#the wind in this city is literally so so evil

[chaos-coming]

The good news is, my foot is going to be okay to walk on. The bad news is, i had to wait for the stupid bus for half an hour in the freezing wind (evil evil evil) and now everything hurts so so much. Im literally on the brink of a migraine from how badly my neck and shoulders hurt from hunching in the cold.

[therealbeachfox]

Twenty years ago, February 15th, 2004, I got married for the first time.

It was twenty years earlier than I ever expected to.

To celebrate/comemorate the date, I'm sitting down to write out everything I remember as I remember it. No checking all the pictures I took or all the times I've written about this before. I'm not going to turn to my husband (of twenty years, how the f'ing hell) to remember a detail for me.

This is not a 100% accurate recounting of that first wild weekend in San Francisco. But it -is- a 100% accurate recounting of how I remember it today, twenty years after the fact.

Join me below, if you would.

2004 was an election year, and much like conservatives are whipping up anti-trans hysteria and anti-trans bills and propositions to drive out the vote today, in 2004 it was all anti-gay stuff. Specifically, preventing the evil scourge of same-sex marriage from destroying everything good and decent in the world.

Enter Gavin Newstrom. At the time, he was the newly elected mayor of San Francisco. Despite living next door to the city all my life, I hadn’t even heard of the man until Valentines Day 2004 when he announced that gay marriage was legal in San Francisco and started marrying people at city hall.

It was a political stunt. It was very obviously a political stunt. That shit was illegal, after all. But it was a very sweet political stunt. I still remember the front page photo of two ancient women hugging each other forehead to forehead and crying happy tears.

But it was only going to last for as long as it took for the California legal system to come in and make them knock it off.

The next day, we’re on the phone with an acquaintance, and she casually mentions that she’s surprised the two of us aren’t up at San Francisco getting married with everyone else.

“Everyone else?” Goes I, “I thought they would’ve shut that down already?”

“Oh no!” goes she, “The courts aren’t open until Tuesday. Presidents Day on Monday and all. They’re doing them all weekend long!”

We didn’t know because social media wasn’t a thing yet. I only knew as much about it as I’d read on CNN, and most of the blogs I was following were more focused on what bullshit President George W Bush was up to that day.

"Well shit", me and my man go, "do you wanna?" I mean, it’s a political stunt, it wont really mean anything, but we’re not going to get another chance like this for at least 20 years. Why not?

The next day, Sunday, we get up early. We drive north to the southern-most BART station. We load onto Bay Area Rapid Transit, and rattle back and forth all the way to the San Francisco City Hall stop.

We had slightly miscalculated.

Apparently, demand for marriages was far outstripping the staff they had on hand to process them. Who knew. Everyone who’d gotten turned away Saturday had been given tickets with times to show up Sunday to get their marriages done. My babe and I, we could either wait to see if there was a space that opened up, or come back the next day, Monday.

“Isn’t City Hall closed on Monday?” I asked. “It’s a holiday”

“Oh sure,” they reply, “but people are allowed to volunteer their time to come in and work on stuff anyways. And we have a lot of people who want to volunteer their time to have the marriage licensing offices open tomorrow.”

“Oh cool,” we go, “Backup.”

“Make sure you’re here if you do,” they say, “because the California Supreme Court is back in session Tuesday, and will be reviewing the motion that got filed to shut us down.”

And all this shit is super not-legal, so they’ll totally be shutting us down goes unsaid.

00000

We don’t get in Saturday. We wind up hanging out most of the day, though.

It’s… incredible. I can say, without hyperbole, that I have never experienced so much concentrated joy and happiness and celebration of others’ joy and happiness in all my life before or since. My face literally ached from grinning. Every other minute, a new couple was coming out of City Hall, waving their paperwork to the crowd and cheering and leaping and skipping. Two glorious Latina women in full Mariachi band outfits came out, one in the arms of another. A pair of Jewish boys with their families and Rabbi. One couple managed to get a Just Married convertible arranged complete with tin-cans tied to the bumper to drive off in. More than once I was giving some rice to throw at whoever was coming out next.

At some point in the mid-afternoon, there was a sudden wave of extra cheering from the several hundred of us gathered at the steps, even though no one was coming out. There was a group going up the steps to head inside, with some generic black-haired shiny guy at the front. My not-yet-husband nudged me, “That’s Newsom.” He said, because he knew I was hopeless about matching names and people.

Ooooooh, I go. That explains it. Then I joined in the cheers. He waved and ducked inside.

So dusk is starting to fall. It’s February, so it’s only six or so, but it’s getting dark.

“Should we just try getting in line for tomorrow -now-?” we ask.

“Yeah, I’m afraid that’s not going to be possible.” One of the volunteers tells us. “We’re not allowed to have people hang out overnight like this unless there are facilities for them and security. We’d need Porta-Poties for a thousand people and police patrols and the whole lot, and no one had time to get all that organized. Your best bet is to get home, sleep, and then catch the first BART train up at 5am and keep your fingers crossed.

Monday is the last day to do this, after all.

00000

So we go home. We crash out early. We wake up at 4:00. We drive an hour to hit the BART station. We get the first train up. We arrive at City Hall at 6:30AM.

The line stretches around the entirety of San Francisco City Hall. You could toss a can of Coke from the end of the line to the people who’re up to be first through the doors and not have to worry about cracking it open after.

“Uh.” We go. “What the fuck is -this-?”

So.

Remember why they weren’t going to be able to have people hang out overnight?

Turns out, enough SF cops were willing to volunteer unpaid time to do patrols to cover security. And some anonymous person delivered over a dozen Porta-Poties that’d gotten dropped off around 8 the night before.

It’s 6:30 am, there are almost a thousand people in front of us in line to get this literal once in a lifetime marriage, the last chance we expect to have for at least 15 more years (it was 2004, gay rights were getting shoved back on every front. It was not looking good. We were just happy we lived in California were we at least weren’t likely to loose job protections any time soon.).

Then it starts to rain.

We had not dressed for rain.

00000

Here is how the next six hours go.

We’re in line. Once the doors open at 7am, it will creep forward at a slow crawl. It’s around 7 when someone shows up with garbage bags for everyone. Cut holes for the head and arms and you’ve got a makeshift raincoat! So you’ve got hundreds of gays and lesbians decked out in the nicest shit they could get on short notice wearing trashbags over it.

Everyone is so happy.

Everyone is so nervous/scared/frantic that we wont be able to get through the doors before they close for the day.

People online start making delivery orders.

Coffee and bagels are ordered in bulk and delivered to City Hall for whoever needs it. We get pizza. We get roses. Random people come by who just want to give hugs to people in line because they’re just so happy for us. The tour busses make detours to go past the lines. Chinese tourists lean out with their cameras and shout GOOD LUCK while car horns honk.

A single sad man holding a Bible tries to talk people out of doing this, tells us all we’re sinning and to please don’t. He gives up after an hour. A nun replaces him with a small sign about how this is against God’s will. She leaves after it disintegrates in the rain.

The day before, when it was sunny, there had been a lot of protestors. Including a large Muslim group with their signs about how “Not even DOGS do such things!” Which… Yes they do.

A lot of snide words are said (by me) about how the fact that we’re willing to come out in the rain to do this while they’re not willing to come out in the rain to protest it proves who actually gives an actual shit about the topic.

Time passes. I measure it based on which side of City Hall we’re on. The doors face East. We start on Northside. Coffee and trashbags are delivered when we’re on the North Side. Pizza first starts showing up when we’re on Westside, which is also where I see Bible Man and Nun. Roses are delivered on Southside. And so forth.

00000

We have Line Neighbors.

Ahead of us are a gay couple a decade or two older than us. They’ve been together for eight years. The older one is a school teacher. He has his coat collar up and turns away from any news cameras that come near while we reposition ourselves between the lenses and him. He’s worried about the parents of one of his students seeing him on the news and getting him fired. The younger one will step away to get interviewed on his own later on. They drove down for the weekend once they heard what was going on. They’d started around the same time we did, coming from the Northeast, and are parked in a nearby garage.

The most perky energetic joyful woman I’ve ever met shows up right after we turned the corner to Southside to tackle the younger of the two into a hug. She’s their local friend who’d just gotten their message about what they’re doing and she will NOT be missing this. She is -so- happy for them. Her friends cry on her shoulders at her unconditional joy.

Behind us are a lesbian couple who’d been up in San Francisco to celebrate their 12th anniversary together. “We met here Valentines Day weekend! We live down in San Diego, now, but we like to come up for the weekend because it’s our first love city.”

“Then they announced -this-,” the other one says, “and we can’t leave until we get married. I called work Sunday and told them I calling in sick until Wednesday.”

“I told them why,” her partner says, “I don’t care if they want to give me trouble for it. This is worth it. Fuck them.”

My husband-to-be and I look at each other. We’ve been together for not even two years at this point. Less than two years. Is it right for us to be here? We’re potentially taking a spot from another couple that’d been together longer, who needed it more, who deserved it more.”

“Don’t you fucking dare.” Says the 40-something gay couple in front of us.

“This is as much for you as it is for us!” says the lesbian couple who’ve been together for over a decade behind us.

“You kids are too cute together,” says the gay couple’s friend. “you -have- to. Someday -you’re- going to be the old gay couple that’s been together for years and years, and you deserve to have been married by then.”

We stay in line.

It’s while we’re on the Southside of City Hall, just about to turn the corner to Eastside at long last that we pick up our own companions. A white woman who reminds me an awful lot of my aunt with a four year old black boy riding on her shoulders. “Can we say we’re with you? His uncles are already inside and they’re not letting anyone in who isn’t with a couple right there.” “Of course!” we say.

The kid is so very confused about what all the big deal is, but there’s free pizza and the busses keep driving by and honking, so he’s having a great time.

We pass by a statue of Lincoln with ‘Marriage for All!’ and "Gay Rights are Human Rights!" flags tucked in the crooks of his arms and hanging off his hat.

It’s about noon, noon-thirty when we finally make it through the doors and out of the rain.

They’ve promised that anyone who’s inside when the doors shut will get married. We made it. We’re safe.

We still have a -long- way to go.

00000

They’re trying to fit as many people into City Hall as possible. Partially to get people out of the rain, mostly to get as many people indoors as possible. The line now stretches down into the basement and up side stairs and through hallways I’m not entirely sure the public should ever be given access to. We crawl along slowly but surely.

It’s after we’ve gone through the low-ceiling basement hallways past offices and storage and back up another set of staircases and are going through a back hallway of low-ranked functionary offices that someone comes along handing out the paperwork. “It’s an hour or so until you hit the office, but take the time to fill these out so you don’t have to do it there!”

We spend our time filling out the paperwork against walls, against backs, on stone floors, on books.

We enter one of the public areas, filled with displays and photos of City Hall Demonstrations of years past.

I take pictures of the big black and white photo of the Abraham Lincoln statue holding banners and signs against segregation and for civil rights.

The four year old boy we helped get inside runs past us around this time, chased by a blond haired girl about his own age, both perused by an exhausted looking teenager helplessly begging them to stop running.

Everyone is wet and exhausted and vibrating with anticipation and the building-wide aura of happiness that infuses everything.

The line goes into the marriage office. A dozen people are at the desk, shoulder to shoulder, far more than it was built to have working it at once.

A Sister of Perpetual Indulgence is directing people to city officials the moment they open up. She’s done up in her nun getup with all her makeup on and her beard is fluffed and be-glittered and on point. “Oh, I was here yesterday getting married myself, but today I’m acting as your guide. Number 4 sweeties, and -Congradulatiooooons!-“

The guy behind the counter has been there since six. It’s now 1:30. He’s still giddy with joy. He counts our money. He takes our paperwork, reviews it, stamps it, sends off the parts he needs to, and hands the rest back to us. “Alright, go to the Rotunda, they’ll direct you to someone who’ll do the ceremony. Then, if you want the certificate, they’ll direct you to -that- line.” “Can’t you just mail it to us?” “Normally, yeah, but the moment the courts shut us down, we’re not going to be allowed to.”

We take our paperwork and join the line to the Rotunda.

If you’ve seen James Bond: A View to a Kill, you’ve seen the San Francisco City Hall Rotunda. There are literally a dozen spots set up along the balconies that overlook the open area where marriage officials and witnesses are gathered and are just processing people through as fast as they can.

That’s for the people who didn’t bring their own wedding officials.

There’s a Catholic-adjacent couple there who seem to have brought their entire families -and- the priest on the main steps. They’re doing the whole damn thing. There’s at least one more Rabbi at work, I can’t remember what else. Just that there was a -lot-.

We get directed to the second story, northside. The San Francisco City Treasurer is one of our two witnesses. Our marriage officient is some other elected official I cannot remember for the life of me (and I'm only writing down what I can actively remember, so I can't turn to my husband next to me and ask, but he'll have remembered because that's what he does.)

I have a wilting lily flower tucked into my shirt pocket. My pants have water stains up to the knees. My hair is still wet from the rain, I am blubbering, and I can’t get the ring on my husband’s finger. The picture is a treat, I tell you.

There really isn’t a word for the mix of emotions I had at that time. Complete disbelief that this was reality and was happening. Relief that we’d made it. Awe at how many dozens of people had personally cheered for us along the way and the hundreds to thousands who’d cheered for us generally.

Then we're married.

Then we get in line to get our license.

It’s another hour. This time, the line goes through the higher stories. Then snakes around and goes past the doorway to the mayor’s office.

Mayor Newsom is not in today. And will be having trouble getting into his office on Tuesday because of the absolute barricade of letters and flowers and folded up notes and stuffed animals and City Hall maps with black marked “THANK YOU!”s that have been piled up against it.

We make it to the marriage records office.

I take a picture of my now husband standing in front of a case of the marriage records for 1902-1912. Numerous kids are curled up in corners sleeping. My own memory is spotty. I just know we got the papers, and then we’re done with lines. We get out, we head to the front entrance, and we walk out onto the City Hall steps.

It's almost 3PM.

00000

There are cheers, there’s rice thrown at us, there are hundreds of people celebrating us with unconditional love and joy and I had never before felt the goodness that exists in humanity to such an extent. It’s no longer raining, just a light sprinkle, but there are still no protestors. There’s barely even any news vans.

We make our way through the gauntlet, we get hands shaked, people with signs reading ”Congratulations!” jump up and down for us. We hit the sidewalks, and we begin to limp our way back to the BART station.

I’m at the BART station, we’re waiting for our train back south, and I’m sitting on the ground leaning against a pillar and in danger of falling asleep when a nondescript young man stops in front of me and shuffles his feet nervously. “Hey. I just- I saw you guys, down at City Hall, and I just… I’m so happy for you. I’m so proud of what you could do. I’m- I’m just really glad, glad you could get to do this.”

He shakes my hand, clasps it with both of his and shakes it. I thank him and he smiles and then hurries away as fast as he can without running.

Our train arrives and the trip south passes in a semilucid blur.

We get back to our car and climb in.

It’s 4:30 and we are starving.

There’s a Carls Jr near the station that we stop off at and have our first official meal as a married couple. We sit by the window and watch people walking past and pick out others who are returning from San Francisco. We're all easy to pick out, what with the combination of giddiness and water damage.

We get home about 6-7. We take the dog out for a good long walk after being left alone for two days in a row. We shower. We bundle ourselves up. We bury ourselves in blankets and curl up and just sort of sit adrift in the surrealness of what we’d just done.

We wake up the next day, Tuesday, to read that the California State Supreme Court has rejected the petition to shut down the San Francisco weddings because the paperwork had a misplaced comma that made the meaning of one phrase unclear.

The State Supreme Court would proceed to play similar bureaucratic tricks to drag the process out for nearly a full month before they have nothing left and finally shut down Mayor Newsom’s marriages.

My parents had been out of state at the time at a convention. They were flying into SFO about the same moment we were walking out of City Hall. I apologized to them later for not waiting and my mom all but shook me by the shoulders. “No! No one knew that they’d go on for so long! You did what you needed to do! I’ll just be there for the next one!”

00000

It was just a piece of paper. Legally, it didn’t even hold any weight thirty days later. My philosophy at the time was “marriage really isn’t that important, aside from the legal benefits. It’s just confirming what you already have.”

But maybe it’s just societal weight, or ingrained culture, or something, but it was different after. The way I described it at the time, and I’ve never really come up with a better metaphor is, “It’s like we were both holding onto each other in the middle of the ocean in the middle of a storm. We were keeping each other above water, we were each other’s support. But then we got this piece of paper. And it was like the ground rose up to meet our feet. We were still in an ocean, still in the middle of a storm, but there was a solid foundation beneath our feet. We still supported each other, but there was this other thing that was also keeping our heads above the water.

It was different. It was better. It made things more solid and real.

I am forever grateful for all the forces and all the people who came together to make it possible. It’s been twenty years and we’re still together and still married.

We did a domestic partnership a year later to get the legal paperwork. We’d done a private ceremony with proper rings (not just ones grabbed out of the husband’s collection hours before) before then. And in 2008, we did a legal marriage again.

Rushed. In a hurry. Because there was Proposition 13 to be voted on which would make them all illegal again if it passed.

It did, but we were already married at that point, and they couldn’t negate it that time.

Another few years after that, the Supreme Court finally threw up their hands and said "Fine! It's been legal in places and nothing's caught on fire or been devoured by locusts. It's legal everywhere. Shut up about it!"

And that was that.

00000

When I was in highschool, in the late 90s, I didn’t expect to see legal gay marriage until I was in my 50s. I just couldn’t see how the American public as it was would ever be okay with it.

I never expected to be getting married within five years. I never expected it to be legal nationwide before I’d barely started by 30s. I never thought I’d be in my 40s and it’d be such a non-issue that the conservative rabble rousers would’ve had to move onto other wedge issues altogether.

I never thought that I could introduce another man as my husband and absolutely no one involved would so much as blink.

I never thought I’d live in this world.

And it’s twenty years later today. I wonder how our line buddies are doing. Those babies who were running around the wide open rooms playing tag will have graduated college by now. The kids whose parents the one line-buddy was worried would see him are probably married too now. Some of them to others of the same gender.

I don’t have some greater message to make with all this. Other then, culture can shift suddenly in ways you can’t predict. For good or ill. Mainly this is just me remembering the craziest fucking 36 hours of my life twenty years after the fact and sharing them with all of you.

The future we’re resigned to doesn’t have to be the one we live in. Society can shift faster than you think. The unimaginable of twenty years ago is the baseline reality of today.

And always remember that the people who want to get married will show up by the thousands in rain that none of those who’re against it will brave.

[postcardsfromheapside]

No, I'm not done yet, I'm house sitting and she left me snacks and soda and not even god could keep me from venting my spleen at this point.

"I wish the companions were meaner to each other in this game, like in DA2."

While I think there's a larger argument to be made discussing the similarities between DA2 and Veilguard, I need everyone to get so close to me right now about a glaring difference:

DA2 involved a ragtag group of assholes with their own agendas coalescing around Hawke's personality or exchange of favors. There was no larger "goal," except maybe Varric's expedition - everything else is encountered as circumstance. You wend your way through your companions' stories while a city winds ever tighter into itself, a spring about to literally explode.

There's zero reason for these people to be nice to each other. They have no point in being around each other except Hawke. They can bitch at each other all they like.

Rook becomes Varric's second in command (I've seen one post say it's about 6 months before the events of the game) with an explicit purpose: find and stop Solas. Harding and Neve are recruited as experts in their respective fields for this particular goal. When it all goes to shit, Neve recruits another expert, Lucanis, to deal with the fallout, and Harding finds Davrin, *also* an expert in his field (monster hunting). When Rook has to make a particularly consequence heavy decision, two more are added to the crew: Emmrich (Fade expert) and Taash (dragon expert). All of these people are extremely competent, and know from the jump that they have one particular goal in mind.

They join ready to work together on Day 1 because if they don't, there's simply no other alternative. It's lights out. Even when they mistrust each other, the direness of the situation is not lost on them. Infighting serves no purpose. That's why the struggle is directed inward: clean up your own house, so we can move as a single unit.

Honestly the fact that what people took away from this game was "I wish my friends were meaner to each other" and not "wow, I wish we all worked together to keep evil dictators from taking over" is fucking mindblowing when I sit back and reread this.

[k0yaz]

hear me out..... mizu x fem reader, a oneshot, smut, they're already together, they are out in town as 'husband and wife' while they obtain information. The reader is a brat, Mizu literally fucks the ever living SHIT out of her. Teasing and mocking until the reader is blabbing out apologies that are barely even coherent. SHI ION KNOW WHEN STRAPS WERE MADE BUT IF YOU BUST THAT OUT I WOULD BE VERY GRATEFUL 🙏 and of course aftercare with lots of praise yk bc if ur gonna call me a slut at least kiss my face and call me ur pretty slut thank YEW

chimes of the shamisen.

Pairings: mizu x fem!reader

CW: nsfw, female reader, afab reader, wlw, let’s ignore the episode’s events and the shindo dojo shit because yay sex, freaky asf obv, but first angst bc im evil kitty, bratty ass reader, argument, mizu is lowkey at fault for it too tho, but reader is still a bitch, hardcore sesbian lex, little bit of soft stuff sprinkled because I cannot write mizu going full on rough and angy with her lover, it feels ooc she would be atleast a little sweet :(, strapon use/harigata, the strap legit came outta nowhere, horny shit god, i genuinely don’t know if this is classified as degradation but I hate degrading so hope not, crying, really fucking rough I don’t think I ever wrote something this insane, not proofread.

A/N: ugh this lowkey turned out bad cause my tea was bad but im loving the stream of mizu requests I am absolutely feral over this woman like I want to kiss and hug her in my arms while also wanting her to tear off my clothes it ain’t funny anymore I GENUINELY DONT KNOW HOW TO FEEL ABOUT WRITING EXTRA FREAKY MIZU BUT YER WELCOME. 🕯️

Blisteringly cold sweeps of wind swayed in the air in a near painful freeze as crystals of snowflakes sunk upon touching the bare skin of your hand, your tense shoulder pushed up against Mizu’s cloaked one in an attempt to seek a sliver of warmth against the stinging cold. It was currently nearing the end of the nullifying freeze of winter, spring approaching in supposedly a few weeks from now in hopes of thawing out the erected statures blanketed in a gentle white.

Both you and Mizu navigated your way through the dips and trails of each snow heaped pathway in the city, remaining side by side as you two shouldered past the hordes of people pouring in through Kyoto’s streets. Throughout your support for her during the perilous tread to find the remaining men she sought to kill, you had assumed the title of her supposed ‘wife,’ while Mizu, still under the guise of a man, displayed herself as your husband.

Honestly, it was quite difficult to fathom why you were trailing behind this bloodthirsty woman, who would snap apart the bones of any living creature she came across for the sake of her wretched revenge—pulsing through every vein in her body, like an unrest that compelled her stubborn soul to live on. You always questioned yourself as you trudged by her side, eyes frequently staring down at your own feet buried in the thick layers of snow to ponder why your heart raced for a demon presumed to have nothing but hatred oozing from any noticeable crevice of light within her.

You nudged your fingers against her palm, reaching over as your knuckles came into contact with the calloused ridges of her own. Almost in a seemingly desperate sense, your fingertips danced along her skin occasionally as if you were pleading to hold her hand, only to end up cupping your hand around nothing as she pulled away with each gesture of yours seeking her affection. Mizu subtly nodded her head toward you, tilting her chin up to meet your gaze through the orange tint of her glasses.

“Not now. Focus on getting more information regarding Heiji Shindo.”

It was getting tiring. Annoying even.

Mizu initially proposed the idea of cloaking yourselves under the cover of a husband and wife to seek information, to which you agreed. Considering the two of you had been together for quite some time, you believed that it wouldn’t hurt to cover yourself with an impenetrable front. Surely your false marriage wouldn’t get questioned considering how touchy and affectionate you were with Mizu, proudly believing that such a plan would remain the same as usual.

Unfortunately for you, it might have to be time to come to terms with the fact that her revenge mattered more than you.

All of her recent actions reflected a strict focus to the goal she had set, refusing to indulge in even the smallest of pleasures with her own ‘wife.’ You constantly strode alongside her through Kyoto’s crowded infrastructure, shielded by the overarching shadow of her kasa shrouding her face as she opened her mouth to inquire of the Shindo Dojo’s whereabouts left and right.

You couldn’t bear to see her disappointed expression whenever she was ignored or directed incorrectly, one of the residents even leading her to a pleasure house, much to her discomfort. However, nothing served to dilate the pit in your stomach more than Mizu brushing you off, rolling her shoulder past you whenever she was fixated on gathering information about some piece of shit connected to one of the white men hiding in Japan.

You knew she didn’t hate you. In fact, Mizu loved you like you were the most precious thing she had ever set her sights on. Held you and whispered in your ears that you were one of the only people that ever mattered to her, and how grateful she was to have you, all while you were hemmed in her overflowing grasp of affection. Yet, you were unable to help the twinge of discomposure swirling in your chest at how…comfortable she felt neglecting you like this.

Of course in retaliation, you began to bite back at her lack of feeling towards you ever since you reached Kyoto under the disguise, growing increasingly despondent to the words that left her mouth. The annoyance alone she was able to inflict on you in these past few days was more than enough to fuel a minuscule revenge of your own. You’d always snap back toward Mizu, words tinged with a short of sharp edge to them, & contrasting the usual gentle demeanor you often displayed for her.

Looking around the cramped lanes, you remained to Mizu’s side as her own eyes traced every inch of the vicinity, briefly tilting her glasses along the bridge of her nose to capture a clear view as darkness clouded the sky in a shrouding night. Rays of moonlight kissing the rippling bodies of water engulfing the bridge off at the end, accompanied by the muted lamps provided a faint expansion of light within such a late portion of day, some starting to die out into a smoky grey one by one.

A disappointed huff fell from Mizu’s lips at the sight of nightfall descending upon the two of you, striking a halt in the investigation that had been dragged out for the whole day. Although you’d never admit it to her, you wanted to breathe out a prolonged sigh of relief once your info gathering induction had ceased for the day, unsure of how much longer you could rasp out another word about the black market merchant.

“(Name). We’re done for today, let me know if you find a decent place to rest.”

“Shouldn’t you look for one yourself? It’s the husband’s job to provide obviously.” You muttered, loud enough for Mizu to hear as you rolled your eyes.

“This is a false front and you know it. Stop being so stuck up and just listen to me.”

“Or what? Fucking hell Mizu, is it stuck up to ask for a little attention from my girlfriend?”

The sudden announcement of your relationship’s actual title cause her eyes to shoot wide open, cocking an eyebrow in evident disrelish toward your lack of compliance.

“You know full well that we’re in the middle of something important, and you’re simply acting like an attention seeking child!” Mizu hissed under her breath, attempting to keep her voice subtle to avert any attention away from the two of you.

“I don’t care. You just brush me off like I don’t exist when you’re clearly supposed to act like my husband.”

“Quit acting so fucking bratty and maybe I’ll give you what you want after we’re done.”

“Forget it, Mizu. Can’t believe I’m in love with a demon like you.”

You could almost hear Mizu’s breath hitch in her throat, swallowing back a lump as her lips remained parted in a frown. Her eyes roamed over you in disdain, brows knitting together as her eyelids lowered into a contorted expression of annoyance and hurt.

Regret clawed at your mind as you took in Mizu’s expression, clearly not displaying a particular fixation on hurt alone, but definitely harboring a chagrin of sorts. You felt your heart ache, realizing the words you had just uttered to your lover, unable to reflect upon what you just said to the woman you supposedly loved as she turned her back to you. Was she leaving you? Right here?

You jolted up at the sight of her head tilted over her shoulder to glance back at you, a cold expression still carved onto her already wounded gaze.

“Are you coming or not?”

Clearing your throat, you managed a soundless nod in response, the crunch of your footsteps being the only thing breaking the silence fostered between the two of you. A surge of anxiety crept up within you, the bitter taste flat against your tongue from the sheer feeling along worse than raw bile. What the hell was the matter with you? You claim you love her yet you struck a blow at one of her deepest insecurities? You couldn’t even begin to comprehend how disgusted you were with yourself right now.

Your footsteps abruptly ceased their movements as soon as you noticed Mizu’s own feet, stationary and sunken in the snow as she eyed the large wooden building with a sign hammered along a plank off to its right in a messy fashion. She immediately pivoted in the direction of the paper door upfront, pressing her fingers to the wall to push it aside and make way as it disappeared the further it was slid.

Despite following suit, you had completely blanked out, mind fogged with nothing but a storm of plaguing thoughts and raw hatred for your earlier words lurching at your chest. In this very moment, you couldn’t even begin to describe the guilt gnawing at the back of your head over and over. Similarly to a demon whispering in your ear endlessly to send you spiraling into madness.

No. You don’t get to put the blame on a demon. You demeaned your beloved as an onryō despite claiming to love her. The only real demon here was you.

A swift tap dragged along your shoulder shook you out of your jaundiced trance, Mizu’s unfeeling eyes stabbing through yours as she stared you down.

“Come on. There’s a room available.”

You cocked your head in confusion, not following the series of events that followed while your mind was wandering off. A sigh pushed past her tongue as she looked over at you, an unamused look painted all over her face.

“The room. We’re staying at an inn for the night. Then we continue investigating tomorrow.”

“Oh. Okay..”

That was all you could whisper out. Even speaking to her reminded you of that pained expression etched onto her face, draining the affection thay once presided in her blue eyes.

As soon as the door to your room slid open, such a minute detail presenting itself before you twisted like a dagger to your heart, feeling it drop to your stomach like a heavy stone. The two futons situated on the floor, one each big enough to fit both you and Mizu on it, yet still having two seperate beds against the floor far apart from each other. Was this some higher power’s way of telling you that your relationship was done for?

Not wanting to be held back by spacing out again, you begrudgingly set your foot down within the confines of the room, stepping into it as you were drawn to the futon on the far left. Kneeling beside it, a somber tiredness masked your face as you stared down at the fabric, with a few slight wrinkles adorning its stretched edges. The futon was quite spacious as it was splayed out on the tatami mat, oddly comfortable as well as you ran a hand along the surface.

You paused for a moment, slowly turning a head behind your shoulder until you caught sight of Mizu in your periphery, intently transfixed on her grasping at the kasa in her hands before setting it down beside the end of her own futon, her tinted glasses following alongside her cloak in a small pile of discarded clothes—if you could even call such accessories that. The weights strapped to her arms and legs also loosened to the floor with a clank, joining the discard pile as she took in a deep breath.

Mizu almost immediately plopped herself atop the futon without so much as looking over at you, back facing you as she lay on her side with the weight of her head pressured atop her arm.

“Blow out the candle for me, will you?”

Averting your gaze from her back, you sluggishly padded over to the candle, each step you took burning your heels as you felt like you were carrying the deadweight of your own body. A quick rush of wind was expelled from your lungs as you puckered your lips to blow out the candle, the flame flickering momentarily before vanishing into a thin trail of smoke wavering in the air and stinging your nostrils.

The strong miasma of smoke you were close to began to swirl within your throat within the darkness of the room, breath hitching as your head fogged up from discomfort. Perhaps you should refrain from inhaling smoke, only idiots come close enough to purposefully take in the scent of an air that could beset your lungs.

Only idiots hurt the person they love, much less if that person has been hurt enough in their past.

Returning to your futon, you also proceeded to lay on your side facing away from Mizu, fighting back the urge to want to see her gorgeous face. You closed your eyes, albeit a bit hesitantly as you screwed them shut, wallowing the quiet, wordless atmosphere fostered in the darkness once dimly illuminated by a tiny flame.

Or rather, former silence.

Your eyes almost immediately shot open at the abrupt chime of a distant shamisen echoing miles away in the dead of night. The smooth strums continued to ring in your ears in a soothing, yet harsh melody. Strange. They often didn’t hold any kabuki theater plays this late at night. You remained perplexed at the endless melodic chimes of the shamisen, yet oddly relaxed. Unable to comprehend the reason behind such a noise drifting through the streets so late, yet enjoying the comfort it enveloped you in.

Such a shame your comfort tore away from you, this night possibly being the last night you could even lay eyes upon your lover. You were sure you’d shattered everything you had with one simple comment alone. In this moment, you were no better than the man who had betrayed her in the past.

No.

No. You could never be apart from Mizu.

She was everything to you. You were nothing but determined to repair what you had supposedly shattered, using all you had to get the pieces to snap back together as with every ounce of internal strength you could muster if that’s what it took.

You sat up in one fluid motion, weakly dragging yourself over to Mizu’s futon while swallowing back the urge to just head back and sleep, ignoring the notion that this wouldn’t make it any better. Her body rose and fell with each breath she took in her slumber, eyes shut with a weary expression even as she slept. Without hesitation, you adjusted yourself to curl up directly behind her in a spooning position of sorts, arms encircling her waist almost immediately as you pressed your nose against her nape.

Mizu only shot you a quizzical glare, blinking groggily at the sight of your arms tightly fastened around her waist.

“Your bed is over there, you know.”

“These futons are enough for two people. Besides, I want to sleep next to my husband.” You muttered against her skin, breath fluttering against her nape in a warm embrace. Her breath caught in her throat at the mention of the false title the two of you had to act on, muscles tensing up in your grasp.

“What if I kill you? I am a demon after all.” She reiterated, a bitter edge cutting a pang of anguish directly into the existing wound of guilt embedded within you. “I don’t care..” you choked out in a shaky voice, dragging your lower lip between your teeth to suppress the tears stinging the corners of your eyes.

“I’m so sorry, Mizu.”

…

The entire room fell silent once more, your heart threatening to burst out of your chest as soon as you felt the warm embrace of Mizu’s arms tightly curled around you, squeezing you to her chest as her face was buried within your hair.

“I shouldn’t have brushed you off like that either.”

You shook your head against her chest, a few tears rolling down your cheeks as Mizu’s expression relaxed, softening as she held you close to herself. Both of you remained in eachother’s embrace for a bit, relishing in the warmth of your wholehearted adoration. Despite the ridges that walled between you two at times, you would always come back to her. You know full well that she meant everything to you, while she reciprocated the same. She only hushed any more apologies spilling profusely from you, holding you tighter.

“Please..Mizu..let me do anything to make it up to you. Anything at all.”

You’ll never forget the sudden flare of hunger roused in her pupils as those words vibrated in her ears, bare hands outlining your body up to dig into your shoulders. Her voice came out in a quiet hum as she pursed her lips together, shaky hands fighting the ravenous desire to yank down the shoulders of your kimono right then and there.

“Anything?”

It didn't take long for you to catch onto her implication, your breath fanning in a series of shallow exhales as your torso pressed to hers with an urgent desire aflame within every drop of blood, every rushing fiber within your body screaming her name. Tilting your head up, you only rasped out a breathless plea as your lips ghosted over Mizu's, her heart pounding furiously against her chest to which you could quite literally feel from the clothed chest to chest proximity.

A palpable heat crept into the air as it fogged the atmosphere between you two, the tension fostered thick with a lustful infatuation hinted with the beauty of love itself. You couldn’t even pretend to hold yourself back, practically lunging yourself at Mizu as your lips smashed against her own, locking yourself in a passionate grasp accompanied by her hands wandering your body shamelessly as if she wanted to tear everything off without regard.

You gasped against her lips in response to her tightened hands bunching up fistfuls of your kimono silk, bundled up within her grasp as her tongue dragged along your lower lip, completely lost in the intense craving to devour you whole. Leaning back, you didn’t resist her hands tracing the darkened silhouette of your figure to slide down the shoulders of your clothing, urging her to undress you completely as you writhed in the unbearable heat your clothes trapped you in.

It didn’t take long for you to lay before her, flat against your back fully bare while your eyes lingered over Mizu’s now unclothed form as well, taking in every part of her nude body as you felt your face burn a deep crimson from the sheer beauty of the sight before your eyes. You couldn’t help but lose yourself in those gorgeous blue eyes, now heavy lidded and misted over with a covetous desire boring into your own.

Her lips found their way across your skin, kissing down your collarbone and tracing to your lower abdomen, hands snaked below your thighs as her gaze fixed on yours from below. You heard the subtle echo of your heartbeat thudding in the clearing as Mizu halted her movements for a second, seemingly having a thought interrupt her sensual touches along your body.

“Love..? Is something-“

“Hold on. I have something.” She interjected, reaching down into the discarded pile of clothing to scramble for a small—or rather large, rectangular box, fitted perfectly into her grasp as she lifted open the lid carefully. Breath hitching at the sight, your eyes flickered over to the phallic object firmly curled between her fingers, the length a nasty contrast to her earlier gentle kisses. You blinked in surprise at the fact that Mizu just- had a harigata on her, opening your mouth yet quickly snapping it shut as you didn’t exactly wanna question why she was carrying it around so casually.

You only responded to the sight with your heart throbbing in rapid beats, along in tandem with feeling a different kind of tingling fluttering between your thighs as you squeezed them shut upon seeing Mizu fasten the object around her waist.

—

“Fucking hell- you like that don’t you? You enjoy getting filled by a demon?”

Mizu hissed through her grit teeth as her hands squeezed at the flesh of your wrists, keeping them held down against the futon as her hips slammed forward into you to meet her skin against your with every fervent thrust. Your mouth hung open as your body jerked up everytime she bottomed out inside you, tear streaks coating your cheeks like a fashionable look to getting your insides wrecked by your lover.

Every wash of pleasure surged through your body as your walls accommodated to stretch out in response to the girth of her cock, clenching the velvety insides of your cunt to trap her inside, only to be met with her sliding the harigata out to drive back into you once more with a monstrous force. Eyes rolling back in bliss, you dragged your lower lip between your teeth in response to the rush of your blood igniting your body on fire, nails digging into Mizu’s back in response to the drag of her cock along your insides.

It was difficult to handle her rough movements ridging within the vice of your pussy, the tip of her faux cock circling that one spot inside you to drive you utterly insane. You were mad with lust as you clawed at Mizu for more whenever she paused, rolling your hips up with an aching need as a sinful ring of your slick, moist against the toy bounced off the walls of the room, only driving your girlfriend to drill you into the futon with a heightened arousal clouding her eyes.

Strings of incoherent cries and moans fell from your lips in a series of pathetic whimpers, wanton pants heaving your chest up and down as her cock lodged within you comfortably. Mizu grinded skin to skin with heightened desperation, using her strength to hold you down and reach that one spot that made you sob in ecstasy as she wrung you dry.

Her muscles tightened as her thrusts grew more rapid, face contorting in pleasure further on as if she was lost in it. She stared down at you as she fucked your into the futon harshly, grip tightening around your wrists and pushing you further without regard for anything but making you squirt all over the harigata. Strangely enough, her eyes shone with that same glint she harbored whenever she lusted for blood, brows furrowing as her pupils seemed transcendent and full hate, yet loving and burrowed in your pleasure.

“Say that you love it. Or are you so fucked out you can’t even let out a pathetic whimper?”

She gasped out a breathy laugh in response to your sobs, only jamming her hips further into you in a seemingly enraged manner.

“Oh? You can’t even talk? Such a shame. Here I thought you had a problem with demons bastards like me?”

She leaned her face in nose length with yours, meeting eye to eye with you as she continued rolling her hips harshly against yours.

“Say it. Say you’re sorry.”

Her girthy cock sunk into you at the command, only earning a cry ripped from your lips while you stared at the perverse sight of the dildo sheathing in and out of you sloppily, her hand moving to grasp your cheeks together and elicit a sharp cry. Mizu’s relentless thrusts spun your mind in a haze of euphoria, making you sputter out an apology despite being fucked into the mattress roughly without stopping for even a split second.

“I’m- m- mmh-!”

She rolled her eyes at the pitiful attempt, squeezing your face to look at her while she plowed into you with each powerful thrust nearly knocking the wind out of you.

“M’sorry! I’m sorry Mizu! I won’t ever- ah-! I won’t ever say that again please!”

You whined out, a smile crossing the woman’s features as she touched her forehead to yours, her thrusts keeping the same pace yet seeming far more controlled and gentle now. Mizu sighed against the crook of your neck, delicately peppering your skin to juxtapose her previously harsh and fervent movements against your poor, abused cunt. Her thumb darted down to circle your already swollen clit, hesitating momentarily before massaging the puffy bundle of nerves along with the gentle flurry of kisses along your collarbone.

It didn’t take long before Mizu’s hips plunged deep within you, her cock making one final movement before your juices ran down the dildo to dampen the futon, staining it in a darker color pooled between your trembling thighs. Unfasting the strap, she carefully withdrew herself from your pussy, setting aside the harigata as she pressed up to your limp body in an affectionate hold. Arms encompassing your heaving body, pressing kisses to the shell of your ear in acknowledgment that you did in fact do well for her, Mizu showered you with every action she could to possibly make you feel loved.

After your breathing subsided, Mizu thoughtfully rested her chin against your shoulder, humming to herself in satisfaction as you let out a shaky exhale.

“(Name)?”

“Mhm..?”

“I know we’re just putting on the whole husband and wife thing as an act but when we can…when I kill the remaining three..”

You tilted your head up, being met with a gentle kiss encompassing your body in a scorching flare of passion as she hemmed her arms around you tightly, like a promise to never let go.

“Marry me. Be my wife when everything is over. We can live away from everything. I’ll give you whatever you need- no..whatever you want.”

You were too spent to respond.

So with a smile, you manged a tender nod.



A/N: okay yall may like this but ima be fully honest…

I FUCKING HATE HOW THIS TURNED OUT SO MUCH ITS SO BAD.

IT DOESNT GIVE THE SAME VIBE AS MY USUAL MIZU FICS WHY DID I WRITE IT SO BAD FORGIVE ME

anyway my next mizu fic will actually be good trust sorry for making this ass anon 💔

[thepunkranger]

So I was thinking about Claire Redfield (as you do) and how much of an insane badass she is for not only holding her own in Raccoon City, but also protecting a child throughout the entire nightmare, and specifically how, for all intents and purposes, Claire in Resident Evil 2 during Raccoon City and Ashley in Resident Evil 4 are the closest thing to peers that they have.

Both of them are college-aged girls with zero combat/survival experience who've been dropped into a zombie-infested hellhole and have to find their way out, but Ashley is so starkly different of a character to Claire.

From a writing standpoint, Ashley is a very literal damsel in distress character. She's young, she's inexperienced, and she does, in fact, need a man to save her (no shade, I'd probably need Leon and his rippling abs to save me too). Now, she does grow significantly as a character throughout the events of the fourth game, and even gets to save Leon a couple of times, but she's still very much a young girl in need of help

Now, in comparison, Claire Redfield is a damsel in distress in the same way Meg from Hercules is

Claire is actually canonically younger in Resident Evil 2 than Ashley is in 4, being only 19, but goddamn is this girl not going to let that stop her. And while Claire does have a bit more skill with self-defense, all that really adds up to is forcing Chris to teach her knife fighting and probably going to the shooting range with him a couple of times. Claire is very confident in herself, but she doesn't have much real world experience to back that up. Girl rode her motorcycle into a zombie-infested city with nothing but a gun (where did she get this gun? We don't know) to do a welfare check on her brother and came out less scathed than the literal cop she made friends with.

And then, there's Sherry. Claire finds a random child hiding in the police station, saying that she's looking for her mom, and makes it her personal mission to protect her at all costs. And when said girl gets taken by the literal chief of police? Claire grabs her grenade launcher and decides that's gonna be his problem because by god is she taking care of that little girl.

By the time they make it out of the city Sherry might as well be Claire's biological daughter, and she is not about to let anything happen to her (forthcoming events out of her control notwithstanding)

Which, in a way, honestly I think makes 19-year-old Claire Redfield actually a closer peer to Ethan Winters.

Ethan is a nearly 30-year-old man who works an office job (I think he's IT?) and whose wife went missing a few years ago. When he finds out she's actually alive he grabs a flashlight and hops in his car to drive to Louisiana to bring her home.

This man finds out that his wife has been possessed, and he doesn't give a shit. He loves her. He made a vow to care for and protect her, and by god is he going to test the limits of 'til death do us part. He takes on an entire family of fucked up hillbillies and literal mold demons to bring her home. And when he does? They have a daughter, and Ethan is ready to sacrifice the world for her too.

All of Resident Evil 8 is just him fighting a pantheon of demons to save his baby girl armed with nothing but a gun he grabbed off a dead guy (he's from Texas, so I'm not gonna question it) and his innate knowledge of how to make life-saving elixirs. And yes, he does save both his wife and his daughter

Idk, I just think it's interesting that Claire and Ashley are so similar in age and life experience, but Claire winds up having the most in common with the Awkward Suburban Dad in the end

[loumandivorce]

@vampirejournalist started iwtv fanfic friday and i'm here to participate totally on time and not an hour before saturday begins with some LOUMAND FIC RECS as demanded by my url. here are some bangers.

Bloodletting, explicit, series

Even though we've had our ups and downs.

[“I love you,” Armand whispers. Louis swallows against a painful throat. “Sure, honey,” he says. “I love you.” Like saying it again will make it stick. “I know,” Louis says. Armand whispers it a third time, and Louis closes his eyes so he won’t have to look at him when he says, “I’m not gonna say it back, honey.”]

this is a series and it's number one on the rec list because it's truly The loumand series of all time there is nothing that gets them better. chances are you've read one or two of these but the entire series is absolutely insane. hot and disgusting and vulnerable and heartbreaking and makes me feel crazy.

A Chill That Follows, explicit

He leans down to kiss Armand, cradling the back of his neck in his hand. He smiles when he feels rather than hears Armand sigh against his lips, pleased—as if he’s receiving a gift. It’s almost absurd, to think that he was threatening to kill him less than half an hour ago. “What’s absurd is that threatening to kill you was what finally got you to put out for him,” a dismissive, familiar voice says behind him. Shit.

armand is fighting for his LIFE. delicious read

Triptych (Three Studies for Figures at the Base of a Crucifixion), teen

The five of them— Louis, Armand, the figures at the crucifixion— sit together, far too much alike, deformed creatures with teeth that shine in the dark. They all come apart in pieces.

[Why they bought the Bacon triptych, and why Armand sold it.]

really interesting character study on the trifecta in relation to armand

The Cord That Goes Winding Out The Door, teen

There had never been a time proper in his life where Louis wasn’t surrounded by others, but this was the first time that he had felt permanently connected; eternally un-alone. Another being tied to him, a constant brushing of shoulders against his being.

birthing imagery as horror 😊

1,001 nights, mature

The last time Louis saw the ocean up close was—1998. An island off of Miami. Flat, breezeless night.

Or: shards of the past seventy-seven years.

loumand failmarriage through the decades.

dirges, explicit

They fell into a holding pattern for a while in the seventies, in the years before Daniel. Perhaps it was not so long as years, but time dilated, as it was, in Armand’s experience, sometimes wont to do, and it stretched into a small eternity, syrupy and neon-lit, of Louis throwing himself onto swords, chasing and chasing, Armand trailing after with the end of the leash.

practically a loumand heritage fic. written pre s2 but managed to predict so many key parts of their dynamic.

Alexandria, explicit

Louis, glitteringly modern as Armand has always found him, is an excellent tourist, throwing himself into the wholehearted pursuit of the city with an almost manic zeal. Thunderingly alive in Paris, thunderingly alive in Alexandria, thunderingly alive for the rest of their lives, wherever they might be.

loumand in egypt! almost feels like a slice of life in a way, reading this makes you feel like this is really how they spent those 77 years together. the perfect undercurrent of tragedy and bitterness and, of course, love.

acts of collision, explicit

Armand misses Louis like a man about town misses his favourite whore. He misses what only one person is horrid enough to do to him. And Daniel wouldn't even suggest it, if he couldn't feel how Louis misses Armand in the exact same way.

this one is sort of cheating because its a loumandiel fic from daniel's pov, but it's so so good. set in a nebulous post s2 future where daniel invites louis to do a bdsm scene with armand because they both miss each other but armand quite literally Doesn't Talk to louis the whole time. rlly fascinating

the crowning evil, explicit

Armand stood, back to the window, unblinking, tension carrying itself in his frame. Liar, Louis thought. All he could think. Centuries old monster playing at being a boy. A boy pretending to be a man. Unworthy in both roles. Something akin to revulsion clawed up his throat, but it couldn't be, not really, he was too burnt to a husk to muster it in its completeness.

“Come here,” Louis said, his voice dropping.

Armand stepped forward, eyes going wide and hopeful and hungry in half a second. “Yes, Maître.”

“You’re still on that?” Louis asked.

this is just self promo im ngl 💗 but i'm confident enough that my own fic is good so. loumand having despair sex before going to meet lestat in paris in 2.08

this ended up being pretty long but loumand writers when they get it right write such beautiful fics 💗 thank you wonderful iwtc writers. happy fanfic friday/saturday!

[sicksadgames]

As the Sun Forever Sets - Terror in the time of the Telegraph

It’s nuts I’ve been working on this game for over 4 years at this point. As the Sun Forever Sets is for sure my biggest and most capital G Game. It even has a publisher and everything. It’s also my first game! Wow! It's been tough, though. We'll get into it!

Britain, 1899

As the Sun Forever Sets is a survival horror sandbox based on the War of the Worlds, utilises the Forged in the Dark ruleset, and is about ordinary people surviving a Martian invasion of Victorian era Britain. We play to find out how they rise to meet the storm of destruction, the ways in which it shapes them, and if they survive to see a new world emerge, or die amidst the rubble of the old.

In the last years of Queen Victoria’s reign, the British Empire stretches across a quarter of the globe, and under the guise of genteel progress and civilisation, it commits theft and murder on a global scale. Britain itself is on the verge of the modern era, the Second Industrial Revolution pushing people into the cities to drive the factories and forges owned by the greedy industrialist class. But beyond the common causes of humanity and unbeknownst to the men who impose their rule over it, vast wheels have begun their inexorable turning. Across 40 million miles of void, the Martian invasion hurtles Earthward. Screaming across the stars, instruments of annihilation unlike anything believed possible lie ready for assembly, alongside the Martians themselves. They are truly inscrutable beings, but their intent is as clear as it is terrible – they will suck the literal and figurative blood from the Earth, and nothing less than the complete and utter subjugation of humanity will be enough.

If this sounds cool to you... well, you gotta wait, it’s not done yet. Sorry! But you can come and hang out in the Sick Sad Games discord, where I post excerpts and occasionally organise playtests.

The Hard Times of (Old) England

Be warned, this is a long one - over 4000 words (if you don't have a Tumblr account, you won't get to the end before it starts bugging you to register one, so go read this on Medium instead.) It turns out when you work on a game for a long time, you have a lot to say about it. Strap in, grab your gin and laudanum, and let’s destroy an evil empire just by existing.

Thanks to the wonderful @hendrik-ten-napel for taking a look over my disorganised thoughts.

(Potential) Spoilers for: The Bear, The War of the Worlds, The Last of Us, Children of Men, Threads, When the Wind Blows, Amnesia: A Machine for Pigs, The Thing.

Roleplay in the Pre-Post-Apocalypse

TTRPGs love a good post apocalypse. It's understandable - gas up and ride glorious on the legally distinct fury road, run a commune of like minded weirdos in the ashes of the old world, go digging through retro-futuristic ruins to find retro-futuristic treasures. Who wouldn't want to do any of these? But As the Sun Forever Sets is about an apocalypse as it begins, not after it’s over. 

There's a lot of crossover, of course. There’s a focus on similar things - disaster and spectacle, relationships and trust, scavenging and survival. But the bonus of the world not yet being over, is that we get to roleplay out dealing with that terrible, inexorable reality.

HG Wells wrote a book about blowing up all the places he used to live, and it's a banger. I was surprised to find there wasn't a TTRPG based on the War of the Worlds, being the tantalisingly public domain ur-alien invasion story it is. As the Sun Forever Sets is very explicitly an adaption of it, to the point that before I came up with the name it almost got released as The War of the Worlds: The Roleplaying Game (lol). I'm glad I didn't, doing my own thing has meant both me and the people playing are way more free to fuck around without the expectation that it must adhere to a canon.

The book is good, strikingly modern feeling in parts, and obviously massively influential - so much science fiction can be traced back to our nameless Narrators tormentuous trek across the south of England. But Wells’ prose is typical Victorian - overly wordy and florid (any book that contains the word “ejaculating” meaning “to shout” might be difficult for readers who aren’t used to the style), so when it comes to recommending an actual adaptation, there’s only one true king. Whenever I bring up Jeff Wayne’s The War of the Worlds, the usual reaction from anyone outside of the UK is to say "... they made a what?"

My mom was very keen to get me into musicals, but nothing really stuck until she tried this, the secret best War of the Worlds adaption (sorry Steven Spielberg, but you were doomed from the start.) It's the bombast and drama you'd expect from a disaster film, the horror and pathos of Wells’ classic, all expressed through vivid narration and sick nasty prog rock - wailing guitar and crunchy 70's synths operating at full effect. It's not completely faithful to the book, it doesn't matter. It’s the best.

Ah yes, the film bro's favourite mid 2000's film. Did you see that sick oner? That’s six minutes without a cut, that means the film’s good right? Children of Men is a slow burn apocalypse, dressed up like a world that’s already ended. Plenty has been written about all the little ways the film is prescient about the state of the UK - the slow belly-crawl into facism and nationalist fervour, the particularly British decay and class divide exacerbated by the desperate times, even the willful ignorance and the explicit sense that everyone’s just given up, it’s all here.

All that thematic stuff seems like it’d be really relevant to As the Sun Forever Sets, right?

Unfortunately, we are in fact here to talk about the long takes. The unbroken moment-to-moment action scenes evoke The War of the Worlds to a tee. Theo navigates danger with the same fraught tactical tension as War of the World's Narrator - dashing between doorways, groping for an axe handle in the darkness, desperately trying to start a car as assailants sprint towards him. What’s the best way out of this situation? How do I get from here to where I need to be? He lives his life in rolling, fleeting 5 second intervals, because he’s forgotten what it means to think in the long term - about the future, and what it might hold.

I was always fascinated and terrified by the idea of nuclear war. I guess it comes from watching a lot of 90’s disaster movies, but those are often ultimately fun romps where the day gets saved at the end, or at least the main characters find themselves alive and well at the end of the saga of destruction. Instead, As the Sun Forever Sets asks you to reflect on the horror and sadness present at the end of the world. Things are going to change forever, and change is always hard.

There’s not many clips of Threads and When the Wind Blows online, so it’s a little hard to demonstrate their particular nuclear inflected pitch black darkness. They’re grim - Grave of the Fireflies grim - differing in focus but united in their horrible impact.

When the Wind Blows is a story of an elderly couple living in rural England when the bombs drop, based on the comic by Raymond Briggs. Yes, The Snowman’s Raymond Briggs made a film about 2 lovely grandparents dying of acute radiation poisoning. Jim and Hilda are completely unprepared for what’s to come, their only reference is the Blitz - terrible in its own way, but not a patch on the scale of death they’re about to experience.

They survive the blast and wait for the good old British Government to arrive to save them, as it did in the 40’s. Slowly liquifying in the nuclear fallout, they hold onto each other and keep their spirits up, eventually making the decision to clamber into the paper sacks they mistakenly believed might protect them from the blast. Clutching their medical cards and birth certificates (for the ambulance, sure to be along any minute now), Jim mumbles painfully through a final prayer that morphs into a misremembered Charge of the Light Brigade, and they slip into a perpetual slumber together.

The most tragic part is Jim and Hilda’s unshakeable faith that their government is there for them - ready to catch them when they fall - borne out of Britain’s post WW2 renewal but absent in the 1980’s of the film’s plot, and the Britain of today. It’s a masterful film, shockingly sad, but the shock is the point.

Instead of aiming for your heart, Threads aims for the head. It’s a drama that aims to be as accurate as possible to government research into what a nuclear war might look like, plainly and forensically setting it out without any thought of softening these hard facts for its audience. Rather than focusing on a personal story, Threads flits around several groups of characters - minor government figures and ordinary families. Like Jim and Hilda, they too are woefully unprepared for the end of the world, and those in charge know there’s no way the UK could ever be ready for such a thing.

As mundane life is quietly intruded upon by news updates detailing far off geopolitics and the subsequent escalation that leads to war, the tension rises subtly then suddenly, like a spacecraft on the launchpad. People we’ve seen pottering about their normal lives are maimed and evaporated in the subsequent shocking nuclear exchange, whilst stark statistics flash on the screen - the hundreds of thousands instantly killed, how long the millions more fatally irradiated have left to live, the woefully inadequate tonnage of stockpiled food to feed those who survive. Each zero hits like a gutpunch.

And when you think the film must nearly be over, it keeps going. 1 week later. 1 year later. Threads grinds to an excruciating halt 13 years after the bombs fall, after year upon year of failed harvests from a destroyed earth barely able to support a population level equivalent to medieval Britain. At one point, mute children watch a warped and scratchy VHS of classic kids educational programme Words and Pictures on a TV powered by a steam generator.

The friendly presenter spells out the word “cat” through the thick veil of static, accompanied by a picture of one - an animal the children watching will likely never see. As they watch with blank, emotionless faces, the image of the cat fades to one of its skeletal form. “A cat’s skeleton” the presenter enthusiastically intones. The unrelenting bleakness might feel like a punishment, but Threads doesn’t mean it to be. This is just what would happen, after all.

Love in the time of the Heat-ray

In fact, someone in a Reddit thread said As the Sun Forever Sets “wasn’t just endless misery” and I’m glad that comes across. I wanted there to be moments of tenderness, quiet joy, anger, frustration, love and loss to punctuate the action and the horror.

People are messy and complicated even at the best of times. Under pressure, this is amplified a thousandfold - a little crush becomes a whirlwind romance, small disagreements become full blown fights, and not fully understanding someone might transform them into an enemy in your head.

The little town Bill conspires to be left alone in ends up comparatively untouched by the horrors going on elsewhere, as untouched as anywhere can be in The Last of Us. He hated the world anyways - so he isolates himself as he prepares for it to end, and it makes sense that his life only really begins as the show does. When Frank arrives, Bill is forced not to just engage with the broader world outside of his little enclave, but in the act of truly living in it.

There’s no prepper’s guide to romance. A human heart can’t be field stripped for maintenance. By choosing to exist as a vulnerable, emotional being, Bill opens himself up to a different kind of apocalypse. Frank becomes the flowering vines that slowly crack the flat concrete wall of a world that Bill created, and when those vines die, the wall can only crumble. It’s so fraught and lovely, delicately yet absolutely gut wrenching. At least their apocalypse was one they decided to have together.

“I’m old. I’m satisfied. And you… were my purpose.” - "Long Long Time”, The Last of Us

While several of my TTRPG writing friends were gushing about how great The Bear is, Em Acosta, author of the wonderfully inspirational Exile pointed out something super interesting - a lot of the show is about how you deal with people you’ve found yourself stuck with. No matter how much they piss you off, or whatever they do wrong, there’s something that means you can’t ever let them truly exit your life. They’re there, like it or not, until the bitter end.

Turns out this is very similar to how As the Sun Forever Sets handles Player Character relationships. In both it and The Bear, nothing’s ever truly resolved between characters - every relationship is like a cooking pot perpetually simmering. You might’ve apologised, made a truce, or just ignored your issues for so long that they seem to disappear, but no matter what, you’ve got to keep your eye on that pot.

Because suddenly a crisis will hit, and someone says something, or a diceroll comes up bad and all of a sudden the pot boils over and things are once again fucked. You storm out, start screaming, throw a fork. Even in the worst case scenario where a Character leaves because they’re absolutely sick of the rest of the group, they might show up at the end of the game for one last scene. Who knows how you’ll all feel at the end - nothing is ever truly fixed, and only the dead are truly broken. 

“I quit, chef, is what’s going on. You are an excellent chef. You are also a piece of shit. This isn’t on me. Goodbye." - “The Review”, The Bear

I’ve talked about The Thing a little before, John Carpenters sweaty, paranoid antarctic masterpiece. Along with the incredible effects and the (mostly) restrained use of action and bombast, the thing that makes... The Thing work is that the staff of the stricken research base lack any and all emotional intelligence.

It’s sort of the ultimate reverse Dudes Rock movie. Nobody knows anything about each other, so when their bodies and minds are colonised by the titular chameleon from outer space, they’re just another stranger to the rest of the crew. I’d ask you a question only you would know the answer to, but uh.. I don’t know anything about you. Whoops!

Over the course of the film, the whole operation falls apart as they try their best to work together to deal with the alien interloper, but their complete lack of ability to trust or relate to each other - present even before the crisis they find themselves in - is their ultimate downfall.

That final excellent shot of MacReady and Childs sat in the snow at the end of the film as their compound burns around them is the subject of a lot of unnecessary theorycrafting youtube videos, which kind of misses the point. Each suspects the other, but ultimately it doesn’t matter if one of them’s a Thing. One stranger is the same as another. Why bother getting to know each other now?

“Well...What do we do?” “Why don't we just... wait here for a little while? See what happens.” - Childs and Macready, The Thing

Science Fiction Revenge Fantasy

I’m not a historian, but the parallels between 1899 and now are pretty plain to see. Increasing class disparity, a lack of political will to help those in need, rampant cronyism and profiteering. As long as you’re in the place for it, roleplaying in a fictionalised version of the past to air out the issues of the present can be super fun and cathartic. You’re not expected to get a degree in British history to make it work, either.

The title is a play on the phrase “The Sun Never Set on the British Empire”, and it’s plainly stated in the book that Britains Empire acted as a mechanism of genocidal oppression, and that the Martians are here to end it - intentionally or not. It’s appealing as a premise on the face of it, but it goes a little deeper. Memories of Empire echo across time in Britain like the ringing of a malevolent bell, a cause celebre for braying Tories and fascistic right wing cunts (two very close circles in the venn diagram.)

We used to be a great country before this woke nonsense. Things were better back in the old days. The DEI contingent is trying to destroy our noble past. Yada yada yada, fuck offff. I’m sure someone somewhere will accuse me of “wokewashing” the past for including explicitly trans and queer characters as part of the book, along with the historical facts around how we fit into the oppressive Victorian conception of sex and gender. Unfortunately for them, we’ve always been here.

To be a little pretentious about it, every game of As the Sun Forever Sets reaches back into the past and cuts the myth of a glorious and benevolent Empire, and the good old days enjoyed within it off at the neck, purely in the act of beginning one. That sparks a little joy for me. Destroying a racists dream is fun, even if it’s only in the abstract.

A horror game about the most literalist Victorian industrialist imaginable hearing the phrase “Eat the rich” and getting right on that. I’ve not played Amnesia: A Machine for Pigs despite fond (??) memories of playing The Dark Descent in a room full of jumpy friends, and seeing Dear Esther played live on stage, with a live orchestra and narrator - an exquisite way to experience that game.

The mechanical chops of Frictional Games mixed with the narrative verve of The Chinese Room, how could this game be anything less than incredible?

After The Dark Descent I fell off’ve the “scary guy chases you around” genre of game until Alien: Isolation revitalised it, and the reviews of A Machine for Pigs were mixed - kind of boring, middling gameplay, too dark - so I never went back. I was planning on writing a little about its vibe - dark, gothic Victoriana that rhymes nicely with As the Sun Forever Sets - but after a bit of research, Mandus’ quest for his missing sons strikes an unexpectedly resonant and terrible chord.

The writing and voice acting is phenomenal, Mandus’ split consciousness - the self you play and the other half of him that’s seen the horrors of the forthcoming 20th Century and is compelled to act, imbued into the myopic machine he built - is extremely compelling. He feels compassion for the poor and wants to save them, but they fill him with fear and disgust. He knows the industrialist class is killing the world, but feels a deep shame in the fact that he counts himself amongst them. So his machine grinds the rich into meat for the poor, who it distorts into grotesque pig homunculi and forces them to operate the machine’s inscrutable workings.

It’s Mandus’ twisted way of saving the world - kill the rich for their crimes, enslave the poor for their own good, all hail the new machine/god/manager of the 20th century. It’s a neat reflection of the way modern politicians contort themselves to the whims of big business and AI snake oil salesmen to avoid doing the simple and obvious things that’d better the world. It’s a nightmarish refutation of Victorian Liberalism, that only the upper class know how to fix the problems of the lower class. It’s brilliant, and we should play it. 

"Do you hear me Mandus? This is what you planned! This world is a machine! A Machine for Pigs! Fit only for the slaughtering of pigs! Whores, beggars, orphans, filthy degenerates. Pigs all. But I will purify the streets, cleanse this city, set the great industry free. I will clean the world, make it pure." - The Machine, A Machine for Pigs

Song of the Year, of the Century

Not long after I came out as trans, I was asked what (in an ideal world) would make transition easier. I replied - never having to leave the house. One day I'd shut the front door as a man and another day, months or years later, I'd open it again as a woman, neatly sidestepping the terror of being perceived in a notoriously transphobic Britain.

In 2020 I shut that door and didn't open it for 4 months. At work, I remember calling the nearby shelter to donate our excess hand sanitizer and toilet roll, figuring out at the last second how support workers could take calls from their already isolated clients via their mobile phones, and fixating on the steady stream of scared coworkers leaving early. Tearfully, I felt the urge to hug those that remained as we locked up, before we remembered we probably shouldn't.

I've never been more aware of the minutia of moving through a space on the way home - How many people had their hands on this handrail? Have I touched my mouth or eyes without realising? Is anyone in the office already sick? Or on this train? How many more people are going to die? - My heart was in my chest, I heard the blood whoosh through my head to the beat of my steps on the pavement. At home, I realised my boyfriend had to go into work the next day. After he went to sleep, terrified he might die, I cried.

"I remember I felt an extraordinary persuasion that I was being played with, that presently, when I was upon the very verge of safety, this mysterious death—as swift as the passage of light—would leap after me from the pit about the cylinder, and strike me down." - "The Heat Ray", The War of the Worlds

Writing As the Sun Forever Sets was my way of coping with the disconnect with the world I felt, the fear of both Covid and the rising transphobia kept me inside even as the lockdowns eased. That feeling of throbbing death creeping at the window took a long time to wrestle under control, and getting deeply obsessed with a big project became part of that process. It seems incredibly maudlin to make a TTRPG dealing with darkness and death during a pandemic that killed (and continues to kill) millions of people, but I suppose I’m kind of a maudlin person.

“I haven't written a song in a month, So I'm playing the same chords again. I know I need to get lost in the moment, But I get lost before it begins. Fingers stretching out into space. Reaching as a thought slips away.”

It also burnt me the fuck out. After years of constant work and testing (beginning long before Evil Hat picked up the game), I ran out of steam. I spent the months after Evil Hat’s public playtest ended not really able to write anything ATSFS related at all. The game kind of froze - I knew what I wanted to change or fix or add, but the moment the google doc opened I couldn’t make myself start typing. It was incredibly frustrating to have the switch flip from endless obsessive writing to constant nothing, and I don’t think I truly recognised the burnout I was feeling until recently. It turns out spending years staying up past midnight writing is bad, who know!

A lot of Forged in the Dark games don’t get finished (or more accurately, get stuck in perpetual development), something that the excellent and dearly missed +1 Forward podcast recognised in their episode collecting their thoughts on the FITD games they looked at back in 2021. I think that’s because, at least to me, writing a Forged in the Dark game is like trying to hold a plate of spaghetti without the plate. It’s deceptively simple at its heart, but the system squirms when you poke at it - write one thing and it affects 3 other things. Tug one piece of pasta out and you lose a meatball without realising it.

When I listened to that episode, I took it as a challenge. Part of me now wonders if it was a curse. I'm being hyperbolic, of course. But a little part of me did think it might be better to give the game up.

That’s not going to be As the Sun Forever Sets' fate, thankfully. Evil Hat has been there to support me when I’ve felt guilty about shifting another deadline or replying to a check-in email with another late “Not much progress this month, sorry!” The frozen writers block is thawing, and I’m so tantalisingly close to finishing the final text. This blog is part of that process, another chip in the icy dam.

The wheels of dread Martian terror turn once again, and it feels good. Part of that is down to not beating myself up about a lack of progress. The more important part came when I realised I felt able to return to the world again - living in it, not hiding from it. Staying connected to it, even when there's times I'm not able to inhabit it physically. Covid, Britains particular brand of transphobic brainworms, and the shadow of Empire all continue to exist, and so do I - a weird maudlin transsexual woman - in spite of them all.

“The day seemed, by contrast with my recent confinement, dazzlingly bright, the sky a glowing blue. A gentle breeze kept the red weed that covered every scrap of unoccupied ground gently swaying. And oh! the sweetness of the air!” - “The Stillness”, The War of the Worlds

You made it!

Thanks for sticking with my messy thoughts. If what I talked about here sounds cool to you, please stop by the Discord, we'd love to have you. Look forward to seeing As the Sun Forever Sets come to a crowdfunding platform of Evil Hat's choice (I assume backerkit) at some point in the future ♥.

[khattikeri]

drives me nuts when people treat jin guangyao or wei wuxian like they're socialist revolutionaries like no! they're not!! in fact their respective roles in society and complacency regarding its hierarchies is why ANY of the story even happens to begin with!!!

jin guangyao doesn't hold bitterness just because he was born lower class. he is bitter because others deride him and his prostitute mother in spite of both their intelligence, skills, and efforts to climb the ladder.

why do you think we were shown scenes of other prostitutes in the brothel deriding meng shi for being literate, for "trying" so hard? why do you think we were shown scenes of anxin taunting meng yao and throwing shit at him because he was trying to learn cultivation at his mother's behest?

why do you think jin guangyao arranged for the arson of that brothel, burned to the ground with everyone except sisi inside? that's not the behavior of someone who believes in true equality and the inherent worth of sex workers as human beings!

that's the behavior of someone who thinks he's better than them. the behavior of a man who already came up on top through political games and war crimes, backstabbing and spying for the sake of the "greater good".

i won't rehash his argument to nie mingjue that he didn't have a choice-- he had some choice, but no matter what he does his class will come up and people will always assume the worst and try to hurt him for it, which forces his hand to do whatever will protect him best (hence 'no choice').

jin guangyao did everything he could to secure his own safety and a place among those already higher up. and by that point, he'd won it.

the fact that the temple rebuilt on the brothel site is to guanyin, the goddess of mercy, is even more ironic! the fact that jin guangyao has the goddess's statue carved to look like his own mother is proof that he viewed both her and himself as higher than them. more worthy than them.

of course he cared about the general welfare of others (read: the watchtowers). but consider also that there is no watchtower near yi city, which ended up being one of xue yang's playgrounds. jin guangyao can and will turn a blind eye to certain sufferings if it is convenient to him.

sure, jin guangyao made undeniable contributions to cultivation society and accessibility, but he is not at any point trying to topple existing class structures. his adherence to them is in fact integral to his own downfall in the end.

it brings with it the inevitability of society conveniently ignoring his triumphs and genuine moments of humanity to deride him once more as an evil, disgusting son of a whore once his crimes come to light.

now for wei wuxian. he's the righteous protagonist of the story and he doesn't give a fuck what society thinks, yes, but he wasn't out there trying to cause an uprising so that all the poor servant classes and lower could become cultivators. he wasn't trying to redistribute wealth or insinuate that those who are lower deserve to be viewed as equal to the gentry.

the most critical and non-explicitly stated fact of mo dao zu shi is that wei wuxian has always been resigned to his position in the social hierarchy.

his unreliable narration, especially regarding his own past and thoughts, is so damn important. he doesn't EVER tell the reader directly that people treated him any which way at their leisure because of his parents' differing social classes.

no. instead we are shown how much prestige he is afforded as cangse-sanren's son-- reputation as a talented and charming young cultivator, made head disciple of Yunmeng Jiang-- and how little respect he is given in the same breath, as the son of servant wei changze.

the way he is treated by others is as fickle as the wind. if he obeys and does as told, there is no reward. of course he did that, that was the expectation to start with! if he does anything even slightly inconvenient, there is a punishment. of course he has no manners, what else would you expect from an ungrateful son of a servant?

wei wuxian's righteousness is not a matter of adhering to principles he was explicitly taught, the way nie mingjue values honor or the way jiang cheng always tries to prove himself. wei wuxian does the right thing regardless of what the consequences are to him because his good deeds are always downplayed and his bad deeds are always singled out, no matter who or how many people were doing it with him.

he has faced this double standard since childhood. there are points in the novel where it's clear that this sticks out to wei wuxian, but does he ever fight back against that view of himself? does he EVER, at any point in the story, explain his actions and choices to jianghu society and try to debate or appeal to their sense of reason?

no. because he knows, at his very core, that any explicit deviation from their interests whatsoever will be punished.

slaughtering thousands of people is fine when they want him to do it, and when the alternative is unjust torture, re-education camps, and encroachment upon other sects' lands.

slaughtering thousands of people who are trying to paint him as evil for not going along with their genocidal plans, however, is punished.

wei wuxian knows his acceptance among the higher classes is superficial and unsteady. from the age of 10, when jiang fengmian took him in, he knew subconsciously that he could be kicked out at any time.

he knows that cultivation society doesn't care about war crimes and concentration camps and mistreatment of the remaining wen survivors of the sunshot campaign. but the right thing to do now that they aren't at wartime is to help them, plus they'd punish him either way for it, so he will.

in this regard wei wuxian is more self-aware of his position than jin guangyao. he does care about common people and he does try his best to help them as an individual. even if that ends up with him disabled, arrested, targeted in sieges, or dead.

but is he revolutionary? in the full equality, fight the establishment, rewrite laws, change social structures and people's perceptions of class sense?

no. no. he isn't.

now my knowledge of chinese society and history is fairly limited to my hindu diaspora upbringing and our shared cultural similarities ... but speaking to what i absolutely know us true, adherence to one's social class is expected.

this is rigid. efforts and merits might bring you some level of mobility, but in the end, the circumstances of your birth will always be scrutinized first, and your behavior compared to the stereotypes of where and how you originate.

mdzs is not about revolution, and none of its characters are able to truly change its society. there is no grand "maybe cutsleeves aren't inherently bad" or "i'm sorry for persecuting you and believing hearsay, you were truly a good person all along!" at the finale.

people ignore history and repeat it again with the next batch of ugly gossip and rumors.

wei wuxian, lan wangji, and luo qingyang find peace only by distancing themselves from cultivation society and its opinions.

jin guangyao and wei wuxian both cannot ever escape from others' perception of their origins and actions. regardless of their personal beliefs, they are not revolutionaries.

[deliciouskeys]

Me: I already wrote Tentacles for last kinktober. It's old hat now that it's actually part of canon. Why bother.

Me after staring at @vanshoundd and @annetess' art about it for like hours: Okay maybe I'll write it after all. (Thank you for your art 🤤)

Cozy corner kinktober 2024 prompt #11: Tentacles

Free and Wild and Beyond Good and Evil

Butchlander 3.1k; TW: noncon, violence, teratophilia, uh... idk just not very wholesome at all. Please excuse me.

There was never any real plan, Butcher admits to himself as he drives down the empty dark highway. Something something, Frenchie said the virus might be strong enough to kill Homelander, something something, it would have to be airborne which would start a supe plague and make everyone piss and moan about Butcher committing biowarfare genocide, something something, it was going to be a last resort. A plan Z, only nebulously conceived. So what was Plan A, really? What was good for the ganders (Ezekiel, Victoria) was unlikely to be good for the goose, but Butcher just can’t help but crave the visceral feeling of ripping Homelander apart, if not with his own bare hands, then at least his tumor’s jacked up bare hands. Cancer— it was really living up to the name. Butcher feels like he’s been possessed by an alien creature, cancriform, heinously ugly, and unbelievably strong. It’s just too tempting not to try, even though trying and not succeeding isn’t really a good option at all with a near-omnipotent supe like Homelander.

Butcher just has so little to lose. He’s a husk of a human being, and he feels more like a shambling, crumbling meatsuit to carry the cancer to its destination, its rendezvous with fate.

“I’ll get you your revenge, don’t you worry,” Kessler assures him and Butcher wants to hurl just a little bit knowing his cancer can just talk to him, choose whatever guise makes him feel at ease, through a literal neural link to his brain, even though Kessler seems to have chosen headquarters in a metastasis somewhere near his solar plexus, shooting tentacles out into the outside world like the rays of a black sun. “I’ll get you your revenge and you’ll get to experience every moment of it. I won’t leave you hangin’.”

+++

Homelander should have known not to take such obvious bait. Homelander should have remembered that the last two times William Butcher took it into his head to fight him, he very nearly succeeded in overpowering him. Or at least depowering him, with the help of a certain relic from the 1980s. At least that wildcard is still stashed in the federal freezer in DC. But Homelander should have realized that William Butcher announcing that he was ready to keep their scorched earth promise meant he came to play. Maybe he was touched that William called Vought’s headquarters and asked to speak to him. Maybe he was flattered to hear his phrase be used like code between them, even though they never seemed to entirely agree on its meaning. Maybe he was genuinely craving to finish William off before his illness got to do those honors.

Something prompted him to zoom over to the abandoned warehouse in Jersey City, without consulting Sage, without trying to locate Ryan and make sure he was safe, without doing much of anything besides walking straight into the ambush. Can it really be called an ambush if it’s announced beforehand? Homelander counts it as an ambush, because he expected to see William at half speed, that much closer to death with that growth in his brain no doubt spreading further. Instead… instead, before he can even locate which corner of the warehouse William’s heartbeat is coming from, a dark sticky tendril rapidly twines itself around his face— around his eyes first and foremost. Homelander let out only one snarl before something similar winds itself around his neck and begins constricting all breathing. Whatever it is, it’s moving fast, violently fast, and Homelander is astonished to feel just how strong whatever is trapping him is. His fingers scrabble at what feels almost like a plant vine around his face and neck, but he cannot wedge his fingers in and pry it away or apart. It’s squeezing him tighter and tighter… from what godforaken obscure corner of hell did William pick up this supe with boa constrictor powers? That Homelander can’t recall from Vought’s files at all? 

Homelander tries not to panic, tries to orient himself, but he just feels more of whatever has him in its grips touching his legs. Not only touching his legs. Wrapping around his ankles, lassoing and pulling them flush against each other so that Homelander loses his balance and ends up suspended in the air. He thinks he’s hovering in the air through his own power, but whatever is holding him has got an iron grip and he suspects that he’d still remain suspended in the air even if he dropped himself down, held by this… thing, sticky, reeking of something oddly familiar and off-putting. The long vines holding him start winding their way around his body in tight coils towards each other, the one at his ankles proceeding to spiral up around the rest of his legs and the one from his neck proceeding to wrap his shoulders, pin his arms straight to his sides as it travels to meet its twin. Homelander is terrified to realize that no matter how much force he exerts against the long rope-like sentient arms, he can’t free himself. He’s never been overpowered like this… but that’s not really true is it. Last time he got pinned down against his will, William was one of the three perpetrators and Homelander had no doubt he was the ringleader. So where is he now? Homelander can hear his heartbeat, can smell him, his cigarettes, his beard oil, the tea molecules circulating in his veins and out his pores, and yes the vile stench of disease, and it’s overwhelming and all around him. 

When Homelander renews his struggle to free one hand, a vine snaps against his knuckles painfully. “Knock it off,” William’s gruff voice tells him. Only then does it finally dawn on Homelander that the mystery supe managing to wrap him up like a mummy is Butcher himself, and that the sickly odor is exactly that— the smell of something that should be inside the body, the smell of something greedy and selfish and hogging all metabolic resources. It’s what William smelled ever so faintly of last time he saw him in the hotel kitchen, and now it’s on full blast so Homelander didn’t even place it as the same smell at first. A faint smile passes Homelander’s lips, always feeling pleased to finally recognize something. But that’s about all he has to be pleased about. The situation is dire— he cannot move and now he feels the distinct sensation of William’s two… arms? Vines? Tentacles? Trying to rend him in half. In vain so far, but the tentacles are so forceful, so persistent, that Homelander becomes worried when he hears popping sounds around his compressed ribcage. It’s not his body losing integrity like poor Vicky’s did though— it’s his suit giving up the ghost and getting shredded, the tentacles accidentally peeling him out of his clothing, rolling pieces of it toward his neck and others toward his ankles. Homelander tries to open his eyes, look through. Just getting a glimpse of the scene could help him figure out his best chance for escape, but the tentacle wrapped around his head is squeezing it tightly, as if hoping it can pop his skull open like a nut. It can’t, but Homelander also can’t open his eyelids against the constant pressure. He feels a breeze across his skin, he feels tatters of his suit still hanging off random limbs, but he’s largely naked, and the tentacle regroup, wrap around him again, and this time Homelander can’t help but squirm. It’s just too much sensation against his bare skin. ‘Stop’ he tries to plead but the tentacle squeezing his neck shut doesn’t let him do more than wheeze hoarsely and unintelligibly.

“I ain’t enjoyin it, I’m trying to rip him in half, hard as I can. Ain’t my fault he’s a durable motherfucker.”

Homelander desperately listens in, trying to identify someone else’s heartbeat, breathing, anything, trying to figure out who William is talking to, but all he hears is the cacophony of blood rushing through each tentacle as they twist and tighten ever more around his body. He can’t make out anyone else’s presence in the warehouse.

He still struggles against the grip he’s in, still tries to wriggle the hundreds of tentacle coils loose, but he has a sinking feeling that he’s immobilized until Butcher decides to relent.

+++

They’ve been in this deadlock struggle for more than an hour. Butcher isn’t so much physically tired as mentally weary. Homelander’s nude, and Butcher has never seen him like that before, even though most of him is hidden under the tentacles trapping him in place. Butcher watches the supe’s body periodically still making a valiant effort to escape, muscles shifting, flesh bulging around each tentacle constricting him. His skin is shiny and Butcher’s not sure if it’s the supe’s sweat or whatever clear sticky mucus his cancer’s tentacles keep secreting.

“Look at you two perverts. You’ve found a new bonding exercise!”

“Just shut it,” Butcher says very quietly, through gritted teeth, hoping the supe in his clutches is too preoccupied to overhear him talk to himself like the madman he’s become.

+++

Homelander wonders if the long time without taking full breaths is taking a toll on his brain functions. He’s stopped struggling against his confines. The tentacles can’t hurt him like they did Vicky— that much is clear. And Homelander is for some unfathomable reason both panicked and blissed out. He’s panicking at the level of strength he’s faced with here… He can’t bear to say it, but Butcher’s tentacles seem stronger than him. That doesn’t seem possible. Maybe they’re also ebbing his strength so he can’t get away. That’s a terrifying thought about a terrifying power. But he also can’t help but sink down and relax his body. The tentacles wrapped so tightly around him, trying to rip him in half, are also holding him so confidently, like a warm angry embrace. He knows Butcher’s trying to kill him, but not having his eyesight and not having enough oxygen is making his mind reel with bizarre thoughts in the darkness. There’s a warmth in his chest, knowing William is staring at him, knowing William is trying to twist and wring him out like a human towel, to no avail, not knowing how long it’s been because time has lost all dimension, but knowing William has been obsessed enough to hold him suspended in the air for quite a while.

He gasps when he feels a free end of a tentacle caress his face. The sensation could never be mistaken for a human hand by texture— the thing creeps across his skin leaving moist trails, moves unctuously with no bones inside it— but he can feel the intention behind the movement and it’s William through and through. And with his eyes forced shut, he can imagine the real scene but also see it as William spooning up behind him, holding his entire body in a chokehold, and caressing his face. It doesn’t matter if it’s affection or lust or even hatelust. Homelander leans into the touch, not only because he thinks distracting William might open up an opportunity to escape, but because firm, strong touch like this is instantly addicting.

+++

“The fuck is he doing?” Kessler laughs, watching Homelander clearly trying to push into the touch. “I was just going to stuff his throat, see if I can’t get him to stop breathing completely.”

Butcher doesn’t reply. He thinks it’s funny that Kessler has the need to explain his intentions. They share a brain, after all. They both feel it, no matter how they deny it. Butcher won’t deny it. If he can’t rip him apart, he wants to fuck Homelander in every hole he has. Maybe try to stab a new one into being while he’s at it. Enough with the foreplay. He presses a tentacle against the supe’s lips, preparing for a fight to push in, but the fucker parts his lips and offers no resistance. The only fight he encounters as he plunges in deep down his throat is he has to loosen his own grip on the supe’s neck, to allow some space for the tentacle to travel through.

+++

Homelander may have welcomed the tentacle into his mouth, but he still bucks in discomfort, gag reflex attempting to launch the thing back out, tears squeezing out of the corners of his shut eyes at the pain, yes the pain of feeling the tentacle invade him deeper and deeper, the pain of the tentacle’s diameter getting thicker and thicker as it pushes itself in, until Homelander feels like his throat can barely accommodate it, burning pain in his lungs as his airways are completely blocked off. No oxygen at all now. He won’t die from this, but he might start to get delirious, if he isn’t already. He can’t even moan, his vocal cords have no space to vibrate, stretched taut around the thick tentacle still plumbing his esophagus and god knows what else. So he can’t emit a sound, can’t really budge in protest when another tentacle presses into him from behind. He can’t say his body lets the tentacle in, because his body feels like it’s doing everything in its power to push out whatever just forced its way in. But it’s futile, and it’s not even under his voluntary control. His voluntary control is to quiet down and surrender to the sensations. Yes, he’s being violently spitroasted. Maybe Butcher still hopes there’s some path to killing him here. Homelander’s mind can’t even be bothered worrying about that possibility. He feels like he’s drifting, consumed by an uncanny deja vu, as if he’s been here before. Suspended, weightless, immobilized, attached, blind, muffled. At first he thinks it’s something from his lab days, one of many memories he’s largely buried and never unearths. But even though he’s anything but, he feels safe. Not much of what went on down in B6 felt safe. Maybe he just feels safe in the knowledge there’s nothing he can do, but it feels like more than that. With his eyes still forced shut, a strange vision materializes in front of his eyes. He’s in the womb, unborn, curled up and cramped but oh so warm, warm walls touching him on every side, muffled voices far away above him, his mother talking to someone, swaying when she walks and the fluid around him moving slightly with each step. Is it even possible that he could retain a memory of something like this? He grasps on to it, whether it’s a real memory or just a fever dream, because it feels so cozy, so safe, so loving, and even when he’s brought back to reality, to his body screaming for air, screaming for being able to free itself to move, screaming to push the thick intrusions inside of him back out, the alarm bells in his body seem far away and dull and irrelevant. He’s incredibly calm, maybe in a drugged, oxygen-deprived way, but it feels like bliss. Like fucking enlightenment.

+++

“He’s getting off to this shit. Un-fucking-believable.”

Kessler might feel the need to comment and distance himself from what they’re doing, but Butcher stays silent, lest talking break the spell Homelander seems to be under, watching the supe’s limp, pliant body accept everything he gives it.

“You’re one sick puppy, you know that?” Kessler comments, clearly uneasy as Butcher reaches a tentacle out to wrap around Homelander’s cock and that’s the one thing that causes his body to jerk violently again, but only once, accepting this too.

+++

Feeling that part of him touched brings Homelander out of the memory. It feels good compared to everything else inflicted on him so far, but it also brings him back to concrete, painful reality in a way he doesn’t like. He gags when he feels the thick tentacle slide out of his throat, scraping across his teeth as it exits. Homelander closes his jaw a few times, feeling soreness in his joints and in his throat, mouth full of thick saliva mixed with whatever sticky residue the tentacles leave everywhere. He coughs, spits, cries, there’s snot leaking from his nose and he can’t even wipe it off. He tenses when the tentacle around his head unravels as well and he blinks, adjusting to the light before staring down at Butcher standing below, finally seeing where the tentacles are coming from. His lasers power up, not even a conscious decision but probably a response to all the pain stimuli and seeing the culprit, but just as quickly a tentacle still wrapped around his forehead swivels his face away, and the laser cuts across the warehouse wall, missing the target.

+++

“Hoho, that was close!” Kessler laughs but doesn’t criticize the strange decision to uncover his captive’s strongest weapon.

Butcher looks on impassively as he fucks in and out of his nemesis’ lily-white ass, which gives a satisfying jiggle on every thrust of the dark tentacle. His mouth free now, he’s able to give little plaintive sighs and moans at each motion, and Butcher kind of wishes he could see his facial expression, but it’s just too much risk to have his eyes pointed anywhere but away.

“Do it,” Kessler says leaning in next to him. “You know you want to try.”

Butcher shrugs and  briefly unravels the tentacles holding his legs together. Homelander bucks, as if trying to make a break for it, as if his upper body isn’t still being held fast by a bunch of other tentacle and as if the tentacle fucking him isn’t making it absolutely impossible to slip out backwards. Two tentacles wrap themselves around his legs, spreading them wide, probably painfully wide, because Homelander’s lasers go off again, a pathetic attempt at defense through offense again, considering his head is being held in a vise making sure he can only see the wall.

“That’s it, do it for her,” Kessler says, nodding slightly toward Butcher’s opposite shoulder. Butcher isn’t going to turn. He knows who’s standing there and he doesn’t want to see her face. He knows damn well this isn’t justice for anything she suffered. Just two monsters going at it, pretending they don’t absolutely love it. Homelander’s done pretending. His body shudders against the tight grip Butcher has on him, and spills on the floor with a sad sounding moan, visibly sagging in his confines before making the most pathetic movement to try and get away from the intrusion still going on behind him.

“Fuck him raw. Fuck him to death. A man’s got to have a limit doesn’t he?” Kessler cheers him on.

Butcher’s not so sure.

AO3 link

[y-rhywbeth2]

...I just found a guide on how a Bhaalspawn can become God of Murder in an old Dragon article! Disclaimer: You might need to kill Bhaal again first for this to work.

"First, [the Bhaalspawn] must bring about the death of a thousand innocents. It can do this through a variety of methods: unleashing a magical plague, using magic to destroy a city with an earthquake, awakening and then controlling an ancient dragon... the possibilities are endless. "Next, it must recover a piece of its father's mortal flesh; either from the body that lies within the Winding Water where Bhaal was killed during the Time of Troubles or else the body left in the Moonshae isles, where Bhaal's avatar was killed by King Tristran of the ffolk. "Finally, he must sit upon the Throne of the Gods and be judged by the overgod Ao. The Throne could be located in any number of inhospitable places: the Starpeaks in the High Forest, in the deepest regions of the Underdark, or somewhere on the Outer Planes." - Dragon #288

-

Other fun stuff in there included the idea that Bhaal was very likely to direct his kids to fuck up Cyric's plans.

There was also a guide to the weird powers they will develop:

-

Warning, having Bhaal as a father may cause you to exhibit two or more of the following side effects:

Addiction to homicide (Refusal to commit homicide will lead to your mind being eaten away until you turn into a ravening, feral animal.)

Your soul going to hell (well, Gehenna) when you're unconscious

Viscous black blood that attracts devils and demons like flies to honey

Poisonous blood! You can coat your weapons with it!

Turning into a divine murder monster

Getting so carried away with bloodlust you try to fight everything. Literally everything in reach, all at once.

Overwhelming homicidal rage when slightly inconvenienced

A steadily weakening sense of free will

Everybody around you immediately dislikes you because you give off Vibes.

A personality so bad it has charisma penalties

Nightmares so traumatic they actually impair your ability to function while awake

Detect evil spells will say you're evil and holy weapons and water will harm you. Even if you're not evil

Being fireproof, for some reason

Super strength

And more!

[strangecloud]

I want to talk about part of the subtext of Ocarina of Time that I don't see mentioned too much.

Obviously the main theme of Ocarina is growing up, right? It's pretty clear that playing as a character who time-travels into the future as an adult version of himself evokes this concept. What I find interesting is how it's executed, and how this theme is expanded to make a point about growing instead.

It's no coincidence that the world of childhood is a stark contrast to the adult world in Ocarina. Young Link lives in an idyllic village in the woods, with fairies and other creatures of whimsy under the watchful eye of a tree deity, which can be interpreted to represent some kind of ancestral or parental figure. The "family tree" metaphor taken literally.

The adult world on the other hand, is very bleak. The very first thing we see as we leave our gateway into this time period is a city in ruins, with harsh winds blowing as an ominous mountain in the distance emits a frightening halo of fire. The undead swarm the city streets and the previously glorious castle is now demonic and evil.

This is obviously very deliberate, and anyone who has been through the process of maturing into adulthood will find this oddly relatable.

It's very easy to perceive the ugliness of the world as an adult. Youth is oftentimes sheltered, and our parents and relatives try their best to shield us from the evil and darkness of the world. Even as they explain to us complicated concepts like death, crime and conflict, among others, our tiny minds aren't exactly fit to grasp these things intuitively, and we default to ignorance.

These things become frighteningly real at some point or another. Eventually, the fantasy of childhood cracks. Some event or circumstance, or maybe time itself if we're lucky, makes the ugly world of adulthood known. I personally really struggle with this, and I find it easy to get lost with how hopeless everything seems. Just like the adult world in Ocarina.

I think the biggest mercy in the story of Ocarina is that Link is given a second chance at childhood. Not so much for his sake, but for the player's. Most people who played Ocarina of Time back in the day were likely young themselves, and I believe the game is meant as a warning, or a lesson.

It aims to give you the tools you need to persevere through all the hopelessness and evil in the world, and to find your way through it. Ocarina can be a deeply frightening game, but the point of scaring you isn't for cheap thrills. It wants you to grow, to master yourself and to not give in to panic even when faced with the worst the game, and the world, can throw at you.

I think everyone should play this game at least once, especially while they're young. It can be a great help in making sense of adulthood and will undoubtedly make you a more mature person for it.

[book--brackets]

The 13 Clocks by James Thurber (1950)

The hands of all thirteen clocks stand still in the gloomy castle on a lonely hill where a wicked Duke lives with his niece, the beautiful Princess Saralinda. The Duke fancies he has frozen time, for he is afraid that one day a Prince may come and win away the hand of the Princess—the only warm hand in the castle. To thwart that fate, he sets impossible tasks for Saralinda’s suitors. But when the bold Prince Zorn of Zorna arrives, disguised as a wandering minstrel, and helped by the enigmatic Golux, the cold Duke may at last have met his match.

The Edge Chronicles by John Stewart and Chris Riddell (1998-2019)

Fourteen-year-old Quint Verginix is the only remaining son of famous sky-pirate Wind Jackal. He and his father have journeyed to the city of Sanctaphrax – a great floating rock, bound to the ground below by a chain, its inhabitants living with their heads literally in the clouds.

But the city hides a dangerous secret: deep inside the great rock, something horrible lurks. With his father away, Quint may be the only one who can save Sanctaphrax from the dreaded curse of the gloamglozer . . .

The Wandering Inn by Pirateaba (2018-present)

“No killing Goblins.”

So reads the sign outside of The Wandering Inn, a small building run by a young woman named Erin Solstice. She serves pasta with sausage, blue fruit juice, and dead acid flies on request. And she comes from another world. Ours.

It’s a bad day when Erin finds herself transported to a fantastical world and nearly gets eaten by a Dragon. She doesn’t belong in a place where monster attacks are a fact of life, and where Humans are one species among many. But she must adapt to her new life. Or die.

In a dangerous world where magic is real and people can level up and gain classes, Erin Solstice must battle somewhat evil Goblins, deadly Rock Crabs, and hungry [Necromancers]. She is no warrior, no mage. Erin Solstice runs an inn.

She’s an [Innkeeper].

The Moorchild by Eloise Jarvis McGraw (1996)

Half moorfolk and half human, and unable to shape-shift or disappear at will, Moql threatens the safety of the Band. So the Folk banish her and send her to live among humans as a changeling. Named Saaski by the couple for whose real baby she was swapped, she grows up taunted and feared by the villagers for being different, and is comfortable only on the moor, playing strange music on her bagpipes.

As Saaski grows up, memories from her forgotten past with the Folks slowly emerge. But so do emotions from her human side, and she begins to realizethe terrible wrong the Folk have done to the humans she calls Da and Mumma. She is determined to restore their child to them, even if it means a dangerous return to the world that has already rejected her once.

Peter Pan in Scarlet by Geraldine McCaughrean (2006)

In August 2004 the Special Trustees of Great Ormond Street Children's Hospital, who hold the copyright in Peter Pan, launched a worldwide search for a writer to create a sequel to J. M. Barrie's timeless masterpiece. Renowned and multi award-winning English author Geraldine McCaughrean won the honor to write this official sequel, Peter Pan in Scarlet. Illustrated by Scott M. Fischer and set in the 1930s, Peter Pan in Scarlet takes readers flying back to Neverland in an adventure filled with tension, danger, and swashbuckling derring-do

The Many Deaths of Laila Starr by Ram V. (2022)

Humanity is on the verge of discovering immortality. As a result, the avatar of Death is cast down to Earth to live a mortal life in Mumbai as twenty-something Laila Starr. Struggling with her newfound mortality, Laila has found a way to be placed in the time and place where the creator of immortality will be born. Will Laila take her chance to stop mankind from permanently altering the cycle of life, or will death really become a thing of the past?

Wishing Chair by Enid Blyton (1937-2000)

Once Mollie and Peter have discovered the Wishing-Chair, their lives are full of adventure. It takes them to all sorts of magical places, from the giant's castle where they rescue Chinky the Pixie, to the amazing party at Magician Greatheart's castle.

Die by Kieron Gillan (2018-2020)

DIE is a pitch-black fantasy where a group of forty-something adults have to deal with the returning unearthly horror they barely survived as teenage role-players.

Poison by Chris Wooding (2003)

Poison has always been a willful, contrary girl, prone to being argumentative and stubborn. So when she discovers that her younger sister has been abducted by the phaeries, she decides to seek out the Phaerie Lord to get her back.

But finding the Phaerie Lord is just the start of it. By leaving home, Poison steps into a murderous world of intrigue and danger, where the Lords of the Realm, a sinister pantheon of demigods, are conspiring to overthrow the Hierophant- the most powerful lord of all. For the Hierophant is writing again, and his pen will decide all their fates... including Poison's.

With only her wits and her friends to aid her, Poison must survive the lethal attentions of the Phaerie Lord, rescue her sister, and thwart a plot that could mean the end of her people. What awaits her is beyond anything she can imagine.

Deeplight by Francis Hardinge (2019)

The gods are dead. Decades ago, they turned on one another and tore each other apart. Nobody knows why. But are they really gone forever?

When 15-year-old Hark finds the still-beating heart of a terrifying deity, he risks everything to keep it out of the hands of smugglers, military scientists, and a secret fanatical cult so that he can use it to save the life of his best friend, Jelt. But with the heart, Jelt gradually and eerily transforms. How long should Hark stay loyal to his friend when he’s becoming a monster—and what is Hark willing to sacrifice to save him?

[hubristicassholefight]

Hubristic Assholes Tourney Round 1 Part 3a

Erin Ruunaser (Aurora) vs Manfred von Karma (Ace Attorney)

Propaganda below cut (Spoiler warning!)

Erin

So in Aurora, there was this ancient, magical storm that been going on for centuries. The further one went in, the more likely they were to die either due to the hostile environment or the massive amounts of ambient magic would begin to basically destroy their body from the inside. Erin looked at this and basically went “yes, but I’m built different” and went inside with zero backup. Now, technically speaking, he is in a way built different as he is one of the only people in the world who can control all of the six (known) magical elements that make up the Storm, so he was able to bypass all of the obstacles and make it to the center. When he got there, he unknowingly activated a trap that destroyed the Storm and caused him to become possessed by an eldritch star-eating dragon, whose physical body is still stuck in the core of the planet and wants to use his new vessel to free himself. Whoopsie! Now, Erin is searching for a way to sever his link with the dragon without his buddies from the Academy finding out. Also he’s being hunted by Paladins now. Fun times; At one point, he tries to learn more about the Void Dragon by accessing a Paladin library. The receptionist doesn’t let him in because he isn’t a Paladin, and he basically goes full Karen on her (he literally asks to speak with her supervisor/manager). Then he learns that one of his friends will be held prisoner for as long as they plan to stay in the city (long story). Erin still plans to stay for as long as he needs to get information on the evil Void Dragon. Said dragon literally appears in his dream that night to tell him he’s being kind of an asshole. Also despite all of this, Erin still isn’t entirely sure if the Light Dragon worshiped by the Paladins is even real. He knows the Void Dragon is real, but the opposite still seems like a stretch I guess. Also the receptionist from earlier is one of the Paladins currently hunting him. He needs to be shoved in a locker. I need to shove him in a locker.

Travels through a famously dangerous magic storm just because he can, fixes some kind of broken magic rune circle that is causing the storm, getting possessed by the evil Void Dragon in the process; He once tried to talk his way into a restricted library and got shot down hilariously

He tries to explore to the center of this volatile magic storm that no one's ever gotten to the center of, and immediately gets possessed by the primordial void dragon that had been waiting for someone exactly like him to try to get to the center of the storm. At the time of writing this he's about to try to cross an ocean on an experimental never-before-seen type of boat, which i suspect will only go well and will have no problems :)

Ventures into a giant magical storm, declaring that the only reason no one has ever reached the center is because he hasn't tried to yet. Reaches the center and promptly decides to switch off the magical pedestal creating the storm, because he can, and gets possessed by a star-eating eldritch dragon god for his trouble.

Literally the first thing he does in the comic is go explore a highly dangerous magical storm just because he's currently the one person in the world who can manipulate all six traditional magic elements and is therefore the only person who can explore the storm safely. At its center, Erin discovers a cracked pedestal with the elemental runes on it and deduces it to be the cause of the storm, then just stops the storm without a second thought, which is notable for two reasons: 1. By the time the audience gets this info, we've already seen a town whose infrastructure depends on the strong winds the storm produces, which is obviously no longer viable 2. The storm itself turned out to have been a trap set by an ancient evil star-eating dragon trapped in the center of the planet which has now possessed Erin. He's actually incredibly booksmart and puts that knowledge to very impressive use sometimes, but he is also known to be impulsive, overcome with confusion when presented with a thing he doesn't know about already, and of course, hubristic. (he does demonstrate a pretty well-aligned moral compass when it counts, though) In summary, I really like him because his combination of character traits makes him flip-flop wildly between "exactly as awesome as he thinks he is" and "hopelessly cringefail" depending on the situation and it never stops making sense. He's so smart but he's so stupid.

(Spoilers) This dude walked into a massive magical storm that literally nobody lived long enough to see the center of, all while gloating about how smart he is, then touched a highly suspicious symbol and got himself possessed by basically Satan. He then proceeds to lecture Not-Satan on how he’s the smart one on this team and that he better sit down and shut up unless he wants to be killed by his MANY enemies. And the strange part is that it worked; The fandom gave him the nicknames “Icarus” “Sicktats McHubris” and “Pompous Nitwit” and I think that says a lot about him

Manfred

During a trial against Miles Edgworth’s dad Gregory Edgeworth Manfred von karma gets a penalty he does not lose the trial however he considers this penalty an egregious enough crime that he must kill Gregory Edgeworth. And he does however due to Miles throwing a gun he gets shot in the shoulder causing him to take his one and only vacation to recover. However he doesn’t get the bullet removed to avoid questioning as to why he has a bullet in his shoulder. For 15 years he gets away with it (miles doesn’t know it was him it’s a whole thing) but then just a few days before the statute of limitations is up on the murder of Gregory Edgeworth he decides to with the help of the Yani Yogi the man originally accused of murdering Gregory Edgeworth frame Miles for the murder of the defense attorney that got Yani off with an insanity plea (which is why Yani hates the man) then after it’s proven Yani is the murder Miles confesses to killing his dad and in Manfred’s attempt to convict Miles for that it’s proven that he killed Gregory. How? Phoenix uses a metal detector to detect the bullet in his shoulder; The thing that kills me about Manfred “I killed a man because he gave me a penalty in court” Von Karma is that he absolutely could’ve gotten away with it if he didn’t try to get revenge on Miles. He was so confident that he would get Miles convicted if not for the murder of Robert Hammond than for the murder of his own father. He was so confident because there’s no way this attorney with only 3 cases under his belt will beat him not when he tased him and that weird girl tagging along with him in the evidence room preventing him from getting any evidence on the DL-6 case except he didn’t prevent them he didn’t even bother to check because that weird girl ended up holding onto a bullet. the bullet that killed Gregory a bullet they could use to for comparison to see if a bullet was shot from the same gun a bullet like the one in Manfred’s shoulder. The bullet he didn’t have removed to avoid the question of “where did that bullet in your shoulder come from”

[tommyssupercoolblog]

THE SHOW WAS AMAZING OMGGGGGG RAAAUGHGJFHFHFH GOES FERAL AND GNAWS ON MY COMPUTER

ALSO I MADE NEW MUTIALS HI NEW MUTUALS!!!! HEWWO!!!! BAPS YOU WITH MY PAWS

Spoilers under the cut

H-o-t-t-o-g-o, you can take me HOT to goooo

TWINKS ON ICE and "camera flash can be distracting, Phil will fall of the stage and die" absolutely SLAYED me

Dan accidentally said "Dan and pheal" instead of Dan and Phil and they both stopped to pretend to hold the pheal. Dan said that would be a better show than this.

SISTER DANIEL SLAYED

I don't know if this happens at EVERY show but in ours, the audience chose to kill the original Dan and Phil every time

Dan has illegalized ted Cruz but then got arrested for being British. Dr Phil loves helping old ladies cum and his favorite word is skibidi. I don't remember the third facts for either

Even though it wasn't picked, a whole bunch of people around us (and us) started chanting "FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK" when they asked what Dr. Phil's favorite word would be. Later we chanted "TOUR BUS" but that one worked!!!!

One of the audience confessions was that someone likes to "mark their territory" (yes. In the gross way) to know what it's like so sister Daniel called them a bad kitty and they sprayed the audience with water. Also Phil called out that some people had their MOUTHS OPEN while they were being sprayed.

The other audience confessions were that someone wrote "Phantrash(insert some numbers I can't remember)" on a wall in invisible ink and then MOVED OUT OF THW HOUSE AND LEFT IT THERE??? And then a confession that just said "someone in the audience thinks you sound like owls" which they both were confused by at first, but then Dan's face like. LIT UP in recognition and he repeated the question to Phil and Phil said "Who?" And Dan LOST IT and made fun of him. LMAO

They explained their first experience at a bucces. And THEN later phil said that his new favorite nuts are bucces nuts (as revealed later when they were asked by the audience to discuss nuts). Also they hate peanuts and think no one likes them unless they're paid to by "big peanut". And they both like "hot nuts" and Dan likes them salted and Phil likes them sweetened/candied. And yes they made sex jokes about it and also Dan said that Phil's favorite nuts were actually HIS NUTS

Phil having the phitties to the wind was not what I expected

I. Could have SWORN that there was an ...."uninvited guest" in the 🍑 part of the wresting match but no one's posted about it even though the whole theatre was like "AUGH!!" And they cut away and I turned to everyone next to us and was like "!!!! Uh oh was that REAL?? Um-" so. Maybe we were wrong. But I was about to be like "DANIEL HOWELL I AM SO SORRY I HOPE YOUR THERAPIST IS SO GOOD BECAUSE I PERSONALLY WOULD DIE"

Dan wore a cowboy hat during the musical number

I NEED THAT SONG IN MY PLAYLIST AND THAT DANCE MEMORIZED

I MISSED THE FUCKING PHOTO OPP BECAUSE THEY DIDN'T GIVE ME ENOUGH WARNINF TO UNLOCK MY PHONEEEE evil. Evil of them. Dan and Phil you betrayed me personally. Evil. I DID however get them walking aways

I bought the Dan and Phil made me gay shirt

Unrelated to the show itself but someone was handing out worms, and there were SO many sister Daniel cosplayers, and I happened to sit literally right in front of two other systems so it was like. Halfway through the show we realized that's what was happening and it was like HEWWO???? WOAH. Also this was my first time in Austin and guys... guys some sections of these roads are fucking perpendicular. I saw multiple people with mobility aids and like I HAVE ZERO AIDS AND IT HURT TO WALK ARE Y'ALL GOATS??? ARE YOU JUST NOT ABLE TO WALK OUTSIDE AT ALL AND HAVE TO TAKE CARS??? The whole fucking city is a series of V shapes with buildings on it. Girl why do your streets go straight up into the sky are you trying to drive up to jesus. Liked the rentable scooters tho

[glitcheslikeslego]

All The Right Moves!

Chapter 2 : Eevee

The Evolution Pokemon. A rare Pokémon that adapts to harsh environments by taking on different evolutionary forms. Thanks to its unstable genetic makeup, this special Pokémon conceals many different possible evolutions.

The next day hit you hard.

And that was meant literally, as you were rudely awoken by a punch to the gut.

You groaned and rolled off the couch, curled up on yourself as you held your stomach. The rude awakening and the force you were hit with concluded that it was only one Pokemon…

“Zoroark…” You grumbled.

Said Illusion Pokemon was smiling, a mix of apologetic and smug. And you also realised that the rest of your team was out.

Despite the ceilings being quite tall, Aurorus still just barely fit in the apartment. Fletchinder was perched on the back of a chair, with Delphox sitting in that same chair, patiently waiting for you to get up. Linoone and Lopunny’s heads were peeking out from behind the couch you were asleep on, with Goomy on the floor, sliding around so he was nuzzling your face and dampening your cheeks.

Sylveon, however, was laying where he was last night, looking at you with an evil and prideful smirk.

“You let them all out, didn’t you?”

“Ve.” His grin grew bigger and you sighed, slowly getting up through the pain and rubbing the sleep out of your eyes.

“Okay, okay, I’m up…” You mumble, standing up. Your uniform was rumpled a bit from falling asleep in a weird position on the couch. 

Delphox got up from her chair and smoothed out the wrinkles in your uniform. Lopunny got up to help you too, but seemed to forget that she was behind the couch, and she bumped into it. The weight of her ears and being caught off guard from it sent her tumbling over the backrest and onto the actual couch.

“Looooo…” She groaned.

Your Mega Pokemon, everyone.

Delphox helped her up as you walked to the kitchen to see if there was anything you could find in here that could keep you all satiated for the morning. You managed to find some boxes of cereal but no milk, as the fridge obviously wasn’t working.

You had made everyone’s bowls before making your own and sitting at the table between Lopunny and Delphox. Zoroark was sitting across from you, Goomy was directly on the table, Fletchinder was on the backrest of the chair pecking away at his bowl while Sylveon, Lineoone and Aurorus ate on the floor nearby.

Today marks day 1 in this new world, devoid of Pokemon and all that you knew. It unsettled you, but with your Pokemon by your side, you were sure you’d make it through until you found a way back, but for now, today you were simply going on a walk through the city to familiarise yourself with your new surroundings.

You knew for a fact that Sylveon and the others would want to come along, but today you chose Linoone to stay out of his ball and follow you around, and while the others were upset at this decision, they understood why. Linoone was great with directions, so he would easily be able to guide you back to your temporary home if you ever got lost.

“Okay, dishes are cleaned and put away, food is put away…” You muttered to yourself as you double checked that everything was done. Lopuuny shook, getting the water on her drenched fur all over the others.

You chuckled at everyone’s reactions, especially Sylveon, who looked downright agitated at the bipedal Pokemon. “Everyone, return.” You recalled everyone except for Linoone before anyone could think about getting back at Lopunny.

You carefully left the apartment and walked down the hall to the stairs, letting Linoone sniff around to remember the scent of the building and apartment. His nose was scrunched up. “Linoone…” 

“Smells that bad, huh? Probably from the water damage.” You muttered. 

You both finally reached the stairs, where Linoone looked up at you with wide eyes. SIghing, you picked up Linoone under your arms like a ball before slowly going down the stairs, holding on to the railing for support. The stairs were winding, constantly making you turn, and you recalled the natural weakness of Linoone as you did.

The Linoone species can only move straight, having trouble with curved roads and turning without stopping, so Linoone would have been very frustrated going down these steps.

Eventually, you managed to make it to ground level, and you put Linoone, letting him run out of the apartment building, with you following behind him. “It’s adventure time, Linoone! Let's take a look around the city.”

Linoone nodded excitedly and pranced ahead of you, ready to see the sights. You trailed behind him, now taking a better look at the abandoned district. It seemed like any other part of the city if you imagine it bustling with people and bright lights, but water damage caused all of this.

“Li Linoone!” Linoone called out, rushing off ahead. Snapping out of your daze, you jog after him. Seeing him get excited over the new city made you smile.

Linoone was already ready for adventure, excitedly looking at everything he’s passed, uncaring of the odd stares he’d get from passersby.

“This city’s probably as big as Lumiose City, perhaps even bigger.” You mutter to yourself as you and Linoone stop to stare at a map. The winding roads and coloured lines for the train systems made absolutely no sense to you, as well as the language it was written in, so you had to go with your gut and trust Linoone to mark out the most important spots of this city.

Your little adventure had lasted almost the entire day, and Linoone was enamoured with the new city, which you had come to learn was known as Megapolis. It was one of the most futuristic cities in China, wherever this region is, and is also known for having a huge population of both humans and demons, which explains the many multicoloured, Pokemon-like people walking about and doing their daily activities.

You now sat at the park, calming down from the whole day of walking. Linoone had managed to run any which way, and while you did manage to mark important places to return to, Linoone went on a hunting trip for as much spare change as he could. And while the apartment you were in was filled with new-ish food, some was stale, it wouldn’t be enough for all of your Pokemon plus you.

Somehow, your trusty navigator had managed to scrounge up what 523 in what was apparently called yuan, and after doing some strained mental maths by looking at prices of different things you recognized, that had to be about 10,500 Pokedollars. How… Linoone managed to get all of this was a mystery to you, but you couldn’t complain with the situation you were currently in.

“Hey, how about we head back to the others? I’m sure they’re getting impatient.” You spoke to Linoone, however when you didn’t receive a response, you turned to where the Normal-type was.

Linoone was on the grass, staring intently at a patch of bushes. “What is it buddy?” You asked, which immediately got a growl out of him. Carefully, you approached the bushes and moved a bunch of leafy branches aside to get a good look, and you gasped at the sight.

A baby Espurr!

[miraculousladybugconfessionbox]

(Asker warns in advance for poor english, and also it being a long winded submission.)

Transcript: i’m going to explain how gabriel agreste’s character was purposefully dehumanized, contradicting, how it serves as plot armor, and, ultimately, how much potential he had and what i would change about him. (i love him)

things that don’t make sense in the show

i. dumbness as plot armor

let’s start by noticing how this grown man is beaten every single episode by a supposedly clumsy girl. no matter how much time he or them (with nathalie) planned their next attack, how much effort they put into getting the miraculous, he either fell into ladybug’s oh-so-wise trap or there was something stupidly obvious that he missed and she didn’t. it’s pretty enraging how he passed 5 seasons, which add up to 2~3.5 years approximately, akumatizing someone every single day, which adds up to ~600 times assuming the average was 5 days a week, he somehow screwed up no less than 600 times. in a row. catch me? and let’s not think about how félix also outsmarted him at every chance he got or how even knowing the holders’ identities he couldn’t make his wish, because that’d be plain sad.

ii. contradictions (very related to previous point)

how is it possible that this man, a celebrity, a famous, wealthy designer that built his company on his own from poverty, said to be brilliant and very smart, blunders the same (and very easy) thing over and over again up to 600 times in a row against a girl who is, also, said to be clumsy and dumb, but suddenly turns stupidly wise the moment she needs to? (this isn’t hate towards marinette, just an observation). the show contradicts itself: if we took everything he is from what we know (resilient, cold, calculating, clever, and more), he shouldn’t have to try more than, what? 5 times? until he got a literal pair of earrings and a ring. from his own son.

another contradiction aside from the supposedly-brilliant-but-stupid, is his relationship with adrien. given that he’s his miracle child (literally), not only should he have stopped around the third/fourth season (with also nathalie’s 💗influence💗), but he shouldn’t knowingly put his son at risk. i don’t mean gorizilla or the audrey one (he’d get adrien back either from the wish or the “miraculous ladybug!” at the end), but particularly chat blanc. that episode was a very forced try from the writers to depict gabriel as a monter, because, knowing what we know, is it really believable that he threw his son like a baseball across paris from the mansion to the eiffel tower with a petty grin, and not only that but gaslights (and traumatizes) him and his girlfriend into that he’s a piece of shit for not wanting to make his mom come back to life (also with a petty grin)? the expected outcome, in my opinion, would have been a forced realization that he couldn’t do that. like very dramatic and such. but being this evil? please tell me i’m not the only one who thinks it’s out of his character.

iii. dehumanization

this is the most obvious one. we just get that he’s evil, heartless, and downright insane. he talks to his dead wife, is up to sacrifice his own son and the only other person that loves and helps him (nathalie), and terrorizes the city without any guilt or anything. the problem, though, is that we don’t see his side of things. and before you get at me, i don’t mean that these things could be “justifiable”, we just don’t get the side of him that regrets, double takes, thinks twice or genuinely cares about his son. it’s almost implied that he doesn’t, which ultimately implies he’s a psychopath or lacks basic empathy, ethic and moral. it’s pretty dehumanizing, isn’t it? the thing that characterizes humans is that we’re social creatures, and that comes with empathy and feelings and a sense of good and bad. he doesn’t constantly appear to have so, it’s more like fleeting moments that last two minutes and then back to a monster. if we got shown that he regrets his actions, that he feels bad for something, or even just having a human quality (like marinette’s clumsiness or adrien’s cutesy and being loving), something that makes him relatable, his character would have been much more complex and nuanced rather than just the evil, heartless, mysantropist parent that hates his son and is abusive and neglectful. we could’ve gotten a father that does these bad things but also makes sure his son is always safe and sound. a father that does these bad things but cooks dinner with his son. it could’ve been an interesting arch that could’ve ultimately ended up in him getting together with nathalie and handing over the miraculous because he loves his son and wants the best for him. the fact that he chose to betray marinette and die is the most selfish thing he has ever done, a deal breaker, something i will not forgive the writers for. like, everything just for what? adrien is an orphan when he could have gotten a loving family again where gabriel survived and nathalie survived too and they married and happily ever after. damn.

things i’d change about him

i. his backstory

i will olympically ignore the backstory of punk gabi grassette, thank you very much. mainly because, what the fuck, and then because i don’t find correlation between that and his current self. what do i mean? i mean that it doesn’t look like his personality and character could have been forged from... that.....

SO, what do i propose? i propose a poor, strictly religious household with an unloving, abusive priest as a father that believes that by punishing gabriel for being unruly and sinful will correct him, a mother that loves him but is too scared of husband to act up, and like 4 siblings, so they’re 5 in total. gabriel was either the oldest or second oldest.

i won’t explain further because it’ll otherwise be too long, but i can make another post if you want to :)

ii. the way he expresses things

just what i said in section “dehumanization”: show vulnerable moments where he regrets his actions, is affectionate with adrien, etc.

iii. his arch’s ending, chat blanc, and other questionable episodes

can we get just him married to nathalie and my happily ever after :( that’s all i yearn for. please.

anyway thank you for coming to my ted talk. bye