#still played. or have something similar to like

[letsgetrowdy43]

The first night alone —

Luke Hughes x reader

Request: 🐞 "you put a blanket over me when i was sleeping? what are we, an old married couple?" with luke! maybe they had only started dating and she’s surprised

Warnings/notes: Here is the first blurb of the celly!! I read a fic similar to this on Marauders tumblr (I can't find the original, but if I do, I'll tag them!!), so credit to the individual who inspired this whole blurb!! Warning of a tiny bit of sexually suggestive comments, but nothing detailed!!

Rowan’s summer celly!!

There was something nerve-racking about the first time Luke invited his girlfriend to stay the night at his apartment without he prescence of his older brother creeping aorund every corner.

The season had come to an unsatisfactory ending.

Jack was back in Michigan, rehabbing his shoulder. Quinn was on a tour of Europe with Elias and a few of his other Swedish team members. And Luke was still in Jersey, packing up his life to head back to the lakehouse to be with his family.

But for now, he was living in the blissful honeymoon phase with his girlfriend of a little over a month, as he prepared to be apart from her for a few weeks while she completed her teaching practicum.

So for the next week he was soaking up as much time with her before he packed his car and drove home, which led to tonight.

Her first time spending the night together, just the two of them.

He made her dinner before she got there, so she could get home from the high school where she was working and immediately have something to eat.

Then they went on a short walk to get dessert from the cafe located at the end of the block. Hands intertwined, dressed up in spring coats, as she recounted the horrible day she had with the class she was subbing.

And finally, when they got home, the sun began to set, and the weight of intimacy fell over them as they both realized how domestic the whole dynamic of living on their own felt.

"It's so quiet when Jack isn't here," Luke grinned, his head lying on her torso as she played with his curls, the two sprawled out on one another. "I kind of miss him," she added, looking down as she watched his eyes slowly shut, basking in the feeling of her fingertips scratching against his scalp, "especially his movie commentaries, feels a little too quiet."

Luke manuvered his body so he was now laying on his stomach, looking up at her as his hands moved up to draw shapes on her skin.

"I guess I miss him too," he joked before pressing a kiss to the exposed skin of her torso.

A grin slowly broke out on his face as he realized what the absence of Jack meant for the night. She could feel his smile against her skin, her hands cupping his jaw to make him look at her.

"You have that look in your eyes," she faked annoyance. "Just thinking about you... and maybe a little less clothing," he said, playing wth the waistband of her shorts, to which he was met with a gentle nudge to watch the movie instead. "Watch the movie you begged me to put on, you freak."

And with that, they fell back into silence, the lull of the screen pulling her into a light sleep as Luke continued to tickle the skin of her arm.

Before he knew it, the movie was over, she was out like a light, and there was still a sink full of dishes calling his name. So he carefully sat up, draping the throw blanket she bought the boys after deeming their apartment lacked 'warmth,' and he headed to the kitchen to clean everything up, so when she woke up, they could shower and immediately crawl into bed.

When she woke up twenty minutes later to the lake of a 21-year-old man lying on top of her, she frowned a little before snuggling into the blanket tucked under her chin.

She blinked a few times to wake herself up as she sat up, taking in the soft fabric of the blanket draped over her, one that she knew Luke must have given her while he went off to do his own thing.

The girl wrapped it around herself and went to look for him, finding him wiping off any of the remaining crumbs from the counter.

His grin grew the second he saw her, brows pulled together as her eyes adjusted to the light, hair a little tousled from the pillow her head lay.

"Good nap?" "You put a blanket over me while I was sleeping? What are we, an old married couple?" she smiled at his thoughtfulness. "I didn't want you to get cold," he shrugged as she squeezed all of the remaining water from the dish cloth and then walked over to her, wrapping his arms around her a pressing a gentle kiss to her temple.

"Let's go to bed sleeping beauty," he mused, lips still against her skin.

"What about a shower first?" she grinned, suggestively.

"Don't have to ask me twice!" he joked while picking her up a tossing her over his shoulder, and heading in the direction of his bathroom. Laughter followed as they basked in the domesticity of it all.

[beanarie]

part 3 of buck takes a mental health break. things get kind of epistolary (ish) from here on out.

~

Los Olivos is... nice. Super nice. Buck has driven through a couple of times, but he's never stopped here. He squints at his phone, triple-checking the address, before he rings the bell.

The door opens, and it's like the sun came out. "Buckaroo!" Carla smiles big and wide. "You get in here right now." Her arms wrap around him as unabashedly as they always did. He gleans as much warmth and comfort as he can before she lets go to give him a once over. "Look at Mr. Universe! My goodness, so much more of you to love now. Come in, come in. I hope you're hungry. I've been cooking since late morning, but if you'd shown me a recent photo, I would've started yesterday."

He manages to put away most of the ribs she put in front of him, with her husband Elden polishing off the rest. After ignoring her protests and helping load the dishwasher, he takes in the photos taking up most of the wall space and several surfaces.

She chuckles at the one he stopped in front of. "That's from the wedding of, uh, you-know-who."

"It's a beautiful photo." Elden is wearing a suit a similar shade of blue to the one Buck wore to his and Abby's disastrous first date. If he closes his eyes, he can still hear Bobby's voice in his ear, giving last minute advice as he helped Buck with his tie.

That part of it was a good memory.

"You okay?" Carla asks.

Buck shakes himself, seeing a way out that's sure to be worth it if only to see her reaction. "Uh, hey. Do you remember how Abby had that ex that kind of smashed her heart into little pieces?"

"Oh, yeah. She was hung up to an embarrassing degree. Her mom used to talk about the guy, too. She loved him."

"I forgot about that," Buck says under his breath, suddenly thinking about Tommy hanging out with Abby's elderly mom, being mildly caustic at each other while playing scrabble or doing a puzzle.

"Why would you bring up whatshisn-?"

"Uh, Tommy."

She tilts her head, intrigued. "Good memory."

Later Buck is proud of himself for making sure she's sitting before he gives her the story. As it is she laughs so hard she almost falls off the couch.

"Your life, I swear," she says, wheezing. "I don't know why I'm even surprised."

Buck finds himself grinning along, wider than he has in a long time.

"You know, you lit up a little when you talked about him. You still like this guy?"

"Yeah," he says, only a little doubt in his mind. "I think so."

"He really thought you were in love with Eddie?" She has an incredible gobsmacked face. "Now, I adore that man, and the two of you would be pretty as hell." She winks and Buck snickers. "But he has a talent for making things hard, and you, Evan Buckley. You deserve something easy."

~

(Hen): Hey, Eddie told me what he said. Say the word, and Karen and I will get him ostracized from every parent group in the county.

(Buck): Don't do that.

(Buck): It affects Chris.

(Hen): Good point. We could do gyms. You have no idea how important gays are to that scene.

(Buck): I might not be Gay-gay but I have spent a little time in gyms. I know.

(Hen): Right, that's fair.

(Hen): You seemed like you were managing. I should've noticed you were making yourself smaller.

(Buck): Thanks, Hen.

(Hen): You're missed, just so you know. Not just during shifts. You'll always be one of ours, understand?

(Hen): Buck?

(Hen): Maybe you don't understand. That's on me. I'll do better in the future.

(Buck): I miss you, too. The lady who served me at this truck stop diner had glasses like yours.

(Hen): I hope you gave her a good compliment.

(Buck): Of course I did. And a big tip.

~

Oakland is next, Lucy doesn't have a spare room ("My partner's brother is staying with us for a while. He's a funny little shit. You'll probably be best friends.") but she does have a pullout couch, and when Buck lies at an angle, his feet don't dangle off the edge.

He and Lucy get just this side of absolutely trashed. When they've toasted to Cap's memory multiple times and the stories slow to a trickle, she grabs his phone. "I'm gonna find you a not-nice boy on grindr."

Buck sits back in his chair and gives a have at it gesture. He watches her, always so comfortable in her own skin. "When did you first, y'know, know?"

She doesn't hesitate for a second. "Eleven. Heather Edison. Sixth grade English. She read for Juliet in class and I wanted to be Romeo so bad."

"Who did you get instead?"

She makes a face. "Tybalt. Ugh."

"What's it like growing up knowing pretty much the whole time?"

"Well, I got a couple years on you. It was a lot of sussing people out and very carefully figuring out who was safe to share that part of myself with." She picks up her shoulders breezily. "Sometimes I was wrong. It happens."

"That sounds terrible. I'm sorry."

"Price of admission," she says. "Now, do you wanna stick with the Greek god aesthetic, or do you feel like broadening your horizons a little?"

Sheree, the girlfriend, brings him coffee the morning after.

"Do you miss it?" she asks. "The job? If you're anything like Lucy... She broke her wrist once and the whole time she couldn't be out there it was like she was locked in a glass case full of water."

The job is what killed him, Buck thinks idly. But even now, he recognizes that it's also what kept him going as long as he did. Buck sips at his coffee. "It's only been a few days," he says with a little teasing smile. "Right now it barely counts as time away."

~

(Eddie): Chris said it's my fault you left and then he stopped talking to me again

(Eddie): it's not really is it?

(Buck): I don't know what I'm supposed to say to that. It feels like no matter what I do it's wrong, so I'd rather not engage at all for a while.

His phone rings. Buck rejects the call, then pulls over and drinks half a water bottle.

(Buck): I know this was hard on you, but finding out after the fact was not worse than being there. It wasn't. Bobby's face that night will be with me on my deathbed. Maybe you'll always remember how Chris looked when you told him, but you get a lifetime of new memories to replace it with.

Buck plugs all that in from the notes app, then immediately has a thought.

(Buck): If you ever talk to me like that again I'll transfer for good.

Hands shaking, he turns off alerts from Eddie. Then he texts Chris a photo of himself and Carla at her house. The amount of exclamation points he gets in return chips away at the concrete block around his heart.

~

(Buck): Am I exhausting?

(Buck): Sorry. Hi how are you?

(Tommy): Too late, you already set the tone. Exhausting? You did tire me out on a regular basis

"Oh," Buck says to himself.

(Tommy): in the bedroom. But I'd never say you were exhausting, that's not how I think of you at all. I don't see how anyone could.

(Buck): Oh

(Tommy): Howie told me about your sabbatical. Where are you now?

(Buck): A couple hours outside Salt Lake City.

(Tommy): Exciting stuff. Don't let the mormons get you.

(Buck): Truck driver fell asleep and caused a pileup. That was pretty exciting.

(Tommy): Not for an old pro like you. Did you have to bust out your skills?

(Buck): For a bit. No fatalities, that was good. Mostly just concussions and whiplash.

(Tommy): Look at you, working on your vacation.

It's such a simple exchange, but the concrete block feels even weaker now. He remembers Bobby saying He's good for you, at a time that they later found out was him saying his goodbyes. That taints it, somewhat, but Buck can't get over that Bobby thought he'd be leaving Buck in a good place, with Tommy.

(Buck): Thank you, Tommy

(Tommy): For responding to your texts? It was a real hardship. I'll never get those 90 seconds back.

(Buck): For making me smile. You always do that.

(Tommy): You're pretty good at that yourself. Drive safe, Evan.

[fortheloveofsolas]

I know I've just posted a Veilguard positive post, but I wish to discuss this and agree with OP, so, I'll put it under a cut and tag appropriately + game spoilers

I completely agree!

I'm on my second playthrough and my Rook, as much as I tried, is a carbon copy of my first Rook.

I also have grievances with the factions. Firstly, they take anyone and everyone. OK, fine. But I wish Rook had more faction-related personal quests. Like when the Veiljumpers are kidnapped, it's terrible, but who are these people?

Lucanis becomes the first talon, but why should a Crow Rook care? (Of course if you've played other games or read up about the Crows you have knowledge, but still there's no personal reason for the player to care.)

The start of the game is too blank slate compared to the previous games; The Warden depending on origin, can have many different reasons to act a certain way, a motivation or connection to NPC'S.

Da2 has Hawke's traumatic start and turbulent relationship with their mother, siblings and uncle and trying to get out of poverty.

The Inquisitor, similar to Veilguard and probably the closest to it, is a forced hero but players and quests are adapted to how the player plays, the characters' race and beliefs.

Veilguard is "Stop Solas" it doesn't matter who your Rook is, what beliefs they have or if their Elven. Solas bad. Veil stay up.

Maybe there's a way to still have Solas end up tied to veil even if you played a sympathetic character. They could have pulled another Alexius where you see what the future would have been. Or heck even Solas gets to see it and agrees to tie his life to the veil, something something involving Sandal (credit to the person who mentioned he should have made the fake lyrium dagger)

The problem with Rook, on a technical, writing/structural level is that they are in the exactly on the nadir between an established RPG character and a blank-slate character.

By an established RPG character I mean a character like Geralt in the Witcher, or Kratos from God of War. This is an established character, who cannot be customised. You might be able to choose their actions, but they will have a very specific in character reason for doing that thing, and you can't really decide their thoughts on a subject. Not good for creativity, but excellent for narrative structure.

A blank slate character is literally that, a blank slate. Think Skyrim. You have complete creative control, but this often comes with narrative limitations. There's just not currently capability to account for everything a player might want to do, so the more freedom you have often the looser and more vague the narrative gets.

All RPG characters will sit somewhere on this spectrum. The Dragon Age protagonists all sit in slightly different locations, and prior to Veilguard Hawke was probably by far the most established character on the spectrum, although they still sit pretty far towards blank slate.

Rook, on the other hand, is an established character masquerading as a blank slate character. While Rook’s lineage and backstory and appearance are all customisable, their personality isn't, and your ability to choose their actions and reactions are highly limited. For example, during one of Bellara's early companion quests, we get to the end and she tells me about Cyrion, and then completely unprompted by me Rook starts talking about how she needs to let go of her guilt and I'm sitting there like????? Am I not allowed to play an emotionally constipated Rook? No, you aren't. Rook’s personality is preset. They make jokes whether you want them to be jokey or not. They want to punch the First Warden no matter what choice I make regarding him. They aren't my character - but nor are they a fully established character. They end up innthis weird grey spot, and I end up feeling lied to about who this protagonist actually is.

Or course, it's entirely valid to like Rook. Maybe you don't have a problem with this setup at all. I just felt like having a shot at trying to describe what my problem with Rook as a character is, and how I ended up disliking them so much. Frankly, it's less to do with them as a character, and more to do with the fact I feel lied to, as I said.

[sugar-gumdrop]

Helloo, I saw your requests open and I just loved your work ♥️ I was wondering of I could ask an iwaizumi x reader, where iwaizumi has been crushing on the reader for forever but he always thought she liked oikawa, cuz the reader is always hanging out with him but gets all quiet and excuses herself when hes around

(its because the reader gets all shy and flustered around him, which is unusual for iwa because he sees the reader as a very extroverted, loud and fun person, similar to oikawa)

so one afternoon on valentines the reader goes to their classroom and asks for oikawa and iwa sees this and thinks that the reader would be confessing to oikawa, but in reality she just told oikawa to give iwa some valentine's stuff and a letter confessing her feelings and why she couldn't give it to him herself because she feels like shes gonna explode if she gets too close to his pretty face jsjdjwjc

Sorry for the long request, but yeah thank you ♥️

a/n: Hello! I'm hoping I lived up to your expectations! Little nervous because this is my first actual request since switching over to Tumblr.

Pairing: Hajime Iwaizumi x f! Reader

Word Count: 2.2k+

It wasn’t unusual for the third-year players on the volleyball team of Aoba Johsai to hang out together. It also wasn’t peculiar for their third-year manager, you, to be seen alongside them in and out of school.

After being seemingly glued to the hip with Oikawa for years, dating rumors of the perfect couple weren’t uncommon. You were never one to address said rumors, as Oikawa bribed you countless times to go along with it as a means of keeping his fangirls at a distance.

But that didn’t mean everyone saw your platonic relationship that way.

“Just because you have a knee injury doesn’t mean you can use it as an excuse for poor passes, Tooru!”

Iwaizumi watched from the far side of the gym as you scolded Oikawa one day.

“What are you gonna do, make me run laps? The doctor told me to take it easy.” The setter stuck his tongue out at you before walking away with a dramatic limp.

Iwaizumi noticed you sigh, most likely letting go of some frustration; however, you didn’t reprimand Oikawa for the attitude. Instead, you set your eyes searching elsewhere.

He quickly caught your gaze, but you only smiled slightly before glancing away.

The awkwardness between the two of you was also something seen as ordinary among the group. But it wasn’t always like that. Thinking back, Iwaizumi recalled the first day he met you.

~~~~

“Iwa-chan! I found someone else who can play volleyball with us!” The seven-year-old Oikawa was sprinting down the paved road without a care for tripping.

And trip he did.

“Watch where you’re going, dummy…” Young Iwaizumi offered his hand to the fallen boy. Oikawa took the help without complaint, his smile still beaming.

“Come on, Iwa-chan! She promised to wait at the court for us, so we need to hurry.”

Not having learned his lesson, he still ran down the street. Iwaizumi sighed, shaking his head before running after his best friend.

Rounding the final corner, the boy paused. A girl his age stood by the net, bouncing their worn-out volleyball against the dirt-packed ground.

Unlike Iwaizumi, Oikawa rushed forward. 

Upon noticing their presence, you pulled the ball away from the over-demanding boy’s grasp, smiling in victory.

“You’re late, Tooru,” you state, nodding in acknowledgement to the new face across the court.

Both Iwaizumi and you started sizing each other up.

“Ah, I forgot!” Oikawa yelled. “Iwa-chan, this is my girlfriend, Y/n.” He was still trying to rip the ball away from you, though you remained defiant.

For an inexplicable reason, Iwaizumi found it hard to breathe.

“I barely consider us friends, let alone special friends,” you declared.

“At least try to back me up in front of Iwa-chan!” Oikawa whined, giving up on snatching his volleyball back. “Whatever, let’s just play.”

“Fine, crybaby,” you tease, drawing your attention away from him. The new boy ‘Iwa-chan’ remained stationary at the edge of the lot. “Iwa, come be on my team.”

Affected by your contagious demeanor, he smiled, stepping towards you.

“I’ll team up against him any day of the week.”

~~~~

“Don’t think I can’t see you slacking off either, Kunimi!” Your voice calling out the first-years brings Iwaizumi back to the present situation.

“I would never do that…” the first-year rubs the back of his neck, avoiding your sharp yet friendly gaze.

“Hasn’t your team captain already spoken to you about this? Just help out with some extra cleaning today, alright? Let’s finish up, everyone!” Clapping your hands together, the team splits up to clean the court for tomorrow.

With the coach not present, you had taken the role of concluding practice.

Iwaizumi approached you from across the gym while his teammates busied themselves cleaning to get home quicker.

“Anything you noticed for me that I could improve on, manager?” Iwaizumi joked with the title, though he frowned as you stiffened.

“Um, I mean you’re doing fine. As always, Iwaizumi.” Your hesitant smile appeared forced as you retreated from him. “I need to go help rally up the remaining balls.”

And just like that, you were racing towards the other end of the gym, scaring poor Kunimi as you nearly tackled him for the volleyball cradled in his arms.

What made the third-year feel dejected was the fact that you appeared standoffish with him was something you did around him and no one else. When conversing with anyone else at school, you were your flamboyant, bubbly self.

But when it came to Iwaizumi…it was only for a short time he experienced the same treatment before you became cold and distant.

~~~~

Flowing water from the creek muffled the sound of Iwaizumi’s footsteps along the bank.

You had gone on ahead on your own, determined to catch a frog.

After a couple of years together, Oikawa, Iwaizumi, and you were known as the trio of the neighborhood. At this point, the three of you were inseparable, spending every waking hour outside of school exploring or playing volleyball.

When Iwaizumi finally caught up to you, one of his best friends and secret crush, he was expecting you to turn around and greet him cheerfully.

But you were too focused on the frog jumping away from you, further into the creek.

The boy observed as you step carefully onto a wet rock before fully sending it towards the current.

Under quick thinking, he hurled himself toward you, dragging you back toward the muddy bank.

You fell onto him as his back hit the ground, and pain shot through his skull. But he wasn’t concerned about the dizziness that clouded his vision.

“Are you okay? What were you thinking, trying to jump into the river like that?”

“I’m sorry!” you yelped, climbing off of him before helping him sit up. “I…I didn’t know you were here.”

“Did you at least catch the frog?” Iwaizumi joked. You remained silent. “Y/n?”

“I-I should go find Oikawa. Be right back!” You zoomed off, leaving him behind.

Iwaizumi tried to go after you, but the pounding in his head kept him dormant.

Little did he know that your entire demeanor towards him would shift from then on.

~~~~

Walking home after practice was no different than usual. Oikawa walked in the middle with you and Iwaizumi on opposite sides. Every time Iwaizumi attempted to start a conversation with you, you would deflect with simple answers before drifting off into silence.

“Welp, this is where we split,” Oikawa announced slowly, as if none of them knew where he lived. “So I guess I’ll be heading off then.”

“Yep, see you tomorrow,” you replied, waving him off.

“I can walk you the rest of the way, if you want,” Iwaizumi offered before you walked away.

“Um…” You glanced between him and Oikawa, shifting your footing. “That’s okay, thanks. Have a good night!” You bowed slightly to him before taking off down the street. Iwaizumi felt hurt when you hadn’t bothered to even make eye contact.

“Can’t do shit when you don’t listen to my advice as a wingman,” Oikawa muttered, catching Iwaizumi off guard.

“When did I ask you to be my wingman?”

“Huh?” Oikawa froze for a moment before shrugging it off. “Well, you make your feelings for her obvious, so I thought it’d be obvious to you I’d help.”

“You’re the one she likes,” Iwaizumi says, growing agitated. “You act as if the two of you haven’t been pretending to date for years! Do you have any idea how hurt she must feel when you get an actual girlfriend?”

“Well, I don’t imagine she’ll feel too betrayed,” the setter suggested, shrugging his shoulders.

“Don’t expect me to take your side when she grows resentful,” the boy warned, smacking his friend over the head with his school bag.

“Ow! Don’t be salty, Iwa-chan!”

“Then don’t be a damn idiot.”

A week goes by and suddenly the school is bursting with whispers and giggles. The amount of girls who surround Oikawa seem to grow by the masses, regardless of his attempts to politely shoo them away.

“I don’t even want to imagine what tomorrow will bring,” Hanamaki groaned. “Being single on Valentine’s Day is the worst.”

“I bet you food from the convenience store after practice that Oikawa receives at least twenty chocolates,” Matsukawa wagered.

“That was last year's count; you’re aiming way too low,” his friend argued. “Make it thirty-five and we have a deal.”

Iwaizumi listened to their conversation, half-dreading tomorrow’s school day. A part of him grew fearful of seeing you give Oikawa chocolate, perhaps finally confessing after years of friendship, which would suddenly turn him into a third wheel with unreciprocated feelings.

“What are your plans for tomorrow?” Oikawa sat down at the desk in front of Iwaizumi, smiling. It almost felt like he was being mocked.

“Avoid you as much as possible. We don’t have a game, so there’s no need for me to pull you out of your conundrum.”

Oikawa pouted. “Sometimes I feel like you don’t even consider us friends.”

“Say that to the ones who’ve been betting on you.”

Iwaizumi zoned out once more as the bantering got directed elsewhere.

Before he knew it, tomorrow had arrived.

Despite the constant questioning and requests from girls regarding chocolate for Oikawa, Iwaizumi had made it to the final period. He wasn’t planning on prolonging his departure after the bell rings, so he assumed he would be in the clear.

That was, until he heard your voice at the door to the classroom. Turning quickly, he examined you, assessing quickly how uneasy you appeared. Sliding his chair back, he goes to stand before pausing.

“Oikawa! Someone is asking for you!”

His classmate who met you at the door asked for Oikawa directly.

Iwaizumi slid back down into his seat.

As his best friend walked out to the hallway, sliding the door shut behind him, Iwaizumi felt an immense dread course through his body.

You were here to confess to Oikawa, which would inevitably put the setter in a bad spot since he knows Iwaizumi has had a long-time crush on you since childhood.

As expected, Oikawa walked in with a new addition of chocolate and a love letter.

Yet something else to add to his already enormous pile of goodies. Several of his classmates flinched as Iwaizumi slammed his head against the desk.

“That’s gonna leave a bruise…” Oikawa’s voice filtered through the chatter in the classroom.

Iwaizumi didn’t feel like responding, only shifting his head to look the other way.

“I think you’ll want to take a look at this. She put a lot of effort into it, even if this isn’t how we discussed this should happen…” The boy felt Oikawa shove something into his crossed arms.

“Discussed? What are you talking about-”

A little box of homemade chocolates and a letter with his name on the envelope greeted him.

It was your handwriting.

When he looked over, Oikawa appeared disinterested as he stared out the window.

Switching his attention right back to his unexpected gift, Iwaizumi slowly placed the items on his desk. 

With shaky fingers, he unwrapped the letter and began to read.

Dear Hajime, I’m sorry I’m too embarrassed to say this in person. Oikawa will also probably be upset when he realizes I chickened out once again when I hand him this letter to give to you. But I can’t help it because every time your pretty face gets too close to mine I feel like my heart might actually explode. I’ve liked you for years and I still can’t regulate my emotions well enough to act normal around you. By now I’m sure you figured it out. I like you, Hajime. Be my valentine?

The moment the bell rang, Iwaizumi was the first one out the door. Perhaps his teacher yelled at him to walk, but he wasn’t sure.

He went straight for the lockers, knowing you’d most likely be there, changing into your shoes to head home.

“Y/n!” Iwaizumi called out to you. You had been exactly where he thought you’d be.

Panicking, you slipped on your own shoes. Taking a deep breath, knowing there would be no way out, you turned to face him.

Seeing as how you weren’t going to make a run for it, Iwaizumi slowed his approach. With your eyes looking up at him, he saw for the first time why you had turned away all those times. Your cheeks were flushed, and you seemed to have a hard time preventing yourself from fleeing.

“I liked the chocolates.”

“Thanks…What’d you do, scarf them down?” Your laugh sounded awkward. “Anywho, I need to leave for a doctor’s appointment.” You pull your shoe on before shuffling away.

You hear him take a step closer.

“I like you too.”

You were expecting him to maybe spare your feelings, not return them.

“And being each other’s valentines for a day already almost over seems like a waste. How about being my girlfriend instead?”

At this point, you were both nervous.

“That…that would be nice,” you mumbled, still not looking back at him. You yelped as he hugged you from behind. “Iwaizumi, don’t scare me like that!”

“What, is my pretty face gonna give you a heart attack?”

Maybe some details were better left unsaid, knowing now the teasing that would come.

[lover-of-mine]

so ryan said that more plaid shirts = texas, but a staple LA outfit for eddie has always been henleys…..

is there something meta about how eddie will take off the plaid shirt, leaving him in only the henley, to go help the 118

No, because this is something that has been happening, @stagefoureddiediaz touched on it on her costume metas for 8b, but like, when he's in Texas, he's in plaid, it's also a thing in Eddie begins.

But in 812, when he's questioning if it was the right decision, that is a henley and it is a very "Eddie in LA" outfit even though he is in Texas.

And in 817, the talk with henren we have the henley being hidden by the plaid. But it is a different style of plaid.

But the fight, he has an overshirt, but no plaid and the shirt is just a regular black long sleeve.

And at the end of the episode is also not a henley. But we have the plaid. And how odd the shirt fits. And that rust type orange.

And it's interesting because when playing with it in a positive light, it's a color used to invoke warmth because flames, so it can be a comforting tone, it's about resilience. But it's also associated with headstrongness, and that paired with the emotional turmoil that's always associated with checkers and patterns on the show got me 👀👀 (it being Buck's therapy color also got me perking up like a dog, because it can also be about creating stability, which is what I assume they wanted to invoke with Buck there, how he craves stability) (the scenes here are Buck therapy season in 403, when he tells Eddie he should've been the one who got shot in 414, when he talks to the lawyer and the scene at the station where finds out Lena is there, leading to the lawsuit, when he saves the guy in the windshield and finishes the lawsuit arc for real, when he finds out about Daniel, when he tells Maddie he is in therapy and when he talks to Chris about being a player and Shannon in 701, this all plays with Buck wanting stability but being stuck in his ways)

The orange is one of the colors of the season tho and he conveniently matches Buck's furniture and while my deranged ramble about how the kitchen represents El Paso, the living room represents LA and the dining room is the limbo of "i want to reach you but i can't" is a deranged ramble, Eddie having the conversation with Pepa in the living room while all packed is interesting. And the fact that we are picking the orange thread back up. Considering Buck starts 817 in orange just for Eddie to end in it and still be in it.

Not to mention the white henley connotations.

After Shannon's funeral, when he stands up to his parents about wanting to be in LA, conveniently with Pepa's support, before the tsunami, something that triggers what could've been the biggest loss of his life but ends up establishing him and Buck as partners, and the beginning of Eddie's breakdown happens in a white henley. The white henley opens cycles for him.

White is historically transformative for Eddie, another example of the white is the Kim scene, and while this isn't a henley, this does have a similar fabric to the henley he's wearing in those stills.

I don't know if we are gonna get him in just the shirt, but holy fuck I'm excited if we do end up getting the symbolic moment of him taking the flannel off just to put on his lafd turnouts and have some mayday moment.

[kwillow]

A little devil.

Mostly drawn because I got some asks about what an infernal Ambroys might be like -- I didn't figure people would be curious, but perhaps I should have known. Tumblr loves a tiefling...

(Asks and answers under the cut)

AUs that change up major aspects of a characters life are always tricky to solidify, because you need to consider which of their personality traits are inborn versus which ones were manifested or exacerbated by their life history. Even though I think growing up as this highly distrusted and stigmatized kind of creature could theoretically make him humbler or nicer, he wouldn’t feel much like himself. I would consider three traits to be core to an Ambroys feeling like an Ambroys: his ego issues, his need to be liked, and his difficulty empathizing with others. So let’s assume he’s going to be that way no matter what.

Being of celestial heritage, born of these powerful, once-worshipped (even if they aren’t any longer) beings, naturally exacerbates those personality traits. He’s got a big ego because he’s grown up being told he’s the gods’ favorite princess, but it’s also easily damaged because he can’t live up to those expectations, his preoccupation with having others’ adoration is fed by being guaranteed their attention like the Baroque version of child star, and he’s going to empathize with others less because he’s literally “not like them.”

Being infernal, these hated, feared and disliked creatures, would flip some of these things. Maybe instead, his ego would manifest as being something “special” but despised despite his capabilities. One can assume his whining about how “people just can’t handle me because I’m cooler than them” in this comic would be similar, but heavier on the “the world just doesn’t GET ME, MAAAN” and less on trying to be something other people want (because people don’t want him in the first place). Instead of fearing he’s less than people expect, he might instead be convinced he can be more than people know. Instead of being hugely egotistic on the surface with secret insecurities, he might scrape and act self-deprecating while secretly believing he’s above all that.

While normally, Ambroys can get away with bad behavior because people are inclined to believe he’s inherently good (including himself), this Ambroys would be told he’s inherently evil. While I think that could manifest as him being completely mask-off, because he wants to be liked, an infernal Ambroys might instead be more careful with his behavior. 

For instance, normally, Ambroys knows that people he’s just met will be on his side, and getting to know him well tends to lead to their opinions of him worsening, so he cultivates shallow first impressions and tries to play to what other people’s best impressions of him are, as well as resorting to cheap tactics like sex appeal to have the most shallow attention-grabbing persona possible. So, despite how I drew him, an infernal Ambroys might tamp down on the sexy bad-boy thing (knowing it would reflect badly on him and come off as “sleazy” instead of “dreamy”).

Leading from that, I typically describe Ambroys as “stupid,” but he’s like that not because of any inherent limitations to his intellect, but because he can coast through life without trying, so he never needed to develop any skills he didn’t want to. Eventually, in his older years, he struggles enough in his life that he develops things like “forethought” and “theory of mind.” This Ambroys would have to learn more quickly to demonstrate his best qualities to others, so he’d be cleverer and more canny.

Would he use that for good? Fuck no, he’s still an Ambroys. But his attempts at manipulation would be more calculated and long-term, rather than “just start going through my mansplain, manipulate, manwhore routine until I get the attention I want” that Ambroys does. An infernal Ambroys would know he’ll never have the majority of people on his side, so he might value making few, more valuable connections more. He’d focus his efforts on seeking useful allies and sucking up to them to try to get what he wants, instead of wasting his time trying to appeal to people who will probably never care for him. Instead of shallow surface appeal, he might focus on appearing more useful to key allies. He cannot be wanted, but he can be needed. Instead of trying to crowd-surf, he’d try to ladder-climb.

At some point in Ambroys’ life, the powers that be put him to use in the military. Ambroys normally views this as an aggravating burden (albeit fun at times, in the way that he enjoys hunting boars). Infernal Ambroys would be more gung-ho about it, in the interest of demonstrating his usefulness to powerful people and getting the recognition he feels he deserves.

You might notice that none of these behaviors are particularly “nice.” Ambroys can normally appear very friendly, if not terribly kind, because he assumes most people will like him, and that gives them value even if he doesn’t really think much of their inner worlds or emotions. Everyone is beneath him, so he doesn’t treat a noblewoman much better than a barmaid, barring some necessary rules of etiquette. Since most people won’t like an infernal Ambroys due to widespread beliefs about infernals, a demonic Ambroys wouldn’t bother with them. He wouldn’t even pretend to give a shit about most people. Instead glad-handing with the peasantry, he’d focus on people “on his level” (power-players, nobility, etc.) He’d appear much cooler in his manner with most people, perhaps shallowly polite but distant, shirking most social interaction because it’d be a waste of his time.

…Wow that was more words than I thought I’d be able to type about this silly concept, maybe I should cut that one off here. TL;DR: Infernal Ambroys would appear more humble, but be just as egotistical beneath. He’d be more asocial than Ambroys normally is, but work very hard to cultivate key relationships, being a more canny social player at a younger age. He would not really be any nicer, unless you’re in a position of power that might help him get the appreciation he feels he deserves.

I went into his personality above, so instead let's talk about FAMILY MATTERS.

To briefly summarize Ambroys' family situation: his father is an older nobleman who never succeeded at having heirs, and was "blessed" with one by a celestial because of his devout and goodly nature, who left Ambroys with him to raise. A few years later, that same nobleman had an oops-baby with a commoner woman -- that would be Charles (apparently Ambroys' dad wasn't completely infertile after all).

Perhaps, with an infernal, the whole Ambroys situation would be less a prayer being answered, and more a deal with the devil. A Faustian bargain to finally have the son he's always wanted.

Ambroys' dad is a good guy. I think he'd be kind to his demon son (he asked for it after all), but would keep him sequestered away, knowing the stigma they'd both face if he showed his his in polite society.

Charles entering the picture would also be... complicated. You go to all this trouble and sully your good name to have a demon baby, and then just have a perfectly good normal baby a few years later. Damn. A bastard child isn't great for your image, but it's more socially acceptable than the whole deal with the devil thing.

Rather than the normal dynamic of Ambroys being paraded about and Charles kept on the sidelines until he's proven himself, in this AU, Charles would be the son their dad favors at first, with Ambroys being the shameful secret. Charles is also still a good guy, so I think he'd try to be friendly with Ambroys, but would always have this pitying, condescending edge to their interactions (as opposed to normal Charles, who looks up to a celestial Ambroys as this perfect older brother he can never live up to).

Their relationship would be less turbulent, but an infernal Ambroys would resent Charles being the "good" son in the same way that celestial Ambroys resents him for being a rival. Instead of taking it out on him by being a petty bully, an infernal Ambroys might instead try to use him for his own ends, being a devil on his shoulder (ha ha), knowing Charles can navigate through the world more easily than he can. Then take out that long-bubbling resentment on him in a big way, once he doesn't need Charles any longer. They've still gotta have that Abel and Cain thing going on.

They might still become friends as kids, because I don't think Ambroys would be cognizant enough of his power quest at like five years old to decide she's below his notice, and Lou flouts social norms, perhaps including avoiding devils. They'd need to keep their friendship a secret, though -- her parents would probably not be so keen on their daughter's little buddy.

Though I don't think they'd stay close. Part of what Lou likes about Ambroys is that he shows a side of himself he doesn't to other people, which he does primarily because she's lower status and therefore "harmless," and he's also a major ditz who looks to her for advice and consoling because he doesn't "get" people (not that she does). His openness lets her feel she has this absurd connection to power, and command over that power, that someone of her status normally never would. It's intoxicating to her.

Since infernal Ambroys would be cannier, he wouldn't need advice from her. He also wouldn't want her to feel that she has power over him, which ruins that avenue of appeal. He might still appreciate their childhood friendship, being someone with few positive social connections, but grow more distant as he seeks more valuable connections later in life. Her insulting, abrasive personality would also be unpleasant and tiresome to him -- he would get that from everyone, as opposed to celestial Ambroys, who finds it novel and exciting that she's so openly rude to him (while still seeking out his company). I think she'd pick up on that and start considering him someone that can't handle her, just like everyone else -- and also, damn, not even a fucking hellspawn can tolerate her. That would be a wound to her ego.

Ultimately, infernal Ambroys wouldn't need her in the way that Ambroys normally needs her. Instead of ending with a bang of a big blow-out break-up fight, their relationship would end with a whimper of prolonged ghosting. I guess that's better for her in the long run.

[doberbutts]

this whole debate regarding transmasculinity is so weird for me because it's like, i see the argument that trans men benefit from transmisogyny, and i just... don't think that's true? like, a lot of these discussions seem to take phrases from discussions about white privelege and replace "white" with "tme", which just doesn't really make sense. perhaps i'm looking at things wrong, but i'm unsure how trans men would benefit at all from transmisogyny. are there transmisogynistic trans guys who throw trans women under the bus? yes, just like there are binary trans people that throw non-binary and gnc trans people under the bus. every anti-trans law and ruling hurts all trans people. the uk supreme court ruling has been used as an example of trans men not being effected by anti-trans policy, but that ruling did not say trans men were allowed into women's spaces. it said trans men aren't allowed in men's or women's spaces. that doesn't mean that trans men are worse off from that ruling than trans women, but especially with how much "tme privilege" is compared to white privilege, i feel like people really play up the differences between trans men and trans women, when in reality i think we have a lot more in common regarding our life experiences than we do differences.

So this is sort of a multi-faceted thing here.

I don't necessarily have a problem with the understanding that if all else was exactly the same about me except I was a trans woman (or even a cis woman!) instead of a trans man, that my life would probably be harder and I would face challenges that I simply do not face in my day to day life. I think that is objectively true. Just as I think it is objectively true that I could live the exact life I currently live right now as a woman- I would just have to date slightly different people. I've even offered this opinion unprompted in conversation about gender multiple times.

I just think that this is a hypothetical, and that the chances of me running into someone with literally the exact same life as me with a single gender difference is fairly low, because there are a near infinite amount of combinations of various intersections and identities and a significantly smaller number of people who live in my geographic area. There are some who get close- like my Canadian friend- but she also has a number of differences which do dramatically impact the way she lives her life vs the way I live mine.

Which at that point makes the "who is more oppressed" point moot- because the other person's life may differ so significantly from mine and their point of view may consider something worse than my point of view. For instance, the trans woman who mentored me in college felt that being murdered is worse than being raped. I have the opposite opinion, that being raped is worse than being murdered. Unsurprisingly, the violence that affects our respective demographics is directly reflected in our feared "worst outcomes". It's a matter of perspective, and there isn't one right answer to two horrific acts of violence regularly enacted upon the transgender community as a whole.

She had the opinion that we both had the right to use the word transmisogyny to discuss the differences and similarities of how we were treated from "both sides" of the gender equation. To this day I still think her framework made more sense than a significant amount of what I see online. But people have called me an MRA for *checks notes* listening to the trans woman who taught me most of my basic queer politics.

I don't think that what trans men vs trans women experience as a demographic are that different. I think what differences do exist are largely the same hate coming from the same place, wearing a different face depending on who it's directed towards and what assumption that person has made about their victim.

And I think a lot of people are caught up on a "finished product" as the mental pictures of their theory and not the in-progress or still-closeted portions of their own communities. Sure, a guy like me who passes for cis in 99% of situations nets a lot of situational male privilege. But does the teenage trans guy with a Disney Princess name who can't breathe a word to any of his friends and desperately wants to kill himself while his parents deny him access to gender-affirming care and force him to wear push up bras and short skirts and heels and make up? Because that was me too, and I'd love to know what male privilege I experienced as I was pinned to the ground while they put makeup on me, while I was flashed by strangers on the bus, while I was sexually assaulted by a classmate.

There is this disconnect as though anything we've experienced prior to coming out no longer exists, and as though simply coming out fixes the entire situation and the male privilege fairy comes down from the clouds to deliver our he/him pronouns herself. Sorry, but I was on the receiving end of a whole lot of misogyny and misogynoir until suddenly I wasn't because I looked too much like a man for people to continue to treat me like a woman. I've known I'm transgender since I was 13. That day didn't hit until I was 30.

Do trans men have the ability to lean into transmisogyny in order to benefit from it? Sure. But so does Caitlyn Jenner on a fairly regular basis, so I don't think you have to necessarily not be a trans woman in order to do so. Kanye West has benefited quite highly from his own antiblackness, despite being modern white supremacy dancing monkey. Cis women on the Supreme Court voted against abortion rights. Musk is an immigrant and Trump is a felon and they both are gleefully enacting policies to hurt immigrants and felons. Being *able* to wield oppressive structures to hurt others you see as below you does not require you to be in a different demographic than those people. It just requires you to have a slightly different experience as a result of a different intersection.

[teriri-sayes]

Reactions to The Light's Chapter 445

Brief summary: Cale to the rescue. And suffering.

==========

I was expecting an action chapter, but got angst and pain. 😭 CJS was indeed tortured, and his thoughts while in pain were sad.

If the worst pain you feel every time you get hurt is not the physical pain, but the psychological one. Then Choi Jung Soo might have opened his mouth. When he realized that all his relatives and family members were dead. The pain Choi Jung Soo felt was so deep and great that he still couldn't fathom it. But when he was really dying. 'I saved him.' No, not that he saved him, but whatever. You saved Kim Rok Soo then, didn't you? “…Fools.” You don't understand. That was the first time Choi Jung Soo tried to change fate. But would he kneel down after feeling that pain dozens of times? He couldn't kneel. It would be a betrayal of what he had done in the past. The least Choi Jung Soo could do was bow his head because of this pain. “…You're stubborn.” “Yes, I am, and I know it.”

CJS didn't regret dying to save KRS. 😭😭😭

Meanwhile, Sound of the Wind began exclaiming that the divine item she smelled must be destroyed because it was disgusting. She was referring to the divine item that took the form of a music box with a rotating eye sculpture that Hitelis had.

And this alarmed Cale, realizing that CJS was in danger from that divine item.

Cale studied his body, suppressing the urgency. If it's bad, if it's urgent. Because I will use all my powers, ancient power or the others. Lee Soo Hyuk and Choi Jung Soo. The Chaos God Cult. These bastards, I can't leave them alone. Unlike the coolness of the atmosphere around him, Cale's eyes flared up. Seeing this, Sui Khan's expression also slowly hardened. 'What happened?' Something must have happened that he didn't recognize. 'Kim Rok Soo- no, Cale, his eyes have gone crazy?' Kim Rok Soo, the newbie and weakest, the one who always rushed in without fail with eyes rolled back. Seeing those eyes, team leader Sui Khan unknowingly put his hand on his sword sheath. I have to do something.

Angry and anxious Cale. 😭 On the other hand, Sui's accident radar must be going wild when he saw Cale's crazed look.

The divine item's effect was like something out of a cosmic horror genre. A music box that played when the victim's blood was dropped in the closed eye centerpiece. As "music" played when the centerpiece opened its eye, the victim would feel the gazes of tens of thousands of eyes staring at them while feeling a maddening chaos.

Choi Jung Soo felt his mind becoming overwhelmed with chaos. He felt like something big was going to happen if this continued. He felt like he was about to reach an end worse than death. But, 'You're late, you punk!' He felt goosebumps all over his body. ♩♬♪. It wasn't the goosebumps he felt at the beginning of this music, the goosebumps from the tens of thousands of piercing eyes. A familiar feeling. This power was wilder than usual. Something vaguely similar, but different from the chaotic horror. This one was filled with an aura of domination. '…You punk!' Kim Rok Soo. Cale. A friend had come.

Cale finally arrived! And he's super angry! DA + Chaotic Terror skill when he has yet to enter the prison. But for CJS, he was relieved that his "friend" had come to save him. 🥰

Ending Remarks I did not expect the suffering today. 😭 Next chapter would be Cale probably beating up Hitelis for what she did to CJS. I guess Cale would run wild to the point of destroying the entire castle.

[moredorkysjonsson]

MHA underestimating humans (quirkless)

"Oh no... here we go, another mha confession from this negative, mha hating bitch!"

I have for a quite long time been annoyed for how quirkless are portrayed in the series. And the only series that do them justice is the vigilante spin off.

I have a big interest in biology and science, and believe me when I say this, humans are the most athletic species on earth. Yes, there are animals that are physically faster and stronger. However, humans are great with many different physical activities. We can lift, run, swim, climb, jump, punch, kick, throw and tackle. Now tell me, how many animals can do all of this?

Humans are also a species that have a great diversity with body mass and height, which can give each individual their own physical specialties. Like, if a person is lean and has long legs, they might be a pretty great runner. Or, if a person is heavy and stocky built, they might be a pretty great wrestler.

Anyway, let's get back to MHA.

In MHA, quirkless are considered "weaker" because they don't have a quirk. But, to that, I say bullshit! I very much doubt that every single person with a quirk is "stronger" than a quirkless pro wrestler or "faster" than a quirkless pro runner! Because not every quirk is about physical abilities.

I also have been hearing this interesting idea, that people with quirks might have higher durability. But I personally don't agree that everyone of them would have it. I don't think a person with the quirk of... let's say; hands made of paper, would be very durable to sharp objects. A "human" might get a slight cut or a gashing wound from a sharp object. A piece of paper would be cut in half, because it doesn't have the same thickness and layers as a human body.

Now, let's talk about All Might after he lost OFA!

I have noticed that there is this take from us fans and Horikoshi himself, that he's weak or sickly weak. And I'm not sure if I fully agree on it anymore.( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

Let's talk about his physicality. He's 220cm(7'3") tall. It's says that his muscle form weighs 255kg(562lbs), realistically his weight would be very similar in his normal form as well. But let us play along. Let's say that he perhaps weighs approximately 90-103kg in his normal form. And the fact that All Might has the ability to flex his muscle like that( muscle form) means that he still have a quite amount of muscle mass. His large height does also build bigger muscles than someone with shorter height but similar build for their size. It's just how physics work. Like how a big tree is heavier than a small tree, even if they have the same girth.

So what is my point with this? Well, my point is that All Might would easily be able to tackle me, a 170cm tall, 67kg woman to the ground. And I'm pretty sure it would be just as easy against a 180cm, 80kg man.

But what about All Might's health. Yes, his health does effect his physical abilities. But I've also read a little about how living with only one lung and no stomach would be like. And the condition is not that bad actually. Yes, he does become breathless faster with only one lung, but he can still run and move without much problem. Like, what we see when he run as an exercise. Living without a stomach isn't much of a hassle neither, All Might mostly just need to think about what he eats, and the menu doesn't really lack protein. About his blood coughing: we're actually never told exactly what causes him to cough blood. It's highly possible that it's caused by something else rather than his lack of a lung or stomach. Could be a something about his only lung?... But, let's just go along with the fact that he coughs up blood if he overworks his body. Can that effect his physicality? obviously yes. But it wouldn't really have an effect on his body strength, only his endurance. I'm quite sure he could punch a bad guy without falling apart.

So where are these action scenes with All Might after he lost OFA? (excluding Iron Might) This is what have been bothering me. All Might would still have the spirit to do knockdowns, no matter his physical disability. This is why I think MHA underrestermate the quirkless (a.k.a real humans).

It would've been awesome if MHA got more into this quirk vs quirkless subject. It would actually have been beneficial for the "prejudice against the quirkless" storyline... that was pushed off.

Justice for quirkless!

--

I want to be very clear about something! This is not a critique for different headcanons. This is only about the original mha story and for what's shown in the manga and anime. I welcome any sort of headcanon there is (｡･ω･｡)ﾉ♡

--

Thank you for reading this dorky and awfully written essay. It is about a subject I've wanted to share for a while, but didn't have enough courage until today.

If there are ny grammar or spelling errors, I apologies. Writing this long of a text can make me quite sloppy.

[jyndor2]

I don't think anyone is saying Cassian should ONLY dutifully follow orders to a T and never think for himself. Even the extended materials for Rogue One say that Draven trusted Cassian to do some independent thinking on the fly - but that is because Draven trusted that Cassian was committed to the cause and also that he would GET the work done even if the way he went about it was different than what HE imagined (cough).

This is the titular character of a prequel to the story where Cassian is clearly, obviously so beaten down and burnt out because of a longtime commitment to building a revolution during a cold war period, a commitment that has pushed him to kill at least one ally but surely more than that. I don't need Cassian to never question his leaders. He would - that is normal and understandable.

But to ONLY see Cassian going rogue after getting a late start to becoming a rebel spy is a real flaw. Because sorry Cassian IS burnt out in Rogue One, and Jyn and the others help renew his revolutionary optimism. And this is so powerful and such a fundamental part of revolutionary organizing, for your comrades to help pick your spirits up when you are beaten down by being right but wayyy too early.

On Eadu, Cassian disobeys DIRECT orders. He doesn't just think for himself and get to the orders in a roundabout way. He chooses not to assassinate Galen Erso because he knows that not only is it morally fucked lol (and that is even arguable but whatever) but also it is strategically dogshit to kill the guy who knows exactly where the flaw in the Death Star COULD be before the rebels have a chance to even see if he is credible or if it's a ratfuck.

Yes, I love the part in the novel where Cassian looks at Galen Erso and sees Jyn in his eyes but lbr there are several cool and valuable interpretations of why Cassian puts his rifle down (like anything else). But there's also like Motifs In Visual Media 101 where rain in particular is indicative of renewal, transformation, rebirth and change - and CLEARLY Cassian is experiencing a moment of radical transformation into someone who actually WILL disobey a direct order in that scene.

Well, that doesn't work as a transformative moment if a week ago he's yapping off to Draven and getting confined to quarters for GOING ROGUE LOL

This is why I have said that in order to make Andor!Cassian's story work best, the show probably should have aged him DOWN instead of up. Start Kassa at 6 (Kerri even younger obviously), have the teen!Kassa actor (I'm sorry I'm blanking on his name) to play Ferrix!Cassian in S1 and then do most of S2 as him at like 19 or 20. And frankly cut the most of the first arc, most of the second, have Cassian witness the Ghorman genocide and tie it in to his own experiences AS a genocide survivor, give us Kay and Cassian earlier, even if the budget requires less Kay still give us a bit of his presence earlier, etc. And then do the lead up to Rogue One PROPERLY - and as much as I love Kleya and Luthen, it isn't their show. It isn't. Kleya's backstory is very similar to what Cassian's could have been - and should have been - and they could have EASILY done something along those lines with Kassa in order to show his commitment to the cause EARLY.

This doesn't mean he can't bitch and moan about the bad shit, or disagree with his orders, or be a shithead teen dirtbag, etc. Who doesn't start off as an anarchist on their road to a more pragmatic and realistic framework for revolutionary politics?

(lmfao omg im sorry anarchists not yall catching strays my bad. you guys do great work.)

But... also that is supposed to be a big point of contention for Jyn and Cassian - leftist infighting simulator from the start lmfao.

Anyway I just wanted to correct some of the framing of the critique of Cassian's revolutionary arc. Because no just because people are critiquing the show does not mean we don't get the point Tony Gilroy is going for. It just means we disagree with the premise.

[invis-o-william]

Dannymay 2025 - Day 13: Truth

Valerie stood up from the pile of rubble she had been knocked into. A ghost had been attacking one of Amity Park’s more dilapidated warehouses, and though she had been quick to the scene, she wasn’t prepared for just how powerful it had been. She’d taken a few too many hits for her liking, though thankfully her suit kept her well protected. However, that hadn’t stopped Phantom from getting involved. He showed up to fight the ghost not long after her, making himself a nuisance as he split her attention between himself and the other ghost. One ghost she could handle, no problem, but two? Two was stretching it, and at the rate that Phantom was revealing his strange powers to the public, she had to be cautious. She still wanted to catch the ghost boy, but she was well aware of what he was capable of.

The ghost had to break his cover soon. Despite their intermittent truces, she knew that the whole ‘hero’ thing was an act. In time he would reveal himself to be just like all ghosts; evil, manipulative, and above all, selfish. Ghosts thrived on their obsessions, their desires. She could see that, just look at Box Ghost, Ember, or Skulker. Their existence seemed to revolve around what they wanted most. Boxes, fame, hunting, you name it. She just hadn’t quite figured out what made Phantom tick. It couldn’t be actually helping humans, such a selfless trait like that didn’t fit a ghost. Maybe he wanted admirers, similar to Ember, or perhaps his plans went deeper.

Unbidden, the image of a little girl with black hair and fearful eyes came to mind. Dani wasn’t evil. She wasn’t like other ghosts she had seen, wasn’t even like Vlad. She was different. Valerie shook her head. Yes, Dani was different, but she hadn’t met another ghost like her. She had to keep her head in the game, remember that unlike Dani, Phantom was a threat. A threat that was still within sight.

Phantom had just captured the ghost in his stolen Fenton Thermos, and was flying away while holding his side. Val’s eyes lit up. He was injured. She jumped on her glider and flew after the ghost, making sure to keep just enough distance so he wouldn’t notice her. If Phantom was injured, odds are that he would fly back to wherever he stayed in the human world to rest and heal. She could finally have the advantage she needed over him!

She followed him to an alley near Fenton Works, which confused Valerie. Why would Phantom go near the home of the local ghost hunters? They may be fairly incompetent when it comes to actually catching ghosts, but she knew their weapons at least packed a punch. In his current condition, he’d be a lot easier for the Doctors Fenton to catch than normal. She stopped on the rooftop overlooking the alley, disengaging her glider and creeping forward to look down. Below there were the usual dumpsters and a rat or two, the ghost boy standing out starkly against the dull background. He had clipped the thermos onto his belt and was now inspecting his wound.

“Well, at least I heal pretty quickly,” he sighed.

Suddenly, a flash of light filled the area. Valerie blinked hard, trying to see what the ghost was doing, but something about that light was familiar. The light moved up and down Phantom’s body, revealing a figure. 

It wasn’t Phantom.

Instead Danny Fenton stood there, wincing and still holding his side.

“Geez, guess it was worse than I thought,” he said, and gingerly walked off to his house. 

Valerie stood there, frozen in shock. Phantom, the ghost boy, the one she had been hunting for months. The one she had been trying to capture, to defeat. He was the same boy that she had had a crush on. The same boy who, even after the ending of their relationship, she considered a friend. 

Immediately thoughts of Vlad and Dani flooded her mind (Dani and Danny both being part human? She really should have put more thought into the whole ‘cousins’ thing a long time ago). Vlad was part ghost. He had played at being a good guy, but in the end he was evil and manipulative. If he had been the only ghostly human she had ever encountered, she would immediately assume that Danny was the same. 

Except he wasn’t. She had met Dani, and the girl had never once acted the same as Vlad. She was kind, and ultimately she had just been trying to survive. The girl had saved Valerie, even when she was hurt. Most importantly, Dani had trusted Phantom, trusted Danny. She called out for him when she was in danger, and in the end she was right. He had helped her. Danny immediately moved to save Dani, even making a deal with Valerie to do so.

Could she really assume that Phantom was evil? No, not anymore. Maybe if he was a horrible guy in school, or had been cruel to her when they were dating, but he wasn’t. He was a good guy, and she had been hunting him.

She wasn’t the only one.

Valerie whipped her head towards the Fenton residence. Danny lived among ghost hunters. His parents had made it no secret how they felt about Phantom. They wanted to capture him, to rip him apart ‘molecule by molecule’. There was no way they knew their son was the local ghost boy, and she now feared for his safety.

As Valerie stood there, staring at the looming structure of sheet metal and satellite dishes, she made a decision. There wasn’t much she could do about his parents, but in whatever way she could, she would help Danny out. Maybe she could help him avoid Dash at school (the bully was a major pain anyway), or back him up when a ghost fight occurred. She’d figure it out as she went, but whatever happened, she needed to let Danny know soon. 

She wasn’t about to confuse the poor guy by suddenly acting differently, instead she would tell him the truth. She knew his secret. After that? Maybe she could make up for the damage she had caused all these months.

[goodqueenaly]

I was pondering the Iron Islands, as one does, and came up with a doubt: how do you think Asha Greyjoy was being educated as a child before the Greyjoy Rebellion? As a proper courtly lady, expected to be married off for her house's benefit? As one of the rare (but present) warrior women of ironborn society? Already as a son, because manly man Balon would rahter have only sons or something? A mix of all the above? Something else?

It’s difficult to say, given how little we understand of Asha’s pre-war childhood, much less the typical childhood of an aristocratic ironborn girl. With two older brothers alive during this period (not to mention younger brother Theon), Asha certainly would not have been looked at as a would-be heiress; still, I don’t know that that fact alone would have hampered Asha’s education significantly, as I tend to think that on mainland Westeros aristocratic boys and girls receive fairly similar education, at least up to a certain age. Yandel also states in TWOIAF that Balon did not drive the maesters from the Iron Islands as “they had proved themselves too useful to forsake”, so I think it’s fair to say Asha received some level of a maesterly education (and indeed, her obvious literacy and familiarity with history reflect, I think, at least some “classroom” education). It’s possible that Asha’s parents anticipated that she would marry in the future (of course from among the ranks of the ironborn aristocracy, as they themselves had), but I’m not sure they would have had anything specific in mind toward this end when Asha was still a young girl.

All of that said, I think Asha even at a young age likely showed a preference for the sort of often (but by no means exclusively) male ironborn lifestyle she would pursue as an adult, and was almost certainly encouraged to do so. When Victarion tells Asha that he remembers her playing with her doll as a little girl, Asha cheerfully reminds him that she had “played with axes too”, participating in the finger dance so beloved of ironborn. Asha also tells her uncle Rodrik that “[m]y mother raised me to be bold”, and while the statement is general enough, her declaration to Tristifer Botley while both were still children (though after the Greyjoy Rebellion) that “‘I don't want to have a dozen sons … I want to have adventures’” certainly suggests that Asha was raised to have a sense of independence and confidence ill-suited to a sheltered nuptial pawn. Again, Asha was not completely breaking with tradition here: Theon himself notes in ACOK that “[t]here were women on the Iron Islands—not many but a few—who crewed the longships along with their men”, a point GRRM himself reiterated (saying that “[t]he ‘Old Way’ of the islands encouraged almost all men (and some women, like Asha) to take up raiding”) and which we see reflected in the main novels via Hagen’s (unnamed!) daughter, as well as of course Asha herself. So I could very much see where Asha may have been raised, especially by a father Aeron would later say “saw himself in his wild, headstrong daughter”, as, if not quite yet the Greyjoy heir, with all the freedom of the ironborn ruling class (in a society which literally separates everyone into either the divinely chosen race of the ironborn or the entire rest of the world, destined to be conquered and enslaved by the ironborn).

[theside-b]

BL Review: Top Form 🇹🇭

Weirdly enough it was exactly when Japan left the BL scene that Thailand decided to finally to come through with a solid adaptation of a japanese property. After some stumbles Top Form not only delivers a great show but also elevates the source material with some inspired choices from the writers and amazing duo of actors.

Boom has always been a very reliable actor, competent and talented, but here he gets to show everything he got, use all the weapons on his arsenal; Akin is a mess of a human being, always on the verge of a mental breakdown, but also "unintentionally" funny, needy and amorous when finally stripped from his emotional barriers — part of the fun was watching Boom freak out, burst into tears or blush like a maiden (sometimes all at once) during the live reactions with Smart. Speaking of which... Smart as Jin, the apprentice with a mean streak, and hands down the best twist of the show.

In Dakaichi: I'm Being Harassed by the Sexiest Man of the Year the manga which Top Form is based on, the character of Jin is quite different, with the predatory nature of the original being toned down and the entire dynamic between the couple presented in a way healthier package with a shift towards a more 'protective' persona for Jin; and while the show waters down quite a lot it still gives room for Smart to deliver great moments tapping into Jin's darker side, possessiveness and violence always brewing when someone dares to come near Akin. The major downside here is with the character of Johnny, now presented as the only predator around, albeit in a more "playful" manner, whereas in the original him and Jin were cut from the same cloth and one could see why they would immediately butt-heads, so much so that this version has to make it's way around certain story beats in order to cause drama that does not occur in the manga. A lot of the rejection for Johnny's characters amongst the audience stems from the fact that Jin is a very good person here, had he been 2/4 of the messed up version we see in the book this conversation would be quite different.

A good point of the adaptation is the nature of the conflict: in a way the first half of the story is intrinsic to Japan, with the actors ranking system and all its variants, something that doesn't play out (at least not to the same extent) in Thailand, but the second half presents the brand pair system in which the situation reverses. Top Form sheds light in some intricacies that the target audience might already be clued in, for examples actors playing a couple on a BL show are expected to play a couple but not actually be a couple, with Top Form being one of the very few to dare head towards more unsavory practices seeing in the industry— it's even more inspired that the show within the show that gets Jin and Akin under scrutiny is a wuxia very similar to the unreleased C-Drama Immortality, which was a partnership between Tencent and Top Form's very own producer WeTV — and while it never goes there it still ballsy enough to not make it all that easy for it's protagonists.

A lot of the strengths of the show are pulled from the parallels that can be drawn with actors' real life relationship, for those who follow him Boom is one of those thai actors who just never had the luck of finding the right partner (or simply never chose one) to solidify his position on the thai-BL landscape and here he seems to have struck gold with Smart, so much so that even before the show was done producers were already throwing ideas for a next project for the two of them. As for Smart he got himself a mentor, and one of the best really, and while Smart himself is still a long ways to catch up with his partner at least he does not embarrass himself mostly due inspired moments, like every time Jin got mischief in his eyes, or was ready to throw hands, any of the more 'darker' sides of his came out to play Smart seemed more in tune, angel wings notwithstanding.

Technically speaking this show has impressive feats; the NC scenes in particular were quite something, and it's raised the bar for the upcoming productions and I'm not limiting to just BL shows, what they did here to safeguard the actors was impeccable while still delivering memorable moments. Production value is also top notch, even simpler scenes looked expensive through the lenses of director Boss Wasakorn.

In the void left by JBLs Top Form comes strong with a superb ensemble, inspired writing and woefully direction that sets the bar really high for the next thai producer who is brave enough to tackle a japanese IP.

[multifandomficsx]

Nowhere to Hide -- Chapter 8

Summary: The days trudge on and on the fourth day a heat wave washes over Baltimore that pushes you and Hotch over the edge. MINORS DNI!!!!

Content warnings: Strong language, Smut, PinV, oral (giving and receiving), use protection (I mean it)

W.C: 6.5k

Nowhere to Hide Masterlist

CHAPTER 8

That promise kept as the morning sun rose. The first night you have actually gotten some sleep. 

Tomorrow came. And the next day. And the next. The only contact was updates from the team, that they had no updates. 

The unsub seemed to disappear off the face of the earth, doing exactly what you expected. You were out of sight and he was trying to find you. 

There’s no need to perform for someone when they’re not watching you. 

Day one was fine, you managed to distract yourself with the dusty books hidden on the shelves.

Day two, cabin fever starts to rear its ugly head. You could have thrown punches at Hotch when he told you to relax. Rage swirled but also a feeling that pulsed in a similar way. 

Day three, Paranoia hit. You practically sat catatonic at the window all day, until Hotch pulled you away, forcing you to take a break.

You wake on the fourth day to the thick weight of heat clinging to your skin.

The air inside the cabin that is playing the role of a safe house is suffocating, heavy and unmoving, like a held breath. Sweat beads at your hairline, runs in slow rivulets down your neck, and the thin sheet twisted around your legs feels more like a trap than a cover. In the haze of waking, you faintly remember the weather report from yesterday, a heat wave signaling the end of spring into summer. 

You blink up at the wooden beams above you, the ceiling fan still and useless, a limp accusation of power that ran out sometime before dawn. The hum of the small generator that powers the basics—lights, fridge, phone charger—is absent, and that means the fans are gone too.

The silence is too complete.

You swing your legs off the bed and instantly regret it. The floor is warm underfoot, like it’s been baking in the sun even though every curtain in the place is drawn tight. The shadows inside the cabin are long and dim, and when you open your bedroom door, the hallway smells faintly of sweat and wood.

Hotch is already up. Of course he is.

He’s sitting at the small kitchen table, stripped down to a dark gray T-shirt and jeans, sleeves pushed up, collar damp. There’s a glass of water in front of him, sweating almost as much as the two of you. His gun is within reach. His eyes flick to you immediately—sharp, assessing. Concerned, maybe, though he masks it well.

“You okay?” he asks, his voice quieter than usual.

You nod, though it feels like your brain is swimming in molasses. “It’s hot.”

His mouth twitches. Not a smile exactly, more like a grimace shaped into something gentler. “Yeah.”

You both know what the easy answer would be. Open the windows. Let in the breeze, if there is one. But the thought makes your stomach tighten.

You glance toward the front door, where every lock is thrown and the thick curtain remains pinned shut. Beyond it, somewhere in the stretch of forest that surrounds this isolated cabin, someone is waiting. Watching. Hunting.

You don’t know what they look like. Not for sure. But you remember the package left at the precinct. The pictures. The notes. And then the way Hotch’s face looked when he read them—carefully blank, like he was trying not to let you see how bad it really was.

So no, you’re not opening a window. No matter how much the heat presses in, thick and unrelenting.

Hotch pushes the glass toward you without a word.

You sit across from him and take it, drink deeply. The water is lukewarm but still welcome. Your skin itches, sticky with sweat, and your shirt clings to your back. You wonder if there’s anything left in the cabin that isn’t drenched in heat. Including him.

He doesn’t look comfortable either. His hair is slightly damp, and he’s trying not to touch the table with his forearms. You can feel the tension radiating off him—not just from the heat, but from the pressure of stillness, from the watchfulness that’s becoming harder and harder to maintain after days without movement.

“How long do you think we’ll have to stay here?” you ask, softly.

Hotch looks toward the window, not pulling the curtain back, just… listening. Like maybe he can hear the answer in the windless branches outside.

“Until we know it’s safe,” he says.

You nod, and neither of you says the obvious: that might be a while.

The power flickers once, a cruel tease, then dies again. You close your eyes.

And when you open them, Hotch is watching you—not with pity, but with a quiet kind of steadiness. His voice is lower when he speaks again.

“We’ll get through this. One day at a time.”

It’s not a promise he can guarantee, but somehow it still helps. Maybe because he means it. Maybe because, right now, he’s the only thing that makes the heat bearable.

You exhale slowly, take another sip of water, and wait for the next hour to pass.

The phone vibrates on the table between you. Once, then again.

Hotch picks it up instantly. His brows draw together as he reads, then he tilts the screen so you can see.

Garcia: No update yet. Still checking security cameras. I'll keep you posted the second anything moves. Stay low. Stay safe. Miss you both.

You stare at the message longer than you need to. Not because it says anything useful, it doesn’t, but because it says something real. That the outside world still exists. That someone is still looking for answers.

Hotch sets the phone back down. “She’s working nonstop,” he says quietly.

“I know.” You glance toward the curtain-covered window again. The light behind the fabric is brighter now, hotter. The kind of sunlight that feels personal. Like it’s aiming for you.

The day creeps forward with agonizing slowness. Every hour is heavier than the last. The cabin, insulated and sealed for your protection, is quickly becoming an oven. The walls seem to pulse with warmth. Even the shadows are hot.

You peel off your shirt around midday, replacing it with a tank top that feels barely better. The sweat has nowhere to go—it just lingers on your skin, a constant, clinging reminder that you’re trapped.

Hotch eventually takes off his T-shirt, folding it over the back of a chair. He doesn’t comment on it, just moves with the quiet practicality he always has. Still, it’s jarring. You’ve seen him in only suits so seeing him like this, bare-armed, chest rising and falling with slow, measured breaths, is enough to make the room feel even warmer. 

He moves to his designated bedroom and grabs a new t-shirt. 

You sit in opposite corners of the small living room now, each trying to claim a patch of air that isn’t soaked in body heat. The silence stretches long. The occasional buzz of an insect outside, a creak in the cabin’s old frame, the drip of sweat down your back.

At one point, you shift your legs and feel the cushion beneath you squish, damp from the back of your thighs. You grimace. “This is unbearable.”

Hotch’s mouth twitches again, that half-not-there thing he does when he’s at the edge of discomfort. “It’s the safest place we’ve got.”

You know he’s right. You also know that if someone really wanted to find you, all they’d have to do is follow the stillness. The one cabin without open windows. The one place where nothing stirs in the wind.

“They’ll find something, right?” you ask. You’re not sure if you’re asking about Garcia, the team, or fate in general.

Hotch’s voice is low. “They will. They don’t stop.”

You nod, but the certainty doesn’t land this time. Not fully. Not with how long this has gone on. Not with the heat pressing into your temples, your collarbone, your spine.

You stand and go to refill your water again, avoiding his gaze. The coolest part of the cabin is the kitchen floor, and you lean against the counter, your hand resting on the coldest patch of metal you can find—an old drawer handle, slightly rusted.

Then, another sound.

Not the phone. Not a creak.

Outside.

You freeze. Hotch is already moving—silent, fluid. He grabs his gun from the table and crosses the room, pressing himself against the wall beside the window.

You don’t breathe. You don’t move.

Nothing.

Maybe it was an animal. A branch. Heat-induced paranoia.

Or maybe not.

Hotch lifts two fingers—stay—and inches toward the door, peering through the edge of the curtain without disturbing it.

He stands like that for a long time.

Finally, he lowers the gun slightly and steps back. “I don’t see anything,” he says. “But stay sharp.”

The silence afterward is louder than before. Tighter.

You swallow past the dryness in your throat, your body buzzing with leftover adrenaline and heat. You wipe the sweat from your temples, but it comes right back. The cabin hasn’t cooled. If anything, it’s gotten worse. You think you see heat shimmer near the ceiling.

“Maybe they’re trying to smoke us out,” you say before you can stop yourself. You’re half-joking, half-not.

Hotch gives you a look, unreadable. “They’d be smarter than that.”

The implication that your stalker might be exactly that smart is not reassuring.

You sit again, closer to him this time. Not touching. Just near. There’s nothing else you can do but wait. And sweat. And hope the next vibration on the phone is something more than no update yet.

You last half an hour before cracking.

The bottle of bourbon in the cabinet is meant for emergencies—Hotch said it himself when he stashed it there on day one. Which was a lie, you cracked it open on day one.  “In case we’re here longer than we want to be.” You’re well past that point. 

You don’t ask. You just retrieve it, twist the cap off with slippery fingers, and pour an inch or two into a glass. No ice, of course. The freezer’s a silent, empty box now. The liquor burns its way down your throat, and you savor the sting, a sharp, clean distraction.

Hotch doesn’t comment, but you feel his eyes on you.

“Want one?” you offer, voice a little too light.

He shakes his head once. “Not while we’re not in the clear.”

Of course. You knew he’d say that. You nod and take another sip, turning towards the window in the kitchen, trying to occupy yourself. 

Your tank top clung to the curve of your spine. A single drop of sweat traced a slow path down your neck. 

Behind you, the floor creaked.

You didn’t have to turn around to know it was him. Standing at the juncture between the front door and the window next to it. Just watching, but it wasn’t outside he was watching. 

You’d felt it for days now, his eyes. The weight of them. The way the atmosphere shifted when he looked at you, like gravity had chosen sides. You swallowed, your fingers tightening around your glass. Still, you didn’t move.

You could feel it, the heat of his stare sliding over your shoulder blades, lingering. You felt small beneath it. Exposed. There's nowhere to hide. Not in a way that scared you, something that made your breath go shallow and your throat dry. 

You take another sip.

It doesn’t help much. The heat is still oppressive, still absolute. But the bourbon fuzzes the edges of your panic, dulls the constant flinch in your shoulders. You stretch out a little farther on the couch, letting your head fall back, neck exposed to whatever air might still be moving—though there’s none, really. Just damp, heavy stillness.

You try not to stare. You fail. It’s your turn.

He looks drenched. Sweat soaks the waistband of his jeans, darkening the denim around his hips. His neck glistens in the dim light, the t-shirt sticking to the lines of his torso taut, sharp, streaked with sweat. Even his forearms—strong, steady, scarred—are slick, his veins more pronounced than usual.

He rolls his shoulders like they’re aching. His jaw is tense. Tighter than before.

You wonder if it’s the heat, the tension, or something else entirely.

“Do you ever relax?” you ask, your voice a little huskier than you meant it to be.

Hotch glances at you. The corner of his mouth twitches, not a smile. Not quite. “Not really.”

You smirk, finishing the rest of your glass. The burn hits you again, but this time, you welcome it. Anything to stop you from thinking about how close you are to losing it. How the walls feel like they’re closing in, not from fear now, but from need. From heat. From him.

You set your glass down, slower than you need to. “I think we’re past the point of pretending this isn’t hell.”

Hotch turns to face you fully now. His face is flushed—whether from the heat or something else, you can’t tell. There’s a drop of sweat clinging to his temple, sliding past his jaw. He doesn’t wipe it away.

“We’re still breathing,” he says. “Still alive.”

“Yeah,” you say softly, eyes dragging over him. “But for how long?”

The silence that follows hums between you, electric.

You don’t break eye contact. Neither does he.

And you wonder—just for a second—if the heat might not be the most dangerous thing in this cabin.

You don’t speak again for a while.

The bourbon hums low in your blood, not enough to dull your senses, just enough to make everything feel a little too vivid. The way the air barely moves between you. The slow drip of sweat crawling down your spine. The way Hotch’s chest rises and falls with measured control—as if he’s keeping something in check that you can’t name.

You rise and refill your glass. 

This time, when you drink, your eyes linger on him a little longer. You wonder if he notices. You think maybe he does.

“Do you want a glass now?” You ask, your words drawn out and a little slurred.

He hasn’t moved from the wall. He’s positioned like a sentry, one shoulder braced against the wood, watching the sliver of curtain that shields the door. His whole body is tense. Not the kind born from fear—this is something different. Contained. Restrained. Deliberate.

You study the line of his jaw, the vein in his neck, the way his fingers flex slightly where they rest near his holstered weapon.

You know how dangerous he is. That’s never scared you. In fact, right now, it’s grounding.

But you also know that this kind of stillness, that controlled burn he always carries, doesn’t last forever.

Hotch’s eyes flick to you, unreadable. “Probably.”

Your stomach flips. You sip again and make him his drink.

Hotch nods in a thank you type gesture. “Get comfortable.” He says taking a sharp swig of his drink, finishing it in one go. Something about that was insanely hot to you, watching him swallow. 

You avert your eyes and look around the sweltering cabin, where every breath feels like it sticks to your lungs. “Comfortable isn't really on the table.”

Hotch’s mouth curves, faintly, like he’s about to tell a joke. “Exactly.” 

You walk to a chair but find yourself too restless to sit. The liquor has made you bold, or reckless, or maybe just tired of pretending that this is normal. You cross the room slowly, feeling every inch of sweat-slick skin under your tank top and shorts. You stop just a foot away from him, close enough to see the way his pupils have darkened slightly.

The silence stretches again—thicker now.

“Why aren’t you cracking?” you ask, tilting your head, frustrated. Bothered. “You’re just as hot. Just as trapped. Just as hunted.”

Hotch’s jaw tightens. He looks down at you, his voice quiet but firm. “Because I can’t afford to.”

You nod slowly. “Because of me.”

He doesn’t confirm it. He doesn’t need to.

The space between you feels charged. Unsteady.

You can smell him now—clean sweat and faded soap and something else, something warm and familiar that makes your heart beat faster in your chest.

You take another slow step forward. You’re almost close enough to touch him.

Hotch doesn’t move. Doesn’t retreat. But his hand flexes at his side again.

You wonder how long it’s been since he’s let himself want something.

You wonder if he wants it now.

The bourbon is warm in your veins. The heat is a living thing against your skin. And the only cool spot in this entire suffocating cabin is the one you haven’t dared reach for yet—him.

You meet his eyes and say, “You’re sweating through your jeans.”

Hotch’s breath hitches, just a little. Barely enough to catch. But you see it.

The tension doesn’t break. It tightens.

And suddenly, the question isn’t if it will snap—it’s when.

The air between you feels like static. Alive. Ready to catch.

You’re so close now that you can see the way a drop of sweat slides down from Hotch’s temple, tracing the line of his jaw. It hangs at the edge of his chin for a heartbeat before falling, disappearing against his collarbone.

He still hasn’t stepped back. Hasn’t said a word.

Neither have you.

You lift your glass slowly, not to drink, but just to do something with your hands. It hovers near your mouth. You’re not even sure what you’re thinking anymore. You just know that your nerves are shot and your heart is pounding and the heat is pressing against your skin like a demand.

“I can’t tell if this is cabin fever,” you say, voice soft, “or if it’s just you.”

Hotch exhales—sharp, almost like a laugh, except there’s nothing light in it. His gaze finally drops—down your face, your throat, the line of your collarbone where your tank top sticks to your skin.

“I’ve been trying not to think about it,” he murmurs.

“Trying,” you echo. “So you are thinking about it.”

His jaw works once. Then he nods. Barely. “I’m human.”

You swallow, hard. The silence stretches again, a fragile thread strung tight between the two of you.

You lower your glass. “So am I.”

You see it happen before it does.

His restraint wavers—not enough to make him move, but enough to see it. The way his body shifts toward you instinctively. The way his fingers twitch at his side, like they’re aching to reach out.

And maybe it’s the heat. Or the bourbon. Or maybe it’s just the fact that you’ve both been locked in this place for too long, breathing the same stifling air, afraid to open a door, afraid to want anything.

But you step in closer.

Close enough that your chest nearly brushes his. Close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off him like it wants to brand you.

“You don’t have to hold it together for everyone,” you say, voice just above a whisper. “Not all the time.”

His breath is shallow now. Controlled, but barely. His hand lifts slowly—just a few inches—and then curls into a fist like he’s stopping himself at the last second.

“I don’t want to cross a line,” he says tightly.

You don’t look away. “What if I do?”

Something cracks then. You can feel it.

He steps into you, fast—his hand at your waist, warm and firm, but not rough. His other palm finds the side of your face, thumb brushing your cheek, leaving behind the heat of his skin and the weight of everything he’s been holding back. His mouth doesn’t meet yours yet—but it’s close. So close.

“This doesn’t leave the cabin,” he murmurs, eyes searching yours. “You say stop, I stop. No questions.”

You nod once, and it’s the only permission he needs.

The kiss hits hard—more pressure than finesse, more desperation than form. His mouth is warm, insistent, and you feel his body finally relax against yours as he lets go of every ounce of careful distance he’s kept for days. 

You gasp against his mouth as his hands move, not rough, but purposeful, grounding. His skin is hot against yours, and you can taste the heat, the bourbon, the weight of everything neither of you could say out loud until now.

Outside, the sun is still burning. The stalker is still out there. The world is still dangerous.

But at this moment, inside this too-hot cabin, the danger isn’t out there.

It’s here.

And you’ve finally stepped into it.

Aaron looks at you, really looks at you, eyes roaming over your legs and your hips and your chest and your mouth, all the places he hadn’t allowed himself to notice until now. The distance between you closes much more easily, much more quickly, this time. “Never thought we’d do this,” he murmurs, and then corrects himself, “Never thought you’d want me to.” Your laugh is soft. Disbelieving. You meet his eyes and lean up towards him, “That’s because you’re stupid. You really haven’t noticed?”, and the words dissolve into his mouth as you kiss him– or maybe he kisses you, or maybe a little of both. It doesn’t matter, anyway, and you don’t care. 

He pulls away and rests his forehead on yours. There’s something about the way you glow in the warm dim lighting of this sweltering house that has him entranced. The words come out as a whisper. “ Of course I have.” He frames your face with his hands and slants his mouth over yours and deepens the kiss, his tongue parting your lips and pushing in and scraping over your teeth, across the roof of your mouth– You taste exactly how he imagined, exactly how he thought you would, sweet like chapstick and strawberries and whiskey and so fucking perfect that for a moment he’s left wondering if this is even real.

 Aaron’s hand moves down from your face to the curve of your waist, fingers digging in, and he’s urging you closer until your body is pressed up so close to his that you can feel his heartbeat against your chest, the rapid rise-and-fall of his breathing as he keeps kissing you. Your hand wraps around the back of his neck and your teeth scrape over his bottom lip, half-smiling against his mouth when he makes a sound almost like a grunt and kneads your hips, yanking you closer, causing a yelp to escape your lips. He moves one hand up under your sweat damp tank top, skin burning, finally able to touch. Your skin is soft and warm under his calloused hands and when he drags his thumb across your nipple through the sheer fabric of your bra you make a noise akin to a sigh, or maybe a moan, shallow and soft. It’s still not good enough. You want him to touch you everywhere.

Hotch’s hand finds the small of your back and pulls you in until your bodies are flush. Your skin meets his—fever-warm and damp with sweat, the slide of heat-on-heat that makes you gasp against his mouth. He swallows the sound like he’s starved for it.

You clutch at his shoulders, his back, fingers sliding against slick skin as he backs you toward the wall. Each step is slow, deliberate—measured only in how close he can bring you, how much he can feel.

The wood behind you is warm. His chest is warmer.

When his mouth leaves yours, it travels down—along your jaw, the side of your neck. You tilt your head without thinking, giving him space, your breath catching as his lips graze sweat-damp skin and linger just under your ear. The heat there has nothing to do with the weather. It’s the tension finally snapping loose.

You can feel him trying to stay in control. His breathing is tight. His movements precise.

But then your hands slip down his chest, tracing the heat-glossed muscles through his damp shirt, and he groans—quiet, deep, like he didn’t mean to let it out.

“Tell me if this is too much,” he mutters, voice rough against your throat.

“It’s not enough,” you whisper back.

That does it.

Aaron yanks your tank top off, fabric clinging stubbornly to your skin. His hands fumbles with the clasp of your bra for a moment before discarding that, too. You’re beautiful, and he had known that, but it’s not the same– not when it’s like this, when he can so easily reach out and touch, and maybe he stares for a second or more than a second– Which causes you to shrink into yourself a little.

“Say something. Please…” You half whisper, half whine out, desperate for him to touch you in ways no one has in a while. “You’re beautiful” he whispers, a little more frantic than intended, and almost immediately his mouth descends over the soft column of your throat and then down to your collarbones, your breasts, kissing and biting every inch of skin he can reach with a sort of reverence he hadn’t known he was capable of. You lean into the feeling of his mouth, gasps out his name in a breathless, needy way that hits him hard, makes his cock ache in the rough confines of his jeans as he sucks a bruise into your skin where your shoulder meets your neck– half because he wants to and half because it’s proof that this is real. In the back of his mind, he thinks of all the ways he could talk himself out of this, all the countless reasons why he shouldn’t let this get any worse or any more permanent, but he finds that he doesn’t care. You kiss him and you tug him closer, a low groan vibrating somewhere in his throat at how effortlessly your body fits against his. You're the one who pulls him towards the bed. “Come on, Aaron,” you say, and it’s probably supposed to sound teasing, sarcastic, defiant, even, but mostly it just sounds breathless. There’s a bruise blossoming on your neck and your mouth is swollen and red, and Aaron stops and stares. “Fuck,” he bites out, the noise low and unsurprisingly aggressive. He hears the rustle of the comforter against the mattress as you move onto it, and he follows the sound, and then easily pushes your legs apart at the edge of the bed to take the space between them. You grab the fabric of his sweat drenched shirt and you drag him down into another kiss, the movement of your mouth against his mirroring the slow, languid roll of your hips against the mattress trying to find any kind of friction for the heat pooling below the surface. “Take your clothes off, I wanna see you” you mutter into his mouth, half demanding, he bites your bottom lip just hard enough to make you gasp against him, relishing in how you react to him, honest and real in a way he hadn’t expected.

He complies with your demand, taking off the shirt that he mentality cursed at himself for still wearing despite how hot it had gotten. 

Your shorts are off too before he even has time to think about what he’s doing, and then your underwear too, in a messy, haphazard pile of clothing on the floor, and he’s looking at you and you’re staring right back, his shoulders, biceps, the lines that disappear into his jeans. Your mouth parted as you wondered what was waiting for you right below-

His breathing is ragged. Your pulse is thundering. The air is thick with something that feels like static electricity, sharp and heavy, like in the moments before a storm. His eyes rake up your body almost of their own volition, taking in the swell of your breasts and the curve of your stomach and then trailing down, down– “Aaron,” you mutter, squirming under the heat of his gaze, and any hint of defiance is gone at this point, replaced by pent-up, repressed longing, and it suddenly clicks that this entire fucking thing had never been one-sided. It had never just been you, he had watched and waited and wanted you too, and– “(Y/N),” he rasps, not sure if he had even meant to say it out loud, and then he’s fumbling with the zipper on his jeans, and closing the space between you with a newfound desperation.

He practically picks you up and moves you further onto the bed, him following suit, crawling on top of you. You lean up and meet him halfway, and the kiss is frantic and messy and perfect. His weight pins you down to the bed and your desire is all-consuming, white-hot in the pit of your stomach as he rocks up against you, the friction making you both groan. It’s the first time in a long time that he’s wanted something this badly, and the feeling of your bare skin is like a fucking drug. His hand slips down your stomach, moves in between your thighs. His fingers are slick against your skin and when he finally touches you were you need it, you choke out a soft, trembling moan, and he realizes distantly that he’s so fucking hard it hurts– “More, please,” you whisper, a little desperately, rocking your hips up into his hand, looking for friction, and his breath just falters, the arm supporting his weight on the bed is trembling and he can’t think of anything he wants more in this moment than you.

“You’ll get it, be patient, pretty girl,” he groans, pressing a finger inside of you and curling it up, and your answering moan is needy and helpless and when he starts to fuck you with his fingers you melt underneath him in the best way– “Stop fucking– teasing,” you say, trying to sound irritated but failing miserably as your voice wavers and dissolves into a moan. Aaron exhales shakily. He stops touching you. A pathetic whine escapes your lips at the loss of touch. But then he moves, not depriving you for long as his mouth makes contact with your messy cunt. You suck in a labored breath as his tongue circles your clit. 

You try to call out to him but the words escape your lips. You’re reduced to a trembling mess as your hands find their grip in his hair. He eats like a man starved, sucking and licking on the most sensitive parts like it was his last meal on earth. His fingers found their way back inside you and it’s all too much. 

Your hips stutter and buck, his other arm drapes itself across the top of you holding you in place, making you take everything he gives you. 

“Aaron, I- Im gonna… fuck-” 

“ Then cum.” He says, the vibrations of his words on you send you over the edge, your back arches off the mattress in a way that’s almost painful and you finish.

You’re both aware of it, he knows, his cock pressed up against the inside of your thigh, hot and hard and insistent inside of his jeans. Then you rock your hips up against him and he groans, the sound frantic, desperate, dragging you into a kiss–

Your hands travel down his back to where his jeans meet his hips and start pushing them down. He immediately stands, you follow him to sit on the edge of the bed. You find your way back to the jeans and the briefs beneath them. Taking them off slowly, taking your time. 

His cock springs free and fuck it’s bigger than you thought. Your hand wraps around and pumps slowly. Hotch sucks in a breath through gritted teeth as his head rolls back ever so slightly. 

His hand grips the back of your hair as you lean forward, licking a stripe up from the base to the tip. His eyes meet yours, staring up at him through your lashes. 

You open your mouth and take in the tip. You hum and relax your jaw as he guides you further down his shaft. He fills your throat as you place a hand on his thigh for support. He lets you take the lead on this, just gentle pressure on the back of your head as you bobbed and swirled your tongue. 

The suffocating cabin filled with little gagging noises as his cock hit the back of your throat. Aaron groans out a curse as you pick up your pace. Your gaze remains set on him, watching his eyes shut and reopen to make sure he doesn’t miss anything. His breath grows ragged and uneven. He’s close.

“Damn sweetheart, that's enough.” He practically begs and you peel yourself away from him. 

He pushes you back onto the bed, him following suit on top of you. His lips back on you leaving no time for you to catch your breath. 

“ You’ve been driving me insane,” He mutters between kisses. “It’s unfair what you’ve been doing to me.”

A moan escapes you upon hearing his words. Or was it him lining his cock up at your folds. 

He runs it up and down, the tip hitting your clit on every pass through. 

“Aaron-” A meek attempt to push him.

“Ask for it.” He says his thumb drawing lazy circles around your clit.

Your body pulses at the new contact, lost for words, fumbling at forming a sentence. 

“ Ask for it.” He says again, stronger in his statement.

“Aaron… please, I need it. I need you.” You manage you get out in gasps.

He thrusts into you in one fluid motion. “Ah– fuck,” he groans, against your open, waiting mouth, eyes closed and face tense and the muscles in his arms and upper back strung taut, tense with the effort of holding himself still. There’s a moment of silence– a moment of stillness– that’s strangely intimate, warm and familiar and right, his breathing unsteady against your neck as he struggles to hold on to the quickly-fading remains of his self-control. Aaron moves slowly. Your answering moan is soft and the warmth of your combined body heat is heady and suffocating–sweat beads on his forehead and your breath ghosts hot across his collarbones as he moves and as you roll your hips up to meet him. His forehead is pressed against yours, noses bumping, as he kisses you, open-mouthed and messy, catching your gasp and his answering groan as you tighten around him, hot and wet and perfect. The way you drag your palms down his chest and across the wide expanse of his shoulders is desperate, almost like your looking for something to hold on to as he thrusts in a little harder, watches, seemingly entranced, as his cock moves, in down to the base until your hips are pressed together and then back again. “ Aaron ,” you moan, biting on his lip, making his rhythm stutter, and make his hips snap forward hard, and whatever he was going to say in response is replaced with a desperate, needy growl at the way you moan with the rock of his body. 

A shiver trembles down your spine, liquid and involuntary, and he can feel the way your muscles tighten around his cock, can hear the creaking of the bedsprings and the sharp sounds of his own breathing and nothing else really seems to matter except what’s happening right then. 

You don’t care about anything except the way his body feels against yours or the way he seems to fill you up perfectly. He snaps his hips forwards and you tremble, he watches your mouth part for a gasp and how you never stop looking at him, not even for a second. “I– fuck, fuck, I’m–” you gasp, tripping over the words, a little desperate and a lot frantic as you grind up against him, one hand tangled in his hair and the other somewhere on the expanse of his shoulder, reaching for purchase, something to hold on to– He’s acutely aware of your body pressed up against his own, slick with sweat and incredibly fucking warm, your face buried in his shoulder and your breath hot against his skin and your body soft and pliant and perfect underneath him. Everything about this is driving the both of you fucking crazy, that it’s hard to focus, that everything else is a colorless, meaningless blur in the background and all you  can see is each other, back arching and muscles tensing and calling out each others name. You tremble and tighten around him and finally reach the second release building in you. The moan you release is wonderfully helpless and whatever remaining scraps of decorum he had left just fucking dissolve. His thrusts become erratic, his rhythm falters and he realizes, distantly, that he’s not going to last much longer as you rock against him until he can barely think straight. “(Y/N),” he mutters, and chokes out a curse, buries his face in your shoulder and relishes in it, in the closeness and the shared body heat and the feeling of being here, with you, like this, until his body falters and his weight comes down onto his forearms and his orgasm is wrenched through him like a fucking revelation. And then it’s over. He doesn’t move for a long moment. You don't make him. Nothing seems to matter anymore except the warmth of where your bodies are still joined, the sound of your combined breathing, and the ache of the emotions you had unleashed on one another. It’s a brief moment of peace for you, and you think he must feel the same. “You can get off of me now,” You complain, softly. Breathlessly. Your normal personality shining back through. Aaron huffs out a laugh, deep and warm, and moves away. He hesitates, only for a second, before pulling you to his bare chest with his hand curled over your hip. The silence isn’t as suffocating as you expected. It’s almost– comfortable. “Dumbass,” you say. There’s an honest sort of affection in your voice, as you throw an arm over his chest and bury your face in the crook of his neck. “Shut up,” he mumbles, sleepy and sated and not really meaning it at all.

There was no more room for doubt, no room for distance anymore. Just two people, finally giving in to what has been brewing for almost two weeks. 

And in the heat of the safe house, you knew: nothing could remain the same that next morning.

[kaibutsushidousha]

Opinions on The Hundred Line story and characters?

Ok, now the prologue is finally finished and I can write the 0 endings version of this post. Hopefully the 100 endings versions will follow along in less than 5 years.

I'll first leave the tl;dr version of the post outside the cut, then get into more detail about each student below. Check also my livetweet thread more pinpoint thoughts on specific scenes, language version comparisons, and way too much thought put through put into Omokage's silly dialogue.

Not much to say yet about the general arrangement. The prologue goes by with a decent amount of lore reveals, the revelation that our perspective on the war is still very wrong, and no clear indication of which plot points matter and which are misdirection. The only character we had a chance to talk to someone in the school invader side is the commander-in-chief, who openly follows a different cause from her fellow commanders. Now that Takumi learned Invaderese the Kirby way, I would expect a route where he hangs out with the commanders, but I feel like if something like that existed, I would have already heard about it. Let's get to the students at Last Defense Academy, then.

Takumi Sumino is definitely one of the Kodaka protagonists that exist. He has a decently defined identity as the dude who got himself engaged to a heavily dependent girl at around age six and then nothing ever happened in his life. He's generally harmless, at least without me having the opportunity to make evil choices for him, and can easily be cool when he needs to. But one major thing I still don't get is the Watsonian reason for him to have Special Review. Class Weapons and Specialist Skills are embodiments of their personalities, so I'd expect the power of redo to belong to someone more introspective and regretful.

Takemaru Yakushiji was, at all times, 100% exactly what he looked like. The 80s shounen delinquent archetype played to letter, even more so than Oowada. It's maybe exaggerated a little with him having multiple volunteer jobs caring for the elders and whatnot. It gets to the point that he genuinely feels like he's not punk enough to fit his aesthetics. He's a central positive figure to his wider community both in the TRC and the LDA (see how he's the most valuable source of support in every persuasion arc), and understands strict laws as something meaningful and necessary (see how more often than not he finds himself agreeing with Shizuhara's points despite repudiating her methods to get at it). Even the violence he warns about first thing talk to him is something he proves to be perfectly contained about. The only punk thing about him is being an underage biker, really.

Hiruko Shizuhara is not there for long. But perhaps her short presence is exactly what allows her to be such a transcendently good source of friction while she's around. Regardless, she's gone precisely when she's about to open up, so I can't say I have an opinion. I unfortunately don't have her backstory novel, but I feel like this would have been the ideal time to read it if I did. I have to say it's pretty funny how DR's and THL's underage biker characters feel so similar to each other while the discipline monitor characters feel so incredibly different. The only thing Ishimaru and Hiruko have in common is being paired primarily with the biker thug.

Darumi Amemiya is what if Rain Code's Shinigami was actually funny. The answer, unfortunately, was that good jokes don't solve the problem. While Darumi does drop occasional hints to a serious backstory with a lot of potential, her default contribution to the story is undercutting good moments with out-of-place gags, and failing to at least generate friction from her incompatibility with the group because no one ever gives her attention. If anything, it's sometimes extra frustrating that her jokes are good and her only problem is that she's telling them at the wrong time. Unfortunately, this intrusiveness is something I don't believe will ever go away, so she has to go into the disappointment tier. I have no idea how good her serious content will need to be to offset this. One major positive I have to bring up is that I love how she never gets over simulation complex. Instead of learning to believe what's happening is real, her progression is about initially guessing the wrong genre for the game she's in, and over time developing a very precise understanding of what The Hundred Line's game design looks like from the player's perspective. 10/10 bit in a vacuum, I wish didn't have consequences for the tone of the scenes she's in.

Eito Aotsuki starts off as the cynical and analytical classmate, 180s into the cheesiest boy to ever cheese within the first week, and then spends the rest of the run just there making innocuous comments and moving things along to the (in)convenience of the plot and most of all to the convenience of the gameplay. No one makes AP like my guy here. But despite being the strongest guy in the team, I have to admit that I didn't catch on to Aotsuki's deal as early as I should mainly because I almost never remembered he was part of the cast when trying to theorize about the bigger picture. It took until he tried to organize a second party with Gaku me to start seeing the sabotage. Anyway, the climax of the prologue involves him revealing his true colors, which look half Oberon Vortigern and half Sesshouin Kiara. And it works surprisingly well. I almost can't believe how much I felt like Aotsuki's characterization worked well for him, considering Kiara is a character that took forever to grow on me and Oberon is one I still actively dislike. I guess he just double-confirms that Oberon could have been a really cool character if he existed outside the very specific contexts of Avalon le Fae.

Tsubasa Kawana is, exactly as I feared, too normal. Her persuasion event is cute enough but definitely the weakest of the four. She does have her hobby as a mechanic that makes her useful and on rare occasions funny, but I don't count usefulness as a thing that makes characters better or worse. The best thing I can say about her is that the way her passion for mechanics extends into her being the sci-fi fan that contributes with meaningful insights to the conversations about parallel worlds feels really natural and clever.

Gaku Maruko is unforeseen goat of The Hundred Line. He descends from a joke character archetype Kodaka already worked with multiple times, so I came in with pretty specific expectations about the kind of humor he was there to deliver, and I can say I got exactly what I thought I would in that regard, but I was completely blindsided by the emotional depth he'd get at the first possible opportunity. Maruko's persuasion is bar none the most hard-hitting moment of the first 100 days. Maruko is extremely self-aware that he's the guy who can't ever catch a break, to the point he even perceives his 20 little brothers as parasites holding him back from his wants. He's viscerally furious at society, his family included, for the way his life is. To survive his difficult world, Maruko is making conscious efforts to be self-serving and self-sufficient. He wants to live for himself because it's genuinely unfair that luck gives him nothing. But he can't. He never could. Takumi persuades him by saying nothing because Maruko's problems are entirely self-solving. Being Gaku Maruko sucks, therefore being Gaku Maruko is the last thing he'd ever wish on anyone else. He works 17 jobs to feed 20 "leeches" at his group home because the alternative would be allowing them to be as deprived as he is. He risks his life fighting Invaders because the alternative is risking their lives. He solo organizes all parties in this group home and the Last Defense Academy so no one else will be too busy to enjoy themselves. He will willing grab the short end of the stick so no one else will have to suffer his rotten luck. As much he tries to be selfish, Maruko's empathy ultimately shines brighter when it counts. He's doomed to be a caretaker most of all by his own personality. I love especially how it's not even like his greed is a mask crafted to survive as a misfortunate empath. He genuinely hates his life and genuinely wants to own good things and fulfill base desires. This is the open contradiction that makes him an excellent character. I feel like this is where Kodaka finally found the solution to make his dubious coward joke characters work. Gaku won my heart as soon as he could, and did it in a way where I can't see myself ever getting annoyed at his humor, because the worst of him works in benefit of the best of him.

Ima Tsukumo is, against all odds, funny. His creep factor takes the backseat most of the time. Instead, Ima's default state is just your regular zoomer troll you can find in any rancid YouTube comments section. Even his siscon shtick is pretty tolerable thanks to how pragmatic it feels. I can't tell if that's the intention, but it works well as an insincere tactic to keep people away. Ima is defined mainly by his lack of vulnerabilities. He's distant, cautious, disrespectful, crafty, vicious, and most of all, unshakable. He presents himself as Kako's invincible protector and never relaxes that aspect even after his change of heart. With 100 routes in the game, there must be a route where Ima breaks, but within the prologue, his defenses are so flawless I can't even imagine what that would look like. With all this praise, you might be wondering what is Ima doing at the bottom of the disappointment tier. Well, the answer is as simple as "recruiting him is too easy". The prologue spends like 50 days building Ima up as the greatest challenge to the team's unity, but when it's finally time to get him, he practically goes down without a fight. Maybe there is a route out there where Ima gets to live up to his potential as a contrarian with issues the player needs to work to solve, but Persuasions would be repeat content, so I'd expect the future routes to skip or streamline that side. Maybe. I still haven't checked how this works, but as of now I don't expect Ima to ever deliver what he was selling.

Kako Tsukumo is decent, I guess. Second best persuasion sequence despite its consequences to Ima's character. Ending one of them with a "No, shut up" is just a neat idea. Her precognition and her struggles as an amateur detective who doesn't know what she's doing are good bits. She shares one of the biggest things I give praise for Yumeno in V3, which is how her change isn't easy. She's often seen relapsing to the previous terms of her relationship with Ima at moments of setback, especially in the two (three?) periods where he's dead. Unfortunately, her biggests emotional moments, namely her going apeshit because of the other twin, don't hit for much because they build up on Ima's wet noodle of a resolution. Too much reward for an anti-climax.

Shouma Ginzaki is about as easy to ignore as he claims to be, even if he never gets outright forgotten like pre-reveal Aotsuki often was. His persuasion was cute with the "it's okay to fail" message, the Kurara duel plotline was not bad, and the commitment to his allergy to conflict makes his gameplay interesting, but overall he showed nothing I'd call impressive. I feel like the peak of his potential was when the class took a POW and he started becoming the Human Pet Guy, but that's a plotline to pay off in a different route.

Nozomi Kirifuji is surprisingly functional for the designated mystery character whose mystery doesn't even get properly answered. She has a compelling sense of purpose, fleshed out reasons to be like that, an effective performance in her role as her team's guiding heart, and genuine chemistry both with Takumi and with her Second-to-Last Defense Academy friends. The worst thing that could happen to her is her conflation with Karua being her primary focus, but she gets to be her own person in multiple significant ways.

Kurara Oosuzuki is perhaps the most well-balanced character of the cast, if I had to pick one. She's incredibly funny, acts as an effective leader when needed, plays off well with pretty much the entire cast, gets a solid amount of depth in the initial scenario, and pulls off some decent drama through her relationship with Nozomi. Some of her gags definitely cross the line, but she doesn't feel less sympathetic for it since it's established that the tomato demon is a domineering persona the human Kurara intentionally engineered to be able to survive her upbringing. She's made to be offensive because that's what human Kurara believes a noblewoman had to be like. That said, human Kurara is annoying and would be at the bottom of the tier list if the site had the two separately. I'm treating her as a side character that exists solely to flesh out tomato demon Kurara, the one I actually like.

Kyoshika Magadori is the funniest character ever. She has all of Chabashira's positive energy and silliness packed into samurai pastiche, a seemingly genuine belief that shounen manga are documentaries, a little bit of an ego that makes her refuse to admit she doesn't know something, and a katana wife with a personality we have to piece together from scattered statements. All excellent bits that often come together really well. The only reason why she isn't placed second is because she didn't any good serious scene yet. All of her serious content so far has been her being extremely not immune to propaganda about the vile and barbaric enemy and shutting down attempts at nuance on the cast's interpretations of the invaders.

Yugami Omokage is exactly the fascinating specimen I hoped he'd be. A capital f Freak, but a good and reliable friend who is helpful to the team's cause, a smart thinker who pays attention to the plot and contributes with solid ideas, and his interplay of love and murder feels incredibly unique. The concept of mutual consent reinterpreted as "I only wish to kill someone who wants to be killed by me just as much" could genuinely be uncharted territory. I called Kurara the most balanced character, but Yugami doesn't stand too far. Having seen nothing about it, I already feel confident his romance route will be the best.

Moko Mojirou is not around for long, and during her little time on screen, the impostor is sus. She is presented as the heart of the Second-to-Last Defense Academy but that never clicked with me. It doesn't help that most of my time with her was spent going "Is this is a wrestling reference?" then googling it and half of the time finding out that yes, this is a wrestling reference, and the other half finding out that no, it's instead a martial arts manga reference. Her stories being lifted from manga has interesting implications, though. It's a narrative trick Kodaka pulled multiple times before to signify that either the speaker was lying about their accomplishments, or in V3's case that the world they've been living was a lie. If the real Moko also steal credits from manga plots, this could go to interesting places.

[if-divinepunishment]

Is the MC *currently* an Angel? Or has being cast out made them something else instead? Do they still feel compelled to act in accordance with their nature (rage)? I don't know if this is inspired by In Nomine, but it feels like there are some similarities -- if you're familiar, in In Nomine terms, might the MC be an Outcast or even a Remnant?

I've never seen or played In Nomine, however it sounds super interesting!

MC is currently an angel however they have been effectively banished from the Anantheris (Aquine's celestial plane).

This means they still hold the same/similar abilities that the other angel's have but they aren't able to freely return to the Anatheris through will.

Theres also a few other consquences that happen throughout the story for you and Thalwood.