#rust bl

[monossidodiazoto]

NUcarnival event - Rusted Nation - chapters "Unknown Territory", "Memory" 2 & 5, "Investigation" 1 & 2 and "Journey" 1, 2, 4 gifs

[pharawee]

[clairedaring]

Spare Me Your Mercy is less a "Sammon series" than it is a "Wo+Lux series"

So I came across this Reddit post where OP explains how they're unable to enjoy the ongoing "Sammon series" aka SMYM and Petrichor.

And it just doesn't make sense to me how people keep categorising SMYM as a Sammon series when she didn't even do the screenwriting on this one, at most she's consulted for professional and specialised knowledge. Meanwhile Petrichor is based on the novel "Rust in the Rain" (หยดฝนกลิ่นสนิม) by SixTeenSeven but it's a Sammon series because she wrote the script for Petrichor with five other screenwriters.

I don't know but for me I'd find it more appropriate to compare Spare Me Your Mercy to series like To Sir With Love, Century of Love, Laws of Attraction or even Kahon Maha Ratuek which are directed by Wo & written by Lux.

Spare Me Your Mercy has already deviated itself by being an adaptation of two volumes of Euthanasia by Sammon rather than being a close-to-novel adaptation of one Sammon novel like MOD and Triage. Perhaps it having similar characteristics (rural settings, cops, doctors, thriller, crime, mystery, investigation) is enough for some to brand it a "Sammon series" but it's not the case for me.

Absolutely no idea where I'm going with this but I'm just really frustrated at people calling it a "Sammon series" when all the "underdeveloped", "rushing" sentiments are due to the major condensing of a large body of source material rather than a weak story (I have my tiny qualms with the novels as well, don't get me wrong but that's a story for another day. Great books though, could do with better translations).

Like you don't compare a Ma-Deaw Chookiat Sakveerakul work and a Wo Worawit work just because they have source material from the same author. That is not to mention that production company aka producers can have large influence over a story (especially its ending) and thus politics of producing a series for a BL koojin can also affect quality of a work.

Condensing stories wise aside, I do think Spare Me Your Mercy is doing a great job on sparking the debates on euthanasia with fair amount of scenes spent on Kan & Tew talking about their clashing views on this topic. If Lux and Wo's sole goal in making this series is to showcase a crime investigation series with two main characters having clashing views on euthanasia, I think they're doing well.

It's surely debatable whether the main characters' romance is convincing or not (This discourse I will I leave this to the non-readers who are getting to know KanTew throught the series and not reader audience like myself). Characterisation wise, I would say they're the exact same as the novels, with the lacking aspect being a lack of runtime to flesh out and develop the serial killings/the investigation/the development of characters' relationship.

I'm probably getting beside the point but perhaps if you want to watch a good suspense lakorn from screenwriter Lux about a cop investigating serial killings with his lover being a prime suspect, I HIGHLY RECOMMEND Kahon Maha Ratuek กาหลมหรทึก (2018) (engsub grey watch here)

No idea what my original point was in writing this since I'm not a stan of any of the mentioned creators (Wo, Lux, Sammon...) so I'm not writing this as a defense for anyone... I just prefer that critical comparisons be made with understanding of context and acknowledgement to different creative teams of respective series instead of crediting/attributing everything to one popular name in BL-sphere and using that to make quick judgements of a series.

[universallydestinytaco]

Drowning My Sorrows (ONE-SHOT)

I felt like making a vent-y hurt/comfort one shot where after Charlie, Alan and Glep get into a fight, Pim fails to resolve it and sends strange texts over the group chat that have the gang scrambling to get there. Ends with an happy ending, I promise.

TW: PTSD, P*nic Att**k, Mentions of Ab*se + Victim Bl*m*ng, The Ab*se of Alcohol as an Unhealthy Coping Mechanism and an all-to relatable nightmare sequence. Read at your own risk.

The sun began to set for the day as Pim came inside his house after work as he usually did, turning on the lights and evoking a warm, cozy vibe for he was trying to feel for a sense of comfort, but he felt so drained after that bungled attempt to peacefully resolve that nasty argument between his co-workers ended on a sour, defeated note. He tried to take his mind off of it with a curling up on the couch with a blanket, a cup of warm tea and turning on one of his favorite shows with the little boy and his pastel-colored alien family…but on nights like this, it failed to break him of his shaking palms and his beating heart which was getting worse and worse as he ignored it.

“What do you know about it, squirt?! Keep your goddamn nose-er, whatever you have between your eyes out of it!”

The memory of the irritated Charlie telling Pim to back off reminded him of another memory that plagued him for years, when he finally forgot about it and began to heal it seemed to finally come back to haunt him after all this time. Whenever his mom would hear he got into yet another “fight” with another family member, he would be punished even if he did nothing of note to make them angry in the first place. Whether it be a long lecture that could be boiled down to “It’s your fault for being unhappy.” or among those lines, she would cherry pick anything to somehow make the connection that it was Pim’s fault and he deserved it all while hammering it over his head that it was immature to not be positive over even the worst things that happened to him. Did he really deserve all of that to happen to him merely for telling any of them to leave him alone when they started it? Pim tried to think of happy memories he had with his friends, taking yet another note from his mom…but always came back to what happened before he left work…..

Pim couldn’t take it anymore, he needed something to soothe the pain by making him forget. Pim promised himself he wouldn’t do it again, over and over, but the feeling of spacing out with alcohol was (even if temporary) a wash over of relief, simply forgetting about everything bothering him even if it would leave him throwing up with a hangover the next day. No wonder his mom loved her wine so much.

….

Charlie was playing Rust on his PC, accompanied by a bag of chips and his second ice-cold can of Monster, tuning reality out best he could in his crappy studio apartment…his flow got disrupted after he started hearing his phone blow up he tried to ignore it, but knowing the exact extent of his friends’ irreverence it had to be the funniest obscure meme from 2005 or something. He picked up the phone and opened up the group chat to be greeted to a wall of texts, where he started reading the first two initially figuring it was just going to be Pim apologizing for butting in him that verbal smackdown he and his other two coworkers had….the rest of the text, on the other hand, started to startle the yellow critter as it progressively got more personal. The last text was sent as he was reading the rest, and when Charlie read the last one, it sent him in a panic. He started spamming the chat begging Pim to respond, apologizing for his behavior earlier but despite Pim being marked as active, none of the texts that Charlie had been desperately beaming out from his fingertips were marked as read…after waiting five minutes or so, Charlie who was anxious with sweat finally received a message, but it wasn’t the one he was expecting.

Alan: The hell are y’all in the chat doing waking me up at this hour for? >:(

Charlie’s hopes of reaching out to his best friend were dramatically dashed, as tears pricked in his eyes. Charlie wasn’t the touchy-feely-type of guy, as he hid his emotions like a “true” alpha male but in this particular case, how could he not? He really screwed up this time, leaving Alan and Glep furious at him and Pim….he really shouldn’t have lashed out at the sensitive little guy. Sure he butt-in while he was trying to make a point but at least he was trying to peacefully bring him back to earth. Charlie felt the tense vibration of anxiety in his palm when texting Alan, typos and all.

Charlie: Sc r ol hp noq scroll yup noq shit scroll up now Alan: FUCK Glep: (=3=) zzzz (>0<) !! ???? Alan: EVERYONE MEET ME AT PIM’S HOUSE ON THE DOUBLE.

Charlie shoved his phone in his pocket, trying to hold back tears as he ran out of his apartment and zoomed out the door as he almost felt as if his world was crashing down right in front of him. Pim was the first true friend he ever had, if it weren’t for him he wouldn’t have gotten out of unemployment and while he never showed it all that much, he was deeply touched by all the thoughtful little messages Pim would leave for Charlie on a daily basis letting him know he was loved. He could have spent all that time an energy keeping up his stoic image to return the favor, then again he always had trouble communicating with meaningful words to those he cared about.

….

Sometime after his erratic breakdown, Pim blacked out. Everything prior was a blur to him, not that his memory was all that clear to begin with. His eyes were shut, but he could visualize how he felt: tied up in vines of roses and dangling upside down as the thorns pierced his skin and the blooms snickered, laughing and repeating in echoey siren calls reciting all the worst memories he had and the more he struggled while swinging to-and-fro, the thorns dug deeper and the siren calls spewing from the blooms got more colorful. Pim was in absolute agony, but as he would come to think of it, it’s always been this way. Even when he left that wretched household, he still couldn’t escape. The siren calls turned into his mother’s voice, chiding him for being so “immature” as to let all the negativity get to him, and why Amy or his brother Damien where far more grown up for repressing all their issues and not pushing them on anyone else and that Pim was just the spoiled baby of the family who had it easier than everyone else and was the last to be upset about anything. Pim felt his shattered heart pierce through his chest like broken glass and dripping all over the place. No matter how hard he tried with every trick in the book he could think of, he couldn’t stop feeling this way…his family was right, he wasn’t a normal functioning person, therefor he was a problem for everyone else. Who would want a mistake like him around anyway? If his own family saw him as lesser why would anybody give him the time of day?

….

Pim was in that weird stage between being awake and asleep, his eyes were closed while vaguely hearing all-too familiar voices whispering. For some reason he felt cold and damp, shivering on the floor…just what on earth did he get himself into this time? Once he opened his eyes he found himself wrapped up in a familiar red hoodie like a blanket, he found himself surrounded by unexpected company. Not only were two of his co-workers and a Mr. Boss where there and displaying worried looks, Pim looked up and witnessed the most emotional guest of all…he never saw Charlie this devastated before, tears flooded his eyes like a faucet as his stoic “alpha male” facade crumbled before his very eyes. Then Pim suddenly remembered everything that lead to this and once again Guilt, being the legendarily confrontational bitch it’s been long-fabled as, struck him in the heart with her shiny golden dagger. He was scared to say a word, knowing from experience he would be harshly scolded for acting out like that, but considering the people here where showing more genuine care for him, he knew they’d at least understand.

“…I’m incredibly sorry, I was being very selfish upsetting you all like that, you all deserve better and I won’t ever scare you like that again.” Pim sheepishly spat out while starting to cry…. just then all four of the guests immediately burst into tears with Charlie’s being the loudest and most pained in the room as the other four all rushed towards him in support for a rare group hug. Pim and Charlie cried themselves to sleep as the other three stayed at the formers’ place all night to comfort him. ….

That morning while Charlie and Pim where still asleep on the couch, the bigger critter still cradling the smaller, Alan whipped up a hearty breakfast variant of his iconic grilled cheese sandwiches as Mr. Boss was making cowboy coffee all while Glep was helping in-between. The two were awaken by the delicious aroma permeating the house. Everyone sat down in the living room to enjoy breakfast as more cheerful conversations recalling humorous past events lit up the room like a candle to a lamp, Pim wriggled out of Charlie’s hoodie feeling like a butterfly releasing from it’s isolating chrysalis to feast upon the meal of which was lovingly cooked up and served. “Feeling better?” asked Mr. Boss in a warm, Grandfatherly tone. It wasn’t like how his mother used to ask that same question, since it was less-so making Pim “back to normal” so that her mood wouldn’t be soured but rather out of genuine care and concern. For once Pim was aware how loved he was, and while it was normal for people to fight and have misunderstandings, unlike certain people Pim was aware he and his merry group where actually committed to listening to each other.

“I never felt better.”

[alliesdelimma]

Haze

November DWC

Day 1

Why are you doing this?

To get stronger.  To be better.  To make it so she never lost anyone or anything again.  She wouldn’t.  She couldn’t.  She refused.  Never again.  Everything she did was to guarantee that she would never be alone again.  She couldn’t be ‘Useless’ again.

“You’re pushing yourself too hard girl.  I think we’re done today.”  The man’s voice was stern even if his eyes held a measure of concern.

Picking herself up off the ground Allie swiped the sweat out of her eyes and settled back into her stance.  A stance repeated over and over and over again by the master training his students.  Bandage wrapped hands stained and dyed in a mixture of crimson and rust colored hues, curled into fists.  “Again.”  She demanded, earning a weary sigh from the man.  But he too settled into his own stance, wooden sword at the ready.

You’re too weak for this.

If she was weak, what was the point of any of it?  Of finding a place?  Of training?  Of being born at all?  The weak and the useless didn’t survive.  She was a survivor.  What other point was there to life than to survive it and its endless bullshit.

Ragged breathing filled her ears.  Her body stung all over as she forced herself once more to her feet from her knees.  “Again…”. This one was less harsh, coming between panting breaths but no less demanding.

You don’t deserve them.

Of course she didn’t. They took in one branded as useless.  An orphan, a thief, a liar.  What was she but a burden?  A tiny girl who should have passed away in a crate.  Far from the sight of the world.  Far from…everything…but they had found her.  She who had been lost was found.  Did she not owe it to them to repay that debt?  To prove she was more than the brand.

“Enough Allisana.  This is over.”  The man's voice was harsher.  It annoyed the Little Sparrow.  It didn’t matter, she could barely stand.  It didn’t matter that her fingers weren’t quite responding to her anymore.  It didn’t matter that the room and her nightmares were filled with haze.

She wasn’t done.  A sharp shake of her head sent sweat spraying.  “Again!”

“No.  I’m done figh-shit!”  If he wouldn’t start it.  She would.  What did it matter what happened if she couldn’t even do this much?

They would be better off without you.

They would.  So what?  She was here now.  She would earn her place among them celestials damn it!  Among the world.  Among her friends.  Among her family.  She was a survivor. Even if they were better off, there had to be something she could do.  A place she could call her own that she could carve out with her own hands.

It didn’t matter that his hand was bare.  He was an expert even with nothing to protect himself.  A parry, a counter, and a sharp pain loosened her left hand's grip enough to jam her fingers into stone rather than impact flesh against flesh.  Her fingers refused to do more than hang limply from her hand.

They danced.  Punch.  Twirl.  Knee.  Parry.  Dodge.  Kick.

Then his elbow rapped across her knuckles, forcing her right to do the same.  Though she dived for him anyway.  A foot slid behind her own, his shoulder ramming into the center of her chest.

Her breath exploded free of her lungs and she was sent stumbling backwards with the force of it, barely catching herself from falling backwards but instead falling forward on her hands and knees as she nearly retched across the training room grounds.

“We’re done here.”  He was disappointed.  Angry.  Fine.  She deserved that and more.

Stop fighting fate, just give in and let go.

She still dreamed about the multitude of reaching hands that pulled her from the brink of darkness and despair.  If one hand could save even an unworthy wretch like her, she’d claw her way back from any pit.  She would never stop, not until they could see how much their kindness meant to her.  They had become her light and she couldn’t ever tell them how much it had meant to her.  She could only show them, no matter how long it took.

Her vision swam, blurred, teeth bared in a snarl.  A drop of crimson stained the wooden floors drawing her attention.  Blood.  Her blood.  Right.  What was a drop of blood?  She’d give every drop if she could get better.

She slowly raised her head, the trainer wasn’t even looking at her now.  Fine.  That was fine.  They didn’t need to look.  No one did.  But she’d show them.  She’d show everyone.  The little redhead didn’t even realize she was moving at all until she had to catch herself, a tingling so very different starting in her hands.

Crystalline blue hues stared at her hands before her.  Sparks.  A ripple of energy coalescing across her fingers and knuckles  Sharp and gleaming in the torchlight.  Lightning.  They made her hands curl involuntarily into fists.  These wouldn’t go limp so easily…

It was one of the other trainees who alerted the man.  A warning as she stood and settled into her stance.  “Again…”

He whirled, face going cold and hard.  Unfeeling stone.  A champion who knew this was no longer a game.  Good.  That’s what she wanted.  “Edyva.  Get the healer.  Quickly.  Gaethan, you go get another Master.  The rest of you stay back.”

He settled into his own stance.  Slowly they circled, gazes never breaking.

“I don’t want this young one.  But I will do what I must to stop your madness.  Prepare yourself, I won’t be holding back.”

A feral grin twisted her lips.  Perhaps she was mad.  But what did it matter?  If she couldn’t even put a scratch on a man like this, an adventurer.  A hero.  Then she would never be good enough.  She would always be…

Know your place.  Know what you are.

She knew.  She didn’t need that damned voice in her head.  She knew her place.  She knew what she was.  She always knew…every day she could feel and remember the sizzle of flesh across her back.

It wasn’t a long fight.  Real ones never lasted long.  She knew that.  She’d seen plenty on the streets.  When it came down to it fights were quick once they really began.  And he wasn’t entirely true.  A liar like so many others.

Unworthy.

She’d been able to get back up at least once during it.  Her second try had earned her a harsh blow that drove her flat and darkened her vision.  The third was stopped by a heavy boot to her back and a single blow to the back of her head.

Unwanted.

His efforts to unclench her hands was not easy.  Practiced eyes took in hands, burned and bleeding. What little remained of her wrappings now all but fused to the skin.  “You need to let go of whatever darkness holds you young one…”  The man sounded tired, weary.  He knew that darkness all too well.  “You fought well, but you need to rest.  I know not what drives you but everyone has a limit.  This is yours.”

Useless.

She curled up as trembles wracked her form.  Bolts and tendrils of crawling across her body, no longer limited to just her hands. The physical pain?  The mental one?  The haunting memory down her back? She didn’t know.  But her breath shuddered with every breath regardless.

Unworthy sinner.

What was the point of fighting it?

Unwanted child.

She was meant to be alone.

Useless wretch.

Someone like her was never meant

To have people like them.

“...”

The man stood, holding his blackened shoulder.

Her breath hitched, limbs twitched.

It hurt.  It was agony.  But she couldn’t, she wouldn’t, she refused to stop until she proved it. Proved she wasn't useless...

“...Again…”

(( @daily-writing-challenge This was so fun to write!))

[ghostlyforxst]

GENDER: Gender Neutral Reader

WARNINGS: Yandere Tendencies, Gore, and Inappropriate Language

CHARACTER: Giyu Tomioka

WORD COUNT: 775

F/N - Friends Name

The iron gate, rusted and raucous, furthered the ghostliness of the graveyard it guarded. It shrieks as your friend nudges it open with their forearm, illuminating the gravestones and leafless trees with their flashlight.

“I wonder, how many people are dead in this graveyard?” F/N queried, stepping forward.

“Hopefully all of them…” You quavered, trailing behind them.

F/N had mentioned ghost hunting to you, you weren't too optimistic about it as they were but you still timidly accompanied them. You both roamed around, peering behind headstones and contemplating your environment for any indications of the paranormal world.

'Snap!'

You yelped and your body jerked into F/N's.

“Get the spirit box!”

You slipped the bag from your shoulders, unzipping it with hesitant hands, and probed around until you found the equipment. “Here.”

F/N flicks the box on, a harsh white noise comes from its speakers, and they ask a question.

“Who is there-”

“Run,” a voice shouts from the spirit box, "he's coming!"

A frisson of fear crept from your face and down to your spine as many voices spoke at once.

“Leave!"

“Leave!”

“LEAVE NOW!”

Then dead silence.

“I think we should leave F/N.” You stammered, stepping away from the box.

They huff and roll their eyes. “Fine, since you wanna be a big fucking baby.”

“How can you not be terrified at..what-”

Your eyes widened and your heart began to thrum wildly against your chest as you stared petrified behind them; lurking behind them was a figure, a masculine figure. His skin was unnaturally pale, as if he was lifeless, and his veins protruded just beneath his skin. His dark hair matted with turf, along with his tattered clothing. With sullen eyes, he glared menacingly down at F/N.

You raised a finger and pointed at the ominous being.

“What is it, Y/N!?”

Before you could even utter a word, the monster's teeth tore through the skin of her neck—ripping out her jugular. Blood spatter ubiquitously; dripping down your face and into your mouth, dousing your hair, and decorating your clothes and the ground.

A scream erupts from your throat, eyes widening with terror and tears, before your legs removed you from the danger that stood before you.

You smeared the blood from your face, breathing erratically as you shove past the forestry and hissed as thorns shred through your clothes and skin. Suddenly you stopped, listening, and then plunged into some shrubbery. Your hands clasped around your mouth as the distant groans became near—out of all the possibilities, it had to be the living dead.

You pleaded mentally for a good outcome, but not all wishes are granted and you were quickly snatched from your hideaway.

"Please," you sobbed, "please don't kill me!"

The zombie snickers, his clouded eyes browsing over your distressed appearance. "Who said I was?"

"You ate my friend, so why wouldn't you do the same to me!?" You shouted as you struggled in his bruising grasp.

"Oh sorry, I was a little hungry." He grinned, showing his blood stained teeth.

Your mouth parted, unsettled, as more tears coursed down your cheeks.

"If it makes you feel better, I'm not gonna eat you." He rolled his eyes, dragging you along with him.

You looked past him, watching as the dense fog lessened and exposed a dilapidated shed.

You pulled at your arm once more, almost tripping as you two stepped up the stairs, but it was no use.

"Please," you begged once again, "please let me go!"

He slammed the door behind him before releasing you, observing you as the ethereal light of the moon doused you. His tongue ran over his chapped lips as he limped towards you.

"You look so delicious covered in their blood, it makes me hungry again." He sighs, scratching his head before plopping down beside you.

You flinch away and huddle close to the dry rotted wall, crying silently.

"I've been so lonely, but not anymore…now that you're here! I haven't felt my heart beat in years, but here it is fluttering like it's alive—it's strange but I like it." He confessed as he placed a hand over his heart, the clothing crinkling as he gripped it.

"What's going to happen to me?" You spoked, almost as if you were whispering.

"You're going to be mine until time ends for you."

Your lower lip wobbled, staring agape. "I refuse, you just ate my friend and I don't know you-"

"Giyu Tomioka." He interrupted, tilting his head. "Your name?"

"Y/N," you frowned.

"Until death due us apart Y/N, but not if I get to you first."

[justanothersnakeblog]

I heard Yana is going on a hiatus:

I hope it's true because she deserves a vacation! She's been busting her ass off for more than 15 years to bring us delicious BL and manga into this world!

Thank you, Yana Toboso and Yanao Rock for Glamorous Lip, Flower Boys, Rust Blaster, various other works, and especially Black Butler! You're a genius storyteller and an awesome mangaka/artist! 🪅🎊🥂

You deserve more appreciation and praise, but most definitely a break more than anything!

[gor3sigil]

A Hundred ghosts

I am a hundred ghosts. A bush of souls flying away in the wind.

Ask my mother, she has: an old smile of me, fading away, clipped at the front of her purse.

Ask my father, he has: a chipped of my hair, painted blue, tied in the inside pocket of his leather jacket.

Ask my childhood friend, she has: a broken toy she borrowed but never thought to give me back, a legless doll, a headless horse, what was it ?

Ask my highchool head teacher, he has: a worn out paper with a not-so-good grade, a teenage and hesitant handwriting mixed in red ink, in the bottom of his drawer.

Ask my first lover, he has: a pair of glasses I forgot in his backpack, when he pick them he can hear my laugh like I’m right next to him.

Ask ////, it has: my spit dried into its pillow.

See these rusty razor blades, they have: blood blood blood blood blood blood blood

bl

o

o

d

that won’t drip anymore, its colour so close to rust.

Maybe somewhere deep on the web or in someone else’s computer, there’s bits of my previous voice, before ethanol, before nicotine, before the four T’s in Testosterone, TanTrum, TRansgender.

When they’ll remove my Tonsils, they’ll have: scraps of my screams on a silver Tray, in the open, To be dissecTed.

Another bit of meaT cuT out of my shaTTered self.

Another ghosT of me, ready for the hunT.

[scarlet-streak-rambles]

From reading Rust Blaster, Black Butler, and Twisted Wonderland, I have determined that Toboso Yana desperately wants to create a plot heavy fantasy BL and I for one think we should let her for the good of Black Butler. Be free, Toboso, follow your dreams.

[my-sibling-wears-a-muumuu]

As someone who is learning about the amount of SHIT that goes into figuring out whats wrong and fixing a damn car, I don't think people know how fucking HARD it would be to maintain a car in the danger days-verse, because i don't think you just had access to any oil, manual, jump-start-kit, wires that weren't rusted to fuck and back, literally anything you need. Fun fact, if you want a more realistic version of fixing cars in the danger days verse, write kobra having to try and find the fucking FOOT POUNDS to torque the STUPID fucking BOLTS, because EVERYTHING, and I mean EVERYTHING will come lose. Write ghoul trying to make the stipid fuckig starter motor have a magnetic force again. Write Party spend two months trying to find where to get the dtupid fucking transmission fluid for the trans am. Write Jet try to find the fucking bolt she miss placed on the ground and have to go find a new one, or all four dumbasses trying to, VERY unsafely, lift the car so they didn't have to lay under it for the oil change. Write kobra and ghoul using a old asf multi-meter to diagnose what's wrong with the am, but if you want them just starting out, have them accident connect battery positive and THEN negative, and getting shocked becasue, they just got out here, they don't know what to do. Or them spending DAYS looking through dr. D's boxes of pre-war shit to see if he has a owner's manual to a 1979 pontiac grand trans am. Have them spend literal hours, fuck, days even, to try to raid a BL/ind truck that just happens to MAYBE have the shit the trans am needs. and then have to do that shit AGAIN because the truck didn't have it. Or spend days trying to plan a way into the city, steal shit for a car, and scram before getting caught.

oh boy this got long, anyways, long ass story short, they definitely do NOT drive around often, but enough that the engine doesn't lock up.

[alarmsofmyheart]

Thai bl guys would be having accidental kisses or hugs in their cars, free Uber services in the name of flirting/bonding, put the seatbelt romances,..

In Moonlight Chicken, selling that old car to buy the van + chicken stall (i'm sorry idk what that's called) is one of the realistic middle class life thing I've seen in bls.. it deserves a special mention. Time to rewatch moonlight chicken I miss that show damn.

Look how far we've come, 4 mintues giving us an anxious heartful hesitating yet reach out first hand hold and a final goodbye inside a car.

(my memory is all rusted okay, I don't mean to talk shit about other stories/writers, there might have been important plots happening inside car in many bls but I haven't seen it all nor can I remember any, anyway I just liked that..)

Tyme has been a little extra in stitching the wound, moving a bit closer than necessary. They played that pick a fluffy thing together. But hand holding, just for the sake of hand holding is insanely intimate.

As much as how much of a dominating sex Tonkla had with Win.

4 minutes portraying different ends of spider web of intimacy is quite refreshing.

Wandee Goodday did show it all in a little more la vie en rose filtered way. That show talked about HPV vaccination too. That deserves a kudos. Like idk how it happened but it's great thing. Life is not that rosy or easy. I remember the boxer had hallucinations and Ortho guy had issues crossing the street. I haven't completed watching it. Them both hand holding while on streets was so nice, but other things had more focus on the show.

But GREAT TYME HANDHOLDING SCENE INSIDE THE CAR HAS A CHOKEHOLD ON MY HEART. Idc if that's happening only inside Great's headspace, like it is important in his mind. It was beautiful.

Idk why I'm yapping about it only now, maybe because im depressed and I just now found the energy to pour more words about it. But whatever.

[howlingday]

Persemblance

1 / (2) / 3 / 4

Qrow: Hey. Some girl named Weiss Schnee went missing.

Qrow: All this work is such a pain! It's like people expect huntsmen to solve crimes or something!

Qrow: Ruby, get your uncle another beer.

Ruby: ...

--------------------------------------------------

Neptune: Weiss really isn't at school today...

Port: THAT'S BECAUSE SHE'S DEAD!

Neptune: It's almost like that crazy TV world we fell into has something to do with the murders!

Naaaaah.

Neptune: I can't just walk away this time. I need to find out why Weiss had to die like this!

Yang: Neptune...

Neptune: ...So can we go back in the TV again please, please, please~!

Sure.

Neptune: YAAAAAAAAY~! THIS IS GONNA BE SO AWESOME~!

--------------------------------------------------

Neptune: Alright, guys, this is going to be dangerous...

Neptune: So, I brought a rake!

Neptune: Also, Yang doesn't get to come!

Yang: Wh-What?! But I-

Neptune: Shut up and hold this rope!

Neptune: YAAAY, TV WORLD~!

--------------------------------------------------

Somewhat: Hey! It's you guys again!

Somewhat: Now I get it... You must be the ones throwing people in!

Neptune: SHUT UP AND TAKE OFF THAT SUIT!

Neptune: (Yanks Somewhat's head off)

Neptune & Somewhat: AAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Somewhat: We must join forces~!

Somewhat: (Hands over glasses)

Neptune: What are these for?

Somewhat: So you can look cool during battles~!

Neptune: Battles- Wait! This is Weiss' parents door! I bet this place has something to do with how she di-

Somewhat: TUTORIAL FIGHT! TUTORIAL FIGHT!

Neptune: What?

Grimm: (Licks Neptune's face)

Neptune: WAIT, WHAT, WHAT IS THIS?!

FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF PERSONA~

The Rusted Knight: I AM THOU, THOU ART ME...

The Rusted Knight: WE'RE A HAPPY FAMILYYY~!

Somewhat: Okay, listen; some Grimm have weaknesses, but they never make any sense! So just guess until you get it right! Here, press this button to get a helpful analysis!

Somewhat: I'm CHEESED to see your GOUDA input skills and FONDUE diligence for this SQUEAKER of a battle~!

ZIO!

Somewhat: Wowie, sir~! That was amazing~! Don't you think so, what's your face?

Neptune: Hey, why don't you call me sir?

Somewhat: Because you're comic relief!

???: WHY DO I HAVE THE WORST DAUGHTER IN THE WORLD?!

Neptune: Is that Weiss' dad? I don't get it. Weiss always seemed like she was having fun at work... Y-You mean to tell me she WASN'T happy working at the store that drove her family out of business?!

Weiss: Hey, Neptune~!

Neptune: Yes, my sweet~?

Weiss: GO KILL YOURSELF!

Neptune: WHAT?! B-But we were gonna get married and have a million beautiful babies together!

?Neptune?: Whatever, man. She wasn't even that hot.

Somewhat: (Gasps) Two Neptunes?!

?Neptune?: More like one Neptune and one... AWESOME Neptune. Gee, living in the country sure is boring-

Neptune: NO, YOU'RE NOT ME, I WOULD NEVER SAY ANYTHING LIKE THAT EVER!

Somewhat: Whoa~!

Neptune: Naptiiime~!

Grimm Neptune: SOUNDS LIKE SOMEONE JUST ORDERED A STUPID LOOKING BOSS~! AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA

ZIO!

Grimm Neptune: OW!

Neptune: NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO~!

Somewhat: You have to accept it, or it'll attack us again!

The strength of heart to face one's self has blah blah blah...

Neptune: Okay, fine, I guess I do kinda hate everything.

He has obtained the facade used to overcome life's hardships... THE PERSONA FARMER PIG MONK~!

Neptune: Sweet~! Maybe now we can save people who fall in here before they die!

Somewhat: Yeah~! You know, since you guys came in here, I've been wondering where I come from and-

Neptune: Yeah, whatever! See you later!

Somewhat: HUH?!

--------------------------------------------------

Neptune: Hey, we're ba- Oh, crap, I forgot about you.

Yang: You guys are jerks!

Yang: WAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAH~!

Neptune: Huh. I guess we should apologize.

Neptune: Later! I'm going to bed.

--------------------------------------------------

Blake: I'm wearing a kimono because I'm filling in for my mom at the inn we run!

--------------------------------------------------

TV: Blake Belladonna is wearing a kimono because she's filing in for her mom at the inn they run.

--------------------------------------------------

You should watch the midnight channel. There's a high school girl wearing a kimono on the screen. ...but you can't think of anyone who fits that description, so you decided to go to bed.

--------------------------------------------------

Ozpin: Helloooooooooooooooo~!

Ozpin: Person, persona, persona...

Ozpin: SOCIAL LINKS SOCIAL LINKS SOCIAL LINKS SOCIAL LINKS SOCIAL LINKS!

--------------------------------------------------

Neptune: Dude! I'm so excited to find out who's behind all these murders!

Neptune: Let's be friends~!

You became friends with Neptune~! Neptune will now DIE FOR YOU

Yang: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAA

Yang: BLAKE'S MISSING! BLAKE'S MISSING!

Yang: BLAKE'S MISSING! BLAKE'S MISSING! BLAKE'S MISSING! BLAKE'S MISSING!

Yang: (Scroll buzzes, Answers) Oh, is this Blake? Yaaay~!

--------------------------------------------------

Qrow: Two bodies hanging from telephone poles... and we don't even know if this is a homicide yet.

Clover: Sir, I think we can probably assume it's a-

Qrow: Shut up, Ebi.

Qrow: We've got no clues about the perp. We don't even have a sus because the sec with the mo's got a perf al.

Clover: Sir, what are you even-

Qrow: SHUT UP, EBI.

Clover: Um, so what do we know about the case so far?

Qrow: The perp... is PROPBABLY in Patch!

ACE DETECTIVE~!

Qrow: Case closed! Let's get drunk.

Clover: Huh?!

--------------------------------------------------

...

Ruby: ...

[shittycryptid-666]

(Edit: I decided that I hated this and rewrote it and you can find it with the next two chapters on AO3)

I just recently got into Danger Days, and as a Danger Days hater… I’m so sorry I take it back it’s brilliant. Anyway, here’s the chapter I wrote introducing my danger days OC, The Medic, who is an ex military medic for BL/Ind who joined the rebellion years ago. This is her removing Jets eye.

The Medic wasn’t anything close to the typical killjoy. She hardly appreciated even being considered a killjoy. She didn’t wear the bright colored clothing that made her stick out, she wasn’t the charged, over-the-top personality or even likable to most. She wore plain, practical clothing that always seemed to be a size too big for her petite frame. In her years of living in the desert she allowed her dark, chestnut colored hair to grow far passed her waist, nearly touching her hips at this point. Aside from her bangs that she kept short, framing her face that held her hardened features aside from her piercing, emerald doe eyes that seemed to soften her face.

She refused a killjoy name, aside from her radio handle as The Medic. Everyone who knew her, knew her as Maeve.

She wasn’t warm, or kind. She was mean, and distant, but she was also fucking brilliant, almost terrifyingly so. Any and all rebels and innocents were welcome on the compound, though she remained distant and stoic. She was a key player in the rebellion, being that she was the only one in the cause that had any real medical background let alone to the extent that she had.

She really was the only option for serious medical attention, and thank the zones for that, because she was good. Scary good.

Which is the only reason the Fab Four was able to remain somewhat calm as her Medical Compound came into view with Jet Star potentially bleeding out in the backseat of the trans am.

The Med Compound was an intimidating, looming structure of rusted metal and crumbling smokestacks in the outskirts of Z5. Surrounded by nothing but desert, isolated and desolate. From the outside it looked exactly like what it was, an abandoned power plant. Most of the outer buildings' mere skeletal remains of what they once were. It was quiet, almost eerily so, as the Medic liked it that way.

A monolithic promise of salvation or death.

At the center were two structurally sound buildings. The larger one, referred to only as the Hospital, was where The Medic worked. The inside was sterile, organized. There were multiple rooms that she used as recovery rooms or storage. The largest room in the middle of the building was the OR. The rooms separated by tarps and plastic sheets.

The second building was quite a bit smaller than the Hospital, having possibly been an old office with cubicles separating the space. It was used as shelter. Maeve always had cots open for those who were running, and required a safe haven.

Jet Star leaned heavily against Kobra Kid and Fun Ghoul. A wadded shirt pressed against his eye quickly soaking with blood as they made their way through the desolate compound. The distant sound of creaking metal and crunch sand beneath their boots seemed to echo against Jets labored breathing. “Hang on, Jet.” Party Poison growled from just ahead, their blaster drawn. “We’re almost there.”

“She’ll fix this.” Kobra mutters, as if to convince himself more than Jet as the four made their way to the hospital, where Maeve was just inside, awaiting their arrival.

Inside the hospital, drenched in filtered desert light, Maeve is already moving. Her long hair tightly coiled into a bun on top of her head, with a set of gloves that were pulled up to her elbows and a rubber apron. Laying out medical tools on a makeshift table in the center of the OR. As the Killjoys burst through the door, she meets them halfway, carefully lifting the blood-soaked shirt away from his eye with gloved hands. Her already neutral expression hardens at the sight. Her demeanor changing to one with more urgency.

She silently motions to an old dental light that is powered by a small generator and a metal table that groans under Jets weight as the Kobra and Fun assist him onto it. She looks to Party, her lips going flat. “I haven’t had access to any sort of anesthetic in months,” she says almost dismally, as if it were a warning. Party’s face tightens, before they nod curtly. Their eyes darting to Jet. “Do what you gotta do, Maeve. He can take it.” They say, their voice firm and almost commanding in an attempt to comfort the others. Kobra's jaw tightens at the Maeves words, as he takes a step away from the OR table. He lets out a frustrated sigh, running a hand through his hair. “Jesus fuck, Jet…” Fun mumbles, squeezing his friends shoulder. His own hand trembling over the thought of what has to be done. “There’s gotta be something, anything, else we can do for him?” Kobra asks almost desperately as he returns to Jets side.

“I can take it.” Jet speaks with resolve, though his voice waivers. His skin is pale, but he forces a grim smile on his face in some attempts to keep his comrades comfortable with the hell he was about to endure. Fear gripping at every part of him. Maeve moves in on him, pulling his arm out and quickly finding a vein. “This is a pretty substantial dose of morphine. It’s better than nothing, I’m hoping you’ll be pretty out of it by the time this is over, but I have to work fast or he’s not going to make it.”

Her voice was calm, clinical, but she looked at Jet with a certain softness. An unspoken acknowledgment on the pain she is about to cause. Jet takes a deep breath, the morphine already doing something to take the edge off. “Hold him down.” She said, a slightest hint of hesitation in her tone. The three moved in on Jet, holding his limbs down as Maeve moved in. “Open.” She said simply, patting his jaw. As soon as he did so, a leather bite was thrust into his mouth.

Maeve’s hands are steady as she fully lifts the wadded-up shirt from Jets face. Fun looked away; his eyes closed tightly at the sight. Jet hissed against the bite as Maeve doused the wound with antiseptic, assessing the damage. He was hit with a laser blaster from a substantial distance. Not close range enough to destroy the surrounding bone or muscle, thank the zones, but his eye was disintegrated to nearly nothing, leaving just nerves and burnt tissue. There was no saving it. There was nothing to save.

She began working with practiced diligence as the first incision is made, Jet jerking and groaning against the pain. “Hold his head,” she warns Party, who does so, unable to turn their eyes away from their friend as Maeve worked. Jets muscles tense against the restraints of his friends. His vision blurring as the searing pain radiates through every nerve in his body. The taste of leather filling his mouth. The room smells of iron and sweat. Jets groans and Kobra’s silent encouragement contrasting each other.

Maeve didn’t speak. Her expression unreadable as she worked to extract Jets eye. Her hands moved with swift, precise motions. She’d done this before, but never with so much at stake. Every second felt like an eternity as she worked through removing disintegrated and burnt tissue and nerves.

Reaching the peak of the procedure, Jet Star’s body became rigid with pain. A deep, guttural sound escaping him despite the leather. Fun’s eyes remain shut, his knuckles white as he holds Jet to the metal table. Maeve’s mind is fully tuned in to her movements, focusing on every detail, blocking out the chaos around her. Every second feels like an eternity as she finishes works to remove all the problematic damage before proceeding to make it look as normal as she is able to.

Finally, it’s over. After securing a medical patch over what was once Jet’s eye, Maeve steps back, her hands and apron covered in blood. The room falls into a tense silence, broken only by Jet’s ragged breaths as he comes down from the excruciating pain. The Killjoys release their grip, their own bodies trembling with the effort. Party looks at Maeve, his eyes a mixture of gratitude and something darker. “You’re okay, man.” Fun takes Jet’s hand, patting him in the chest with the other. “You’re okay.”

After pulling the apron and gloves off, Maeve steps back to Jet, checking his pulsed, noting his other vitals. “Open,” she says again softly, pulling the leather bite from his lips. He lets out a shuttering breath. “You’re alright,” she says softly. She lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. He has a long way to go, she knows this, but for now the hard part is over. She turns to the others, motioning towards one of the rooms off to the side. “I’ve set up a cot the second room for him. Give him a few minutes to come down before moving him.” She nods to Party, before stepping away.

She has done hundreds of difficult procedures at this point, this was no different. But something about it being one of them, something about it being him...

The large metal door creaked shut behind her as she stepped out in the cool desert air. A stark contrast to the stifling heat inside. Night settled in, the sun sinking in the horizon just the smallest sliver, casting the sky in deep purples and reds. She let out a long breath, pulling a pack of self-rolled joints from her pocket, and bringing one to her lips. Lighting it, she took a deep drag, feeling the tension in her shoulders ease slightly.

She walked a few steps away from the building, the crunch of sand and gravel the only sound in the vast emptiness of the compound. She walked up to an old generator, taking a seat on it before tilting her head back. She closed her eyes, letting the stillness of the desert seep into her.

Her hands were trembling, though she didn’t notice it before. She stared down at them, the gloves now gone but the memory of Jets blood was still fresh. She rubbed her palms together, as if trying to erase the sensation. But it wasn’t just the blood- it was everything. The pain she had inflicted on him, the way he looked at her, trusting her to do what needed to be done even if it meant enduring unimaginable agony.

Emotions were a luxury that Maeve learned a long time ago she couldn't afford. In her line of work, emotions could get you killed. But she couldn’t help the soft spot she held for the Fab Four. Sitting there in the cooling desert night, the weight of what had just happened pressed down on her as if the building had collapsed around her.

She let her head fall back, exhaling a plume of smoke into the air, staring into the first stars beginning to appear. For a moment, she let herself feel the fear she had pushed aside during the surgery. The fear that she wouldn’t be able to save him. That she would lose him right there on the table. The fear that maybe she wasn’t as in control as she always tried to be.

But she had saved him. She had done what needed to be done, like she always fucking had... Still, the thought of Jet’s silent suffering, his body writhing in pain, gnawed at her. She wondered how much more any of them could take.

She took another long drag of the joint, feeling the chill of the night air settling in. Her nerves relaxing best they could with the help of the weed. She knew she couldn’t stay out here forever, couldn’t let herself be consumed by doubt. They would need her again soon, and she couldn’t afford to be weak. Not now.

But just for this moment, she allowed herself to sit in the quiet, away from the noise and the pain. Just for this moment, she let herself feel the weight of everything she carried- the lives, the expectations, the relentless burden of being the one they all turned to when everything else fell apart.

The sound of the door creaking open behind her pulled her back to the present. She didn’t turn around, but she knew it was Party Poison, standing there in the doorway, watching her. For a second, neither of them spoke. They lingered in the doorway for a moment before stepping outside, their footsteps soft against the sand. Maeve kept her eyes on the horizon, her expression unreadable.

“You did good in there, Maeve,” Party said, their voice gentle but with that underlying firmness that was always present.

Maeve nodded slightly, her gaze still fixed ahead. “Just doing what I’m supposed to do,” she replied, her voice steady, controlled. She wasn’t about to let any cracks show, not now…

Party moved a little closer, leaning against the same piece of rusted machinery. They watched her carefully, studying the tension in her shoulders, the way her hands were still tightly clenched. “You saved his life,” they said, as if reminding her of a fact she already knew.

“I know,” Maeve replied, her tone flat. She didn’t look at them. “I’ve saved a lot of lives.”

There was a pause, the silence between them heavy with unspoken thoughts. Party tilted their head slightly, their voice softer as they spoke again. “But this one was different, wasn’t it?”

Maeve finally turned her head to look at them, her expression hard, almost deflective. “They’re all different,” she said, the words carrying a finality that dared Party to push further. She wasn’t about to let them in on anything she didn’t want them to know.

Party held her gaze for a moment longer before nodding, respecting her boundaries. “We’re all here for you, Maeve. You don’t have to do this shit by yourself all the time,” they said, their tone sincere but not pressing.

Maeve nodded curtly, appreciating the sentiment but not willing to acknowledge it fully. “Thanks,” she said, her voice quiet but firm.

They stood in silence for a moment, the desert’s stillness wrapping around them. Maeve’s mind was a whirl of controlled thoughts—she’d done what she had to do, and that was what mattered. Nothing more. Nothing less. She wouldn’t allow herself to dwell on how close she’d come to losing Jet or how much that thought terrified her.

“I should check on him,” Maeve said finally, pushing herself up from the metal, her voice as steady as ever.

“Yeah,” Party agreed, stepping aside to let her lead the way back. “He’s lucky to have you, you know.”

Maeve paused for a brief moment, her back to them. “He’s lucky to have all of us,” she replied, not turning around as she walked back toward the hospital.

Party watched her go, a small, knowing smile on their lips. They followed her inside, the door closing behind them with a soft click, leaving the desert night in quiet solitude once more.

Maeve stepped back into the dimly lit hospital, the familiar smell of antiseptic and metal filling her senses. The quiet hum of the small generator powering the essentials buzzed in the background as she made her way through the makeshift corridors, her footsteps barely audible on the worn floor.

She approached the room where they had settled Jet, her heart pounding in a way she refused to acknowledge. As she reached the door, she paused, taking a deep breath and smoothing her expression into something more neutral, more controlled. She couldn’t afford to let anything slip.

Pushing the door open, Maeve found Jet lying on the cot, his head turned slightly toward the wall. The medical patch over his eye was stark against his pale skin, the only sign of the ordeal he’d just been through. Kobra Kid was sitting by his side, his hand resting on Jet’s arm, as if grounding him to reality.

Kobra looked up as Maeve entered, a mixture of relief and exhaustion on his face. “He’s stable,” Kobra said quietly, his voice tinged with gratitude. “Thanks to you.”

Maeve nodded once, her eyes briefly meeting Kobra’s before shifting to Jet. She moved closer, her practiced hands already checking his vitals, her touch gentle but efficient. “He’ll need to rest,” she said, her tone clinical, though there was a softness to it that hadn’t been there before. “No sudden movements, and keep him hydrated. The morphine will wear off soon.”

Kobra gave a slight nod, his eyes heavy with concern. “You think he’ll be okay?”

“He’s strong,” Maeve replied, her voice steady. “He’ll pull through.” She looked down at Jet, her expression softening ever so slightly, though she was careful to keep it in check.

As if sensing her presence, Jet stirred, his one good eye blinking open slowly. He seemed disoriented at first, but as his gaze settled on Maeve, a faint, tired smile curved his lips. “You still here, Doc?” he murmured, his voice hoarse.

Maeve’s lips twitched into the barest hint of a smile. “Someone has to make sure you don’t do anything stupid,” she said, her tone light but laced with a concern she tried to mask. She reached out, her fingers brushing against his wrist to check his pulse, though it lingered a moment longer than necessary.

Jet’s smile widened a fraction, a warmth in his gaze that made Maeve’s heart clench painfully in her chest. “Guess I’m lucky, then,” he said softly, his voice barely more than a whisper.

Kobra looked between them, sensing something unspoken but choosing not to comment. Instead, he stood up, stretching his stiff limbs. “I’ll let the others know he’s awake,” Kobra said, giving Maeve a small nod before heading out of the room, leaving them alone.

Maeve didn’t move, her hand still resting on Jet’s wrist. “You need to rest,” she said quietly, her voice betraying a touch of the worry she had been holding back.

“Only if you do too,” Jet replied, his good eye fixed on hers. There was something in his gaze, a depth that made her want to look away, but she couldn’t bring herself to.

“I’ll be fine,” Maeve said, her voice softening despite herself. “You’re the one who just lost an eye, remember?”

Jet chuckled weakly, the sound barely more than a breath. “Guess you’re right,” he murmured, his eyelids growing heavy again. “But… thanks, Maeve. For everything.”

She nodded, unable to find the words to respond. Instead, she gave his wrist a gentle squeeze before pulling away, forcing herself to step back. “Get some sleep, Jet,” she said, her voice regaining its usual firmness. “We’ll talk more when you’re stronger.”

Jet’s eyes fluttered closed, and Maeve watched as his breathing evened out, the tension slowly leaving his body. She stood there for a moment longer, her gaze lingering on him before she finally turned and left the room.

As she closed the door behind her, she leaned against it for a brief second, allowing herself to feel the weight of everything that had just happened. But only for a moment. Then, with a deep breath, she straightened up and walked away, her face once again an unreadable mask, burying everything deep down where no one could reach it…

[bibimbinge]

10 BL boys I want carnally <3

Much much love to @ayansbff for tagging me!! I hope you know what you’re in for cause tagging me in a post to simp?? ok! I have a reason to SCREAM about these men who made me question my asexuality.

Mantrisanu - Jeng (Step by Step)

nobody but my acemate (@mooniyuta) knows just how obsessed I was with Mantrisanu during the Step by Step era. When I tell ya I forgot I was ace as soon as I saw his giant 1.90m ass on screen.. I forgot I was even a person. I am a squirrel needing to climb a tree. WOW! just WOW!! Step by Step? No! Step On Me.

Jam Rachata - Tinn/Jiu (Laws Of Attaction/To Sir With Love)

just Jam Rachata in general. He’s just a few years older than me but I will call him Daddy. When I saw him in Laws of Attraction I was intrigued then I stayed for the plot then I got hooked with their chemistry. Lucky for me I’ve never watched To Sir With Love before, so I did… and I can hear the wedding bells ringing as soon as I saw how his hunky meaty goodness handle that rusted half scissors turned murder weapon.

First Kanaphan - Alan/Sand (Moonlight Chicken/Only Friends)

I’ve been salivating for this man since Not Me. I suffered through The Shipper for this man. It’s not just his beautiful handsome gorgeous self that does it for me, its also his charm. Like he’s so charming and has this aura about him that’s just warm and homey. His smile is like the most beautiful smile I’ve ever seen. His eyes are just so sparkly and beautiful, if I ever meet him irl I’d probably trip over myself getting lost in them. I understand Khaotung not wanting to share him with anyone because I would do the same.

Bright - Yai (I Feel You Linger In The Air)

He’s so handsome I can cry. This man is like Jam x2. Like he has such a perfect face for male lead in romance genre. Where has he been all my life?? Maybe its Yai the character that feeds my deluluism, but when General Yai popped up in ifylita with a freakin porn stache and I wasn’t immidiately appalled, I knew I was a goner.

Neo - Boston (Only Friends)

Neo has always been cute to me. Catches my eye in every series he’s in but then Only Friends happened AND I WAS FLOORED!!! It was like ya know when you enter your teen years and that cute person you’ve grown up with had a growth spurt and you’re like daaaang when did you get hot 👀 Yeah that’s me with Neo.

Ohm Pawat - Pat (Bad Buddy)

specifically Ohm as Pat cause he was chunky and meaty and oof his arms were distracting as fuck. Anytime he showed up with that damn tank top I was like pls may I bite. He’s just so *feral animalistic growling* I personally love a man whos chunky meaty mucles and looks like they can lift me. AND HIS SMILE??? HIS TWINKLING EYED SMILE?!?!?!?! I’m gone. what a baaaabe!!!

Try imagining? alrighty if you say so 😚

Keita Machida - Kurosawa (Cherry Magic)

I remember watching cherry magic for the first time in 2020 and I was in awe. He is so dreamy and handsome. I hate to say it again guys but.. his smile!! Like I’m obsessed with him!! Both me and bestie screamed when we saw him in Alice In Borderland (overgrown blondie with roots showing and he is messy and he smokes and I was barely breathing) and then scream cried when his head EXPLODED!?!?!?!) Anyway, I’d marry this guy. like legit.

Earth Pirapat - Jim (Moonlight Chicken)

I am not done with the young dilfs. I have no other words other than !! HIM !! like I would need to make a seperate Earth appreciation post to start talking about him. This post is getting too long anyway so I’m gonna not say much here but.. just know I would drop everything for him.

Papang - Gumpa (Not Me)

my need for Papang to suffocate me in his tiddies arms is like my human need to eat to keep myself sustained. He just looks like the best recharging station. That doesn’t make sense but it makes sense.

Even going through the gif list to choose a Papang gif gave my tummy flips

Bosston Suphadach - Pruk (Between Us)

THERE’S A NEWBIE ON MY LIST WOO!!! I feel like because he hasnt been here long and has only played sub-minor parts, people forgot about him .. BUT I. DID. NOT. <3 Did you see him in between us alongside Sammy?? Yes. I too would be purposefully tripping in front of him so that he can hold me in his big strong arms. Also him and the doctor in Be My Favourite?? SIIIIICKKK!!!! Let’s just say I’m excited to watch their spinoff next year ✨

I’ve got a few more but these men are mainly the ones that I need to have. In conclusion, Big Guy, Big Arms, Big Smiles. Love them, Love Him.

thank you lovely gif makers @zhivchik @mushiemadarame @rayandgay @wanderlust-in-my-soul @kiyosuku @warmday @sunsetandthemoon @bunnakit @daikunart and lovely moots @dramalets @drama-nonsense @mooniyuta @mooninagust @these-emo-thoughts @sparklyeyedhimbo @khaotungsfirst @blue-grama @absolutebl @troubled-mind who enable this obsession.

[dark-elf-writes]

Sitting on that throne, staring down at the man who was so kind is heartbreaking for Percy. Yet the man is repenting, the man knows he's done wrong. (the man is already better then the gods)

Percy hates the throne immediately.

Maybe it’s some fish part of his brain that remembers how close he came to being incinerated the last time he sat on a throne. Maybe it’s the knowledge that in this room he may have to kill for justice rather than in battle. Maybe he just really hates the ugly fucking thing.

He puts off sitting judgement for the first time for so long that Josephine comes to him in his room, perching on his couch and looking at him with eyes so full of kindness and understanding that it aches.

“Death is not the only option, more for than not being known as merciful could be a boon and… well there are certain things far worse than death.”

Percy thinks of an island and the girl doomed to love and lose over and over again. Thinks of running doughnuts and a rock rolling downhill. Thinks of the agony of the sky set on his shoulders and the lock of hair that still grows in white years later. Thinks of a goddess drowning in her own poison and the terror on Annabeth’s face as she begged him to stop.

(He thinks of Tartarus and the curses already tied to his name and wonders how many more he will collect.)

Maybe that’s what he had been scared of.

He sits in judgement and it sucks and it’s hard and sometimes it feels like there’s no right answers.

And then Blackwall leaves. And then Percy arranges to have him brought back.

(Josephine looks haunted as she grips her little clipboard thing. He remembers the flowers and little carvings resting on her desk and wonders if she is thinking about death and mercy as much as he is.)

Bla— Rainier won’t look at him. Not directly. He looks at Percy’s boots. At his hair. At the ugly fucking throne. “How much did this cost?” He asks with a voice full of rust.

“A few favors,” Percy answers truthfully and sees a man who has always seemed larger than life sink in on himself.

“Another sin I must atone for. Now people will say the inquisition is corrupt. It would have been better if you had let me die.”

Percy hears the roar of waves in his ears. Feels the thud of his sword hitting a shield over and over again as Blackwall sparred with him. Smells sawdust and horse and hay.

“How do you atone if you’re dead?” He asks instead of screaming. It’s a close thing. “Once you die it’s over. You’re over. How is that atonement? How is that justice for what you did?”

Bl— Rainier flinches. He doesn’t answer.

Percy drops his head back against the throne and wonders how the gods do this without going crazy. Or throwing up.

This sucks. This beyond sucks. Percy would honestly take a dragon any day as long as he didn’t have to make choices like this.

He takes a breath. Another. Another. Then he lifts his head to look Rainier in the eye. He almost shrinks back at the guilt he sees there, guilt that his distress put there, but he stays strong.

“I sentence you to atone,” Percy speaks softly but he might as well have screamed it for all the words bounce around the halls. “Serve the inquisition. Become the man Warden Blackwall thought you could be.” The man I thought you were went unsaid but hung heavy in the air between them all the same.

“I sentence you to live,” Percy said, “and remember what you did.”

No one spoke as he stood from the throne, as he turned for the door to his rooms and walked slowly through, as he shut the door behind him and sagged against it on the other side.

Some things were crueler than death. He wondered if Thom Rainier would see this as one too.

[astranite]

Blue Skies

@edutainer2022 @janetm74 That whump prompt? Well, I wrote more. (Not what I had planned on doing, and it is definitely past my bed time that I finished this, but hey, what happens, happens.)

This was initially in its first part here, as a fill of a whump prompt by @fern-writes-whump. But this is now a part two and I’m putting it all here together for completeness sake. 

I’ll stick this up on AO3, but not right now. (Link goes here)

Scott and Gordon. Whump. Hurt/comfort. Bereznik. Mostly about trauma (There’s a happy ending.)

Warnings: Injuries. Violence. Panic attacks. PTSD. Somewhat graphic but I wouldn’t say particularly bad? (Just tell me if I can warn things better.)

-----

Scott’s hands shook, one wrapped white knuckled around his holstered gun, the other balled into a fist by his side.

Bare desert surrounded him, scoured by relentless winds.

Cold sweat ran down the back of his neck, despite the heat. He shivered. The endless heat rippled above the ground, refracted light warping his sight.

He put one boot in front of the other, step after step. It didn’t matter how much his legs wanted to fold beneath him. Weak knees begging to give in and fall kneeling on the sand.

He kept going.

Scott missed his IR blues. This uniform fit the same, except it was dusty camouflage. His belt held ammunition clips, not rescue equipment. Or maybe it was. This had to be a rescue, Scott couldn’t face anything else.

A gust of wind stroked over his cheeks and Scott flinched. His saliva was tacky in his mouth as he swallowed. He could taste the sand.

When his radio hissed with static, Scott’s breath hitched. It resolved into Kayo’s voice, running through last positions. Approach by stealth. Scott snapped out a crisp military, “Acknowledged.” He hoped his sister would miss how hard it was to get out a single word without his voice breaking.

He marched on.

It loomed in the distance. The compound walls were stone, a single story high. It was made of the same rock as everything else here.

Scott hadn’t remembered that.

The paramilitary base was stout, sprawling, and as unassuming as any other settlement around here.

In Scott’s head it had loomed dark against the sands, rock the same colour as congealed bl--- as rust.

He still swore it was large enough to block out the sun.

All familiar, too familiar. He smelt blood and bitter fear. Scott stumbled to a halt. Something ran down his face, leaving a warm trail. He swiped his hand across his cheek.

His fingers came away damp and salty, but not red, they weren’t red. It was only sweat. The day was hot, he was sweaty, that was all.

The blood and fear were tricks of his mind.

(It didn’t matter for months that was all he could smell.)

Gritty rock, solid beneath his feet was real. The rest wasn’t, not now, not anymore.

The others had argued against Scott coming. Virgil had lain a hand on his shoulder and looked at him with soft, soft eyes. His brother would forgive him if Scott sat this one out. But Scott could never forgive himself. He knew the terrain best. He’d been there. Every crack of that place was carved into his bones. He was the tactical advantage.

Scott tore his eyes away for as long as he could. He stared up at the searing blue sky, desperately hoping for the light and the colour to sink into his skin. The sky’s promise of freedom if only he could reach it.

He took a step, then another. He just kept taking them.

(Kept taking the hits, even when there was no way he could stand it any longer.)

Every instinct told him to get the hell out of here. Turn back, flee, like the spooked animal he was. Scott ducked his head and ignored them like he had all the other warning signs in his life.

Bereznik. The place he’d swore to never set foot in again.

(On dark days, he still saw it in his dreams. Those were the ones his feet pounded the island tracks, before the sun even rose. When he ran until his muscles trembled with exhaustion and nothing else.)

(He dreamt of the island while he was there. Of blue skies, blue skies, his blue skies. He woke crying and desperately wiped the tears away because he couldn’t given them any more reasons.)

(Afterwards, he’d been wrenched awake more times than he could count to his brothers bursting into his room. They’d say they heard him screaming in his sleep.)

Bereznik. The place he’d spent years of his life trying to out run, out climb, out fly.

Because he couldn’t go back.

He had to. For his little brother.

He kept walking because Gordon was in there. His sunshine little brother who loved life itself with all the joy of the sea meeting the shore.

He couldn’t let them turn him into Scott.

He couldn’t.

He kept walking.

-----

Gordon took Scott’s spare side arm as he handed it to him, checked it over expertly, and followed Scott out of hell.

(The way Gordon never hesitated when he had to shoot would haunt Scott forever.)

They escaped that place. Running over shifting sands towards a stealth-hidden One. The kilometres left to go beneath their feet. Gordon’s stony, set face. Scott’s own heartbeat throbbing in his ears.

He kept going.

Gave into every instinct to flee he’d pushed down before, now he had his brother back.

His and Gordon’s breaths came in pants, out of time with each other and their dull footsteps on the sands.

The sun beat down on them, shadows stark, rippling, wavering, urging them on.

Scott stumbled on a rock, lurching, the desert coming up fast towards him, until Gordon caught his arm. Gordon who he was meant to be rescuing.

No time to fall, no time to stop. He didn't think he could even if he wanted to. He’d be crawling through the sands, dragging his body over the rocks, bleeding out before he stopped.

Dizzying adrenaline surged through his veins. Scott couldn’t tell the difference between fear and freedom any longer. They were the same, his heart pumping for further, faster, higher.

The sky closed in on them, holding them close, pulling them away from the sand.

They were alone in the desert. Pursued by enemies. Alone.

(The same alone of falling from the sky in a perfectly controlled dive, his hands the only ones on his ‘bird.)

(Or the same alone as trapped in a cell, where the thick walls blocked every sound.)

(They were both running from that place now.)

Clouds of dust were kicked up by their boots, eddying and swirling. The wind tossed what it wanted across the desert without a care in the world, picking up the sand and scarce plant life alike. Erasing foot prints like they were never there.

(Like it was all a bad dream. Too many times when he was there, Scott’s mind had taken him home. To his brothers around him, and the old farmhouse. To mum’s musical laugh accompanying the piano. Dad’s hands on Scott’s as he showed him how to fly, before he could even reach the foot pedals. He’d curl up in the big bed with his family around him, because it was just a nightmare.)

(Waking up was worse than anything his capturers could do to him.)

He and Gordon kept running. They hung onto each other, gripping far too tight, running together.

Running, running, running.

They climbed into One, pulling each other up. Scott’s hands fell to the controls, as blindly and as easily as breathing.

Gordon buckled himself into the passenger’s seat. The sound of his brother shouting, “Go, go, go, go go!” washed over Scott’s ears.

Something inside him was still screaming.

The Thunderbird’s engines thrummed at fever pitch, burning up in seconds.

Grounded landing shifted to VTOL, shifted to flight.

And Scott out flew them all.

His one grace, the one thing he couldn’t ever fail at. The only reason he was still alive, in too many ways.

Blue, his blue, swallowed them up.

Enemy planes were blips on his radar, dark specks beyond his windscreen. Then they were flashes of red and debris tumbling towards the ground. In his element, they never stood a chance.

That place, Bereznik was a tiny rectangle blot against a sea of beige from the air, not even able to touch the sky.

(Not able to touch him up here. Not able to take his brothers.)

It merged with the desert sands, blurring into the dust left behind them.

All was searing sunlight. The bright burned everything else away.

(Gordon had show him the sun, afterwards. Dragged Scott out of his room and out of his head, down to the beach. They lay on the sand, fine yellow sand, as the sun shone on them, soaking into their bones. Scott was drowning in blue, blue, blue in the way he loved, the way he’d lost and forgotten.)

The world opened up for him and all he had to do was fly.

As soon as he reached friendly skies, Scott switched to the autopilot. He got up from his seat and walked the length of Thunderbird One, to where Gordon was crouched by a locker, digging for a first aid kit.

Then, for Scott, the sky came crashing closed.

His legs gave way and his knees hit the metal flooring with a crack. He never felt it. Scott’s eyes were on Gordon, staring at the bruises on his face, the blood crusted on his upper lip.

They’d taken his brother. And they’d hurt him.

Scott made to say anything, anything at all, but he only managed a tiny croak.

He was frozen, kneeling on the floor, chest heaving.

(He fell to the floor, too weak to get up.)

He wasn't a fighter, everyone got that wrong about him. Commander of the IR was an act. He wasn't strong like his father, no matter how much he wanted to be. Scott was just pathetic and terrified.

(How quickly he’d learnt to keep his head down and his mouth shut, meekly following orders.)

Virgil knew, because of course he knew, Scott could never keep anything from him. John figured it out, so Scott didn't have to tell him.

(Screaming until his throat was raw. He’d promised himself he wouldn't make a sound and give them the satisfaction, but it just hurt too much.)

The little ones could never know. Not Alan and Gordon. He couldn't let that place touch them.

(Sobbing on the ground, just lying there because he was so, so tired.)

But Gordon was in front of him, black eye on the way to swelling closed.

(His arm cradled to his middle, and he was pretty sure it was broken with how it throbbed, but there wasn't anything he could do about it except hope the pain went way.)

Gordon’s lips were moving, he was saying something, Scott couldn't make out what he was saying.

(Blurry figures dragged him to his feet and he couldn’t stop them.)

Gently, gently, Gordon wrapped his arms around Scott.

Solid and warm and real and right here.

Scott choked out a gasping sob. Then another. Until he was just crying his eyes out between desperate gulps for air.

The edges of his sight went black and Scott swayed, clutching at Gordon’s torn uniform. There was no yellow baldric, somehow it was missing. Gordon held him tighter, still ever so gentle, until Scott was leaning on him for support.

Scott shut his eyes, and hid his face at Gordon’s shoulder.

He’d see who Scott really was and then it would be far too late for anything at all.

All Scott could do was pretend it wouldn't happen.

(Blankly watching trails of red make their way over his skin. He knew it was blood. It was his blood and he just didn't care anymore.)

(He could never escape the smell of blood and bitter fear that clung to him.)

He couldn’t pull away, not from Gordon, not from his little brother.

(Helpless, helpless, helpless, helpless, helpless.)

(Wrapping his arms around himself, desperately wishing they were his brothers. Knowing they weren’t and glad of it. This place could have him, he didn’t care anymore as long as the others were alright.)

But slowly, ever so slowly, the world filtered back in. Gordon was still there. He held Scott, rubbing a hand up and down his back. His breaths were deep and steady, clashing with Scott’s ragged ones. He’d been hyperventilating? Worn IR blue filled Scott’s vision when he tentatively opened his eyes, his eyelids gummed up with tears. Scott’s head swum, woozy from panic and lack of oxygen.

“We’re okay. I’m okay. I’ve got you Scotty, you’re okay.” Gordon’s babbling words came through, familiar, familiar in the way that meant he was safe.

Scott managed a small noise, a whimper when he thought Gordon was pulling away.

Gordon’s arms tightened, and Scott could breathe again.

“Shhh, shhh. I just wanna check on you. I’m not going to go anywhere.”

Reluctantly Scott let Gordon move until they could look each other in the face, still nearly nose to nose. He managed to avoid Gordon’s eyes.

Gordon’s glanced away, tugging at Scott’s hand a couple of times. Scott allowed him to, he trusted Gordon.

A small blue hologram appeared from his wrist comm, as Gordon activated it.

“Why the hell did you cut comms?!” John’s voice sliced the air, sharp and worried.

“He’s okay, Johnny,” Gordon answered, “We’re both a bit worse for wear, but everything is fine.”

John didn’t rise to the nickname. Instead he let out a relieved noise, tipping his head back and closing his eyes. The same sound he always made when he was scared for his brothers and finally got news they were alright.

Something passed between John and Gordon. Scott let it fly over his head, too tired to parse out the meaning.

“I can handle this. Just be there when we get home,” Gordon said, then signed off the call.

When Gordon let go of his hand, Scott let it fall limply into his lap.

He stared at their knees, his own in beige camouflage, Gordon’s in his wetsuit, both coated in desert dust.

“I’m sorry,” Scott blurted out. He took a shaky breath.

Gordon’s voice was steady, but tears glinted in the corners of his eyes. “You came for me. That’s all that matters.”

“You were there.” His voice cracked in the middle.

“I’m okay though. It’s just a few bruises, and you got me out.”

Scott reached for the first aid kit sitting on the floor beside them. There wasn’t anything he could do about the rest right now, but this was something he could do.

Gordon let him wipe away the blood from his face, along with the worst of the dirt. He turned his head with Scott’s gentle fingers on his chin. Neither of them commented on how Scott’s hands trembled ever so slightly.

(Cleaning up Gordon’s scrapes was the same, no matter how many years it had been since Scott had lifted Gordon up onto the kitchen bench because he was too short to hop up by himself, and applied fish bandaids to grazed knees.)

At home they could put an ice pack on the bruises. The dark circles beneath Gordon’s eyes could only be solved by sleep, safe with everyone on the island. It would probably help the worried crinkle between his brows too.

Gordon sagged in exaustion, now leaning on Scott. They rested on each other, half against the storage lockers.

Scott helped Gordon out of the top half of his wetsuit, wanting to check up on the cut beneath the tear in his uniform. Gordon wriggled his shoulders and body free, but kept his arms inside the sleeves. He winced when Scott dabbed antiseptic at the thin cut that stretched from collar bone to part way down his chest.

He gave Scott a big, shiny grin that didn’t reach his eyes. Blood started to ooze from the tiny split in his lower lip, caused by Gordon’s chapped lips and trying to smile for Scott.

Gently, Scott wiped it away.

He clenched slightly bloodied gauze in his fist, putting himself together enough to ask, “What happened, Gordon?”

Because no one came out of there okay. Gordon was avoiding the hurt, at the same time as he was trying to protect Scott from it. And what Scott needed most right now was to be able to be a big brother and help Gordon.

“Scotty, I’m okay. They mostly didn't hurt me. It was three days, they had you for months.” Gordon attempted to reassure him or maybe himself, by just telling himself he was fine.

Months. Scott could rattle off the exact timings from his after action report.

He didn’t remember much.

Mostly the snippets that he could put together were from the early days.

(Name, rank, serial number. Name, rank, serial number. Name, rank, serial number.)

(Setting his own dislocated shoulder by crashing into the walls, grunting and gasping. Because he knew he couldn't leave it like that, but it hurt worse than what they’d done and there were tears streaming down his face. Over and over, vision whiting out, until it grated back into position.)

(Gnawing hunger in his stomach, head pounding from dehydration. He wasn't sure when they last gave him a meal. Or when, or whether they would again.)

Later, everything blurred together.

(Darkness closing in.)

(He’d do anything just to see a glimpse of sky.)

(For his family to hold him close one last time.)

(Just to make the pain stop.)

What had they done to Gordon?

Three days was enough.

(They’d learnt how to tear Scott apart in minutes.)

Scott reached out to touch Gordon’s arm but he flinched away.

“I’m here Gordon. No matter how bad it is,” He said, to the second youngest of his little brothers. And he would be here, no matter how long it took for both of them.

Hesitantly, Gordon peeled away the rest of his wetsuit, hissing in pain, revealing his wrists. In amongst Gordon’s old hydrofoil scars, now only raised pink lines, his wrists were covered in red marks, his skin raw and torn. Some cut deep enough to be oozing blood.

Injuries Scott knew only came from desperately thrashing against restraints.

“Gordy.”

Gordon whispered, “They said they had you. That they’d hurt you again, like before.” His little brother sounded far too young.

Scott gathered him up in his arms. Hot tears ran down his face, he was crying again. They both were. Gordon was shakily sobbing against his chest.

They clung to each other.

Bereznik had taken something from both of them. Something had broken, cracked right down the centre. Scott still didn’t know whether it could ever be completely fixed.

But they had each other. They had their brothers, their family.

Neither of them were okay right now, but one day they would be at least a bit better. In the same way the clouds parted after the monsoon rains on the island, their blue skies would come again. They’d still have scars but the sunlight would reach Gordon’s ocean and Scott would fly.

Scott held onto Gordon, and Gordon held onto Scott for the rest of the way home.

Until Thunderbird One was in her hanger and they were both standing on the steady floor. Until the rest of their brothers, Virgil, Alan, John, all came up to hold onto them too.