serious rival to Isagi, and at the very least, he's going to get the next goal of the game. I wouldn't write off Ubers winning altogether, with Snuffy subbing on to turn the tide.

But I think there's a strong chance one of Isagi or Kaiser will score again, and I'm leaning towards it being Kaiser. Their rivalry is too good to wind up so soon, even with a rivalry-packed PXG match on the horizon. What will happen before that is Isagi driving a sea of change at Bastard Munchen. They're already five/eleven on the team. Change Ness or Grimm out for Hiori, and Blue Lock will have succeeded in infiltrating one of the best U20 teams in the world. No mean feat, and driven mainly by Isagi's playmaking.

Anyway, back on track. I couldn't sympathise with browbeaten Ness for too long. What in yandere hell was this panel??:

HE'S SO DERANGED. It's really well drawn and everything, but it's legit HAUNTING. Something about the V shaped mouth and massive teeth I think.

Anyway, Ness will need to be sedated after this match if Isagi ends up scoring the last goal, because man can't be trusted 😊🔪

Speaking of Isagi...

3. Japanese man obsessed with being the sole thing on German striker's brain, more PRIDE news at 10

they're so frickin gay, I--

Jokes aside, their rivalry is a feast for the eyes as well as us shippers. Everytime Kaiser talks shit about him, one of Isagi's cells morphs into a jigsaw piece. Man's going to have more puzzles than a ‎Ravensburger catalogue if he doesn't stop soon.

This panel goes so hard. Unfortunately the image quality of this week's scanlation is a little rough. I'm hoping there's better quality raws floating around for anyone that's into colouring, but this chapter has so many cool shots. This and Kaiser bitching out Ness are my personal favourites.

4. Star System Sub Alert! Marc Snuffy's coming in clutch for the Ubers side

I did kinda hope that neither Snuffy or Noa would sub in this game. Neither of them seem like the type to want to outshine their younger charges. Prince and Lavinho are both massive narcissists, while Loki is a peer as well as a coach to his PXG players. Those coming on in a game makes sense.

That said, Snuffy seems to really gel with and support the Ubers boys, and they're on the losing side. To me, that's the only sensible reason for him to step in, forcing Noa to come on also.

I think Snuffy's MO will be to set up a goal for Barou, while knocking Kaiser and Isagi down a peg. I hope he synergises with Lorenzo! Noa will be man marking Snuffy, but might get time to do some Isagi coaching while he's out there, who knows?

Either way, we get to see Snuffy in action on the field, which I'm down for.

Lastly: did anyone think Snuffy was that tall? Noa's got to be around Kunigami's range in height (so ~188cm/6'2" territory). From this panel, Snuffy's just as tall, which was a shock... 😶

5. OH LAWD HE COMIN

(and by comin, I mean: signing up to join Isagi Yoichi's harem of rehabilitated sad bois)

HIORI MY SON

WHEN WILL THEY SUB YOU INTO THIS GAME?

Not by the time I predicted, that's for sure. But I am excited to see his ego awakening as he looks with completely platonic admiration at Isagi.

All in all, a hype-worthy chapter, even after the adrenaline from Kaiser's mega goal fades. I'm so excited to see where it goes with two masters on the field (+ Fukaku Gen I guess? I feel validated for writing him into the national team in my post-canon fic haha).

Prediction tracker

(alternatively: how wrong can one nerd be week to week?)

Last time, I predicted: Chapter 221 will be both teams reckoning with this goal. We’ll likely get input from both Ubers and BM, and some sort of change in dynamic–be it a substitution or the coaches opting to play (reeeally doubt this will happen though, unless they get a nudge from Ego). In particular, I’m eager to see how Lorenzo and Hiori process this. Also, someone’s going to yell at Isagi. Kunigami or Raichi are my guess.

Egg on my face? Ah well.

We're down to two more chapters for Hiori to get subbed per my original prediction... chuckles nervously

Already went through my thoughts for where Snuffy/Noa are going to go with this, so I'll chalk that up as next chapter's prediction. See you then!

[ckret2]

How is ford handling all of this

(Referring to my human Bill design—maybe I oughta come up with a tag for this AU.)

I already promised to answer the second half of @dykefnctl's question:

also, like, wtf does stan and ford think? i'm invested.

—and I separately covered the Stan half of it—so now here's Ford!

I mentioned in my post about Stan's reaction that he only doesn't kill Bill on sight because somebody points out that might just unleash his full triangular form again. No point for guessing that Ford's probably the one who brought up the possibility. Ford goes into full consider-all-the-risks paranoid scientist mode and he's also probably the one who immediately decides the best way for the Pines to contain the threat of Bill Cipher is to do it THEMSELVES, in their own home, rather than risk putting Bill in the hands of somebody who wouldn't be careful enough or appreciate the exact nature of his threat.

Ford's so inclined to handle threats alone—keep everything he knows to himself, dole out intel to his own family on a need-to-know basis, play his cards close to his chest, let NOBODY get involved. Trust no one. That works fine for Bill, who thinks that he's got better odds of escape in the Pines family's hands than he would with either local police or any federal agency.

So. Ford wants to keep Bill contained, and agrees with Stan that containment should only last until they can figure out a surefire way to destroy Bill for good. There's paranoia. There's fear. There's anger.

But there's also a lot of sorrow.

I'm a fan of the idea that, before Ford figured out Bill's scheme, he really did consider him one of his deepest, closest, best friends, and one of his few trusted confidantes. When he looks at Bill now, he doesn't just see someone who lied to him and exploited him; he sees a dear friend. A dear friend that manipulated him, abandoned him, and tried to kill everyone he cares about. He sees all of it at once.

It was a lot easier to ignore that history when Bill was either busy destroying the world, or invading Ford's dreams to taunt him about destroying the world. It's harder now that Bill is just there, all the time, knocking around the shack and being an incompetent human. Prattling on about unhinged alien things and ancient history like he does. Making passing comments about Ford's current research that imply he knows more about the topic than Ford does. Bringing up thirty-year-old inside jokes.

Not being threatening. Just being the person that Ford had thought was his friend. Oh, it hurts deeply, hearing this omnicidal maniac who tortured him and his family talking the way his friend used to.

It isn't hard for Bill to pick up on this conflicting view Ford holds of him. He tries to exploit it—lightly imply he might have a few regrets about that little apocalyptic whoopsy last summer, act a little more friendly when they're alone, suggest he could help with whatever Ford's working on now—no "deals," no quid-pro-quo, just a friendly casual consultation role, answer any big questions Ford has that Bill happens to know the answer to. If Bill gets his foot in the door, he can find a way to leverage Ford's soft spot to find a way to escape later.

Ford doesn't buy it. Ironically, even though he sees Bill as a (former, backstabbing) friend, it's when Bill's acting friendly that it's easiest for Ford to hate him. He's not as naive as he was in the eighties, and he knows too much about how Bill's manipulation works, with false kindness and flattery and tantalizing helpful offers. Ford shoots down all Bill's overtures of "friendship" consistently and without hesitation. They reek of future betrayal.

It's when Bill isn't trying—it's when he's using a glass of prune juice to unsuccessfully illustrate to the three-dimensional kids how gravity flows in six-dimensional space, or when he's casually referencing world events that won't happen for another few decades, or using a parallel universe to cheat at cards so he can pick what the family's watching for movie night (it's Flatland), or bringing up the author of the Voynich Manuscript as if he knew Enrico personally, or making a pun that only works if you know two dead languages but is hilarious if you do—those are the times Ford most misses the friend he used to have.

Bill knows he's making progress when Ford lies that he's got no idea how Bill could have cheated at cards (but maybe they ought to just watch Flatland like he wants so he'll finally stop asking about it). Bill just doesn't know how he's making progress. For now, he just hopes it's enough to inspire Ford to procrastinate on finding a way to kill Bill for real. (It is.)

[snow-hart-a]

Belief; A collection of Michael Headcanons

It is likely that this post will be very long, and might cover some dark topics, so after a certain point I will put it under a read more.

[ DEVOTION ] - What idea or person or god are they truly devoted to in life, if anything?

When they were created, their whole world was just himself and God...so for a long time he put his whole faith and heart into his Father. That faith and devotion cracked though when God brought up the creation of human kind. He had originally opposed their creation and likely would have voiced it himself had one of their own not been vaporized for doing exactly that. It was then that he learned to fear their father. That devotion fractured when Lucifer fell, and he'd had to chose between exiling his brother and killing him outright. He chose the prior, for in truth there was no choice at all, and he would rather Lucifer hate him and still be alive. His faith in his Father shattered altogether when his daughter was killed and damned to hell for nothing other than having been born a Nephilim. Nowadays he puts his faith in his brothers, the few gods he's befriended from Olympus, and his own sword arm. His father has lost that right.

[ SIN ] - What's the worst and most awful thing another person can embody, according to them?

The worst thing that someone can do in his mind is be an oathbreaker. If you make a promise to him, he typically expects that you will do your best to keep it. But oathbreaking isn't just a simple 'I can't do this' sort of promise break, rather it's a stab in the back that he fears. If he trusts you and puts his faith in you enough to believe a oath you've taken, breaking that oath is a surefire way to end up on Michael's radar in a way you don't want.

[ VIRTUE ] - What's the most good and righteous thing another person can embody, according to them?

In a word, Justice. Though it's more complicated than one might think. When most think of him, they assume that the Justice he follows and carries out is that of the law or that of his Father. Not so. True justice is for the people, so too is he. He respects those that fight for the rights of the downtrodden in an effort to better the lives of the whole.

[ CREED ] - Do they have a creed or code of honour they follow?

Oh for sure, though it's not the laws of heaven [anymore] and adheres more closely to the way of the ancient Greeks.

Keep your word

Fight for those who can't fight for themselves

A debt owed is a debt repaid

do not fall victim to hubris

Things like that. The concept of not needing to be a perfect soldier, but a good man instead.

[ RITE ] - Do they have any rituals or holidays that are important to them?

Not really...he celebrates his daughter's birthday, though.

[ SACRIFICE ] - What have they sacrificed for their beliefs?

Well...in both my main and Hazbin verses, he's done at least three acts of High Treason thus far in service of his beliefs for a better future.

Falling in love with a human

Having a nephilim

Fraternizing with another pantheon

And as for what he is willing to lose and willing to do for these things? There is nothing he would not sacrifice short of his loved ones. He would not hesitate to sacrifice his life if it meant he could help the others.

[ MIRACLE ] - What have they been awarded for their beliefs?

Awarded? Hah. If he has been, he doesn't feel like it. He was created to lead the angels but was never told how, he was just expected to know. He's lost nearly everyone he's ever loved, either because they fell or because they died, to the point where he is afraid to get closer. His reward for doing the right thing? Sleepless nights and the crippling sense that if he only did/does better, maybe he can keep things from happening again. If he had only tried harder, been better, if he was enough things would be better. This is his reward for being a 'good' son.

[ LAW ] - If they got to decide, how would society be different?

People wouldn't be punished simply for being themselves, and perhaps the siblings that fell wouldn't have. Was it really so terrible to share knowledge with the humans [Lucifer's case] or to try and find a way to give angels souls[Azazel] ? Sure there were some siblings who had done cruel and horrid things that were worthy of punishment but...not them. Not in his mind. In his mind surely there had been a way to appease everyone, right?

[ COMMUNITY ] - Do they have other people with whom they share their beliefs, like a political party, a church or a mutual aid group?

There is a select few angels that he trusts with his life and his ambition. Among them are Gabriel and Raphael. He wants to trust the others but is reluctant on the off chance this goes badly...plus if it does, the less people involved the safer those people will be. He does intend on trying to reconnect with Lucifer...after all they stand a better chance, united. [note that all of this is verse dependent and can be adjusted to fit the timeline]

[ CONVERT ] - Have they had a change of heart in regards to their beliefs? Did they once think and feel differently?

I believe one line from one of the songs in Hazbin Hotel sums up his viewpoint.

"If hell is forever then heaven must be a lie"

He detests the black and white thinking that many of his kin have, the concept of it being all or nothing horrifies him, especially given all the ones who were sent to hell without being deserving of it. And if he has his way, he will find a way to right this wrong. No matter the cost.

[kereton]

🔥: What’s a surefire way to make your OC get flustered? -- for Jermaine, Watt, and Zhartook; 💐: What is their courting style? How would they woo someone? -- for Destal and Terkazeeus; 💘: Is your OC a very good flirt? Are they charming? -- for Fenwick, Andurath, and Lok :3c

🔥: What’s a surefire way to make your OC get flustered? -- for Jermaine, Watt, and Zhartook;

Jermaine - My poor sorcerer boy hasn't had a genuine compliment thrown his way in a long time. Given his inferiority complex, he would probably rebuff the compliment in the moment only to get relentlessly teased by the party's bard later when he undoubtedly spills the beans. Then, realizing his mistake, he gets to be fussy and pouty about it all evening :D

Wyatt - Given the fact that my Weenie Hut Jr DMPC has been adopted by The Horniest Party, it's bad news for him whenever the party Gets Weird and puts him in the spotlight over his relationship with Lisbet, the party's warlock. Wyatt's a very internal guy, and would rather his relationship stay between Lisbet and himself. Unfortunately for him, this is D&D, so of course the Warlock was previously engaged to someone who died but Turns Out They're Still Alive! My poor, precious bean needs a god damn break.

Zhartook - I've been leaning aroace for Zhartook for some time, so this situation probably doesn't happen unless the other party is VERY forward or more physical with their advances. Zhartook's a good noodle, and would make an attempt to respectfully decline. However, situations where he's being disregarded or ignored would get under his scales. Barring that, his own mother trying to *wink wink nudge nudge* towards the party's gnome wizard Melliwyk also sends him up a wall.

💐: What is their courting style? How would they woo someone? -- for Destal and Terkazeeus;

Destal - As much fun as "he does a silly lil' dance" would be, I don't think it suits him. Destal, being a three year old Aarakocra, doesn't exactly have much to go on here aside from watching a budding romance between two of his party members. Because of that, I imagine his plan to woo someone is just to express a desire to hang out with and be around them, and then either seeing what happens or hope someone kind enough throws him a lifeline.

Terkazeeus (Skyrim campaign) - Terky was actually in a long-term, serious romance before They Got Killed In The Backstory. Being the absolute bluntest of instruments, she'll just order drinks, complain about how Argonian Ale is far superior to anything found in Skyrim, and then just info-dump everything about herself and her mission on her previously unsuspecting victim. Luckily for her, her ex-fiance found her direct approach rather charming, joking that she "Must have been in Skyrim for so long she's starting to become a Nord".

💘: Is your OC a very good flirt? Are they charming? -- for Fenwick, Andurath, and Lok :3c

Fenwick - Out of all of my OCs, Fenwick is a master of Getting the First Date and not The Second One. This doofus has all sorts of campy one-liners he's grabbed straight out of romance novels that have probably gotten him farther than he'd like to admit, but Fenwick over-excites and over-shares constantly. To some, raising a pet giant wolf spider and delving in ancient ruins to gather artifacts to convert his home into an actual museum is genuinely interesting! Those people tend to NOT be the tavern-goers Fenwick makes a move on.

Andurath - Those that aren't immediately offput by a 7 1/2 foot tall Goliath man would probably like what they find. That's good, because this boy is a TERRIBLE flirt. He's got a case of the Overly-Serious-Protagonist syndrome, but he's genuine, earnest, and calm. The kilt might raise an eyebrow, but the party's satyr warlock seems all for it!

Lok - Ahahaha no, not with his brain all scrambled and his crazy-grandpa-that-rolls-around-in-trash-with-animals aesthetic. Before The Incident is a different story. I mean, he's apparently got a kid running around, so maybe he's still got those moves!