#similar fighting styles. similar stupidity

[king-wens-king]

yooo fun idea... what if jims brother is actually alive but was separated from them during the attack, and in typical AngstTM fest, was kidnapped by the siete gallos, escaped, and also grew up as a crazy skilled assasin. what if they meet again in the future in a fight. flash of recognition. reunion and stuff. yeah

[luthwhore]

my hot take about the series finale of smallville, a decade too late, is that the character we are presented at the end of the show isn’t lex. and i don’t mean this in some tinhat conspiracy theory way or in a “the show writers ruined his characterization” way—i mean literally, on the page, the person we are presented with at the end of the show is a completely different person than the one who died.

like. lex died. the real lex dies. we know this is an objective fact within the smallville universe. after michael rosenbaum left the show, lex was killed off. the show runners could have chosen to leave him alive off-screen, but they did not. he died.

then the show decided to bring him back from the dead via cloning. except… that’s not how cloning works. they did not bring back the original lex luthor. they created a new person, via cloning, who had the same DNA as lex.

now briar, you may say, he has lex’s memories and personality! so doesn’t that mean he is lex? and i think that question is philosophically complicated, but if you look at it from a purely scientific point of view… no. the original lex is still dead. this new person may have all lex’s memories, and he may even believe he is lex, but critically—the original lex is still dead.

but even if you argue that having lex’s memories is enough—that even if the original lex is still dead, this still has all of his memories and personality (arguably), so even if he is not the original, he is still lex from a character perspective—he doesn’t even have that at the end of the show! they give him amnesia! he has no memories!

think of it this way (and i am showing my age with this metaphor, but bear with me): you buy a CD. then the CD gets lost, or stolen, or broken. you then burn a copy of that CD. it is not the original, but it still has all of the same songs on it. the sound quality is a little off, and you don’t have the case for it, but it’s still mostly the same. but then the CD gets corrupted somehow, and now none of the songs will play. do you still own that CD? i would say, definitively, no.

which means that at the end of the show, what we are left with is not the original lex returned from the grave. he isn’t even a copy of the original lex who is indistinguishable from the original. he may look like lex, he may sound like lex, he may even act a little like lex, but functionally? the character we are presented with is little more than a stranger with lex’s face.

[pedgito]

𝐁𝐋𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐅𝐀𝐕𝐎𝐑 | Marcus Acacius x f!reader

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summary | A female gladiator plucked from the arena by the most powerful general in Rome, convinced to serve under his command. You learn that his taste for blood might not be so different from your own.

author's note | the horny demons strike again. this has a little plot, thanks to the beautiful minds of @ovaryacted and @kedsandtubesocks who deal with my crazy so generously.

content warning | 18+ mdni, set pre-gladiator ii, description of war & mistreatment of women in roman society, female gladiator, dark-ish!acacius, reader has minimal backstory, but is revealed to be nameless (uses monikers given to her: medusa, fury, minerva), fighting, m*rder, blood tw, gore tw, sa warning (i have it annotated further below with content, but nothing graphic) acacius covered in someone elses blood as he fucks you, copious smut, biting as a little treat

word count — 8k

“How much?” Acacius inquires, tapping his finger against the iron bars holding you prisoner, staring back at the men. The ginger twins and a man—no, a general. Dressed in a toga of thick material, embroidered with intricate designs, gold bangles at his wrist, a telltale sign of high honor. 

“Oh, she is…” The older one, Geta, teeth digging into his bottom lip as he shakes his head, “priceless—quite the fighter, too.”

“Does she have a name?” 

Geta smirks to himself, “They call her Medusa. She favors beheading, it seems.” Geta waggles a finger through the bars and smirks, nose scrunching as he addresses you, “Correct?” 

You ignore him, responding with a stare—much like your given moniker; if looks could kill.

“She’s bested them all,” Caracalla boasts from beside his brother, Dundus fiddling with his hair from where she was perched on his shoulder, “even our lion that we’ve had since kids.”

“It was a stupid idea, your fault,” Geta retorts, “but—again, she’s not for sale.”

“I’ll conquer India within the next few nightfalls, a handful of new gladiators fresh for the choosing, for your entertainment—how does that sound?”

Greedy as they were and entirely too incompetent, Caracalla agrees before his brother can open his mouth. 

“Will you bring her back to visit?” Caracalla inquires with an underlying excitement—the poor brother was nothing but a dunce, erratic and impulsive, but all too easy to manipulate. “The others may miss her.”

“Indeed,” Another swift but convincing lie, Caracalla and Acacius shake hands on the deal before Geta can retort, fuming with rage as he stomps away.

He’d taken a liking to your fighting style despite his distaste for the arena. Strategic and skilled, brute strength and a drive that was built around pure survival but somehow all while maintaining the perfect amount of gracefulness that men did not. Constant calculation, finesse, it was like an art.

He’s gone through several guards over his rule, some from sacrifice but others out of pure ignorance. He needed a strong base, malleable but resistant. He could shape you into a leader, he thinks. He knows.

Your hard stare is like ice as the keys jingle into the lock, a defining click a resounding echo of freedom and General Acacius extends his palm.

A gesture of freedom, a new life, trepidation fills you despite your yearn for a way out of this prison. Here it was, served up on a platter covered in intricate facets of white and gold, stubble brushing his cheeks and soft brown eyes offering kindness.

This was not a man of sheer violence, not the tales they tell about him—this was a man of trouble, conflict, and an instinct to protect himself. And he’d chosen you.

Your hands slips into his, a similar roughness to match his own and scars that Acacius knew well enough of—you were a true fighter, a warrior.

The two boys—calling the men would be too easy, they often acted like spoiled children, were already off to their own chambers, and Acacius had only dropped his hard facade slightly, still under the watchful eye of Rome’s guards, he led you onto your new life.

-

“I cannot accept,” You argue, as respectful as you could manage, hands crossed firmly over your front, near your waist as you spoke to General Acacius in his private office at home, a place few have stepped foot into, but yet somehow, again, you were given a free pass.

“Are you refusing my order?” Acacius counters, there’s pillowyness to his tone, almost taunting.

“Sir—er, General,” It was all new to you, formalities, structure, rules, “I…am a woman.”

“I am not blind,” Acacius squints his eyes slightly, before leaning back in the creaky chair, “my men—they will not question my choices. They listen, they do their duties. They need strong leadership. Gladiator, I believe you can bestow that upon them.”

“I am a stranger to you, you know nothing of me,” You tell him, a full truth, “General, I fear you may have made the wrong decision, I am not what you think I—”

Silently, Acacius fingers curl around the handle to a drawer hidden behind his desk, pulling out a sharp knife with a handle carved of bone, twisting it in his grip before he’s rearing his arm back, throwing it in your direction.

It zips by with force, the tip of the knife snagging and burying itself deep into the wall behind you, your head whipping to the side to follow it, the sharp blade barely missing the skin of your ear. 

Quick reflexes. You turn back to a smirking Acacius.

“I am positive, had I thrown that between your eyes you would have caught it without overthinking the consequences—most of my men would do the same,” Acacius lectures, standing with his brutish frame and walking toward the wall, the soft flow of a breeze kissing at your fists.

“Though, I have another proposition,” Acacius says lightly, twisting the knife in his hand, the pointing spinning against his fingertip as he circles around you, “—attack me.”

“Sir,” You argue, “that surely defeats the purpose of—”

His fist balls up tight and aims for your side. Acacius sees it, the anticipation as you block his hand. He chuckles underneath his breath, “Please, continue,” He teases, twisting out of your grip to pull another punch that you block with ease—he was going easy, you think.

Natural reaction takes hold and his test quickly turns into a full-out brawl, twisting and slipping underneath his grip until you have him pinned against a nearby wall, teeth bared with his forearm pressed against his throat, struggling to grip his free arm.

The real test is here, as Acacius bares the knife near your neck, an immediate reaction to protect yourself rather than go for the kill shot, knowing that anyone of normal skill would be too full of bloodlust to think of anything other than killing you. Protection and defense came first, taking the small nick of a cut to your own forearm before you’re knocking the knife out of his hand and wrestling him to the ground with a swift kick to his leg, rendering him helpless.

“Indeed, you are exactly what I think you are,” Acacius says with finality, “I want you to lead my personal guard. Whatever it is I must do to obtain that, my lady I will do—riches, bribery—”

You push away from him with a heavy exhale, standing and adjusting your clothes, brushing your hair away from your face, “No need, I will do it.”

Acacius rolls to his back, hand extending once more. 

This time, it is you offering the help as he uses the leverage to rise to his feet before speaking to you with a triumphant tone. 

“Commander,” He grins, “let us plan.”

–

He often asks of your lineage, your home. But, there is nothing to offer. A long conquered piece of land now under the rule of Rome and a home that was never a home. An orphan you had always been, nameless, taking greedily whatever name was bestowed upon you. 

In the arena it was Medusa, the tale of a vicious woman with god-like power. Caracalla had told you of the story, the boys having taken a liking to you in different ways. Geta was fiendish, hungry, often seeking you out for his own pleasure to which you wouldn’t deny. Couldn’t. He could be rough, but he wasn’t.

He seemed lonely, the poor boy.

Carcalla was only searching for a friend despite his unruly, chaotic nature. When he wasn’t ruling with tyranny over Rome, terrorizing the townspeople, he was telling you stories.

Other times it was only she. Or her. Or just girl. The girl.

You were only what people assumed of you, expected you to be.

“Medusa, ay?” A greasy looking man confirms, one of the six men who were to be under your command, “The gladiator?”

“You will respect her,” General Acacius had warned them, “or an apology will be your dying breath.”

It had struck most of them with fear. Most of them.

And for many nights, countless, it seems—the transition of leadership was smooth. You had an unyielding grip on them, awaiting direction, following your orders. It was the kind of rush most would only dream of, and as a woman, it was an unforeseen privilege. 

“They address you as Medusa, too,” Acacius notes during a roundtable session as the other men wander off for dinner, “do you wish for them to address you differently?”

“I have no name, General,” You admit, “I am whatever I must be. If they think of me as so, that is what I am. Though, I would love to turn a few of them into stone, given I was granted her powers.”

“I believe you could manage that feat without them,” Acacius jokes, “—but, nameless? Even at birth?”

“I know nothing of my birth parents. They told me I was found wrapped in cloth under the bridge that led into the town your army eventually turned to rubble,” A bittersweet feeling, speaking unusually out of term, facing him with the facts, “though, it does not matter. I enjoy the fear they have of me, keeps wandering hands at bay.”

Such an enigma, Acacius eyes you curiously. It was the most you’ve opened up to him since retrieving you from your cell, and even then, still forcing him to face the consequences of war.

The guilt followed him at every waking moment.

“Do you need anything further of me, General?” You ask politely, “You have spoiled my appetite as of late and your men are greedy with the stew.”

“You are dismissed,” He speaks distantly, turning over the thick, coarse paper with a drawn out map of the territory they were to invade soon, a lingering well wish leaving his lips, “sleep well, commander.”

Unfortunately, you’ve turned to sleeping with a knife under your bedroll—with a lingering ache of betrayal, you weren’t allowing yourself to lower your guard.

-

The attacks do not start at night. Rather during the day, when the General is off and away, scouting ahead further when half of his army while the other half sticks at camp, keeping claim.

That is when the insults come, the disbelief, the mockery.

Most of his men settled with the idea, having accepted your position even if it displeased them. 

But, there was one. Like a bull—hardheaded and stocky, fists and arms like clubs, testosterone radiating from his body in crashing waves. He wants you to fear him, submit to him. 

You feel it. You see it. And you’ve been through it before, other large and brutish gladiators thinking with their muscles rather than their brains. It wouldn’t take long for them to meet their demise, but this one was…different.

He approaches you with a smile than anyone could see right through, a finger brushing your cheek as he pushes a strand of hair behind your ear, leaning in to brush his lips against the shell of it.

“They are hungry,” He drips of vicious intention, “—I say, you give us a show. Entertain us, Medusa.”

Your eyes snap to him, staring him down.

“Pitiful Acacius isn’t here to save you,” He warns, “though, I have reason to believe he is as weak as most men—spread your legs and he’ll be begging for a taste, too.”

“I will gut you where you stand,” You warn, reaching for the thick machete at your waist, “you’re like a pig. Brainless and greedy for whatever you can get. Touch me, I dare you.”

The rest of the men are relatively quiet, but they do not stop him. Smirks and half-smiles hidden behind their cups, lounging on a log near their tents, enjoying the entertainment. 

It was nightfall, the fire crackling between you and them, a towering presence at your backside.

And as he dares to, his hand slides up your waist. 

Without hesitation you flip the weapon in your grip, grabbing at his wrist and slicing at his arm—a featherlight touch, it was merrily a glorified papercut, but his eyes widened in shock.

“Let us see how well you touch without fingers,” You threaten, flipping the machete until it is pointing in his face, death grip on the handle if he dared to take it, taunting him with the sharp end of your blade, “hands?”

That deep, rumbling sound of hooves approaches through the darkness, everyone slowly falling back into their paces as you welcome back your General with a forced smile.

Acacius hands off the reins to another rider, taking scope of the situation that seemed to be defusing in front of him, but still—he notices. His eyes trade glances between you both before he nods at you to follow him.

Speaking under his breath, “The others have coined you as fury,” He laughs softly at the pseudonym, “little fury, they tell me. Like the Furies. I cannot say I disagree with them. Has he been pestering you long?”

Your brow furrows at the reference, lost on your ill-informed mind.

“Long enough,” You answer honestly, “though, he was bestowed a parting gift this time.”

You raise your blade, his blood still painting the weapon.

He raises the curtain to his tent, allowing you to enter before him.

“Do you know nothing of the Furies?”

“I was not privy to bedtime tales, General.”

He nods, thoughtful as his lips pull together in a thin line, slowly removing his armor as he sits, directing for you to take a seat opposite of him, a few feet away on a decaying stump.

“Goddesses,” He states simply, “of vengeance, striking the wicked down. You have…fire, deep within you. Do not let them put it out, it is your weapon.”

You nod obediently, feeling the humidity stick to your skin, clothes glued to your body as you sit in the uncomfortable heat. There was no world in which you felt safe enough to strip down, quell your body of this unbearable summer weather. You would rather suffer, thick garb covering your body.

Acacius tilts his head, but does not comment.

“I require your protection tomorrow, we must scout an additional day and I fear danger is imminent—relay this to them,” He instructs, “and my lady, if you fear they will visit you at night, that they might strike when you’re vulnerable, you are welcome here.”

He already anticipates your response—he knows, but the gesture was an offer. A kindness. 

“If they try, you will be searching for new men by sunrise, General.”

Acacius smirks in amusement, nodding to your words.

“It would not be difficult to replace them,” He notes, “though, little fury, you are irreplaceable.” 

-

General Acacius wasn’t an easy man to protect, but you managed. Over the few weeks that you had taken point within his guard it has leant you plenty of opportunities to prove your worth, slaughtering opposing soldiers like cattle for the glory of Rome, his booming voice pronouncing vie victis as the dead are laid rest under fire and smoke.

But, conflict comes when you are faced with a decision as the camp was raided under complete, utter darkness. It was your shift to guard the General, perched outside of his tent with constant, roaming eyes. Eventually, you drift. It was peaceful, nature taking hold and pulling you under, awoken to the sound of blood curdling screams, the ground painted with the innards of both Acacius’ men and the others.

You were forced with a choice—defend the camp, something Acacius would have told you to do in a moment of desperation, a self-sacrificing man himself. Ironic, given your position, that you even think otherwise. Of course, your feet pull you toward him, whipping the flowing fabric of his tent door back.

There was a knife at his neck, a man towering over him. He’d snuck past—taken advantage of your exhaustion and your mistake was putting the General’s life at risk, his face stoic as he pushed back against the blade with his palm.

Without thinking, you rush toward the man, pulling back at his collar to plunge the knife pointed at Acacius into his own throat, a silent death through the notch of his neck, the blood flowing out like a river, tossing the lifeless man to the side before you’re reaching for your General.

“Do not worry,” He assures you as he rises, still groggy from sleep, “go—protect our camp.”

“But, General,” You plead, not realizing that your hand was grasping on his own, or that he had initiated the touch as a gentle push, a confirmation that he was truly alright, “it is my fault.”

His eyes peer behind you and to the man lying lifeless on the floor, blood pooling around his body.

“Though, it seems you have done your duty,” Acacius comments, head turned down as he stares at the body before his eyes peer up at you under his dark lashes, pensive, “now—kill them.”

-

You had lost a hundred or so men, nothing to the army of five thousand, but any loss was felt within General Acacius’ army—men of honor, with families or not, deserved a proper farewell. 

Covered in the blood of many, some of your friends and some of strangers, hair matted and reeking of death, you approach General Acacius who was sending off a group of men to begin digging the mass grave to dispose of the bodies.

Your body ached, bruised and nicked from battle—you had killed at least five hundred men alone. Pure rage and fury, not a memory of it as you approached him now, a blank stare void of emotion that concerns Acacius, his hand reaching for your wrist as you begin to pass him, heading for your own tent to collapse in exhaustion. 

“You did well,” He notes, catching your gaze as he turns his head to infiltrate your line of sight, “wash off before you turn in, you…reek. There’s a river beyond the bend—clean, warm.”

You nod despite only paying half-attention to his words, walking mindlessly toward the river before you are faced with the unfortunate crowd of men, undressed to their natural state, avoiding the watchful eyes and preying gazes, stripping your armor off down near the empty end of the river, pulling at your tangled hair, pulling off each remaining piece of clothing despite your body’s protest, screaming for relief.

It wasn’t unfamiliar, the looks—you bathed alongside all the men under the arena without a thought, knowing most of them were vying for freedom and wouldn’t dare risk it by allowing their cocks to work overtime, forgetting rational thought.

But, to them, you were a trophy. Someone—something, to be conquered.

The thin, flimsy undergarments come off last, stepping into the water and sinking down slowly. The blood washes away as you scrub, back turned as you dip your head into the water before committing  entirely, plugging your nose as you dip underneath the water, finding peace in the silence.

“I had my doubts, Medusa,” A voice bellows from behind as you rise, your eyes peeling open with a quickly growing annoyance, “of you being a true woman, but—”

“Careful,” One of the men warned, a stable boy, “she will run to the general.”

It was the same man from many nights ago, big and brutish, always looking for a fight, even with the other men. He hadn’t learned his lesson, clearly. 

“Acacius is busy,” He retorts, “so—what say you give us the show you owe us?”

You stand frozen in place, staring daggers at the man who seems only more amused as the anger in you builds, permeates.

(sa themes below: noncon touching, reader is naked in front of several men)

“Get out of the water,” He demands, “unless you prefer I come get you.”

You survey your choices, knowing that staying in the water wasn’t a safe option. They can and will wait you out. Your eyes track toward your clothes, further away than you had left them. Your eyes track the scar on his forearm and you smirk, teething peeking out behind your lips, “How beautiful,” You tell him, his eyes slowly following your own, “quite the scar, is it not? Fancy another?”

You spot the knife sheathed in his leather belt, taking your chances despite the vulnerability that remains with your naked frame on full display as you retreat from the water, he nods with confidence as you approach, a faint whistle in the distance that you’ve heard before. The oaf seems to ignore it, though. His large hand comes to your breast in an instant, body dripping wet and a sickness churning in your gut as the sticks of torch and fire approach amongst the murmuring crowd of men, less than subtle about the rowdiness that was ensuing.

He pulls you into his body with a greedy hunger as his opposite hands gropes at your backside, following the curve of your ass as your hand snakes toward the blade, but the voice that rips through the crowd is enough to wake the dead, silence falling over the area in an instant.

“Remove your hand,” Acacius voice travels, the same booming voice he uses to declare victory over a new territory, “or I will remove it myself.”

“General,” The man addressed in a drunkish manner, inviting, “she was offering—Medusa, tell him.”

Your silence is expected, his hand wandering toward your other breast, biting hard enough at the inside of your cheek that it draws blood—Acacius sees your hand wrapping around the blade and speaks again, approaches closer as the mud sticks to his boots, “I will tell you once more. Remove it.”

The man eyes you with disdain, dropping his hands away as you relinquish your hold of his weapon, allowing the breath caught in your chest to escape, but it doesn’t stop the touch that follows, taunting with its intention as his palm curls around the back of your head, tilting your head to the side as he squeezes, “I forget—you are the General’s property after all.”

(end of sa themes)

“Take him,” He orders the other lingering guards, men who’ve never shown you anything other than respect—they value their lives and limbs, as any sane person would, “and start the fire.”

Acacius looks around at the lingering eyes, “I suggest all of you return to camp. Now.”

That was all it took, most of them scrambling for their own clothes and armor as they retreated like scurrying mice or dogs with their tail between their legs, leaving you under Acacius' careful gaze. He reaches down to fetch you dirtied clothes, looking them over with disgust.

He removes the black cape around his shoulders without a word, opening it as an offering. Desperate to cover yourself, you slip your arms in the sleeves with his help, his eyes wandering no further than your face as you turn to him, tucking the cape around yourself. He reaches for the hood, pulling it down.

“Come,” He demands, “I would like you to witness.”

–

The screams are audible as you approach camp, a few feet behind Acacius as he rounds the fire and separates the crowd to create a path, approaching the man bound at his feet, one arm roped at his side and secured away, leaving him to fight the men that held him down.

“General, gen—general, I am sorry,” He pleads, “she—you do not understand, she taunts. She is poison, not a leader,” He continues, despite Acacius lack of response, making a motion with his hand to remove the man’s weapon and hand it to him, pulling it from it’s leather cover and examining the blade, he makes a soft sound to himself, “Acacius—you have known me for years. Do not let this woman trick you.”

“Gag him,” He ignores his pleading, leaning down to grip the hand of the man bound below, “your humility is amusing, but your greed is what is costing you. She has shown you mercy, but I will not.”

The cut isn’t a clean slice, either. It takes several swings before the limb detaches, blood spurting out of the appendage as the man screams in pain, dragged helplessly toward the fire before they’re cauterizing the wound—your body unreactive as you watch but silently stewing with frustration.

He had spared the man, sure. But, making a show of it? A mockery?

“Commander, with me,” General Acacius demands, waiting for you to snap back into reality, your eyes meeting his face, blood covering his armor and hands, somehow avoidant of most of the mess.

When you are alone, you don’t hold back.

“I would have handled him,” You tell him, “killed him myself.”

“This is not the arena, we do not go around slaughtering our men without reason,” Acacius retorts, “he will be demoted and replaced and be a reminder to the others that you—”

“I do not need you defending my honor, General.”

“Men will not change, this—society, it does not cater to your safety. To them, women are nothing but vanity and pleasure—”

“And property,” You remark, “lest you forget how you obtained me, General.”

Acacius approaches you near the table at the center of his tent, only a foot away as he removes his armor plate, pulling it over his head, “Had I not, you would have paid for your own freedom eventually. I needed a leader—strong, smart, powerful.”

“By punishing that man, you are sending the message that I need my battles fought for me,” You argue, “and as if these men did not already think I was the General’s plaything, what will they think now?”

Acacius sighs through his nose, pulling at the fabric of his tunic that bares his chest, “I believe they will behave,” He tells you, “because you will not be as kind when you take their heads. He was an example and a pain in my ass for years, he deserved more than that.”

“And what will they think of me now? I am naked under this cloak, your cloak. I must walk the path back to my tent surrounded by men deprived of the things your bestial minds crave.”

Acacius chuckles to himself, “I have been thinking,” He begins, “that you deserve a new name. Something indicative of all that you are. Some of the men award each other with monikers of war. Medusa seems to have become more of a taunt, in light of recent events.”

He unties the leather bands at his wrist, eyeing you with a mischievous gaze as he keeps you waiting, “Have you heard the tale of Minerva, my lady?”

It isn’t a surprise, but you shake your head.

“A goddess of many things—strategy, warfare, victory, and justice…but mostly importantly, wisdom. I have seen the way you command the battlefield, it is not lost on me.”

“You have…many stories, General.”

“My mother told me one every night as she tucked me, it seems they have stuck with me.”

Tell me more, the words linger in the back of your throat.

“I am barely standing, General. I must retire for the night.”

“Indeed,” He agrees, shamelessly stripping down to his undergarments to walk toward the clean bowl of water and wash away the drying blood, “and Minerva,” the name is completely foreign, but you respond with a hum, “your position is yours alone. You have earned it. Do not let them tell you otherwise.”

-

Like Medusa, the name sticks.

And thankfully, you were a few weeks away from a much-earned break from war, returning to Rome as a free woman for the first time, having finally fallen into a comfortable rhythm with the rest of his personal guards—a mutual respect that had been missing, men waiting for your command.

Long nights of planning spent in Acacius tent, surrounded by the other guards until they filter out one by one, growing curiosity and questions lead to many hours of conversation that you, for many months, had been deprived of in the arena.

“You did promise my return,” You remind him, “they will be expecting you to keep that.”

“They are young, fickle men,” Acacius berates with amusement, “I am sure they have moved on.”

“Do you fear them? The emperors?”

“They are spoiled brats,” Acacius responds, an answer in itself.

“They would visit me often,” You admit, “Caracalla seemed to be—it seems the syphilis in his loins was truly affecting his brains, often he would not even make sense. Or he would come to me, complaining of his brother.”

“You had built quite the rapor,” Acacius notes with a smile, sipping at the broth from his stew as he invites you to sit on his fancy, expensive bed cot. Much nicer than your own, cushioned and wrapped in velvet, “What of Geta?”

“He liked my breasts,” You begin bluntly, “and my—”

“He forced himself upon you?”

“I was property of Rome, Acacius,” You didn’t often say his name in such a relaxed way, blaming it on the full belly and exhaustion, “therefore I was his. I have suffered much worse than a lonely man searching for comfort.”

Acacius seems thoughtful, pensive as he stirs at his quickly diminishing stew. He does catch your lingering gaze on his face after a while, mesmerized by the scar underneath his eye, he encourages you.

“Ask, if you are so curious, my lady,” He places his bowl to the side, empty.

“Your scar,” You nod, pressing your finger in a mirroring way under your eye, “is there a story?”

“Nothing to be told with boast,” He chuckles, “a wound of battle, is all. Like many of the scars on my body,” He tells you, raising his naked forearm to display the various scars, noting the few that paint his clavicle, “and you, Minerva?”

It seems to have become a particular quirk of his, a lilt to his voice as he calls you by your given name—the others have become accustomed to it, too. But, with Acacius, it felt special. Treasured.

You raise your eyebrows at his question, quietly unlacing your top to pull it down your shoulder, sliding a hand over your breast to respect the dynamic between you both—him being your general and you, his subordinate. His eyes squint as he examines the jagged and staggered scar on the side of your breasts—not quite faded, healed but relatively fresh.

“He is a biter,” You warn him with amusement, “Geta.”

Only one scar, given by one of the emperors, somehow untouched from real battle. It was miraculous. You readjust your top, feeling the heat from your neck rise to your face at what you had just willingly offered over to Acacius. Unfortunately, he had a way of lowering your guard.

With that talk, it seemed like a true breakthrough in your partnership with Acacius.

He always allowed you to speak for yourself, never overstepping the boundary you had argued with him over, leading the charge with an iron fist and handling the younger, fresh faced soldiers who just seemed…lost. 

It was hard to ignore the lingering glances over time, often during meetings as you spoke, not a look of attention but rather…ravishing. Hungry, but in a subdued manner. You weren’t sure where the lines had blurred, but they had.

Possibly somewhere within the long nights of conversation or the lingering touches that shouldn’t have been as charged as they were, handing over a piece of armor or blade and his calloused fingertips would circle your wrist, pause, before his brain would catch up to his actions. 

“Go on,” He encourages after a final night of victory and triumph, many of the men howling and singing tunes around the fire, drinking from their cups and enjoying the pleasures of alcohol and comradery, “you are missing the fun,” He was unnaturally quiet, subdued to his quarters, leaning against the outside of his tent as he watched with amusement but subtle dismay.

A younger man approaches with his hand extended, a gleeful expression on his face, “Minerva, please—come, you must enjoy the party, too.”

The general gives you an expectant look as you let the young man lead you away, curling his fingers around your own and pulling you with vigor, cheering loudly to blend in with the energy of the men despite how you worry about the man several feet away, your eyes tracking his disappearing figure as he slips into his tent, eventually pulled away by another man, one of the guardsmen who adored you, asking for a dance.

You agree hesitantly as the crowd roars louder, eyes searching for the exact reason as you see a few men leading a line of women into camp, little clothing to allow them modesty, a less than subtle shushing come from the men as they lead them deeper into camp, and the fear in you tells you to run to the General.

“It is not what you think,” The young man tells you, “they are dancers—no harm will—”

You bypass him, straight toward the men leading the path, stopping them cold.

“They are not here against their will, my lady.” He assures you, though, that could be argued.

“Minerva, Acacius has made it clear that harming women, you—is far worse a crime than anything else. Truly, it is not what you believe it to be.”

“I am telling the General, informing him of their presence,” You admit, “so I suggest you and the rest of the cattle be on your best behavior?”

They both give crisp, curt nods.

As you make the direct line for Acacius’ tent, you are ignorant to his silent plea for privacy at the tied rope, intertwined with gold fabric, pushing apart the fabric doors without much of a thought, reality hitting you as you catch a glimpse of his naked frame, patting down his body with a clean cloth as he washed himself, other hand curved around his cock as he stretched his neck up and back, the water splashing as he dipped the towel into the basin, only aware of your present when you make a small, unrecognizable sound as a result of your own stupidity. 

“I—General,” Your eyes widen as they take on a mind of their own, straight down the valley of his chest as he turns to you, quickly spinning on your heels, “I should have—I apologize, uh, the men…they are—”

“I was informed,” He assures, “and they have been warned, I assure you.”

“Yes, hm—um,” It was the only time Acacius had seen you flustered

“I assumed the rope was a clear message,” Acacius teases, “but—it is not your fault. I should have informed you of their…antics.”

He pulls the tight, fabric shorts over his hips, clearing his throat, peering over your shoulder you breathe a sigh of relief, “General, I would like to apologize for—” You swallow, watching as he turned barefoot on his heels, the fabric of the immodest undergarments curving around the stretch of his cock, half-hard under the fabric and the outline of thick head pushing against the linen.

You don’t realize how long you’re staring until he’s approaching with a tap of his finger on the underside of your chin, “There is no need for that,” He assures you, your nose scrunching up in confusion at the sudden touch, feeling the subtle shift as he reaches behind you for the clothes folded on the table at your backside, “surely you must return to the party,” He encourages, “celebrate a well-earned victory.”

“Why?” You counter, “When you will not.”

“Minerva,” He warns.

“You are distracted,” You note, watching as Acacius now avoids your gaze, “it is worrying me.”

He cannot admit the reason why. That it may be you. 

“Acacius,” You call his name, hoping that will break through to him.

“Leave me,” He asks, rather than demanding, “I need to rest.”

It was a lie, but you do not fight him on it.

–

Silence blankets the camp in the early morning hours—the witching hours, as you’ve come to know them. Sleeping securely in your tent, bedroll tucked under your head as you drift. Unaware of the creeping men planning your untimely demise, assuring that the entire camp was asleep before they strike, arms and legs rendered useless as the third shoves a piece of cloth into your mouth and ties it around the back of your head, screams muffled behind the fabric, stripped of your weapons. Helpless, they think.

During the struggle, one of them grows frustrated, banging the hard rock against your skull and plunging you back into darkness.

When you come to, you are unclear of where you are, but it was outside, arms above your head against the thick limb, feet bound tight as well, a sting and a string of wetness running down the side of your face as your blurry vision becomes clear.

“Little Minerva,” the voice begins mockingly, all too familiar to your ears, “he has named you—you must feel special, ay?”

He kneels in front of you, the one hand he has left curling around the forearm of what was left of his other appendage, “And you expect to return back to Rome as a free woman,” He laughs, snorts wetly through his nose, “I assure you that will not happen. Rather, you will be a dead one.”

The other two lingering figures join in on the laughter.

“How did you say it?” He taunts, “I will gut you where you stand?”

“It took three of you to capture me,” You retort, “your confidence is lacking sorely.”

He clears the back of his throat, rearing up a ball of saliva in his mouth before he’s spitting at you.

“I will slaughter all of you with my hands,” You promise, “untie me, unless you are fearful.”

Driven by ego, it doesn’t take much for him to agree.

But, as he had underestimated you the first time, and the second, he would regret the third.

The two men come at you first, enough tussling and your teeth ripping into the ear of one of them, searching blindly for a thick, heavy and sharp edge branch that would handle the weight of piercing through skin and muscle, finding the right weapon at the perfect moment—the attacker rearing back as the other approached, driving the make-shift stake through his chest as the other tackled you to the ground, a poor miscalculation on his part as you get your legs around his neck, arms pinned at an painful, awkward ankle until his neck snaps from the force, the ox-like man awaiting in the shadows like a coward, blood spilling from your mouth as you scream.

The heavy hooves approach like roaring thunder and the instant your attacker catches on, his attempts to flee are ruined by the barricade of men at all angles, General Acacius at the head of the charge, a rageful expression on his face. Feral unlike you have ever seen.

He jumps off of his horse, ordering the men to capture the surviving man once again, looking around at the lifeless bodies beside you, assuring his men he would handle you and the mess, demanding they return to camp at once. 

You look around aimlessly, blood staining your face as Acacius struggles to capture your attention, eventually resorting to a strong, demanding hold on your face, cradling your head with his hands.

“Are you wounded?” He asks, then notices the trail of blood from your scalp, pushing away the hair to reveal with gash from the rock they had attacked you with, grimacing as he runs his finger over the wound in worry.

Suddenly, you are stricken with a need, “Give me your sword,” You tell him, eyes flicking up to meet his own, “I need your sword.” His movements are too slow, still concerned with you that you reach for the weapon yourself.

Pulling away, you approach one of the dead men with the sword, swinging it up over your head and down with force, beheading him in one go, before switching to the other man, less finesse as you swing—again and again, until there is nothing but a pool of blood, bone, and brain—Acacius steps in eventually, tossing the sword away as he holds you arms in his fierce grip, letting the screams rip from your chest as he sways with you, eventually falling to your knees in exhaustion. He uses his bare hands to wipe the blood away from your neck, your face, feeling the soft shake of your body as you sob in silence, overcome with an emotion you so rarely let surface.

–

The public execution follows the next morning, everyone rousing from their tents to the loud, blaring horn from the ship just off shore—Acacius had assisted you back to camp on his horse, slumped against his back as you rode until the trampling finally stopped, sliding off the horse and into Acacius’ arms as he led you inside his tent.

He didn’t sleep the entire night, watching over you instead—he rarely blinked, staring off into nothingness as he tried to keep the vicious rage at bay, by morning, he was itching.

“You may stay,” He tells you, “your head—I cleaned it while you slept.”

You shove his hand away as he attempts to help you sit, slowly dressing yourself, eventually putting together the fact that Acacius had undressed and bathed you at some point throughout the night, not a speck of blood or spit remaining.

“Are you ordering me to stay?”

Acacius shakes his head, his hand still hovering close by.

“Then I will attend.”

He doesn’t argue against it and there is, despite your weariness to admit, a relief of your chest as Acacius rears back his blade, silencing the final scream the man lets out, pleading for his life. The blood sprays over his face, a strong grimace at the sheer strength it takes to behead the man, but the general manages it with one strike of his blade.

His speech follows, a deep and unsettling warning to all of his men. A final one.

Men, wide-eyed with fear, agree without resistance before he sends them off to ready the ship for departure and a meal before they begin their long trek back to Rome—he is less than gentle as he grabs your wrist without warning and pulls you alongside him, back to his tent.

–

He ties the rope with a stiff tug, before turning to you, stumbling on your feet as pull off his cape, having offered it to you for a second time, assuring that dressing in your usually armor wasn’t needed today, not as you began your travels, a flowing dress tied at your shoulder and waist that you were used to wearing during the showings back in Rome, parading you around like a prize.

“Acacius, perhaps you should sit,” You suggest, watching his hands curl into fists at his sides before he’s spinning on his heels and toward you, cradling your face like he had the night prior, but even this close, it felt like he was trying to keep you at a distance, “—I am sorry, if I did something—”

“I crave you,” Acacius admits, “you must know.”

Your lips part, gearing up the courage to speak, but falling short.

“Nights I have spent,” He breathes, shaking his head, the curls tickling your forehead as they meet, “thinking—wondering—”

“Acacius, why now?” You question him, “As we are homebound, back to your wife. Surely, she would have my head.”

Acacius shakes his head with a soft, but fond laugh.

“Our marriage is complex,” He explains, “Something I do not care to explain in great detail at this moment, you see—,” His hand curves around the side of your neck, tilting your head up, lips grazing against his own as he speaks, “I had no such intention for things to get like this, but you have proven to make things…difficult, for me,” He breathes out through his mouth, his eyes opening slowly to meet yours, “and I need you, should you have me.”

You could easily deny him, knowing he would back off in an instant. But, like this, clearly driven by adrenaline and instinct, riding the high of such a charged execution, he was craving something deeper than an outlet to release the built up tension. 

He craved connection—through little moments of conversation and touches, someone at level-ground, an equal. You were his equal. He’d given you so much since, and you would be lying to yourself if you denied the thoughts that had riddled your mind too.

“I do not much prefer a soft touch,” You finally reply, “or gentle care.”

He silences you with a kiss, bruising and tense as he licks into your mouth, hungrily searching for more areas to taste and devour, licking along the column of your neck as the blood of another smeared into your skin, his fingers working quietly to undo your dress, in turn wrestling with his armor and clothes, nearly ripping the fabric of his shirt from his body as you claw at him.

Wet kisses and clashing tongues fill the silent room, a screeching sound as your back hits the roundtable before he’s lifting from the back of your thighs and scooting you onto the surface, naked and bare as he spreads your thighs apart to move between them, clearly restraining himself as he licks, teeth grazing carefully.

“I enjoy them,” You admit, “Do not hold back, Acacius. They are what I will keep with me, if this be the only time.”

Like a dog cut loose of his chain, his teeth sink into the breasts mirror the mark of the other, hissing as his teeth break through the skin just enough for the subtle trickling of blood to rise to the surface before he’s soothing the wound with his tongue, staring up at you through a half-lidded gaze, prowling for more. He dips lower, falling to his knees as he pulls you toward the end of the table, ass hanging near the edge as his teeth sink into your thigh, near the swell of your cunt as you moan, fingers digging into sweaty, matted curls.

“Acacius,” You plead breathily, “I want your mouth.”

Where—it did not matter. But, Acacius fulfills that need as he licks a broad strip through your cunt, nose buried in the coarse curls, still smelling of the fresh soap he had bathed you in, taking delicate care as he washed your body, letting you slump into him, soaking him in the process. 

“Yes, that—” You respond airily, eyes fluttering shut as his tongue dips inside of you, swirling your slick around on his tongue and sucking harshly at your clit, staring up at you daringly from his position beneath you, unwavering, “oh, gods above…”

Acacius chuckles below you,the sound vibrating against your cunt as your moans increase rapidly, thick fingers dipping inside your pulsating core, “This high—it feels like—”

He rises to press a kiss against your stomach, climbing, tongue licking over your belly button and between your breasts, “—like…” He encourages, “come on, my lady, do not sell out on me now,”

“Like a battle high,” You admit with a faint laugh, “though, different, but….”

He understands, driven by unbridled need, uncapped adrenaline. 

“Well, vae victis,” He taunts, “now—come here,” He squeezes at your hips and pulls you to him, his cock stiff, throbbing  between your legs before he is twisting and spinning you around, feet planting against the ground as he bends you over, fisting himself tight as he rubs his thick cock head between your folds, watching as your wetness coats him, sinking into your fluttering hole with little resistance, a sweet cacophony of noises releasing from your throat as you grip onto nothing, hand curling into a fist as you moan, open-mouthed and shameless.

“Harder,” You beg, forcing the word out between thrusts, blunt fingernails clawing at your hips, attempting to pull you in closer despite your proximity, as if he could consume and even that wouldn’t be enough, “Acacius, please.”

It was like instinct, his hand sliding up the back of your thigh to lift your leg up, pinning it up—up, until you feel the ache in your sore muscles as he holds you in place with a fist between the bend of your knee, heaving breaths at your neck as he fucks you into the hard surface of the table.

It was a pain you would feel in your bones, that would carry with you into the morning, marks that would last for longer, a remnant of this moment, the mess of blood smearing on your own skin as he melts against you, forehead resting against your shoulder as his gaze follows the movement of his hips, slow but powered thrusts that drilled into you, clawing at his skin to leave your own bruises. The hand that brushes against your core is your ultimate demise, feeling breathless as your orgasm pulls you under, muffled sobs into your fist as you bite down, fearful that it might draw attention. Though, Acacius seems preoccupied, still.

His hand seeks your neck, digging in as he pulled you up, “To your knees,” He demands softly, your body moving out a memory, dropping to the floor—though, the sight is much more tantalizing, Acacius fisting his cock tight, feral as he teeth were bared, like a man fresh from the slaughter, he comes with a deep and guttural groan, your tongue sliding against the underside of his bulbous head, thick spurts coating your tongue, his body shaking as you pull away, swallowing all that he had offered with a steady, locked gaze. He assists you upright, steadying you.

“For a man who has such a distaste for unnecessary violence, you wear it well,” It wasn’t a compliment, rather an observation, his eyes tracking your naked frame, fingertips tracing the curves of your body in admiration. 

“You are quite inspiring, Minerva,” He admits, gathering your thick dress and helping you redress in silence, tying the material around your body, “not everyone deserves mercy.”

Your smile is rare, but it is beautiful. And he wasn’t a man for such dramatics.

But, it could bring him to his knees, he thinks.

[filipinoizukuu]

i headcanon that sakura is like... one of those few people with immense control over their body to the point where its kinda scary.

he says all the time to anyone mentioning it that he's good for nothing but his fists and fighting, but i really believe that he's the kind of guy where like... anything he tries to do, he can get good at it and pick it up REALLY quickly. he's an incredibly fast learner (exhibit a, the pre-noroshi training arc) and also has really good control over his physicality (exhibit b, his signature move where he turns a fall into a handstand kick).

the boys in class 1-1 constantly get him to play games and sports with them because of bonding reasons, and sakura always gets uneasy because he never had anyone to play with growing up. so they all kinda have to teach him every sport except it backfires because he always gets CRAZY GOOD at them REALLY EASILY.

basketball? despite the height disadvantage, it takes less than a day for sakura to master dribbling and passes + he's crazy accurate even from the 3 point mark. volleyball? call him hinata shoyo because he has an INSANEEEE vertical for spiking. baseball? a lot of stupid rules to learn and easy to get wrong, but sakura knows his way around a bat for sure. soccer? absolutely massacres the field no survivors left. anzai is crying in the corner. kiryu (goalie) is dead.

and it pisses them off to no end because sakura has NO BUSINESS being good at all these things! its not even that he's instantly great at anything he tries, but rather because he learns INSANELY QUICKLY and can commit a movement to muscle memory within a couple of days. thank god furin doesnt have a sports festival because nirei is absolutely certain that sakura would sweep the floor with the first years and leave no crumbs.

it applies to other things too. one day sakura either stumbles upon or hangs out with shishitoren and he gets the opportunity to ask tomiyama how he did that insane flip against umemiya. hes really shy to ask bc he did go around acting as if he knew how to emulate choji's crazyass acrobatics before promptly eating shit on the asphalt. choji, obviously always wanting to have fun, teaches sakura some moves

"well it's not as easy as it looks, but i can teach you some moves. you're a good fighter already sakura-chan, so i'll give you some harder ones to start with. don't worry if you can't do—"

sakura nails it in three tries. it's probably one of the top 5 best days of chojis life because it turns into a contest of him busting out a gymnastic trick and trying to see if sakura can replicate it. shishitoren is amazed and confused. togame doesn't know whether to be amused or worried. hiragi winds up getting into their territory just to bring sakura home because if no one intervened sakura would end up joining shishitoren and becoming chojis favorite disciple. it certainly already helps that they have similar fight styles that require insane flexibility, but damn sakura isnt this a bit too much?!@?@

he's still hopeless with technology tho lol. years later and sakura is still horrible at mario kart and can't text for shit. god had to nerf him somehow!

[deeppenguinstudent]

Catalina and Jean headcanons because they are all I think about

1) Cat loves to rant to Jean about her day. Like she'd come back from her classes, and she just HAS to tell Jean who Stephie from computer science hooked up with over the weekend. Jean is surprisingly very expressive so that's precisely why Cat loves to tell him her stories.

2) Cat uses Jean's insults to fight with people online

3) Cat is very outwardly physically affectionate, and Jean doesn't mind because her touch is very warm and grounding; she never intends to harm him, and he grows fond of simple touches along his hand and ruffles of his hair as she passes him in the kitchen.

4) Cat shares the same sentient that Jean does of Bark Bark, and she's finally happy she doesn't look crazy in the face of Laila and Jeremy when they decorate him for events.

5) Jean doesn't realise they are best friends until one day Neil drops by town and Jeremy makes an off handed remark about Neil being Jean's best friend and Cat just glares Neil for like a minute before declaring that no one can take her title as Jean's best friend. Jean feels a little content because he has never been anyone's first choice. Therefore, he doesn't know how else to respond but nods his head while Cat beams beside him.

6) Cat teaches Jean how to style his curly hair

7) Cat is the first person who Jean tells about his conflicted feelings about Jeremy, and she volunteers to be a wingwoman, which just goes terribly wrong because she makes it too obvious.

8) Jean is Cat's man of honour, and Cat is Jean's best woman

9) Cat and Jean sometimes just lie down on the living room ground and stare up, just in silence, as they let their minds roam and eachothers presence comfort them.

10) Cat always defends Jean's name, even when he is in the wrong. She's the OG Jean apologist, and I stand no criticism about this.

11) After Jeremy and Laila graduate, they both stay in the same room and sometimes they sleep in the same bed when Jean's nightmares get too much.

12) Jean always looks to Cat for approval before he does something. Like they are cooking, and Jean's made the same recipe thousands of times before, but he turns to Cat, who's tapping away on her phone, and she nods almost systematically before he puts it in. Similar to him showing her some key chains or postcards that he wants to buy for some of the Foxes.

13) After they win the championship, Cat runs from like half the court away to jump and tackle Jean into a hug as he lets himself fall limp and hug her back that does not go unnoticed by the Foxes or Trojans who just look at them with amusement

14) Cat buys those fancy bath salts/bath bombs so that as Jean slowly heals from his trauma, he grows accustomed to smelling lavender in his water or bath so it doesn't freak him out as much

15) Cat makes Jean get myspace

16) It doesn't matter where they are or how far they are from eachother, Cat and Jean always lock eyes when someone says something out of pocket and look away with slight smiles to mock them

17) Cat kisses Jean's forehead, Jean kisses Cat's cheek as a form of greeting/goodbye

18) Cat loves making stupid jokes about the French that she knows annoys Jean

Oh I just love them so much

[shallowseeker]

Cas is right. Dean, with all of his free will intact, would NOT have murdered the Stynes kid.

Like Cas, with his free will intact, would never have murdered Samandriel.

Their assessments of one another are actually correct.

///

Both are on their way to becoming mindless super-soldiers who feel nothing.

And essentially, they tell each other, "you're gonna have to go through me" (to become that).

///

Some similarities in the fight scenes:

They both reach out a hand to the other's shoulder, saying the other's name:

///

Both twist the other's hand away:

///

They ask each other to: "Stop," both telling the other in so many words that "this isn't you."

Their styles differ, of course. Dean goads Cas defiantly: "Come on you coward, do it!" Cas tries to remain level-headed and controlled, only moving to block and restrain.

Essentially, their desires are the same, for the other to stop.

///

With everyone telling them who they should be, and trying to make them into things other than what their big hearts would actually want, they beg each other to stay as they are.

I don't want you to be what they want you to be.

Just be you. Just be.

///

///

And then, much like Cas in the crypt... flight. Cas leaves.

Dean leaves.

///

And here's what's on my mind... They were both GOOD at being soldiers. Unbelievably good.

Their talents were recognized early and exploited. They became chained to their respective battle aptitudes.

Both had to reckon with becoming addicted to war, to the feeling of adrenaline and black-and-white causes (see: Purgatory, hunting, etc.). Both often feel too much responsibility, punishing themselves and undertaking penance.

They struggled with thinking it's all they were good for, battle or WORK.

Or worse. For Dean, it was often being one of the "crazy ones," only "good for a fling." For Cas, it was often "being expendable."

They're looked down upon by the likes of Metatron: Cas is like a "dumb puppy," a "stupid, lumbering jock." Even Crowley talks to Dean this way on occasion: "It's math (idiot)."

It's also like when Death calls Cas a "stupid soldier." Or when the British Men of Letters call the ones on the ground doing the fighting and getting their hands dirty "dogs." Or when Henry calls hunters "apes."

Despite their supposed "legacy lineage," Sam and Dean inherited the Campbell class. The soldier class.

Interesting to me that Jack inherits this, too. Despite his aptitude for nearly everything he touches (computers, research, even blossoming machete skills when he kills Noah the Gorgon), Jack too will inherit this Campbell-coded "stupidity."

That's what Chuck charges him with in Unity: "TOO STUPID."

Jack has Cas and Dean's class: the soldier class.

[thus-wrote-mrs-zeppeli]

Hello! I have a request. Can I have some head canons about how La Squadra would react if you were disrespected by someone? Let’s say their s/o (preferably female) works at a cafe or restaurant and a rude customer throws the money at her, completely expecting her to pick up the bill from the floor (yes, that is a real experience I’ve had, unfortunately).

How would they react? What would they do afterwards or say?

Would really, REALLY appreciate it. Honestly, I wish someone had stood up for me back then.

Author’s note: Hey hey~

Thanks for the request~

Sorry no one stood up for you, what happened to human decency?

And I can totally relate, the entitlement of people is insane. Two days in to my very first job as a cashier I had a customer say some really atrociously awful things to me and I just took it because I didn’t know what else to do and afterwards my managers told me I should’ve called them wow. Like my manager literally wouldn’t repeat what the customer had said because it was so abhorrently inappropriate and disgusting.

So yeah. Respect employees, we’re all human beings here it’s literally so easy to Not be insanely rude.

Interestingly enough I actually had some thoughts on this written in my personal La Squadra notes, particularly in regard to Prosciutto since he gives me lots of thoughts about stuff similar to that, cool that I get to address that heh.

-La Squadra x female reader: When someone disrespects you

Content, PLZ READ: female reader who works as a waitress, discussion of unhealthy and toxic masculinity paired with sexism (Prosciutto), La Squadra is a group of (mostly) pretty aggressive men who act on that feeling so. Some canon compliant aggression, threats, violence and blood. They’re a group of assassins so Lots of Bad men doing bad things. Melone’s slightly perverse tendencies

Various scenarios involving rude customers, including the example in the ask.

Established relationship: dating/married depending on the character

Ok while writing this it’s finally really hitting me how bizarre it’d be to be a non stand user witnessing or experiencing a stand attack-

Reader is aware of stands and that her La Squadra man is a member of the Mafia

And attempts at Italian hopefully it’s correct but if not please lemme know!

Micro fics style

-Formaggio: Out of all the members of La Squadra he’s noticeably much more chill and relaxed than the others. But he’s still a proud member of the Italian Mafia. And you’re his girl. He’s no knight in shining armor or Prince Charming for you, he won’t intervene when there’s an occasional irritable customer giving you a bit of a hard time. He knows you can take care of yourself.

However, if some entitled customer has the audacity to go too far and say or do something Really disrespectful while he’s around, I think he has a preference for good old-fashioned humiliation, and only results to intimidation if they decide they wanna keep making a fool of themselves.

He plays it up like: “ooh, hey, if you wanted that pretty lady’s attention there are much better ways to get it, buddy.”

You don’t have to add anything. You resume work quietly, but keep your eyes and ears focused on him, in case he decided to get carried away.

After a little bit of back and forth with him using his usual coolness and charisma, the offender gets increasingly frustrated and flustered.

When your boyfriend’s finally had enough of this stupid game he stands up from his table. His playfully mocking expression remains, but his smirk shifts ever so slightly into something more sinister. “If you want we could just take this outside,” he says it so casually, with the tone of a man who wasn’t going to hold back if it actually did escalate into a fight. He was not bluffing at all either.

At full height and with the clear confidence that he was absolutely gonna win the fight, the rude customer wisely decides Formaggio was Not someone he wanted to mess with and awkwardly leaves the restaurant, Formaggio loudly exclaiming taunts as the guy skittered away with his tail between his legs.

He seems awfully pleased with himself after “defending your honor” like that. You let him enjoy that feeling, because honestly that was pretty well done and it didn’t get too ugly. He has some nerve expecting a bunch of praise from you for that though.

-Illuso: Someone saying or doing something rude to you is like insulting him as well. And his stand is uniquely qualified for an entertaining punishment against some arrogant idiot giving you a difficult time.

Illuso doesn’t say anything, but when you look over at him while some jerk is screaming his head off at you like it’s your fault his food took five minutes longer than usual to arrive, you see that he’s pretending to fix up his appearance in a fancy compact mirror you had gifted him on your one year anniversary.

You can tell immediately he’s actually angling it at the guy screaming at you so he can activate Man in the Mirror. You inwardly groan because honestly you welcome your husband’s interference, but it will be difficult to explain a man magically disappearing in the middle of a restaurant, especially while he’s causing such a scene with that excessive screeching.

All of a sudden…silence. Such a sudden silence that the sound of Illuso clasping his mirror shut is audible to you from where you’re standing. Of course all the customers were looking at that guy who was freaking out at you. And he literally vanished before their eyes. So you do the only thing you can think of and spread your arms in an exaggerated manner and go: “Ta-DAAAH~” like the supernatural disappearance was just a magic trick.

In a rather weak attempt to sell it, Illuso starts slowly clapping for you and commenting: “molto bene~”. You can’t muster an annoyed glare at him; the slight smile tugging at your lips gave you away. A few customers join him in clapping, a bit confused, but honesty just glad that the yelling has stopped.

Illuso’s version of torment is to leave the guy completely alone in the mirror world. Confusion combined with isolation is a cruel combination, and given his captor was Illuso who was absolutely bound to prolong the punishment because of his sadistic tendencies, you almost feel sorry for the guy.

“Make sure you let him go by this evening,” you remind him before you get back to work.

“Let who go, dearie?” he says, his acting pathetically bad.

Sigh. So he was going to play it that way…

“I’m serious,” you grumble.

“Me too.”

You meet his eyes at that remark, and his smug smirk tells you he wants to see if you’ll keep nagging him about it.

When you don’t indulge him he’ll get bored and let the guy go. Hopefully that brat learned a lesson. And if not, at least he has a story literally no one will believe.

-Prosciutto: Despite not being a very nice man to you, he’s got that ridiculous belief that only he’s allowed to be harsh to you. It’s “tough love” when he’s hyper critical of you or snaps at you for something small, but if anyone else does it to an excessive degree then it’s apparently unacceptable, rude behavior. Really it’s just his pride as a man and unhealthy view of masculinity that causes him to freak out when you’re disrespected. He’s your fiancé…By his logic, you need him to protect you, and it’s his job as a man to do so.

He’s a big hypocrite.

But at least he stands up for you.

You could usually feel Prosciutto watching when a customer started to get a little ornery with you. He wouldn’t always step in, unless something he deemed entirely disrespectful was said or done; he does think dealing with irritable people is okay for you until they get carried away.

It looked like he wasn’t going to intervene this time over the dirtbag being extraordinarily picky and fussy with you, just because he liked bossing essential workers around apparently. Prosciutto was listening, as usual, but didn’t seem too concerned, drinking his coffee disinterestedly. Until the customer decided to toss a crumpled up napkin at you when you turned around.

Ohhh boy, you didn’t even have to LOOK to know the coffee mug getting slammed down on a table was Prosciutto.

You debate what you should do. He strides past you, and you opt to just…hold still and listen for a moment. Pretend you don’t know him, and let him do whatever it is he’s about to do (though you have a pretty good guess what it is).

Despite all the tough talk he was doing before, that customer couldn’t hide the slight panic in his voice at Proscuitto’s sudden approach.

Unlike a lot of Passione members who preferred to hide their affiliation to the mafia, Prosciutto wasn’t nearly as subtle with that tailored suit, open shirt and the demeanor of a man who’s killed before and will kill again.

“Hey who the hell do you think you are?! Stay away from m-” the jerk’s nervous ranting is cut off by Prosciutto dragging him to his feet by the collar of his shirt.

“You dropped something,” Prosciutto says in that certain tone you’ve grown all too familiar with. He uses it often when he’s pissed off or teaching a lesson or both at the same time.

Before the man can even squeak out the beginnings of some sort of excuse or counter he’s gagging, and you turn around to stop Prosciutto from straight up choking the guy by shoving the same napkin he tossed at you down his throat, speaking about how disgustingly disrespectful it was to throw anything at a woman.

“Hey, I think he gets it,” you cut in.

You wonder if he’s actually gonna listen to you this time. For a moment it seems like he might ignore you and continue the lesson. But he decides you may have a point and that he’s not worth the trouble. Though it doesn’t stop him from roughly shoving the guy to the ground when he lets go of his shirt.

“Make sure you add an apology when you pay the check,” he says to the sniveling man on the floor desperately telling himself not to make a run for it like a coward now that Prosciutto’s back was turned.

You don’t know whether to smile or roll your eyes, knowing all your fiancé meant was that he better leave you a generous tip as compensation for such disrespectful behavior.

“Go smoke outside,” is all you say to him when you see Prosciutto reach for the pack of cigarettes in his jacket. He smoked when he was especially irritated; so he went through a lot of cigarettes. He waves his hand dismissively at you, but obeys and goes outside. Though he stays close to the entrance. He’s making it clear he’s not leaving til you’re getting paid well for all that trouble.

The guy ended up practically handing his wallet to you.

Prosciutto internally checks off his: do one good thing for his fiancée today mission.

-Pesci: He’s not the most confrontational of La Squadra, and there’s no love lost between the murderous members of the team beyond a mild respect for each other’s strength (and that’s only sometimes) but he’s more than familiar with how most of the other assassins handle disrespect or things they don’t like in public with violence and aggression (hard glares at Ghiaccio and Prosciutto in particular). And that usually results in them getting asked to leave the premises, how embarrassing-

He doesn’t want to embarrass you either when a particularly volatile customer started screaming at you and freaking out for no valid reason. But he can’t just sit there and let you take that kind of abuse either.

He tries to excuse you from the situation by calling you over to his table like he was a customer and it was something urgent. And well…it might just escalate the irritation of that insufferable jerk screaming at you but…

You go to Pesci anyways, opting to just ignore the jerk, pretending to be busy dealing with some made up issue Pesci was improvising.

To your surprise it actually kinda worked. The guy was steaming for a bit and yelling at you from his table but. You just ignored him. And if anything actually happened Pesci was 100% capable of handling it if he had to. He didn’t usually try to start fights, but if pushed he could absolutely finish them.

“Do you usually get customers like that?” Pesci asks with genuine concern in his voice once the guy finally gets mad enough to leave (without paying but that was a problem for later).

“Well…” more often than someone who doesn’t work in food service would think…

“Sometimes,” you admit vaguely, not wanting to worry him but not wanting to lie either.

He thinks you should find some different job, not that he’s actually in a position to suggest that given he’s literally a La Squadra assassin. And you’ve heard from the few times you’ve met with his coworkers that the money they make in the business of murder is minuscule all things considered. Honestly he should get a new job too. One that didn’t rely on the occasional commission and splitting a check with eight other people.

You both know it’s not that easy to just Find a new job. And he doesn’t think it’s a great idea to suggest you get more involved in Passione for quick but dirty money…sigh…no easy solution…

-Melone: Your boyfriend was the least confrontational man in La Squadra.

Usually you encourage him to not visit you at work…because he always stares at you in such a manner that your coworkers or customers sometimes warn you about a creep in the corner booth who’s been watching you for a while.

As someone who’s used to being yelled at (though only because he’s the one being a FREAK so it doesn’t Really count) he’s sure you can handle the occasional ornery customer who decided to raise their voice at you. He usually intervened only if you directly requested it, because more often than not you got annoyed at him for worming his way into your other problems. Doesn’t mean he doesn’t notice when he’s typing on his laptop at the restaurant you work at and someone starts destructively causing a scene all because you brought them the wrong brand of soda by accident. It’s been a long day, you’re tired, you’re working the evening shift and the restaurant’s about to close. So you don’t bother to try and appease this guy, you know he’ll just complain and give you a hard time no matter what you do. And he apparently took your: “I’m sorry, let me grab you the right one,” as disingenuous and insulting, because you didn’t call him “Sir”. You really don’t feel like dealing with this, and you’re about to just let it go until he has the audacity to knock the soda off the table and onto the floor, staining the floor and even getting soda all over your shoes.

God…just to humiliate you over something small-you find yourself quietly staring at the floor for a moment, trying to register what you should even do…bend over right now to try to salvage your shoes before the soda dried? You had napkins in your pocket. But then the damn customer won…

And you know Melone was watching everything. He’s so invested that he’s stopped typing.

Melone’s no gentleman, and has no shame, but he can’t just let someone get away completely with disrespecting his girlfriend…especially given he had bought those cute shoes for you!

You can only mumble Melone’s name quietly when he approaches the situation, his demeanor energized despite how late it was. You weren’t gonna deny him stepping in but saying his name was a warning not to be too weird.

He clicks his tongue, making a point to not even look at the jerky customer, like he wasn’t there, and focuses all his attention on you.

“You know those shoes weren’t cheap, tesoro mio,” he chides playfully, immediately plucking off some napkins from the customer’s table and kneeling in front of you so he can wipe your shoes clean himself.

You bite your lip. It might seem gentlemanly to onlookers, but you knew he was also using the opportunity to get close to your legs in public. But he manages to behave himself, even putting a few napkins over the spill on the floor once he’s done with your shoes.

When he finally stands back up, he makes a point of leaning very close with an especially devious look on his face.

“What a shame,” he says in a strangely exaggerated tone. “I think I’ll have to buy you a new pair of shoes…”

You just give him a confused look after reminding him you’re on the clock when he leans in for a kiss.

Then he wanders off. But at least he distracted the customer enough to dampen the worst of the disrespectful behavior.

You finish your shift. Melone was waiting for you outside with his motorcycle, as he’s your ride back to your shared apartment.

He looks especially pleased with himself.

“What’d you do this time?” you sigh and yawn, too tired to feel especially concerned with whatever he might’ve done.

“Your next pair of shoes is going to be Especially nice…I’ll even get you a pretty dress to go with them~” he licks his lips.

Under the dim light of the street lamp, you finally notice the wallet that he’s holding up. It isn’t his.

His little kneeling act by the table with the rude customer apparently had many purposes…your boyfriend really was quite a sly opportunist…

“Melone…” you were gonna chide him gently for taking the guy’s Entire wallet but…it was too late to start arguing with him, given he was your ride home. And you didn’t care too much about it in the first place, especially right now.

-Ghiaccio: Everything ticks him off so when you’re working you don’t mind if he doesn’t bother to stop by and say hi even when he’s in the area. He tends to get worked up about something minuscule even during quick visits. And your restaurant is quite popular with tourists, who he has a borderline obsessive type of hatred for. Yeah. You were okay with him NOT visiting you while you were working because inevitably one day he was gonna cause quite a scene-

You feel a very ironic cold shiver down your spine when you catch sight of a familiar red Mazda Miata going way too fast in the parking lot looking for a space to park.

“Dios mio…I don’t need this today…” you mumble to yourself, not realizing a particularly entitled customer was watching you act distracted for a moment by looking at a car from the window.

When you get to his table, you don’t really know what he’s yapping about when he says waitresses these days are SO ditzy and aren’t properly trained. You’re not listening too hard because you’re watching Ghiaccio walk past the window on his way into the restaurant. He gives you an acknowledging glance when he spots you, and it pisses off the customer even more because now he’s complaining about how completely unprofessional it was that you invited your boyfriend into the restaurant while you were working. You have no idea where this guy is even getting all these assumptions, or what was even so terribly wrong with the scenario he’s making up, so you don’t pay it much attention and just brush it off as the customer’s eccentric personality trait.

Until he says that if you were going to be disrespectful by inviting your boyfriend to work, you might as well look busy.

What a freaking idiot, waiting for Ghiaccio to walk in to the restaurant before literally throwing the money for his meal at you, completely expecting you to pick up all the bills.

Ghiaccio doesn’t even need to know the context to react (though it’s probably for the best he didn’t hear what started it because it’d just piss him off even more).

“Hey, hey, hey…” Ghiaccio’s voice from the entrance can be heard from half way inside the restaurant. “If you meant to give the money to her, it’d be MUCH more efficient for both of you if you just HANDED it to her, you freaking moron-“

Oh God, here we go…Ghiaccio wasn’t screaming quite at full volume as he speed walked to where you were standing, his hands twitching slightly, either oblivious or simply ignoring all the customers exchanging nervous glances as they watched him. He has to be literally the WORST AND the EASIEST member of his entire team to piss off…and when he got like this he sometimes didn’t even listen to you.

The customer glares at him, and dares to open his mouth to respond, but Ghiaccio’s rant wasn’t over and it just pisses him off even more to see the guy had the audacity to try and interrupt him.

“Ghia, hey-”

Yeah he was definitely not gonna listen to your attempt to calm him down. You wonder if he even heard you because he grabbed the guy by the back of the head while you were talking.

“IT DOESN’T MAKE ANY DAMN SENSE WHEN I THINK ABOUT IT! I MEAN, WHAT THE HELL IS THE POINT OF THROWING MONEY ALL OVER THE GROUND?! YOU JUST GET OFF WATCHING HER WASTE A BUNCH OF TIME PICKING THAT ALL UP?!”

Was he…more pissed about the illogical nature of the behavior or the fact that you were being disrespected…?…It’s kinda hard to tell…this ornery yapper on even more ornery yapper violence was Quite a scene this early in the morning…

“DON’T YOU HAVE A LIFE, IDIOT? OR DID YOU GO OUT JUST TO KILL TIME BY POINTLESSLY INCONVENIENCING A WAITRESS?! YOU MIGHT NOT HAVE ANYTHING BETTER TO DO WITH YOUR LIFE BUT SHE’S GOT AN ACTUAL JOB TO DO AND DOESN’T HAVE TIME TO PLAY 52 CARD PICKUP WITH ENTITLED JERKS LIKE YOU!”

It doesn’t even cross your mind that most people would be mortified to watch their boyfriend completely lose it like this in public, you’re so used to it at this point; you’re thinking about how it’s a bit hypocritical of him given how you’ve witnessed him Also going off on a poor server for nothing.

“GHIACCIO!” you finally make yourself shout, reaching out and grabbing the wrist of the arm he was using to hold the panicking rude customer by the back of the head.

You know Ghiaccio. He was about to slam that man’s head on the table.

“WHAT?!” he snaps, but when he whips his head, you can tell the raging blizzard of his soul wavered just a bit when he looked at you.

“Don’t…you’ll break the table, they’re flimsy…”

His physical strength always astounded you, given he wasn’t particularly large, and he wasn’t even resisting your hand on his wrist but you could still feel the power in his arm. “You already made your point…” you whisper, worried about getting in trouble for the scene he was causing.

“BUT-“

“Thank you, it’s okay…”

He REALLY has to debate it, but reluctantly releases the man with an irritated huff and an audible growl. Such a lucky guy…you were one of the few people who could get Ghiaccio to think before taking something too far.

“Is your shift almost over?” he asks, clearly still incredibly irritated, tapping his foot rapidly against the ground.

“About fifteen minutes to go.” You glance at the trembling rude customer, gazing wide eyed and flinching every time Ghiaccio moved in any way.

He checks his watch and the customer climbs further into the booth out of fear of the simple gesture, but Ghiaccio is forcing himself not to pay him any mind.

“I’ll wait for you in the car then.”

“Alright.”

As long as he left the restaurant…

Now everyone knew he was definitely with you in some capacity…damn.

He sends a pointed glare to a couple of the customers on the way out. A “gentle reminder” to keep manners in mind.

And when you give the rude customer one last look, you see he’s on the ground picking up the money he had tossed at you.

He’s trembling a bit. Probably from fear of Ghiaccio changing his mind and coming back to actually break his face. But he’s probably a bit cold too, just from coming into physical contact with Ghiaccio could leave anyone with a chill if he partly activated his stand while touching someone.

You really needed to have a chat with him about his temper but as the previously inconsiderate customer blubbers out apologies and begs you to protect him from your scary boyfriend while shoving the money (and a generous tip) directly into your hands you hesitantly decide today is not the day.

-Risotto Nero: He doesn’t go out in public often, but minus the whole “leader of an assassination division in the mafia with a truly frightening appearance” he’s a pretty normal guy. Keeps to himself and stoic, but he can hold a conversation. You’re fine with him not visiting you at work often, you get that he’s super busy, but when he does stop by you’re glad to see him (and he doesn’t cause any scenes. Bonus points for Risotto).

It was a slow morning for you, and he had finished an early morning mission earlier than he had expected. He even checked to make sure the diner you worked at wasn’t busy before he decided to stop in and see you.

Your face lights up when you see him, running over to him and giving him a quick hug, and bringing him a small cup of coffee on the house, allowing yourself a brief moment of respite to speak with your boyfriend. It wasn’t busy yet…there were only two other customers, but it was just your luck that one of them woke up on the wrong side of the bed and decided to come over and give you a hard time for taking a moment to spend with Risotto.

“Does your boss pay you to flirt with customers?”

You can’t even believe someone really came over just to say that to you. You weren’t even sitting down to talk to Risotto, and it’s not like you were being loud or obnoxious or anything.

“She’s doing her job,” Risotto points out with that signature stoic nature. The guy seems slightly put off by Risotto’s unique appearance, but was apparently in a bad enough mood to not back down so easily.

“If she was doing her job she’d be bringing me a refill and not wasting her time chatting with a guy she already served,” he points out indignantly. What an insane level of entitlement…Risotto seemed to think the same thing, though he wasn’t a fan of escalating things.

But this guy…he had some audacity talking to you like that.

Risotto puts his hands on the table, and stands up slowly, deliberately, to his full height, tilting his head slightly to better look the smaller man in the eyes.

“She’s just being polite,” Risotto corrects the man. His voice is still calm, but his speaking speed is Slightly slower. Paired with him purposefully emphasizing his full height, the warning that he wasn’t going to stay civil for much longer was clear.

The unwanted visitor inwardly debates for a moment, visibly shaken from Risotto’s intimidation but absolutely too embarrassed to just back off now.

He foolishly decides to keep going.

“She-” he’s cut off by an almost explosive gush of blood coming out of his own nose. You gasp at the suddenness, but instantly realize what’s happening. He slams his hand over his nose, the blood not stopping that easily, almost immediately leaking through his fingers.

“Oh…” Risotto remarks with obviously fake concern, leaning in as if he were examining the “mysterious” nosebleed. “You’d better take care of that before you get blood all over the place…” he states the obvious with complete unconcern.

It was admittedly a bit funny to watch that jerk sprint to the restroom clutching his bloody nose.

There is a minuscule tug to the edges of Risotto’s lips.

“Risotto! Sudden unexplainable nosebleeds aren’t funny at all,” you chide, despite not feeling an ounce of pity. It’s not like Risotto was trying to kill that guy, if he was he would be bleeding out on the ground right now. The goal was just to embarrass him a bit, and he definitely succeeded.

“I think that was just a suitable divine punishment,” Risotto replies with a shrug, as if his stand, Metallica, had nothing to do with it. It’s subtle but…you can tell he’s irritated someone really had that kind of nerve to bother you for no reason. But you won’t let it ruin his whole day, reminding him that you got off work early today and you’ve been really excited to finally have some free time to spend with him.

Author’s closing note: I hope this could bring you some entertainment~it was enjoyable to write and consider how a few of them could use their stands to mess with people but wow I was being sent back to my first job on occasion with some of these customer characters, sheesh-

[russilton]

Huh crocheter George... I can see him doing it and he seems like a person that would make stuff for his friends?

Someone gave Carlos a crochet chili? So something like that

Obviously first to like Alex and Lando etc and now I want Lewis to be a bit jealous and offended that everyone seems to be getting something self made from George from him (except of course, it's fine to give something with potential mistakes to your best friend and other friends but to someone like Lewis? It would have to be perfect which means improving a lot before you dare present something....)

(Anon I have been working on this for months now- since you sent it, but you can’t complain it’s late or that I made it knitting instead of crochet since you got what is in essence, fic) (un-edited because my wife is sick, there was no planning, just vibes)

word count: 4679

It started as a stupid way to prove to Alex he did in fact have artistic skills. Somewhere between grainy YouTube videos and detangling knots it became a way to decompress between sessions, it made for good practice with repetitive actions and not making mistakes, something in following stitch patterns that isn't that different from memorising turns and breaking points.

Incorporating new colours and designs teaches him to build patterns in his head that help with race planning. It's surprising how much the skills intersect. The only problem that arose was just how many scarves he ended up with.

So, George makes everyone scarves. Everyone gets a scarf. It’s a straight line and easy to follow. He has to get rid of the results of his labour somehow.

Aleix? Scarf. Bono? Scarf. Marcus’ scarf has extra fancy tassels. Riki’s has his first ever pole time embedded in it in little pixelated number shaped stitches. Mike’s scarf is almost as long as he is tall, George finally conceding it was long enough when he ran out of yarn at that weekends race. Shov’s scarf is connected in a loop, when asked, George teases ‘it’s because you’ve been here forever, Andrew.’ and has to duck out of the room and set off running before it gets pelted at his head. Shov does keep it though, along with one George manages to slyly pay Anthony to slip into his bag for Jenson. Toto gets sent home with scarves for Susie and each of his children. His is hidden at the bottom, so George doesn’t have to look him in the eyes when he finds it.

George only has to squint at Fred with red ears and nose, on a chilly Silverstone test day huddled up beside Mick in their boyband style white puffers, before he’s handed a black and silver scarf a week later. It doesn’t matter how much he protests being from a northern circle country, if Valtteri got a scarf so does Fred.

The fact Valtteri’s attempt was one of his earlier ones and has a finger sized hole in it is of no consequence. After all, Alex’s scarf has more holes than it has clean runs, but George just tells him it’s to get him used to the Williams style of living. If James Vowles' scarf is a lot neater, George challenges Alex to go and fight him for it.

Charles gets one in a red so vibrant it almost glows, though it’s not until after a summer break, George wouldn’t be caught dead working with Ferrari red in his garage, even now. Mick’s is a similar red, if paler, patterned with a grid of white stitches, and he looks surprised when George drops it in his lap, but it morphs into his wide bright smile when George just nods at him. Even Nicky receives a scarf in Williams blue with little wonky maple leaves patterned in white down the length of it mailed to him after a particularly stressful season opening. Nicky's girlfriend sends him a photo of him wearing it while they stand in snow up to their ankles. It feels good to know he's doing alright.

Eventually George’s scarves get more and more complicated, new patterns and shapes appearing as he pushes the boundary of his easy little plans, and finds new ways to occupy his mind during the hardest parts of the season. Eventually even drivers George knows a little less well find themselves with an unlabelled gift George gets snuck to them— Yuki and Guanyu both have the good sense to not question it too hard. Esteban texts him a middle finger, but he doesn’t get it back.

Even Roscoe gets a scarf, perfectly shrunk in size for his boxy head, rows interwoven with yellow and purple that he wears proudly as a bulldog can for a modelling photo in his home in LA alongside Angela who’d been more than excited to partake in George’s unspoken mission. The Bulldog looks stylish and comfortable despite it not being even close to the right season for it. He’s a professional after all.

—

Lewis gets nothing, which, y’know, he’s fine with. Roscoe got one so that kind of counts, and he’s been told he’s hard to buy for with his eccentric fashion sense, doubled by the fact he has enough money that even he doesn’t know what to do with it all sometimes. He’s worn more scarves than most people have ever owned, the majority of them handed to him by his stylists and then neatly returned that same week, their loan period from the brands vying for his attention ending without much fanfare.

He’s only kept one or two that particularly held his interest, and while Lewis doesn’t know their exact price, he knows that they probably cost more than one of the team's laptops. While Lewis has long been comfortable with his wealth, every now and then it still catches him, like a missed tag in a shirt, itchy and distracting.

This was one of those times.

When he’d first seen the scarves popping up around the garage, in the early part of that season when they’re still racing in deserts and countries close to the equator, he assumed its a new fashion trend he just isn’t aware of yet. It doesn’t make sense to him the way trends usually do; the heat of the climate combined with the way all of them are so varied and different. The only connecting factor is the handmade air to them, holes and sloppy loops peppered across the lengths. He even starts to wonder if one of the mechanics partners was sending them to races with gifts.

Lewis is used to purposefully distressed fabrics, so it takes him longer than he’d care to admit to realise what’s going on. He really should have noticed when Bono got one, as notoriously intolerant to modern trends as he usually is, but it isn’t until Valtteri of all people texts him a photo of himself with one tucked around his neck and newly trimmed mullet on a cycling trip between races that he finally cracks.

———

[VB sent an image]

LH: Where the hell did you get that thing, I keep seeing them everywhere

VB: This is a moustache Lewis, you should be familiar with the concept

LH: Har har

LH: wise ass.

LH: I meant the scarf

VB: Ask your boytoy

VB: it was him who threw it at my head in Spa last week

LH: George???

VB: who else

LH: don’t call him that- since when is he buying everyone scarves?

VB: but you knew who I meant didn’t you

LH: answer the question

VB: I’m pretty sure he made it, there’s a lot of holes

LH: Since when does George knit?????

VB: these sound like questions for YOUR teammate, I have pedalling to do

VB: 👋➡️🚴‍♂️

LH: what the hell man

LH: did you seriously just ghost me rather than answer

LH: fuck you

LH: and your secrets

LH: I hope tiff beats you

LH: 🖕🏾

[Valtteri BottASS liked a message]

——

The conversation with Valtteri leaves him even more confused than he was before. Despite the fact he now has even more questions swirling around his head, he does not ask George what’s going on. The last thing he wants to do is find out why he’s been excluded from the man himself. Lewis chooses not to question exactly why that is.

He’s also glad he hadn’t asked his stylist to find it for him like he’d planned to, containing his mild embarrassment down to just Valtteri, who he’s reasonably sure won’t tell George he asked about it. Valtteri may deeply enjoy fucking with Lewis, but not enough to have a conversation with George about it. If there’s one thing Valtteri objects to on all levels it’s being involved in… whatever is going on between Lewis and George.

Lewis isn’t quite sure what it is either. They’ve been dancing around each other for years now, Lewis isn’t quite sure when George turned from colleage to friend, and he really doesn’t know where they stand now they’re teammates who spend almost every week together in some form. The formality of clear labels was lost somewhere in the late night strategy sessions and food shared at different tables across the world at every hour of the day, from late breakfasts in Qatar to eyes-barely-open meals at 3am in Singapore. He wouldn’t call George his best friend… but he’s not sure he would call George just his teammate anymore either. He’s George. Whatever that means.

That lack of definition bites him in the ass sometimes, such as cases like this one where he has no idea what he is to George in return.

In his final year with Mercedes it had only gotten harder to figure out where they stood. In the years prior it had been a little easier at least, they'd had their ups and downs as they fought the car and worked hard not to fight with each other, but they'd always settled somewhere level. George's warmth toward him had felt unshakable.

Now it feels like they're both in some kind of pendulum motion, sliding from a desire to keep some distance, to make it hurt less, to an almost clingy need to soak up the time they have remaining together. It feels silly really, it's not like Lewis is retiring, he'll still be there, a couple doors down from George...but he can't escape the reality of knowing it'll be different.

Coupling that with his already complicated and grief heavy emotions about the entire team, and the fact their needs don't exactly line up most weekends, it's been a hard year. Lewis is pretty sure he's pulled George into more hugs this season than he has any other teammate before, but that didn't stop the sting of weeks where George seemed to catch a glance at him and turn tail and run for his drivers room. He doesn't feel particularly emotionally intelligent, but the slip of pain and something pinched in George's too clear eyes had been plain as day.

He knows there's nothing he can really do about it other than let George feel what he feels, but it still felt like a balm when George would grab his hand after a good race with that crazed joy in his eyes he always got, sweat practically flicking off every strand of his hair, and smile so bright it shone reserved just for Lewis, rubbing away any awkward moments from that weekend, like when George had winced when Lewis as squeezed his hand in greeting in Silverstone, mumbling something about sore fingers that Lewis hadn't understood.

Coming into their final races together as they do now, every movement feels amplified, every gesture and discussion hangs with the weight of being potentially his last with his team the team. Thoughts about George and scarves get lost in the heat of desert tracks and a cloying grief he finally has to face head on without the facade of getting through the year. He's not sure he's ever felt this emotional in his life. Leaving Mclaren had been a breath of fresh air and a weight lifted even if he'd loved what they had achieved together. Leaving Mercedes feels like moving away from England for the first time, unsure of what will be on the other side, or if he'll be able to make somewhere foreign and so different feel like his home again. Unsure if he wants to.

George seems to almost disappear behind that. Lewis figures he's giving him time to say goodbye to his team uninterrupted. Despite the fact George had been part of the Mercedes family in a way almost as long as Lewis has driven for them, they both know there's something different about it, and he's thankful for the space. He can press down the guilty, aching and confusing emotions he has about George into a box in the back of his mind to be handled late. He doesn't have time to unpack Georges furtive, almost nervous peeking at him between monitors when he's listening to Shov present their debrief for what might be the last time.

That's does however leave him ultimately unprepared for when George does finally demand his attention, by appearing on the doorstep of his drivers room after they're wrapped up for the evening, qualifying finished and preparations for the race day concluded, with what appears to be a colourfully wrapped lump in his arms.

Lewis is still blinking at the shiny obstacle between them, overhead lights glinting off the chrome coloured paper, when George speaks.

'Sorry mate, I hope I didn't interrupt anything did I?' His voice is oddly high pitched, sounding a little like when Lewis knows he's trying to lie to Toto about how much sleep he's had.

'No man I was just packing up for the night'

'Mind if I come in before you leave? It won't take long I promise,'

Lewis murmurs a quiet uh sure as he steps back, gesturing George inside and then shutting the door behind them as he see's curious eyes in the engineering bay start glancing over toward them. Even Bono, Mike, and Marcus, still clustered in the corner as normal poking away at their laptops seem to be looking over, trying and failing to seem subtle as if Lewis hasn't had over a decade to pick up on what Bono looks like when he's trying to listen to gossip.

In the privacy of Lewis' drivers room George spins around to face him and before he can even ask what's going on, George is pushing the thing he brought with him into Lewis' grasp

The parcel isn't too dense, but there's a weight to it that feels like it has to be good deal heavier than the wrapped scarves Lewis had watched George pass out in the past, and it looks at least three times the size them. Lewis barely has a second to try and figure out what it is before George’s fingers twitch toward him, like he’s itching to pull it from Lewis’ hands and unwrap it himself because Lewis is being too slow. Wordlessly, Lewis holds the package back out, gesturing for George to go ahead, and rather than steal it back out of his hands, George crowds up into his space to start unpicking the paper.

George’s wrapping handiwork has never been strong, but Lewis can’t really pay attention to that when George is this close, towering above him but seeming almost small in his nervousness. The moment feels strangely intimate as George slips those long fingers between his own crumpled tape job, tugging the attached parts free until he pulls back the final fold to reveal his signature woven handiwork.

George steps back then, leaving Lewis holding his presented gift in a cradle of paper. Out of the corner of his eye Lewis sees him twist and wring his fingers together as he watches, but Lewis can barely focus on how George might be feeling as a wave of... something hot and warm rushes over him.

The lump turns out to be a jumper. It's a bright mustard yellow, rich and bold. Or at least, part of it is, the arms and chest in one continuous colour that ends abruptly partway down the torso when one line stops and continues in a slightly paler shade. The difference is almost imperceptible, and likely would hidden entirely if the colours weren’t butted up against each other like this, juxtaposed the way they are. Towards the hem of the thing, the colour shifts again, one step lighter for the last handful of rows falling at the waistline, the changes creating a gradient down the body. When Lewis traces it with his eyes, he can spot small areas in the neck and wrists where the pattern falters, warped patches that correct quickly but don’t quite line up with those around them. Rather than make the whole item look bad, there’s an odd personality to it, a touch of handmade individuality compared to a lot of the pristine items Lewis gets handed by his stylist, not a spec of lint in sight despite the fact they aren’t headed to a closed catwalk, but a dusty paddock.

As his fingers lift the folded bulk of it he spots a little detail along the neckline, a tiny, almost unnoticeable LH in a dark gold colour that would settle in line with his ear. Surely enough on the right side, there's a tiny 44 in the same font, the pair crowning his shoulders. Twisting the woollen form again, he sees there are tiny stars stitched into the cuffed sleeves in the same colour. There's seven by his count, and an eighth peeking out from the inner band where it would press against his wrist.

He's not sure how long they've been stood together now, silent but for the rustling of paper and the jumper as Lewis studies George's work. As he finishes his inspection he becomes aware of the anxious energy practically radiating off George in the silence that the same man finally snaps and breaks.

'I know its uh, pretty hot where we are but I figured, when you get back home- I mean when you get back to England you can- I tried to finish it earlier but-' George stumbles, words sounding unsure and faux light before Lewis interrupts him

'Did you make this?' He breaths, fingers pressing into the stitches as if it might tell him instead.

'Yeah, I wanted to make something... bigger. I know it's not quite what you're used to with the fashion stuff but I thought...well I don't know what I thought' George explains, words trailing into a lilting mumble. When Lewis' eyes dart up to meet his face, George's cheeks are glowing even in the low light of the one lamp he'd left on, face twisted as if braced for a blow. Like he thinks Lewis is going to be mad at him for this, somehow.

'George...man...'

'Sorry- It's stupid I know, if you don't like it I'll take it back, I won't be mad, I swear-' George isn't looking at him anymore, eyes darting around at his feet and his hands that he shoves into his pockets only to yank them out and wring them together again, fidgeting so he doesn't have to meet Lewis' gaze. His uncertainty makes Lewis' stomach hurt.

'It's perfect'

'I can even save the yarn, it's not actually that hard to unravel- what?'

'It's perfect, George, I really like it' He repeats, grabbing Georges arm with the hand he isn't cradling the jumper with, forcing George to stop trying to climb the walls with his eyes and look at him properly.

'You do?'

'Of course? Did you think I wouldn't like it?'

'I dunno I just- I wanted to make something special.' George rasps, surprisingly wet looking eyes boring into his. That stumps Lewis, and he has to drop his eyes back down to the gorgeous golden knit work, so undeniably a labour of care. It must have taken months, When Lewis was so deep in his own head trying to figure out if George felt anything or was just waiting for him to leave, the man himself was working in secret on something just for Lewis.

'How long did this take you?' He whispers into the space between them, not sure he even wants to know the answer, fingers still wrapped almost too firmly around Georges arm, a little worried George might run for the gates of the paddock if he lets go.

'You don't want to know- since before Imola at least. I normally just do scarves cause uh, they're just straight lines y'know.' George starts tentatively, before the dam seems to burst and he begins rambling 'I had to unpick half of it in October cause I'd counted wrong and it was shaped like a pear- there's still some wrong bits I couldn't fix, sorry about that- and I hope its the right size I had to ask Angela for them and she said they're a couple years old and-'

He continues but now it's Lewis' turn to freeze up, puzzle pieces clicking together in his head as he realises George has been working on something just for him since at least May. For over 7 months while Lewis was absorbed in fighting the car and his own emotions George was working away at something specifically for him, without even being sure if he would like it.

George has started to go off into a tangent about getting knitting needles through airport security when Lewis finally stops him, squeezing his arm.

'Why... why'd you do all that just for me?' He grits out, voice scratching against his raw throat, trying to make eye contact with George so he might read it in his face why the hell George put more effort in for him than anyone else.

'Just for you- Blimey, Lewis, cause I had to say thank you somehow, didn't I?'

'Cause I'm leaving?'

'No! No- 'cause you stayed. 'Cause you made me feel like this is my home too. 'Cause you listened to me and never made me feel too young or not good enough when I made mistakes and you never treated me like the enemy or just some guy across the garage. I know I keep saying it but you probably saved my career-'

'George- you would have been fine without me, you've always been good-' Lewis tries to interject, but George just steamrolls past him.

'Yeah but- you didn't make me figure that out on my own. I learned more in a month with you than three years at Williams. You made me a better person'

'George-'

'Please, I know it's a bit much, maybe, but I just had to do something before you left, so you knew.' George's voice cracks a little over the last words, and Lewis doesn't feel much better, eyebrows furrowed and throat clogging as he tries to choke down the indescribable feeling climbing up his throat and threatening to suffocate him in response to George's frank honesty. He's always been better at being vulnerable than Lewis.

He doesn't know what to say anymore, how to tell George that it was never a hardship to be his teammate, that Lewis was the one who struggled to articulate what George meant to him. That he's going to miss this like breathing and he wasn't prepared for that.

Words have never been his strong suit though, so instead he turns slightly and gently throws the jumper onto the nearest couch, ensuring its landed safely and ignoring Georges noise of confusion before he turns and drags George into his arms.

It's become natural, to hug George, another thing that's evolved over the last couple seasons when Lewis would have sworn himself touch averse for the most part. His arms wrap tight around George, one clutching at the middle of his back as the other skates up to cup around the back of his head, fingers slipping on shower damp hair and George's shirt collar.

George's nose tucks into his neck like routine, cheek pressed hard into Lewis' as he winds a long arm around the shorter man's neck to clutch at his shoulder, the other tugging at Lewis' shirt, gripping like Lewis is going to pull away, as if he hadn't initiated it.

Lewis squeezes harder than he imagines is probably comfortable, but George just makes a wet noise into his neck and digs his head down harder, fingers clutching tighter as Lewis runs a thumb over his hairline. There's a damp feeling growing on Lewis' shoulder but he doesn't care, he's not sure how he isn't tearing up himself, maybe he would be if he wasn't trying to memorise the feeling of how George fits against him.

It crashes over him then, blunt as a hammer, that this is what he's afraid of losing. He's afraid of losing this closeness with George when he leaves, when he's no longer going to be the experienced, advising teammate but just another obstacle on the grid George needs to climb over. He might lose the George who crowds into his space looking for Lewis to celebrate with him this way. He might lose the joy and adrenaline of George flinging himself at Lewis with the confidence that he will be caught, when it might be strange if they aren't teammates.

'I'm sorry' he blurts out, words crawling from somewhere in his lungs, only for George to make a confused noise, trying to pull back and stopping when Lewis only grips harder.

'What're you sorry about' George gets out, words wet and quiet where they are muffled against Lewis' shoulder.

'About this, the hugging, I just-' Lewis starts, but George just laughs at him, damp and a little hysterical, face tilting till their noses are practically brushing so he can look at Lewis from within his embrace.

'The last thing you ever have to be sorry for, is hugging me. You can do it more if you want'

Lewis stares at him for a second, gaze darting over George's lax but wet eyes, and the way his cheek smushes into Lewis' shoulder at an angle that must be uncomfortable but yet he makes no attempt to move away from, and yet another thing clicks into place, very much the theme of the evening. He was clearly teasing, but even Lewis can hear the truth under his words.

He brushes a seeking thumb over the nape of George's neck, dragging across the hot skin there. George shivers, fingers flexing against Lewis back, and that's all the permission he needs to tip his mouth onto Georges, lips slotting together in a kiss he hadn't even realised he'd wanted.

It's hardly picture perfect. George's face is sticky from his own tears and Lewis can taste it on his lips, his own cheeks are hot and itchy, and the angle they're at makes the seal of their mouths messy at best, and yet its the best thing Lewis has ever tasted. The hand George had at his shoulder slips along to thumb Lewis' jaw, pressing over his beard, and Lewis wants to drown in it. All his experience flies out the window in the face of following his gut and holding George as close as he can manage.

The slide of their mouths should really be indecent, wet as it is, and he's starting to think a little about being too loud, when he shifts slightly and George makes a breathy whimpering noise that sends any worries about being overheard right out of his head.

Time melts a little, as they curl together, until Lewis' neck really can't tolerate the angle anymore, and he has to pull back, panting harshly just in time for something to go clattering the the floor outside in the engineering bay, making them both jump and reminding them abruptly that they are in fact still at work, in thrown up rooms with paper thin walls that the cleaning staff are going to want to vacuum soon, as thorough as they are.

'We probably shouldn't be- well- we probably should have figured this out before now' George muses, still sounding awful breathless for an athlete Lewis seen run several miles for fun. They'd pulled apart a little in shock at the noise outside, but he's still gripping Lewis' arm, and there's that bright, beautiful smile creeping across his face again.

Lewis glances just over his shoulder, where the jumper is still lying haphazardly on the sofa.

'I dunno, Man. Better late than never?'

[apocalyp-tech-a]

Remember in Season 1, Episode 1 Aftermath, Tech says "I am merely stating a theoretical hypothesis based on factual data?" Well, that's what I did, I made a "logical conclusion." From Lama Su coming back when we thought he was dead to the infamous "domicile," it was all factual evidence that was meant to push us in a direction of hoping that Tech would return and that CX-2 could be the way he does it. I'm not stupid, and neither are you. There's an underlying reason that I love Tech not based on just his handsome looks. I don't claim to have an exceptional mind like him and I don't intend to convince anyone that CX-2 was Tech, but I do want to explain how it could be construed through the way that character was presented as well as the possibility of Tech's return in general, that he could have been and none of us were wrong or "losers" to think so.

45 70 Reasons and more well on the way, lol...

General reasons:

*Tech is never seen actually dying.

*Hemlock being untrustworthy source of death certificate.

*The return of many thought to be dead characters in past Star Wars from Darth Maul who was sliced in half to Lama Su - the door closed on him and we thought he was getting shot by troopers only to show up alive later and this happened in The Bad Batch itself.

*CX-2 is shown walking toward the 'light' after dropping off Omega, symbolically toward a future redemption. @astrovoidy

*Height change on starwars.com

*The word 'dead' danced around on official sites and by BB employees

*the similarities to Winter soldier @on-a-quest

*the cryptic tweets that showcased reborn characters like Gandalf

*The official poster of CX-2 shows him in 'good' light. @eriexplosion AND CX-2 is shown looking up and to the side the way the original CF99 members are positioned and facing in their poster as if CX-2 is also a CF99 member

*other people in professional settings like New Rock Stars on youtube thought the same exact thing as well as casual viewers

*the large focus on CX-2, over multiple episodes

*misleading title of last episode "The Cavalry Has Arrived"

*Tech being smart enough to find a solution

*If Season 2 could be compared to Empire Strikes Back, Tech was taken from us the way Han Solo was, but Han Solo was returned so surely Tech would be as well

*no one expected a main ensemble character permadeath

*the fight with Crosshair music had hints of "Plan 99" in it

*Tech’s whole big conversation with Romar was about culture and memory, and he helped Romar restoring a data repository. Between the implication that Tech would have lost his memories and Phee saying, “Tech’s brain was the databank, not mine,” you could easily see that as foreshadowing for Tech getting his memories back. @heyclickadee

*All the little one line reminders and goggles shots up through episode twelve only serve to make the audience want Tech back. They aren’t closure, they’re reminders of his absence. [Tech never being quite mourned.] @heyclickadee

*The goggles are lit, or look like they’re lit, in every scene they’re in except the last one, which sure makes all those earlier shots deliberate. @heyclickadee *CX-2 could have killed all of them at different moments, but chose not to (shooting pilot instead of Hunter for example)

Physical and character similarities:

*the shrimp posture

*the kick in the fight similar to droid kick in S1E1

*the similar hand to hand combat style

*the shooting accuracy- ipsium cave/ plan 99

*the elegant deliberate movement especially of hands and fingers

*the animated head and body when speaking

*the helmet – even has his hairline @jorolle

*the viewfinder similar to Tech's and utilized just as often

*the pouches(!!!)

*the limberness and agility

*the confident capability

*the crouching/getting on one knee - Tech is an infamous croucher!

*the deviant nature – ignoring orders

*the technology know how

*the flying – some say the turn on Teth was a Tech Turn

*the extraness of tool/weapon twirl

*armpad like Tech's datapad @wolveria

*CX-2's ship has similarities to the Marauder @wolveria

*Tech CC-9902 / CX-2 - both end in 2 @wolveria

*We are reminded this season that Tech was especially good at decryption. What do we see CX-2 doing on Phee’s ship? Yeah. @heyclickadee

*Season two went out of its way to establish that Tech has a high pain tolerance, is a good close range fighter (he won a life-or-death fight with a guy when he had that broken femur), quick processing speed, and is an excellent shot. All skills we see CX-2 exhibit. @heyclickadee

The 'British' accent, speech inflection, pronunciation. and vocabulary (this alone is enough to convince anyone...):

'You better get back HERE." - "I know the girl is HERE."

"The fifth IS Omega." - "The girl IS alive."

"Who are you?" - "Who are you?"

"Naveecomputah." - "Neveecomputah."

"DOMICILE." - "DOMICLE."

Cinematic framing similarities:

*the limping

*the coming out of the water @lilacjunimo

*hooking the rappel hook rappelling down was like dangling off the rail car

*the boulder moving

*helmet viewpoint from CX-2 in finale, only BB members ever had that

Conjectural situations of suspicion:

*the beef with Crosshair

*the constant surviving

*the pausing when choking Crosshair

*the pausing to look at Phee

*The implications that Crosshair seems to know something about CX-2 (he wants to get out of dodge when he knows CX-2 is coming), and the intense lingering guilt Crosshair feels—and which is never dealt with! It’s still there through the finale—implying he knows or suspects it’s Tech. @heyclickadee

*“Whatever they did to you, whatever you’ve done, you’re still one of us,” offered by Rex towards the CXs @heyclickadee

*Crosshair’s character arc this season being partly about realizing that anyone can change and that no one is really beyond saving, which would have continued going somewhere if he thought CX-2 was Tech and considered him beyond saving, but then changed his mind and realized he needed to try. Notice that he does not engage CX-2 in 11 like he did in 7, and that this comes after his revelation about giving people a chance in 9. @heyclickadee

*CX-2 is even more Tech like in 11 than he was in 6 and 7. This implies that he could be starting to wake up, and that almost killing Crosshair triggered that. He doesn’t kill anyone except one of his own guys on Pabu (or Phee) even though it would make his job much easier. He even has Hunter and Wrecker in his sights and moves his aim to not shoot them directly. @heyclickadee

*Crosshair has no way to know that the CX’d clones come out different and that their identities are erased unless it happened to someone we know. In fact, there’s not reason for the CX plot to exist unless that horrific thing happens to someone we know. @heyclickadee

*The first episode of the show starts out with Hunter covering for someone who supposedly died in a fall. In fact, there are direct parallels in the lines: “Where’s the Jedi?” “I stunned him when he jumped. He didn’t make it.” vs “Where’s Tech?” “Omega…Tech didn’t make it.” I’m not saying Hunter was covering for Tech; I am saying that is the only place in the script where we see those phrases matched up. @heyclickadee

*Tech being CX-2 would have fit in perfectly with each member of the batch experiencing a traumatic loss (and regaining) of agency that correlated directly to who and how they are as people. @heyclickadee

Foreshadowing lines:

*More machine than man, percentage wise at least.

*Better late than dead.

*See you around, Brown Eyes.

*Tech's not gone.

*The operative's gone rogue.

*Romar saying he's a survivor and Tech's look at him.

*Don't go running off with any pirates or smugglers. @heyclickadee

Abandoned storyline reasons:

*The romance with Phee, surely it wouldn't be abandoned!? 🙄😡

*CX-2's death being anticlimactic

*The finale seeming rushed and incomplete

*Actors saying there were script changes

*CX-2's accent in the finale was not only not like Tech's as it was in previous episodes, it wasn't even a clone accent (wtf was that) signaling a script change

@wolveria made a great analysis here with her Tech-Genda !

@heyclickadee gave a great analysis here and also great evidence, more in comments!

@vivaislenska has a list as well with some of these points!

@eriexplosion has a great analysis here!

Having said that, here are some reasons it may not have been him:

*Too many characters coming back from the dead.

*The way he says 'clones' in Infiltration was more reg accent.

*Tech's line in the cave to Omega which "was a big one to me” in retrospect: "I am aware that you miss him, but we have to adapt and move on."

As for the intentions of the writers to either have been forced to change the script, but can't admit it due to NDAs or if they truly meant for CX-2 to be Crosshair's foil which to me was unclear, especially with all of the evidence above, I don't know. At least they could have made CX-2 talk and move like a reg. Making him talk and walk like Tech was kind of cruel on top of a cruel we already experienced in Plan 99. I am not personally attacking the writers, I still love Season 1 and 2 and most of Season 3, but I wish I knew what happened behind the scenes with this and I know I'm not the only one. I think this is the last time I'll personally address Season 3 or the finale unless to support other commentators/creators and for my own fix-it and art and writing. And I look forward to seeing everyone else's works as well and hope no one gives up this beautiful Batch or fandom as I almost did. Canon seems done with him, he belongs to us now. 💜

And if anyone has anything I missed (I'm sure I'll think of more myself), feel free to comment or reblog with that addition or a link to your own post and/or I can edit the OP to include it and tag you. Also, don't feel like you can't make your own post about this subject! But I do hope this maybe helped anyone still dealing with the 'aftermath' like me, to know you're not alone, and you did not read too much into it.

(In retrospect, I can't believe they killed him though, lol. What the kriff were they thinking!?! #too handsome to die #too awesome to die)

[magiturge]

I'm now curious what and/or who has the most cool factor in Hank's opinion (aside from itself, of course)

-💻🌌

it's.. kind of varied. i got tired of writing by hand so please look under the cut for context, i talked about in a previous post a headcanon that hank feels no physical attraction to anyone in the sense of thinking someone is "hot" "pretty" "sexy" but views appearance in a lens of how cool it is / cool factor. it does not vocalize this unless there's nothing else to talk about while also not super focused on something else.

for deimos : deimos's style isn't exactly something hank would wear but it can respect the craftsmanship that was put into the outfit. ( i.e. drawings on shoes, keychains on backpack ) he does think his outfit is kind of cool but just wouldn't wear it. the cigarette is cool.. aesthetically / visually but in practice with how much deimos hacks and coughs, it gets a bit lame and displeasing.

for doc : thinks that whatever doc is wearing is fitting for him, he would wear the style as casual wear but not as full on / main outfit. it fits for the purpose of doc being someone who lays low and doesnt get involved in missions as much as hank does. hank thinks doc does look a bit cool with the mohawk but thinks doc being bald is kind of funny. not really cool, but funny and fitting.

for sanford : overwhelmingly neutral. hank thinks it's a pretty plain outfit, that sanford could do more with it but it's fitting nonetheless. sanford doesn't need to change but it would be nice if he could add a little something to it. he thinks sanford's back tattoo is cool though.

for jeb : very.. very tacky. leaning into savior image way too much. to hank it's like a mish mash of elements that could work together but jeb is not wearing it properly. he thinks it fits jeb but because it fits doesnt mean it thinks its cool. thinks his sunglasses are stupid.

for tricky : thinks her style is kind of weird but it is consistent and fitting. it's weird but kind of cool, it's sort of like jeb in the sense that it is a mish mash of elements but they seem more cohesive and lean into each other more.

for phobos : looks stupid. very stupid. his opinion is offset by how much it saw of phobos's statues in nexus city, already got the feeling that this guy was full of himself. he thinks the red cape is tacky and stupid, similar to jeb in theres elements that could work but it's executed poorly. low on the cool.

for auditor : thinks they have potential but are wasting it. likes the black and red color combination.. for obvious reasons. they have a lot of potential being someone who shapeshifts and can look like they have flames coming off of them but thinks that auditor is wasting their potential / putting presentation in the wrong areas. makes themselves look lame. summoning swords out of nowhere is COOL but they carry themselves poorly.

for sheriff : doing too much in the sense of wearing way too much. opinion is offset because fighting with him is really annoying so it dislikes the outfit for different reasons but in a vaccuum, it's too much. likes his leather chaps, would wear them if he found a pair that fit.

[angelpuns]

50Au Part 14

CW FOR NEEDLES(?), BEING HELD DOWN(??)

Lemme know if it needs more/different warnings pls.

---

Leo was trying very, very hard to be calm right now. He was doing his breathing. He was counting the things he could see and hear and all that other stuff. He was definitely not thinking about how fucking scared he was, that was for sure. 

Except he was, because he's a liar. And it was starting to make him spiral a teeny, tiny little bit. 

The smallest of the three kept looking at him with this, sad, sad expression. Except when Leo made eye contact, the small one would smile. And even though it seemed harmless, Leo was sure this was some kind of weird manipulation tactic. 

He had been wondering what these guys' deal was all day. Why they were after him, obsessed With him. Why they were so insistent on lying to his face about- about his entire life. 

His big guesses were Big Mama's lackeys, but they seemed…different from her usual style. Or maybe they worked for some big government agency in the human side of things. Or maybe - and he tried very hard not to dwell on this thought - they were part of the foot clan. The foot clan, who had released the krang upon New York and nearly trapped Leo in another dimension forever. 

The foot clan, that was determined to kill him and dead set on having the shredder fuck up his entire life in, like , seconds. 

He knew there was some weird ancestor bullshit there, but he never really understood why the Shredder had wanted him dead so bad. 

Leo didn't want them to be part of the foot clan, cause he was absolutely definitely not ready to deal with the krang or the Shredder or any sort of world-ending situation. He was just one guy, after all. 

But the evidence was stacked against him. They all wore similar outfits, had ninja skills, and had some sort of mystic powers that were a little too similar to his own. And all that was being used against him, to trick him into thinking they'd been his brothers all along. 

But Leo was not easily tricked. And he sure as hell wasn't going down without a fight. 

So he kicked and screamed the entire way back to the lair, which took only moments since they had a portal token. The thought that they could have used it at any time made his blood run cold. 

It was probably how they escaped his trap, and how they kept catching up to him so quickly. They were toying with him. Like a fucked up game of cat and mouse that he just could not win for some reason. They got Hueso and his waiter in on it, too, he just knew it. 

He went quiet after that, tossing ideas around his head and hoping something would stick. They were clearly smarter than he thought, and he wondered if his little rat trick had even tricked them at all. It had felt good in the moment and now it just felt like a stupid waste of time. 

When they got back to his lair, they sat him down in the armchair of the living room. The cage was gone, they has probably ditched it straight away and went to snooping around his home for the krang key. Their emotional States (and the general lack of aliens fucking up New York) led him to believe they hadn't found it yet, thankfully. But it was only a matter of time. 

He was still wrapped in chains, but there was a sudden ker-chunk sound, and some sort of metal jutted out from the chair and wrapped around his wrists, ankles and midsection, strapping him to the chair. 

The small one and the large one looked to the purple one, who had pressed a remote he'd conjured from somewhere on his person. 

“What? They're for when I have to ground Dad and make him watching nature documentaries.” He said, like any of that had made sense. 

The red one gave a disapproving shake of his head, “ Donnie…” 

“ It's not torture, Raphala, it's just so he can't grab the remote,” The purple one- Donnie-  insisted, gesturing to Leo,” and look, it’s coming in clutch right now, isn't it?” 

“You’re removin’ it later, just so ya know,” The red one - Raph - sighed. 

Leo had an idea. Not, like, his best one ever, considering he was exhausted and hurting and did he already say exhausted? But it might just work.

 He just had to do some quick intel-gathering. 

“ Mikey, go ahead and release him,” Donnie sighed, turning towards Leo with the most villain-like dramatic pose Leo's ever seen. No doubt about it, these guys were evil. 

“that, my dear twin, is reinforced titanium. Genius-Built and totally undestructible! So now you will sit here and listen to what we have to say, okay?” 

Leo swallowed past the lump in his throat. Okay. Game on. 

He nodded meekly, flexing his hands and feet a little to test the bars. Hey, a girl can try, right? 

“ Right. So, you - Leonardo Hamato - have been cursed. By a witch. From witch town. To forget your family,” Donnie gestured at himself and the two others, “ every day. You sleep and forget us, every day. This is day two. Are you following?”

Leo nodded again, clearing his rasping throat, “ Like 50 first dates?” 

Mikey - the orange one - piped up with a grin, “ that's what I've been saying! You're like Drew Barrymore!” 

“Yes. Like 50 first dates, although it's mystical and not clinical. So-” Donnie put his hands on his hips, “ now that we’ve got that covered-”

“ Are you going to make me watch a montage of memories or something?” Leo snarled, raising an eyebrow mockingly at Donnie. 

That seemed to get a rise out of him. Good, Leo wanted him nice and annoyed for his plan. 

Mikey gasped, “ OHMIGOSH WE SO SHOULD! DONNIE ISN'T THAT A GOOD IDEA!?”

Leo couldn't help but wince at the shouting, the probable concussion catching up to him again. He needed his stupid brain to think, not hurt. 

Donnie sighed, “ I don’t see what it will hurt, but can it please wait for tomorrow?” 

He turned to Leo with a frown, “ we need to put Leo to sleep for the night before he tries to run off again- we do not need him running around New York in this condition!” 

Put him to sleep? So they could what, find the key? Shouldn't they be interrogating him or something? Not like he would tell them where it was, but the weird game plan was concerning. 

They'd hunted him down all day and for what? To just bring him back here and put him to sleep so they could snoop more? He'd been gone all morning, they could have looked then. 

Unless.. Unless they had something to worm their way into his head. After all, Sister Krang was still out there, somewhere. She could be the one pulling the strings here. She was likely still too injured to do it herself so it- it would make sense. 

“ you- you don't need to do that!” He blurted, the panic creeping up his shell. Stay cool, Leo, stay cool. Be a cool bean, c'mon now. 

“ I could- I could remember any second now! I mean…M-Miguel over here looks kinda familiar!” It was not what he planned to say,  but he had to roll with it. 

The orange one lit up at that, “ hey, yeah! He called me Miguel, that's progress, right Dooonnieee?” 

Roll with it. Roll with it. 

Leo's voice was quieter when he spoke, and he couldn't fight the pathetic tremble in it, “ right, Donnie?” 

Donnie stared at him. Really stared at him. Then his expression seemed to relax and the tension along his shoulders melted for a second. 

“Fine, okay.  We're not making a montage, but we can, like, go through the family photo album or something,” He sighed, turning to the big one, “sound good to you, Raph?”

Raph was staring at Leo, too. But not like Donnie had been. It was something else. Like…guilt? 

Yeah, okay, probably not guilt. Maybe it was thinly veiled disdain or something, Leo wasn't really good at reading people when his head was throbbing like this. 

“ Raph?”

“Huh? Oh, yeah, whatever Donnie said is fine,” He murmured, quickly turning away when Leo made eye contact. Good. Cause that was throwing a wrench into his plan and he didn't know how to account for the biggest one's weird emotional gazes right now. 

“Would it be possible to turn down the lights, just a little? Cause I've got a killer headache,” Leo rasped, shooting Donnie a meek smile that he hoped was more convincing than it felt. 

“Oh, yes. I hadn't accounted for the head trauma. Thankfully you've been awake for more than two hours, so you should be fine ” He headed to the wall and  turned the overhead lights off, only the faint fairy lights illuminating their faces, “ I'll make sure to give you Tylenol tomorrow morning, since you won't remember why you have a headache.”

He said it so matter-of-factly, it made Leo’s skin crawl. So they were gonna mess with his head. 

“ Right..” He chuckled, clearing his throat a little “thanks, Bro” 

Donnie stiffened a little at that, but just gave a simple nod in response. Tough crowd. He was gonna be the hardest to convince, Leo noted. 

The small one would be easy, and Raph was so caught up in whatever he kept looking at Leo for, he probably would be easy to convince too. 

Leo could do this, he could do this. Even in this condition, in pain, tired, with a panic attack in his back pocket just waiting  to catch him off guard. He could do this. 

Mikey ran back in with a small photo album a few moments later, quickly sitting next to the chair and propping the album in Leo's lap. 

Leo wasn't stupid. They had obviously faked all of the photos, after all, they said they'd been watching him as young as six. Who's to say they hadn't been keeping tabs on him since he was first mutated?

He wondered briefly if Draxum was a part of this too, but decided he would have shown up with some villain monologue of his own if he had been. Thank god, Leo didn't wanna deal with him right now on top of all of this other shit. 

“ That's when Dad first found the sewers, and when you and Donnie had your first birthday together, and when Raph tried to eat that football and-”

“Slow down, Mikey, I'm churning up some memories here,” Leo chuckled, giving him a faint grin. That seemed to shut him up and keep him happy, Leo just hoping it was deemed genuine by the other two. Raph was barely paying attention, but Donnie had been watching him with a scrutinizing eye the entire time. 

He let Mikey flip the pages, nodding at some of the photos like he understood and then stating for long periods of other photos as if he really was remembering. 

“ I think…this one looks familiar,” He pointed to the one closest to his right hand, a picture of him standing on Raph shoulder's trying to reach a cookie jar. Which was impossible for about a million reasons, but it would rope the big one into the conversation, at least. 

Predictably, Raph leaned over to look closer. He chuffed out a laugh, “ oh yeah, Raph remembers that…” 

Cue the lights, because Leo was about to put on the best act of his life. 

“ yeah…i think…i think Dad was laughing and- I kinda remember…it scared us so bad we fell and broke the jar!” He laughed to play it up, like it was a funny childhood memory that had actually happened. 

Raph grinned and laughed along with him, “ yeah…he was so mad after that, too,” 

Perfect. It was too easy, the photo was tilted and a little blurry, like someone had been trying to hold it together and take a picture all at once. Raph's tone said it all, there was definitely some sort of dumb punishment involved, so they must have fallen. 

“ It's working! What else do you remember, Lee?” Mikey grinned. 

Donnie scoffed, grimacing down at the album “ You could be lying. I'm sure you've got something up your sleeve, ‘ Nardo. Prove you remember something. Anything.” 

The show must go on. 

“well…” Leo thought back to all the information he'd gathered, all the photos he'd been scanning. The way Donnie had looked at him with such defeat. Yeah, he had this in the bag. 

“ we…forgot to celebrate our birthday last year, didn't we?” He looked up at Donnie and frowned, biting his lip like he was thinking hard, “ because of the…the invasion. And because I was…hurt,” 

He tilted his head a little, offered that meek smile, and gave a little chuckle, “ we never got around to doing that, did we?”

That seemed to seal the deal, Donnie's eyes becoming glassy with tears. 

“ Yeah, we didn't…we should probably, cause it's…” Donnie sniffed and hid his face. 

“Hey, yeah, it's creeping up on us pretty fast, Isn't It?” Leo agreed, sighing softly, “ I guess I've been pretty..pretty awful to you guys today, huh? Running away when you were just trying to help me…im really, really sorry, I was just scared…” 

“ It was scary to us, too, cause you were..you were all alone out there…” Mikey’s voice warbled with tears, and he hugged Leo as well as he could with the bars in his way. 

Now was his chance. 

“ I promise I won't run anymore, okay? Can you…can you guys let me out? So we can all have a real hug?” 

Donnie sniffed and nodded, wiping at his eyes and grabbing the remote. 

The bars released, but that wasn't his window. Not yet. 

He reached up and pulled Mikey into a hug, even if it made him shiver with discomfort. 

The big one squeezed both of them into a. Tight hug, Leo letting out a squeak that be hoped didn't sound as afraid as he felt. Donnie joined the hug for a moment before pulling away. 

“ Okay…okay, we should all head to bed,” He sighed, “ Leo needs to rest - curse or not - and we need…we need a plan of action in case the curse is still active somehow, so-” 

Raph pulled away from the hug, “ so you're gonna sleep too, right? Cause you need to be rested too, right?”

Donnie made a faintly guilty sound, but Leo's focus was back on the orange one. 

“ Ohmigosh, I'm so glad that worked!” Mikey pulled away a littlefrom the hug with a grin, his arms loosening from around Leo. 

“ Sorry, Mikey, but it didn't,” Leo murmured, barely letting Mikey process before he shoved him away as hard as he could manage. His swords were mere steps away, Leo stumbling over his feet to grab one of them, just one-

“GRAB HIM!” 

Something crushed him under it's weight, Leo wheezing out a gasp when he realized it was Raph. He'd tackled him to the ground like it was nothing, but this was Leo's last chance. He had  to keep them from getting his memories. He had to keel them from getting the key! 

He wasn’t gonna let then destroy the world, not again! 

He kicked and hit at whatever parts of Raph he could reach, but the guy was a stone. He shimmied and trued to crawl our from under him, but any movement was shut down by this guy's bulk. 

He'd never been good at fighting one-on-one. He’d never been good at fighting period. He was better at jumping, avoiding, dodging.

“ LET ME GO! I WON'T LET YOU DO THIS! LET ME GO! RAPH! RAPH, LET ME GO!” He was getting too tired to fight, too tired to kick and scream, but he still had their feelings to mess with. So that's what that look had been. It was Leo's new trump card. 

“ RAPH! RAPH, PLEASE!PLEASE, LET ME GO!” He fought less and less, trying to see the big guy's expression, “ PLEASE I-I WON'T RUN, PLEASE, PLEASE!I'M SCARED, OKAY!? I'M SCARED!”

He heard a sob from above him, a litany of apologies spilling from the big one's mouth. Wait. Wait, he was apologizing? 

Weren't these guys supposed to be villains? 

Even through the muffled apologies, the weight didn't let up. Leo was torn. Maybe they weren't lying, but- but then how could he? He'd lived a whole life and it wasn't- it wasn't real?

He wasn't real? 

“ I'm sorry, ‘Nardo,” he glanced up and Donnie was there with a syringe. Leo trued to fight it, but Raph quickly held his arm to the ground. He fought with everything he had, throat burning with pleads and shouts that were lost on deaf ears. 

No. No, these guys were undoubtedly evil. Who the fuck would do this to their supposed brother?

His screams drifted off as he did, and all he could think to say was a muffled “ I'm scared” before everything faded to black.

---

Okay this one took longer than usual cause it was just a lot of things going on at once. Also Leo doesn't think of Draxum as family or family adjacent cause I thought it'd be funny.

I'm tired so I don't have much else to say, pls lemme k ow if I need to add more warnings.

Part 1 | Part 13 | Part 15

[anotheroceanid]

hi! okay this is insanely long but i had a lot of thoughts so bear with me pls.

i was scrolling through the jercy tag bc i'm starved and saw ur posts abt rhea/kronos & percy/jason and have to say i love them sm!! it's such an interesting concept and i've got a lot of cool thoughts abt them now thanks to you, buttt,, may i also offer metis/zeus & percy/jason parallels? it's a little stretch but hey idc it's fun

metis is the daughter of oceanus, percy is the son of poseidon (at both times, they're a child of the ruler of the seas) zeus is the son of kronos, jason is the son of zeus (at both times, they're a child of the ruler of the universe) metis & zeus met and fought a war to end kronos together...percy & jason unknowingly fought together during the titan war to end kronos and they do meet and work together during the giant war! and they make a great team, like in the twin giants fight

metis was a goddess of wisdom i'm pretty sure? and was zeus' advisor. i am a firm hater of the "percy is stupid" train because honestly it's percy who makes most of the battle strategies in pjo.

in fact here's some unwarranted examples: realizing what the lotus casino was, tricking crusty, figuring out the whole lightning thief debacle, giving clarisse the fleece, clearing chiron's name, figuring out he needs to take the sky, finding the nemean lion's weak spot, figuring out rachel is their guide for the labyrinth, all of his actions in the battle of manhattan tbh like he was crazy for doing all that at age 16!!, scaring chrysaor’s crew, making the combination of demigods to get nike, etc etc- i could go on and on!

so, i feel he can be related to metis in that he would be a pretty great advisor and obviously he'd be a fantastic leader. athena herself says the requests (read: demands) percy makes at the end of the second titan war are wise!

also think it could be interesting if poseidon delibrately chose to have percy look like metis. they'd probably look similar anyway but if poseidon wanted zeus to have some hesitation in killing percy, creating him to look like someone zeus greatly wronged in the style of kronos (aka eating someone) could do it?

anyway, moving onto jason! who, like zeus, is the youngest son and has a lunatic father that treats him like shit,, and at first zeus served kronos! just as jason did, but hey, if jason hadn't died when he did,, how long would he have continued to serve zeus?

rhea took zeus from kronos to be raised in crete by nymphs, like hera took jason from zeus to be raised in camp jupiter by wolves. and like rhea, hera is always on jason's side and honestly based on her toa reaction to his death, likely loved him like a son. and we know hera fucking hates zeus like rhea hated kronos.

jason is also strong as fuck, and ik rick knocked him out in every book because he didn't actually want his forced-percy-rival to actually showcase his powers but from what we know and seen he's like insane as well. PLUS he's been training since he was like 3 ik he's strong asf and zeus is sweating.

parallels😁!! uh let's hope jason doesn't eat percy though /j

i know zeus would've recognized these parallels and got insanely paranoid bc yk him. ik zeus was exhaling in relief when jason died, and there's a reason he was always trying to kill percy. he saw his sins in him! everytime he looks at percy he sees the woman he tricked and treated like shit and more-or-less killed. but he also knows metis was smart and very capable, n that's scary to him. everytime he looks at jason he sees his younger self, and that's a horrible thing to see if you're zeus lmao

of course jason is much better than zeus and percy is fairly different from metis, but it's the small parallels and zeus' paranoia that makes everything bigger.

the act we know metis most for is supplying the poison for kronos to regurgitate his kids,, and percy has a pretty close connection to poison now after his fight with akhlys :)

but yeah!! fun parallels :') sorry if this was a lot to read/hard to read

bonus: metis & zeus r cousins just like percy & jason /j

Now!!! Hear me out!!! I loooove the Metis X Percy parallels, I never talked about it here because some things I keep for the fics 🗣️🗣️🗣️ but I totally GET YOU!!!

The thing about Rhea is that they prob look a loooot alike, so people (mostly the big six and, maybe, Kronos) attribute her whole persona to Percy’s even tho many things make zero sense. Because they want him to impersonate their mother somehow to feel their void. Others might think of him more of a Perseis kinda of person, just for the destruction thing. But Metis? She was gone before most Olympians were alive, so it’s not like they have a truthful idea of what she was like, and those who remember might not have been as close to her as Zeus.

Metis was the Titaness of good counsel, planning, cunning and wisdom. Which makes us think that Athena would be a lot like her, but I personally think Athena is more a Zeus mini me. Metis being an ocean’s kid and a titaness made me believe she was a lot wilder and not exactly the usual embodiment of these concepts. Which would make her much more of a wild card, so Zeus got rid of her when the prophecy about their son showed up. So like, I can see Percy embodying Metis’ aspect of these domains (while Annabeth would be more Athena-like), and Zeus being like…

In terms of looks, she and Percy might’ve not looked the most similar, but hey, Metis would question Zeus’ authority in front of the whole council and would call out his shit whenever she felt like it.

Jason, however, is a much tamed version of his father. In a good sense. He’s not cruel, and when he’s forced to make a choice that he feels bad about it haunts him. He’s not overly confident and proud. Beyond all, he was taught loyalty to Rome and the gods from a young age, contrary to Zeus who was taught rebellion and how he was supposed to be this great saviour. For a while, this probably made Zeus more comfortable about him than he probably was about Thalia, for example, or even Percy.

But romans and Greeks learn about each other and now Jason and Percy meet and turns out Jason is SMITTEN with his cousin? Yeah, that’s a problem. Zeus would seethe, and Hera would be 100% smug about it.

Suddenly, there is something that Jason cares more than Rome or the gods. That is dangerous.

Also, something about Percy being somehow paralleled with TWO titan queens is just…

[katsukikoi]

your so pretty

character; yuji itadori x f!reader + sukuna x f!reader

part 1 part 2

warnings; swearing

theme; Sukuna's past, yuji's crush. ( strong f!reader )

Itadori was new to the jujutsu world, he weaves around missions and finishes them quickly. Although, he can only do so much as a student.

So, since his “death” he has to stick with Gojo sensei.

He never minded, he actually rathers. He would happily do all of the tasks and missions the albino man gave him, with a smile.

“yes gojo sensei!” he would say, one hand with his thumb up, and the other on his hip. Unknowingly sassy.

He never could remember the pact he made with sukuna. Which made the poor boy drag his head in the mud.

Sukuna would often respond nonchalantly, always brushing him off and cursing him for being stupid. This would make the poor boy pout and huff, annoyed if anything. But, nonetheless he perseveres.

Gojo said he had a surprise for him, making the boy get excited hoping it was time to go back and re-reveal himself to the world.

"i have someone you need to meet!" gojo spoke, with a large smug smile.

"huh? i thought i wasn't allowed to see anyone.." he spoke, with a confused, but cute pout. He blinked like an innocent puppy.

"This one, wont make a peep." he winked, making the salmon haired boy even more confused.

"yuji-kun, meet your new best friend, y/n!!" he yelled out, opeing his arms out as he waited for her to appear.

"so, there is nothing there?" sukuna laughed, his eye opened under yuji's as he tried to slap him away.

"sorry i'm late, sensei. I got caught up." the girl spoke, walkimg into the door. Her jujutsu energy pouring out of control even sukuna could feel it deep in his soul. God, it felt so familiar to him. It felt like he yearned for it even after he was sealed.

There stood, a girl. Similar looking to gojo, a very small section of sleek white like hair on the front, the rest chocolate brown with golden strands in different places. Her eyes shined gold, the purest of the metal. Her eye lashes, long and thick, her lips, healthy and soft looking. Making sukuna gulp. He knew this woman, but where from exacting?

Yuji was a different story, the boy greeted her with a smile, telling her he like women like Jennifer Lawrence.

"nice to meet you, itadori-kun. Personally, i like men like senami shinazugawa." she bowed, much like he did. Her smile catching a sly fox look.

"woah! from the anime?" he spoke, excitedly.

"yes! you know it?" she excitedly giggled, looking up to the taller boy he nodded quickly.

"hmh! what episo-" before he could continue, gojo satoru laughed. Interupting them. " yuji, y/n. You two, are coming with me." he spoke, grabbing them both yuji by the hood of his jacket, while y/n bridle style. Making sure to cover her skirt from praying eyes.

“what? gojo satoru, are you using them for a human shield?” the cruse boredly spoke.

“hi! i hope you don’t mind :) i have students.” gojo smiled, brightly at the mt fuji curse.

“wah! he looks like mt fuji.” yuji spoke, grabbing y/n’s calf, in awe.

“hey brat, dont touch.” sukuna grumbled, his voice unheard as yuji ignored it. Still holding on to the poor girls leg as she glared at the curse.

“jogo? still looking homeless.” y/n spoke, a wild smirk on her face as she got out of gojos grasp to stand in the middle of the two men.

y/n clapped her hands, ready for a fight as a golden tattoo glowed, ready to be summed.

“neh, y/n. Hold back.” gojo smirk, petting the smaller girls head.

“eh!?” she spoke, huffing as she watched the scene play out.

As the girl zoned out, she didnt notice that the two of them, yuji and herself were currently falling to a spikey dead wood pile. “thats not good huh?” she spoke out a loud. she grabbed yuji as she moved her hand in front of her. “tsunami.” she whispered, summoning a great wave of water, destroying the pile of wood as she landed on top of the water. Carrying yuji bridal style.

“put the brat down. This is embrassing.” sukuna mumbled, sitting on his bones he watched interestedly.

Watching the girls every step, calculating her moves. He was tempted to keep all of his eyes open, just to make sure, but he decided against it. Thinking it was a waste of time.

———

“itadori, your curse-“ *smack* “energy is too high.” the girl spoke, reading a book next to him as she watched him get smacked for the 18th time.

y/n sighed, putting a book mark in her page as she stood up. She went behind the couch and patted the boys hair, making him blush and look up.

“ill get some food, kay?” she asked, making the boy smile, blush coating his cheeks as he nodded. “m’kay.” he squeaked out.

—-

“go yuji! you can do it!” she spoke, watching at the boy downed a weaker shinigami. Jumping for joy as she proudly taught him black flash.

its been 2 months since they got partnered up, not once has the king of curses made a peep.

until, “brat no.2 fight me.” sukuna’s mouth smirk, his eye glaring with blood lust.

“no, i wont let you.” itadori spoke, covering him. “sorry y/n-senpai.” he spoke shyly.

“sure sukuna. How many fingers you at? 4?” she asked, cracking her back and neck.

“extention.” sukuna spoke, smirking as he did so.

The tattoos filling yujis face as sukuna changed his look. y/n blushed abit as she looked away for a second before turning back to him.

She watched him come at her with full force like he did gojo. “i wonder.” she spoke, her long nail ripping her sleeve, “whale, of the jade chamber.” she spoke, a green whale the size of a large jelly fish swum around sukuna. Making him laugh, “really!? i overestimated you!” he laughed,

Y/n came at him with roaring speed, as fast as a full grown cheetah. Eyes shining gold, she let her knee fully hit his face. The whale growing more green as it amplified the hit breaking the mans jaw.

He groaned as he gripped his jaw, “you bitch.” he smirked, “i like it! more, give me more power!” he yelled, exitedly.

The girl tilted her head, as she watched the man pause sighing, and rolling his eyes. He let yuji return as he barked out in pain. “ouch!” he spoke, y/n rushed towards him, using her reverse technique to heal him.

“what happened?” he asked, thanking her.

“i.. sukuna happend.” she spoke.

—

“and i think thats the best episode we watched. Tengen is so flashy!” itadori gushed as he leaned on her chest has he cuddled her, so sweetly and kindly. so repectfully, and so innocent.

“hn! senami is better.” she spoke, playing with his hair letting her nails comb through.

They became close, this made her scared. Making her heart drop, what the hell did she do?

she stopped watching the series as she watched yuji, just looking at him made her heart flutter. “shit.” she mumbled, no one but sukuna heard. Not that she knew anyways.

The two teens stayed in that position until, itadori fell asleep. This caused the girl to yawn.

“you care for this vessel.” sukuna spoke, making the girl snap her head towards him. No longer was it yuji, but sukuna. Laying right where yuji was, unmoving.

“ha? i-“ she tried to lie, and look away, but she felt sukuna shift, making her move herself back, preparing herself for a future fight.

Sukuna looked at her, with praying eyes, a hunter; hungry for her blood. “tell me, bunny. why do you?” he grinned, stradding the girl, as she tried to calm her heart rate. She cant fight that well at night.

“so, what. why would you care?” she asked, as she watched him trail his fringers around her hip and collar bones.

She gulped as he became hyper fixated on this tattoos hands, a type of black dye coated his nails. She shivered, she continued to watch as they made contact. Sukuna moving her con with his finger, forcing her to meet his red crimson eyes.

“he doesnt deserve you.” he grunted out.

“what?” she asked.

—-

i hope you enjoyed, it was kinda shit ngl. But lmk if you like it!

dont repost my writing, translate, or rewrite.

Only, reblog, comment and follow. Sent requests too!

much love,

Atlas. 💣✨

[sheyfu]

》 even with all the sae in my mind, miyuki kazuya is still no. 1 in my heart 😭😭😭; another silly thought with miyuki kazuya from ace of the diamond; literally one of my comfort animes ahu ahu ahu 😓😓; fluff/comedy; you guys fight over the blanket (you love e/o dearly tho); (implied) mlb!kazuya (bro is your husband); no specified gender; wcc 555; read for a banger 🙏🙏

nights are never dull with miyuki kazuya. said nights include staying up well past midnight playing console games, gossiping about random couples you saw in his game a while ago, and something as simple as fighting over the blanket. 

well, this night is definitely one of those.

“stop moving i'm about to fall off the bed!” you complain.

“it's not my fault it's damn cold, who set the ac to 16 degrees anyways?!” miyuki quips.

him and his stupid brain. “you, stupid!” you say as you pull the blanket over to your side with all your strength.

it had been a very hot day which meant a very hot room in your shared apartment. while outside felt a bit cooler with the wind, the inside felt like hell. so here you both are snuggled up in your king size bed fighting over a stupid blanket because some stupid guy who plays baseball set the temperature to 16 degrees and left the ac remote on a very far table in the room. of course, neither of you plan to get out of the bed and walk those ten steps. amazing, right? yeah. definitely one of the worst nights with him 0/10, -1090200 aura points. never doing this again. 

you felt a jab on your chest. “hey! watch it, stupid” 

“it's not my fault you're hogging the blanket!” he complains.

you take deep breathes to calm yourself before threatening him with a white lie, “okay you know what just because of that im going to sleep in the bathroom.” 

then you heard it. he whines. miyuki kazuya whines and kicks his feet like a little toddler. “don't! it's cold and you're going to leave your poor and lonely husband here?! what a traitor!” he turns away from you and hugs the blanket closer to him.

great, he’s sulking now. and worse, he has the blanket. 

you sigh deeply, agitated with the way he's acting. yet, it's very endearing.

what a doofus. 

you close your eyes and try not to think about the discomfort of the skin-biting cold.

a few minutes pass and you faintly hear the sheets ruffling again—almost succumbing to the sweet embrace of slumber. however, your tranquility was interrupted by two strong arms and a heated blanket around your figure. 

you slightly open your eyes to see a pouting thing beside you.

“what's your problem now, kazuya?”

“go to sleep, stupid.”

“okay, whatever. thanks for sharing my blanket with me, handsome” yeah. your blanket definitely. 

right as you drift off to dreamland, you feel his lips on yours for a brief moment. 

“i love you” 

okay, maybe the night wasn't bad at all. +10000 aura points, 11/10 will do again.  

and thanks to that, miyuki kazuya woke up to his favourite sight on the bed-–a sticky note that says, hey, just went to pick up some groceries and supplies for my project. you're on cleaning duty today btw. also, mr. and mrs. fluff's litter boxes need changes. pls do them. it's to make up for hogging the blanket :)). love, your dearest 💛. definitely put a scowl on his face.

safe to say miyuki kazuya will never ever hog the blanket…

and forget about the ac remote. tsk. who even decided to put that stupid table in the corner? 

it was him.

HELLOOOOO tried something new with dialogue! i hope this was enjoyable for everyone!! even though ace of diamond has a small audience, i can't not write about miyuki kazuya, he's just too 😭😭😭. i'm still trying to find out my writing style so for now, similar pieces will be posted!! thanks for being here and hope to see you soon :)) reblogs, comments and likes are very much appreciated!! <3

[bisnes-socks]

Terve! Would you consider doing a Mic Mac write up? I would be so interested to read it! When I first found Jere I listened to CCC and Party, and then I went to search things on him and the Mic Mac video was one of the first I listened to. I think I was in love after this. Kiitos!

Sure i can! Click right through ->

Mic Mac is early 2000's nostalgia to the max. I'm not sure how common knowledge it is with international fans, what Mic Mac actually is, so i'll go over it briefly.

Mic Mac, sometimes styled as MicMac, was a finnish clothing brand (not to be confused with a french luxury fashion brand of the same name). Mic Mac clothes were particularly popular with young people and teens. They became popular in the 70's and remained super popular with all young people until the 80's. In the 90's Mic Mac became more associated with hip hop inspired fashion, as they were the only local brand that managed to really score with their loose fit baggy jeans etc. They were still popular in the early 2000's especially with hip hop kids. Mic Mac closed down in the 2010's.

So the fact that he talks about Mic Mac loose fit clothes, and then all of the sound effects in the beginning of the song, like landline phones and dial-up internet, it all immediately takes us to like the turn of the century, maybe like 1999 or 2000 at the earliest, 2005 or 2006 at the very latest. So his childhood from maybe 6 or 7-ish to about 12 or 13-ish..? Immediate nostalgia!

He uses some clever language in this song. I want to give an example from the first verse: "olin merkillinen enkä esimerkillinen" meaning "i was weird, not exemplary". But as you can see, merkillinen (weird) and esimerkillinen (exemplary) are quite similar words in finnish. in fact they are built around the same root word: merkki. merkki means sign (a sign like a symbol or a sign like "give me a sign". not a street sign).

If you break down the word merkillinen, it actually means "with signs", but in practice means odd, weird or strange. Now, esimerkki has that same word in it, merkki, but it's a compound word: esi + merkki. Esi is a prefix that means pre or fore. so if you break down esimerkki, it means "fore sign" or "pre sign", but the meaning of the word in practice is example. And as i said, esimerkillinen, which would literally translate to "with fore signs", means exemplary.

So, he gets a very clever bar, being able to rhyme merkillinen with (esi)merkillinen, and getting a looot of information across like that.

In the first verse he also uses a word you might come across in his other work too: morkkis. His song Morgan means the same thing, morgan is a slang word for morkkis, which is short for moraalikrapula, meaning a moral hangover. Not sure if that term exists outside finland, but a moral hangover is feeling ashamed and not at all good about something stupid. Usually it's to do with drinking: you have both a physical hangover from drinking, and a moral hangover over the amount you drank and also doing dumb shit while drunk. But morkkis can be used quite flexibly to talk about other things you're ashamed of and recognise as being stupid things to do - as in this case, trying smoking as a kid. Again, a simple word but very informative, once you know what it means!

The chorus about the clothes and the whole second verse of him describing himself as someone intentionally annoying bigger boys, getting into fights and doing stupid shit like setting his friend on fire for a trick of some sort, stealing pokemon cards etc.- all of this is paving the way to understanding songs like Takavoltti. I so know this type too, i knew boys exactly like this when i was a kid lmao. But he's telling us he's always been mischievous, wild and a little bit crazy - and in this song he says the apple didn't fall far from the tree, saying his dad is like that too.

So i think Mic Mac is probably one of the more personal songs of his, those key songs to understanding the character. Mic Mac is all about him remembering the past, and i guess Takavoltti is like.. how did the crazy little boy from Mic Mac cope with everything that happened to him.

All in all, Mic Mac to me is a very sweet, very nostalgic song, that paints a lot of vivid pictures about Käärijä - or maybe Jere - as a person.

Let me know if there is anything specific in the song or any other song you'd like to know about, any questions or anything 💚

[goodlouse]

my thoughts on the two most recent games i've played (mouthwashing and silent hill 2 (2001)) which i've been thinking about alternately for the past few days for similar reasons

going to mention spoilers in here but this post will probably only be fully comprehensible to ppl who have experienced both games

not expecting many to read this but tumblr is quickly becoming my outlet for opinions that I can't rlly post on very public sites like tiktok where any criticism of a media means that I hate it and hate you for liking it. haterism be damned I actually got a net positive from playing both of these games!!

so I started playing silent hill 2 (original because I do not believe in/have the money to buy modern remakes) fresh off the back of silent hill 1 which is a game I REALLY enjoyed. I would EVEN say that sh1 is my number 1 cosiest game of the year.

sh2 is dirtier, bleaker and sleazier than sh1, and is lacking a lot of the occult aspects that I really liked. it's also like one of the most talked about games ever so like . i went into it with the knowledge of a few major plot beats and it took a long time playing to be able to take the game on its own terms.

i also took a little break halfway thru the game to stream mouthwashing for some curious friends. mouthwashing is a game thats very popular w streamers & youtubers and their audiences, so major plot points are also incredibly talked about. I mentioned this to a friend while setting up the game and he said I'll get something out of it anyway and then compared it to silent hill 2, which I kind of brushed off as a "psychological horror w unreliable narrator" thing (sorry choccy if you ever read this) but it turns out the two games are actually very similar in the way they draw my ire LOL

these things being: -sexual assault victim who doesn't have time in the plot to exist outside of her trauma. this is partially due to both plots being very tight and concise with no elements that don't serve a higher function BUT -this is then undermined by certain areas of gameplay dragging. for mouthwashing especially the last ~45 minutes felt very weirdly paced and unfortunately made me think of ppl who speedrun garten of banban in under 2hrs to get the steam refund, which resulted in later chapters being padded w drawn out segments.

The friends I was streaming for that have consumed more media than I have said that a lot of tropes in the game felt a bit derivative, but I don't know the things its deriding from BUT I wish mouthwashing would take more from the survival horrors its imitating in it's style. The gameplay between character interactions is limited to inputting codes you've read or corridors where there's only one correct route and everything else results in a reset - I think people that watched mouthwashing through a letsplayer might not truly get how understimulating that feels. Some more psychologically symbolic puzzles and riddles would not have gone amiss!

which brings me back around to silent hill 2, where I am legitimately just too stupid to do the 'collect and combine 3 items to progress' without a guide. because A) I don't intuitively clear out all rooms because I hate all combat encounters BECAUSE i am being too overly conservative with ammo so every enemy gets a fight to the death with melee weapons

i finished the game with a SURPLUS of ammo btw so that is partially on me for making myself struggle unnecessarily, but oh my goddd the prison/labyrinth section took so long!!

I also quite disliked eddie's plotline, which unfortunately literally just came down to his character design :/ his plot revolves around resentment over the way he's been treated for his appearance, but as a fat fuck myself my grievance was with the way he's been dressed by real world character designers that are falling on stereotypes. its juvenile in a way that betrays the subtlety of the rest of the game, and makes him seem infantile despite being so essential to james's arc. I genuinely think that a wardrobe change would have silenced my gut reaction of "what are they trying to say with this?", and its disappointing to see that the remake didn't take the opportunity when they did with maria

angela's plot was fascinating to me for depicting an abuse survivor with some imagery I've not really seen in other media! I think her character was written with a lot of respect, and her and eddie's plots feel like complimentary and cautionary tales to james, but it's very sad that ultimately her trauma was depicted as something that can't be lived with - this is something she shares with anya. I guess it's kind of disappointing that a womans struggle with sexual trauma ends in death in two games that are 20 years apart, I personally feel that theirs (and jimmy's suicide) is a bit of a tired trope

however. despite finishing extended periods of both sh2 and mouthwashing feeling annoyed and frustrated that they werent as tight as the rest of the game, but now that I've had days to process them my mind has been lingering on a few moments.

-pleasantly surprised by how legitimately startling pyramid heads introduction, really good use of unsettling imagery -sh's soundtracks always hit at the moments it counts -the last hour of sh2 had me in tears, mary's letter was bittersweet and I love how the tone completely changes depending on the ending. as someone that likes the occult stuff in the other sh games I loooove the implications of the rebirth ending but I appreciate it seems a bit left field in this standalone plot

-jim & curly's ladder conversation in the cockpit, I think that one stuck with me especially as the one defining moment in both of their outlooks, the wealth and status inequality that still leaves both of them wanting more out of their lives.. the guilt and resentment that can come of circumstantial success etc etc -similarly the dead pixel convo -swansea's honest monologue -the glitch effect after anya's suicide was REALLY cool visually, it felt like the one defining moment where mouthwashing really took advantage of its medium

TLDR I feel like I learned a bit about what I like and dislike in psychological horror by playing these two side by side, defintely interesting research while I'm drafting a horror comic with a dreamlike atmosphere... :)