#one can argue you can look at this from a resistance angle and see it in that sort of light

[talenlee]

Game Pile: Kentucky Route 0, One of Three Games About America

Script and Thumbnail below the fold!

Kentucky Route Zero is a magical realist point and click game of what I’d normally call Narrative Adventure, which came to kickstarter in 2011, then came out in 2013, 2014, 2016, and 2020, because you can’t have nothing for free, even things you pay for. The game is a text-driven game without any of the trappings of your typical point-and-clicker where you jam a ladder in your pants and try to work out why you want to put green dye in the water fountain. Instead it follows the haunted mind of Conway, a trucky driver and his interactions with small handful of people on a part of the Kentucky Interstate, while he to find the place he needs to do his delivery, despite being utterly lost.

I enjoyed what of Kentucky Route Zero I played, but the thing that stands out to me in hindsight is its sound design. It’s a beautifully defined game, audio-wise, with all sorts of thoughtful foley for its environments, and the way that even the pieces of the interface that Conway interacts with have their own sort of specific authentic sounds, chonks and thunks and ch-zzzzses.

It’s also visually splendid, beautiful in what it tries to represent in the heightened reality of its setting but also the format of a videogame. These places look good from the angle that’s chosen, creating lines of artwork and bars of cages, depending on what you’re focusing on, and by being a fixed-camera story of its type, Kentucky Route Zero takes on traits of theatre, with blocking and careful positioning and timing all making up part of how the story unfolds.

A story I haven’t finished.

See, I don’t feel like playing Kentucky Route Zero Act V.

Sit down, traveller. Let me tell you a story.

There’s a chance you’ve heard this story before. I’ve anonymised it here, not because I think you shouldn’t be able to work out who it is, but because the idea of focusing on the who runs the risk of ignoring the what. Plus, I don’t want to direct anyone to a person who said something stupid and encourage fights. That’s not the important issue.

This is the story of when someone perfectly represented something, and probably never realised it.

You will sometimes hear me talk about the take that ‘there are three games about America,’ with a tone of utter revulsion and derision. This is from an incident back in 2020, when a game developer and advocate for inclusive games, had an opinion, on the internet. This advocate is well-established and has a big audience, but also, he’s crucially, not a white guy, not a Christian guy, and not an American guy. These are factors that play into what he said, which was, in summary, that while Kentucky Route 0 was no doubt phenomenal, he wasn’t interested in playing it right now.

To this, an actual adult responded with:

This is legitimately the worst take you’ve ever had. There are only about three games that are actually American, and this is one of them. Everything else is designed for export. Kr0 is a precious and valuable thing. It is of immense and intense personal importance.

Now, resisting the urge to argue with a tweet, which is just generally a bad practice that leads to doing things like wanting to be on twitter, and setting aside this tweet conflating ‘this is of personal importance to me’ and ‘this should be of importance to you,’ this position describes the idea that there are only three games that are ‘actually American.’

What does it mean to be ‘actually American?’

America is a pretty pervasive presence, if you’re not aware of it. Most people in the world have to know about what’s going on in America. We know about your Presidents and your Senators and your Constitution, to the point where people can be more aware of how your country’s laws work than their own country’s laws. I’ve often seen it held up as an example of how poorly educated people in say, Canada and Australia are that we believe we have, say, a ‘first amendment right,’ but the thing is you have to ask why there is that.

We watch so much American TV.

We listen to American music.

We try to make our news broadcasts look like yours, because that’s what real and legitimate news looks like. We try to retell your stories in our local languages because that’s what real media looks like. Our children sing songs in your accents because that’s the culture that a multi-trillion dollar economy has pumped into the whole world.

America demands we attend their wars and surrender our living to become their dead and when we are done America sells the survivors a cheeseburger.

This is not a remarkable or controversial statement. You must know, this is not even vaguely challenging to know about. Everywhere in the world is replicating parts of the American empire, because America exports and enforces the vision of the American empire. McDonalds may sell curry in India, but it’s very important that the curry being sold is McDonalds curry because that is how you know it’s an American style curry.

What this means is when someone tries to assert there are only really three games about America, that’s a kind of specialised brain rot that requires you to consider games that are very much about America as not being really about America. And thus we see the other thing about America, which is it’s not enough for America to be the most important place in the world that everyone else in the world needs to recognise, but also, most of America is inadequately America for this vision of America. You saw this in the wake of 9/11, and the election of Barack Obama: huge amounts of American media resurged in extolling the values of ‘real’ America, as opposed to the parts of America where the vast majority of Americans lived, which just so happened to paint a lot of marginalised people living in the cities as ‘fake Americans.’

I am not bringing you unique information. This is just obviously true things if you don’t live within the boundaries of an environment that flatters you as the most normal thing in the world. The vast majority of the world is not America. There are eight billion people in the world, more or less, meaning that America is about 4% of the world, and yet, it is catastrophically, overwhelmingly, deleritously the common touchstone for how things are ‘supposed’ to work. This is through media imperialism, which is mostly supported by American companies exporting all their media to foreign markets extremely cheaply.

‘about three games that are actually American.’

This fascinating piece of doofusry still, even now leaves me agog. ‘Actually American.’ Kentucky Route 0 is actually American, you see, as opposed to… what? Is America’s Army one of them? You know, the game financed by the American Army? What about Call of Duty, a franchise that is in part subsidised by American military complex manufacturers? What about Grand Theft Auto, a videogame that tells the rags-to-riches story of American excess in criminality, setting aside the way it’s made by a Scottish company. Actually American, because American doesn’t mean America, it means one tiny little pool of ‘America’ where the speaker can imagine there’s a realness and an authenticity to the America-ness that doesn’t involve all the messy realities of what it is to be America. It’s the towns of hard-working people, that suffer under your particular description of oppression, whether that’s cities full of nonwhite people or corporations bleeding the country dry, always eliding the social cruelties and terribleness of these places, as if giving people money stops them from being bigoted (for example).

This is then used to recruit these poor, superior Americans, the you know, America Americans, whose sufferings are noble and whose authenticity cannot be impeached and they are then used as a defense against criticism of, you know, America. It’s the same speech Charlie Daniels gave about how foreigners may think they could push around Barack Obama (a dude who bombed a lot of shepherds with the most elaborate and brutal military ordinance in the world) but they were going to have a harder time taking on Americans who wrestled alligators, who at this point have exactly zero recorded drone strike kills.

This is because America America isn’t real.

‘Real’ America is a nebulous nothing that you can project whatever you want onto, and which is also not responsible for anything terrible that America does. It’s not the American Empire, it’s not the exporter of culture, it’s somehow purer, better, a sort of individualised folk who are to be protected and extolled, shriven of all the things about America that make it anything but its perfect idealised form of America.

I could go on.

I really could.

This is something that defines the world I have to live in. I speak English. I’m white. I’m from a coloniser state. I should be able to integrate easily and smoothly into the white supremacist capitalist hierarchy of American culture, but we are told, that no, we are not acceptable. We are only valid as long as our differences are invisible. We, a real people, do not get to have opinions on America, because we do not know True America. When you spell colour wrong in a chat message, when your accent isn’t quite right, when you don’t know the difference between junior and sophomore year of high school, then you are shown, you are evinced, and you are made very aware that you are other, you are outside, you are wrong.

And really, there’s no good reason for it. We send our soldiers to America’s wars, we buy America’s submarines, and we sing your songs. Our currency mimics America’s, our culture permeats with America’s, we even have such a crushing inferiority complex about the empire that there’s an academic term for what we feel about our own media compared to the media of the truer, proper empire to which we are vassal.

The term is ‘cultural cringe,’ and it was coined by Henry Lawson, who you, odds on, have never heard of. In 1894, he wrote:

The Australian writer, until he gets a “London hearing,” is only accepted as an imitator of some recognized English or American author; and, as soon as he shows signs of coming to the front, he is labelled “The Australian Southey,” “The Australian Burns,” or “The Australian Bret Harte,” and lately, “The Australian Kipling.” Thus no matter how original he may be, he is branded, at the very start, as a plagiarist, and by his own country, which thinks, no doubt, that it is paying him a compliment and encouraging him, while it is really doing him a cruel and an almost irreparable injury. But mark! As soon as the Southern writer goes “home” and gets some recognition in England, he is “So-and-So, the well-known Australian author whose work has attracted so much attention in London lately”; and we first hear of him by cable, even though he might have been writing at his best for ten years in Australia.

This is imperialism. This is a way in which we have been induced and brought by the empires around us to accept their ways as correct, as the normal, as default. And that is the mindset you must have if you want to look at the breadth of videogames, with their American ideas like health insurance, readily available guns, the importance of freedom, the ubiquity of air travel, the branding and iconography of types of food and the sports metaphors and then say ‘yeah, this doesn’t have anything to do with America, not really.’

Anyway, this thread, this incident, was a big deal at the time, in that there were a lot of people from within the community of game developers and journalists who seemed very happy to line up and get mad at a brown foreigner for being inadequately enthusiastic about the possibility of playing a videogame. But don’t worry, after a day or two, an apology was forthcoming for all of this fracas, by which I mean, the original developer apologised for being so thoughtless as to, again, express honest lack of enthusiasm in a videogame.

For me, this was a kind of break point, where I started just blocking indie devs on sight. I don’t want to know what they’re involved in, I don’t want to promote their work, and I will hold tiny grudges against them that I do not seek to transfer or encourage in others. This was one silly incident in which a lot of people said something silly because they don’t know better, or they’re arseholes.

None of this is fair to Kentucky Route 0. It’s a game with its own intentions and its own perspective. It’s not trying to make this conversation happen. Kentucky Route 0 has been choked and gripped by this position around it, where to talk about an American game, someone put a cross on it that made it the avatar for All Things America. The wild thing to me is that I had, prior to this point, played two episodes of Kentucky Route 0. I thought it was pretty good, and I liked what it did with the negative space of dialogue options – when a character you’re controlling makes excuses, the excuses you choose show you other things you could be making excuses about that you, the player, didn’t know beforehand. That’s some good Narrative Storytelling Design, I like that a lot. But now I can’t really engage with Kentucky Route Zero because the main thing it makes me think about is how this final chapter, meant to round out the game’s story and present a conclusion and a point, became this flashpoint for a lot of people to be very casually racist.

Which kinda poisons the whole thing for me. It’s an authentic thing, I’m sure, it’s a thoughtful thing, too, but the people stepping up to say I should care about it did so in a way that made me hate them.

Any time you see me say ‘three games about America’ I’m talking about this, and the attitude of a particular kind of American that America is, as always, exceptional. It’s real easy to not realise when you’re just voicing your self-centeredness and how easy that is to ignore the opinions of people around you and what they’re saying. This is what I’m talking about when I mention ‘the three games about America.’

[fade for credit text]

By the way, the three games about America are Crash Bandicoot, Sam & Max Hit The Road, and Bust A Move.

[eleanorose123]

you know, pokemon starters' final evolutions in terms of their typings is wild to think about over the generations cause like-

you start off with kanto, in which 2 out of the 3 have dual types and one of them gets a super duper advantage over another

johto, comparatively, is chill- everyone stays the one type

hoenn returns to the "2 out of 3 get second types and one has a strong advantage over the other" situation (as well as being the start of fire/fighting)

Edit: forgot to also add sceptile is 4x effective to swampert even without a dual typing lol

SINNOH becomes a gosh darn MESS with its dual typing but hey! at least everyone gets one this time around! (small note- empoleon may not be weak to fire thanks to water but the steel type on its own sure is lol)

unova is lowkey just hilarious because only emboar gets the fire/fighting combo. what a champ.

kalos is the ultimate harmony- everyone is equal footing in terms of type advantages. this is largely when fans believe the secondary types are being thought of for this purpose of fairness

it almost seems like this carries over into alola but whoopsie! ghost isn't super effective against fairy! ghost is only super effective against psychic and ghost, fun fact

galar misses all this drama and is like johto in terms of "it's all chill here"

then hisui comes along with ANOTHER ghost mishap, oh no

aaaand to wrap it all up, you've got paldea, which on first glance seems super cool! the dual typing can fight back against a starter's weakness! except-

ghost is STILL not super effective

anyway thanks for reading my rambles of pokemon starter history, tip your server

[n1ghtfurys]

Cream

I saw this idea on tiktok and I don't know where I found it but I had to do something with it so if anyone knows who posted the original idea please tell me so I can credit them :)

Second part

Keegan being flirty↓

You hated parties, always have, always will but your roommate, and best friend, loves them. She has one almost every week, sometimes it's university friends, sometimes work friends but this time it's a party for all of the people in your building.

You hate it, it's loud and annoying and people keep trying your locked door. Probably so they can come and hook up on your bed, fucking animals. It's not even like you dislike the people in your building, you just hate parties.

It's moments like these that make you curse your minimum wage job, if only you could have a mini fridge. You wouldn't have to go out there to get the lemonade you so desperately wanted. You've been arguing with yourself over it for a good twenty minutes.

You tried texting your roommate, then calling but she's probably borderline dry humping some guy in the middle of your living room right now. You kind of respect her ability to do that, envy it sometimes. And anyway, you'll probably hear about this guy's sexual skills tomorrow over lunch.

When you finally come to the conclusion that you're doomed to have to leave the sanctuary of your bedroom, you reluctantly open the door. The noise is worse out here. It's shitty club music and the bass is so hard that the cups on the table near the speaker are shaking. Like you expected, your roommate has her tongue down someone's throat, the girl from the floor above actually. She has short brown hair and so far, in your three years of living here you haven't seen her not in a flannel. Upon a quick look around you find that most of your younger neighbours are here.

You almost drop your phone when your eyes land on Keegan. Not only is he so rarely home, because of deployment, you also never took him as a party goer. Equally you find him incredibly attractive and have made a consistent fool of yourself around him, he's always friendly but you assume that's because your best friend is hot and also a bit of a psycho. The last time you saw him, you walked into the door of the lift and your friend simply told him that she knew where he lived, he grinned but nodded and kept his laughter to a minimum or at least he tried to.

You turn so quickly that you walk straight into the boy who lives across the hall from you. He's sweet really, you apologise and hope that Keegan didn't see that because that would be yet another time you made a fool out of yourself, and in your own house. God all you wanted was lemonade.

You look down at the floor and try not to come off as embarrassed as you feel, you just want to get back to your room as fast as you can. When you finally make it to the fridge you grab the lemonade but notice that you've still got left over whipped cream. Your roommate convinced you to get some the last time you went shopping, you can't really remember why but it's there now.

You can't resist it, so you tilt your head back and squirt some into your mouth. As you go to replace the cream you're stopped by a voice, a voice you can place immediately. One that makes your knees weak.

“Got any left?” Keegan looks down at you, his mask concealing all but his steely blue eyes.

“Um what?” You heard what he said but you're frozen and it's like your brain has gone into low power mode.

“Whipped cream.” He clarifies, looking between you and the canister. You stare at him, you probably look like such an idiot.

“You want some?” You ask as if you don't know, as if it's not incredibly obvious.

“Yeah, just squirt some in my mouth.” You try to ignore how dirty that sounded and also try to stop your mind from drifting to how he would sound saying other things.

He pulls his mask up just over his nose. “Um okay?” You reach up but the angle is awkward, you haven't really processed how much taller than you he actually is. “Sorry you can just…um.” You hold the whipped cream out for him but he shakes his head.

You give him a confused look and he lowers himself onto his knees in front of you opening his mouth.

You stare down at him utterly bewildered, a smirk plays on his lips as he looks at your expression.

“Better?”

You stare, glued to the spot and completely frozen for a moment before you come back to reality and conscious thought.

“Um yeah..”

He opens his mouth again and you press down on the nozzle until the cream fills his mouth. You try desperately to keep your thoughts from wondering. You hope he doesn't know how much that affected you but the flush on your cheeks probably does nothing to hide it.

“Thanks princess.” He smirks as he gets up and rolls his mask back over his lips. You take a moment before putting the whipped cream back just to regain your motor control.

The image of him on the floor in front of you with a mouth full of whipped cream will be burned into your retinas for the rest of your life and did he just call you princess? Fuck, now you needed to go back to your room but for a whole different reason.

[kradogsrats]

I'd Do Anything (... But I Won't Do That)

This started out kind of weird and petty but then turned into an actual thing about the relationship of Viren's character arc(s) to the Arc 2 "I'll do anything for you" theme, because that's actually pretty important for the context of how both Callum and Claudia will have to confront the same conflict.

Pictured: Do NOT take a shot every time we get a callback to this line, you will die.

Basically, the petty part is that I think evaluating Viren's Arc 1 decisions through the "I will do anything for my family" lens is... disingenuous is too strong a word, but maybe simplistic? The "Viren doesn't reveal/offer the egg to save Harrow's life because he's too preoccupied with hanging on to his own power" take has never sat right with me because the real core problem of Viren is a lot more complex than just "he's lying (to himself)," it's a whole pattern of denying his own agency in doubling down on his mistakes. He'll make one bad/selfish decision, and it becomes a cascade of subsequent actions that he sees as being unavoidable, but that aren't necessarily even informed by the same reasoning or values as the initial decision. Like everything else in Viren's dream, Kpp'Ar's take that his choices are all oriented toward power is both accurate and not necessarily as literal as it seems.

Because, like... Viren's not actually a manipulator or even much of a planner—he's a very skilled opportunist. That's why all his choices wind up being based entirely on the context of past choices, and frequently make no sense when you look at them from a "hey buddy, where exactly do you think you're going with this" angle. It also contributes to why he's so desperate for control all the time, in that he acts primarily in a reactive way rather than proactively, which is always an inherently less secure position.

Pictured: The kind of statement that definitely always leads to things going super well.

Even taking the egg in the first place is a reactive decision—not that he doesn't make a choice there, or that he doesn't choose power over the threat he believes the egg poses, but he did actually walk all the way up the Storm Spire, fight five or six Dragonguard, and get kicked down a flight of stairs with the intent of destroying it. He didn't argue with Harrow about destroying it while secretly planning to take it for himself. He only even thinks of it as a weapon because Tiadrin planted the idea in his mind—as an opportunist, the temptation to leave an avenue to power open rather than close it off is what he can't resist. He sat on Sarai's last breath for ten years waiting for a chance to weaponize it to maximum effect, he can sit (figuratively... or literally, I'm not gonna stop him) on the egg for as long as it takes for an appropriate use it to appear. Tiadrin even specifically encourages that he not "waste" it, both specifically by destroying it now, and implicitly by using it too quickly and foolishly.

Pictured: Smart mom, dumb ass.

Tiadrin's angle, of course, is that the longer Viren hangs on to the egg without actually using it, the higher the chance it can be recovered. She doesn't know that Viren will leave things in a state where the assumption is that the egg was destroyed, meaning no one will think to try recovering it, but that's not really her fault and it still pays off.

The gamble Viren makes, on the other hand, is that the opportunities the egg affords will be worth the risk of it somehow falling back into Xadian hands. If the egg returns to Xadia alive, he's back to square "his name will be vengeance" in the game of We Killed the Dragon King. So yeah, you could say Viren values keeping the egg over Harrow's life, but in doing that he's actually operating largely on the exact same values and beliefs that made him argue for destroying it in the first place. It's just that his prior choice of risking humanity's security for the sake of potentially world-altering power has backfired in the context of an immediate and direct threat to Harrow's life. Really, the entire rest of s1 and s2 are him doubling down specifically on keeping the egg from returning to Xadia while also milking the opportunities coming from that course—e.g. the egg cannot go back to Xadia, therefore Callum and Ezran cannot return to Katolis either with or without it (knowing their goal is to return it to Xadia, which it will be difficult to stop them from doing once Ezran is king), and that means someone has to take the throne. If the egg can't be recovered, their only hope is a decisive first strike against Xadia, so someone has to mobilize the Pentarchy immediately. None of them are things he planned in the sense of "well, if Harrow dies then I can get his sons out of the way and make myself king, and then conquer Xadia." It's all reactive to the situation with the egg. You could argue that he'd do the same things if the egg wasn't a factor, like it's possible he's always been kind of lying in wait to push Harrow's sons aside and seize the throne... but if that was the case, he'd really do much better to make a bid for regent like any normal evil advisor would.

Anyway, all of that does still undermine the statement that he'd do "anything" for his family (which includes Harrow), and it is ultimately because of that initial choice he made to take the opportunity of power over the certainty of securing humanity's future. It's just not as simple as, "Viren says he would do anything for his family, but he won't sacrifice his own power and ambition." In the wake of his critical failure to prioritize humanity in destroying the egg, he's making choices that do prioritize humanity (from within his worldview that Xadia is an existential threat barely held at bay)... but they're still bad choices because they're all reactive to that original bad choice. It's not that he's working at cross-purposes to what he says his goals are, it's that he genuinely thinks digging his hole deeper will somehow work out positively, or at least better than the alternative would.

Pictured: Another statement that for sure indicates you're doing totally great.

Really though, I don't think you can (or are supposed to) look at the trifecta of self-individuals-world and point to one that Viren—or really any character outside of Callum, Rayla, and Claudia—puts at the top. Part of the whole point here is that elevating one of those at the expense of the others is never going to be the right choice all of the time. Obviously always putting yourself first is shitty, but we get multiple examples of over-prioritizing one of the other two as being self-destructive and dangerous. Consistency isn't supposed to be positive, here—a core part of this arc is likely to be Callum grappling with that, and that's without even looking at what's going on with Claudia.

The other thing is that "I will do anything for my family"-Viren is actually on some level a different character than Arc 1 Viren, such that evaluating one based on the context of the other doesn't actually make sense. We don't get even a hint of the "I would do anything for my family" in the series until s4, after Viren has died and been revived. Yeah, we had it earlier in the novels, but in there it's really about Claudia and her relationship with Viren, not Viren's values or actions. Arc 1 Viren and Arc 2 Viren inform each other as characters, but most of the point is the ways they aren't the same. And while Arc 2 Viren is understandably preoccupied with the concept of sacrificing for family—given that he's been stripped of everything that was in his life except Claudia, who went to terrible lengths on his behalf—Arc 1 Viren is actually quite consistent with how he's laid out in his Tales of Xadia character sheet:

Like, check out those Liberty and Glory statements—not even close to the same ballpark as Callum's "I value those close to me more than anyone or anything" Devotion and "I'm beholden to my inner circle, not some silly kingdom" Liberty, but quite accurate as the through-line on his s1-s3 actions. There's nothing in there about family, because Arc 1 Viren isn't actually meant to be associated with "I will do anything for my family," and he's not lying to himself by not acting consistently with it in Arc 1.

Arc 2 Viren is then a kind of emotional reboot back to a particular point earlier in his life—not necessarily the point before he first did any dark magic at all, but before he did his ill-defined "anything" to save Soren, which is implied in multiple places to be the point where he started in on a spiral that had tangible and fairly rapid effects on his personality and outlook. That's further emphasized by the contents of his dream in s5—seeing him behave in a genuinely loving and joyful way with Soren is shocking, and immediately raises the question of what the fuck happened and why.

Pictured: Healthy coping mechanisms.

Part of what still distinguishes Viren's "I will do anything for my family; however dangerous, however vile" from Callum's developing "I would do anything for you" is that Viren is always deliberately addressing the "things that are so unforgivable, you will never forgive yourself" facet while Callum leaves it implicit because he doesn't really understand and/or want to acknowledge that yet (and also Rayla would probably twist his nose again, which fucking hurts). In how Viren describes it to Terry, he is using that up-front acknowledgement to then essentially abdicate any emotional responsibility for... well, anything at all. The entire "however dangerous, however vile" mantra is another way of denying his own agency, because if he'll do anything, then he doesn't actually have to go through the difficult emotional process of making those decisions and dealing with the aftermath.

Pictured: H-healthy coping mechanisms?

Terry correctly pegs this questionable excuse for philosophy as "not having feelings," and generally not the best approach, because it will do things like lead to a default state of emotional unavailability to your children—oh, wait. I think it's not unlikely that Viren's emotional distancing from what "I will do anything for my family" meant contributed a lot to the degradation of it as his core value and his ensuing Arc 1 state. A lot of what's going on in his s5 dream is that he's being confronted with the consequences of "I will do anything for my family," specifically. He's being forced through an emotional speedrun of what it has cost him and everyone around him, and what has he got to show for it? Claudia, corrupted beyond recognition, proudly repeating his own words back to him.

Pictured: Whatever the opposite of daddy issues is.

Because the whole point of Viren's "I will do anything for my family" in Arc 2 is the challenge of whether he would/will do it all again. If he holds to that value the same way he did before, he'll do whatever it takes to save Claudia—however dangerous, however vile. Most of Viren's moral and emotional stuff has been based on his self-serving resignation to having "no choice." He's so tragically trapped in a chain of spiraling consequences he can never break... except oh wait, he totally can. S5 is all about Viren recognizing the dark magic feedback loop and that he has the agency to break it, and his best and only chance to avoid doing further harm to Claudia is to not be willing to destroy himself that way again, even it it means his death will cause her terrible emotional pain.

We'll see how that works out. Because let's be real: Claudia's gonna Claudia, regardless. However it goes, there's an important narrative precedent being set for both breaking free from dark magic/Aaravos and evaluating the "I will do anything for you" impulse in a more nuanced way.

[lestappenforever]

Hello! Just saw the prompts aaaaahhhhhh they’re all so good?! Not to mention soft af✨

Can I request

25. “You’re alright, love. You’re okay.”

Or

42. “Don’t do that. Don’t push me away.” “I can’t help it.”

Have a lovely day and drink water <3

Hello, my darling anon! Thank you so much for these. ❤️

May I interest you in both?

---

25. "You're alright, love. You're okay." and 42. "Do't do that. Don't push me away." "I can't help it."

Charles hates the Australian Grand Prix with a passion.

Spinning out on lap 1 was not exactly how he'd imagined the race going, but he supposes it's a fitting continuation of a so far shitty 2023 season.

Still, that does nothing to dwell the crushing ache in his chest following yet another sub-par race. Does nothing to stop the stream of tears that spill over the second he makes it back to his driver's room as he sits on the floor with his back against the walls, feet planted on the ground, elbows resting on his knees.

The door opens just as a gut-wrenching sob rips from within him, and suddenly there are strong hands gripping his and a familiar voice in his ear.

"Hey, it's okay," Max tells him, and he's pushing Charles' knees apart so he can kneel between them.

Charles shakes his head, pushing at Max's chest in an attempt to make him move back. To get him to leave, because the last thing Charles needs if for Max — two-time Champion of the World, driver extraordinare, Charles' biggest weakness and his biggest support — see him like this.

It's humiliating.

"Max, please go," Charles tells him tiredly, as he pushes at Max's chest again.

The Dutchman grabs his wrists to keep his hands still.

"No. I'm not leaving you alone like this," he says firmly.

When Charles looks at him, it's through eyes filled with tears.

"I'll be fine, Max. Please go," Charles tries to argue, but Max is apparently not budging.

"Don't do that. Don't try to push me away," The Dutchman says, voice having gone soft and gentle now.

It breaks something inside of Charles, and it takes every bit of his strength to bite back another sob.

"I can't help it!" It comes out louder than Charles had expected, and his voice cracks on the last word.

And, yep, there goes the sob he was trying to hard to hold back.

Fuck.

Max lets go of his hands then, only to wedge his arms between Charles' back and the wall, and then Charles is being pulled firmly against Max's chest. The angle is a little awkward and they probably look ridiculous, Charles sitting on the floor with Max kneeling between his legs and somehow still managing to cradle Charles against his chest.

But it's Max, and Max is familiar and warm and safe, and Charles just — can't. Can't hold himself together. Can't resist the opportunity to let go in the safety of Max's arms.

"You're alright, love," Max whispers, pressing a kiss to the top of his head and lifting one hand to thread gentle fingers through his hair. "You're okay."

And Charles lets himself cry, muffling his sobs against Max's chest. Lets himself crumble to pieces and fall apart.

Because he knows that, no matter what, Max will catch him.

[contentloadingandstuff]

Can you do Ei reacting to miko’s kids calling her auntie or vice verse? Like just those two having some cute moments with their friend's kids please

Family fluff with Ei and Yae Miko

A/N: Hello anon! Thank you for the request, and as always, I hope you enjoy it! I decided to go for a short format, hope you're okay with that.

TW: None.

Ei

"Ati Ei?"

Ei stops brushing her hair, and looks down. A small, pink-haired creature stands below her, tugging at her kimono.

"Ati Ei?"

"Yes, my dear... ehm..."

"Omi!" The kid screams out, making her ears hurt.

"Ah, yes. Yes, my dear Naomi?" It was hard remembering eight names, especially when Miko's kids looked nearly the same.

The child stretches out her arms, presenting a small, ritual kitsune mask to the taller woman. Ei's afraid that, at any moment, the kid's neck could snap from angling it nearly straight up. She takes the item, careful to not touch any substances of unknown origins it's covered in.

"For you!" Naomi sends Ei a heartwarming smile, showing her the kid's little fangs in their full glory.

"Well, thank you. Can you tell me what this is?"

The kid looks pensive. She can nearly see the gears turning in her little brain. The shogun decides to lend a hand.

"It's a kitsune mask, my dear. Can you say 'kitsune'"?

Naomi thinks for a moment, her mouth sounding out the words in her mind. She suddenly jumps up.

"Kisune!"

"Ah, I'm afraid it's not right. Can you try that again? Kitsune."

"Kisune!"

Ei sighs. She crouches down, just a little too high to meet the little one's eye level.

"Again. Kit-su-ne."

"Ki...su...ne."

"Well, Kisune it is. " It's Ei's fourth hour of babysitting, and she is too tired to argue with a one-year-old. As she hands back the mask to the excited little fox girl, her eye catches something in the background.

Near one of the shelves, a small ladder of tiny kitsune is forming. It looks like the combined force of three little bodies was able to move a chair up to the wall. They were climbing on top of each other now, trying to reach... something. Ei looked up.

A single Earth Kitsune statue made out of gilded porcelain rested on the shelf.

Ei takes off in their direction, nearly tripping on the confused Naomi in the process.

"No! You three! Don't touch that!"

Yae Miko

"...and the monkey was flattened. That's how the Sarukani story ends."

Miko keeps stroking little Sakura's purple hair, enjoying the comforting silence. Sakura's golden eyes trace the falling petals. The garden around them is silent, safe for birds' chirping.

"Auntie Miko?"

"Hm?"

"Mommy said... Mommy told me you're a kitsune." The miniature Raiden Ei fumbles with her dress, clearly shy.

Miko chuckles.

"Oh... I have to disappoint you, then. Kitsune aren't real."

Sakura lifts her head up to look at Miko's face.

"That's not true, auntie! You have fox ears!"

Miko can't hold back a small laugh.

"Oh dear! You caught me, whatever will I do now?" She jokes.

"Can you... change into a fox?"

Miko sighs. Here we go again.

"Heh, you all want the same... " She says with a smile, petting the girl's purple hair.

"Please, auntie! Can you show me? Pretty please?" She makes puppy eyes at the older woman. Miko finds it hard to resist, but she won't break so easily. She knows the trick, she used it herself after all.

"Well, I'll have to consider it."

"But I was a good girl, auntie! I ate breakfast, I washed my hair, I folded a paper swan... I can make you a paper fox if you show me! Please?"

Guuji's resolve shatters under such intense cuteness.

"Alright, fine. But you'll make me the biggest fox you can, yes?"

'Yes! Thank you auntie Miko!" As the three year old cheers, Miko vanishes into a cloud. A small, pink fox walks out of it, and sits on Sakura's lap.

"Just be careful with the ears. They're quite sensitive, you know."

Thanks for reading!

[wistfulcynic]

as we meet at the fading of the longest day

A new Captain Swan fic? From me? Only *checks notes* one year and nine months since the last one. 

Surprise? 

Actually, the solstice made me do it. This is has been a half-worked WIP for well over two years now and i wanted to finish it but couldn’t hit on quite the right angle. Today i did. A midsummer miracle. 

This is the third and final instalment in the Portable Magic verse, and so i offer a tag to @optomisticgirl​ and @piinfeathers​ because i know they are fans of this verse, along with @thisonesatellite​ @ohmightydevviepuu​ @katie-dub​ and @kmomof4​, for what feels like obvious reasons ❤️.

-

He places himself at the cliff’s edge—its very edge; the tips of his toes in their squared-off boots lie flush with the crumbling granite. Wind whips through his hair and waves crash below his feet—far, far below—against rocks that shatter them into froth and fling their fragments through the air. The world spins around him, dizzyingly, but he is not afraid. 

He steps over the edge, and off it. 

When he opens his eyes he’s reclining on a long, low chair with a high back at his elbow and an armrest at his head. The cushion beneath his cheek is coarse-woven of silky fibres and his hand clenches on upholstery of the same material as he struggles to sit up. 

“That was foolish, child,” says a voice from behind him. A gently lyrical voice that pierces his heart with the single word it does not speak. 

His own is rough when he replies. “I had to see you.” 

“I gathered.” 

He turns as the speaker emerges from the shadows. He doesn’t remember her face but he knows it, long and lean, the lips his, the brow his, the eyes his. 

“Mother,” he breathes. 

Her breath catches. “Killian.” 

He’s dreamt of this moment for so long, imagined it in such detail, but now that it’s here he cannot find a single word to say. 

She seats herself gracefully on a chair beside his own and summons a smile. “Tea?” 

He almost laughs. She looks nothing like Emma—her hair is straight and a deep, rich auburn, her pointed chin un-dimpled and her eyes more wise than knowing. Yet in essence they are so alike, his mother and his chosen wife. He thinks they’d like each other. 

He hopes they can. 

“You have a need,” says Alys, as she pours tea from a pot that was not there a moment ago. Neither were the cups that she fills with pale-green brew, but Killian has long since passed the point where such things might astonish him. He accepts a cup with a nod of thanks and takes a sip—there can be no danger to him in doing so—and considers his reply.

“Yes,” he says. “I do.” 

“You’ve lost something,” she murmurs, “or are on the verge of losing it.” Her gaze is probing but not sharp, gentle as she sifts through the layers of his mind. He lets her—he could resist, but what would be the point? He’s here to offer her the very things she seeks. “No… someone.” 

“Aye,” he replies, and lifts the last layer himself. 

Alys gasps; her hand trembles as she returns her cup to its saucer. “She—she’s lovely. American?” 

“Yes.” 

“And a practitioner. How pleasing to see our ways survive, even in that land.” There’s an edge to her tone that rankles him a bit.

“It’s not such a different land,” he argues, then amends. “Well, not all of it.” It’s difficult even to stretch the truth in this place. 

“You’re strongly bonded, you and she,” Alys observes, “and have been so for years. Yet there have been no formalities?” 

“No.” His voice catches on the word. “We—didn’t want to rush things.” 

Alys frowns slightly, then she nods. “Perhaps that’s wise. It doesn’t do to be light-handed with the threads of fate. Or destiny.” 

Killian barks a wry laugh. “That’s what Emma said.” 

“Is that her name? Emma?” 

He nods. “Emma Swan.” 

“Swan.” Her mouth twists. “English.” Of the Angles, she means. 

“By descent. But that was centuries ago. She’s her own self now. One who respects all ways and all people.” 

Alys smiles. “You’ve chosen wisely, then.” 

“I think so.” 

She nods. Her expression turns wistful, longing and so lonely. “I thought you would be angry,” she says. “When you realised that I left by choice.” 

“What choice, Mamm?” asks Killian softly, “Your ‘choice’ was leave or die. I’d far rather have you alive.” 

She swallows; her eyes are misty now. “But you were so small,” she whispers. “You were so small, Killian, it broke my heart to leave you. I wanted more time, and I couldn’t—your father wouldn’t let me bring you along.” 

“I know.” He takes a risk and takes her hand. It’s slender and cool in his, with the faint hum of magic he’s grown accustomed to feeling beneath another’s skin. She goes still for a breath, then two, and then she turns her hand beneath his and clasps it hard. 

Killian feels tears prickle in his eyes. He’s dreamt of this, longed for it, but he knows that desperation alone gave him the courage to take the step. He had nothing left to lose.

Alys knows it too. Her eyes are wet with the same tears. 

“Very well,” she says. “I shall help you.” 

—

The wood is dark, and noiseless. Nothing moves, not even the trees. There is no wind to rustle them, no trill of birdsong nor scurry of animals in the underbrush. Killian’s heart races but his blood is cold; his heart labours to pump it. The air pushes at him, tries to force him back. He grits his teeth and presses on. 

At his side Alys moves without a care, on feet that barely touch the ground. It’s not she the wood seeks to exclude. Her presence grants him some reprieve; not much, but enough. Enough to bring him to the edge of the clearing but no further. 

His mother takes in their surroundings with an almost academic disinterest, curiosity untempered by judgement. “How fascinating,” she murmurs. “What happened?” 

“The baby,” says Killian hoarsely. “All seemed well until—”

“—her pains began,” Alys finishes, when his voice grows too rough to speak. 

He nods. 

“Birthing a fae is always a tricksy thing,” says Alys, “and most particularly for a human. Far better to have the babe born nearer the turn of winter, when the veil is thinnest. At midsummer the lay of things is rather different.” 

“There—” Killian fights to speak the words “—there wasn’t precisely—a plan.” 

“Indeed,” says Alys wryly. 

“Mother…” Killian gasps. The woods twist round him like a vise and he can barely breathe. “Bring her back to me. Bring them back.” He draws a rasping breath. “Please.” 

Alys nods. “Here,” she says, unhooking the clasp of her cloak. She sweeps it off her shoulders and around his own then does it up again. Immediately the crushing pressure recedes. “This should hold the magic off until it’s finished,” she says. “Wait here.” 

—

The hut is simple in appearance, deceptively. Alys observes the spells woven into the structure’s foundation, its walls, its sloping roof. Spells of protection and warding but also practical ones, for insulation, water- and fire-proofing, and fresh air. 

A clever witch, her daughter-in-law, Alys thinks with an unexpected thrum of pride. Her son has chosen well indeed. 

She passes through the door without stirring a breath within the hut but the woman on the bed senses her presence. She lifts her head, sweat-slicked and haggard, and calls out, “Killian?” 

“No, hwegyn,” Alys replies. “He cannot enter.” 

The woman regards her with green eyes still sharp despite her exhaustion, hours of fruitless labour writ plain upon her face. There’s determination too and hope, though this woman knows, as Alys does, that no child of fae and human can be born into this realm without a careful hand to guide her through. 

She knows this, and yet she tried it anyway. Alys shakes her head. Humans. 

 “You’re his mother,” the woman says. “You’re Alys, of Kernow.” 

“I am.” 

“I’m Emma,” says the woman. “Emma Swan.” 

A waiting tension thickens the still air just for a moment, then Alys smiles. “You are well met, my daughter,” she says.

Emma releases the air from her lungs in a whoosh. “Thank the goddess,” she whispers. The air within the hut is gentle now. It cradles them both as Alys approaches the bed and lays her hand on Emma’s forehead. Emma sighs again as cool relief floods her body and she relaxes for the first time in hours. 

“Shall we introduce the world to my grandchild?” Alys says. 

—

As the last rays of the Midsummer sun break across the horizon, split by angles and air and magic into fiery shades of peach and rose, Rowan Alys Swan-Jones draws her first breath in the human realm. She blinks open eyes of the same sharp green as her mother’s, and regards her surroundings as Emma traces the outline of her slightly pointed ears. 

“Babies don’t have green eyes,” remarks Emma, with a sidelong glance at Alys, sat gracefully in a chair at the bedside. 

“Human babies don’t,” Alys agrees. 

“Hmm,” is all Emma says in reply. She’ll have to think on that one. 

Alys smiles and with the tip of a finger ruffles the reddish-tinted downy fluff on Rowan’s head. “Lowen owgh hwi, ow myrgh wynn,” she murmurs. “Hwi bos krev ha bos gwir.”

The words seem to hang in the air above the baby’s head. Emma doesn’t understand what they mean, but she feels their impact as they settle around Rowan’s tiny shoulders like the mantle they’re meant to be. 

Just then, the door bursts open and Killian appears. “Emma?” he calls in worried tones. “Are you all right? The woods have only just let me through.” 

Emma smiles and holds out her hand. “Killian,” she says softly, “come meet our daughter.” 

Killian approaches the bed and reverently accepts the bundle Emma offers him. He tucks it into the crook of his arm, releasing a shaky breath as he strokes a gentle finger down the baby’s cheek. 

Rowan coos. 

“She recognises her father,” says Alys. “All is well.” 

“You’ve blessed her,” Killian observes. 

“I have.” 

“Thank you, Mamm,” says Killian. He looks at Alys and sorrow clouds the joy in his eyes. “You’re leaving soon.” 

“I must.”

“Will I see you again?”

“No, ow mab,” says Alys, with far greater gentleness than is her custom. “You are much too firmly of this realm, and rightly so. But this one—” she tilts her head to Rowan “—shall always have the means to find me, until such day as she chooses to relinquish them.” 

Killian nods. “Farewell then, Mother,” he says. “And thank you.” 

“Yes, thank you,” Emma echoes. “For everything.” 

Alys smiles at her children, bestows a kiss onto each forehead, then takes her leave. 

The breath of wind that carries her home is bittersweet but as she lights a candle to illuminate the shortest night, Alys feels content. Soon—many years yet by human reckoning but the merest tick of the ages to her—she will have a visitor again. A granddaughter, obstinate and tenacious and questioning, and far too clever for her own good. A challenge to everything Alys knows and all she holds dear. 

She smiles at the flickering flame. 

She’s always loved a challenge.  

-

a/n: Killian in this verse is from Cornwall, or Kernow in the Cornish language. Though technically part of England, Cornwall shares a Celtic heritage and language with Wales, Scotland, Ireland, and Brittany. The language Alys speaks is my best approximation of Cornish, based on scant internet resources and zero knowledge of the language’s syntax. Apologies to any Cornish speakers for the inevitable errors.  

[onlyoccasionallyvisible]

Lyle working himself too hard and getting sick

A couple stories up, Lyle staggers like he's been punched, a hand coming up to catch himself against the metallic pillar he’s working at, his knees wobbling. From the ground floor, Rokk sees him absently raise his other hand to eventually rest his fingertips gently at his hairline.

“You okay up there?” The silence in response is long, but as his concern starts to build the quiet is broken by Lyle blowing a dismissive hiss of breath through his teeth.

“I thought you had a new years resolution to avoid being the ‘mom friend,’ Cos.” Lyle teases, turning on his heel and making his lean against the pillar look more casual; practiced poised instead of hunched. He oozes cool on command in a way that is almost comedic and has Rokk actively resisting rolling his eyes. The Earthling has been punching in a precise algorithm for the past hour, line by line with the dedication of a surgeon, and the slight sour edge to his tone betrays some actual frustration. And as Rokk observes him, at least as well as he can from the harsh angle and distance between them, his movements are smooth and purposeful once again. Clearly feeling the other’s stare, Lyle waves a dismissive hand in the direction of the Legion Founder before refocusing on his task once again. “I’ll be fine.” He insists over the beeping keypad. “Especially once this sprocking update is finally implemented and working.” 

The platform Lyle stands on is only a few feet wide and equal parts long, arched around the large main pillar that hosts the guiding mechanics of the room. There were easier computing hubs to code at throughout the room, but for some reason one of the smartest and most acrophobic members of their team insisted he had to be at the highest one for this specific adjustment. 

“I’m sure it’ll go exactly as planned” Rokk calls, flexing his fingers where he’s gently holding parts of the maintenance hub and technical core, one of many throughout Legion World, in temporary magnetic stasis while Lyle works.

“Tell that to Brainy. You should have heard about how much grief he was giving me about it.” He can practically hear Lyle frowning as his input pattern continues, and can’t help but smile to himself—the exact expression is too easy to imagine. “But I’d rather we lock it into place now and not wish we’d done it later.” 

 What, Brainy didn’t think the project was worthwhile? Imra’s question echoes, unobtrusively, through both of their heads as she observes the room’s multiple status levels from the main control panel located near the room’s entrance.

“Not for the time I put into it,” Lyle mutters, distracted. “Can’t tell you how often he’d come into the lab and complain that I was still digging through the same data. He only finally gave me some space after we go back from the T1045 comet mission. But at this point even I’m sick of it.”

Rokk frowns. “You told me you were going to pass on the T1045 mission.” They’d argued about it, actually. Right in one of the main hallways. Many Legionnaires had stopped to watch the show. The new recruits were still talking about it. “You know, since you volunteered for the Durla one right before it.”  

“...I was.” 

“But?” 

“But.” Lyle makes the word sound like a full sentence, clearly trying to end the conversation. After a long, expectant silence his acquiescing scoff echoes around the metallic room and he clears his throat before he continues. “But, part of the instruments being used were based on my research from a few years ago. If something went wrong I wanted to be available. It’s really not a big deal, Cos, I was mostly observing.” 

“It’s a big deal, Lyle, if you’re over hours and over working.” 

The steady beeping of the lines of code stalls, and when it doesn’t resume he glances up and is greeted with Lyle’s bemused face peeking over the edge of the upper deck platform. “’Over hours’, Rokk?” Lyle wipes the back of his hand across his brow a couple times, grinning cheekily. “What, are you going to report me to the Legion Union?” The grin transforms into a wicked smirk. “You gunna ground me?”

Rokk works his jaw, then looks away. He’s not embarrassed, he’s not blushing, but there’s something about Lyle’s attitude that has always put him somewhere between ease and edge. “I’m just saying you have a bad habit of overdoing it.”

Lyle hums loud enough to make sure Rokk can hear it, accepting the observation easily. The rhythmic beeping of his inputting begins again. “Don’t we all?”

That, Rokk can’t deny.

From there, they fall into a content silence. The minutes stretch, punctuated by Lyle’s work and the slight creak of the metal machines weighing against Rokk’s abilities. Even Imra’s presence in their shared cerebral space becomes a gentle hum, quiet and comfortable. He lets out a long breath, pressing out the air from deep at the bottom of his lungs, and feels every muscle in his shoulders loosen, settling against the minute strain. 

“Lyle!” Imra’s cry is a knife, so harsh he can’t even tell if she screamed telekinetically or not. Rokk looks up in time to see the Earthling lilt at a harsh angle away from the maintenance board. Lyle’s hand reaches out in an attempt to stop the inevitable, but his grasping fingers are slow and disconnected, only wrapping around air. His staggering, weaving feet take him back, back away from safety and... and... eventually, horrifically, Lyle stumbles right off the edge of the platform. 

It’s really not that high. Even with Lyle’s fear of heights Rokk has seen him conquer leaps far taller without the use of his flight ring. The stealth focused Legionnaire was rather cat-like that way; twisting before he hit the ground and landing with far more grace than any one person should possess. 

But something in Rokk’s gut tells him no graceful save will come. No last minute twist and breathtaking recovery. And he’s right. Lyle falls. And falls. And falls.

So Rokk crosses the room in seconds flat, using his Legion ring to propel his strides, extending his arms and managing to catch the other Legionnaire just before he hits the ground. The momentum makes him stumble, but the Braalian quickly rights himself, hauling the Lyle's deadweight up at the knees and shoulders. The machines around them, no longer held stagnant, buzz to life in speedy rotation. In his arms, Lyle disappears and reappears in a jittering wave, like a bioluminescent tide is crashing over him again and again. Rokk feels the fluxing ability vibrate against every place where their bodies press.

"Lyle? Lyle!" There’s no response. Lyle’s head remains listed back, still but tense. Expression pinched. His skin has taken on an ashy hue, grey at the edges except across the high line of his cheekbones where he’s flushed an alarming red. Sweat is matting his bangs to his forehead. His breath comes in short, desperate pants that end in a horrific wheeze. But before Rokk can really, truly assess how his friend looks, he disappears again in invisible, patchy waves. Even his ability looks stitched together at the seams, bare-thread and worn. Like a injured animal desperately flailing in one last feeble attempt to defend itself. Panic sets in before Rokk can even recognize it, sour in his cheeks and jaw. He only has to look up at Imra and catch her gaze before she's off, flying out the door to get help. 

Sinking to his knees, he tries to lay out the prone Earthling. Freeing one hand, Rokk tugs off Lyle's headband so he can press the full expanse of his palm against his friend’s forehead. It sears. The iconic piece of fabric falls to the floor, sopping with sweat. "Come on, come on..." He moves his hand from Lyle's forehead to his unnaturally warm cheek, patting it. Lyle's eyelids flutter. "That's it, wake up Kid." Brown eyes open halfway, pupils blown wide in the artificial light. They list over in Rokk’s direction then roll back as Lyle goes limp once again. “No, no, no don’t—“

There's movement at the doorway and Rokk turns as best he can with the burden in his arms, hoping it's Imra already returned with the medical team, a healer, anyone.

Instead, Brainiac 5 walks in, eyebrows locked in a cynical arch poised for debate. He’s lazily brandishing a hovering holopanel with one hand like a baton. “Norg if you’re quite through with this diversion I need you to assist with my—“

But then. But then his gaze, sweeping across the room with abject boredom drags down to Rokk's arms. To who is in Rokk's arms. To who is in Rokk's arms sprawled out and silent and unmoving and disappearing unsteadily like a sparking, dying electronic. And the Coluan stops. He stares long, hard and unrelenting and it's like the whole room takes a collective short, panicked breath: once, twice, thrice.

Brainy's free hand tenses and flexes sharply. The lock of Brainy's teeth as his jaw snaps shut is audible, defining, even from so far away. Then he's crossing the room in sharp, long strides.

Rokk swallows. "He passed out." Brainy comes to crouch across from him, a green hand going to Lyle's neck. But as he watches those green fingers gently press against Lyle’s pulse, the other boy again disappears — only this time he stays invisible for a few seconds. Rokk tries to not think about what might have happened if his powers started malfunctioning mid-fall. And then they both watch as the invisibility starts to crawl up Brainy’s arm, freezing only as it reaches his upper arm like a computer virus hitting a firewall. They stare at the phenomenon, silent. Shocked. 

“What should we—“

“Don’t move.” The holopanel Brainy had been carrying multiplies, taking on the purple hue of the Coluan’s personal programming, and each shift to hover over their prone friend. He uses his free, visible hand starts typing into the one closest to him rapidly. That bright green gaze darts, but never strays far from where they know Lyle lays.

Slowly, finally, Brainy’s arm fades back into view and it’s only when it’s fully revealed once more that Lyle appears again. During his disappearance his nose has begun bleeding in thick, dark clots that run down his chin and collect at the collar of his uniform. Brainy clicks his tongue, frown lines deepening in his brow. But he continues to press against Lyle’s pulse, fluttering like a hovering hummingbird -- Rokk can feel the soft yet frantic magnetic pulses of it against his skin. Can feel the unnatural heat radiating off of him in oppressive waves.

The Braalian remembers waking up in a cold hospital in the wake of the outpost wreckage. He remembers looking, desperately, seeking the shape of Garth and Imra at his bedside and finding only Lyle. Lyle sitting and looking so very small in the vast space of the room around them. Lyle with a busted lip, a bruised face and hollow eyes. Lyle who didn't say a word yet so perfectly, tragically, explained everything he needed to know. Lyle who met his grasping, gripping hand with such equal sorrow that their fingers bruised and shook together. Rokk adjusts his hold on the other Legionnaire. Tighter. “He was inputting the data on Level 3, then he just... fell.″ Brainy eyes him, then looks up, assessing the small platform above them. The maintenance pad blinks innocently. 

"I'm going to kill him." Brainy states, cold, intentional. Together they watch the temperature reading on his nearby med screen climb and climb and climb. None of them are from Earth, but by now they both know the readings start bad and only get worse: 102, 102.5, 103, onwards. A small, tinny alarm starts buzzing from the assessment tech; Warning, Danger, Emergency. The Coluan’s mouth becomes a thin, tight line. "We need to get him to the medbay immediately."

"Are we really okay to move him?”

“I’d prefer to wait for a transporter, but it appears that the longer you hold him the more he’s injuring himself so no, we will not wait.” Brainy gestures down Lyle’s prone form between them, and together they watch him flicker out of view once again. They watch the invisibility make it’s way up, up, now to the curve of the Coluan’s shoulder. Then their gaze mutually shifts to Rokk’s own arms: each of point where Lyle’s body presses against him fades from view in a staggering, jittering, patchy crawl. He tastes ozone on his tongue. It is only then that Brainy removes his fingers from Lyle’s pulse, gesturing the once again visible arm between them pointedly. “For some reason that I cannot gather it seems that during this abnormality his body is trying to make anyone touching him invisible as well. And since that’s not how his powers are supposed to work, even in a healthy state, his body can’t physically handle it.”

Lyle coming back into view gives Rokk an excuse to turn his gaze down. He can feel Brainy’s calculating eyes on him but he refuses to look, although that action in and of itself might have sealed his guilt. After all, he was the one that Lyle pitched the idea of training his abilities to. It was at the beginning of that long, empty, yawning year that followed after the Outpost disaster. When they’d both been desperate for any form of achievable evolution they could find against the massive mountain of their mutual grief. He’d supported Lyle. Encouraged him. And now here he is, holding Lyle’s head up so yet another nosebleed can run it’s course under Brainy’s gaze that feels more accusatory by the minute.

"Cos?"

Relief is like a rope being snipped. He sags slightly, and Brainy’s hand snaps up to clutch at his shoulder and keep him upright. "Yeah— Yeah, Kid, it's me. You with us?"

Lyle doesn’t open his eyes but turns towards Rokk’s voice, a distant frown twitching across his features like each muscle had to reconnect with his brain. Under long lashes, the dark circles are now apparent against the harsh pallor of his face. Grife, how long have those been there? How had he not seen them the minute that his friend had walked in the door to start this upgrade?

"Cos, I was...” Lyle swallows a few times, then tries again: “I must’ve… Did you see what line of code I was on?"

"Lyle Norg," Brainy snaps, leaning into the space between them and digging his fingers into where he holds onto Rokk. "Shut up or so help me--"

"Oh," the corner of Lyle's mouth lists up instantly, features relaxing. "Hi Brainy."

Rokk has a front row seat to watching Brainy go through several stages of grief; his jaw works, grinding his teeth, clearly debating if he should just throttle their prone friend to save himself the stress.

"Don't 'hi' me, Norg." The Coluan finally lets go of him to take Lyle’s bloody chin in his hand, directing it back towards himself, teeth bared in what should be a sneer if it were any other situation. If it were anyone other than Lyle. “You’ve deliberately harmed yourself.”

Lyle peeks his eyes open, the brown hazy and distant behind long lashes but he still clearly tries to get his gaze to focus on Brainy’s features hovering inches into his space. Rokk watches his pupils contract and expand several times to no avail. After a long, contemplative pause, he swallows then croaks miserably: “Had a deadline.”

Brainy abandons his data fully to grasp Lyle’s face between his palms, using his thumbs to smear some of the blood away. “Your own, it appears! You fell over 20 feet!” When the other boy only hums in response, Brainy visibly bristles, leaning in again with fury. “If Cosmic Boy hadn’t saved your nass your head could be smashed across the floor. You would have died the most anticlimactic death and for what! To prove a point?”

Lyle closes his eyes against the scolding, whining in the back of his throat. But then he sighs with a sad rattle at the end of it. “…Hands feel nice.”

Brainy immediately snatches the appendages away as if scalded, shocked. A soft, disappointed sound calls out from Lyle’s parted lips, and Rokk responds almost instinctively in the Coluan’s place, cupping Lyle’s cheek in his hand and feeling the searing feverish heat against his own skin through his uniform. He uses that hand to gently draw Lyle’s head back in to tuck against his chest, adjusting him into an easier hold before he slowly, carefully, stands. 

When he looks back at Brainy, the Coluan is staring at his hands, at where the other Legionnaire's blood now stains his fingers in various patches. 

“Shall we?” Rokk grunts, and Brainy flinches as if out of a dream. Then stiffly, he nods, standing and briskly setting the pace out the door towards the medical wing.

"Let’s be quick about it. Our Earthling is very fragile by nature." Brainy states over his shoulder, tone all business as he marches ahead of them. His dirty hands are clenched into fists. They tremble ever so slightly between the gentle swing of his hurried stride. Rokk thinks about them all charging into battle as a unit: The Legion of Superheroes. All their variety of might and powers combined against the threats of the universe. And how this one kid from Earth whose only ability is disappearing is somehow always right alongside them. Charging head on. Rokk thinks about the battlefield and about Brainiac 5, casting his forcefield wide, covering Lyle as best he can.

"Don't remind me." Lyle mutters, sourly. His eyes open, briefly, before he groans and hides his face against Rokk’s collarbone. "Oh no. Are you princess carrying me down the main hallway right now? Grife, I'm never living this down."

"You have more important retributions from this than your ego to worry about.” Brainy doesn’t look back at them, shoulders stiff. “I am locking you out of the lab for a month. A month, Norg. I'm cybercoding it down to your DNA so you can't even come 10 feet from the door."

Lyle smiles against Rokk's collar. Rokk can feel it, just like he feels the other slip into unconsciousness again, his sweaty scalding brow resting where Rokk's uniform ends on his neck. 

[sidhewrites]

three chapters in three days. Don't ask me how but it happened. Tag list is getting slightly longer, so I'm moving it to the bottom of the post now :)

Some of this chapter taken from the previous version of this project, but most of it is new.

Project Info

Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

So I’m in the graveyard.

I’m not proud.

For the record, I did finish my ice cream first.

I hide my hair under a hood, more to keep it protected from any potential rain than to hide. I don't exactly stand out in a college town like this, with plenty of other young people of varying genders, sexualities, and hair styles. But it does help me hide a little better as I duck behind an eroded old headstone to spy.

If the team notices me, they don’t care. There’s seven people in all. Lourdes and Mick are the most recognizable as the hosts, but I can guess at everyone else's roles the director, their manager, the camera operator, the gaffer, and the sound technician. They argue about shooting schedules and locations, and whether this headstone is more photogenic than that one. Because, you know, carved rocks are really important for setting the mood.

The sound tech splits off, holding the boom mic this way and that with a furrowed brow. After a few minutes, she returns to the team with her concerns. “Do you think the rain will come back tonight? I’m not sure how clear our sound will turn out if it does.”

“You think we’ll lose the vocals in the background noise?”

I suppress a groan, and mutter, “Literally all your vocals are background noise.” It's so easy to influence how you hear the sound just by putting a subtitle underneath. Humans search for patterns in everything, from rock formations that look like faces, to random sounds that maybe kind of a tiny bit sound like someone whispering.

A voice hissed into my ear, cold breath on my skin: "Lies."

I yelped and fell over in my scramble to escape. "Jesus shit!"

A young woman sat next to me, laughing delicately. "Sorry, sorry. You looked so focused just then, I couldn't pass up the opportunity."

I don't know how she snuck up on me with a wardrobe like that. She's not just goth, but Gothic, with full Victorian regalia. Her dress had poofy sleeves and a bustle and everything, not to mention the black veil over her long, startlingly pale face made all the paler when compared to her dark hair. It felt like she could have chosen something slightly more practical to wear when kneeling in the mud to scare innocent people who absolutely weren't planning sabotage, but she also looked really good in the getup, so who am I to judge?

Okay, yeah, that was kind of funny. Despite the residual terror, I laughed as my pulse slowly returned to normal. "Okay, yeah, fair. That's fair."

"Are you okay?"

"I'm only 80% sure you didn't scare me to death."

She nodded, and looked back over to the group, who miraculously didn't seem to care about the fact that I'd screamed just a minute ago. Granted, we're far from the only people in the graveyard, but I'm still counting myself as lucky. I got comfortable and looked over as well. The team was still discussing the pros and cons of trying to catch any background vocals, and I scoffed.

"I can't imagine they really believe that stuff.

They hear a shoe scuffing and think it’s some long-dead spirit saying, get out.”

The woman shrugs. Her long face makes a delicate, benevolent expression, and I really have to admire her dedication to the goth aesthetic. “Maybe the shoe wants them to get out.”

I snort. “Maybe.”

“They do look rather serious about it all, don’t they?”

“Serious?” I peek over the headstone again to see the camera crew discussing angles. “I guess so, yeah. They’re probably behind schedule since they're still location scouting. According to their social media, this video's supposed to go out in a week."

“Hm.”

“Hm?” I glance over to see her looking at me. Even her eyes are dark, and I resist the urge to make comparisons to pools of water. There’s nothing poetic about two girls kneeling in the dirt behind a headstone at dusk. 

"They're making a video, you say?"

"Yep. It's the Haunted Archivists. I think they just reached two million subscribers last month."

"Ah! That makes sense." I glance over just in time to see a mischievous gleam in her eye. "Since they're already behind schedule, I think we ought to help them along, don't you think?"

"What do you mean?"

It's hard not to melt under her smile. "It's like you said. They hear a shoe scuffing and think it's a spirit trying to communicate."

It's even harder not to swoon at the idea of someone just as ready to sabotage these people as I am. I think I do a pretty good job sounding very calm and collected as I answer, "Sounds like they plan to start filming tonight."

Sure enough, the script supervisor or director or manager or whatever is hammering in the fact that call time was 10 pm, no exceptions.

"Shall we assume that's a call time for us as well?" she asks.

“You read my mind. Oh -- my name is Kaz, by the way.”

“Kaz, lovely! And you can call me Lucy. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Uh -- you, too? You, too.” I’m not going to ask her out for coffee. I’m not. I broke up with Josie two weeks ago. Instead of saying what my brain wants to say, I manage to shrug. “I have an EMF emitter at my apartment, and probably some other tools too, if you really want to mess with them.” The emitter was Josie's. I'm sure she wouldn't mind. Our schedules didn't line up for the next few days, and, even if they did, she wasn't texting me back about coming to pick up her stuff.

Lucy looks thrilled. She claps a hand over her heart and shakes her head. “Oh, we would be so wicked, wouldn’t we? Good young ladies wouldn’t dare do such things to those just trying to make entertaining documentaries, I’m sure.”

“I’m sure!”

“I hope they won't be too disappointed with a few whispered words. Most people like to see the ghosts limned in the moonlight, pale specters against the dark trees. Shall we reconvene once the moon is up?”

I stammer, realizing I’ve been staring, and nod. “Right. Yeah -- yeah, let’s do that. I’ll go get the EMF emitter and stuff. You want me to bring you a coffee?”

“Fantastic!” Lucy beams, first at me, and then out at the team once more. “I’m quite alright without one, but I’ll haunt you if you don’t come back.”

“Promise?” I say before thinking.

“I swear it on my grave.” She pats the headstone in front of us, solemn as can be, and giggles.

She’s so goth. It’s so cute, I can’t stand it. I hope she haunts me forever.

#

tag list:

@adaughterofathena

@ambreeskyewriting

@carnelianflames

@feather-dancer

@halfbloodlycan

@nadunacreates

@serenanymph

@vigilantdesert

[cloudbattrolls]

Moment in the Light

Jastes Verdan | Civitrecce | Present Night

On the top of a skyscraper, Iber music played loudly from a crackly speaker and lowbloods of various ages whooped and shouted as they chased each other around the rectangle. All of them were kept safe by the translucent forcefield around the edge, even as they veered close while playing games, shoving one another, or being held back by their lusii’s various extremities.

A small flock of tiny floating robots patrolled the building’s perimeter, just outside the forcefield. Not enough for any passing drone to be suspicious, but enough to keep an eye on anything attempting to spy on or interfere with the party. 

Periodically, they stopped being tech and turned partially or fully to flesh and blood, going from mechanical to biotech construct and back in seconds.

A perfect way to throw off anything trying to attach a tracking signal to them, except for sheer location-based or space-involved tech; those could be solved by the second aspect of the force-field: its disruption routine that only paired with anything genetically related to the inner biotech workings of its generator.

The robotics’ genetics belonged to one troll only, and all of them had a variety of sensors and LED lights - or eyes, depending on their state - glowing green.

Not ones that could see overly far, they were too small for that but enough that Jastes could use his augments to process all the data efficiently and have his subroutines ping if they detected anything that required his attention.

He hoped they wouldn’t. He was currently trying to win a game of ring toss, and the noise from the others was already a mass of chatter and whoops in his ears.

He took a breath, trying to focus on the stick several feet away from him, weighing the plastic ring in his hand and mulling over what angle he’d choose.

“Throw it already!”

The resistance leader did…and it fell short to the laughter and a few boos of the others. 

He sighed. The problems of playing fair. 

This would be a cinch if he was more tech at the moment, but it would also be more boring, and he’d get more questions. 

He stepped back with his hands raised in an ‘I tried my best’ gesture and a few younger trolls tussled over who would go next. He smiled as they argued and walked over to his old friend, the maroon leaning against a railing away from the others while smoking a cigarette.

“How’s Civitrecce’s most eligible noodle arm?” Asked Xineck by way of hello.

“I’m not that weak.” Said Jastes with slight annoyance. “I just don’t have a good hand.”

“That’s what she said.” Muttered the lower caste man after taking a drag, but even he didn’t seem to find it very funny, and Jastes rolled his eyes at him. 

He pointedly fanned the air to make the smoke go away. Xineck ignored him.

“Is it just reflex by this point?” Asked the yellowblood. “No one except the six sweep olds is going to think that’s clever.”

“No one except your lusus is gonna think you’re funny.”

Jastes huffed softly. “People think I’m funny. Sometimes.” He added.

“Yeah, when you fall off the couch. Not ‘cause of your jokes.”

The cyborg elected not to comment on that.

“You know what I’m here for - ”

“My dick.”

“Amazingly, no.” Said Jastes, fighting the urge to pretend to gag. It would only fuel the maroon further. “Can you be serious for five seconds?”

Xineck raised an eyebrow. 

“Depends. What if I don’t know what you’re here for?”

“You’re not that stupid.” Said the yellowblood with somewhat forced patience, his eyes narrowing. “You just don’t want to talk about it. I get it. We still have to.”

The lower caste troll rolled his eyes, but relented slightly, his shoulders slumping.

They both looked out over the resistance and non-resistance trolls alike, watching a game of anti-grav twister with hoops stacked in the air get played as trolls clambered on the metal rings and tried not to fall off. Jastes had encouraged people to invite their friends, despite a few objections.

One of the most vocal had been the man next to him.

Xineck was silent for a few moments, taking another drag.

“I fucking worry, Jas.” He said in an unusually concerned voice, low and hard, his pointy ears lowered. Xineck rarely let any emotion show, too used to it being seized upon as weakness.

“A lot of these kids don’t get it. They might have a grumble or two, but they don’t get how bad things really are. They don’t want to - shit, they’d probably want to hang themselves if they realized just how much we’re all watched, all the time.”

He shook his head, eyes tired as he continued in a rougher tone.

“I don’t want them to have to get it. The youngest here is what, five? Too fucking young. I don’t want them to be me, getting threatened for trying to keep their data private. Getting fired supposedly for tampering. Tampering. Fuck’s sake. I turned a camera away when she was crying. She didn’t want anyone to see, to start getting fucking ads about psychic counseling, have our boss prying at her. That’s all it took. That’s all it ever takes.”

He had red tears at the edges of his eyes.

Jastes looked away. 

“What happened to you and Atarem was horrible.” He agreed softly. “They need to know things like that, Xin. It’s the only way they’ll understand. The only way they’ll fight back.”

The maroon looked at him, his face hardening again as he wiped his eyes with a sleeve.

“Easy for you to say. Untouchable Jastes, can disappear as a robot whenever he wants. What about the rest of us?”

The resistance leader took a deep breath. 

“I’ll never pretend you all don’t take risks.” He said with forced calm. “I do too. Every time I fix one of you. Every time I make someone a new limb or part, praying there’s not some imperial bot or sensor I missed watching me. I can’t even tell anyone. But I want to. I want to.” He said, his voice cracking slightly. 

The maroon chewed his dry bottom lip, looking his friend over.

“You need a plan for if they find out. When, more likely. The more members we get, the harder it’ll be.” 

Jastes sighed. “Hopefully most of them wouldn’t care, right? Technopaths exist, helms are common, I’m not much different from either. It isn’t a big deal.” He said, sounding more like he was trying to convince himself, palms pressed together as he wrung his hands slightly. 

The taller man gave him a dead-eyed, frustrated look as he turned his cigarette in his fingers.

“You are every Civitrecce lowblood’s fucking daymare, what they worry the highbloods will do to us. What they’ve already done to plenty of us. Who the hell hasn’t been tempted to accept more and more ports to pay off their debts? Who hasn’t watched someone lose themself to behavior mods in their tech, hidden in the contract’s fine print? 

Fuck, sometimes I’ve wished I could do that. Me, Jastes. I’ve wished I could sell my psi and my body just so I could buy some food that isn’t dirt fucking cheap, fix my rotting ceiling before it falls in and I get fined, or take my lusus to the vet for his teeth. He keeps losing them.” The dragon troll shook his head.

Jastes paused. Then sighed.

“That isn’t me.” He said firmly. “I don’t turn other people unless I have to, and I turn them back as soon as I can. If we flinch from tools that can help us, the highbloods have already won.”

“Yeah, you sure are a tool.” Said Xineck with a rare grin, and Jastes had one of his robots zip over to steal his cigarette, which caused a fresh burst of swearing.

Jastes’s eyes gleamed a mischievous green as he directed the bot to fly just out of the redblood’s reach as he flailed to catch it.

“You give that the fuck back!” Xineck demanded, pointing at him. “I will throw your metal ass off this building, bulge eater.”

“Hmmmm…no.” Replied the yellowblood calmly, slender hands folded behind his back. “I’m looking out for your health.”

“Go gargle some more dicks for your own, you -“

Whatever the other lowblood said next was a blissful mystery to his friend’s ears, as he had temporarily muted the space around him with a sound-seal force-field. Always handy to have that capability.

It didn’t stop Xineck from grabbing his arm, though luckily the maroon wasn’t strong enough to shove him over; his arms might not be internally tech at the moment, but he almost always had some in him, though he intentionally made it lightweight to reduce the strain on his flesh. 

Jastes’s wrench appeared in his free hand and quickly - a little too quickly, a little too accurately - he gently tapped Xineck in exactly the right spots by the base of his arm to make him let go, then jumped out of range, turning and ready to counter anything else in an instant. He dropped the sound-seal.

A few trolls nearby noticed and laughed, a few clapping and calling to Xineck that he could do better. 

Xineck muttered curses under his breath.

Jastes’s eyes gleamed green again, his smile amused. 

“I hate when you do that.” The maroon muttered. “We should’ve never grabbed those medical and combat scanners. You held them for five seconds and suddenly you’re twice as insufferable.”

“I don’t need my special eyes to fend you off, but it helps.” Said the yellowblood cheerfully.

The raptor-dragon troll raised a hand like he wanted to flip off the higher caste, but noticed a few six sweep olds watching and dropped it with more muttering. 

“I could do it for you too.” Jastes continued with the hint of a grin, well aware he was pushing the envelope. “So you could keep up.”

Xineck looked at the kids.

“Tackle him and I’ll give you each five caegers.” He said, making the silver coins appear between his fingers as they shone teasingly in the moonlight. 

Three six sweep olds launched themselves at the yellowblood, who went down in a laughing, scrabbling pile of children. 

Psiionically tailored cyborg augments had met their match: kids with cash on the line.

Jastes politely rolled on his back to play dead, then got sat on, which wasn’t kind to the slim cyborg’s ribcage or spine. He looked at Xineck - what of him he could see past the kids - the six-horned man now very smug.

“Next time don’t yoink my cigarette.” He said, taking out another and lighting it.

“Point taken.” Sighed the resistance leader, as the younger trolls got off him to claim their money. 

He got to his feet and made a vain attempt to get his hair back in order, but he suspected it was going to need more help than he could provide on his own, the tightly coiled curls now out of array.

“Jastes! Get over here and eat!” Called Abbeth impatiently, a few other trolls adding their voices to the request.

The robots continued on their rounds, and Jastes watched the city through their eyes - his own eyes - as he sat down to enjoy tamales and jerk chicken. 

He could taste the food, watch the trolls around him, and see buildings and passing lusii and drones all at once. He felt the rush of air as those robots - sometimes biotech constructs, always extensions of himself - floated freely.

It was just another psiionic power. The real danger was the empire finding out, taking him and using him to turn lowbloods into unthinking robots. Or worse.

Maybe not the empire, he thought darkly. That blueblood…

But Abnale didn’t know. He might suspect, but he couldn’t know for sure.

No one except Xineck knew that he could make himself into whatever technology he touched, for as long as he wanted, and suffer no ill effects.

With a touch, he could do it to anyone else.

He took his mind off it, determined to enjoy his meal and his company. 

He could worry about it tomorrow night. Right now the moons were shining, the empire was barely watching, and the food was delicious. 

Surrounded by young lowbloods chattering freely, by Xineck wearing a rare smile, Jastes thrived in the moment.

All of them together. 

All of them happy, even if for just a little while.

[enneamage]

i've always felt like hasan and dream are extremely similar, mainly in the way they respond to things and i don't know anything about mbti so i was wondering what could explain that similarity? or maybe it's just in my head, i don't really know

What you’re looking at is a similarity between types, as Hasan is an Eight and Dream is a Counterphobic Six.

Eights and Sixes can honestly have a lot of overlap in places, especially if the Six leans counterphobic in an angry way. Dream has even been mis-typed as an Eight by a test he’s done, so he’s even convinced he is one. They both tend to try and cover sensitive nerves with reactive energy, wanting to be sure that the things in their environment can’t hurt or control them. Both Dream and Hasan can get stiff when they get angry/activated and only tend to get their flexibility back after they calm down.

Hasan holds a tank stance-- he goes where he wants on stream and holds his ground when he gets there, even if he's coming in too strong. Hasan can still be a pretty raw nerve and will kick off if he thinks he’s getting too much blowback or someone is getting into his space (direct callout/chat blocking maneuver) because he prefers to have a dominant angle to keep himself calm.

Dream moves towards the ‘threat’ to try and stamp it out, especially in the early days. He used to kick off fairly easily because he was sensitised to try and go after things directly when he thought he saw a problem. He also likes arguing which I cover a bit more here, so there's also a part of him that may not recognise how damaging it can be until his foot is already in his mouth and the damage is done. He has issues with reading situations and social cues, which make his reactivity come from an alien place to some people, especially when he’s getting emotional in a way he doesn’t realise is emotionality and doesn’t know to pull back.  

I found a little comparison snip:

The main reason you could confuse these two types is because Sixes have two ways of reacting to their core desire of feeling safe: Either by submitting to the things that give them safety, or by aggressively rebelling against them. This aggression can make them look similar to Eights. But as you will see, it comes from a very different place. Eights are entirely aggressive. Not necessarily in the violent sense, but in the sense that they’re comfortable with pushing for what they want and need without hesitation. If you defy them, they will defy you back. Sixes would never go that far. Yes, they will resist, but only to the point where they feel they can still get away with it without risking their safety too much. Eights are fundamentally independent, while Sixes need a framework they can rely on. When these types push back, they push for different things: Sixes to regain a feeling of security, Eights to regain a feeling of superiority.

X

[amynchan]

No matter how much you try to change from your foundations to be a better person, you're gonna run into biases you didn't know you ever had, and you're even gonna run into preconceived notions that you unintentionally got from trying to be a better person.

When this happens, it's ok. You're human, just like the rest of us. Here's what you do:

Recognize that it's a bias or a preconceived notion. The hardest part about this is our longing to be 'good' that forces us into denial and makes the problem worse. So don't do that. Recognize when there's a problem.

Examine it. Why is this bias here? What does it mean for you? What kind of conclusions does this notion help you to reach?

Ask yourself how you can apply little changes to change it. Just little stuff. Trying to turn around big ideas in a matter of a few days is really, really difficult, but trying to ignore it will leave it there forever.

Keep at it. You're gonna fall and stumble a bit, and that's okay. Just keep at it, and you'll do better.

Example under the cut because mine is kinda controversial (and I'm used to that)

So in trying to be a better person, I started resisting what I learned as a kid and leaned into the whole 'people love who they love' bit. Gay rights, trans rights, lesbian rights, you name it. So I spent a very long time trying to deprogram what I'd learned so I could be a better ally. A lot of people have this story.

Where this story starts is when I was reading a gay fanfic (which is honestly now one of my favs and I love it so much. Partially for the reason about to come).

So one of the characters has an ex boyfriend he calls 'spontaneous Kyle.' When I read it, I thought that that was a strange name for a girl, and it took me forever to realize that a gay man had had an unsatisfying relationship with another man. It wasn't even exaggerated abusive (which I'm used to as a narrative device from lots of angles), it was just an uncomfortable relationship that didn't work out. It also wasn't the only one of his previous relationships that didn't work out. There was a dude that was likened to a teddy bear, really sweet, but it just didn't work out because of life stuff.

Here's where my reprograming had gone wrong: I presumed that once gay men broke out of heteronormative trends, the first man they found would be infinitely better because no social restrictions and therefore be True Love. I had a bias, hidden from myself, that gay love is intrinsically better and therefore true and Couldn't Go Wrong barring excessive abuse.

That is where my efforts to become a better ally led me (because romance, though I really want it, isn't something that makes immediate sense to me, so I gotta think it through a lot).

So that was step 1. Recognizing that I had that preconceived notion. It took a whole fanfiction outside of my perspective to see, but now that I could, I was Flabbergasted, and I realized that that had to Change.

So, onto step 2. I had to figure out why I thought gay love was better and what led to that thinking. What I eventually figured out is that in the campaigning for rights, LGBTQ present their case as fiercely as possible, arguing to be natural to themselves against the forced heteronormativity of most society. It's a persuasion tactic, and it's honestly one I don't blame them for using, but as I was passively absorbing the media around it, it went too far in my mind.

So I had to look really hard at it and say 'what do they really want?' And the answer I, a heteroromantic demisexual, finally came to was that they just want the choice of it. They want to meet people, put their hearts on the line, get those hearts broken, and trial and error their way to true love in the same way straight people get to now. Big difference to what I initially thought, which was "get rid of the heteronormativity so we can all find our One True Love immediately," which is what I'd unintendedly absorbed through all of the LGBTQ media and campaigning.

Listen: this is about recognizing and changing biases and preconceived notions. I wouldn't be able to outline this process if I didn't go through it myself.

Step 3 is actually about how to change those biases. Since it'd be really intrusive--not to mention rude af--to ask actual LGBTQ people about their dating history and whether they'd found dissatisfying LGBTQ relationships in the past, I went back to the fanfiction. Whenever I read 'spontaneous Kyle,' I forced him to take shape in my mind. The other boyfriends, too. I forced them to take shape and be paired off with the character so I could force myself to visualize what I'd unintentionally ignored. Same for other fanfictions. If I saw a past partner, I'd force myself to stop and visualize what that had to be like to remind myself that love is love in the way that it is messy, confusing, and not always straightforward.

Step 4 is one I'm still on and will be on until the notion is fully dispelled. The fact that it still sometimes catches me by surprise reminds me that I need to keep working at it until it's just another fact of life.

So I feel like I'm at least aware of and changing that bias, and I know there are others lurking around in my brain just because of how I was raised and how I myself tried to overcome what I saw as shortcomings in my own raising. I'm going to get it wrong, and so are you. However, taking the moment to admit what's going wrong and taking steps to correct it helps you move forward as a person.

Anyways, this is for the people who are like me and usually terrified to admit that they've done wrong in trying to become a better person because they feel like they're about to be horribly punished for trying to do the right thing. Even if you made a mistake, you're allowed to try to do better.

it's safe to try and do better.

[rayshippouuchiha]

Yamada: so how did you and izuku start dating

Aizawa: I saw him crush a watermelon with his thighs and I accidentally said out loud “oh god I wish that were me right now” and here we are now

~The way this immediately and completely ate my entire brain~

Of three things Aizawa Shouta is absolutely sure:

One, he simply was not built for operating during the daylight hours. Nighttime really is where it's at in his opinion. The general lack of crowds and eye-searing sunlight just can't be beaten. (Dusk and dawn hours also get a pass but they're both on thin ice.)

Two, the beach is a sandy hell-scape whose only redeeming factor is the convenient access it provides to the eldritch horror that is the ocean aka the place he'll doubtlessly end up drowning himself when he finally, and according to Hizashi inevitably, snaps and runs gibbering mad into the abyss.

And three, he's absolutely and irrevocably cursed. He's being singled out and punished from on high by the gods themselves. His name is writ large across the cosmos in mockery. There is a cosmic "kick me" sign taped to his spiritual back and Shouta's going to hunt his former student Sero down and give him detention for life for encouraging his family's patron god to put it there.

By this point it's really the only logical explanation.

Which, as a card-carrying atheist, he's pretty sure is saying something about the depth of his feelings regarding his current circumstances.

Because there's no other explanation for why or how he's managed to find himself in this current situation.

The situation being, of course, Shouta, in full hero gear, standing in the hot sun on a pristine sandy beach, surrounded by screaming fans as he provides extra security and crowd control for the 20th Annual Heroic Sukiwari Charity Drive.

Shouta has seen hell and it is both Ms. Joke's open mic night and this exact moment right here.

Because, again, he's absolutely 100% cursed.

And the avatar of said curse is, obviously, his soon-to-be ex-best friend who somehow roped him into this entire thing.

Because some people say divine retribution when talking about cosmic revenge plots but Shouta tends to just says Yamada Hizashi. The two are, in many ways, interchangeable.

Shouta's going to put purify salts in all of Hizashi's hair products and also his sugar jar and possibly his energy drinks the next chance he gets.

Because if he never sees another shirtless pro-hero or another watermelon again in his life it'll be too soon.

He's pretty sure he has permanent hearing damage from all of the screaming and screeching the crowd's been doing since this thing started.

And if, after all these years of friendship with the personification of a megaphone, watching a bunch of pro's crush watermelons with nothing but their personal strength on a beach to raise money for various charities is what finally destroys his hearing Shouta is going to shave Hizashi bald before he finally embraces sweet death.

Or enacts Nezu's birthday plans and becomes a supervillain.

The jury's honestly still out at this point.

Shouta does his best to shut out the screaming behind him as one of the cameramen slides up beside him, getting a better angle on the stage as Hizashi, who's currently screeching about Miruko's performance, practically dances across the sand in front of where Shouta's standing.

"Wow, wow, wow," Present Mic chants as he dramatically fans himself, "that was one on heart-stopping, hare-raising show. Let's give it up for everyone's favorite bad, bad, bunny, Miruko!"

For her part, Miruko just struts off the small stage with a nonchalant wave to the crowd, her tiny white bikini in place and the pulverized remains of the half dozen watermelons she'd dropped kicked into soup left behind her.

"But don't lose that rhythm yet listeners," Mic announces gleefully. "Because we've got one more hero set to take the stage! So, without further ado, it's the moment I know a lot of you have been waiting for, myself included if we're being honest. The pièce de résistance of our little shindig, the showstopper himself, the one, the only, the #1 Can Do Hero Dekiru."

The crowd is absolutely deafening.

And, for once, Shouta has to grudgingly admit that he can't actually blame them.

Shirtless, sculpted shoulders and tight abs on display thanks to his low sitting and almost criminally short green swim shorts, and with his trademark bashful smile in place, Dekiru trots out from behind the curtained-off area with a crate of watermelons resting on his shoulder like it's no big deal.

Shouta's pretty sure someone to his immediate right faints but considering they're not currently a trample risk he ignores it.

But the casual show of strength with no quirk use in sight is more than a bit impressive.

For all that people, romance specifically, and attraction in general, have all been things to be considered on a firm case-by-case basis for Shouta, even he has to admit that Dekiru is ... captivating.

Rather drastically so for Shouta considering he's never actually met the man before in person.

Though Shouta does feel like he almost knows him on some level considering the fact that it really would take an act of the actual gods to get Yagi to shut up about his erstwhile protege during staff meetings.

Dekiru waves his free hand at the crowd as he sets his crate of watermelons down on the stage.

"Show us what you've got!" Mic demands from a few feet to Shouta's left. "And let's give him some encouragement listeners!"

The crowd starts up a loud and steady chant of "De~ki~ru!" as the hero pulls his first watermelon out and begins his set.

With an effortless flex of muscles, Dekiru digs his fingers into the watermelon and wrenches it completely in two.

Shouta reaches up to tug at the top of his uniform, relishing the small sip of cool air it grants him.

Shoulders and biceps flexing, another watermelon meets its end between Dekiru's palms.

Shouta really needs to add a water bottle to his utility belt because hydration is important. Or so he's been repeatedly told.

"Those hands, those muscles," Mic groans dramatically. "He really is the Can Do Hero!"

Cheeks noticeably flushed, Dekiru sits down on the stage and fits a watermelon between thick, toned thighs.

His hips twist, those thighs flex, and the watermelon cracks, spilling juice and sweet pink flesh all over Dekiru's lap.

"Oh god," Shouta can't help but say, "I wish that was me right now."

On stage Dekiru's eyes go wide as his attention somehow abruptly zero's in on Shouta.

It's at that moment that Shouta becomes aware of the deafening silence that's fallen over the beach.

Head-turning agonizingly slowly to the left, Shouta's confronted with the sight of Mic, microphone in hand, standing shoulder to shoulder with him.

His sunglasses are askew and he's staring at Shouta with a look on his face that's one part horror and one part unholy glee.

As a matter of fact, the entire beach is staring at him in much the same way.

For a moment Shouta just freezes, body going still at having so much attention turned in his direction.

This ... was not the turn he was expecting the day to take by far.

His first instinct is to, honestly, use his scarf to slingshot himself directly into the sun so his soul can be cleansed with cosmic fire.

But then ...

"Ah," Dekiru speaks up from on the stage, one hand ruffling the back of his hair and cheeks darker than before, "maybe we could go on a date first though? If you'd like?"

There's suddenly a part of Shouta that doesn't actually want to delete himself from existence via self-immolation.

And there's an even large part that doesn't want to outright reject Dekiru's seemingly sincere offer.

Because, when it all comes down to it, Dekiru seems to be, by all accounts, what passes for exactly Shouta's type.

Whip-smart if his very public arrest record and tendency to argue online and on the air with people he disagrees with is anything to go by.

Cute, with that dark green hair and sharp undercut, matching wide eyes, and a face sprinkled liberally with freckles.

Leanly built and small enough that Shouta's sure he could move him around easily but obviously muscular enough to be able to put up just the right amount of resistance in the right situation.

And, above all else, if the stories are to be believed, obviously some degree of batshit insane.

More than one story Yagi had told during breaks had Shouta questioning if the man had imported special American demons back to Japan and then stuffed them all into the deceptively charming and approachable-looking hero that is Dekiru.

So there's really only one logical way to proceed forward in this situation.

Shouta grins.

Several people in the crowd around him step back.

He's pretty sure he hears someone start reciting a prayer.

But Dekiru just blushes, eyes locked on Shouta's and teeth tugging at his lower lip.

"Hope you like coffee," Shouta finally says into the breathless silence that's fallen over them, "and cats."

Dekiru lights up, a smile brighter than the sun and twice as deadly blossoming across his face.

Just off of Shouta's side, Hizashi's busy having some kind of hysterical seizure.

Around them the crowd is going absolutely feral.

Yagi's going to birth actual kittens in the middle of the staff room when he finds out about this.

Shouta can't wait.

[loverhymeswith]

❛ don’t you know what you’re doing to me? ❜ With Stephen 🥰

Patience is a Virtue | Stephen Holder x F!Reader

Enough

Word count: 2,411 words

Warnings: Swearing, smoking, implied smut

A/N: Thank you to the lovely @a-reader-and-a-writer and @skvatnavle for beta reading, and to @babblydrabbly for the original idea that Reader should get her revenge on Holder after the video call with her parents! <3

Joel Taglist: @bewitchedignition @mayhem24-7forever @weallhaveadestiny @a-reader-and-a-writer @babblydrabbly @skvatnavle @christinasyellowflowers @11thstreetvigilante @yespolkadotkitty @lavenderluna10 @heresathreebee @immyownlittlebitch

The sun is slowly setting on what has been an unusually dry day in Seattle, casting the interior of the car in a warm orange glow. Despite the fact that you are supposed to be watching the hotel entrance for any sign of the suspect leaving, you can’t seem to take your eyes away from Holder. He’s slumped low in his seat, one arm folded across his chest as he sips his take-out soda, chewing on the straw thoughtfully. Unlike you, his attention seems to be fixed on the task at hand for once.

Although your feelings for him are no longer a secret, it’s still rare that you get the opportunity to sit and watch him like this. To study the angle of his jaw and the softness of his lips, the intensity of his gaze. In these quiet moments when it’s just the two of you alone together, you can feel your heart swell with gratitude for the fact that you get to call him yours – that, and another emotion you are not quite ready to put a label on.

After a few minutes have passed, Holder breaks the comfortable silence, his eyes still trained on the front of the hotel when he speaks. “Can feel you lookin’ at me.”

“What? I’m not looking at you.” You make a point to stare out of the window instead, a flush of heat burning your cheeks. The two of you have been intimate in more ways than you could have imagined over the last few months, but he still has the power to make you feel shy and flustered.

“You ain’t as subtle as you think, y’know. Can practically see you droolin’.”

“I’m not,” you repeat, keeping your attention on the building before you, even as you casually touch your finger to the corner of your mouth.

“Don’t worry mama, s'ok. I’m all yours, remember? You can look and you can touch.” He finally turns to face you, waggling his eyebrows to emphasise the point.

You lean back in your seat and cross your own arms, mirroring his body language. Despite a valiant effort, you can’t resist the temptation to smile. Thanks to Holder, you’ve been doing that a lot recently – smiling.

“Wouldn’t want to distract you.” You nod towards the hotel, but you sense that it might already be too late as you feel Holder’s focus turn to you instead. The weight of his attention prickles against your skin, tugging insistently at something deep within your chest.

“You should call in,” you suggest, before he can argue. “Find out where the relief team is. They should have been here to take over by now.”

If you’re being totally honest, you yearn for his touch. The two of you have been sitting here for hours now, ever the consummate professionals, but the desire to feel him under your skin is becoming too much to bear.

“Thought you liked bein’ stuck in a car with me,” he teases.

“I mean, we could be at home right now.” You raise an eyebrow pointedly.

His hazel eyes widen. “Oh snap, I feel you mama. Hold that thought. Lemme call ‘em.” Hurriedly, he digs out his cell phone and begins to dial the ops team.

It’s a struggle to keep the same smile from returning to your face as you listen to him pestering for an update. Every now and then he throws a pained expression your way, making it quite clear that he’s now just as eager to get home as you are.

“Twenty minutes.” He frowns finally, tossing his phone onto the back seat with a sigh. “Fuckin’ idiots. They forgot about us. Can you believe that?”

“It’s OK.” Your fingers ghost over his knee before reaching to swipe the drink from his hands. “I guess we’ll just have to wait it out.”

“Damn, I forgot how much I hate stakeouts.” Holder’s face is still creased with irritation as he slumps back in his seat and folds his arms again. Honestly, you’re a little irritated too, but unlike Holder you’re going to make the best of a bad situation.

“They’re not so bad.” You shrug, taking a sip of soda. “At least we got lunch this time. Do you remember our first stakeout together?”

“The Barton case last year, right?” he asks, eyeing you across the car. His legs have started bobbing where he sits, a sure sign that his patience is beginning to wear thin.

“That’s the one. I picked you straight up from the court case you were testifying on. Then we were stuck in the car for twelve hours.” Shuddering at the memory, you hand him back his drink. As your fingers brush his, you take in a deep and silent breath, willing yourself to wait just a little longer. You’ll be home before you know it.

“Y’know, I was pretty sure you was gonna kill me that day. Or at least put in a transfer request.” He smirks, clearly remembering your time spent trapped in the car just as well as you do.

“You didn’t stop talking for twelve hours, Holder,” you remind him with a grimace. “Twelve hours!”

He shrugs. “Ay, I talk a lot when I’m nervous a’ight?”

“What did you have to be nervous about?” You laugh, trying to recall if you noticed anything odd about his behaviour that day.

“You,” he responds, his expression turning serious for a moment. He rubs the back of his neck before elaborating. “I mean - bein’ in the car alone with you for all that time. Told you already, I had the hots for you back then. Was still tryin’ to decide if I should make a move.”

Your partner’s admission startles you. Back then, you never would have guessed that anything of the sort had been going through his head. He had seemed far too busy, talking your ears off all throughout the day and long into the night.

Fishing a carton of cigarettes from his coat pocket, Holder continues. “But you was lookin’ at me like you wanted to wrap your hands ‘round my throat.” He chuckles lightly at the memory. “So I figured hittin’ on you might not be a good idea.”

Still taken back by his revelation, you pause for a moment to look at him again. He’s being completely serious and you can’t help but wonder what would have happened if he had made a move that day. Sure, you were a little irritated by his inability to shut up, but his incessant chatter hadn’t been the only thing on your mind during the stakeout.

Your response, when it finally comes, is likely not what Holder has been expecting. “That was the first time I ever saw you out of a hoodie,” you tell him.

It had been quite the shock to find him coming down the steps of the courthouse in a dark grey suit and tie, and when he’d climbed into the car, you’d been lost for words. It turned out that he scrubbed up very well. Unlike his regular loose-fitting jeans and hoodie combination, the suit clung to him just right, emphasising the broad lines of his shoulders and the thick muscles of his thighs. And you had been shamefully staring at him, just like earlier today. It’s a miracle he hadn’t noticed.

“Yeah?” His lips quirk into a handsome smile. “You liked the suit?”

“I liked it a lot.”

Holder doesn’t seem to catch the deeper meaning behind your words. His attention has drifted back to the hotel and he’s starting to light his cigarette. A rush of heat floods your body as you remember just how good he looked in that suit, forcing the next statement out of your mouth before you can second guess yourself.

“It was probably the first time I thought you were hot.”

His eyes flick back to you, widening a fraction as your own admission sinks in. Then, with mock alarm, he pulls the cigarette from his mouth without lighting it. “You think I’m hot?” he teases.

“Of course I do,” you slap his arm playfully. “But back then, it kind of scared me.”

He considers this for a moment before returning the unlit cigarette to the packet. “Damn. All those hours in the car together and you were thinkin’ about me the whole time?”

He’s not entirely wrong.

“I thought you were hot,” you clarify, biting your lip. “I didn’t start thinking about you like that til much later.”

Legs bouncing beneath the wheel again, he studies you carefully. “Thinkin’ ‘bout me like what?”

Leaning back in your seat, you can feel the tension in your shoulders loosen, along with your inhibitions. For a while now, you’ve noticed that being with Holder brings you out of your shell - in more ways than one. You enjoy surprising him. You love seeing that look of awe that spreads across his face whenever you say or do something unexpected. And instinct tells you that the next words out of your mouth are going to have that very effect.

“Like imagining you fucking me over our desk.”

Just as you suspected, his jaw drops and after a beat of stunned silence he chokes out his response. “Yo - for real?”

A shy smile tugs at your lips and you nod. You hadn’t ever planned on telling him about that, but as usual, in these quiet moments when it’s just the two of you, you find yourself opening up to him.

“For real,” you assure him. “Remember when we got back from the D.A's office a couple of months ago?”

“Oh shit. You ain’t kiddin’. Knew you was lookin’ at me all kinds of weird that day. You seriously thought ‘bout me fuckin’ you like that?” Slowly his gaze darkens, making you wonder if he's having that very same thought right now.

You nod again, a flame of desire igniting within the pit of your stomach as you replay the fantasy in your own mind. While those startling daydreams might not have been entirely responsible for the two of you ending up together, they certainly played a part in opening you up to the idea of this – of him.

Holder has started to shift uncomfortably, his watch on the hotel almost entirely forgotten. “Fuck, you can’t drop a bombshell like that on me when I can’t do anythin’ ‘bout it,” he grumbles, throwing his head against the back of his seat as he checks his watch. “Where the hell are these guys?”

With a start, you realise that he’s flustered. Just as flustered as he makes you feel on a regular basis. The shift of power sparks a thrill that runs through your entire body. Tearing your eyes away from him, you return your attention to the building, all the while wondering how you can take advantage of this new situation you’ve found yourself in.

“They'll be here soon,” you assure him.

“Not soon enough,” Holder groans, eyes shuttering. “I gotta get you home.”

“Oh?” A coy smile tugs at the corners of your mouth. “What are you going to do when you get me home, Stephen?”

“Nope. Don’t start that,” he whines, shifting in his seat again with another pained expression. “Not when I can’t touch you.”

You have implemented a very strict rule about keeping your hands off one another when you’re on the job, not least to prevent anyone seeing the two of you, but also to avoid any distractions. Now however, you can’t help but regret it. There’s nothing you’d like more in this moment than to run your hand along his thigh and feel the way he trembles beneath your touch.

“Should I tell you what I’m going to do?” you suggest, careful to keep an innocent tone to your voice, despite your thoughts being anything but.

“Fuck,” he sucks in a breath through his teeth. “What you gonna do?”

Leaning in close - so close he can feel your breath fan across his jaw – you begin to whisper. “I’m going to use these lips…” you brush them over his skin, just the ghost of a kiss, “… to make you feel really good.”

Holder lets out a strangled moan beside you. Instinctively, you glance down at his jeans and find them already straining over his hardening length. A pulse of wicked delight fills your chest.

“Do you want to know what else I’m going to do?”

“Think you’re gonna kill me baby but fuck yeah,” he urges. “Tell me what else you’re gonna do?”

Before you can answer, an unmarked car rounds the corner. Recognising the driver, you release a silent cheer; it’s about time. To your amusement and delight, Holder already has the engine running before the relief team finishes pulling up behind you.

“Halle -fuckin’-lujah,” he grunts, now speeding off in the direction of his apartment.

“You still want to know what else I’m going to do?” you murmur softly. It’s at least another twenty minutes before you’ll make it home, even without traffic, and you’re having fun making him sweat.

“Yes,” he grinds out, fingers clutching the wheel tightly as he studiously keeps his eyes on the road.

“I’m going to take off all your clothes. And then mine...”

Fingers tightening even further around the steering wheel, he clenches his jaw. “Damn mama, don’t you know what you’re doin’ to me?”

“I have a pretty good idea.” Grinning, your eyes drift back to his straining erection. You just can’t help yourself any longer. Reaching over, you gently run the tip of your finger along the side of his thigh. He shudders and moans beneath your touch, but his sounds of pleasure are quickly replaced by a sudden curse as he runs a red-light.

“Holder!” you chastise, although you know full well that you’re really the one to blame.

He flashes you a slightly sheepish expression. "S'ok baby. The traffic cops owe me one. We good."

"Huh.” You shrug, another wicked idea slowly coming to your mind. “So… you don't want me to book you?"

When he looks at you with his brow creased in confusion, you reach out to him again. This time, struggling to hide your amusement, you slip your hand beneath his hoodie and run your finger along the smooth cold metal of the handcuffs at his belt.

It only takes him a second to catch up.

“Fuck, baby. Now you’re really tryin’ to kill me.”

[yesimwriting]

The Needs of Pain (part 2)

A/n since y’all liked part one!!

... i think i could make a part 3?? we’ll see lol 

This is the LONGEST thing i’ve written on here wow,, and the smuttiest 

Warnings: teasing, oral, unprotected sex (pls this is my first time writing full smut be gentle lol)

-- 

Exhaustion is an odd result of pain. I didn’t think I was that tired after the burn. I certainly didn’t feel sleepy while Kirigan cleaned my shoulder and brushed his soft lips and sharp teeth along my neck to distract me from the pain. Why am I even thinking of that? Of the way his breath felt against my skin, the way his tongue soothed any bites he left against my skin. I breathe out flatly. 

Stop thinking of him. Stop thinking of him in that context--that’s why he did it. He enjoys getting under people’s skin, that’s why he’s always insulting the way I see the world. My hand reaches to my neck, touching my skin where I can still feel his lips on my skin, tracing the faint marks I had seen in the bathroom mirror.

I should have asked the healer to get rid of them before they fully formed, but the thought of showing them to anyone was too embarrassing to bear. I force my hand away, dropping it onto my pillow. 

He had acted so strange today, he had been so blunt. It was a tactic. He wants to be in my head and I’m giving him what he wants. I sigh, rolling over and pulling my duvet further up my body. It’s too hot for this. Ugh. I kick the duvet off of my legs, letting my nightgown wrinkle up my body. Strong hands could pull the fabric up in a similar, yet much more euphoric way. 

No. Who’s thoughts are these? The fact that I picture the same hands that dabbed at my burn earlier today has me questioning my sanity. I can’t sleep like this. Kirigan wanted to be in my head and now he is. Damn him. I can’t stand him which means I can never have him.

Desire has nothing to do with tolerance. The thought leaves my face warm and stomach twisted. 

I sit up sharply, sliding out of bed tiredly. I’ll get some air and everything will be fine. The moon will clear my mind.

The Little Palace is strangely twisting at night, all long shadows and yellow lantern light. I slip out of my room quickly, but my thoughts are not immediately banished with the change of scenery. I must be ill. Infection must have set in regardless of my efforts and the healer sealed it beneath my skin and now it’s impacting me. Fever. I’m delusional with fever. 

“I didn’t take you the kind for a late night trist.” 

His voice leaves the hairs on the back of my neck standing like soldiers at attention. I manifested him the same way people manifest the devil. “Air.” My defense is childish. “I couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d get some air.” 

The sound of even footsteps leaves me frozen in place. “What keeps someone like you awake?” It’s like he can read through me. “Thoughts of me?” 

He can never know. “Obviously.” 

My sarcasm doesn’t go unnoticed, he lets out an almost humored breath. “Or perhaps it’s pain.” 

The comment is so confusing I almost don’t realize he’s bringing up my shoulder injury. How had I let him see me so vulnerable? Why did he seem somewhat concerned in his own way? 

“My shoulder’s perfectly fine.” Good. A normal direction for this conversation to head. “It took the Healer all of two minutes.” 

The touch on my shoulder is so sudden I almost jump. Kirigan doesn’t shy away at that, fingers firmly brushing down the skin. “It feels the same.” 

I could scream. His strange observation means nothing to me, but the implication is enough to drive me mad. The implication that he knows my skin well enough to be able to judge whether the healed skin feels different is sickening. I’m tired of this. 

I turn on my heels, all of my tiredness and irritation twisting in me. “Even if it didn’t, it’s none of your concern.” 

“I didn’t realize you were extra irritable when you’re tired.”

Every conversation with him leaves me feeling petulant. “I’m not tired.” I cross my arms, keep my expression set. “I just--I wanted to get some air.” 

“Hm.” He takes a step forward, preparing to close the small distance I’d managed to create between us. “And why is that?” 

The question leaves me irritated in an odd way. A flat way. There’s a narcissistic entitlement in that question. An entitlement to my thoughts. I shrug. “I hoped it’d make me tired.” 

Kirigan draws his eyebrows together, curiosity and something resembling amusement playing at his expression. “If you’d like to be tired, I think I know a few ways to be of assistance.”

A faint, aggravating warmth comes to my face. Not only did my lie earn me a ridiculous innuendo, it’s also trapped me in a corner I cannot escape. Healing from the burn had left me pathetically drowsy. There’s no way he can’t see through me, a tired haze has to be visible on my face. My eyelids feel weighted and I’m too distracted by my deep longing for sleep to hold onto irritation. 

“I’m sure I’ll manage on my own.” The words are not meant to be a challenge, just a way to dismiss him. I don’t think he takes them that way. 

He draws his eyebrows together, eyes threatening to lose that curious quality. Kirigan steps forward, I step back blankly, desperate to keep enough distance to keep what’s left of my wits about me. He ignores my reaction, taking another step forward. I take another step back. My back touches the wall. I am a mouse and he’s an excited cat. 

“You don’t have to,” his voice is too low, too intimate, “I’m not sure that’s something you want to understand.” 

My chin raises just slightly, a silent protest. “Dependency is a fatal flaw.” 

“So is desire,” his reply is much too quick. “Desire is worse, because one can resist dependency based on pride...but desire, that is something that one sacrifices for.” 

Maybe if I was less tired I’d bother to interpret his words a little more. But all I can focus on is his tone--the quality of it. “You sound heavy.” My voice is as light as the night breeze I was craving moments ago. “But you always sound heavy.” It’s the wistful observation of someone slowly disappearing. “At least you’re pretty,” I muse, falling more and more distant by the second.

Something soft breaks across his features, his lips quirking. “Pretty?” 

I rest my back against the wall comfortably, eyes shutting without permission. “I’m sure I’ll regret that comment in a moment.” 

He stays silent, but his presence does not disappear. I can’t tell if I’m glad for it. The warm touch on my shoulder startles me out of my drowsy trance. Panic has me ready to jump off the wall, but Kirigan brushes his thumb up and down my shoulder. His touch sets any skin that comes in contact with him aflame. I shouldn’t find the gesture so comforting. My eyes flutter shut again, my body relaxing against the wall. When my protest dies out before it begins, Kirigan shifts closer. I’m confused, but too at peace to answer. Something velvety and warm brushes against my collar. Soft and warm and electric. He’s kissing my skin again. 

My lips part in hopes of arguing, but when his teeth graze the skin he already marked earlier I’m gone. My eyes shut again, but this time it’s different. Pleasure and drowsiness clear me of all inhibitions as his touch becomes more and more assured. I let him test me, his mouth moving against any and all exposed skin. I don’t even stop him when I feel his hands graze the hem of my nightgown, wrinkling it the way I imagined earlier. 

“Kirigan.” I need to find my strength, but what’s the point of strength when his touch leaves me so warm? The only acknowledgement of my protest he offers me is the lingering squeeze of my thigh before his long fingers begin to graze towards the inside of my thighs. I have no choice but to let his lips brush up my neck, his teeth grazing my skin the way they did earlier today. “Kirigan.” I try to sound firmer, but he destroys the rest of my sentence before I have the chance to get it out. His teeth nip the base of my neck, ruining my protest for a second time.

 Maybe if I was less tired I’d be able to fight him off a little better, but I’m so drowsy I had trouble thinking before he started touching me. My eyes shut in both bliss and exhaustion. His thumb presses into my hip. Something in me stalls as his fingers brush the hem of my underwear--testing me, challenging me. I open my eyes on instinct, but he remains unbothered, slipping his thumb beneath the only fabric that divides us in order to better grip my hip.

I stiffen because of how badly I want to melt. This is bad. This is insane. We’re in a hallway in the middle of the night and he’s General Kirigan. Whatever attraction I feel is another tactic to manipulate me. 

“We need to stop.” The command is weak, my voice as dry as my resolve. 

He angles his head in order to regard me a little better. His expression is one of mock confusion as he smirks. Actually smirks. “Stop what?” False innocence drips from his voice as he leans towards me, expression amused as his lips near my own. “I haven’t even started yet.” My eyes widen, something that amuses him. “Y/n?”

I’m left on edge. I’m left wanting. My lips part flatly, but words feel so distant. “Yes?” 

“What happened earlier?” His voice is the kind of sinful that’s meant to coax. Kirigan brushes his thumb across my shoulder, eyes watching mine cautiously. “How did you get burned?” 

I push against the sultry quality of his voice. “I told you--an accident.” 

“Hm.” His eyebrows draw together in a surprisingly soft way. I stare at him freely, but he ignores my gaze, eyes locked on my newly healed skin. Is he truly that concerned? “Whose accident?” 

I swallow once. “My own.” He still isn’t looking at me. “I’m not exactly the most coordinated person, you’ve witnessed my clumsiness yourself.” 

Kirigan is not convinced. Perhaps he will never fully buy my partial lie. His grip on me hardens. Restraint. I may not be able to win against his paranoia, but I might be able to distract him. Cautiously, I move one hand forward, touching the hand that’s on my shoulder. I hesitate. Touching him without prompting almost feels too intimate. I’m being ridiculous. I brush my fingers against the back of his palm, letting my touch trail up his forearm. 

“Y/n.” My name borders on a warning. 

I suppress a smile, playing into my sleepiness as I tilt my head to the side. “Yes?” 

He doesn’t reply, expression tightening as my hand snares around his wrist, pulling it off my shoulder with more care than I thought myself capable of. The intensity of his gaze is enough to burn me. I turn my full attention to his hand. I’d never admit this out loud, but this isn’t the first time I’ve thought about how objectively attractive his hands are. I kiss each of his knuckles slowly, brushing my lips against his skin tentatively. 

To my surprise, he allows my indulgence. I glance at him through my lashes. Kirigan’s eyes are shut, expression bordering on pained. “Kirigan?” 

He opens his eyes but his expression does not ease. His other hand leaves my thigh, grabbing the low collar of my nightgown with such a fierce speed it takes me a second to realize what’s happening. He pulls me away from the wall in a way that borders on violent. 

“I don’t know who you’re protecting, but I guarantee you they’re not worth it.” The words are acidic. He’s seething. “I grow tired of your resistance.” 

If he hadn’t transformed into something so untamed, I might have had enough gall to tell him I grow tired of being toyed with. I say nothing, instead I take in the abrasiveness of his anger, the tension of his grip on the thin fabric that clothes me. I am unflinching in my assessment in the most tired way possible, eyes struggling not to shut and body desperate to rest, but even more desperate for him. His eyes stare into mine, searching for something I am too far gone to offer. He must realize my sleepiness is genuine because he soon drops his gaze, taking his time in analyzing the even rise and fall of my chest as well as the hint of cleavage his grip on my nightgown is exposing. Pure heat finds itself in my face, chest, and worst of all---core. His staring lacks any shame. 

Kirigan parts his lips as if to speak but then instead takes a moment to lick them. The thought of his tongue in relation to lips only makes the burning in me worse. It’s practically an ache. A needy one. 

“I grow weary of your lack of understanding.” 

Understanding? “What is there to understand?” 

His head angles itself to one side but he doesn’t meet my gaze. The hold he has on me loosens just enough so that his hold on me is no longer taut. That should not disappoint me the way it does. I wait patiently, ignoring the bundle of unexplained nerves in my stomach as best as I can. Something strange colors his features when he finally looks at me again, something almost vulnerable. 

“I brought you here.” He sounds farther from me than ever. “I…” His exhale is gentle, but his expression is quick to harden. “Who are you so willing to protect?”

I must be really tired because his voice sounds like it borders on heart ache. If I didn’t fear Arthur’s safety I’d tell Kirigan everything if it meant his pain would dissipate. I never thought Kirigan’s potential pain would bother me, but now that I’ve seen him look stricken by something so weighted--now that I’ve seen the way he wears pain--I don’t want to be the one to give him that. I want to be the one to give him some kind of sanctuary. The thought leaves me with a desire to flea. 

“Will you just believe me when I say it’s no one?” In a way that’s the truth. Arthur is not particularly significant unless you’re a young Grisha female with a desire for heart ache. “No one worth mentioning at least.” 

He’s quick to retighten his hold on my nightgown, leaving the fabric taut and more of me exposed. “You being desperate to protect them makes them worth interest.” A different response than I expected. 

My lips thin. “Only because it was a small accident. They don’t deserve to be punished over the briefest loss of focus.” 

I take his silence as an indicator that he is considering my words. His free hand finds my shoulder as he pulls me even closer to him by the fabric he’s gripping. “And if I were to revoke the threat of punishment?” His voice is the definition of temptation, low and promising and coddling me with its sinfulness. I still as Kirigan leans forward so that his lips are practically on my ear. “Then would you tell me? If I released you from the binds of your nobility?” My lips part but I have no words prepared. Before I can think of what to say, his lips graze the side of my jaw before his teeth nip at the end of my ear. “Tell me just to humor me.” 

The command doesn’t make sense to me, but from his lips it feels important. “You won’t hurt them for what happened?” 

His voice seems rougher than before, “Would that make a difference?” 

“It would make all the difference.” I don’t like the honesty of my words. 

Kirigan allows one hand to trail down my waist--a gesture I consider obscenely intimate when paired with the soft brush of his lips on my collar. “I already know who.” His voice is a dark hum. “I was always going to know one way or another--but it’s good to know you would have told me.”

My stomach lurches, dread pouring into me like tar. Before fear can force me to take action, Kirigan begins to leave open mouth kisses from the top of my jaw to the bottom of my neck, taking his time to assault any spot of skin with his tongue that he wants. This reminds me too much of earlier--touches meant to distract from pain with the use of pleasure. 

“Are you--” His mouth is now on my collar, threatening to destroy my question. “Are you going to hurt him?”

At that Kirigan straightens. The sudden lack of contact leaves me cold. I shouldn't be thinking of him. Of his touch. “I’m curious,” he draws out each syllable, delighting in my nerves, “Would you bear his punishment?” 

I’m not sure. I hate that. I haven’t known Arthur for that long, and while he’s kind, he also seems to see all women as replaceable. That isn’t reason for him to endure Kirigan’s punishment but I don’t know him well enough to just blindly agree to that. I loathe myself for not being noble enough to take Arthur’s punishment instantly. 

“What kind of punishment?” 

Kirigan’s expression twists into a greedy smile. He pushes me back easily, pressing me into the wall with more confidence than ever. I’m silent in my confusion until he presses himself against me and I feel something hard and bulging press into where I’m neediest. I stifle a gasp of surprise and something similar to pleasure. “I’m sure I could think of something for you.” I’d care more about my confusion if hot need wasn’t flooding my thoughts and my body with undeniable desperation. “I haven’t even spoken to him.” I exhale, untrusting relief desperate to escape me. Kirigan is quick to lean forward, lips brushing my ear as he prepares to whisper. “I’m more likely to harm him because he has your favor than anything else.”

Warmth burns my face. “He doesn’t--he’s not exactly the one that holds my favor.”

The heat of his breath adds to my burning as he presses his bulge into my core again. “And who does?” 

I’m not sure what he considers favor, but if it has anything to do with wanting he wins. But he can never know that. “There are some contenders, but no one yet.” 

His hand moves off my hip and nears my throat. “Would it be too bold to assume I’m on the short list?”

He’s two steps away from taking me in an open hallway, I doubt he finds much bold. “Do you want to be?” 

Kirigan’s hand tightens on my throat. “I’ve made it clear from the beginning what I want.” His words are lethal and each syllable has him restricting my airflow a little more. Something in me must be broken because my neediness only worsens. “I brought you here because I see all that you could be. Forget being a Saint, we could be gods.” The sentiment is so raw it’s almost harder to bear than his tight grip on my neck. He leans close again, his scent only adding to my budding lightheadedness. “Say the word, and I could have you praising me like I’m already a god.” My stomach knots in both nerves and insatiable hunger. “Though I’m the one that would be doing the worshipping.” 

My resolve is shattered, leaving me broken and twisting. He releases his hold on my neck in order to move his hand beneath my chin. There is nothing gentle about the way he jerks my head forward, forcing me to look into his eyes. Something about the look he gives me has me melting. His eyes are searching for something in me.

He must find whatever he’s looking for because I feel his touch against my heat, fingers pressing against fabric. I bite my lip on instinct, suppressing the sound of my undoing. Kirigan’s eyes never leave mine as the hand on my chin moves to brush against my bottom lip. 

“I can only give you what you want if you tell me what that is.” 

He exhales slowly, pressing his thumb against my lip downwards. My mouth parts on instinct, something that he takes well. His thumb enters my mouth slowly, taking in my reaction as I taste his skin on my tongue. Kirigan pulls his thumb away from my tongue slowly, a thin string of saliva connecting him to my mouth. With one swift tug, his free hand pulls the only fabric separating him from where I want him most down my thighs. His expression reveals nothing as his thumb, still wet with my saliva, is pressed against my core. His touch teases my clit, just barely brushing where I need him most. The whine that escapes me is so desperate I’m ashamed I can’t help it. 

“So wet already,” his appraisal is gentle, the praise whispered against my throat as his lips brush against my neck. “So wet, so needy that you’d let me take you in this hallway and I’ve hardly touched you.” His finger presses further into me. I let out another pathetic breath. “A pity, someone like you--so painfully under cared for.” I’m reduced to nothing by his words and touch. “What I’d give to undue you here, against the wall--I’d have you crying so loudly everyone would know that I’ve claimed you, that I’ve made you mine.” Before I can reflect on his words, he steps back, pulling my underwear back up as quickly as he yanked it down. 

I let out an instinctual whine. My hand moves to his arm, grabbing him like he’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the earth. “What--” 

Kirigan squeezes my hand, a predator’s smile on his lips. “I want to feel all of you,” his hand squeezes my hip, “I can’t exactly do that against a wall, dove of mine,” he leans forward, lips brushing against my jaw in a way that leaves me chilled and melting at the same time, “At least not the first time.” 

His whisper forces my breathing to hitch, a fact that he notices with an amused look as his thumb brushes against my collar. Kirigan pulls me away from the wall easily. Even the causal touch feels electric against my skin. 

The walk towards my room is tense, his hands never leaving me as if he’s aware of how necessary it is to keep me distracted to ward off my better sense. When we reach my door, Kirigan opens it like it’s his. Entitled. Typical. 

I step into the room, his touch lingering on my arm. A brief shyness pushes itself into my chest. I had let Kirigan touch me in a public space and lead me back to my room. The door closes. I don’t turn. 

Kirigan’s hand squeezes my shoulder. “Shy, now?” His question is teasing, rekindling the fire beneath my skin as he places an open mouth kiss on my neck. He plays with the thin strap of my nightgown, pushing it off my shoulder. He kisses down my neck, collarbone, and shoulder. My inhibitions are melted away again. “When your breathing stalls like that,” his whisper is enough to elicit a desperate shudder, “I am left desperate.” 

He leans forward, mouth trailing down my chest, coming dangerously close to my breasts. The electric current of his touch is all consuming and addicting. I press my back into his chest. His hands are the opposite of shy, touching me everywhere except where I’m most desperate. Kirigan’s hand places itself between my thighs, using his thumb to tease my entrance. I let out a needy sound. And then he retracts his hand, grabbing my shoulders and turning me in one swift motion. 

“Kirigan.” 

His eyes are dark, clouded by something I don’t understand but am too aware that I reciprocate. “Tell me that I have your favor.” His words are taut, bordering on snapping. Kirigan’s grip on me tightens hard enough to bruise, an assertive need taking over him. “That you want me.”

Desire, pride, and rationality twist in my stomach, leaving me too distracted to form words. My gaze drops to the ground on instinct, something Kirigan clearly finds unacceptable because he’s quick to grab my chin and force my eyes to meet his. 

I swallow once, courage withering beneath the look in his eyes. It’s as twisted as a spindling shadow, but the look is fierce admirational, appreciation so deep I could drown in it. It scares and consols me all at once. “I want you.” There’s something pained about such powerful emotion. I loathe and am empowered by it all at once. “I want you more than I’ve ever wanted anything.” The words leave my throat scorching with their sincerity. 

As soon as the words leave me, he’s closing the distance between us, the slightest exhale of tension leaving his lips before they meet mine, prepared to devour me. I reciprocate his actions on instinct alone. There is no hesitation, no space, and yet it is not enough. Not enough and yet I don’t know how to be closer. But Kirigan does. One of his hands cup my cheek, coaxing me towards him as if I could possibly have the will to leave him. He steps forward, guiding me to step back. I obey fluidly until I feel something hit the back of my legs. It’d startle me if I wasn’t so consumed by his touch.

His mouth begins to move away from my skin. I chase after him, desperate to keep him touching me. He stops me by placing a hand on my shoulder, a warning about my neediness. I pout, but as he studies me I pant. Maybe the excuse for air was a good idea. I don’t fight the uneasiness of my breathing as I hold Kirigan’s gaze. He regards me with a patience I consider unbearable, taking in the determined look in his eyes, my swollen lips, disheveled hair, and the top of my night gown that’s half falling off. 

It’s in this moment I realize how much more vulnerable than him I am. 

If Kirigan notices any shift in me, he doesn’t mention it. Instead, he adjusts his hand on my cheek, his thumb brushing the hot skin gently. “You are everything.” His voice is cracking glass. “Everything that’s good, at least.” 

Maybe he did notice my initial reaction because I am no longer certain that I am the one that’s most vulnerable. “You’re better than you think.” I only say this because it would only weigh on me more to stay silent. “I see it and you don’t want me to.” 

His hand continues to stroke my cheek. “I want you to see all of me.” The heavy beating of my heart seems to stall in my chest. Kirigan drops his hand before grasping the hem of my nightgown. He pulls the fabric upwards easily, bundling the fabric above my hip. “I want you to…” He exhales flatly, pulling the fabric upwards even more. Nerves flood my stomach as he leans towards me, kissing down my jaw. “To know me,” he whispers against my throat.

I am nothing but uneven breaths as he mouth moves down my chest, stalling only once he’s reached my breasts. He pushes me forward easily, guiding me so that I’m laying on my bed. He’s quick to move over me, kissing up my neck as he adjusts so that I’m against the headboard.

When he pulls away again, I’m left pouting. He grins, fueled by my disappointment. “Don’t worry,” he breathes, fingers hooking around the waistband of my underwear before tugging it down my legs easily, “I’m nowhere near done with you yet.” 

Being so exposed has my doubts flooding back, but Kirigan is quick to fight against my instincts in a way only he seems capable of. He squeezes the inside of my upper thigh before leaning down, pressing his mouth onto the skin his fingers just touched. His kisses here are meant to leave me even more desperate, each nip and fleeting pass of his tongue is lazy yet intentional. I am incapable of doing else besides letting out pathetic whines. 

He ignores where I need him most, kissing up my thigh, across my lower stomach, and then down my other thigh. Kirigan continues the pattern across my skin, ignoring any pleas I swallow my pride to give. He is not rushed by my words or cries or the occasional desperate adjustment of my hips. 

Kirigan lifts his head slightly, releasing my inner thigh with an obscene ‘pop’. “Patience.” His fingers trail up my thigh and over my core, teasing my entrance with his lithe fingers. “Unless you’re ready to beg?” 

It’s a challenge, like everything else. The urge to give him my pride to satisfy the electric desire I’m not sure I’m capable of bearing. But then I note his tense hold on my thigh. A sign of restraint, of want. 

“And if I want you to beg for me?” I don’t know where the words come from, but they charge the room with potential. 

Something strange crosses his fingers before his lips tilt upwards in a dark way. “Would you like the strength of that? To have someone like me powerless before you?” My face warms. Kirigan leaves a lingering kiss on my thigh before he moves off the bed. I sigh at the loss of contact, but my tired neediness stalls at the sound of his belt coming undone. “I want to see you on your knees.” I sit up carelessly, desperate to obey him. I’m kneeling in front of him in an instant, taking in his length. The size of it has me gaping. “Open your mouth.” 

I take the order more eagerly than I should, but I make no move to take him. This is just another challenge. I keep my eyes on his as I stick my tongue out before licking the bottom of his member all the way up to his tip. The sound he lets out is pure sin. I lick his tip slowly, each motion of my tongue is strategic as I finally place him in my mouth. I hollow my cheeks, moving up and down slowly. 

The pace is not enough for him, he grips my hair from my scalp as he thrusts into my mouth. The motion is more powerful than I expected and I am left unable to breathe. My slight gag does the opposite of discourage him, he repeats the motion again and again, pushing himself into me until I can feel him in my throat. 

The sounds he lets out are a chorus to me, but it’s not enough. I need more control, I need a way to make him beg. I raise a hand, wrapping it around the base that I cannot fit into my mouth. I stroke him once slowly, making a point as I try to push myself back in order to make him want me more. 

He groans again. I make a point of pushing myself off of him. Precum protrudes his tip. I lick it off of him slowly. I lick up and down his member in the smallest way possible. 

“Y/n,” the restraint in his voice fuels my teasing, “Tease me and you’ll still be overwhelmed by want when the sun rises.” 

A pout tugs at my lips before I open my mouth again, taking Kirigan to my limit. He lets me set the pace of my bobs at first, but then he becomes desperate, holding me in place by the roots of my hair as he moans and thrusts into me without restraint. He ignores my choking as he continues until he throws his head back, letting out a quick praise of my name.

He finishes in my mouth and I swallow all he offers me greedly. I back off my knees slowly, throat burning as his member leaves my mouth. “On the bed.” He’s turned into something insatiable. “Now.” 

I move back to my bed, laying in the same position as before. He takes his time approaching me. When he finally gets to me, he kisses my thighs easily. I let out a small breath before something that’s pure pleasure meets my core. His tongue laps upwards lazily, grazing my clit but not quite touching it.  My hips thrust towards his face, but with hand he holds me down. A coil in my stomach continues to build as he angles himself more purposefully, tongue finally taking care of my clit. My gasps become less and less reasonable as he continues to lap at all that my body has to offer. The coil tightens, I see stars--and then, like cruelty personified, he pulls away. His absence leaves me ready to cry out. 

My desperation only fuels Kirigan as he lines himself with my entrance. Concern twists my stomach as I consider how full my mouth felt when he was in me. I expect some level of warning, but he thrusts into me with no warning. I let out a pathetic cry, but that means nothing to him as he pulls out just to thrust into me with full force again.

“Only I can hurt you,” he demands, thrusting into me as I call out his name. My eyes water at the sensation of such fullness, pleasure and pain combining themselves in a way that leaves me incapable of thought. “Your tears,” he muses, one hand moving to wipe at a tear rolling down my cheek, “Are mine.” 

His thrusts become more and more brutal, less and less even. Each movement of his body in mine leaves me begging for more and less at the same time. He continues until the coil in my stomach tenses to the point of breaking. 

“Kirigan,” I manage, voice far away, “I’m going t--”

“I know,” he offers, “finish with me, dove.” His hand finds my throat, adding the slightest bit of restrained pressure. “And do not hold in your cries.” 

Two more sharp thrusts have us both finishing, calling out for each other as we try to draw out the high of our orgasms together. 

We stay intertwined like that for longer than we should, but then Kirigan stands. I envy his ability to do so. I don’t call for him even though I still don’t want to be alone here. A moment later, I hear him approach. I’m too drowsy to ask what he’s doing as a damp towel is wiped against my forehead and inner thighs. 

When he’s finished cleaning me, some raw emotion settles in my chest. “Are you leaving?” 

Kirigan hesitates. “Not if you don’t want me to.” 

I roll over, the motion leaves my body aching. Kirigan accepts my invitation, crawling beneath my sheets and adjusting our bodies so that he can rest his hand on my back. 

--

Tags: @luminous-99 @voyevoda-thejoy @voidmalfoy 

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[takiki16]

Can I ask ... Do you personally see the kind of corruption etc mentioned on that post you reblogged? The "clear 360 circles" one? I'm just curious what your experience is, if you're willing to share

Thank you for sending this! I appreciate you asking the question, and if anything in my reply comes off as accusatory or confrontational, please know that it isn't directed towards you - there's just A Lot To Yell About on the topic of USian criminal "justice."

The post. (tl;dr: a series of tweets by a defense attorney detailing a case he had where the police officer was blatantly and directly dishonest)

The thing about "police corruption," and all the myriad ways cops have of gaming the system against poor people and/or non-white people is that it seldom needs to be as dramatic and egregious as Greg Doucette's example. The system gives cops all the advantages they need WITHOUT their having to break a single rule. Cops don't need to be "corrupt" to be oppressive. Cops don't even need to be "bad apples" to be oppressive. It is the system itself that enables it all in the first place.

(more under the cut)

Of course, the egregious bad actors DO exist! My next-door coworker once stormed out of her office and asked for a second opinion on some bodyworn camera, as she was too angry to continue looking. A store owner called 911 on a homeless Black man who was sitting on the curb outside their store at night. The police had previously gotten a report of a potential shooter that night who vaguely matched client's description (e.g. - "Black male adult in dark clothes," or BMA in police report speak) so they sent several SUVs full of officers. The officers arrived, verified that client was not the shooter, then grabbed client's arms and legs as he was standing up and shoved him down against the concrete. He was not struggling - multiple different camera angles confirmed it, because an officer was kneeling on his head. The only crime he could POSSIBLY have been guilty of on that night was misdemeanor trespass. This did not stop the officers from TASING him three separate times, on the wrong setting (i.e., a much higher voltage that their own training manual mandates should not be used on suspects).

The eventual charge? Felony resisting arrest - the client "stiffened his arms and legs" as he was getting put into handcuffs. While being Tased.

So yes! I have witnessed and personally seen the kind of dishonesty and "corruption" the twitter thread describes. However, the MORE frustrating and oppressive kind of corruption that I see is the kind that happens without any dishonesty or rule-breaking at all.

A client of our office was once stopped by the police because he used his turn signal too far in advance of an intersection - a violation of the local vehicle code. By the police officers' own report, there was no other bad driving. The officers saw that he was smoking, that he was "mumbling" in his reply, and that he was "unsure whether he was on probation." Officers took all of these as signs of "nervousness" and "suspicious behavior" and asked him to step out so they could search his car. Client complied, because he was terrified the officers would shoot him. An unsecured firearm was found under the passenger seat, and the client was taken to jail. His exposure was several years state prison.

Now here's the important part. If this particular client should choose to try and fight this case in court, a prosecutor will argue - possibly successfully! - that everything that happened to my client was legal.

Does it matter that an early turn signal is a traffic infraction that legally cannot carry jail time? Does it matter that my client is barely old enough to be in adult court, and he's alone on the side of the road with two armed officers? That he isn't white? That a law recently passed in our state legislature that drastically reduced the length of probation for most offenses? That police officers themselves routinely mistake whether our clients are on probation or not? That client’s father and brother were recently murdered as a result of gang violence, that client thinks the shooters may be out to kill him next, and the police have not stopped a single incident of gun-related violence that has occurred in our community in the past several years? That this client will lose quite literally everything if the state chooses to kidnap him from his life, his housing, his job, his loved ones, for months on end? That I know for a FACT most of the attorneys and judges who drive in front of the sheriffs’ station next to the courthouse never use a turn signal at all? Well, Mr. Client, that's up to a judge! Who is most likely an ex-prosecutor or an ex-cop himself!

That is the most common story I see - police officers deliberately using the power they are lawfully given in our system to hurt poor and non-white communities. "Vehicle code infraction stop for expired tags/broken tail light leads to vehicle search leads to contraband drugs" version number five billion this month! "Failed to check in with probation, arrest warrant without possibility of bail" EVERY SINGLE DAY. Does it matter that there was no bad driving? That the DMVs in our area are overburdened and frequently closed due to covid? That the expensive white BMW that parks in the corner space has had expired tags for months but has not once been stopped? That the probation officers won't answer their phones and the probation offices have been opening/closing without warning this entire pandemic? That my clients are homeless and struggle to maintain even a consistent cell phone number when they're desperately trying to keep their lives together? That jail and prison will do ABSOLUTELY FUCK-ALL for anybody?

No. It does not matter. The things being done to our communities by the police are, a VAST majority of the time, sanctioned by the law and by the various actors in the system that uphold that law. To use the term "corruption" or even "bad apples" is a disservice to the work that needs to be done, to the fight that needs to happen. A police officer can be Clean McHonest and have every single action upheld by the law and STILL do the same damage. The system is not broken, it is operating as intended.

Which is NOT to say that I will spit on all criminal "reform" movements until the revolution comes! If a "reform" wave gains momentum or a bill gets passed that can improve SOME clients' circumstances even a little bit, I will grab onto that chance with both hands - it’s my job. I will RUN the goddamn suppression motion on Officer Friendly's shitty pretextual vehicle stop and roast the hell out of his ass on the stand, because that's my job. As much as I may fervently believe that cleansing white fire is the only way to "fix" things, I've got clients who are in cages right now. And honestly, the Venn diagram between criminal defense attorneys and prison/police abolitionists is MUCH smaller than most people think. WE KNOW what the "really bad ones" look like, because we're the ones reading the fucking discovery. We know exactly what was done to that vulnerable minor, exactly how many times the abused spouse was beaten, exactly how many skin-crawling images were sold out of that hard drive and EXACTLY how hard it will be for any of the witnesses to live normal lives again - the DA sends US the victim impact statement before it gets read in court! We KNOW!

But the gap between "I think mechanisms should exist to separate bad actors from their communities for the safety of everyone else", OR EVEN the vastly more reductive "I think bad guys should be punished," and the hell our current criminal "justice" system enacts? That gap is as wide as the Grand Canyon. What happened to George Floyd happens every day, in every jurisdiction - the public eye just doesn't happen to be pointed their way.

So...yes, I have seen the kind of "corruption" Greg Doucette describes in his post. And it is horrible. But the everyday legal oppression enacted by the system is in many ways far, far worse.