#like i can't explain how much this means to me

[felassan]

David Gaider: "It occurs to me, after reading posts getting it spectacularly wrong, that there are a lot of misconceptions over how game studios organize and, in particular, who makes the actual decisions about what ends up in your game. Much of it is by folks who don't *try* to get it... but not all, surely. I'll explain it a bit, but a big caveat: I'm going to talk in generalities and roles. Actual titles vary (a lot) from studio and studio, and the bigger a studio is the more segmented their departments (and thus management) is going to be. Even so, most studios, big and small, kind of work the same. To start, you're going to break your devs up into at least three groups: design (what is the game? how does it work?), art (what will it look like?), and engineering (making it go). There can be a lot of cross-over and some departments that don't fit into a project structure (QA, Marketing, etc.)"

Rest of post under cut due to length.

"There's going to be someone in charge of these groups - these are usually called "leads" or "senior leads". The actual title varies. The Design Lead could be a Lead Designer, for instance, or it could be a Creative Director and a Lead Designer is what they call someone further down the chain."

"These leads all report to a Project Director, someone who's job it is to manage the project as a whole. Now, this part gets a little dicey. Depending on the studio, this role can be anything from more production-oriented (they control the schedule) to an outright auteur who micro-manages everything."

"More importantly, it's the PD who hands down the project goals to the Leads: the strategic goals, the needed features, the shape of it all, etc. The Leads then figure out how their department is going to tackle those, and work with each other. If the Leads conflict, it's the PD's role to solve it. How much autonomy or ownership those Leads have is, like I said, really up to the individual PD and that studio's culture. Even in the case of a PD who has a lot of authority over the project, however, they still report to the studio leadership (unless it's the same person, like in a small studio)."

"The studio leadership is going to be giving the PD their marching orders, often in the form of those strategic goals. If there's a publisher involved, that's where the studio leadership is likely getting those goals. The PD, then, ends up being the person who has to negotiate with everyone above."

"What does this mean? If the studio or publisher has concerns about the project, they're calling in the PD to explain. If the project needs more time or resources, it's on the PD to explain to them why and how and when. If there are a lot of layers above the PD... yes, it's a looot of meetings. So while the PD is managing up, the Leads are managing down. With big projects, that means managing the "sub-leads"... those in charge of the individual sections of their department. It'd be unmanageable otherwise, and the bigger the project the more of these there are going to be."

"What does this mean? Well, let's look at the way BioWare broke up Design (as of 8 years ago, anyhow). Design consisted of Narrative Design, Level Design, Systems Design, Gameplay Design, and Cinematic Design (who worked in tandem with Cinematic Animation, which actually fell under the Art Lead)."

"The sub-leads are handed their goals by the lead, and work out how they're going to produce their particular corner of the game and also, more importantly, how they're going to work with each other. Conflicts between sub-leads are handled by the lead, as are ANY conflicts with other departments. What conflicts could there be, you ask? Dependencies, for one. "I can't do X until Y is done, but Y is someone else's job". Or scope. "We need 20 doodads but the sub-lead said they only have time to make 10, what now?". Even outright differences in vision. Big projects means room for a LOT of egos. If you think this is easier with a smaller (or indie) project, the answer is "yes, but not really". The roles are still necessary but often get combined into one person. Or outsourced, and someone still needs to manage the outsourcing. Things fall off over-full plates. It's a different kind of hard. Anyhow, the point of all this is: the further you go down the chain, the smaller the box you can play in is. The less you have actual say over, and even then that say is subject to being overridden by ANYONE above... and must still play nicely with the needs and goals of the other departments. You also need to keep in mind that projects are constantly in flux. Problems that were thought solved need re-solving. The team falls behind schedule and scope needs to change. You are constantly in a dance, within your tiny box, trying to figure out sub-optimal solutions that cause the least pain. And there will be pain. Shit rolls downhill, as they say, and when the project encounters big issues that means those high up have the sad job of figuring out how to spread it out and who can afford to take the hardest hit. If you're that one, you take it on the chin and you deal. This is the job. Lastly, I'll re-iterate: not every studio works this way, exactly. The roles exist, sure, but are not divided up so neatly or as easily identifiable. Even so, this should give you an idea what "lead" and "sub-lead" mean... and perhaps help you imagine what it's like existing further down the chain."

[source thread]

[windvexer]

Do you know if there's a chance that someone just... Can't do magic? I feel like none of my spells work despite trying different methods and advice, I've never been chosen by a deity like most practicioners seem to be, I feel like there's something I'm missing fundamentally that means I just can't make magic. How can I check, so I stop giving myself hope and then having it crushed?

Perhaps a bad faith take, but I doubt most practitioners have been chosen by deities. I am of the opinion that many people believe they are supposed to be chosen and then use very lax systems of omen reading to justify that such-and-such god is claiming them.

Over the years, many people have asked me for help getting their spells to work, or solving such-and-such magical blockage.

And unfortunately, just about every time, the end result is that the person really has not done as much work as they think they have done, and they are still more or less on square one (or square zero) of practice.

Here are the sorts of questions I would ask you if we were chatting about this:

Focus

What specific school of magic are you trying to learn? "Witchcraft" and "magic" are not schools. Are you trying to learn Traditional Witchcraft? Lodge Magic? Chaos Magick? Appalachian Folk Magic? Dianic Wicca?

Out of the school of magic you are trying to learn, how many books have you read about it?

Out of those books, how many of them focused on actual technique and theory? As in, explaining the magical theories as to why this system works the way it does.

Do you have a clear understanding of why this magical system works the way it does? Can you describe it to me?

Within the magical system you have chosen to study, is there a clearly laid groundwork for what practitioners are supposed to have to do before they are valid/initiated/adept within this system? If so, have you achieved all of those requirements?

How many months of ongoing study and practice do you think is reasonable until you are ready to move to a new school of focus?

Learning Plan

Witchcraft is a complex and variable skill that, like writing a novel, requires a working knowledge of many diverse skillsets.

What is the specific goal you are working towards at this time? "Getting a spell to work" is not specific enough. "Casting a prosperity spell that is able to generate small amounts of cash, gifts, or benefits within a 2 week period" is the type of thing I mean.

What is your lesson plan to achieve that goal? An example might be, 1) read a book on prosperity magic, 2) study and research 5 accessible plants related to prosperity, 3) learn an energy raising technique, 4) learn how to charge correspondences, 5) learn how to add correspondences to candle spell, 6) learn magical timing techniques.

Even if you do not have a lesson plan, can you name the top 3 things you have been actively practicing to try and become a better practitioner? Examples might be energy raising, visualizing techniques, talking to spirits.

Once you formulate a lesson plan, ask yourself how many hours you think is reasonable to spend on each step. If you don't think you've ever successfully raised energy before, do you think it's fair that you might require 10 hours of practice learning your first energy raising technique before you can do it?

Could you explain to me the steps you believe are required to perform magic? Include how many hours you've spent practicing techniques applicable to each step.

Practice

Think of magic as being like learning to close a restaurant by yourself. You must be experienced in all of the stations, and have in-depth knowledge about the standards required. Do you also have such experience and understanding when it comes to your own craft?

Outside of reading and study, since the start of your practice, how many hours of concerted effort have you put in trying to perform magical techniques? This includes energy work, casting spells, sensing energies, divination, talking to spirits.

Write a list of each specific magical technique you have tried to learn. Not just "energy work" but, "Earth-roots grounding visualization to raise or balance energy into the planet." "Gathering energy into the lungs and exhaling to release excess energy." "Trying to contact the spirits of tarot cards." Be very specific. Next, write down how many hours you think you have spent practicing each technique. Which techniques have you spent more than 10 hours practicing, even if that practice is across years?

Write down every spell you ever remember trying to cast. How many are there?

Of all the spells you've tried to cast, are they from a wide variety of intents (such as prosperity, protection, luck, binding, conjuring), or are they mostly one type (e.g., prosperity)? Write down how many different kinds of spells you've tried to cast, based on intent. Have you practiced at least 5-10 spells in each category?

Technique

You've asked me, so given the way I do things:

How long does it take you to cast simple spells? Do you think it might be reasonable to expect that casting even a simple spell could take 30 minutes or more?

When you work spells, how long does it take you to raise energy? This can also include hours/days spent finding objects/ingredients of natural power. Would you say that you spend at least 10-15 minutes raising magical power for every spell that you cast?

When you work spells, how do you imprint/program energy? How do you stamp it with your intent so you know it's going to do what you want it to do?

When you work spells, how do you deliver them to their target? What techniques and methods do you employ to make sure they can get to where they need to go?

Before you cast spells, how much divination or investigation do you perform to make sure the spell will be effective for your purposes? Even a perfect screwdriver will fail where a hammer is required.

Do you use traditional techniques like aligning your spells to planetary timing, gathering taglocks, casting circles, or calling quarters?

Hygiene

How often do you perform self-cleansing? Otherworldly grime can obfuscate magical power.

Have you ever cast, or had others cast for you, unblocking or unbinding spells to help open the roads of your power?

How often do you engage in managing your personal energy? For example, centering/reclaiming exercises to pull escaped energy back into yourself, or energy gathering exercises to build up personal power.

Resources

Of the people you are asking for magical help, are they all a part of the same group who carry similar worldviews and would tend to suggest the same advice?

Of the people you are asking for magical help, how many of them are able to affirm that they are mentors, teachers, spirit doctors, or consultants qualified to help people with the problem you have?

Do you have a group you can work with to practice skills, such as energy charging and energy reading?

When you cast spells, do you have someone you can send photos of the spellwork to, so they can try to perform readings or diagnosis on what's actually going on?

Reality

Have you chosen a start date for your practice (such as, "I've been a practitioner for 2 years,") but in reality you have only tried to practice magic for a very limited time (say, 1 or 2 months out of that period)? If so, is it possible that you are comparing yourself to the success of a practitioner of 2 years, instead of a practitioner of 2 months?

Does the kind of magic you believe in dictate that rigor and technique are required to achieve results? Or are you more working in the "visualize and believe" arena?

Are you comparing your successes to people who are telling the truth about their practice? Is it possible people you are comparing yourself to are not using rigorous self-assessment when they calculate their own wins?

Are you comparing your successes to people who may have been practicing for decades or more on intensive paths, or who have spent thousands of hours honing their practice within a single area?

Are you being realistic about what actual success looks like? For example, casting a protection spell, something not protected against happens, and then deciding that because something bad in general happened, the entire protection failed.

Anyway Anon, to actually answer your question: no, I don't believe some people just "can't do magic." In very rare circumstances, some people may have serious blockages or entanglements going on that must be resolved before they can do magic. Others may require less intensive spellwork like unblocking to clear the way (like idk, maybe granny prayed over you in the crib that you'd never get involved with all this evil occult stuff).

It's my experience that almost everyone who thinks they can't do magic, if they were being very honest with themselves, would have a hard time coming up with actual lists of things they have done to try to be better at magic; they have perhaps practiced for a handful of hours across several months; they are not learning core skills (like energy work, divination, or trancework); and they are not working off of tried-and-true systems, but are rather setting up camp at the intersection of every possible shortcut (clear quartz, rosemary, and roses are universal substitutes; you don't have to use any physical tools or ingredients; visualization is the same as energy raising; intent is all you need; traditional methods of targeting such as obtaining taglocks are irrelevant; casting a circle is irrelevant; magical headspace is irrelevant; building and consecrating of holy areas such as altars is irrelevant; astrological timing and places of power are irrelevant; going to great lengths to obtain or preserve power is irrelevant).

The other 3% of people pissed on a fairy tree when they were kids and need to spend a couple of months working with a mediator to rectify their relationship with the spirit world.

Do feel free to DM me, if you like.

[rowie264]

If someone criticizes something, it doesn't mean that they hate it. It also works the other way around. If you like something, it doesn't mean that it's done well from an objective point of view.

I love Jinx. Her design, her story, her personality, her character arc... I was just fascinated by her. Jinx has become one of my favorite characters in media in general. It was the continuation of her story that I was waiting for the most.

Jinx is still my favorite character in season 2. I love almost every scene with her. How she did Sevika's arm and the subsequent fight with the Smeech, the fight with Vi in Act 1, the prison break, search for Vander in the mines, epic appearance during the battle against Noxus.

I got a lot of positive emotions while watching s2 and especially during Jinx's appearance on the screen. But… an emotional response and objective assessment are two different things. And objectively, Jinx's character in season 2 is OOC and poorly written.

Removing very importand part of her story and personality. Her mental issues almost completely disappear. This is a very important aspect of her character. And no, Isha's presence and a "more favorable environment" would not heal her, the whole 2nd act is completely unrealistic and looks stupid, since all her problems with her mental health were magically solved off-screen;

Irrelevant piece of plot. Her arc of "Zaun symbol" passes by her - she becomes a symbol by accident, ignores the consequences and directly encounters all this revolutionary mood only during Isha's saving from Stillwater (at the same time saving her followers - an indirect action, not a purposeful one). So this arc is kinda about her, but she doesn't seem to participate in it herself, and it ends with literally nothing (like the whole Zaun revolution);

Making her more appealing to wider audience. Her hatred of Piltover and Caitlyn just disappeared. Yes, while she was with Vi in the mines she said "piltie goons who murdered mom and dad," but… that's all? Jinx doesn't kill a single enforcer in the entire 2nd season (although, for example, she could have in Stillwater) and tells Caitlyn "I didn't know your mother was there." Let me remind you that Jinx literally giggled in s1 when she killed a dozen enforcers during gemstone kidnapping, killed enforcers on the bridge without any care, she hated Caitlyn fiercely because she "stole" her sister from her, and she couldn't not know that Cassandra was a councilor. It isn't showed how and why she changed her opinion and this is important thing to her character, you can't explain such change with microexpressions or parallels;

Unrealistic happy family reunion. The reunion of Jinx, Vi, and Vander is a spectacular moment from Disney. Do you remember how Jinx reacted when Vi returned? Yes, she was happy but as soon as she spotted Cait she freaked out and immidiately thought that Vi betrayed her. Imagine what would happen if her supposedly dead - bc of her btw - father had returned and now looks like some animal;

Silco mattered much more to Jinx. A very "subtle" replacement of Silco for Vander in the role of father (Jinx calls him father, sniffs Vander's jacket and not Silco's), although Silco played probably a bigger role in this? And Jinx remembers about him like 2 times? Although it's been about 7-10 years since Vi's "death" in season 1, Jinx was still triggered by just a similar appearance. Apparently, Silco wasn't that important to Jinx (which is not true); I could still keep talking about Jinx, but let's leave it at that.

I love Jinx even in season 2. I like watching scenes with her. But my emotional attachment doesn't stop me from seeing that Jinx's character in s2 is not a continuation of Jinx's character of the end of s1. Her image is broken, the arcs are not completed, the relationships with other characters are poorly written.

[sergeant-angels-trashcan]

CoD girlies, this one is for you. (but also Sam Wilson coded. anyway)

So. My mom was flying home and she had a stopover in The Big Fucking Airport in Chicago, I don't remember the name right now. The point is, she gets Chicago Pizza for me. And cheesecake.

And on the flight home, she is sat next to a military boy (boy is her designation, not mine. She's three weeks away from seventy, this is not a helpful description)

And she starts talking to him, because that is who my mother is, she finds out that he's coming home for the holidays and then he's getting stationed and such-and-such base.

At some point, because of who she is as a person, and because she had spent nearly two months Momming and Grandmothering as hard as she could and had not yet turned it down, she asks this young man if he is hungry. Is he hungry? Does he need food? She has pizza. Would he like the pizza? Oh, no, no it's okay! Take the pizza! it's fine!

He then reveals that this is the first food he's had all day (it's like 4pm) and my mom :0 and finds more food to give him. As they deplane she gives him $20 which is the last of her American cash. This is the end of the story

My mom. is so, so close to being the meddling matchmaker the sitcoms of my youth promised me she would be, and she drops the ball EVERY. TIME.

However, the point is now I can't stop thinking about this with the CoD boys. Maybe it's not even a few weeks before Christmas, maybe it's the day of due to bad luck or whatever idk idk doesn't matter

Honestly Ghost is objectively the funniest just because he'd be about two feet taller than her and she would absolutely not be intimidated by him. At some point she would share stories from before she retired and would say something about how she "had to take down a big boy like you once" and that "I told him it was a good thing my daughters weren't in town". I'm sorry he would be so fucking endeared by this. And he'd track her down somehow to say thanks or to pay her back and then obviously he gets invited in for baked goods and falls in love with you (me)

Gaz is so effortlessly charming. He asks if he can Venmo her money, and she has no idea what that is. Paypal? She doesn't have one. Her daughter does that, she's not very tech savvy, you know? She goes off on a tangent about having to use a typewriter to write papers in college. Gaz is undeterred--could he send it to this daughter and she could pass it on? Then again, maybe this is a teenager, and him having the number of a random teenager feels weird. He's out of time, they're deplaning. She's hard to keep track of, a short woman, but he's, well, Gaz. He spots her making for a car at the curb, the driver's door opening, and presumably the daughter getting out. Gaz makes a beeline for them. After a moment of confusion, you get introduced to Gaz, who tries to explain the situation while you're being yelled at by airport security and honked at by other drivers. It's not ideal--but he gets your number. He waits maybe an hour before texting you.

Soap is the hardest. My mom struggles so much with British accents so I think she'd get about half of what he says to start with. He'd call her bonnie (cos he's a charmer like that) and she wouldn't know what it means. I think she shows him a LOT of grandkid pictures and he's fully endeared by how she knows her oldest grandchild likes linkin park and slipknot while having no clue who they are. Soap is the one who tracks her to the pickup area and books it to your car so neither of you have to lift her luggage ("your mam said you have shoulder troubles, cannae let you make it worse, aye?"). Something something your hands brush as you reach for the same piece of luggage

Price would be a little awkward until she weasels his age out of him and then she realizes: ah! baby age! boy! (man's 40 max). I think he'd be better at getting her to talk, she's absolutely whipping out her phone (complaining about how it's old and doesn't have enough memory) and showing him pictures of the grandkids and a rundown of their hobbies and trash talking my sister's in-laws just a little. I can imagine her realizing he doesn't have a ride and volunteering you to drop him off at a hotel. You pull up to the curb and are like. Who the fuck is this man towering over my mother. He winds up in the front seat because his legs are longer and he turns so he can keep talking to your mom which is pretty sweet to be honest. You drop him off and it's not til you finally get home and start hauling luggage out that you realize he's left something in your car, maybe his phone or a watch, something important. And you heave a big sigh, haul all the luggage in, hug you mom, and trudge back to the car to drive back to the hotel. Or maybe your mom tells you to return it tomorrow, it's too late and it's raining. And the next afternoon she sends you to the hotel with fresh baked goods for him. He asks you out to lunch and suddenly it's 5 hours later and your mom thinks you're dead in a ditch somewhere because you haven't answered her texts. It's because you're too busy flirting.

[arandomao3user]

As an Ao3 author, I love giving headcanons that'd probably anger a certain side of the Batman fandom, but I personally don't care because it makes great angst and, again, I'm an Ao3 author and chronically ill!

First up! Dick Grayson, I like the idea of him having ADHD, of course, BUT... joint hypermobility syndrome.

(Joint Hypermobility Syndrome: Joint hypermobility syndrome is a connective tissue disorder. Thick bands of tissue (ligaments) hold your joints together and keep them from moving too much or too far out of range. In people with joint hypermobility syndrome, those ligaments are loose or weak. If you have joints that are more flexible than normal and it causes you pain, you may have joint hypermobility syndrome.)

Chronic pain fits him, don't ask, because as the eldest child with chronic pain and hypermobiltiy syndrome, trust, he has that look in his eye that he's been walking on swollen knees for the past twelve hours, had three mental breakdowns, and is still pushing through because SOMEBODY has to deal with this bull.

That's also the reason he wears freakin' spandex-- only, it's for compression! He wears compression items to help with swelling and pain TRUST, and let me have this because the math maths (it probably doesn't, but let me have this.)

He's got chronic fatigue, he's gotten used to popping dislocated joints back into place, Bruce was so confused how he dislocated and sprained so many bones so quickly when out as Robin. It's genetic, of course, Bruce finds. But he has money, and Dick powers through it all! Till he develops arthritis in his early thirties/ late twenties and actually hates everything because WHAT AND WHY--

---

Next up! JASON TODD! I have no proof, evidence, and it doesn't have to make sense but I like giving him asthma sometimes for the angst potential of if he didn't have it, he wouldn't have died in the explosion.

He didn't die from said explosion, nor JUST the smoke inhalation, but because he had an asthma attack, on the ground, bones broken, unable to breath because his inhaler did NOT survive the blast, if he even had it on him.

And that's why he wears helmet with so, so many filters in it now...

Also, being a street kid who struggles to even get his medication that keeps him alive? Peak angst, being to poor to afford your medication because the American healthcare system is actually trashy garbage.

R.I.P. Jason Todd, you would've loved clean air--

---

ANEMIC TIM DRAKE! But I up you, Tim Drake with Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome (POTS)

(POTS: Postural orthostatic tachycardia syndrome (POTS) is a condition that causes your heart to beat faster than normal when you transition from sitting or lying down to standing up. It’s a type of orthostatic intolerance.)

Read ONE SINGLE FIC/ SERIES with this and I've loved it since because what do you mean he randomly falls asleep anywhere? No, forget your canon, he passed out and people think he just fell asleep... NOpe, he passed out, sorry random lady he was on a date with!

(The majority of people are AFAM but we aren't ready for my trans Tim headcanons yet either.)

(You’re at a higher risk of developing POTS after experiencing the following stressors:

Significant illnesses, such as viral illnesses like mononucleosis or serious infections.

Physical trauma, such as a head injury.)

Ngl, my dude gets a LOT of physical trauma (and mental--) also, losing a spleen? Surgery and at risk of viral illnesses? I'm sorry, but I need him to suffer more because I like when Tim Drake suffers horribly.

Now, despite having this condition, I am no expert, but also his caffiene/ energy drink addiction is from chronic fatigue, he shouldn't drink it, it's not healthy or good for him, but he stopped caring between the spleen loss and whatever the "Drake" run he did was because what even was that name?--

---

Damian is autistic and I will DIE ON THAT HILL--

No, I won't explain and you can't make me.

---

[cjlouwho]

Twelve Christmases

chapter tags: discussions of a burn victim (nothing graphic), discussions of suicide and mental health, very brief mentions of things that happened in past chapters (Tommy's mom, military, red handkerchief, implied noncon), anxiety, depression, background character death, Tommy calls the crisis hotline

read below or on ao3

Day 10: 2022

“I'm calling Roberts in early, you can go home.”

“Captain Marks-”

“No, Kinard! What you did out there was careless. You could've gotten yourself killed.”

“And if I'd done nothing, that man would be dead.”

“He's gonna wish he were dead if he ever wakes up! He's got third degree burns on over seventy percent of his body! I don't mean to be harsh, Tommy, but you risked your life for a dead man walking!”

“So?” 

Marks took a deep breath, sitting back in his chair. “I'm gonna pretend I didn't just hear you say that. I know emotions are high right now, but you know as well as I do I can't have a pilot that isn't concerned about whether they live or die.”

“That's not-”

“Stop talking, Kinard,” Marks warned. “You're on the ground for five shifts, I'll reevaluate things myself after that. If I have any hesitation, for even a moment, about your intentions here, you're getting a psych eval. That'll put you on the ground forever. You understand me?”

Tommy pursed his lips, nodding his head. “I understand.”

“Good. Now, go home, enjoy the rest of your Christmas, come back next shift with a clear head.”

*****

By the time Tommy got home, it was nearing ten o'clock at night. His brain was a jumbled mess. It didn't seem to matter how many times he hit the punching bag in his garage, it was never enough.

After a quick shower, he thought about laying down.

But even the idea of that made him want to crawl out of his skin.

So, he began to pace.

He paced, and paced, and paced, with his hands on his hips. From the living room, to the kitchen, down the hall, and back again.

It all felt like too much. He wasn't just thinking about today. He was thinking about his mom. He was thinking about the military. He was thinking about the red handkerchief. He was thinking about waking up in a stranger's apartment with no clue what happened the night before.

He was thinking, thinking, thinking, pacing, pacing, pacing, and he needed it all to stop.

Just stop!

So he did something he never thought he'd do.

He wasn't even sure what made him do it.

All he remembered was pulling his phone out of his pocket and dialing the number.

988.

“988 crisis lifeline, this is Penny. How can I help you today?”

He froze.

“Hello? Is anyone there?”

He swallowed. Closed his eyes.

“I'm here.”

“Oh, good. May I ask who I'm speaking with?”

“Tommy,” no attempt to try for a fake name.

“Hi, Tommy! I'm Penny. I know I said it before, but I like to make sure the people I speak to heard me. Tommy, ca-”

“I'm not... I don't wanna kill myself,” Tommy interrupted, needing to make it clear. “I just needed someone to talk to.”

“Okay.” Her voice was soothing, familiar almost. A voice that Tommy hadn't heard in years. “That's what I'm here for, Tommy. What's on your mind?”

He tried to think of what to say. Tried to figure out the perfect way to start the conversation.

He was usually so put together.

But everything felt off.

“I hate Christmas.”

He wasn't sure why that was the first thing that popped into his brain at this moment, but it was out there now.

“A lot of people have complex feelings about holidays. It can be tough sometimes, no doubt about it.”

The tiny admission seemed to open a floodgate for Tommy. “My mom was thirty-eight when she died, and I'm thirty-eight now,” he explained. He was sure the words coming out of his mouth were just as jumbled as the thoughts in his head. “And she- she didn't die around Christmas. She actually died in June, so I don't know why I keep thinking about her today of all days, but I do. Not just her; I'm thinking about a lot of things. But it all sort of leads back to her at the end, I guess.”

“Was Christmas important to her?” Penny asked.

“She loved it when I was really little. Always liked looking at the lights and taking me to the mall to pick out things I wanted. I think my dad ruined Christmas for her though.”

“He wasn't big on the holiday?”

“He wasn't big on family. Looking back, I can see how being with him changed her. I didn't recognize it back then.”

“You were young. She probably didn't want you to recognize it.”

Tommy sighed, giving himself a moment to gather his thoughts. “She didn't get thirty-nine Christmases, you know? And that doesn't really seem fair. Because I'm here for my thirty-ninth Christmas and I don't even like the damn day. She deserved more. She deserved better.”

“It's never easy to understand why the people we love get taken from us too soon. It can be especially difficult when we lose them as a child.”

Tommy let out a humorless laugh. “She didn't get taken from me,” he bit out, “she left me.”

There was a pause on the line, then, “I'm sorry?”

“Yeah, she uh, she made that choice to leave herself. Stuck me with my dad, who never really gave a crap about me in the first place, and she... she was just gone.”

“I'm sorry about that, Tommy. That's a lot to have to deal with as a kid.”

“I don't ever talk about it, about her. I don't really have anyone to talk about it with. My dad never cared for emotions, so I just plaster a smile on my face and put my shoulders back and keep going.” Tommy shook his head, clearing his throat and wiping away the tears that were pooling in his eyes. “That's not why I called though. Not because of her.”

“Okay,” Penny replied. “Tell me why you called, Tommy.”

Tommy rolled his shoulders, trying to rid himself of some of the tension running through his body. “I did something stupid at work today, and I knew better. I just didn't care.”

“Can you tell me what happened?”

“I work for the fire department. I'm a firefighter pilot, but today I was on the ground. We were called to a fire at this house- well, more like a mansion- and we thought we had the place cleared. Then the daughter started yelling for her dad. I headed back inside and found him, um,” Tommy paused, taking in a shaky breath.

“It's okay, Tommy. Take your time.”

“He- He was at the source of the fire. A fairly large space heater exploded and the fire had spread quickly. The house was about to collapse, and I was being told to get out, but I stayed. Long story short, I was able to get the man out right before the structure collapsed. He was severely burned though. If he makes it, and it's a big if, he's going to wish he hadn't. My captain won't let me fly for a while now. Sent me home early.” He let out a humorless laugh. “I wasn't even supposed to work today. I took the shift because I hate this damn holiday.”

“You've mentioned that three times now,” Penny noted.

“What?”

“How much you dislike Christmas. Tommy, do you think that maybe the risk you took today had something to do with the fact it's Christmas? Emotions were already high, making you take risks you wouldn't usually take?”

“Hm,” Tommy hummed. “Maybe? I don't really know though, because I feel like I'm ready to take those same risks any day, anytime. I said it before, and I meant it, I'm not trying to die. I just... I don't think I care if I do. It didn't matter to me if I didn't make it out. We're all gonna die someday, you know? That's what I always figure. What's it matter if it's now?”

“I think it would matter to the people who love you. The people who care about you.”

“I don't think I know anyone well enough for them to be affected by my death.”

“Well, it would matter to me,” Penny replied matter-of-factly, and Tommy couldn't help but let out a laugh.

“I dunno, I can be kind of a bitch sometimes.”

“Thank God for that, I'd hate it if you were too perfect.”

“Well, I never said I wasn't perfect. Perfect and bitch can go together, right?”

“I think it's a great pairing.”

A smile lingered on Tommy's face. He couldn't remember the last time he spoke to someone so openly. “Penny?”

“I'm here.”

“Would you stay on the phone with me until Christmas is over?”

“Honey,” she answered, Tommy softening at the name, “I can honestly say there's nowhere else I'd rather be.”

Penny stayed on the phone with him until 12:01. She was willing to stay on the line longer, but by the time Tommy had watched the clock strike midnight, he was ready to go to bed.

He felt better. A little lighter than he had in a while.

He'd been in bed for about fifteen minutes, and was just dozing off when his phone buzzed.

It was Captain Marks.

The man from the house fire died on the operating table.

I know you wanted to save him, Tommy.

Unfortunately we can't save them all.

Tommy stared at the texts for a good ten minutes before switching over to the phone app and dialing 988 again.

[icarusredwings]

Thinking about how fast logans hair grows and how naturally thick and shiny it is (lucky fuck) and while it started as something small, Wade mentioning how fluffy it is when tuffed out.

"Guess you're gonna cut it then?"

But his voice is kind of hoping he doesn't. It's not hard to tell either. Wade can't hide his adoration for Logan. He's never been able too. (And probably never will)

"Mmh.. Nah." Is all his says, but the brightness in Wade's eyes is everything.

He lets Wade take care of it. He lets him completely groom him, wash him, condition it, oil it, braid it, try different looks on him, like blowouts and curls. It makes him wonder how he knows these things. I mean, he's bald.

But he wasn't always bald, right? Duh. Vanessa mentions something about him doing her hair sometimes, helping her curl it and would help put her curlers in, etc.

It makes him wonder why he doesn't have an actual set. Why doesn't he get one glued or professionally put in. Cancer patiants got fake hair all the time, so what was the problem? It's not like they didn't have enough cash to pay for an installation.

As it gets longer, Wade is obsessed, showing it off and bragging how beautiful he is. He likes to drag his fingers through it, pull on it COUGH, pet him.

And don't get me wrong, Logan doesn't mind much, but it's getting a little too long than he likes. So much so that Gabby has started joking that Laura and him look the same. This isn't his issue, though. The problem is that it's touching his back in a way that makes him feel like someone is touching him. The curls at the ends brushing against his shoulder blades and makes his body hair raise from sensory.

Logan tilts his head, laying on the couch with Wade on his chest watching some trash tv.

".. Im gonna cut my hair later."

"What?"

"It's too long for me." He says.

"Oh... okay." Who was wade to tell him what to do with his body? Esspecially when he was engaged to a stripper. It would be hypocritical.

Before Logan leaves, Wade blows him a kiss. "Bye bye beautiful."

"Heh. Thanks."

"I was talking to those lushious locks, but you too gorgeous."

Logan rolls his eyes, scoffing softly, but stops.

"Change your mind?"

".... you were jealous of other yous hair... why don't you... you know?"

Wade blinks. "...well... wolvie.. when a daddy cancer and a mommy cancer-"

"That's not what I meant. I mean.. they have hair that you can glue on, right? Or.. does this universe not have that?"

"It does. I just... feels weird. You know? Itchy. And hurts. And.."

"You don't have to explain. So.. do you like clips or something??"

"...whyy?" He asks, becoming skeptical.

"Nothing.. just curious." Logan mumbled, leaving ".. Bye."

"See ya 'just curious'."

____

When he finally does return to the apartment, his kitty ears are clean, leaving his hair a bit thicker than when they met but not long enough to surpass his ears or chin.

From the kitchen, Wade whistles. "Well, Hello, sailor! Where's my husband? Whos this hot tom cat?"

Logan blushes, embaressed. Keeping his hand behind his back as he hugged him when glomped out of excitment. It wasn't uncommon for Wade to do this. To kiss the shit out of him when he got home, but the way he pulled at his lapels made him chuckle, pulling away.

"Okay okay, wait wait. I got something for you."

"Clip ins?" He asks, gasping softly and lit up when presented with a small box. "Oooh!! Presents! Peanut you shouldn't have!"

He shrugs. "Yeah.. well.. you liked it too much to not."

Pausing, Wade stares up at him with a sparkle in his eyes. "...You..."

Logan nods. Instantly, he begins to rip open the box, smiling widely before squealing. "Oh my god! Loagie!! Is this why you took forever? I thought you got lost on the way there or something..."

"Oh, I did, but.. that's besides the point."

"How much did these even cost to make?" He asks, looking at them fondly as he checks the quality.

"Don't worry about it. They're nice aren't they? I was actually shocked I could find someone to do it so quickly."

"Yeah! Its almost as if the writer is super lazy and didnt even research the process or how long it takes to make these! Oh- but...How am I going to wear them? You have to clip them. I can't really clip them to my scalp." Wade mutters, pouting.

Immediately, Logan frowns. "Oh shit.. I..i guess I didn't think about that. I thought you.."

Wade giggles. "I'm just kidding! Ill go clip them. I got a wig that'll look perfect with this!" He smiles, giddy as he runs away.

Logan grins, watching how excited and happy he was. Sighing, he glanced at the food Wade was starting to make, picking up where he left off.

____

"Sooo.. what do you think?"

Turning around, Logan smirks, eyes softening at the pure joy on his face. They fit perfectly into his already existing wig, making it thicker and shiny, soft and the it flowed the way real hair would.

"Ta-da!" He giggles. "And watch!!" He shakes his head around, flipping his hair and posed a few times. "I tried the halo extentions before, and they flew off! But they stay!"

"Yeah?" He asks, leaning back against the counter, so lovingly looking at the pure glitters in his excited eyes.

"Yeah!! Isn't it so cute? And its so soft!"

"And water resistant." He comments. "Soooo you like'em?"

"Yes!!! Of course I love them! And I love you." He comes to logan, hoping up as he grabs him, pulling him up to kiss him agaisnt the counter. Between kisses, giggles, groans and affectious compliments, Al crossed her arms, sitting at the table.

"Really? In front of my salad??.. nasties.."

[lesbianmarrow]

was thinking about btvs 5x10 and how puzzling it is to me that buffy runs after riley to try to catch him before he leaves and how strange it is that she chooses to do that right after xander has finished telling her how not in love with riley she is. and then i was like oh right, this is a marti noxon episode. which means it's all about buffy sensing there's something monstrous and wrong in her and fleeing from it with everything she's got.

consider if you will: buffy's rising sense of panic as xander explains how riley is a dream boyfriend and how if she really loves him, she ought to be much more appreciative of him than she is. she's shaken because she knows xander is right. she knows that she should love riley and she knows that she doesn't. and that scares her. it means there's something wrong with her, something broken in her, and she can't face that. so she runs. it may look like she's running to riley, but that's just a cover. she's running away from whatever's inside her that makes her not want the thing that's normal and nice and good. she's desperate to cover it up, to force herself to want what's right and normal. it's not really about riley at all.

[grammarpedant]

Thanks for activating my trap card, buddy. You see, I haven't actually explained how Gurathin is irrational yet. Now I'll show you.

First, let's be clear about what "irrational" means here. This post is not interested in whether his concerns were justifiable or understandable for the situation he's in. I am arguing that his arguments aren't logically sound, and are principally driven more by fear and unexamined belief in propaganda than solid evidence.

If the SecUnit is rogue, if its governor module is broken, then it can't be controlled. Gurathin theoretically knows this—"there is no control over its behavior," he says—and Volescu clarifies for the group that the governor module "can transmit commands, but can’t enforce them or control behavior or apply punishment." The governor module is the crux of the concern, the whole reason they're having this conversation—everyone in this conversation understands that much.

So then what's the basis for Gurathin to believe The Company is controlling it? His theory is that "It’s acting for the company" to sabotage them—but if it can't be controlled, then how is the company controlling it? Why would they not just give it orders as normal and then make whatever claims they want about its governor module later, rather than risking it doing Literally Whatever as a free agent this whole time? Like, is it a rogue SecUnit or is it a company tool? It can't be both.

Ah, but as a matter of fact, PresAux does know how a SecUnit might be controlled without a totally intact governor module... they know because Murderbot told them. Immediately prior to this scene:

“The unknown SecUnit inserted a data carrier, a combat-override module. It’s downloading instructions into me and will override my system. This is why the two DeltFall units turned rogue. You have to stop me.” [...] “You have to kill me.” [...] So I grabbed the handweapon lying on the seat, turned it toward my chest, and pulled the trigger.

I've cut out all the parts of Murderbot's narration to show you only what PresAux knows and can see. Gurathin, buddy. If the SecUnit is part of the sabotage, then why did it explain how the sabotage was done, and then instruct you all to kill it, and then try to kill itself?

He only even HAS the opportunity to find out that the SecUnit is rogue at all because it put itself in that vulnerable position, in the active pursuit of keeping PresAux alive. If it was part of a sabotage, that wouldn't make sense. If it was a malicious free agent, then that also wouldn't make sense. Any number of other actions would make more sense.

Let's say for the sake of argument that there's some kind of long con going on here. According to Gurathin at his most skeptical, its log "confirms... what the Unit believes happened." The logs seem to be more or less a record not only of what Murderbot does, but also what it thinks and believes. That's why it's worth it to go digging in Murderbot's brain for them. But if that's the case, then why doesn't Gurathin find any evidence of other suspicious behavior in the logs when he looked? Things Murderbot actually did to sabotage PresAux? Is it because the logs can be doctored? In that case, why wasn't the reference to previous murder removed? What, did the SecUnit need some kind of dramatic backstory to explain the governor hack when Pin-Lee et al. went to look at Murderbot's code, which wouldn't have been necessary if it had just murdered all the witnesses in the first place? Hell, why weren't references to its name, "Murderbot," removed, if the logs were part of a long con? It'd be a simple CTRL + F + replace all to get rid of something that would complicate an attempted manipulation. Either SecUnit's under the direct control of a malicious party that can make it believe anything, in which case this is a really bizarre, stupid long con they're playing here, or its logs are its own, and reality as a rogue SecUnit is messy.

Moreover, Gurathin's argument relies on the very logs he's skeptical of. How does he know that Murderbot is rogue, that it killed 57 clients previously? Because its logs say so. What do its logs also say? That it spends all its time watching Sanctuary Moon, and that it believes the mass murder was caused by the governor module malfunctioning, and so hacked it to prevent further murders. Corroborating the fact that the governor module can be corrupted is the existence of the combat module, code for which Pin-Lee JUST spent a lengthy procedure removing from Murderbot. Corroborating the fact that it does absolutely watch the soap operas is Ratthi. Corroborating the fact that it does want to prevent further murders is the continued survival of Bharadwaj and Volescu, of Mensah, Pin-Lee, Ratthi, and Overse, and the fact that, you know, it shot itself in the chest rather than give in to the combat override code. Murderbot's story is supported by evidence. Gurathin's argument for distrusting it is based on corporate propaganda and evidence cherry-picked from a source he can't decide is trustworthy or not.

And it's absurd to say that they don't really know it. They know enough. They know it's not a mindless robot, and that its human face shows how it feels despite its best attempts to hide it. They know it knows it's a slave, that it's being abused, and that it's uncomfortable with having attention drawn to that. They know that it's previously acted within the parameters of its job to keep them safe, that it's demonstrated self-control and rational action towards a goal. They know it's gone above and beyond for their safety, actively putting their lives before its own. And now they know it's a free agent. At bare minimum the evidence of its prior actions show that it's worth negotiating with, that it is a rational actor with opinions and desires that can be used to persuade it that its interests align with PresAux's.

But let's say for the sake of argument that even despite all the compelling evidence that Murderbot is a person who can be trusted, or at least a person who can be negotiated with, that's not enough to outweigh the possibility that maybe it'll sell them all out for some reason, or kill them randomly because of whatever. Let's say that the lives of the in-group are worth more than the potential danger of trusting an out-group individual. Okay. Then the rational thing to do would have been to kill it before it could wake up. "I've had HubSystem immobilize it" with what, Gurathin? How is HubSystem immobilizing it? Why is the governor module so important if all it takes to neutralize a rogue SecUnit is having HubSystem immobilize it. How do you know HubSystem is safe if the SecUnit isn't. You dumbass, Gurathin, do you think you've succeeded where all the victims of past alleged mass murders had failed? You think as long as you control things, everything will be okay? Or is it just that the little part of you that has internalized Preservation's belief in the sanctity of life flinches from the idea of murder?

If Gurathin's fear, prejudices, and cynicism had been right, his irrationality would have gotten him and his teammates killed.

No, the rational move, especially for someone who draws the line at murder, is to negotiate. Parlay. Talk it out. We can call it "manipulation" if we struggle with the belief that nonviolence is naive. Put simply, if the SecUnit is a person, it can be influenced or even controlled the way people can be: with shows of good faith, with bribes and threats, with emotion, with convincing logic, with propaganda. If you're good at getting people to do what you want them to do, it's not hard to get a read on a person who's never dealt with other people as a person before and tie their self-interest and self-concept to your goals. Study up on abuse and indoctrination tactics if you don't understand what I mean, or crack open a corporate management handbook. If you care more about getting out alive than anything else, then THAT'S the smart play here! Talking like it might still randomly murder them for ??? reasons is not only insulting to its personhood, but a stupid waste of the good faith and strong opening position generated by showing that PresAux was willing to save its life in return. Mensah had the right idea—that (and the fact that she is a principled person who would never actually stoop to psychological abuse) is why she is the voice of reason and direction in this scene.

And finally, let me talk about what those prejudices are that make Gurathin appear rational to a reader in the real world.

Why do we assume that propaganda about SecUnits as mindless killers that have to be controlled from a known-untrustworthy source should be so compelling over hard, experiential data regarding the behavior of an individual? Because that's how racist, prejudicial logic works in the real world. You work backwards from a received assumption about, say, the dangers of immigrants or angry Black people, and everything either supports the conclusion, or is an exception to the conclusion that can be discarded.

Why do we assume that the best way to deal with a dangerous SecUnit would be to remove its bodily autonomy indefinitely? Because that's how carceral logic and retributive justice work in the real world. Some people are inherently Bad and deserve abuse, and if they aren't tightly controlled, they'll hurt other people because that's just what they do. Because if an abuse victim had the same power to harm as you do, or heaven forbid MORE power, then the first reasonable, justified course of action is to react with violence. Because if someone who's been abused gains power, of course they will treat us the way we treated them and take violent revenge. And we don't want that, our comfort and safety matter more than theirs.

Don't get me wrong, the way Gurathin acts in this scene is very understandable. It speaks to us as a reasonable response because fear of death and fear of the stranger are very deeply human experiences, and so is panicking in the face of that fear, so is jumping to conclusions, so is lashing out, and so is trying to maintain control or the appearance of control to cope with a bad situation. We've all done similar. We all have prejudices we have to unlearn because the purpose of prejudice is to make it easier and less effort-intensive to figure out who to trust and who not to trust, to keep us safe when things get dicey. But that doesn't make the logic of fear and prejudice rational or right. In fact it's pretty irrational when you look at it closely.

No, in fact, it's the rest of PresAux who actually looks at the evidence that they have access to regarding Murderbot and its trustworthiness, weigh it logically, and make the rational decision to trust it. They do this despite the prejudice and propaganda, despite Gurathin's jumping to conclusions, despite even Murderbot's own distrust in itself.

Because Murderbot, a literal product of the Corporation Rim, has internalized the same prejudicial thinking, carceral logic, and retributive justice that we have, for much the same reasons: because that's how you live and survive in a dehumanizing system that perpetuates those things. We're biased by its perspective, yes, by its obvious personhood, its dry humor and care for humans despite itself, etc, but Murderbot's narrative is also itself biased by these same cruel beliefs as many of us have internalized in our real lives. Remember, it believes Gurathin is reasonable. Murderbot really truly deep down believes that it's One of the Bad Ones, that rogue SecUnits are killers and the only way to deal with them is to kill them first, that the safety of the human in-group comes before any out-group, that trust and vulnerability will get you killed.

And Murderbot is wrong, too. PresAux was right to take a chance on it. Not only were they right, it was the rational, logical choice to make. Because they put their trust in it, because Mensah and the others took the time to connect with it as a person, they get a far more powerful ally out of Murderbot than they would get a tool, and PresAux survives with 100% of members because Murderbot rises to meet their trust with everything it has. Challenging its deeply-held cynical beliefs is one of the fundamental themes of both All Systems Red and of the series as a whole: Empathy and compassion are not just good moral principles, but a rational approach to survival and building a better world.

Gurathin is not only wrong, his argument is fundamentally irrational

Gurathin's argument in ASR:

We need to immobilize this SecUnit stat, because it's going to kill us.

I know it's going to kill us because its logs show that it's rogue. If there is no way to control it, then it is dangerous to us.

It is controlled by the Company to sabotage us. "The missing hazard report, the missing map sections. The SecUnit must be part of that." If it wasn't, that would be a coincidence, which is unbelievable.

This SecUnit has gone rogue and killed people in its charge before. It may do so again.

PresAux's counterargument:

It may be rogue, but that doesn't logically mean it will kill us. "The fact that the Unit has been acting to preserve our lives, to take care of us, while it was a free agent, gives us even more reason to trust it." (Volescu)

Someone may be sabotaging us, but that doesn't logically mean it's the Company or our SecUnit. "There were only three SecUnits for DeltFall in their specs, but there were five units in their habitat. Someone is sabotaging us, but I don’t think our SecUnit is part of it." (Ratthi)

If the SecUnit was trying to sabotage us, then why would it tell us about the combat module sabotage and shoot itself? (Bharadwaj, Overse)

The SecUnit believes it went rogue as a result of malfunction, and that hacking its governor module would prevent a repeat occurrence. Confirmation of its sincerity comes from the same logs that Gurathin accessed for his arguments. (Volescu)

Gurathin's counter-counterargument:

Well it gave itself an edgy nickname

[thepenguinweeb]

Hi (^·^). I would love to request for Bucciarati x F!Reader. The reader is part of his team and is really close to him, but they’re stuck in this thin line where they’re not sure if they’re just friends or something more. There’s this unspoken tension between them that’s hard to ignore, and the others in the group definitely notice, teasing them about it. However, Bruno and the reader always brush it off and insist there’s nothing going on between them.

Feel free to have fun with how it all plays out. I trust your creativity (^。^)★彡

`` Just friends.. of course. ``

[ ♡ Bruno Bucciarati x fem!reader ]

[ ♡ You've been apart of Bruno's team for a long time, and it is undeniable that the two of you have a certain.. bond. You can't help but wonder if you're imagining things, or if he really thinks of you that way. ]

[ ♡ Requested by: @sxturncloud <3 !! ]

[ ♡ A/N: Sorry for the lack of posts recently, burnout hit hardd D: I'm trying to catch up with the requests in my inbox but it'll take a bit of time probably.. anyway, thank you for requesting, hope you enjoy! ]

Divider by @/cafekitsune <3

"No, no- you don't get it. That's the complete opposite of what you were supposed to do!"

Just another day at Libeccio with the gang. You listened as Fugo shouted at Narancia, staring daggers at the teen and his notebook, which was filled with pitifully incorrect calculations.

"Hey! It's not my fault you're this bad at explaining stuff!"

You sighed, letting your head slump. The pair's argument continued on for a bit longer, and you wished you'd packed some aspirin in your bag with each moment that passed.

It was Abbachio who eventually stepped in.

"Can you two shut up and stop arguing for five minutes? You're giving me a headache.."

Fugo and Narancia were both clearly reluctant, but it only took one look at the man to know if they didn't stop now, he would not hesitate to beat their asses. So, they settled down.

You couldn't help but let out a relieved sigh and shoot a grateful glance at Abbachio.

The door to the restaurant opened, and your lips unconciously curved into a smile. Bucciarati had finally arrived.

"I'm sorry I was late," he began once he made his way over to his team's table. Your eyes met for a split second and he gave you a smile, then took a seat next to you.

"I hope the others didn't bother you too much while I was gone," he said, leaning closer to you without even meaning to. Despite the usual strict expression he put on, he always wore a smile when he was in your presence.. must be because you were such close friends, right?

You shook your head and returned the smile. "No-" you started, then glanced at Fugo and Narancia, who were still sulking from their earlier argument. "Not too much," you said instead.

For a moment, the two of you sat in a comfortable silence. You'd gotten lost in his beautiful blue eyes - staring at him as if he was the best thing you've ever seen.. maybe he was.

No, what were you thinking? You and Bruno were strictly friends. Good friends. Nothing more.

Mista cleared his throat in an obnoxiously loud way, clearly just to get your attention. "Uh, not to interrupt your coupley activities, but.. we're still here, you know."

You snapped out of your daze and immediately shot a glare in Mista's direction at his implications. Coupley activities.. was coupley even a word?

"Mista.." Bruno sighed, rubbing his temple. "I thought we'd discussed this already. Me and Y/N are not in a relationship."

"You sure act like you are," Narancia put in. You stared at him in annoyance, half-expecting Fugo to make a comment about how inappropriate and disrespectful it was to say such a thing about his superior, but even he was quiet.

It was in that moment you had to realize that nobody disagreed with that sentiment.

"You guys are ridiculous.. we're just friends," you protested.

"Oh, come on! The only thing you are is in denial," Mista exclaimed. "Even the Pistols can see it, and they're a stand."

You went on to glare at the man in annoyance, which only intensified upon seeing Giorno give a brief nod in agreement. You crossed your arms and rolled your eyes, realizing you weren't getting any backup.

Suddenly, you felt a hand resting on your shoulder. "Don't bother with them," Bruno told you. You looked back at him with a nod, any previous irritation you had seemingly vanishing.

Mista let out another loud groan. "Aaand there they go again..."

[thewadapan]

Insane that the last Team Fortress 2 comic came out, and perhaps more insane is how effectively it resolves the themes of the story, considering the whole thing spun out of some silly gag comics for a first person shooter, which had a bunch of lore back-ported onto it, with this particular issue having spent nearly eight years in development hell...

I love video games, and I love trying to rationalise the insane logic of how they work using fiction. Or not even to rationalise, just to kind of like... take it at face value? There's a great bit in one of the Team Fortress 2 comics where the mercenaries are going to be fighting an army of robots (in the game's PVE mode) and, at that point in the story, Mann Co. is bankrupt, so they're not getting paid—but they're mercenaries, so why are they fighting? And Ms. Pauling just comes right out and says, "For reasons I can't comprehend or explain, the robots run on piles of money. Destroy them and whatever falls out is yours." Risk of Rain has a similar conceit, where the aliens explode into currency, something that's diegetically acknowledged in the in-game logs.

The comics also deserve serious credit for genuinely pushing the limits of the comic medium, by explicitly using the fact that this is something people are reading on their computers. You see Webtoons currently are doing something similar, optimised for phones with their infinite scrolling. Well, here everything's landscape, and you advance through the comic using the arrow keys or whatever, and there's all these little gags that rely on hiding a speech bubble at first, or tweaking a panel, or doing a jump-cut, which are borderline impossible to replicate in print (the closest thing traditional comics have as a tool is the page-turn, which some writers do use to great effect).

It might just be that Team Fortress 2 was one of the things that heavily informed my sense of humour at a formative age, but I still come back to it and think it's the funniest thing in the world. And a big part of what makes the humour work, for me, is that it is just barely grounded in the real world. When someone gets their hand cut off and it's played for laughs, they've still just had their hand cut off. All the blood and guts is right there to see. Characters like Spy and Ms. Pauling frequently ground the story in these bureaucratic material concerns—like, someone is having to go around burying all the bodies.

Which means that when the story takes something which genuinely started as nothing more than a joke, and uses it for pathos, those beats can actually hit home. The big example is the joke about Spy having sex with Scout's mom, which in the comics morphs into this running thread about Spy probably being Scout's father, which in turn plays into these themes of regret and cycles of violence... and that was obviously never planned from the start, even the early examples in the comics are very much within the realm of plausible deniability, but over time they're clearly like—well, what if that was the case? What then? It's such good yes-anding.

Certain characters—the Pyro and the Engineer—do get pretty short-changed, which I think is mostly because the other characters just lend themselves much better to the extremely dialogue-dense style of comedy. The Engineer spends most of the numbered issues completely sidelined, looking after the Administrator; I mostly played Engineer when I played the game, so I do find that a bit disappointing. I don't think the Sentry Gun even gets a look-in! But still, nine playable characters plus the supporting cast is a lot to keep track of, and I think they chose the right ones to focus on (Scout, Soldier, Spy, Heavy).

Part of what made Team Fortress 2 always appeal to me above and beyond any other first-person shooter was its obvious awareness that the fighting is not, in fact, good, or just, or meaningful, or anything other than a pointlessly cynical greed-fuelled slaughter over nothing. It's just these drab industrial sites and bodies being thrown at one another, on repeat, forever. I think if you want to take a multiplayer game like this and build up a narrative on top of it, it's kind of the only honest approach you can take. Seeing similar stories in this and in RoosterTeeth's Red vs. Blue around the same time left a big impression on me as a teenager.

Contrast Overwatch (of course), which always billed itself as a superhero story, which had clearly-defined good-versus-evil flavour, which purported to depict a global conflict of world-shattering stakes, where every single piece of fucking tie-in media was a saccharine sentimental little snoozefest where characters will say things like "Oh no!" unironically. In Overwatch, the playable characters come from all over the world, they're these collar-tuggingly direct stereotypes, and it's like... wow, the military-industrial complex is so inclusive, you guys! Meanwhile, Team Fortress 2 has stereotypes of its own, but the intent is so completely different. Sniper, Heavy, Demoman, Medic, Spy have these clearly-defined national backgrounds, but they've shed all nationalistic ties, civilized human society would shun them, and now all they can do is kill for money they will never have cause to spend.

And the supporting characters invented for the comic all support this theme of bitter, cynical hate, of pointless bickering and petty feuds. Brothers Redmond and Blutarch turn themselves into monsters trying to outlive each other solely out of spite, not even just to enjoy their lives for as long as possible! When Gray Mann offs them, his characterisation sees their mindless, stupid schemes replaced with cold rationalism, to match the Administrator's own ruthless efficiency, but the substance of their conflict is no different. Wait, is the moral of the Team Fortress 2 comics just... old people bad? Look at the Team Fortress Classic guys...

I don't know. Overwatch was heavily billed on the quality of its worldbuilding and writing and characters (I was always like, what worldbuilding? What writing? What characters?), and like the many, many MCU films which nobody thinks about or talks about or cares about any more, I don't think I've ever seen someone actually talk about that media as art, except to point out its shortcomings. Nobody will remember any of it. Oh god, I just remembered about all the Overwatch porn. Okay, people will remember it, just not for the right reasons.

Meanwhile, I've known people over the last eight years who routinely joked about the final Team Fortress 2 comics never coming out. For something so ancillary, so inessential, to have made such a big impression on people, is something that in this case speaks to its success on a creative level. If anything, I wish it was less of a transmedia narrative, that this was just a single book I could pick up off the shelf and give to someone like "read this!" and that's all they'd need to know. Maybe I should try to compile some sort of reading list, hmm.

[quoth-the-raven-wtf]

I've blocked a lot of endos [I'm clustering tulpas in the same "origin category," btw], and I hope that they'll respectfully do the same in return when I post things like this. I will never be the first to interact with them, and more often than not I delete their comments from my posts and block them in order to keep myself from interacting in a pointless argument altogether.

That being said, I still want to put my thoughts out there.

Heads up, this is a long one. The rest is below the cut. Per usual, summarized points are highlighted in red for faster viewing.

I know for a fact that a majority of endos aren't claiming to have a CDD [complex dissociative disorder], which tends to be the main argument endos like to use in order to explain that they aren't invading OSDDID spaces or harming communities built for those who are disordered. That doesn't make their claims of being "plural" any less harmful to the CDD community. They are still claiming to have symptoms of dissociative disorders, which waters down the severity of the actual disorders themselves.

Being a system means having a fragmented identity [which is what alters are]. A fragmented identity is a disordered identity. A disordered identity is a disordered brain. Having parts is not typical, and endos claiming that it is possible to have alters without a disorder creates this misconception that plurality is completely normal to experience.

[Don't get me wrong, I'm also irritated by the perspective that everyone with OSDDID is constantly suffering and cannot experience any joy, or even enjoy being a system—because that view is just as uneducated as the endo one.]

Here's the thing—watering down the disorder isn't actually one that matters much to those outside of people who interact with the system sections of social media, because I guarantee you that most people don't even know what "endogenic" means. The issue with watering down symptoms of disorders that result in alters are how they harm actual systems. I've seen multiple systems on this app and even a few others on social media who claim to be endogenic, but talk about having other symptoms of CDDs and having childhood trauma that they don't consider severe enough to be "traumagenic." Seeing things like that is honestly heartbreaking. There are so many systems out there who are completely convinced that they simply can't have originated from trauma because "they weren't hurt badly enough."

It's bizarre to me that this is what the internet has come to.

Here's the thing; if there was actual evidence of endos and tulpas being fully, scientifically capable of existing, I wouldn't be so strongly against their claims. Hell, I've done research in my spare time to actually look for the supposed proof that endos say there is on the ability to be plural without a disorder, and I've reached countless dead ends. Masterlists of "endo-affirming resources" are either incredibly vague, non-credible, or take me straight to an error message [as in, the page has since been taken down]. Aside from those resources, the strongest argument I've seen is that "there's no proof that endos don't exist," which doesn't make any sense either. You could say that about anything you want to, despite currently existing evidence that already suggests your claim is nonsensical.

I am genuinely open to information that is credible, but so far, it just doesn't seem to exist. Anyone is welcome to share some with me, and I will truly approach them with an open mind; that doesn't mean I'm not going to point out lack of credibility when I see it.

In no way do I feel malice or hatred for systems who identify as endogenic, but I'm afraid that directly interacting with endos through areas of syscourse will, and has clearly already created bitterness. I refrain because of how hostile syscourse has gotten, and I encourage others who share my point of view to also keep the hostility to a minimum. I think everyone needs to be more open-minded—both endos and antis like myself. Unfortunately, that's only achievable in a perfect world.

[grimaldiapologist]

There's also the repeat references to their father's cruelty towards them. They did not get an upbringing which would foster care for anyone but each other. I'm looking at this from a perspective that makes this personally stand out to me, but while subtle, there is a very significant narrative with the two of prolonged childhood trauma, which has had them in a survival mode their whole lives.

Then their father is no longer there and for the first time, they're not fearing the consequences of breathing wrong. The only thing they've learned through and through is that they have no one else but each other, and combined with their other damage, this has become to the exclusion of everybody else - a trait you do not want to see in an emperor. Put two of them together, and they'll end up in a self-perpetuating cycle of becoming the worst of themselves, because their sole meaningful audience can always only make them worse.

With Caracalla's illness, he is constantly further pushing Geta out of any potential other path that he had. Most of Geta's rule consists of trying to stop his brother from self-destructing through his uncontrollable behaviour and catering to his desires to keep him stable/satisfied. Despite this, throughout the film, he shows some promise: he asks Caracalla first, for example, when deciding the fate of a gladiator. A surprise to no one, Caracalla tells him he'd like to "see some blood", but this is clearly not the answer that Geta wanted to hear, so he asks Lucille also, under the guise of her being their guest. She tells him to show mercy - and he does.

Later, take this with a grain of salt since I've only seen the movie once (fixing this in a couple hours however so if I'm utterly wrong maybe I'll come back to correct myself here), Geta is the one who hesitates on initially commanding Acacius's death, when the crowd shows such preference for him. Surely - he ends up calling for it with his whole chest when disobeyed, but there is a moment there where he thinks, this is not the right choice to make.

But what Geta is above all other things, is a survivor of childhood abuse who made it his purpose to protect his weaker brother. Shoved into a position of ultimate power, he does not change from this. And Caracalla, at this point, simply is not capable of being more to him than someone he desperately needs to retain his sense of safety and stability in a world which is unpredictable and uncaring toward him. The only person he loves, and trusts to truly love him in return, even if the glimpses to that side of him are slipping from their hands by the day.

While in his role as the emperor and his brother's primary and only caretaker, what Geta ends up doing is look for a father figure. Someone who could advice him in the matters of the realm - but who also cares for him, and would provide safety and stability both for himself and Caracalla. They are VERY young men who never had the experience of being protected, or being kindly guided through their responsibilities. They are surrounded by sycophants and enemies. They latch onto and immediately trust the only person in their circle who, they think, shows them genuine care and concern. Who becomes a true friend. The fact that Geta ultimately asks for Macrinus to be the one to go talk to Caracalla, to calm him down, and then for the second time that night asks him for help helping his brother when things are going very wrong? That takes an insane amount of sincere trust from him - Caracalla is his primary responsibility, but with Macrinus around, he begins to trust that maybe he does not have to be alone with that responsibility, and maybe, for the first time, he can allow himself to think of his empire, too.

They are incredibly naive and desperate for protectors and parents. It's easy to see with Caracalla, whose illness makes his behaviour lapse so often to regression and childlike states. But Geta is by no means any better.

This all, of course, followed by the disclaimer that Geta's still a monster in the making who is seen to clearly enjoy and delight in the suffering of others, and will not hesitate to call for the heads of those who do wrong against him. But he shows that he is capable of second-guessing these instincts. The reason he rarely does is that he has no one who cares about him and who could help him choose another path, and as much as he remains the stronger and more coherent brother, Caracalla is the only person who he can allow himself to fully, unconditionally love, and whom he feels connected with. And Caracalla's judgement will always be "I'd like to see some blood".

They could have been better, though. If they didn't grow up raised by fucking wolves.

From the way Geta and Caracalla reacted to Acacius' and Lucilla's betrayal to their fear of the people's wrath against them, you can really tell how young and inexperienced these two really were.

Yes, they had an almost complete disregard of their subjects needs and, yes, they were heading straight to madness but there is also a tragedy to their stories. They were given great power at a young age, Caracalla's mind was all but gone and Geta showed signs of an unhinged character. They had no one to rely on except each other and seemed eager to have someone that they can trust.

But their madness also makes you wonder, how much of it can also be blamed on their position? These two would probably have different demeanors (and most certainly different fates) if they had never become Emperors which makes you realize how power can truly corrupt and destroy people and even display their true characters.

[candy-fae]

Not to rant on a side blog but I just found out in mufasa they retconned scar and mufasa to NOT be brothers and like. That was my first hyperfixation so I am upset about this for a few reasons!!! Incoming rant.

I'm gonna call it the princess Luna effect. Scar is getting princess Luna'd and let me explain how.

Disney would never make a villain kill someone now. Maybe in the background have it be implied. Maybe IMPLY some degree of violence. But they would never put on a production of hamlet in a different font, because killing people is bad, and Disney doesn't WANT parents to be mad and not give them money. We already know this, and yes, it severely limits them giving their villains credible weight, thus struggling to make us engage in a conflict that isn't environmental. But aside from the fact that this is an OBVIOUS crab for cash and their copywrite, they've managed to try and make scar more palatable.

Hmm. Let's see. I want to be a king. I was born the spare, to my stronger, prouder older brother. I now have to wait for him to die to rule. But I can't fight him. He's too good. Oh! He has a son. GREAT. now I'll never be king. Unless the little hairball dies. Hmm. And he'd do anything for his son. I know! I'm going to kill my son by putting my nephew in danger, then when he's dead, just for SHITS AND GIGGLES- I'm gonna tell him it was his fault. I plan to kill him anyway. But I'm just such a devious asshole and don't wanna get my hands dirty, it would be easier to send him the wrong way, then send my guys on him.

And so he does. And was it jealousy, horrible and churning an corrupting that did it? Absolutely. And is it mufasas fault? Not at all. People hate you because you are loved by others and that a shitty of them. Scar is a murderer, and responsible for one of the greatest betrayals of animation.

What I'm having the issue with is- there's old canon that I'm pretty positive straight up gives them canon parents. They are blood related and surprise!! Siblings look different sometimes. Hamlet was a stage play and animation is like a mask. They drew the fucker like a snake because he is one.

And secondly- I get the feeling they did it so we could empathize with him. But he doesn't need empathizing!!! He has one purpose in the story and that IS to be horrific!! It's FUN to think about "what if the bad guy...... WASN'T the bad guy!!!"

But he is. And attempting to add more depth by retconning and making it so mufasa STOLE the throne in someway- just weakens his original betrayal. We are suppose to be horrified. We are suppose to cry when mufasa dies. I saw some people saying it's to set up love and Kiara but- kovu is stated in the lion King 2 to NOT be scars son. So the only thing I can think here is "oh. They want to make scar palatable. That's stupid."

What do you think?

"You are my blood brother I've known since I was born. But I will kill you and my nephew if it means I get what you have."

Or

"This thing was SUPPOSE to be mine and you STOLE it from me. I'm taking it back!"

Scar is no suppose to be justified. He's just suppose to be cruel. Let your bad guys be bad. I'm so sick of watering down evil. Makes the story much less about overcoming it.

[moriartyluver]

FALSE LOVERS CHAPTER XXIX

"SO, DID YOU TELL WILLIAM?" Josephine asked as she walked through the Moriarty Manor with (Name) "you know, about your condition.." 

"What?" (Name) blinked, clearly invested in her own thoughts whilst her friend spoke. "Oh...my condition.." she paused, standing still on the stairs, her hand rubbing at her neck nervously, then moving to fidget with her hair. "see..the issue is.." She trailed off, trusting to explain. Josephine furrowed her brows, noticing a fresh bruise on her neck. 

"Oh my god." She huffed under her breath. "You didn't tell him, did you? You slept with him! Again!!" 

(Name) frowned, getting a little defensive "It's a very difficult position to be in-" 

"Oh I bet you know a lot about difficult positions.." The brunette remarked. 

"Josephine!" 

"Sorry, sorry. I've never been pregnant before, surprisingly, so I can't judge.." she hummed 

"Don't say that word out loud. If my own husband doesn't know, I'd rather nobody but you or James know either." (Name) said, moving her hand down to fiddle with her sleeve "I did try to tell him, I really did. But then he started being all flirtatious and he somehow has this way of making me feel all funny, and honestly he may be the best man I've ever had, in a weird sort of way.." 

"I'd never imagine you describing William as such," Josephine giggled "Still, how did things escalate so much..?" 

"Well, I went to his office, made some small talk about the incident with Whitely, before he was assassinated, then he starts making some jokes, and we reminisced on our university days together. He brought up this one memory I feel quite fond of, and then I realised that I must have been very..mean to him, more so than I am now. As if I crossed the line a few times, so I apologised and then we kissed, and then.." (Name) spoke very, very quickly, her demeanour flustered "Well, you know.." 

"I'd rather not know," Josephine pulled a face. To her, this was like walking in on one's parents doing it. "Also you should tell him to be more discreet..you have a huge bruise on your neck, it almost looks painful.." 

"You should see the ones I gave him." She joked, before noticing josie's flat expression. "Sorry."

She rolled her pale blue eyes, walking down the staircase with her to the lounge. "It's fine..it's quite nice to be able to gossip for once, especially with how busy things have been lately. With Fred now gone more often, I've been used as messenger girl whenever I'm available.." 

"Yes, well, we did recently confirm to the public that this urban legend of the Lord Of Crime is real..it's a shame my old persona hasn't made a return. Now she is just the Lord of Crime's wife," (Name) chuckled dryly, her silk gloves sliding across the bannisters. 

"Most women could only dream of such a thing," Josephine reassured with a soft laugh whilst they walked into the lounge whilst the others discussed matters regarding milverton. 

"..but I would never choose that option. I'll kill Milverton whether my name spread or not." William spoke, pausing as (Name) entered the room. Everyone went silent for a second or two as she sat down beside her husband, confused as to what they were discussing. 

"I'm afraid I missed a few chapters." (Name) stated calmly. "Are we really going ahead with such a plan, provided the risk?" 

"(Name)," William placed his hand on her thigh reassuringly. At this point in time, he didn't care if people knew of their odd relationship. "It was bound to happen at some point." 

"Right." She nodded stiffly. She was clearly unhappy with the idea but she couldn't say much. It was part of their contract and pre existing agreement before they started their affair — could one even have an affair with their spouse? 

"As Louis said, this mission will carry unprecedented risks, but I can't keep Milverton alive much longer." He said. (Name) honestly was quite fond of Milverton at first, but upon finding he was responsible not only for the deaths of the Whitleys, but also the Jack the Ripper scandal, she could care less if he died. She just found him intriguing. 

Sherlock used the correct means to achieve moral goals, William used unethical means to achieve moral goals and Milverton purposely would use horrible means to achieve horrible goals. 

She couldn't help but wonder why. 

Regardless, he was to die, hopefully at William's hands, because she'd rather not have Milverton be Sherlock's first kill.

"Let's take action as soon as we're ready." William stated, snapping (name) out of her thoughts. 

Louis parted his lips, about to protest before William cut him off again.  

"We all knew this was coming, Louis. It was going to happen sooner or later," He said. "It's all according to the moriarty plan." 

"So this is it.." (Name) muttered as she sat on William's bed, surprisingly clothed. 

"This is it." He repeated. "When you signed that contract, you knew it would come to this..I apologise."

It didn't exactly feel sincere when he apologised, almost as if he was speaking to an acquaintance or associate — not his wife. 

"I suppose I'll have to remarry.." She hummed. She knew she probably wouldn't, couldn't. She was finally pregnant, with an heir. That's all she needed. 

William's jaw clenched at the mere idea of another man stealing the life he wanted. "I suppose you will." He nodded, shutting the book in his hands, getting out of his chair and approaching his bed on the other side of the room. "I.." He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again, like a fish. 

"I know." She looked up at him. "I know." 

He nodded, sitting down beside her and wrapping an arm around her waist apologetically whilst she rested her head on his shoulder. "Who would've thought..you and me.." 

"I never took you as the sentimental type." she laughed dryly. 

"I am a dead man walking, after all," William rubbed her shoulder soothingly. "Speaking of which..." 

"I'll pay for the funeral, don't worry. I can even have you sent to (home country) so you can have a tomb where it won't be destroyed by angry people." She said in a soft, melancholy tone. 

"That's alright. I'll let my gravesite be destroyed and ruined." He smiled. "Actually..I was thinking." 

"You always think." 

"So do you," he chuckled. "But in all seriousness, this is important. I'm going to have to ask you to do something a little bit difficult."

"I've never failed any mission you've given me," (name) reminded him. "I'm your strongest soldier." 

"That you are," He kissed her forehead. "But this isn't a physical thing..I mean, you'll pick up a pen, and write a few sentences, but it's.." William trailed off, his scarlet eyes shifting away from her and onto the equally red wallpaper. 

"What is it?" she asked curiously. 

"I'm going to need you to write a letter," He explained, rubbing her thigh. "To one of the main newspapers. I'll need you to write about how you recently discovered I was the lord of crime, how you plan to annul the marriage, and how you want the public to know you were never involved." 

He paused, looking into her eyes, searching for a reaction. She took a moment to process his words, her eyebrows furrowing in an angry glare.

"No! Why would you ask me to do such a thing? I may be a killer but I can't lie to an entire nation!" She exclaimed, standing from the bed. "I was just as involved as you were, and I've been killing since I was 16!"  

"You've lied numerous times before, I don't see how this may be any different," He pointed out. 

"But it's different—" She sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "What am I to tell my parents? My friends? Should I just continue to live a lie after you...you.."

She couldn't even bring herself to say it. 

"You can tell your parents the truth if you like, (name). They're good people, they wouldn't cast you out." He reassured her "And it's for your own sake. What will society think of a woman who knowingly let her husband kill people? What will they think when they find out you helped too? What will they think when they find out you married me because you just wanted to keep your parents happy and the men away? This is for your sake, I only ask that you write one letter." 

"William.." She whispered his name. 

"If you don't, I'm afraid I'll have to forge one." He stated. "You're already in enough trouble with parliament and her majesty herself, what will they do to you or to (home country) if they realise you were involved, that you were the lady of crimes."

She sighed. He was right. 

"I have business to attend to in Manchester, tomorrow afternoon, which I can always say was done out of fear of my husband being upset with me. I may have time to write a letter then and send it off as soon as possible to all the newspapers possible." She rambled. "And I'm telling my parents. They're going to be in Manchester too." 

"Everything?" 

"Everything." 

"I knew something was wrong." Grand Duchess (last name) sighed. "I told you, didn't I, (Father's name)?" 

"You're right. I apologise for not believing you, my love." He rubbed his wife's shoulder, kissing her cheek apologetically. 

(Name) couldn't bear to even look at them. She kept her head bowed and her eyes on her shoes. "I'm sorry, again." 

"No, (Name). I'm sorry." Her mother reached her hand out to hold her daughter's. "So is your father. This wouldn't have happened if we.." 

"There was nothing you could've done to change anything." She reminded them. "I had to do what I did, regardless of how horrible and wrong it was.." 

Her parents shared a look, before turning to their daughter again. She looked so small, so vulnerable. It was as if she was 9 years old all over again. 

"But we should have been there." The grand duke spoke. "At such a young age, you witnessed something so traumatising, and you lost your brother too..then we encouraged you to go to Britain for the sake of your education, and didn't contact you regularly, only visiting a handful of times, and even then we weren't around long enough for you." 

Her mother nodded in agreement. "If we had been there, if we had made you feel safe and welcome with us, you wouldn't have killed as many people as you did, you wouldn't have felt the need to marry a man you despised, and you wouldn't be in the situation you are in right now." 

"It wasn't your fault.." (Name) whispered, holding back tears. "There's this man, Charles Augustus Milverton..he would spread rumours about me through a magazine he owned, solely to torment me..it just made matter worse and now he's going to expose William's wrong doings to the entire country, and that..I can't imagine how he must feel right now.." 

The grand duchess sighed. "You love him, don't you?" 

"I do." 

"For how long?" 

"I..I'm not entirely sure.." She glanced down to her stomach. "But I know that I can't let him die..I just can't." 

"There's something else you're not telling us, isn't there?" Her father asked. 

"You can tell us, we won't judge you or be upset." Her mother reassured. "We're your parents." 

"I haven't even told William..Josephine, and another close friend that I work with, they're the only ones who know..." she trailed off. "I mean, how could I tell him. I haven't even told him I love him yet..He's convinced our relationship is just a facade for the public with some extra benefits for the both of us.." 

"(Name).." 

"I'm pregnant." 

"It's a shame this comedy doesn't have an audience," Milverton laughed as William and Sherlock turned their pistols to face him, rather than pointing at each other. They had both been inside Milverton's villa for a while now, with two very different reasons yet seemingly the same outcome. "The light and dark that symbolise London..the two of them are here together." 

"Make that three." A voice spoke from behind Milverton. He glanced over his shoulder, smirking as he saw his main target, (Name) (Last name). 

His smirk widened as he noticed a gun in her hand, pointing straight at him, finger on the trigger. "It's splendid you could join us. You seem so innocent but upon further inspection, anyone could tell that you had been aiding your husband's 'activities' all along, perhaps even the match that lit the fire." 

"I'm not here for him." She assured "You know exactly what you've done." 

"I do indeed." He chuckled, watching as (Name) slowly walked through the dimly lit room so she was stood in front of him, beside William and Sherlock. "And I'm glad you turned up. I was worried, really, that you weren't going to be here when I saw your husband without you." He paused. "Can I even call him that? Your 'husband'?" 

"There are legal documents to prove it. I'm sure one of your lapdogs can retrieve them for you," she retorted. 

"Yes, legal documents." Milverton hummed. "I found a rather interesting one earlier this week...Although, not nearly as interesting as a criminal couple, even if you may not be the most romantic." 

(Name) glanced at William who didn't seem to pay her any attention apart from the initial surprise she was here despite orders given that she wouldn't. 

"It was you, wasn't it?" She asked, her finger trembling on the trigger, her hands uncharacteristically shaky "You who tried to expose me for taking down that trafficking ring, you who had my name plastered over the tabloids, and for what? I didn't do anything to you." 

Milverton's eyes darkened for a moment before he grinned again "because it's fun." 

"So are theatre productions not good enough for you anymore?" She asked sarcastically. 

He laughed. A sickening laugh.

"Why watch a measly play when I can make my own?" He smiled. "Tragedy, comedy, romance...All three seem to apply to your life." 

"What—?" 

"For example, sweet and innocent nine year old (Name), bright beyond her years, possibly the most intelligent woman, maybe even person, to ever live." Milverton continued, interrupting the woman, a bead of sweet running down her forehead. "A box turns up one day, her dead brother's head inside. How Tragic. She swears to take down the British empire, and has quite a lot of fun in the process. Most of your little boy toys ended up dead or missing, though. It was no coincidence that Theodore Arden, your little male friend, happened to have the father who ordered your brother's grizzly death. And it was no coincidence that they had been tortured to death soon after, aswell as blown up by a few bombs, how comedic." 

How did he know this? How did he know any of this? Even with a photographic memory, she still couldn't remember the exact details of all these occurrences, her brain had blocked them out for the most part. 

And (name) swore she only brushed over the surface of all this with William. Because she trusted him. She glanced at him, an expression of hurt on her pretty face, then forced her eyes back to Milverton. 

Did William tell him? 

"And of course, he wasn't the last man in your life, but he was certainly your first." He enunciated the last word, highlighting the double meaning. "I can barely count them on one hand. But then, after a strange disappearance of Lord Ashfordshire, You found the one. How romantic," Milverton looked between (Name) and William. "You were married, but seemingly didn't consummate, and I wasn't the only tabloid following your love life around, but I certainly got the most information. How would your husband," he gestured to William "feel about that?" 

"You know nothing." She hissed between clenched teeth. 

"Oh? I know nothing, do I?" Milverton chuckled. "For a genius, you make this so easy, my lady. The jokes just write themselves." 

William looked uneasy. He had long since settled in his feelings for his wife, which felt ridiculous if he said them out loud. He had confided a few times in his brothers, his friends, and he knew he was in the worst possible circumstance right now. He was in love with. And he was the Lord of crime. The Lord of crime, in love with a girl he originally perceived to be rude and spoilt and cruel and promiscuous. 

And he loved her, with his entire soul. 

"How would your husband feel, knowing he was likely your last option for a prospective husband? How would your husband feel," Milverton continued, each word leaking venom. "Knowing you only consummated your marriage because a few rumours fuelled your need to become with child?" 

William and (Name) made brief eye contact, with her looking at him apologetically. He didn't look at her with anything more than a neutral expression.

"How would your husband feel knowing you had an affair the entire time you were in (home country), towards the end of last year?"  

Her gaze could no longer linger on the blond, looking straight at Milverton with a mixture of anger and shame. 

William's eyes widened for a moment, waiting for her to say something in her defence. 

Nothing. 

To the people of The British Empire, I apologise. 

I, Lady (Name) (Last Name) Moriarty, have recently discovered something no woman would want to find. 

Recently, I had been lead to believe my husband was having an affair, due to the secrets he kept and the life he concealed. This, like most marital issues, was to be kept private. That was until I discovered something far, far worse. 

A few days ago, I had caught my husband, William James Moriarty, arriving home late, drenched in blood. Naturally, I was suspicious, and this event had led to me uncovering a truth I cannot keep to myself. 

William James Moriarty is the Lord of Crime. 

Had I known earlier, perhaps I may have been able to prevent the unjust murders of many innocent people, such as that of Adam Whitely. The guilt I feel is immeasurable, and I intend to financially compensate all those involved as well as provide evidence for this conspiracy to the authorities. 

Once again, I apologise for all the harm my ignorance has caused, 

Lady (Name) (Last Name).

"I assume this was all fabricated," Mycroft placed the newspaper back on his desk after reading from it aloud. 

"You know me so well," (Name) chuckled. "I do intend to repay all those who need it..deep down you don't really have an issue with what transpired. I know you don't." She said, her voice dropping a tone. "William himself asked me to write that, so don't think I'm sacrificing him to save myself." 

Mycroft scoffed. "Well you've never had a good history with men and their feelings." 

"Why would I? Most of the men who were involved with me in some way were all horrible. It makes no difference that I married a serial killer," she smiled, taking another sip of tea. "I have all I needed now. I won't bother you again, Mycroft dear, I assure you...although you will miss me. I was the only opponent to the British Empire who actually entertained you." 

"I don't consider destroying merchant ships entertaining," He recalled. "Or how about that time the new prime minister said something unkind to you and you set Parliament alight?" 

"First of all," (Name) defended herself. "I had valid reason for destroying those slave ships, you know very well what trades they're involved in. I'd rather not look away from such devastating practices, there are real people involved, not just figures and statistics," she argued "And second of all, that wasn't the prime minister, they were something else, Home Secretary I think, and they were very offensive to me. You know how I get when I'm angry." 

"Well at least he managed to survive." He muttered. 

"I've not killed that many people." She retorted. 

"I can't even give an exact amount, but most of the people you killed were important people, and it affected our economy, our politics, and our society in  multiple ways," Mycroft explained. "Which returns us to the main issue...Your husband — can I even refer to him as such?" 

(Name) hummed to herself "Well, I was thinking of having the marriage annulled, but William seems to have other ideas. Regardless, he is, unfortunately, still my husband and the future father of my child." 

"I gathered as much. Hopefully they don't inherit your spitefulness." He rolled his eyes. "Anyways, your husband has murdered more nobles than I can recall, some of which we still have yet to confirm. Albert has been vague with me on the issue. What do you suppose you'll do when the economy comes crashing down? What about if the people, the working class population, blame you for their issues? They'll revolt soon, riot around your family home..Now what must you do?" 

"They won't blame me if the elite don't do it first. That's how it always happens anyways, blame the marginalised when in reality, it's the rich's fault. The only reason it's causing issue is because the time between the murders has shortened to a mere few hours. Previously, it had been much longer, so another rich old man could fill the void and everyone kept their low paying jobs," she explained. "And the rioting is part of William's plan." 

"So that's it? You'll let him die and return to (Home country), have that unfortunate child, then raise it as an heir?" He asked, although she wasn't supposed to answer. "Your life would be so much better if you had married one of her majesty's sons." 

"No thanks, they're all hideous," (Name) shook her head, making a face. 

Mycroft fought back a laugh, trying to maintain his serious persona. "They are members of the royal family." 

"And the inbreeding caused their unfortunate appearances. At least William was handsome. Now I'll have a son with perfect features," She half joked. She did choose William over so many other men because of his superior breeding, which is ironic with his background as a commoner. 

"How are you so sure it'll be a boy?" Mycroft asked "wishful thinking?" 

"No, I'd much rather a girl, a sweet little girl with beautiful hair I can style, but I know, it's just my intuition. It's never been wrong," (name) flashed a smile. 

"No, I suppose not," He nodded "So, you're visiting my brother after I dismiss you?" 

"You don't get to dismiss me, but yes, I am." She said. "I need to ask him a favour." 

"Very well. We're done here," Mycroft stood up opening the door to his office. "Please keep me updated." 

"I shall." She gave him a nod, bowing her head a little before leaving "farewell, and have a nice evening."

Although that morning she had her letter published by the press, 'confessing' her lack of involvement, she knew some would not be entirely convinced. After all, who better to place the blame on than a foreign woman? Yes she was far from innocent, and she didn't exactly want to be perceived as such, only going along with William's plan for the sake of her parents and home country. 

So, she decided it would be much less likely that any rioters spot her if she secretly entered Sherlock's apartment, rather than from the front where anyone could see. He had been cleared of his murder charges that same day, now likely at home. 

(Name) peered into the window, knocking slowly after a moment. The curtains drew open, revealing a slightly amused Sherlock. He opened the window wide enough for her to enter in her cloaked disguise. She slid inside, walking towards him and pulling her hood down. 

"I wasn't expecting you, especially not like this," Sherlock laughed. 

"Well, hopefully after all this blows over, you'll expect a lot more from me," she smiled, combing her fingers through her hair. 

"Mhm..you're here about Liam, aren't you?" He asked, still remembering the incident with Milverton, but he decided against mentioning it. After the confrontation, ending in Sherlock shooting Milverton, he had heard (name) apologising to William from afar as they left, trying to get him to say something, but merely brushed her off with a claim he was busy. 

"I am." (Name) nodded. "I just finished talking to your brother actually, apologising for the whole ordeal." 

"Oh yeah, you sent that letter to the papers, right? I could tell most of it wasn't true, no wonder that brother of mine wanted to talk to you," Sherlock said, leaning against a wall. "You knew about this since the beginning." 

"And I participated too. William used me as the whistleblower because nobody would expect such things from a woman." She explained, brows furrowing. "Actually, I'm probably worse than he is. Which is why I think it's unfair that he must sacrifice himself, and only himself, for the sake of everyone else. I don't see a crown of thorns on his head, he isn't obliged to do so." 

"Classic Liam." He hummed. "So, let me guess. You orchestrated the Arden massacre, and were involved in the disappearance of Ashfordshire?" 

"Amongst other things, yes. I also was the main planner with that whole sex trafficking scandal a while back, and I was the one who set us all up on the Noahtic." (Name) confessed. 

"They never did find Ashfordshire's body..I assume you killed him though." 

She sighed, recalling the story "If you had seen what I had, you'd kill him too. It still haunts me sometimes. And although I did kill him, William dealt with the body. It was so badly damaged and wounded that nobody would recognise it even if they found it." 

"How intriguing. You know, (Nickname), I really wish I had met you sooner." Sherlock smiled. She reciprocated it with a bitter one. "So, what is the favour you're planning to ask me?"

"I don't know if Louis has already asked you to do so, he's been on edge all week so it's only reasonable to assume he's upset," She trailed off "I have my own plan, to convince William to stay, maybe just fake his death instead, I'm not entirely sure considering he hasn't been speaking to me much lately..But, if that fails, I want you to be there, when he tries to die. I want you to do everything you can to save him, and I'm sorry for asking so much of you." 

"Who's to say I wouldn't do it regardless?" His smile widened. 

(Name) let out a dry laugh. "In that case, I haven't anything to worry about.." 

"You really love him, don't you?" 

She nodded then glanced to the door, footsteps slowly creaking up the stairs. She glanced at Sherlock, nodding goodbye before climbing out the window, gripping onto a tree branch outside as he said his final words to her. 

"Congratulations, by the way. That kid's going to be a genius." Sherlock whispered. 

She hummed, a little surprised at first that he knew, but shook it off. He was the world's greatest consulting detective after all. She parted her lips to speak, but noticing the door slowly freak open to reveal William, who had yet to spot her whilst she slipped out the window, ready to return to her carriage home.

Once she arrived home, she waited in William's bedroom, that which could have been a shared one between the couple if their marriage had taken a different route. The sheets clearly hadn't been slept in for days, likely due to the recent killing sprees William had been on. Honestly, nobody had slept much recently anyways. (Name) couldn't remember the last time she had gotten in a full 8 hours of sleep without interruptions. She had been plagued by nightmares as of late, and she had too much to do so sleep seemed like a waste of time. She had made arrangements for the following morning to board a ship back to (Home country) with her parents and hopefully with William too. Her room was empty and everything was now packed away and on the ship somewhere.

William eventually returned home, darting straight to his bedroom to clean up, only to be met with (Name) waiting for him. She saw the blood staining his cheek and the tired look in his eyes which once shone so brightly, now making him resemble a corpse rather than the man she had finally come to terms with being the one she loved with all her heart. 

"The moon is beautiful tonight, isn't it?" 

He didn't respond. 

"William?" She called out to him again, approaching him, but strangely enough it seemed there was a boarder preventing her from coming too close. "We need to talk about this whole situation...I.." she bit her lip, voice cracking as she tried to find her words. She felt nervous, reminded about how he reacted after finding out about the affair. 

"What?" William muttered softly, albeit exhausted. 

(Name) almost seemed startled at how different this current William was to how her usual William was. "I'm somewhat offended you didn't tell me about this plan of yours earlier." She said, although that wasn't really what she intended to do. It was in typical (Name) fashion, in a sense. 

William spoke again, his voice aching as he wiped some blood off his face with his palm "You had known this since the beginning, it was in the contract after all..besides, we spoke about this earlier, a few days ago when I asked you to write that letter to the press." 

"You're right..my mistake." The noblewoman whispered "The plan was that I either marry again for an heir or have a child and remain a widow." (Name) recalled, stood before William, her hands interlinked as she fidgeted with the fabric of her gloves "But..it's not what I want anymore." 

She couldn't help but become incredibly aware of how selfish she continued to sound, with every sentence, every word, every syllable. 

"Not what you want?" William repeated curiously. Although he could barely bring himself to speak, he still attempted to keep this conversation afloat, in hopes of completing one of the last phases of this plan, his final problem. 

(Name) took a deep breath "You're not dying. I prohibit it," she said harshly, her voice slowly raising, something William noticed happened every time she was frustrated. Once again, she felt selfish, but selfishness may have been the only way to counteract the selfless sacrifice of William dying. "You're not allowed to die like this when there is clearly another way!" 

"Another way?" The blond mocked "(name), there is no 'other way'! I have the blood of hundreds on my hands, and the only way to compensate for all the lives I have ruined and all the pain I have caused is by dying!" 

(Eye colour) eyes widened momentarily. (Name) took her husband's hands in hers "And you won't let me help you clean these hands?" She asked, kneeling before him as he sat on the bed. "William, please just listen to me for once!" She pleaded, begging him on her knees, an image that (Name) from a year ago would have deemed impossible.  "My parents have already heard of what we have done, I spoke to them a few nights ago, and they helped me formulate a plan in which nobody else has to die for the sake of this stupid class system!" 

"We..We can run away! We'll go to (home country) with mother and father and...and we can take Albert and Louis and Josephine and everyone else!" (Name) continued, her grasp on his hands tightening "I don't care about the tension between (home country) and this pathetic empire anymore! If any conflict breaks out, I can deal with it! I'll do anything, I just want you by my side. We won't have to worry about anything anymore, William!" 

Williams lips parted, then shut, then parted again, as if he was choosing his words cautiously before finally muttering no more than her name, in a whisper so silent that it would be overpowered by the sound of a mere draft, leaking through the window. 

"(Name)" 

She looked up at him, her eyes glassy with tears that were threatening to spill, another word and the dam would break. 

"William, please," (Name) whispered, her voice cracking, squeezing his soft hands gently "I couldn't bare it if you were to die...didn't you consider that? There's so so much to live for, even if the nobility has made you feel otherwise..." 

"(Name), please don't do this," He whispered, blinking slowly and opening his eyes once more, the ends of his eyelashes sticking together with shiny tears. 

Even being sat there now felt more torturous than any form of pain he had ever felt. William had been hurt so much to the point physical pain had no effect on him anymore. He had been smacked in cruel orphanages, kicked by passers by, cut as a result of both his pride and his namesake's sadistic nature, whipped by his own adoptive mother, and yet he was being caressed so gently, but felt this pain was much more unbearable than anything he'd ever experienced in his twenty four years of pitiful existence. 

Seeing (Name), his beloved wife, sat in front of him, begging him to continue to live, something most men around him could do without a second thought (which he felt envious of, and then guilt for his envy), was devastating.

He had considered her proposal, imagining a life where he and (name) could exist peacefully. They could read at one of the many libraries in the (Last Name) Manor, whilst (name) would teach him (mother tongue), and be by her side on her travels to various countries. He'd play chess with (name)  until she finally won against him. He's finally be able to sleep peacefully in her arms without fear for his comrades and nightmares riddled with guilt. He'd live a life without needing to stain his hands with a single drop of blood again...

And yet he couldn't.

The more William imagined a future with her, the more it hurt knowing this was simply impossible for him to have. He wasn't allowed to be happy. He wasn't allowed to move on. He had killed too many, there was no turning back, no matter how badly he wanted to do so. It was cowardly, William knew that, but so was running away and leaving England in shambles because of his own selfish plans. 

"Don't you understand, William? I'll do anything.." (Name) looked into his eyes once more "I.." she took a deep breath, voice shaky 

"I love you."

[biblical-chronicles]

Caught offside

___________________________________________

where Noel tries to educate the reader while watching the match but she just can't focus [18+]

___________________________________________

You leaned against the doorframe, watching as Noel adjusted his City kit in the mirror near the telly. The pale blue shirt fit him perfectly, hugging his lean frame in all the right places, and you couldn’t help but admire how good he looked in it. He tugged at the hem, then straightened the collar with the precision of someone preparing for a proper performance, his expression a mix of concentration and pride.

"You take this more serious than getting on stage," you teased, unable to keep the fondness out of your voice.

He turned, narrowing his eyes at you in mock indignation. "Course I do, love. It’s derby day, innit? You can’t just half-arse derby day."

You grinned. "Yeah, clearly. Shame we’re not at the stadium today, though, bet you’d have all the fans swooning."

"Ah, you’d be swoonin’ the loudest, admit it," he shot back with a smirk, the glint in his eye betraying how much he was enjoying himself.

“Alright, you’ve got me there,” you said, crossing your arms as you leaned further into the doorframe. "But seriously, Noel—you’re acting like the gaffer’s about to call you off the bench."

“Well, someone’s gotta keep the standards up,” he replied, tugging the shirt one last time before turning to slump onto the sofa. He patted the cushion beside him, flashing a grin. “Now come on, game’s about to start. Can’t be doin’ this on my own.”

You joined him, settling into the crook of his arm as he pulled you closer. Your head rested on his chest, the steady beat of his heart oddly soothing amidst the rising tension in the room. The telly blared with pre-match commentary, voices analyzing formations and tactics as if they were speaking a secret code.

"Y’know," you murmured, glancing up at him, "for someone who’s so cool about most things, you get proper wound up over football. It’s cute."

"Yeah, well, this ain’t just football, is it?" he replied, his tone serious but with a twinkle in his eye.

The match kicked off, and both of you were instantly glued to the screen, tension thick in the air. City were pressing hard, their passes crisp and purposeful. Suddenly, the ball hit the back of the net, and the room erupted.

"Yes! Get in there!" Noel shouted, jumping to his feet, fists in the air.

You laughed, caught up in the energy, and he grabbed your face, pressing a firm, triumphant kiss to your lips.

But before the celebrations could fully take hold, the referee made a motion, and the screen flashed with the dreaded words: Offside.

“What?!” Noel barked at the telly, his arms flinging wide as if to challenge the decision directly. "Offside, me arse! Who’s the bloody ref, Stevie Wonder?"

You snorted at his outrage, though you couldn’t deny the disappointment. "That’s fucking ridiculous, but honestly, I’ve never fully understood what offside even is. It’s such a weird rule."

Noel turned to you, momentarily distracted from his fury. "You’re jokin’."

You shook your head, biting back a smile. "Not joking. I mean, I sorta get it, but not really."

“Right, sit tight. Lesson time.” He repositioned you slightly so he could use his hands to illustrate his point, gesturing animatedly. "Right, so imagine this. You’ve got the pitch, yeah? Ball’s here. Forward’s there. Last defender’s here." He moved his hands like chess pieces, his tone shifting to something patient but unmistakably Noel.

At first, you tried to follow along, nodding and humming in response as he explained how the rule aimed to prevent "goal-hanging" and how the timing of the pass was key. But gradually, your attention drifted. His voice—low, smooth, and rich with that Mancunian lilt—was hypnotic, and your focus wandered from his words to his mouth. The way it curved with each syllable, the slight scruff along his jawline, the way his hands moved like they could command the pitch itself...

"Are you even listening, or have I lost you?" he asked suddenly, pulling you out of your thoughts.

Your eyes snapped back to his, a sheepish grin spreading across your face. "I’m listening... mostly."

“Mostly, she says.” He shook his head, feigning exasperation. "You’ve got no respect for the beautiful game, have ya?"

"Plenty of respect," you countered, letting your gaze flicker over him appreciatively. "Just... got a bit distracted by something else that’s beautiful."

His brows shot up, and then he smirked, a slow, knowing grin. "Oh yeah? This ‘something else’ wouldn’t happen to be sat right here in this kit, would it?"

You laughed, burying your face in his chest to hide the blush creeping up your cheeks.

Noel chuckled, the sound reverberating against your cheek where you’d buried yourself in his chest. “What’s this, then? Gawkin’ at me like I’m the main attraction, are ya?”

You groaned, playfully smacking his arm without moving your head. “Oh, shut up. I was being nice!”

He leaned back just enough to peer down at you, his smirk still firmly in place. “Nice, me arse. You were practically droolin’. Don’t blame ya, mind. This kit always does wonders, don’t it?”

Rolling your eyes, you sat up slightly, trying to brush off your embarrassment. “You’re insufferable,” you muttered, though your grin betrayed the affection behind the jab.

“Yeah, yeah, but you love it,” he said, planting a quick kiss on the top of your head before turning his attention back to the match.

You tried to follow his lead, settling back into his side as his arm looped around you again. The game was heating up, with the ball flying between the teams and the crowd noise on the telly reaching a fever pitch. But no matter how hard you tried, your focus wasn’t on the pitch. It was on the man beside you—the way his chest rose and fell beneath your palm, the soft brush of his thumb against your arm as he absentmindedly held you close.

Before long, your hand started to wander, almost without thinking. You traced idle circles against his chest through the thin fabric of his kit, marveling at how warm and soft he felt beneath your fingertips.

“Oi,” he murmured without looking away from the screen, his tone half-amused and half-warning. “You planning on keepin’ your hands to yourself anytime soon, or what?”

“Nope,” you said simply, grinning to yourself as your fingers moved to the City badge, tracing the embroidered crest with deliberate slowness.

He let out a soft laugh, shaking his head but not stopping you. “You’re bloody hopeless, you know that?”

The sound of the referee’s whistle echoed through the room, signaling the end of the first half. Almost instantly, you sat up, twisting to straddle his lap in one fluid motion.

“Bloody hell!” he laughed, his hands instinctively finding your hips to steady you. “What’s got into you, eh? Can’t even wait for full-time?”

“Blame yourself,” you shot back, your cheeks flushed as you leaned closer. “You’re the one prancing around in this kit looking all... irresistible.”

He tilted his head, his grin widening. “Irresistible, am I? Go on, love, don’t stop there.”

You rolled your eyes but couldn’t fight the laugh bubbling up as you leaned in to kiss him, cutting off whatever cheeky remark he was about to make next. His laughter faded into a low hum as he kissed you back, his hands tightening their grip on your waist, pulling you closer until there was hardly any space left between you.

The kiss deepened, your laughter fading into a soft moan as his hands gripped your hips tighter. You rocked forward instinctively, the friction drawing a sharp breath from you, and Noel noticed immediately. His thigh tensed beneath you, and his hands slid lower, guiding your movements as you pressed against him.

“God, you’re full of surprises tonight, aren’t you?” he murmured, his lips quirking into a teasing smirk even as his voice dropped to a low rasp.

You didn’t bother replying, too caught up in the heat of the moment to muster a clever retort. Instead, you leaned into him, your lips trailing down to his jawline and the stubble that scratched your skin in the most intoxicating way. He tilted his head slightly, giving you better access as your hands explored the soft fabric of his kit.

When his thigh shifted beneath you again, you couldn’t hold back a quiet moan. His smirk grew at the sound, his hands tightening their grip on your waist as he whispered, “Didn’t know I’d signed up for this kind of workout.”

“Oh, stop it,” you shot back, your words breathless but full of playful defiance.

“Stop what?” he teased, his grin widening. “Don’t think I’m the one makin’ noises, love.”

That cheeky remark spurred you on. Your hands wandered lower, skimming over his hips until they reached the waistband of his joggers. You toyed with the edge for a moment, letting your fingers slip just beneath the fabric, and he stiffened slightly beneath you, his breath catching.

“Careful, now,” he warned, though his voice lacked any real conviction.

“Why?” you murmured, tilting your head to meet his gaze. “You nervous or summat?”

That earned a soft chuckle from him, his hands sliding up your sides to rest just beneath your ribs. “Hardly,” he muttered, but there was a slight pink tinge to his cheeks that made you grin.

Your fingers dipped lower, brushing against the skin of his hips as you tugged at the drawstring of his joggers. His breath hitched, his hands momentarily pausing their steady hold on you.

“Gonna drive me mad, aren’t ya?” he muttered, his voice a mix of exasperation and anticipation.

“Only fair,” you shot back, leaning in to press a kiss to his neck, your lips lingering against his pulse point.

With one swift motion, you pushed his joggers down enough to expose his boxers, the fabric pooling around his thighs. He let out a low groan at the cool air hitting his skin, his hands gripping your waist even tighter.

“Bold move, that,” he said, his voice tinged with amusement but laced with something deeper.

You pulled back just enough to look at him, your eyes sparkling with mischief. “Bold’s never been a problem for you, has it?”

Before he could reply, your hands slid over his boxers, teasingly slow, and his head fell back against the sofa with a quiet curse. “You’re gonna ruin me before halftime’s even over.”

You leaned in close, your lips brushing against his ear as you whispered, "That's exactly me plan, Noel.”

His laugh was low and breathless, his hands sliding up to cup your face as he pulled you into another searing kiss.

Your lips moved against his with an intensity that left you both breathless, the warmth of his hands on your face grounding you even as your pulse raced. Slowly, your fingers traced the edge of his boxers, the teasing movement earning a low groan from deep in his chest.

“Bloody tease,” he muttered against your lips, his voice gravelly with a mix of frustration and desire. His hands gripped your waist tightly as though anchoring himself to the moment.

You smiled against his mouth, your confidence growing with every little sound you pulled from him. “Teasing’s part of the fun,” you murmured, letting your fingers slip beneath the waistband just slightly, the anticipation making his breathing hitch.

“Is it now?” he rasped, but the cheek in his tone wavered, replaced by something far needier when your hand finally slid lower.

Your fingers wrapped around him, stroking slowly, deliberately, and the reaction was immediate. His body tensed beneath you, a sharp exhale escaping his lips as his head fell back against the sofa. “Oh, for fuck’s sake...” he breathed, his voice trailing off into a low moan that sent a thrill through you.

“Something wrong?” you teased, your lips brushing against his jawline as your hand continued its slow, torturous rhythm.

His response was a strangled laugh, his hips bucking slightly into your touch as his grip on your waist tightened. “Nothing wrong about this, love,” he managed, his voice thick and uneven.

You grinned, watching his reaction, the way his chest rose and fell in uneven breaths, his cheeks flushed and his hair falling messily over his forehead. He looked utterly undone, and you couldn’t deny how much you enjoyed being the reason for it.

When your thumb brushed over him in just the right way, a deep groan tore from his throat, his hips lifting instinctively into your hand. “Christ, you’re gonna finish me off here,” he muttered, his voice strained but filled with the kind of raw honesty that made your stomach flip.

Your lips found his neck again, kissing and nipping at the sensitive skin there as you picked up the pace slightly, the sounds he made growing louder with each passing moment. “Good thing it’s halftime,” you whispered against his skin, earning a breathless laugh that turned into a low moan as your movements became more purposeful.

His hands slid up to tangle in your hair, pulling you back up to kiss him fiercely, his lips demanding and urgent as he tried to regain even the slightest bit of control. But his grip faltered when you gave an extra deliberate twist of your wrist, and the way his breath hitched made your heart race.

“Bloody hell,” he muttered, his words barely coherent as he rested his forehead against yours, his eyes dark with desire. “You’re gonna be the death of me, woman.”

You couldn’t help but smile, your fingers continuing their teasing strokes, knowing you had him completely at your mercy. “But what a way to go,” you murmured, earning another shaky laugh from him that dissolved into a guttural groan.

Your lips pressed softly to his neck, working a path downward as your hand continued its rhythm, deliberate and torturous, keeping him on edge. Noel’s breathing was ragged now, each exhale tinged with a low, breathy groan. You could feel his tension, the way his body moved beneath yours as he gripped the sofa for dear life.

“Bloody boilin'” he muttered suddenly, his voice strained. With a quick movement, his hands went to tug at the hem of his shirt, clearly intent on stripping it off to escape the heat.

You stilled instantly, lifting your head to fix him with a pointed look, your lips curved into a playful smirk. “Don’t you dare.” you said, your voice soft but filled with authority.

He froze mid-motion, his shirt still bunched in his hands as his wide eyes met yours. “What?”

“You heard me.” You tilted your head, biting back a grin as you slowly removed your hand entirely, watching the realization dawn on his face.

His cheeks flushed a deep red, his frustration mingling with need as his hips shifted slightly, searching for the contact you’d so cruelly taken away. “You’re killin’ me here, love,” he mumbled, his voice a little hoarse.

“Say please,” you said simply, sitting back just enough to make your lack of movement abundantly clear.

“Come on,” he groaned, the tips of his ears turning pink as his head fell back against the sofa. “Please?”

You arched a brow, crossing your arms like you had all the time in the world. “That didn’t sound very convincing.”

“Fuckin' hell,” he muttered under his breath before looking back at you, his eyes dark and filled with longing. “Please, love,” he said, his voice rough and earnest. “Please finish me off. You’re driving me mad here.”

Your smirk widened as you leaned in, your lips brushing against his jawline. “Good boy,” you murmured, letting your hand return to him, the relief in his sigh almost making you laugh.

But instead of resuming your previous rhythm, you lowered yourself down further, your lips pressing soft, teasing kisses along his slightly exposed abdomen, feeling the way his muscles tensed under your touch. His breath hitched, and his hands instinctively gripped the sofa again as you continued your path, deliberately slow, making sure he felt every second of your attention.

When your mouth finally replaced your hand, he let out a sound that was half curse, half moan, his head falling back against the sofa as his fingers dug into the fabric. “Christ,” he muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper.

You worked him over with a mixture of confidence and tenderness, adjusting your movements to the way his body reacted—the way his hips bucked slightly, the breathy moans that escaped his lips, and the occasional muttered praise that was more instinct than intention.

“Bloody brilliant,” he gasped at one point, his voice breaking slightly as he looked down at you, his face flushed and his hair sticking to his forehead. His hand came up to brush through your hair, his touch reverent even as his breathing grew increasingly unsteady.

When he tried to move his hips to meet you halfway, you placed a firm hand on his thigh, keeping him in place as you set the pace. His rather loud reaction sent a thrill through you, and you redoubled your efforts, drawing him closer to the edge with every calculated movement.

His moans grew louder, more desperate, and his hand gripped the back of the sofa as though it was the only thing keeping him grounded. “Love, I’m—I can’t—” he stammered, his words breaking apart as his body tensed beneath you.

You didn’t stop, didn’t let up, until his climax hit him like a tidal wave, his body arching as he called out your name in a voice thick with raw emotion. When he finally came down, his chest heaving and his face glowing with a mixture of exertion and satisfaction, he looked at you with a dazed but utterly blissful smile.

“You’re bloody dangerous, you know that?” he muttered, his voice still breathless as he reached for you, pulling you back into his arms.

You tilted your head, a playful smile tugging at your lips. “Can’t help meself when you look so beautiful,” you teased, your voice soft but sincere.

His laugh was warm and low, and you felt the vibration of it against your cheek as he pressed a kiss to your temple. “Beautiful, eh? You’re gonna give me a big head, love.”

“Bit late for that,” you quipped, earning another laugh as he held you even closer, his fingers idly brushing through your hair.

___________________________________________

have I put off writin' this as I am still dead salty about City losing the last derby? (and to villa yesterday too)... maybe

anyway I hope you lot enjoyed this and yer homework is to learn about the offside rule since Noel didn't manage to explain it fully x

also the new kits that Noel helped design are just brilliant

love you all so much !