#stereotyped to oblivion

[gallows-into-oblivion]

realizing as an adult, while reconnecting with judaism and jewishness, that a series of unfortunate events is a DEEPLY jewish series

and suddenly many things click into place—

[vaguely-concerned]

I like the idea of Hawke's mabari canonically being there with them during the single combat with the arishok part and Varric wonderingly shaking his head from the sidelines (even as his heart is trying to escape through his throat) like 'maker's breath this is so Fereldan it's practically parodic'

[touchoffleece]

I had written something along these lines but deleted it because I didn't feel like it was worth the trouble of said feelings expressed online would bring when we have seen more people say to focus less on joking and targeting James Somerton in favor of being positive towards other authentic queer creators (something I do think is a productive idea but also something I think that let's James not get forever remembered as a fraud and grifter on the Internet which could be detrimental for a future where he comes back and fools people who aren't aware of him because we all chose to forget him.).

I am not a young person, I realized I was gay and my thoughts about how pretty or how soft some girl's hands weren't as hetero as I thought a handful of years ago now. So again, I am not a young person, and taking a few years off now to when I had that realization of me being gay, I still wasn't of an age of what people think of when they think "young queer". In a sense I was a young/baby queer but I was also well into being an adult.

In an effort to try and better understand queer media and lgbtqi+ issues I started looking for videos about the subjects as I did chores or other similar things, and I found Somerton's channel.

Even though I am not a gay man, or a youngster, Somerton being an introduction to queer media analyst fucked me up because of his beliefs toward women, and queer women. It was and still is a mess to figure out if I am justified in feeling certain things or thoughts because of the negativity reinforcements he spewed about us (women but also his beliefs on the lgbtqi+ community).

Untangling that mess of questions rolling around is going to be a pain in the ass but something I and other of Somerton's viewers will have to do.

He caused a significant amount of damage beyond just academic integrity to the lgbtqi+ community and because of how easy we can forget the more lengthy substantial proper academic discourse of these online creators doing real tangible harm, I don't think it's entirely as detrimental as some say the memes and jokes are if they service into a future scenario where Somerton tries to comeback with a similar grift.

I just know that if I grew up being a James Somerton viewer my anxieties around being out somewhat proudly would be 1000 fold. How much damage does it do to a young queer's mind to be told that they're alone, that every entertainment industry giant and every straight woman sees you only as a product and not as a person? And not only that, but that this man's channel is the only safe place for you, the only place in the world that will not persecute you. How much damage does it do to be told only the "boring gays" survived the AIDs crisis and that's why there's no creative LGBT works (which is SO false I can't even put it into words) as a young queer? I can't even imagine what that'd do to me. To anyone.

[thekingofchungus]

🍾 <- content warning for this

dairy free cream whiskey right when i was having a mental breakdown there is a god

[floylia]

A MOMENT DESIRED

— wanderer x gn!reader

SYNOPSIS: He doesn’t need a heart to feel. Puppet or human. A heart or without—it does not matter anymore.

Kunikuzushi was designed to serve a divine purpose.

Kabukimono searched for curiosity and acceptance.

Scaramouche existed to fulfill that which he lacked.

While Wanderer was created to embrace humanity.

To walk beside them. A fresh start–whether he had a heart or not. Because despite it all, his mother discarded him for his emotions–sorrow and laughter–which proved to be a weakness, but perhaps, it’s finally time he acknowledges that craving for the impossible is a waste of time.

So he learns to live.

Rather, Nahida makes him learn, quite literally.

Instead of performing mass destruction, he stands in the House of Daena, scanning through the thousands of books they harbor. He skims through the pages, coughing once in a while from the dust that had settled on the shelves.

A once renowned Fatui Harbinger has now turned into a Vahumana Scholar.

How ridiculous, he thinks.

“I have your tea,” A familiar voice declared through the hushed voices in the room. You approach him with two drinks in hand, “I don’t understand why you like bitter things.”

“The more bitter the better,” he replies calmly, tracing the book spines, and skimming through its contents. Too immersed to engage in a conversation, but he indulges.

“My arms are tired, hurry up”

He pulls out a decrepit book before grabbing his tea from your hand, “You complain too much.”

“It’s piping hot. I don’t understand how you don’t notice the temperature.”

He shrugs and leads both of you to a nearby table. On it, mechanical items, cloth and a sewing kit scatter around, clearly tinkered with, “What is this?’

“I’m making a toy,” you respond.

He raises a brow, expecting you to explain further but you don’t. You take a seat across from him.

“Kshahrewar scholars,” He whispered while shaking his head.

You pass him the sewing kit, “We’re making toys.”

“What. Why?”

“Less questions, more doing.”

At times like this, you remind him of Nahida. Constantly ordering him around. Yet he follows like an obedient dog.

This time not out of obligation as a “prisoner,” but because he wants to.

With you, he doesn’t need to give his actions reason.

It’s a foreign concept.

But he’ll learn. He’s best at adapting.

“Let me teach you,” You say after watching him struggle to put the thread on the pin.

“I’m not made for this.” He says.

“Clearly.”

Your hands brush, he doesn’t understand why his face flush, or why he craves your touch–a moment too quick, a moment desired. But he observes how your concentrated face contorts into various expressions—how your eyes twinkle with passion, how your lips fall into a steady line, how your hands skillfully follow a rhythm as you teach him the ways of knitting.

Admiration flows through his body.

Yes. Admiration. That is the word.

You must’ve noticed his stare, because you match his gaze. It’s too soft. Too intimate. Too close. He looks at your lips then back at your eyes.

Admiration. He reasons.

But the urge to cup your face and kis–

No.

He coughs, “Sorry.”

You continue.

In no time, he gets the hang of it. Hours go by, but it didn’t feel like it. Your presence alone makes time a fickle matter.

Finally, he finishes the small doll.

Both of you admire his work—a short boy with white clothes, dark black hair, paired with a waistband and a teardrop beside its eyes.

In some way, it resembles him. A version of him derived from misery.

“You should’ve joined Kshahrewar. You have the talent for it,” you say truthfully.

“I’d rather not work myself to death for a penny.”

You gasp, “That stereotype is old. Is reusing the same content natural for you Vahumana folks? Does creativity not flow through your class?”

He scoffs at your words, but finds no offense in your statement. He’s fond of your annoyed face, how you ramble into oblivion. Something about hearing your voice makes his none-existent heart flutter.

This. He’s not used to.

“Who is that by the way?” You point at the doll.

“A puppet.”

“A puppet? Don’t they need strings?”

“No. It’s not tied down. It’s free.”

—

You don’t see him the next day.

But you do see another doll lying on your usual table–one that resembles you followed by a note underneath, “The puppet found itself a companion. I hope you don’t mind.”

You certainly don’t mind.

NOTE:

inspired by wanderer’s friendship level 4 story

[soullessdianthus]

have you written anything for a perv!gromsko? he is my favorite and i would love to see you write for him!

A/N: I decided to write him in the most stereotypical way which is misogynistic (men in Poland are like this fr *COUGHS*). Just because I gave myself a pass to do that bc I'm Polish, okay? *Muah* to this anon for Polish reference! (づ￣ ³￣)づ

Warnings: misogyny, sabotage in workplace, nsfw (overstimulation, darcyphilia, cockwarming, throat training, dumbification maybe?)

✧°. Gromsko is a misogynistic kind of pervert. Born and raised in a traditional Polish family he grew unaware of his deepest, darkest desires. Until.

✧°. When you enrolled into the SpecGru forces, he couldn’t believe something as delicate as a girl found herself here, within the private military company. Of course Sobiesław knew women were stronger than it seemed, but not in a fucking battlefield. In his opinion they should worry about hearth and home not a bloodshed. 

✧°. Obviously he had been working with some scary women before, but never with someone like you – still young, perhaps naive even. Your pretty body untouched with little to no scars. You were definitely a description of a delicate flower in his eyes.

✧°. His mother and grandmother raised him well – he would never risk the life of a devoted woman in a place like this. So since the first day Kościuszko saw you enter the gym hall, he couldn’t stop thinking about you.

✧°. Perv!Gromsko would stare from his spot, surrounded by his friends, yet it was you who got his full attention. How your body flexes and muscles stretch while working out or how your breasts bounce as you run on the treadmill. Dear God, don’t give him ideas.

✧°. He was already dreaming of you riding his cock into oblivion, naked while he was in full uniform. Sobiesław’s coarse hands pressing down onto your hips, making you sink further against him and his girl mewling from pleasure.

✧°. Sneaking behind everyone’s back Perv!Gromsko would do everything to be assigned with you while on a mission. Sobiesław very carefully sabotaged your work just for the superiors to punish you. 

✧°. Why? Because he would defend you in front of them, telling them you need another chance, that he would guide you. And since he was an honored soldier within the company, they made him your temporary superior as he had a higher rank than you. From now on, he was responsible for you and your doings. 

✧°. Gromsko had you where he wanted to since the very beginning – vulnerable and dependent. 

✧°. Perv!Sobiesław believed it was meant that way, because women should listen to their husbands, right? First thing he wanted to change in your training routine was cardio. 

✧°. Your comrade told you to show up at his dorm’s door in the evening. Without much thinking of it, you came straight to him, thinking he would take you to gym – how foolish.

✧°. A loud gasp escaped your mouth, when the man that was supposed to help you with your training session was pressing your face into the bedroom’s wall as his huge hands were groping your breasts! Perv!Gromsko would correct your stamina by relentlessly thrusting into your tight cunt, causing you to beg for a break with tears streaming down your eyes. 

✧°. Evening sessions with Sobiesław became an almost daily occurrence. The man would bend you in different positions on his bed, thrusting deep into your pretty pussy until you couldn’t cum anymore. Perv!Gromsko would mock your lack of stamina and threaten he would not allow you to go on a mission if you hadn’t tried harder.

✧°. So he began training your throat breath by telling you to keep his cock in your wet mouth for a good while, sucking gently from time to time. Of course your tears and sobs were causing him to feel pity for you, but Sobiesław was doing this to help you become better! :( 

✧°. He was reading a book, the one from his grandma, while you were laying between his toned legs, keeping his throbbing member warm. You would whine from time to time from the lack of enough oxygen. But then Gromsko would simply caress your pretty, silly head and tell you how good job you’re doing. <3

✧°. “Such a good girl f’me.”

✧°. “No dalej, dasz radę, Mała [pol.: Come on, you can do this, little one].”

[straystarr]

From the Start; lmh

in which you end up getting partnered with the bad boy but it turns into something meaningful. (Somewhat strangers, to friends)

a little soft, a little boring, but comforting (at least I hope)

Blank minds were accompanied by bored expressions and still your professor ignored the dull atmosphere as her words drowned before reaching your ears. Philosophy of sex and love — while immersive in its contents and literature, it was oddly scheduled in the evening of the day. Naturally, you were drained, ready to crawl into bed and sleep the day away. Showing no interest was not your intention, in contrast, this had to be your favourite class of your crammed university schedule. Your days were filled with due dates after due dates. Exam after exam. One long lecture to another. Life was repetitive at the moment. And one can only enjoy the repetition  for so long.

You couldn’t help but allow your pen to draw minimal doodles onto the loose leaf sitting in front of you, anything to keep you sane. It was obvious you weren’t the only numb soul as the room seemed to be suffocating due to cumulative body heat and exaggerated exhaustion.

You were pulled away from your pointless observations, the door to the class swinging open, disrupting the scattered peace in the room as heads lifted at the sudden noise. Your eyes caught a glimpse of his dark clothed figure before you swiftly turned your head back towards your notebook, already anticipating the reactions around you. 

If it were any other late student, every person in the room would have nonchalantly returned to their business, carefree of the lives outside of their own. Instead, waves of whispers brewed as he confidently made his way towards his designated seat, which happened to be right beside your own.

He gave no attention to the soft chaos his presence ignited, but his plain eyes glared at anyone who daringly gazed for more than expected.

Something about Lee Minho always had people on the edge of their seats. Whether it be the countless rumours surrounding his reputation or the way he detached himself from any social setting. 

You never understood it really, the way people obsessed over him. He was popular, for all the wrong reasons. It was either romanticising his ‘cold’ personality or scowling at his existence. How he became known as the bad boy will always remain ridiculous to you. 

Some claim he spends his nights at clubs, some say his personality speaks for itself, others believe only people involved in illicit activity would stain their skin so “excessively”, thrown off by the tattoos visible when his arms were out in the open. Stereotype after stereotype was all it was. You found most of these reasons to be baseless, filled with the flaws of people's own beliefs and values. 

Sure, he wasn’t the friendliest person, but that doesn’t justify the shit he received on a daily basis. Even if what people said was true, what did it have to do with them? He was just living his life. And still, people managed to bury him six feet under. 

He never seemed bothered by the distaste he received, rather amused, a smirk flourishing on his lips with every new story created in his name. Even when all eyes were on him or when assumptions about his life were brought about in conversations, he always stuck to himself, never talking to anyone, a facade of oblivion hanging above his head. 

The only people you’ve ever seen welcomed into his own little world were his group of friends, specifically, Han Jisung and Bang Chan. But even then, he remained conserved, only giving small reactions in contrast to their big personalities. You always wondered how they got along. Jisung was known to be a social butterfly on campus, always waving, always laughing, a person one can’t help but be drawn to. One time, he mistook you for someone else and gave you a back hug, spending the next five minutes on his knees profusely apologizing for touching you. Chan was more laid back, but he enjoyed the company of other people. He always lightened the mood with his cheerful and calm persona.

Their relationship took the concept ‘opposites attract’ and played it into reality. It was comforting knowing such a friendship existed in a complex world. 

“Can I borrow a pen?” The request came from your right, somewhat hidden in your professor's speech about Vrangalova’s association of love and commitment to sex. You met eyes with him, face stoic and reserved, expectant of your generosity. It wasn’t the first time he had asked you for a pen, and it wouldn’t be the last time you held one towards him. “Thanks.” He muttered, eyes already gone from your sight. You smiled in response, even if he couldn’t see it. It was moments like this that solidified your liking towards him. 

In a way, you cared for Minho, watching from the sidelines, stealing little glances whenever he was in the room or catching yourself frowning every time his name was carelessly thrown around. It’s not that you had a crush on him, or that you pitied him, but it’s the same way you get concerned when you see a friend stumble. You flinch as you imagine their potential pain. You hope they're ok. And then you move on with your life. It is possible, and it does happen — caring for someone you know nothing about. The same way you can hate someone you know nothing about. 

You sucked in your bottom lip as your pen tapped a rhythm onto the table. His body became clearer in your peripheral, bringing the rhythm to a pause. His thigh slightly brushed against yours, sinking into the chair with his body shifting into a comfortable position. And like clockwork, the wave of gossip diminished as time passed by, and your eyes only continued to fall, forcing you to use all your energy to keep them open. 

“I’ll be ending the lecture early. But I am assigning a group paper since it seems as though you all would not be able to complete one on your own, judging from the lack of enthusiasm. To make things simple, your partner will be whoever is sitting to your right. All you need to do is research……” Her voice echoed into the air as you hesitantly moved your head to the right. Your eyebrows trailed up in surprise due to the set of eyes already directed at you. 

Minho raised his hand to his cheek, resting against his fingers as he cocked his head to the side. “Y/n, right?” An unconscious smile bloomed upon hearing your name, to which he straightened his posture. Your smile threw him off. He could always guess a person's intentions by their smile. It’s either genuine, or it’s not.  And he almost always received the latter. But with you, that wasn’t the case. He found himself fascinated at how quickly the smile came and left. It was an authentic reaction.  

It was new to him. And he simply didn’t know how to react.

“You know my name?” 

“I’ve been stealing your pens for a whole semester. How can I not?”

He was talking more than he was used to. What should have been a yes or no answer turned into an invitation to continue the conversation. And he again, didn’t know why. The side of your lips dropped at the sudden coldness glazing over his face but you thought nothing of it as you nodded and began to pack your things. “We should start the project tomorrow, are you available?” Standing, you twisted your head to look at him once again to which he just nodded before pushing himself off from his seat. 

Your fingers curled under your notebook, instinctively tightening your hold to no avail as he seized it from your hands. A sound of confusion choked from the back of your throat, prompting the questioning look you sent him as he began to write something down. Bringing his head up, he processed your stare, an unexpected wave of caution flooding his system as he placed the notebook back in your hands.

“My address.” The awkwardness he displayed was fresh compared to the certainty he previously held in his actions. “Unless you’d like to work on campus, I just assumed you wouldn’t since everyone is camping out here with the semester coming to an end—” Your shoulders vibrated from the amused giggle in your throat.

He was rambling, and you quite enjoyed it.

His nostrils flared upon hearing your stifled tune. It was odd, he found himself trying his best to ignore the urge to smile along with you. It was barely a success as he patiently waited for you to speak, a hand coming to rub his warm ear. “Maybe we can head to your place together after class tomorrow?” You advised, bag already over your shoulder and coat hanging from your arm, you were eager to leave. But the quick interaction with the stranger who always had your attention lined your thoughts amidst the fatigue. “Yeah— yeah, that works.” He said with a curt nod. Twisting in place, your hand flew in the air, fingers waving ever so slightly.  “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

His lips fell apart, watching as you marched your way out of the room. He couldn’t read your mind, but he so badly wanted to. Because the many questions swarming in his head just about drove him crazy. You were weird. At least in the sense that he didn’t mind your presence. He didn’t mind how easy going you were or how you made him conscious of himself. He didn’t mind that you laughed at him or how he so easily talked to you. You intrigued him. You had ever since you were paired to sit together. And it scared him. He always wanted to talk to you — really talk to you, none of this pen borrowing bullshit he settled for even when his pencil case lay untouched in his bag. 

And now that he has, your voice echoed in his head like a soft melody, to which he paused the tune, frightened to dance along to the beat. 

“Are you feeling any better?” 

“I think so.” He managed to moan out. 

You turned your head away from the screen of your computer, waist twisting in place as you caught ahold of his weary eyes, soon widening at the sudden eye contact. It was a few hours after class had ended. You weren’t really keeping track. But you were constantly checking up on the boy who lay on the couch you leaned on.

“You sound like shit. And you still look like shit.” Your observation fell on deaf ears, your eyes blurred against the rays of the white screen staring back at you. “I’m fine.” He sniffled, buried in the blankets you had wrapped around him with care.

And to think a few hours ago, you were frustrated with him, having travelled from University to an unknown area with the only hope that the address messily written in your notebook would lead you to Minho. The frustration grew with each second you loitered in the apartment's hallway. You didn’t want to assume anything when Minho never showed up for class. So you took it upon yourself to find out what was going on.

And there you stood, a deep sigh collapsing along with your eyes as your knuckles came in contact with the door one last time. Pulling your hand away, you clicked your tongue against the top of your mouth, analyzing the options you had left. God seemed to take pity on you as the door swung open, sending you staggering backwards, hand over your chest with your eyes now wide open. 

Although his face was barely visible with the hood that covered his head, his feline eyes peeked through the fringes of his hair naturally covering his forehead. The scowl on Minho's face melted upon recognizing your startled figure. Tucking his hands into the pockets of his grey sweatpants, his body fell onto the doorframe. He was very much surprised with your visit, but his blank stare intimidated you into thinking your efforts may have gone to waste. 

Guilt crawled into his skin, unsure whether to explain himself or let you assume what you wanted. He would usually give less than a fuck, but with you — with you, he didn’t know what to do. A sigh of relief was given as you felt somewhat reassured by Minho’s presence. 

Readjusting the bag hanging over your shoulder, you paused as you felt the reassurance being replaced with confusion. You were ready to bombard him with the questions clouding your mind. Why wasn’t he at school? Did he expect you to finish everything yourself? Did he really not give a shit? Did he not like you? 

But the wandering questions were easily dismissed upon noticing the way Minho couldn’t seem to hold himself up, continuously leaning against the door frame. It wasn’t until frail sniffles came from the boy in front of you, his head tossed to the side as if to silence himself. It was then you noticed how his cheeks were painted in a harsh shade of pink, the way he tried to softly clear his throat, the shadows under his eyes. 

“I couldn’t go to school today and I didn’t know how to contact you—”

“You look like shit.”

The statement shot through his already weak state, but he wasn’t offended. Instead, a loose chuckle caressed his tongue as you smiled in return. You began to rock on your feet, unaware of what to do or say. Minho observed your actions, carefully stepping aside as his hand pointed towards the inside of his home. He didn’t approve of what he was doing, but he didn’t necessarily oppose it either. He was just as lost as you were.

Your body failed to move, eyes blinking while you began to comprehend his gestures. “What? You didn’t come here just to check up on me.” Dropping his hand to the side of his body, Minho raised an eyebrow, eyes glazing over the words that barely made their way out of your mouth.  “I think you should use this time to try to get better, I’ll just finish the project—“ “I can’t let you complete it by yourself.”

Your eyes fixated on the back of his head as he trudged into his home, leaving you to gawk at his figure, hesitation confronting you as you consciously entered through the door frame that separated you from the outside world. Minho watched as you observed the surroundings. It was nothing like you’d imagine, but also seemed to fit him very well.

The living room consisted of a brown leather couch and a circular glass table. Nothing seemed out of place, every decoration he had with a purpose. “Why hello there.” You crouched down, hands fluffing the cat that arrived at your feet. You directed your gaze to Minho. “I didn’t take you for a cat dad.” Minho picked up the cat at your feet before placing him on a cat tree tucked away in the corner of the room that you failed to notice. “I have three.” He managed to say. 

Nodding in awe, you set your bag down onto the wooden floor in front of the table, your body sinking as your jeans hit the cold ground. Burrowing his eyebrows, Minho gazed at you with curious eyes. “You can sit on the couch?” You lifted your head as you set your laptop on the table, a smile growing on your face while your hands strung your hair into a loose bun.  “I prefer the floor.” Your causality ignited a comfortable atmosphere to which he found himself drawn to. His feet carried him towards the couch behind you as he slumped onto it, his sick body hindering him from acting any further. The simple fact that you spit out about yourself traced through his mind, unknowingly settling in the depths of his memory. 

“You can rest for now, I’ll let you know when I need your help.” Your focus was directed towards the screen of your laptop, completely oblivious to the boy whose lips were ever so slightly curved into a smirk. “That’s not how it’s supposed to work.” A string of coughs followed his response, much to his dismay. “Yeah well, we have underlying circumstances so just listen and I don’t know, heal?” There it was again. That light tune that so easily infiltrated his thoughts. The sarcasm laced in your voice only humoured the smirk on his face, somehow guiding it to curve into a light smile as he continued to stare at the back of your head. 

How odd it was for him — for him to do as he pleased, not having to shelter himself into the colourless character he lived. How odd it was for him to lie there on a random Friday, a mere stranger on his living room floor as he tried to get some sleep. Well, at least he knew your name. He liked your name. And he was so at ease with the person linked to the name. “Why did you want to work here?” Your question halted his thoughts. ���I don’t like public places.” He said with eyes closed. You absently nodded, fingers typing away. “Why don’t you like public places?” He remained quiet for longer than anticipated. “I don’t really like people.”

Silence corrupted the air, bringing your chest to slowly rise in contrast to its previous pattern. 

Your eyes soon landed on his face, as your head twisted in place, focus no longer directed towards the gleaming screen of your computer. It occurred to you that the line of questioning was heavy, too heavy and you were in no position to ask him such heavy questions. Especially with his weak state. Minho opened his eyes, his gaze trailed on the ceiling, avoiding your hard stare as the two of you shared the understanding that explanation was to follow. Although you were aware of the reason.

“I'm sorry.”

The apology was louder than a whisper but not quite full in tone. You inhaled, slowly turning back around as the hot air left your nose. The tapping of your fingers began again, spelling out a sentence that lacked your attention. “Why do you prefer the floor?” Your fingers hovered over the keyboard, nonchalantly resuming as your shoulders moved up and down in oblivion. “I’m not sure. I just find it more comfortable.” He hummed in acknowledgement, making an effort to rise from his place but immediately groaning while trying. 

“Now what happened in the span of a day that you went from being all healthy to barely being able to move?” You asked, still typing away on your computer. Minho sighed, embarrassed and hesitant to explain the ridiculous events that occurred the previous night. But with the way your expectant eyes gleamed in the dark room, his lips betrayed him. “Jisung made me dance in the rain last night because you apparently only live once.” His voice was barely a whisper towards the end but that only solidified the giggle shaking your body. Minho smiled, conscious of the highs and lows of your laugh and somehow harmonizing with the one coming from his sore throat.

You listened to Minho’s laugh, fully aware that this was the first time you had heard it. It was pretty and contagious. And you couldn’t help but think about how nice it would be to hear it more often. “So you’re telling me, you’ve lived every girl's dream.” Your cheeks were full with pressure from the grin on your face. Minho’s smile melted into a smirk. “Jealous much?” You nodded before standing up. “Very much so.” 

Minho found himself searching for you as you made your way out of his sight. But soon enough, you returned, a bowl in one hand while you kneeled beside him. You hesitated before laying your hand flat against his forehead, falling to his cheek. “I think you have a fever.” Minho weakly hummed, unsure what to say. So he continued to watch you dip a towel into the bowl, lifting his bangs up before placing it on his forehead. The cool material felt nice against his hot body, prompting him to close his eyes.

He felt vulnerable. He was vulnerable. Never would he allow someone so physically close to him unless it was his friends. But here you were, hand to his cheek with no ounce of refusal in his gut. You were as close as anyone could get with him, and it only took you a few hours to do so. Perhaps that’s why he continued to speak, susceptible to you in ways he couldn’t quite understand. “People let you down.” His voice was frail, but you caught his words. “It's like they’ve pieced my life together without even asking me about the details.” He didn’t need to ask whether you understood what he was referring to, because with the way your face slightly fell, he knew you weren’t immune to the rumours. 

“People suck.” You left the towel on his forehead, turning away as you settled back down in front of your computer. “We make assumptions in order to help us understand the world. Even if our assumptions are ill-mannered. What makes sense to us, protects us.” You paused, now looking at him. “I’m sorry you’re experiencing the consequences of other people’s actions.” You spoke quietly, your bottom lip slightly pushed forward.

Minho said nothing, offered no expression of regard. Instead, he cleared his throat, letting his eyes fall shut. You bit your bottom lip, unsure how to interpret his nonchalance and choosing to continue whatever you were typing. “I’d like for you to hear about them.” Your fingers lay still against your keyboard. “The details.” The breath you were holding blew past your lips, subtly. “Well, you can tell me all about them while I finish up this paper of ours.” You stated, a smile threatening to break out on your face, a low murmur of acknowledgement coming from behind you. 

“How many pages have you done?” 

“Two.” 

“How many do we need done?”

 “Twelve.” 

Minho’s eyes shot open. “I— what have you been typing this whole time, I thought you had this shit locked and loaded.” You swiftly faced him, arms crossed over your chest. “I’m sorry for being invested in our conversation.” Your tone was entirely satire and he could only groan in disbelief. You both stared at each other, your face relaxing while his lit up, smiles breaking out as laughter filled the air.

“Should we ask for an extension?” Miho forced himself up, now sitting against the couch. “I emailed her the minute I opened my computer.” You shrugged, reaching for the towel that was now lopsided on his forehead. Minho could only stare at you with wide eyes. “Why’d you stay?” You tilted your head in confusion, as if it were obvious why you had been here for the past hour or so. “I wasn't going to leave you here to rot.” His lips parted slightly. 

He had your voice paused in his mind, replaying it to familiarize himself with your tone. He liked you. This he knew. And was more than willing to accept. It was new for him to welcome someone so eagerly into his small world, but with the way you dipped the towel into the bowl of water and casually placed it back onto his forehead, he knew a new friend would do no harm and probably more good than he deserved. His soul welcomed your presence. Something he’d never come to regret.

“I’ll invite you next time.” “Next time?” You continued to pat the towel down, retracting your hand and making eye contact. Minho nodded. “When Jisung asks me to dance in the rain with him.” You blinked slowly. You didn’t think much of Minho when you first sat beside him in class, other than his obvious physical attraction, you knew nothing but his fabricated reputation. And yet, here you sat in his living room, worried and cautious over him while simultaneously laughing and enjoying his company.

You were unaware that he would soon become someone you’d think the world of, someone who’d make you laugh a little harder and feed your soul. Until then, he remained the boy who borrowed your pens, had a pretty laugh, and was sick from dancing in the rain.

“I’d like that.”

AN: A gentle or not so gentle reminder that this is written fanfiction. xoxo

𝙎𝙏RAy𝙎𝙏𝘼𝙍r★

[absolutehomosexuals]

Whenever people claim "[origin characters] show attraction to all genders", they often point to Astarion's party banter.

Which leaves us pretty confused because, if anything, it shows he has no clue what he's doing with women.

He's known to be this skilled seducer – the fantasy equivalent of a prostitute and, canonically, his pimp's favourite – yet his advances towards female companions come off as clumsy.

We've always chalked it up to him being a snarky little shit, with a touch of stereotypical gay man attitude¹, but the implications of it being genuine are terrifying.

As far as we know, Astarion gathered prey for at least two centuries, and he only ever talks about his male victims: Sebastian and the so-called darling boy were his only sincere relationships. 

If you romance him, he justifies his initial manipulation by saying he only ever seduces people he's genuinely attracted to.

Couple that with the fact we never hear about any women, can it really be a coincidence on his writer’s part?

All we’re saying is, he probably didn't pick up his victims by calling them "a pretty flower", which unironically sounds like someone's first attempt at flirting in a lifetime.

We're even more appalled when people claim he flirted with Lae'zel (who he briefly teased and later implied he wasn't actually interested in, when she asked him why he hasn't tried to "bed" her yet) or Karlach (he seems to sympathize with her quite a bit due to their shared slavery trauma, offering to show her the Upper City when she implies she's never been – didn't come off as sexual at all, honestly).

If anything, his comments towards Wyll sound way more sexually-charged, going as far as to say he was the man Astarion dreamed to marry when he was younger.

And we know Wyll is the furthest thing from his current type, given his approval options.

A history of successfully, and famously, hitting on men coupled with overly-friendly, borderline exuberant interactions with women... wonder what subculture that reminds us of!

Hint: it's gay male subculture.

We also tend to forget Astarion's perception  of his own sexuality is extremely screwed, because centuries of repeated sexual abuse will do that to you.

He's canonically riding that post-escape wave of mania and engaging in sexually risky behaviour (e.g the foursome with the drow twins at Sharess' Caress) + putting on an "open minded, experienced lover" façade (e.g justifying the MC upon being cheated on with Mizora and allowing them to sleep with Halsin to make up for the lack of sex in their relationship).

To put it gracefully: he fucks his way in and out of situations, exchanging sex with favours/protection is second nature to him at this point.

He's forcefully trying to reclaim his sexuality, biting off more than he can chew and re-traumatizing himself in the attempt: what's a little flirting with women to make sure his new allies are on his good side, after all? He surely can't be violated more than he already has been.

What's the damage in agreeing to sleep with a heart-broken Lae'zel at the tiefling party, at this point? It's the perfect manipulation, laid out for him on a silver plate. Also, we know from his confession scene that Astarion's first sexual proposal to Tav was indeed a form of manipulation: he admits that the initial reason why he pursued the player was to seek the protection of someone stronger and to make sure that the party won't kick him out. So, in the instance of Tav refusing him (the only option that triggers the scene between him and Lae'zel), it's only logical that he'd run in the arms of the next best thing, which in this case is Lae'zel, a great warrior that's eager to find a partner for the night.

And when she claims he performed flawlessly? That's the same thing the narrator tells you during the Sharess' Caress scene, only to reveal he's dissociated into oblivion.

Of course Larian didn't want to restrict players' options by locking certain romances, but we’re sorry to announce… he's still not beating the allegations.

¹ Being visibly gay = not being perceived as a threat by women, thus taking liberties such as sarcastic "flirting" towards female acquaintances.

Karlach refers to him as "fancy-boy" if she's in your party while recruiting him, so he is perceived that way in canon.

We can also see Gale being uncomfortable around him at first, especially when Astarion tries to strike up a conversation through party banter, for seemingly no reason – which seems like a pretty clear hint to us.

[ellipsiseffervescent]

I am once again going to talk too much about Rebellion

and how people don’t understand Homura. Here I would like to address the reasons why people call Homura evil/the antagonist, which is usually their reason for disliking Rebellion. My blog has basically morphed into an obsessive discussion on why that movie is my favorite and elevates the story, so I’ve covered a lot of these topics before, but I hope to make things more comprehensive here.

I’ve seen some people call Homura “corrupted” by the part of her that is a witch. Two thoughts on that:

Rebellion goes out of its way to show you that witches are not inherently evil. They have experienced serious pain and are spreading that pain before Madoka’s sacrifice. However, if this meant that witches were inherently evil, then why are Sayaka and Nagisa not? They are still witches- that’s why their witch forms are still a part of them.

Also, in Rebellion, Sayaka warns Madoka’s essence to not fear Homura, as “she’s the one who’s most hurt”.

I think that people misunderstand the theme of what a witch is overall. A witch is an inevitable reality of magical girls because being a girl in a patriarchal/Kyubey system is CRUSHING. The transformation into a witch is a coming-of-age step into womanhood. It comes from the culmination of mistreatments and systemic oppression girls inevitably become overwhelmed by. This isn’t to say that all women are forever overwhelmed, but it is an unpleasant reality that most women become awoken to. Think of the resolution of the Barbie movie, for instance, where (BARBIE SPOILERS) the characters need to “wake up” the others to the suffocating reality of living in a patriarchy. Same principle, honestly.

I also think that people sometimes interpret the Christian imagery in a stereotypical “good vs evil” way than looking at the situation, especially when it comes to Homura’s demon label and Madoka’s sacrifice.

I’ve talked about this a lot so I won’t go into too much detail, but I believe that the series is going out of its way to create its themes around the dark reality of the self-sacrificing nature of girls. For a brief recap:

Making wishes for someone else is considered taboo

Madoka mattered as a girl. Throughout all iterations of pmmm and its sequels, Madoka laments on the tragedy of magical girls vanishing from the world without anyone knowing and says in Rebellion that she would never want to go anywhere where she couldn’t be around her friends and family. Her mom had plans for them when Madoka grew up, her brother remembers her, and it drives Homura insane that she’s the only person who remembers the other timeline. Madoka was always worried that she wasn’t good enough at anything to have a place in the world and I truly have a hard time believing that this series is saying that young girls who don’t feel they have value anywhere else are best served to sacrifice themselves into oblivion. That’s basically been the history of women, forever.

Homura calls herself a demon because, “[Madoka] was sacred as a god and I couldn’t help but pull her from heaven and undermine her.” Throughout the Wraith Cycle, Homura commits herself to honoring Madoka’s sacrifice and new world order, so the phrase “and I couldn’t help but pull her from heaven undermine her” is, I think, more of a reflection of her self-loathing for going against Madoka’s wish and less of a true admission of evil, because I don’t think that Madoka’s erasure from the world was ever an okay thing. I think people get too hung up on “demon-bad” without thinking of the nuances of the imagery. I don’t believe that Madoka’s godhood is inherently good, and I don’t believe Homura’s demonhood is inherently bad. I think that Madoka’s godhood is more an alignment with self-sacrifice, and Homura’s demonhood is an alignment with desire, and I think that too much of either is a bad thing. It’s why they both needed to come together to eviscerate the Kyubeys.

I think that the label of “demon” makes Homura irredeemable to people and I think that people are deeply unforgiving of the not so pretty things that make us human. I’ve seen that a lot of what I assume are younger users are completely unforgiving to girl characters who go through things and make mistakes. I’m not even talking about Azula defenders (though I think there is a nuanced conversation there) but the Catra-type haters. As others have pointed out, ya’ll about women’s wrongs until a girl suffers a time loop to try to save the love of her life (who, lest we forget, begs Homura to shoot her in one timeline) and her friends and almost loses her mind by being the only person to remember the love of her life in the timeline that ya’ll think was the good one. I even hesitate to call it “toxic yuri” until the last movie comes out. Now, this isn’t to say that Homura has made no mistakes. I think the fact that her rewriting of the world to include the Kyubeys is going to be a BIG mistake on her part, and she did pull the identity of Madoka away from the Law of the Cycle against her wishes. But I think that to take everything Homura has done to try to save Madoka and even give Madoka the power to become the Law of the Cycle and say that she is irredeemable or toxic because she is traumatized…. It’s heartbreaking to me.

Moreover, this perception of Homura as irredeemable flies in the face of all this Christian imagery. Throughout the entirety of Rebellion’s ending (and as you’ll see further down) Madoka assures Homura that she loves her no matter what, that she is always there for her. Madoka in her fullness can see in intimate detail what Homura endured for her- literal YEARS of suffering yet never giving up- do you really think Goddess Madoka can’t and shouldn’t forgive Homura? Are the “good” guys in Christianity not all about forgiveness?

And finally, the real reason I made this long ass post: Homura and Rue from Princess Tutu are parallels. For those who don’t know: in Princess Tutu, the character Rue transforms into an “evil” persona- Princess Kraehe, daughter of the Crow. While Rue is convinced that she is now an agent of evil, the main character Ahiru/Duck insists that she is not. Also important to note is Rue may not rewrite the universe, but objectively commits more women’s wrongs than Homura. She rips the shards of emotion from her lover’s breast and tries to sacrifice innocent people’s hearts to her father, but the story does not paint her as condemned or irredeemable. She’s been lied to, groomed, and traumatized. She’s not an evil person, she’s a girl trying to navigate horrible circumstances, like Homura. Rebellion creates these parallels because Homura is forgivable and it wants you to know that.

So anyway, first parallel is the outfit. Demon Homura is SOOOOO inspired by Kraehe it HURTS:

And finally, Rebellion went so hard to reference this scene:

PLEASE put on sound they translate it differently but here she says "homura chan is homura chan"

so yeah if you stuck around thanks! love u muah

[murmiss]

Insane and brain-dead.

pairing-Simon 'Ghost' Riley/You. Very little John 'Soap' MacTavish/You

Chapter WARNING- Description of blood, cruelty, tin.swearing, partial description of decomposition, mention of suicide. My vision of the characters

Summary - 'There is no love'-that's what Simon thinks. BUT what if two traumatized and mentally wounded people meet in a hellish apocalypse and find solace in each other?Hundred what if what happens to them connects them?.

(the end will be good)

This is the first, introductory chapter.

Part one.

It is no secret that viruses and bacteria mutate at an amazing rate, either changing their genetic code and causing mutations, or changing so much that there is already a problem of a new strain. Today, viral mutation is a common phenomenon that does not scare people in the least. Many people do not even think that someday this microorganism can cause harm, ignoring all those stories of fatalities, great and terrible epidemics that have happened to mankind, naively believing that if it happened a thousand years ago, it certainly will not affect you.

How many people know about the Antonine Plague? Although, by the way, it was the most horrifying epidemic in history, which killed more than 5 million people, and according to records, killed 2 thousand Romans a day.And the bubonic plague? It's frightening when you think of the descriptions in books: fever, nausea, hallucinations, pus-filled buboes, death, and people in bird masks. So what? That's right, nothing. Remember when the coronavirus wasn't taken seriously? A lot of people thought it wouldn't reach the regions, states and cities, but it did.

Just like this time, no one took it seriously when dozens of reports were projected from a small town about a sudden outbreak of "rabies", forcing the sick to die in hellish agony within minutes, and then rising up like stereotypical zombies to bite everyone they came across, succumbing to the virus' natural call to multiply.

Really, who'd believe it? And for nothing. After the first newscasts, a wave of memes and jokes started among the schoolchildren, while the adults, lost in the cycle of work, family, and household chores, paid no attention as the small town of Corrins struggled to cope with the sudden and unknown threat. The town government was going crazy-people were refusing to work, refusing to go outside, and even the patrolmen were going on strike. But the infected were unstoppable. Even a hundred people were already tangible, and where there were a hundred, there were a thousand people, and where there were a thousand, there were two.The city was slowly dying until no one took it seriously. Why didn't anyone move out? The answer was simply that they couldn't. Corrins was quarantined, a total lockdown, no entry or exit. When did that ever work? There's not even a movie where a flimsy gate and guards stopped a horde of infected.

The infected huddled together, roaming the streets like mindless, attacking anyone they could catch.

The virus was spreading as fast as anyone could have imagined, and seemingly in ways never before recorded in history. In just a week, the city of Corrins had fallen into oblivion, along with three other towns in the vicinity, followed by the entire region.

Dim light shone through the thick navy-colored curtains, softly illuminating the room. Simon Riley, a former British mercenary who had just awakened from another night of nightmares, sat in the kitchen chair, leaning back casually, foot on foot and hand under his head, staring into the void. For the third time he was dreaming episodes from his past. Dreams about his goat father no longer frightened him, no longer made him nervous like the dreams about the team that Simon had grown accustomed to during his ten years on the job. Now, after the severe injuries, the difficult and sometimes deadly missions, the adrenaline that bubbled in his blood day and night, life in retirement seemed like hell. For the first few days he, like his guys, was in a depressed mood, not understanding why they were forced to retire so early, but none of the superiors explained anything, giving a completely stupid answer that was the same for everyone: "We changed priorities". That day was hard for everyone. but, nevertheless, the guys did not forget each other. Living in the same city, they often gathered in the bar "Ricky and Mickey", discussed personal matters, tried to rebuild their lives on a new way. And for Riley, worrying about what to cook, trying to build relationships, job hunting, and constantly changing activities were hated, so his thoughts often returned to the days when he and John and the guys worked together. When adrenaline was bubbling in his blood and his brain was working on emergency decisions and tactics. Being on the rope gave life an unrealistic drive, helping him forget the horrors of his childhood. Sometimes, however, he was afraid - those were the rare occasions when things didn't go according to plan and his companions could get hurt. Simon wasn't afraid for himself, he wasn't afraid of bleeding out on the battlefield, getting shot, or even losing a leg or an arm, but the image of a bleeding comrade made him shudder inwardly, still vivid in his mind's eye: He'd been shot in the head-unfortunate and nearly fatal, if it hadn't been for the plate in his skull-the miracle that had saved Johnny from certain death in this cold and filthy place.

That day Simon Riley almost died for the third time. The first time Riley had experienced such deep emotions was in his childhood, when his father, an alcoholic and deeply addicted to drugs, had mocked him. The image of his father with a viper in his hand and the devil-like image of his older brother would haunt Simon's dreams and visions for a long time. The second time it was the image of his mother. The fragile woman who was pulling the whole family on her own back, tolerating her abuser of a husband day after day, humbly going to hard work, trying to earn at least some pennies, couldn't stand it and put a bullet in her temple. She lay on the old and creaky couch for almost twenty-four hours before her husband paid attention. Simon remembers like yesterday her small, thin body lying stiff and stiff on the couch, with a humble face like a painting of The Death of the Virgin Mary by the artist Caravaggio. She was dressed in her pale pink robe, and her thin hand rested on her breast. Mrs. Riley tried her best to hold on for little Simon's sake, but she could not endure her eldest son's abuse and her husband's hatred, killing herself and finally achieving the peace and quiet she so desired. Little Simon sat with her all day, trying his best to wake the lying woman, covering her face with a damp cloth, gently stroking her icy hands. He was only six years old then, when he stood over the pit where the old wooden coffin containing the body of his beloved mother lay.

And then, when Johnny had been injured, Simon felt again like he did then at six years old, next to his mother. He, lost in emotion, grabbed Johnny's head, his hands trying to cover the bullet wound, roughly grasping like a child trying to help as best he could. The ghost doesn't remember Price dragging him away from Johnny's unconscious body, giving room for the paramedics to arrive.

John 'Soap' MacTavish was taken to the medical unit and underwent emergency surgery, Sitting in the dark and empty corridor, Ghost was out of breath as Gaz and Price tried to support him. "John's a tough guy, he'll get over it." And the this jerk turned out to be fucking resilient. And lucky too.

After that the band didn't last long-quite a couple months later they were dismissed, without reason or much explanation, taking them out of their positions. Of course no one expected it, but what was to be done?

Simon picked up his phone, checking messages, secretly hoping for another invitation to a bar, just to avoid the domestic routine, but instead of the pleasant words "let's go for a cognac," he came across a sweet and sweet message from Amanda, the girl Ghost had tried to meet at his leisure, when Soap was once again blowing his mind about the need for a relationship.Amanda was undeniably beautiful-blonde curls, blue eyes, and charmingly pouty lips, but the problem was that as soon as she opened her mouth, everyone wanted to shut her up. Amanda Hess was a meticulous Shopping Fanatic, and "miss fucking amazing ideas." In places, undoubtedly, the idea of going to fuck in the park at one o'clock in the morning excited Simon, but frankly, he lacked enthusiasm, and for the fifth time, hearing an unusual idea, his eyes involuntarily rolled with stupidity.

Simon and Amanda had been talking for about three months now, and he didn't know if he liked her or if he liked her ass, or if he even needed these dates.

"Honey, can you pick me up at eight pm?" -said the message, and attached to it was a nude photo of a girl sitting on the edge of a bed with her feet up and taking a picture of herself through a mirror, wearing only black lace lingerie. Beautiful, but unimpressive. When you see the same tits and hear the same things, you get used to it and the panties photo is no longer arousing. Inwardly Simon wished for soulfulness and some kind of domestic affection, maybe a cozy lady dressed in his huge warm sweater and striped socks, making hot chocolate.

"I'm busy," Simon answered rudely but habitually, but no sooner had he sent a message back than someone slammed the front door, forcing him to look up and away from the phone.

"Fuck," Soap said, panting and trying to catch his breath, leaning his hands on the walls. His eyes darted around the room, searching for the scowling lieutenant and finally seeing his comrade, Johnny rushed over to him, speaking quickly and nervously. "Hey L.T., did you see what the fuck is going on? We're fucked, we're fucked up a bloody fucking ass that can't be compared to Makarov's ugly face."

Simon grinned wryly as he listened to MacTavish and sat just as casually in the kitchen chair, watching Mr. Mohawk walk around his kitchen, looking for the TV remote and finally finding it, turning it on as he continued to mutter-"Fucking lunatics flooding the streets! I thought I'd never bloody get to you-the police are shutting down the city, ambulances everywhere!"

And as John spoke, Simon lowered his gaze to the phone again, wistfully noting that Amanda's message was from yesterday and apparently he hadn't noticed it. Soap snatched the phone out of Simon's hands, carelessly tucking it away on the table, speaking seriously, frowning his bushy eyebrows. "Buddy, can you hear me? I'm dead serious right now."

"You can't be serious about piles of zombies roaming the street," Riley replied, looking up at his friend again. Behind him, while no one was paying attention, the coffee was frothing, running off and dirtying the stove, leaving a bitter burnt odor that Simon sensed and immediately moved the coffee pot. "Bloody hell, John."

"Leave your fucking coffee, this isn't a joke, Lieutenant," John shrieked, finally turning his attention back to Simon.

On TV, a slender girl in a business suit with a serious face and a monotonous voice was giving an interview; in the background, behind her were several police cars, ambulances, and even a SWAT team flashed in the frame. Somewhere very far away there were shouts of people, special forces, passing information to each other. The girl's voice was steady and didn't even shake as she broadcast almost robot-like.

"Today, around six o'clock this morning, a group of unknown assailants attacked the locals. It's probably an outbreak of rabies. The patients have pale skin, cloudy eyes with red spots and gritted teeth, some cases of hemoptysis, poor coordination and slurred speech. If you find such symptoms in yourself or your relatives, call the number 'xxx-xx-xx-xxx'. We urge all citizens to stay in their homes until the next announcement. You are also reminded to lock your windows and doors and do not let anyone suspicious in."

"You heard her, it's just an outbreak of rage," Simon waved his hand nonchalantly, to which John, eyes wide, shouted again, trying to reason with his colleague.

"You don't fucking understand." -MacTavish clutched the remote tighter, rewinding the videotape of the interview to the very end.

"I don't understand what?" -Ghost raised his eyebrows skeevily.

"She's dead"-John said sharply, including the very end of the video, where a man in an ambulance corpsman's uniform comes at the journalist from behind. He sinks his teeth into her neck, biting off a large chunk almost immediately, his bloody hands grasping her shoulders as the girl screams frantically. Simon's eyes slowly open as his brain's mechanisms process the information. It's as if he believes it, but the other half of him screams "It's all a lie, a joke. April 1." Unconsciously he looks at his phone, checking the date and realizing to his horror that the first of April is long gone and it was June. The information and realization pressed on his brain, causing goosebumps to crawl across his skin. A slight fear bubbled in his stomach as he watched Soap's actions as if mesmerized. John frantically opened every drawer in the kitchen, looking for any canned goods and bars.

"Shit, LT, what are you eating? Don't you have any?!" exclaimed Soap, panic-rushing through the rooms while Simon came to his senses.

"Bottom drawer on the right"-as Riley answered mesmerized. John, opening the cabinet and seeing five cans of canned chicken and pork, exhaled, immediately pulling them out and placing them on the table.

"Don't delay, Ghost, get the damn things together. I was able to get a hold of Price, he and Gaz will be waiting for us on the outskirts of town at the cottage plots. Price is trying to contact Laswell and the department." Soap rummaged through the drawers, pulling out matches, knives, and anything else he thought might come in handy. Recovering and hearing shouts outside the door, Simon jumped up and immediately began grabbing his belongings and dumping them at speed into his hiking backpack. The screams were getting closer and it seemed like the entire apartment building was shaking with people running, panicking and screaming. Simon's apartment was right in the middle of the building, on the fifth floor, and it was damned inconvenient.

At last, Ghost jerked the curtains aside carelessly, peering out the window and watching in horror at the sheer chaos. He had never seen anything like this even in the army. From the neighboring apartment building, people were falling from the balconies, one was already infected, and the other, Simon's acquaintance, Edgar, a man with three loans and perpetually bawdy jokes, had thrown himself out of the window, not wanting to fight, nor to be infected and converted. Unwittingly, Simon remembered how they'd sat at the bar and the jerk with the black, curly beard would see any girl off with a meow, stretching out his catchphrase, "Your pussy's in danger next to me." Then, for Riley, it was a show, at the end of which Edgar was guaranteed to get slapped by some extravagant girl.Now he was dead. In the sky we could see helicopters crashing one after another, one of them crashing right into the house, partially destroying the building. The wreckage flies down where the crowds are, and at first glance it's hard to see what the crush is all about: screams and heartbreaking cries from everywhere, and the special forces are trying to get everyone out of the way, but they, too, the men in uniform and ammunition, suffer the same fate as the civilians - to be bitten. Suddenly Simon is yanked away from the window. Jonny, hearing something going on outside the apartment, realizes it's time to run. - "Damn! We're all going to die in here!"

The ghost followed Soap, and as the other opened the door, the growling grew louder. At the end of the corridor was a small flock of zombies - apparently residents of neighboring apartments that were infected.Without thinking long, the Comrades rushed to the stairs-an escape route. Suddenly, the door swings open in their faces and an older woman falls out into the hallway with a loud hiss. John reflexively shoves the old woman away from him, and Ghost reflexively hits her with the bat he'd brought just in case. "Oh bloody hell, I'm sorry Mrs. Ruzzet," Simon says nervously as he hurries forward, almost flying down the stairs, missing the steps. The zombie old lady lets out another clanking of teeth as she tries to crawl after them, but they've already broken away. Floor after floor flies by at speed, with only a door ahead. John pushes that one open, but it's like it turns out to be locked. "The fucking lock's jammed, Simon, help!" The sounds of zombies are coming closer, and Riley could swear she can hear them dragging their feet on the floor. Strike one. Nothing happens. Second strike. The smell of stinking zombies is getting closer and old Ruzzie is already sliding down the stairs with broken legs, dragging herself with her arms. Third strike. Simon stands behind Soap with bat in hand, the wooden handle cracking from his grip. Four. The door opens and John reflexively grabs Simon by the collar of his shirt, pulling him outside.

It's fucked.The smell of burning, blood and decomposition was everywhere, the dead trying to get to the last survivors who dared to go outside. A girl ran past Simon, clacking her high heels with a loud squeal while three well-fed zombies with bloody mouths with blood dripping from them, staining their clothes, almost ran after her. John rushed towards the cars, picking his way through them with a slight ducking, while Ghost followed behind him, looking back and keeping an eye out for single zombies. The path through the yard was relatively clear, if it weren't for a pack of zombies in suits crouching over a corpse and ripping apart their once office colleague. "That's what 'eating the boss's brains out' means," John grinned grimly, and Simon only chuckled.

"We can walk along the edge and hope the bastards are too focused on their coworker," Simon suggested, and John nodded, slouching, hunching over and almost pressing himself against the wall. The zombies, too focused on their food, wouldn't have noticed him if it hadn't been for John's sudden cry of, "Fuck!" With a snarl, they turned their heads toward the living humans, slowly rising, moving their hollow-headed bodies forward. Simon turned to John, who was swearing to himself as he tried to kill the crawling zombie: it was half a body, the upper half, and from the stomach on up, there was nothing, just part of the spine, but it was tough. Hurriedly, Simon grabbed his friend by the wrist and swiftly dragged him away from the alley.

They made their way to the outskirts of the city, but they couldn't stop there because all the neighborhoods were crawling with zombies.

"I'm damn glad your attraction to life on the outskirts cut us a hell of a lot of slack. It wasn't as shitty when I got to you as it is now," John tried to catch his breath. How many kilometers had they run? It wasn't clear, but it was a lot, though they were used to long runs, and their goal was to get to Price's country house as fast as possible, even if it was a hell of a long way.

[miss-shiva-adler]

Little question here, so I'm playing a Gangrel (V5) currently with a coterie consisting of a Lasombra and a Banu Haqim (we also had a Malkavian but he left) Next to these powerful kindred I really have the feeling I'm like the weakest one from the group in terms of power. in 1v1 I cannot see how I could ever have the upper hand against any of the other clans with my coterie : Lasombra have oblivion and Banu Haqim the blood sorcery. Any other clan except maybe the duskborn can have the upper hand if they haven't buffed the most amazing disciplines. I mean Brujah have potence, Toreador have celerity (and presence) and Nossies have obfuscate so they can literally vanish and strike from the shadows.

I've never played gangrel before (DM chose our clans) it wouldn't have chosen that clan for myself ever. So I'm very much trying play my character the way I want to. I'm not so much into the disney princess thing of talking to animals and using them. (I don't even have animalism unlocked) or the transforming into animal thing. I really thrive to be a bit more out of the box than the stereotypical Gangrel I've seen at other tables (but maybe we all thrive to do that and end up being exactly a stereotype). To give a rough sketch I'm a Bagger and only at 1 strength because it is usually the way I play my characters I play face most of the time, and also I didn't know what clan I would be, it was discovered in game during our representation to the prince. But I have the feeling I HAVE to have animalism to even have an edge against the others. And even then my first impression is that as long as I don't have 3 dots in it it seems useless ? I mean a bound famulus is not gonna do much against corrosive vitae or Dominate. So I was wondering if there is something I'm missing in the way Gangrel can be played ? We're currently in a camarilla domain under a Tremere prince atm, still Camarilla aligned. If any of you have any input I'd love to hear about it.

[gorbalsvampire]

If you were redesigning Blood Sorcery, what would its central schtick be? What makes it potentially unique and interesting, and not just a swiss army knife? (I'd argue Thinblood Alchemy is maybe a more interesting and balanced fill for that total versatility niche.)

Hm!

So, I actually kinda like the core Discipline as it exists in V5. The art of discovering truths about someone through their Blood, or manipulating the Blood directly, or turning the Blood into a weapon or a message? That shit rips. That is a good time.

I'd move Scour Secrets into Auspex (seriously, what the shit is it doing here?) and I'm turning Koldunic Sorcery over and over in my hands - it's a botch job, but the net effect works, you take that and then your upper levels are things like Visceral Absorbtion and Transitive Bond, there's a Tzimisce-sorcerer route through the Discipline and it does hold together now that i think about it. It's fine.

I think a good Discipline is one where you can cross the streams, but it's also apparent what the streams are. Blood Sorcery is a good Discipline, it has archetypal routes through for your stereotypical Tremere and Banu Haqim and Tzimisce but also space for you to push sideways and create characters who have leant this way or that.

Digression: Oblivion is a bad Discipline, largely because it has four pathways between two clans and is trying to cover two historically separate applications of mysticism and ceremony while also remaining as faithful as it can to every depiction of them that's ever existed, because it's a Dawkins design and he can't not include something that's canon. Great concept, but indulgent execution. Someone needed to say no.

But then we get into Rituals, and that's where the bloat kicks in. Niche protection? What niche protection? Haven't you heard, we're Tremere!

I think each Ritual needs to be interrogated. Ask it what it's for. Why does it exist at the level it exists? What is Clinging of the Insect for? We have Potence and Celerity powers for that. Splash another Discipline, you cowards, this is worth more than 3 XP and some bug juice.

What is Blood Walk for? Why is it not a critical effect on Taste for Blood, the mainline power that's its obvious prerequisite? This is stupid. Merge them.

What is Wake With Evening's Freshness for? Why do Tremere get to do this, for cheap? Get rid of it.

Do that, and pare the Rituals right down to the ones like Enrich the Blood, Herd Ward, Calix Secretus, the ones that are clearly derived from actual Blood manipulation. To be honest, the Oblivion notion of prerequisite powers is a good one, and if you can't think of a good prerequisite power, chances are you don't have a good Ritual - you have an Ars Magicka wizard spell that nobody's had the spine to delete.

I've said before and I'm saying now that I prefer Tremere as alchemists to Tremere as mages from Ars Magicka backformed into mages from Mage. It shucks off a lot of baggage, it makes them a self-contained Vampire concept (this is a problem I also have with the Giovanni, to be entirely fair), and - in the context of this ask - it also creates some cool parallels with the thin-bloods, the Duskborn of the here and now. Tremere looks to Thin-blood: as you are, we once were. As we are, you are not allowed to be. No wonder Tremere invented the practice of branding the little shits.

I do agree that being a hyperflexible little multi-tool, manifesting semi-random powers from Resonances and cultivating specific counterfeits with Alchemy, is a really good niche for Thin-Bloods to occupy. The Revised era version - "vampire from clan, but shittier" - had no appeal outside of specific metaplot-hugging or masochistic playstyles. The V5 version is exciting. People should play them, and want to play them.

That said, I have some beef - specifically, a Thin-Blood who lives long enough and plays with other clans erodes niche protection by being able to counterfeit most Disciplines a PC from another clan can bring to the table, "anything you can do I can do" kind of deal. Level 5 is off the table, but how many PCs are getting level 5 powers at the standard rate of XP gain? Blood Potency is a counterbalance and if you bother to implement its rules all the way across (the rerolls are super important) I do think it works as a balance, but this isn't about what works. It's about the feeling of having your special snowflake power, and yours, and yours, all available to this one character.

I think I'd get rid of Counterfeit Discipline, as a thing: you can curate low level powers from feeding, and you have unique Alchemy effects, and that's enough, actually.

[meyhew]

maybe i’ve been gone too long and my memory has turned to shit but i keep seeing posts saying the boys were abused during 1d and that simon cowbell should rot in hell etc but i really can’t remember why 🫠

where do i start. flying a teenage louis across the world to yell at him for his flamboyant mannerisms (after he flirted with guys in the audience). making a 17 yr old harry date a 30 smth yr old woman. the one GQ article saying he fucked 400 women in a year—when he was a teenager. yeah i still remember that one. locking them in hotel rooms with nothing but alcohol to entertain themselves when they were barely old enough to drink, let alone drink themselves into oblivion. it’s where liam’s alcoholism and addiction problems started. the endless press junkets with often invasive and perverted questions and writing sessions and midnight recordings in tour busses and constant touring and traveling with no rest. making them perform with broken bones. niall’s knee is fucked for life because of it and he’s only 30. harry said simon gave him anxiety. and zayn—the bad boy image he was given that propelled racist stereotypes, the disordered eating, the debilitating anxiety he developed that eventually led him to leaving the band. he was blamed for the boston marathon bombing for fucks sake because simon wanted him to portray a specific persona. i mean this is barely scratching the surface because the list of things simon put those boys through is endless. i wish him nothing but the worst of the worst

[wolfgirl-sister]

A lot of times, I have people ask me for recommendations for incest media, or just don't know where to start, so without further ado:

Cocteau Azaka's Incest Reading List!

Books

Wasteland by Francesca Lia Block

Incest Rating: 9.5/10

Incest Type: Siblings, Explicit, Focal Point

Genre: Romance, Drama, Tragedy, Coming of Age

Overall Rating: 9/10

Wasteland is a beautifully written, albeit heartbreaking, book about love, loss, and growing up as an outsider. The book utilizes multiple points of view, signified by changes in font and narrative distance, to paint the picture of three teens in 1980s SoCal who are looking for answers. The first time I read this book, I finished it in tears and immediately read it a second time, just because I wanted more of it.

Hale by K Webster

Incest Rating: 9/10

Incest Type: Siblings, Explicit, Focal Point

Genre: Romance, Drama

Overall Rating: 5/10

Hale is... Not a great book. The characters are so painfully cishet and neurotypical that, while they're ostensibly fleshed out, they're so perfectly, stereotypically normal that I legitimately felt alienated. I suppose the point is that it's not always the fucked up people who can be in a forbidden relationship, that even the girl next door can fall in love with her brother, but in execution the only reason the characters weren't boring is that they wrapped around to being fascinating if only because this was what being "normal" is like.

Overall quality aside, the romance itself is not only convincing, but spectacular. It's a poignant depiction of the line between siblings and lovers blurring until it's inevitably crossed, and it has an explicitly happy ending— a rarity in incest media.

Love's Forbidden Flower, by Diane Rinella

Incest Rating: 6/10

Incest Type: Siblings, Will They Won't They, Explicit

Genre: Romance, Drama

Overall Rating: 4/10

To be blunt, this book was a letdown. I appreciate what the author was going for, and I felt that it did achieve that, somewhat?

But I could not stand the characters, particularly the secondary love interest that's introduced after the main character is let down by her brother time and time again. The reason why this book is on here at all is the end of the second act/early parts of the third, where the protagonist's brother is redeemed and they finally are together, even if it's only temporary when they find that they're not able to withstand the challenges of a socially unacceptable relationship. Rinella wrote a fascinating turn in the plot with a bravery not usually becoming of Western authors of the genre, and for that I applaud her.

Kara no Kyoukai: Records in Oblivion by Kinoko Nasu

Incest rating: 6/10

Incest Type: Siblings, Unrequited, but Explicit, Sub-plot

Genre: Urban fantasy, neo-noir

Overall rating: 7/10

Obviously, I have a fondness for Kara no Kyoukai, and for Azaka specifically, but I'll admit that this isn't the most incestuous book on the list. It does have some payoff with a platonic date at the end, but primarily it's on this list because it does a good job of exploring Azaka's feelings and not invalidating them or downplaying them. I would recommend reading the KnK books prior to this one first, or else you'll most likely be hopelessly lost.

Invisible Monsters by Chuck Palahniuk

Incest Rating: 4/10

Incest Type: Siblings, Explicit, Questionably Requited? Auxillary to the Plot

Genre: Chuck Palahniuk, Drama

Overall Rating: 8/10

Like most of Palahniuk's works, Invisible Monsters is about fucked up people doing fucked up things, driven by self-destruction until they enter todestrieb. As usual, it's fucking glorious.

Invisible Monsters focuses on themes of beauty, identity, attention, disability, and the way that all of these intersect with womanhood. It's not for readers who are squeamish about depictions of transphobia or a narrator who is somewhat transphobic herself, but if you're able to stomach it I highly recommend it.

If you're reading it just for the incest, you'll probably be disappointed, but if you want a fantastic book with some small amount of explicit incest feelings, I would say go for it.

Not Forever, but For Now by Chuck Palahniuk

I'm putting this on the list because though I haven't read it yet, I know that it's explicitly incestuous. I cannot promise that the incest is good, I can't even promise that the book is good, but I can assure you that those brothers are fucking.

Manga

Sayuri-San no Imouto wa Tenshi

Incest Rating: 10/10

Incest Type: Explicit, Sisters, Focal Point

Genre: Yuri, Slice of Life, Romance, Comedy

Overall Rating: 9/10

This manga is very short, but focuses on the day to day life of a young woman and her estranged, sickly younger sister, who re-enters her life suddenly with a halo and wings that only the protagonist and her friend can see.

It's an extremely sweet, funny and lighthearted manga that is nonetheless deeply touching.

Citrus

Incest Rating: 5/10

Incest Type: Step-Sisters, Focal Point, Explicit

Genre: Yuri, Romance, Drama, Gyaru

Overall Rating: 6/10

Citrus is the queen of sister yuri, earning the rare privilege of an anime adaptation, which in this genre is rare! However, just because Citrus is queen does not make it the best, not even by a long shot. The plot is extremely melodramatic, the kisses questionably consensual for most of the first acts, and with the strict uniform standards, a lot of the tertiary characters can be difficult to discern in black and white. It has it's redeeming qualities, but mostly I've found that it's over-hyped.

I Met My Sister On A Dating Site

Incest Rating: 7/10

Incest Type: Sisters, Focal Point, Explicit

Genre: Yuri, Slice of Life, Comedy, Romance

Overall Rating: 7/10

This is a really cute and short manga with a great premise, but honestly it's very lacking in substance. That's okay though, because it does exactly what it sets out to do: be something short and sweet that ends with sisters dating.

Oshi no Ko

Incest Rating: 8/10

Incest Type: Siblings, Twins, Explicit, Ostensibly Requited? Sub plot

Genre: Drama, Thriller, Revenge, Idols

Overall Rating: 8/10

I've written my thoughts on Oshi no Ko elsewhere, but to keep this brief, this is a fantastic series, and reading/watching it was the time of my life. The art is glamorous and over the top, with visibly heightened emotions that really sell the drama of it all.

We've only just started to get to the incest as of this chapter being written, but Ruby's reaction to her brother are so endearing that I'm preemptively rating it very highly

Koi no Kaze

Incest Rating: 7/10

Incest Type: Siblings, Explicit, Focal Point

Genre: Romance, Slice of Life

Overall Rating: 6/10

I don't have too much to say about this one— it's your basic, straightforward sibling love story played straight, with not too many twists or turns. I do appreciate that it includes an outing scene, so I'm rating it a bit higher, but it also hits on public acceptance, which for some people is a really important part of the fantasy.

1 x 1/2

Incest Rating: 8/10

Incest Type: Mother/Daughter, Explicit, Focal Point

Genre: Romance, Drama, Yuri

Overall Rating: */10

Taiyaki, the mangaka who created 1 x 1/2, is in my opinion one of the greatest mother/daughter writers and artists out there. 1 x 1/2 is a complicated work to judge as an English speaker because what's currently on Mangadex is an excellent fan translation of an unfinished, no longer canon first draft. This is phenomenal, and does a great job of everything it sets out to do, until it ends very suddenly. When Taiyaki restarted 1 x 1/2, she partnered with an (incredibly mid) translation partner called Yuri Hub, which means that her work can no longer be fan translated, and the translation published is pretty clearly machine-based. It's honestly very disappointing, as I would love to have a proper translation of the new 1 x 1/2.

Visual Novels

Full Metal Daemon Muramasa

Incest Rating: 8/10

Incest Type: Siblings (Explicit? Implicit? Somewhat unrequited?), Parent/Child (Explicit)

Genre: Fantasy Mecha, Action, Drama, Samurai

Overall Rating: 9/10

Muramasa is an epic, and I don't know how to impress the drama of the fight scenes throughout, and the way that they combine real swordplay theory with imagined mecha combat, crossed with samurai tropes. It can be really difficult to get through, as the game is not even in the slightest for the squeamish. There's a lot of rape, both implied and explicit, however the antagonist's motivation is that she wants to ascend to godhood so that she's no longer bound by the rules of morality and therefore can marry her father. Additionally, her relationship with her brother is extremely sexually charged, and their fight scenes often involve comparisons to sex.

This is one of the best mecha VNs ever written, with a truly fantastic ending.

Tsukihime

Incest Rating: 7/10

Incest Type: Siblings, Explicit, Focal Point (of one route)

Genre: Action, Urban Fantasy, Horror

Overall Rating: 7/10

This game is a touchy subject for me. I've had the misfortune of playing Tsukihime after having it hyped up for literal years, so it not measuring up to that hype is less a statement on my objective assessment of the VN, and more a statement on how beloved it is.

Having said that, the Akiha route is fantastic. I'm not sure that I have much to say on the subject that hasn't already been said, but believe you me, Tsukihime is worth playing.

Love Ribbon

Incest Rating: 8/10

Incest Type: Sisters, Explicit, Focal Point

Genre: Slice of Life, Drama, Romance, Comedy, Yuri

Overall Rating: 6/10

Love Ribbon is a short, sweet VN that's a really solid 6/10 and is worth the $15 it costs to support an indie dev. It focuses on two sisters who were raised apart, and only meet when they share an apartment to attend a prestigious high school. The romance is cute, the plot is uncomplicated, and there are only two routes, but there's a long epilogue where they're explicitly dating and ostensibly get symbolically married. If you have unresolved daddy issues that you can't touch for fear of untangling something massive, this is a great read because so do those girls.

Thank you for reading, I hope that this list helps people!

[whitegoldtower]

Felt cute so here’s a face reveal of the dude behind all the horny elfposting and unhinged oc lore dumps✌🏻

About me! 🧝🏻‍♂️🕷️🏴󠁧󠁢󠁷󠁬󠁳󠁿

I’m Afallach. I’m just a little guy. Literally. I’m 5’3. I’m an illustrator, a poet, a writer and something of a musician when I can be bothered. I’m a Welsh druid, and I have a pretty thick accent - although well spoken, if I do say so myself - and I’m a proud Horatian.

Bisexual as fuck, in other words.

My favourite colour is purple, I love folklore, I’ve got a great relationship with the spiders in my house and if I were plopped into a fantasy setting, I’d like to consider myself a dark elf / drow / dunmer. The most stereotypically Welsh thing about me is that I love being underground. Probably for the best, because I’m very sensitive to light (although love to sunbathe, go figure. The heat is my friend). I look like this on a near daily basis: 🌑👄🌑

I have a penchant for jumping into mountain lakes and wriggling through cave systems whenever the opportunities present themselves, and would consider myself pretty adept at rock-climbing. I used to be a swimmer and a gymnast.

Food-wise, I’ll eat just about anything (I’m not nicknamed ‘the bin’ for nothing), though my favourite cuisines are Greek, North-West/West African, Thai and Middle Eastern. I like my wine like I like my men (and women); bold, aged and fruity.

I definitely have a type, as anyone who follows me / has been following me will know all too well, and I have no reservations about being completely batshit about them.

My favourite games are Skyrim, Baldur’s Gate III and The Witcher, though I’m slowly getting into Dragon Age (it’s all Zevran, Josephine and Dorian’s fault), and I’ve been wanting to shove my head into Morrowind for the past five years because there’s nothing I love more than eating a house of lore brick by brick. One day, I will force myself to play Oblivion, Daggerfall and Arena and I will enjoy them once I hard-launch myself into playing them because that’s just the way it works.

I also just really love dnd but have nobody to play with. I regrettably don’t have many friends, irl or online. Someone please play little games with me. Please. I don’t even mind dming because I like to craft stories and take GREAT pleasure in engaging in a battle of riddles. I’m like Gollum in that one scene, hopping around on all fours watching you guess. (LOTR is another special interest and I’m aware that I’m a textbook nerd at this point)

I’m an autistic intersex ftm and I will fight a TERF with my bare hands. I have no qualms about throwing hands in the name of justice and bodily autonomy.

Anyway. I know I posted my work last time, but in case anyone new shows up, here’s my work again. 🤭

[ravetillyoucry]

PUPARIA

Chapter 7 - Oblivion

prev - chapter 1

It was at times like these when Hosah felt grateful for the New York Subway system, as even at four in the morning, him and his partner were able to commute all the way back to the office with ease.

Nobody had touched the package, it was a miracle somebody was even brave enough to pick it up and bring it into the security room. In all honesty, the shifter wasn't sure why the police weren't the first people Scotty, the guy Jules had hired to sit and watch their camera footage all night, had called.

He did have an idea as to why, though. He and Scotty had pretty much hated eachother since day one. The man had no positives to him. He's rude, he's cynical, he says the most offensive things, he's nihilistic and generally leaves a bad taste in everyone's mouth. Sure, all of those character flaws probably applied to Hosah himself, but his own hypocrisy was something the shifter preferred to not dwell on. The security guy wasn’t relevant enough to Hosah’s life to get worked up on anyway.

The rag-tag team all stood in near silence, as if they were waiting for the package itself to speak. Wrapped in a stereotypical brown paper bag, the little twine bow and all, the parcel was flat and wide, a four by four square with maybe and inch and a half of elevation to it. Just by looking at it, Hosah could tell it was a canvas of sorts. He'd been painting consistently for over a decade, so he thought himself to have pretty worthy basis to make such a theory.

Without thinking too much of it, the shifter spoke, leaning over closer to inspect the item infront of him, "Looks like it's a painting, or something."

Scotty was the first to dismiss his idea, "Why the hell would anyone mail you a painting to your workplace?"

"Why would anyone kill fifteen people?" The shifter's eyes stayed focused on what was beneath him, knowing that, if he were to look up at the crowd of much larger beings, he'd probably pussy out of indulging in any kind of argumentative urges that came over him when speaking to the insufferable man.

Jeanne spoke up, stood in the corner of the tiny office, leant against the wall away from the topic of conversation, "Let's just open it and see. Can't be anything worse than what we've already seen."

"Yeah, Hosah, you open it. That way if it's a bomb and you're blown to pieces, it won't be so hard to clean."

God, if only his prayers were answered. Suddenly, Hosah felt bad for admitting his uncertainty surrounding religion. The smell of burning flesh wouldn't be so bad if he knew it was Scotty's body that had spontaneously combusted.

The shrunken figures eyebrows furrowed, although his gaze was still unmoving. He wondered if Teddy shared the same annoyed expression as his own.

"Shouldn't we wait until we can get it tested for any , I don't know, DNA remnants? Assuming it's the same guy that fled the scene the other day that left the package." The shrunken figure questioned, leaning over to inspect every aspect of the seemingly normal parcel in close detail.

Unfortunately, Hosah seemed to have fallen perfectly into Scotty's hands with his reply. "Hah, so, you're a fucken' pussy, that's it, right?" How anybody could be so cartoonishly insufferable, the shifter did not know.

"Shut up, Scotty. God. I'll open it." Teddy's sudden bite back alongside the quick grab of the delivery caused the figure stood beside it to jump back slightly, he'd not seen such a side to his assistant before, and in all honesty, it flattered him.

Scotty wheeled his chair back out of the way into Jeanne's direction as the brown paper packaging was carefully torn apart. He was right. It was a painting after all, with a folded paper note on the hollow side of the canvas.

Upon turning it over, painted side up, delicately placed down on the table beside him, Hosah's face turned an unusual shade of white. This wasn't an original piece from the killer at all, it was his own work, even with his name written in small white text in the bottom right corner.

In any other situation, the fact almost everybody in the room gathered around, towering above him, would've put Hosah at indescribable unease, but he was far too distracted by what sat in-front of him to even notice.

"Looks like one of yours." He was glad to hear Teddy's voice again, all he really wanted to do was crawl back into the warm palm once more, and forget he'd ever seen anything to begin with.

A grating scoff could be heard from the distance away where the night shift security guard sat, although nobody paid any attention to him by this point.

Hosah looked up to the giant looming above him, whose eyes were fixated on the painting and not the shifter himself, "It is one of mine. See. Signed it and everything."

The look Scotty had on his face was disturbing if anything, a sort of sadistic smile to himself that worried Hosah. He wondered who's side he was really on, his team's, or the killer's. A hole grew in his stomach when he thought about the contents of the note, probably some edgy manifesto of all the killer's prejudices toward the most vulnerable of society, their sick reasonings for indulging in such cruelty. Nothing he hadn't seen before; but that didn't make it all any less unsettling.

"Huh. So it is." Teddy leant, his mouth slightly agape as he puzzled over what lay out in front of him. "Have you ever sold any of your art or something?"

The trouble brewing in the shifter's stomach rose as he blurted out, "No, that's the thing, I don't even.. They must've gotten it straight from my apartment." It could've been anyone. It could've even been Teddy, given his peaked interest in his work, and the fact he had a key to the apartment in the first place.

It wasn't a piece he'd done recently, it was one he'd remembered storing away in the closet under all of his old, dirty tarps. A shitty take at a man he'd pass almost every day about two years ago, always at the pick up bay by the station, always in the same coat smoking the same brand of cigarettes, Hosah had thought up a whole backstory for him. Divorced, retired, and on his way to the bar to sleuth out information on the man his wife had left him for. The type of guy Hosah imagined himself growing to be when he was around fifty, deeply troubled and fuelled by vengeance from the, in the grand scheme of things, meaningless.

"What about the note, what does that say?" Hosah's attention shifted as he heard the paper fumble in his assistant's hands in response, anxiously awaiting for what was on the other side of the folded sheet.

"Hmm," Teddy's eyebrows furrowed and his lips pursed, "It's long. And fucking.. Hard to read. Rushed cursive. Could scan it into one of the computers, get someone over to decipher it."

The shrunken man shrugged, annoyed his curiosity couldn't be fed into, but understanding of the situation.

"Sure. Sounds good." He said, standing to his underwhelming full height of three inches. Hosah wondered what was taking his body so long to adjust for another switch back, when he remembered he hadn't actually taken his size control medication since.. Maybe a week ago?

It was safe to say just about everyone wanted to get the fuck out of Scotty's office after the interaction. He wondered why Jules would hire such a dickhead, before realising she'd also hired himself too, and that was just as bad.

Even hours later, stood on his assistant's desk once more, Hosah couldn't help out pace back and forth, contemplating all that had occurred so far in the case. It wasn't a lot, but what he'd been left with felt like a thousand threads all tangled in one big, untie-able knot. The holes in the hands, the bodies lined up in order of stages of decomposition, his painting, the unreadable note, what did it all mean?

It was horrible to admit, but Hosah often found himself empathising with the criminals he sought after. Of course he knew they were society's most disgusting and depraved individuals, but that sort of behaviour doesn't just prop up out of nowhere. He'd be a hypocrite if he didn't give these freaks the benefit of the doubt, as some would go as far as to say Hosah had gotten himself into a fair amount of totally fucked scenarios that would group him with these kinds of people.

Nobody did these kinds of acts for no reason. He had his own reasons for getting into his own shit, so what gives him the right to pretend that they don't? After all, reasons are not excuses. But that was the thing, Hosah's curiosity was his biggest flaw. His utter inability to stay in his own lane, to keep his nose out of other people's business, it's what got him into the most trouble. Curiosity killed the cat or something.

Jeanne's words replayed in his head over and over, in all honesty, he never really considered himself a highly empathetic person beforehand, but everyone seemed to think otherwise. That was probably what got him into all the trouble he found himself in as a young man. At the age of twenty seven, he'd experienced a life time of shit. All because he didn't know when to stop surrounding himself with people who so obviously had ill intentions.

Hosah was an attention seeker, at the core of it, somebody paying attention to him, even if it's to hurt him, was what fed his ego. It gave him some sort of worth, this random serial killer was interested in him, it doesn't matter in what way, he had someone that saw him. What in particular they saw in him, he had no idea, and the itching to know just what made him of all the shifters out there so special was what drove him crazy. Why him? Why that painting? Why those fifteen people before him? All he wanted was answers, he didn't even really care if getting them was what killed him.

"Hosah, I think you should start living at my apartment." The statement caught him completely off guard, freezing mid step and turning to look at the giant that sat before him.

"We can go and get all your stuff you need today. I just.. It doesn't feel right. The painting, it was taken straight from your house. I don't want to leave you there, they know that's where you live," Teddy truly looked troubled as he went on, "I don't think I'd be able to forgive myself if anything happened to you."

The tiny man nodded in agreement, "Yeah, yeah you're right. I didn't even think about that, to be honest. Thanks. I appreciate it."

One week into their knowledge of each others existence, and the two had already made plans to move in together. Hosah wasn't even surprised, moving fast was his default. He had thoughts of marriage about everyone he's ever slept with, and that list was far too long to count on his hands alone. Teddy had that kind of look about him that made the shifter realise the two's lives were to be intertwined for as long as they'd live, he was just unsure of in what way that'd be.

"I know it's kind of sudden and we don't know eachother all that well, but, I mean, please don't feel pressured to say yes or anything." Teddy rambled on, the fact the giant seemed to care so much was very flattering.

Hosah could only smile, inching closer to the resting fist on the table he stood on, "I already said yes, Teddy. I'm not really one to get all shy in dangerous situations like these." That was a lie, and it sort of pained him to say it out loud with just how blatant the fact of the matter was.

-~-

"Your place is.. nice."

Hosah took a good look around from his shoulder view. Seemed his assistant had a few unpleasant traits after all. The apartment was packed with shit. Trinkets and vintage decorations, CDs and records, random pieces of junk he'd probably found out in the wild, his apartment was sort of like a hoarders home, or maybe a crow's nest.

Teddy couldn't sense the uneasiness in the shifters voice, "Thank you, thank you. I uh, I need to do a good deep clean sometime soon though. Got a lot of stuff but I can never find it in me to part with any of it. Just scared I'll need it one day, or I'll forget whatever memory I have associated with it, you know?"

"You don't say.." Really, the man stood, one foot on the shirt collar, one foot on the jacket shoulder, was in no place to judge at all. He had his absurd collection of art works, and Teddy had his absurd collections of everything else there was to own in the world.

The tiny eyes adverted to the three decorative plates mounted on the wall outside of his kitchen, a very pretty collection, with the centre piece capturing what looked like to be a rural house in a field of flowers, the rest being of various farm animals. Despite looking pretty old, the paint was just as bright as the day it was done. Bright pastels that popped out against be ceramic white, with a fine gold border around the curved edges.

"Pretty right?" His assistant noticed Hosah's fixated stare on the display, "They were a gift from my grandpa, for graduating university. His grandma gifted them to him too, when he bought his first house."

"Been in the family for a while then.." The tiny man leant closer to her a better look at the paint job.

"Yeah, yeah definitely. I'm gonna give them to my kids too. And hopefully it'll be carried on for the rest of forever."  With his hands at his hips, Teddy sighed a hopeful sigh. "Why about you? Any special family heirlooms going around?"

Oh, god, he had to wrack his brain around for a moment to even think of anything, "My mom always said she wished she had a daughter, you know, to pass her wedding dress down to. Well, it's not- I don't know, are hanbok's considered dresses? I think so,"

"Ohh," Teddy's interest seemed to be peaked as he made his way to sit on the couch, on whatever space there was free at least, as it was covered almost entirely with decorative pillows and blankets, "So, you're Korean, right? Fully, or?"

"Pshh, do I look full? No, my dad's Arab- Mizrahi, so I guess, Iraqi maybe? I don't really know, he's never specified. Always just says Jewish or American." Hosah had long climbed down from the shoulder, finding himself resting in the cupped hands of his assistant as he rambled.

"Hmm, yeah I thought so. It's hard to tell, really, never heard of that mix before." the giant's voice quietened a little, as if he were worried he could come off as offensive or something, "I was wondering where the name Hosah came from, too, is it Korean? Hebrew?"

"It's- It's a funny story, actually," Whenever Hosah started a conversation like this, the other person could expect probably the least funny story imaginable, "I'm named after my uncle, my dads twin brother, he was a shifter too. Died three days before my parents found out I was on the way. Anyway. The name Hosah in itself is Hebrew, but there is a really similar Korean name, just spelt '-suh' not '-sah'. And a different meaning, and stuff."

The giant nodded his head and gave an 'Ohhh' of understanding, "That's really interesting, actually."

"I've always been kind of worried about being named after someone who had a shifting related death. Like it's just sealed the deal for me to be.. cursed or something. It's stupid but it's always in the back of my mind whenever I do something stupid." The tiny man brushed his hands through his hair, avoiding eye contact, "I guess thats bound to happen though, seeing your own name on a coffin."

“Like an Ouroboros, the eternal cycle, history repeating itself,” Teddy soon realised that the man in his hands had no idea what he was talking about, “The snake eating itself, something like that,” still, Hosah was clueless.

“..So that Scotty guy huh!” The giant awkwardly laughed, desperate to keep the shifter talking for a reason that was unknown to him. “What a dick. So stupid too. Picking up that parcel and bringing it into his office, not even calling the police?? Total moron.” Teddy progressively seemed to get more worked up, his palms getting clammier and clammier by the second.

“I mean,” his face shifted, now looking more worried if anything, “He was just so.. rude to you. Completely unprovoked!”

Hosah’s eyes lingered down onto his shoes, now sitting cross legged in the palm, “Some people are just like that.” He sighed, “See someone weaker than them, and just getting the urge to..” the words trailed off into silence, although Teddy could probably piece together what came next.

“Well, he’s stupid. You’re great. I couldn’t imagine even considering speaking to you like that.”

“That’s cause you know I’d beat your ass, when I’d get back to normal size, anyway.” The shifter stood to his full height, not even the size of Teddy’s hand, “I need you to help me with something.”

Without a second thought, his assistant followed his every word. Hosah hadn’t taken his medication in days, he knew if he didn’t start, his doctor wouldn’t let him hear the end of it.

Teddy’s bathroom was just as cluttered as the rest of his apartment, with a cute little My Neighbor Totoro toothbrush holder and all. The tiny man hadn’t seen that movie since he was barely able to retain memories, just the sight of that grey beast sent him back in time.

“So you need to do this every day?” The giant spoke as he filled the human sized needle with whatever concoction of drugs his doctor prescribes him to take daily. Something he always forgot how to pronounce, somatotrophixine? Along the lines of that, at least.

Hosah just nodded, “Yeah. I’ve been forgetting lately.”

Pinching what little fat he had left on his thigh with one hand, and biting the arm connected to his other, the shifter was ready to take the dosage.

“Do you not get scared? This needles bigger than your whole body.”

Hosah really wished he’d stop being asked so many questions as he winced at the sudden contact, causing his assistant to give a quiet little ‘Sorry’ under his breath.

He waited until the needle had been removed to release his teeth from his arm, “Nah, been doing it since I was like.. I don’t know, twelve?” Hosah groaned a little as he let go of the skin, “Still hurts, though. Do you have any bandages?”

Very carefully, as if he was scared he’d break Hosah with the light touch from his fingers, the giant gave the bleeding wound a wipe, wrapping it with a cut up piece of gauze afterward.

“I don’t know how you cope. I think I’d be way too freaked out to even remember to breathe, aha,”

“You get used to it. I used to be terrified all the time. Constant state of fear, it was hell. Then I got medicated for anxiety and shit, all better now. You could put me in a case filled with.. I don’t know, rats and scorpions, wouldn’t break a sweat.” The shifter bragged, stretching the truth about a mile further than reality. Really, he still got scared, he was always still scared, he just knew how to mask it better.

“Well then,” his assistant leant back forward, having cleared away the surface from what mess the pair had just made, “I want what you’re on.”

This phrase had never failed to make Hosah laugh. “Let’s switch places first, then we’ll see.”

Maybe moving in together wasn’t the greatest idea. The rest of the day, and even into the night, Teddy asked questions relentlessly. On one hand, it made the shifter quite happy, nobody had ever been so curious about him, it made him feel pretty special for once. Then again, on the other hand, he quite missed his alone time with just him and his thoughts.

The giant’s chatter eventually became white noise to him, finally falling sleep as the sun had long gone down, the stars being brighter than ever. Or maybe they were just streetlights, it was hard to tell.

Hosah had managed to drift off on the pillow besides his assistant’s head, but when he awoke the next day, Teddy was nowhere to be seen. Not wanting to jump down from such a height, despite knowing that he’d probably just bounce along the floor due to his height and weight, the shifter waited patiently for his knight in shining armour to rescue him from the impossibly high castle.

Unfortunately, none of that was accurate to reality, as the shitty ikea bed was far from any fairy tale tower, and Teddy, in his boxer shorts and generic band t shirt- which the design on had long faded in the washing machine, was far from any kind of prince charming. That part was debatable, actually.

The shifter had no idea what had come over him lately, maybe it was some kind of sickness bug going around or an infection in his brain, but as every day went by that he and Teddy spent constantly in each others company, the more Hosah grew to love him. Not romantically, of course. He wasn’t even expecting to like him, never mind want to be as close as friends with him as they were becoming. Although.. he’d be lying if he didn’t admit he found the giant at least somewhat attractive. On a completely aesthetic level.

Teddy peeked through the slightly ajar door with a little knock, as if this wasn’t his own bedroom. Upon noticing his new roommate was awake, he entered shyly, still in his night clothes, uttering a quiet ‘Good morning’ in a sing-song voice. Hosah didn’t respond, he needed at least twenty minutes to properly adjust to his consciousness in the morning.

Instead, the miniature man sat on the pillow, watching Teddy carefully as he rifled through his wardrobe. From here, Hosah had pretty much the perfect view of the man. He had nice legs, thick calves, and his freckles extended past his face to the entirety of his body. One thing the shifter had always wished he had when he was younger was more moles. He had one pretty big one on the right of his belly button, and one under his left ear, but that was it. It was one of his mother’s traits that he envied, she had beauty marks pretty much in every place you’d expect them to be.

It was in moments like these which Hosah wished his eyes were cameras, so he could take a photo of the moment and store it in his brain forever. Having a photographic memory must be nice. The lighting was perfect as the sun shined through the thin fabric of Teddy’s curtains, with the dark red paint across the walls helping the man in catching the singular audience member’s eye.

The observer quickly turned his face away as his subject caught on to his peeping, “What are you looking at?” Teddy said in a laugh, his smile showing his endearingly crooked teeth.

“You, I guess.” His face flushed a colour similar to that on the walls, “I like your teeth.”

Yeesh. Hosah knew it sounded weird as soon as he said it, but it was too late now.

“Aha, thank you, my parents wanted me to get braces or retainers or something, but I always liked them too.” Luckily for the still shrunken man, Teddy seemed to take the compliment how it was intended to be interpreted.

Despite the fact it exhausted him the previous day, Hosah wanted to continue to talk with his assistant for hours. Maybe they were just rubbing off on one another, but he really wanted to know every little detail about Teddy’s entire life.

With the starting day’s rays hitting his so perfectly, the giant’s green eyes really shone, looking much paler in the direct sunlight compared to the usual darker shade they appeared to be. Hosah wondered if he had one Irish parent with how he looked, he wouldn’t have gotten Italian just by looking at him, unless told so first.

“You know,” Teddy started, buttoning up his dress shirt in the meantime, “Im so curious what that note said. The one in the package, I mean.”

Right. The detective had nearly forgotten all about the previous day, too focused on fantasising about some dream-like life he could have with Teddy. He really needed to get his head down, out of the clouds, and back into the game. He needed to talk to Jeanne, Jeanne always knew what to say, and what to do in times like these.

“Hmm, I’ll give it a look over. Might find it easier, able to see all the fine details and such..” Hosah rubbed the sleep from his eyes and combed his curly bed head with his fingers, “Probably just a load of manic shit. Dark web manifesto type thing.”

“This is all so scary. I mean, they went to your house, and mailed your own painting back to you, does that not scare you?”

“I told you, I’m not scared of anything.”

Teddy looked up from his undone tie, “I’m being serious, Hosah.” , his face really reflected just how serious he seriously was. “It’s okay you know, fuck, I’m scared of this guy.”

Eugh, that phrase the shifter hated so much, ‘it’s okay’ or anything of the sort. Being comforted verbally just caused his entire body to quiver and cringe, which was very likely evident in the disgusted face he didn’t realise he was making, as Teddy tilted his head to the side, his eyebrows angled down as if to say ‘Cmon,’

“Yeah. But I’m used to all of this, even outside of my job, I’ve had to deal with weirdos-“

His assistant rudely interjected with a counter argument, “That’s exactly what scares me. You shouldn’t just.. be used to this kind of shit. It’s messed up, even more so that you’ve had to experience it all your life.”

Hosah sat, silent- a little stunned, even, frozen for a moment. He was right, and the shifter knew it, he’d known it the whole time. It wasn’t normal for him to just be used to all the kinds of sickening, cruel and downright sadistic shit that was probably all wrapped up in a nice little bow on that note. Despite already being at his minimum height, the shifter shrunk back into himself, deciding not to say anything else at all, admitting defeat in the whole bicker.

For the whole period of quiet, Teddy never looked away from the man that sat on his pillow. He didn’t want to come off as controlling or infantilising, but it was so hard not to worry about the tiny detective. He’d been dealt a shit hand in life, all the odds stacked against him in this world, and if he was the one looking out for all of the city’s shifters, who was looking out for him?