#there are very few other characters I would expend this much effort on

[crimsonender]

Mikaila Orchard sucks at Paneling

I debated making this a video or not. But, I decided against it. If you guys are interested in me making videos about this sort of thing, let me know and perhaps it's something I could cover in the future.

So Mikaila Turkleson aka Mikaila Orchard has always made... questionable art. To me it seems like a weird amalgamation of Equestria Girls and Sophie Labelle's art. Anatomy bad character design bad etc etc. I don't however see a lot of people talk about her paneling.

Recently, Mikaila and presumably her partner, Lily Orchard started a new art endeavour. I assume to turn over a new leaf and bury the now-infamous Pokemadhouse. You can find it over at bhaalspawnfunnies. It appears as if the blog will focus around the player character of Baldur's Gate 1, Gorion's Ward, and their half sister, Imoen. This is the first entry.

Source

Where to start? My first impression is that this is very poorly drawn, and low effort even by Mikaila's standards. The speech bubbles are low contrast against the background. The ground/floor blurry blob looks extremely bad. As a fellow artist I get the distinct impression that Mikaila did not want to draw this piece.

Moreover, there's a huge issue with the panelling and pacing. Comics are really cool in that you can kind of use panelling and negative space to "time" jokes, leading the eye where you want it to go and using framing and other art tricks to make a punchline land a little better.

This "comic" has none of that. There is no pacing, there is no comedic timing. It's all bland and presented as a block. I took it upon myself to re-panel this piece, and I've made two versions: One, with Mikaila's art style and visuals, but with the panelling slightly adjusted to be more punchy and effective, the other I completely redrew, using the same joke.

Excuse the sloppiness. I'm not going to expend too much energy polishing and gilding this turd.

That being said, this is already a huge improvement. Even if Mikaila isn't at the technical level of a professional artist, this is very attainable with only a few more minutes of effort. The timing is punchier, the speech bubbles draw your eyes down the page, and even without colour coding, it's clear which of the characters is talking. This isn't exactly a hot take but in my opinion you shouldn't need colour coding on a comic page to denote who is speaking. It should be very obvious! Moreover, speech bubbles should be included in the composition, not added as an after thought.

I'm guessing the original comic took her less than an hour to make. I think I'm being generous here, honestly if this took her more than twenty minutes I would be concerned. Being generous though I gave myself one hour to make a version completely redrawn.

This was again, very quickly put together and of course is in no way perfect, but its to demonstrate what a little bit of thought can do to improve a comic page. I decided to change the pose of Gorion because making family guy references should be a a cardinal sin for artists, as well as make the characters a little more recognizable. "Aryana" is, notably, Lily's OC and bears little resemblance to the canon character of Gorion's Ward, but considering Baldurs Gate does allow character customization and dialogue choices, I decided to make their gender a little more ambiguous so players of any gender could see their version of Gorion's Ward in the comic, but kept the elf with long dark hair appearance from Mikaila's original. I also looked over the pic after I was all done and ready to upload and noticed some small flaws I could easily fix, and went back and did those things. You should always go over your pieces when you're finished them with fresh eyes before you submit them as a final piece.

Again, this certainly isn't perfect and I'd probably put more effort into a piece with characters I care about and a joke I actually find funny, but I hope this demonstrates that pacing and expression really are everything in comics.

[serenephenix]

As much as I enjoyed today's episode, there is one thing that I want to put out there that has been bothering me since episode 8 that I will get more into under the cut.

For anyone else wanting to have good time tonight: Have fun, reblog all the gifs, and artwork, and funny commentary! Knock yourselves out you funky little peeps!

Love and peace!

As petty as it might sound, the one thing that has been bothering me about the characterization of the few background characters, that have even managed to appear in Tristamp as of late, is how on the nose their cruelty is displayed.

From the people standing in front of Vash's door in episode 8 to the armed men at the Plant facility today - it almost feels like I'm listening to the one-liners or tirades of late 1980s villains of the week and it is getting exhausting really quickly.

While I see Tristamp as its own thing, I still like to compare it to the manga, since that is its source material. And when it comes to the callous attitude of the people living in No Man's Land in regards to each other and the Plants, then I have to say that Nightow had a more realistic grasp on these people than the writers of Tristamp.

Trigun deals a lot with living in adversity and how that affects our ability to sympathise.

NM Land is one of the harshest environments humans and Plants alike could have found themselves in, and the reason for people being so apathetic and downright cruel by the time the story begins is that they are fighting over what little resources they have after 150 years.

The main resource being the Plants themselves. And what really irks me, is how much the people in Tristamp have been painted as bonafide idiots by acting as though Plants are a commodity to toss away. It's something that really contradicts the first episode of Tristamp and the manga as a whole.

I think that episode 1 and 2 of Tristamp did an excellent job at establishing just how coveted and important Plants are. It is something that is even more fleshed out in Trimax.

While the people in Trimax are not nearly as broken up about the loss of a Plant as they should be, the loss of a Plant was not something that was easily brushed aside either. The people were well-aware that they were dependent on Plants for their survival and that losing a Plant meant certain death for entire communities. Which is why you have the Plants' flashbacks on how much effort went into maintaining them and their infrastructure even while they were being exploited. And it is fascinating how Nightow managed to have two very contradictory concepts co-exist in his narrative. How he managed to incorporate how careless humans were with the plants by expending their energy on lavish, but ultimately unnecessary things, and how much they recognized still that without the Plants they had absolutely no chance of survival and that losing them eventually was (in their eyes) an unfortunate side-effect of living on this rock. In a sense, everybody knew they were doomed to die the moment the last Plant gave out. They all thought they were eventually going to die here. (With the exception of Vash's home, where they were trying to contact Earth. But no one knew about that.)

And the only people to ever act recklessly towards Plants and almost having them destroyed, were people like Neon or even Gasback in "Badland Rumbles".

And so, having these background characters in Tristamp act like the loss of the Plants isn't a major setback or even a minor inconvenience is just.... very grating. The writers should have put some more effort in there, not gonna sugarcoat it.

It's just... there is no nuance on the whole question whether humans even deserve to live together with Plants. It kind of makes Zazie's ultimatum this episode fall flat because, if I only took the characters that we have seen so far in Tristamp, then honestly it would be easy to say that humans have overstayed their welcome and need to go, because they aren't cruel out of cruel circumstances but because they are just horrible bastards who say devastating things within earshot of little kids who they use as convenient, living batteries, or because they have no braincells left to understand that they are killing the only resource that is keeping them alive on this floating rock.

Just.... uuuuuggghhhhh... sorry. Done with the rant now. Bye.

[vollzz]

it's a sleepy/sad saturday for me, so have a blackflame lore dump. I suppose this could also be sort of a character intro

under the cut I'll be talking about Greylin, one of the ruling deities, and his followers. up until now we haven't really heard much about him besides Eves' general disdain for him, so let's get into it shall we? I'll also put in a cheeky little snippet :)

Greylin - Lord of Deities (a self-appointed title)

fast facts: huge, like nearly 8 feet tall, extraordinarily brutish and muscular, allergic to wearing shirts, voice so deep you struggle to understand it. bald. always, always wears a crown. clouded, milky white eyes.

Greylin is without a doubt the most powerful of the deities, and spends much of his time enforcing that fact. The true nature of his powers are unclear - he cannot conjure flames or manipulate blood, for example, but he can immobilize the other deities and strangle the usage of their blessings. Though the other deities' allegiances to Greylin vary widely, they all fear him (though most would never admit it). It seems that he and Eves particularly loathe one another, and Greylin often goes out of his way to torment them.

[A brief note on deities and their followers since I haven't touched on this yet: when deities anoint a new follower, they bestow their blessings upon them as well as magically brand them with a unique mark. These marks are only able to be seen by deities and their followers, and a follower of one deity can see marks for every other deity as well.]

Greylin's blessings to his followers, known as Seers, allow them to resist the magic of other deities' followers. They also have an uncanny ability to sniff out and track magic of any kind. He marks them with distinctive swirling purple lines branching outwards from the center of their faces, and is the only deity to use such an ostentatious mark. Seers are often employed by royals and wealthy nobility for use as magical bloodhounds, as once they have a scent they will never forget it and can track it indefinitely. They also serve as a kind of cleanup crew for havoc wreaked by other deities (namely Nico and his blood-crazed cult followers), and as such are generally looked upon favorably by the common folk. Other followers, on the other hand, regard them with disdain - Seers are very outspoken about their hatred of the stink of magic, and the sight of their characteristic mark is often forewarning of a swiftly approaching death.

Seers are few and far between - Greylin likes to have around ten at any one point in time so as to use their scarcity as leverage when dealing with mortals. He finds amusement in goading wars and political strife between the various royal families on all the provinces, which has earned him the respect and good graces of the deity Samira.

and an excerpt -

Greylin leaned forward, his dominating presence overwhelming Calliope’s vision.

“Do you know why Eves fears me, Calliope?”

Calliope wheezed as the power constricted her even further; it held her limbs in place and forced her chin upwards to stare back at Greylin’s unrelenting expression.

“Surely they’ve spoken numerous ills of me to you, and yet when I command them, they fall in line just as the rest. Have you not ever wondered why that may be?”

Blackness began to cloud the edges of Calliope’s vision despite her attempts to breathe. Greylin leaned in until his mouth lay an inch from Calliope’s ear, the words low.

“I can wipe your existence from this world with barely a thought. I brought your pitiful deity to their knees with as much effort as I expended on you. Be grateful you’re spared the fate that Eves endured at my hand, and perhaps consider that the next time you wish to disrespect me.”

—

sheesh I forgot to add the tag list -

@hallwriteblr @kourumi @space-writes @at-thezenith @careful-fear @j-1173 @liv-is @eldritch-flower

[lifeonthemurdersim]

All Roads Lead To Here- Chapter 4: Off The Balcony Fandom/Universe: Siren From Hell / Sadistic By Nature Characters/Pairing: Again, multiple. AO3 Link(full tags, warnings etc here) Word count: 8,611 words Synopsis: Trance isn't too happy about what's going on in his house. Little does he know, the chaos has just begun... Author's Note: Please check trigger warnings! I'm sorry if I've missed any this is all very fucked up. Siren From Hell and a good portion of the characters in this belong to @cptsadist- everyone but Hope, Azazel, Leilana and Phi basically. I just really hope I wrote Trance alright, it was so hard to get into his mind. More about Gorekinktober on my pinned post! Kinktober prompt(s) used: Balcony Goretober prompt used: Burns

Trance was already pretty fucking pissed from arguing with Wraith and trying to stop Seiren taking over to gawk at Leilana. So when he'd seen exactly what Jet and Hope were doing, he wasn't inclined to be at all generous about it. Seiren didn't seem anywhere near as bothered, however, so it was a bit of a fight to even get away.

"T-tell her she's pretty!" he urged in Trance's head, but he ignored him. "Trance! Where the hell are we going?!"

"I don't know about you, but I'm not too happy about Egon's little shadow and our captive fucking around with each other." he pointed out, rushing to the other side of the house.

"As long as I can still feed off her, who cares?" Seiren snapped. "Awww, are you jealous?"

"Oh, shut up." Trance replied evasively. It was far more complicated than that. It was the fact he had let them both in that bothered him the most. He'd made the mistake of trusting Jet, and he'd... even began to trust Hope a little too. This just proved to him that he was right, that people were bastards and he couldn't trust anyone. He pushed the handle as he reached the door, only to find it locked. That was when he heard Hope moaning out a very loud cry of Jet's name.

"He let them finish? Boring..." Seiren questioned. "We would've been way more fun!" Trance was not particularly focused on his taunts right now however, far more bothered about getting them the hell off each other.

"Jet!" he growled through the door. "Hope!" He didn't know what he intended to do but he was pissed. "Get the hell out here!" Nothing. He pressed his ear to the door. He could hear hushed voices and shifting around, but it was too ambiguous to know what was going on.

"They're fucking!" Seiren said delightedly. Trance was curious? He could hear them? He guessed Seiren's hearing might somehow be better than his despite being trapped in a human body. But were they really just disregarding his warning? "Of course not!" Seiren replied shrilly, to which Trance sighed through gritted teeth, losing his patience with him. "I just wanted to see what your reaction would be!" he teased. "Sounded more like he didn't believe them about us to me."

Trance's demeanour shifted, he smirked slightly. Of course. Jet wasn't going to believe someone he'd just met over him, no way. They'd always got on at least relatively well, and Jet was naive enough to believe any lie he spun him. He'd get him on side with a few charming lines, and if worst came to worst, Seiren would maybe have two victims. He could feel the imp's excitement at the prospect.

"Last chance..." he told them, keeping his voice as smooth and convincing as possible. "Why doesn't one of you let me in, and we can have a little talk about this, hmm...?" Still nothing, it still sounded like they were moving about in there but no reply. He'd rather not expend the effort to break in, but he was confident that with he and Seiren's strength combined he could, and he didn't feel he had much of a choice right now.

Egon was still off fucking the angel apparently, and by the time he got back down there and through to him, the goths in the bathroom may well have already run away. Wraith was unhelpful at the best of times, let alone when they'd just had an argument. Given the succubus's dismissive attitude towards both him and Seiren, he doubted she'd be any help either.

He ran back a little then straight into the door, barging it with his arm, which rattled it a little but otherwise didn't have much of an impact. He should have bought shittier doors. He huffed, backed off again and tried once more. Still a slight movement but the door was intact.

"Need any help by the way?" Seiren asked.

"You...?" he muttered incredulously. "You're fucking kidding me... yes, I want some fucking help!" Seiren just laughed as he ran back one more time, this time feeling a little more force as he pushed back forward. The door clattered to the floor, Trance falling to his knees on top of it... and Jet and Hope, who had apparently been waiting either side of it, their hair and bodies still half soaked with their shirts and boxers shoved back on, swung round either side of him, grabbed each others hands and began to run in the direction of the stairs as Trance was still getting to his feet.

He growled in annoyance, and began to pursue them, but they were both pretty fast runners. He was already so fucking over the amount of effort this was taking. Thankfully for him, they were stopped at the top of the stairs by Wraith, spreading his arms wide in front of the two tiny goths.

"I don't think so, tortolitos." he teased with a grin, looking between the two. "No time for a bra?" he asked Hope, eyes trained at their chest. His eyes flicked to Jet's crotch. "And I guess she's edging you, huh?"

"Uh hi... Wraith..." Jet greeted casually, but there was a little less trust in his tone than usual. Hope didn't wait for things to get straightened out, instead pulling him away down the hall in the opposite direction from Trance. It would only lead them back towards the other side of the house, where Egon's room was, though.

"Thanks Wraith..." Trance mumbled in slight surprise as he followed them, not having expected him to help.

"This isn't for you, I wanna see what happens!" Wraith responded excitedly, chuckling darkly as he folded his arms, watching all three of them. Even as Trance struggled to catch up with the pair, he could just about hear them speaking in hushed tones.

"Maybe Egon can help us?!" Jet suggested as they neared his room. "Egon?!" he called.

"Jet, he is worse!" Hope insisted. "He has Azazel and... wait..." They kept running with Jet but banged hard on the door on the way past. "Azazel, help!" They looked to Jet and hissed something Trance couldn't quite make out.

As Trance passed Egon's room, he could hear sounds of a sudden argument inside; Azazel sounded like he was pleading, Egon sounded like he was dismissing. "Trouble in paradise?" he yelled through the door, hammering on it. "Egon, get the fuck out here!" He knew Egon would take his side over Jet's any day. Still he continued pursuing them for now, until Egon could catch up.

Jet and Hope were nearing Egon's surveillance room. Leilana was standing just inside the doorway with her hand on her hip, looking at them disinterestedly.

"She's so hot!" Seiren insisted. Trance told him internally to calm the fuck down, glancing at Leilana as he passed, who looked at him with slight disgust. Once he got past, however, he could hear Wraith behind him, obviously having materialised back next to her.

"Looks like you might get your angel back, Egg's unlocking his door." Trance heard him tell her. He couldn't focus on that though, as Hope and Jet were finally running out of anywhere to run to. There was nothing at the end of this floor except a door out to a little balcony, and he didn't think they were stupid enough to run right off the edge. Just as he was about to consider this won, Jet opened the door to a tiny unused closet in the hallway Trance had forgotten was even there, and pulled Hope in, pulling the door shut behind them both.

Fuck.

"Rule number one." Seiren taunted him, laughing slightly. "Don't play hide and seek with Jet."

"All of you are pissing me off." Trance growled, pushing his back up against the closet and banging his head back against the door pretty hard. It fucking hurt. Maybe this one could be broken down too, but it was going to be a lot harder. He pulled out one of his knives, poking the point of his finger with it, just short of breaking the skin. "You know you both almost had me thinking you were different." he muttered loud enough for them both to hear, genuine, bitter disappointment in his tone.

"...Maybe we could just-" he heard Jet relent, muffled from the other side of the heavy door.

"No, Jet." Hope insisted, followed by a whisper he can't make out. A stifled giggle from Jet. More whispers. A possible kiss noise. Shifting around. Trance slammed his elbow back against the door in annoyance.

"You two can't stay in there forever." he pointed out. He turned to look to see if Egon was coming to help. He was walking with Azazel, both shirtless, hand gripping firmly at his arm and gun pressed to his head. They both spotted Trance leaning against the door. Egon nodded at him and began to walk towards him. Azazel frowned at him.

"Wh-where's Hope?" he yelled out firmly in a tone that was probably meant to be threatening but wasn't remotely. Trance jerked his thumb at the cupboard door. He knew there wasn't a damn thing the angel could do about it right now anyway, so what difference did it make? Before the two could get anywhere near him though, they were intercepted by Leilana and Wraith noticing them and stepping out from the surveillance room.

There was loud knocking downstairs, at his front door. At his front door? What the hell was even going on anymore? Trance was starting to get overwhelmed, slumping down to sitting as he watched the two demons approach the human and angel.

"No... n-no, no..." Azazel was whimpering softly, seeming to almost lean into Egon a little as he saw Leilana. "I can't go back, I can't." He gripped tightly at Egon's arm.

"You're not going anywhere." Egon agreed. "Who the fuck are you?" he asked the succubus.

"I'm a... friend... of Azazels." she replies. "And if you don't mind, I'll be getting him right back to the EBC before I starve to death."

"I don't want to go back!" Azazel insisted in a whine. "I-I never asked them to worship me!"

"But they do." she told him in return. "And when you're there, they openly offer me their flesh to feast upon." Wraith looked over at her with further interest. Trance was too all over the place to really give a shit.

"That's n-not right!" Azazel replied, growing more and more distressed. "They shouldn't be doing that. Y-you shouldn't be doing that!"

"This is all irrelevant, he is mine." Egon warned, holding the gun closer to Azazel's head, but he looked like he was seriously considering aiming it at the demon.

The banging at the front door was growing louder, cutting through Trance's brain like a knife. He'd probably drank a little more than he should've today. Well... every day. "For fuck's sake, can somebody get the goddamn door!" he yelled out to them all.

"You know what?" Wraith asked. "Anything's gotta be more fun than these three going in circles." He promptly disappeared in a shadowy blur to go and check.

"He's right, this is meaningless." Leilana declared. "You have one last chance to hand the angel over peacefully." she told Egon.

"Go to hell." he replied, but then he froze up. Still standing but incredibly stiff.

"No." Azazel whimpers to Leilana. "Don't... not to him, Lana... don't..."

"Oh look who has sympathy for their kidnapper." Leilana taunted. "You're so weak, Azazel. You're practically human." Egon drew the gun back from Azazel, and Trance frowned. He looked distinctly strange. Not how he'd ever seen him before in all the years they'd known each other.

"Egon?" Trance called over.

"Is... he... OK?" Jet yelled from the closet.

"Jmmt!" Hope replied, their voice... suspiciously muffled. Fucking seriously?

"What the fuck is wrong with you two?" Trance growled, hammering his fist on the door several times. "Egon?" he asked again.

Wraith materialised in front of Trance. "OK, you got a girl with green hair, a guy with blonde hair and... something in the middle, I think... with black and orange hair." he told Trance.

"That's all you got, their hair colors?" Trance asked incredulously, still glancing between him and Egon, because the way he was still frozen and shaking was rather concerning. Egon pushed Azazel towards Lana, and it was clear from his body language now that he was quite possibly being controlled.

"I looked for like two seconds, man, what do you want from me?" Wraith teased with a shrug.

"OK, I have no idea who the hell that is but the last thing we need is more people in this situation, I'm... I'm already done." Trance muttered.

"No..." Azazel whimpered. "I don't want to... I don't want to go back with you."

"Well..." Lana began, hand tight around his waist, teasing her fingertips up against his hip. She didn't continue her sentence, but Egon raised the pistol to his head, completely silent. "Better give you no other option."

"Wait... Egon...?" Wraith asked.

Still shaking the whole time, like he was fighting hard against it, Egon gave Trance and Wraith an incredibly pained look... and pulled the trigger.

"Egon!" Trance yelled, as the shot rang out and his bodyguard and friend's brains were splattered against the hallway wall, blood dripping down his face as he fell to his knees, and then face down onto the floor.

"WHAT THE FUCK?" Wraith responded, and even he now seemed wary to go any closer with Leilana still there.

"N-no..." Azazel replied, looking horrified at the whole ordeal. "No..."

"What... happ... ened...?" Jet whined breathily through the closet door, before making another series of noises like he was crying out while biting down on something. Trance couldn't even register how ridiculous they both were right now, actually crawling away from the door slightly, kneeling staring over at Egon's body on the floor in horror, afraid to draw closer because that would really just prove it was real.

"He was given fair warning." Lana pointed out, turning to look at Wraith and Trance threateningly, her arm tight around Azazel's chest.

"N-no..." Azazel repeated.

"And now... we will be returning to the EBC." she told them. "Wraith-"

"NO!" Azazel shouted, a wave of energy throwing outward from him, bringing down a solid beam of light right onto Leilana. The demon screeched in pain as the beam completely disintegrated her, scattering Azazel in a pile of ash.

There was also a short shriek from the closet. Hope and Jet jumped out, revealing a purple-tipped white flame that had manifested inside of there, just short of burning them. It began to spread rapidly. At the same time, other flames were popping up all over the house.

"No, no!" screamed Seiren when he saw the nearby patch of fire, taking over Trance before he could stop it, forcing him to turn and crawl backwards away from it.

"H-Hope!" Azazel said with relief. "I controlled it." Trance glanced at Hope, who looked too terrified by the sudden descent into absolute chaos in the five to ten minutes she and Jet were in the closet to respond to that or even move.

"Catch her!" Seiren urged to Trance, but he ignored him, defeated.

"Egon!" Jet yelled, turning even paler than usual, running over to him and looking him over, seemingly not even daring to flip him over when it was obviously him. "Oh... oh god..." He closed his eyes, looking like he was trying hard not to pass out.

"Controlled it?" Trance replied to Azazel. He didn't even know what to say, with all that was going on he felt completely fucking numb. "Egon's dead, there are flames all over my fucking house..." Just to further escalate things, there was the sudden sound of the door being knocked from it's hinges downstairs, likely the people Wraith mentioned breaking in. Trance couldn't take this. He couldn't even go after Hope right now despite Seiren still yelling at him. He buried his head in his hands.

"Holy fire..." Wraith commented, recoiling from it. That explained Seiren's fear. He materialised closer to Azazel. "You had our friend killed!" he spat, clearly betraying some affection towards Egon.

"You... did?" Jet asked, looking up at Azazel.

"It... w-as the succubus..." Azazel insisted. "Sh-she killed Egon... I killed her..."

"OK I don't know who the fuck any of you are, but let our friends go!" came a yell as a biracial person with black and orange curls stormed across the hallway carrying a shotgun. They had a belt with multiple pockets and a couple of what looked like a couple of holstered wooden stakes hanging off of it. Their green eyes looked up across the remaining people alive. "Azazel... Hope... you're OK!" they said with relief.

"You... don't know who I am?" Trance couldn't help but ask, not insulted, just exhausted.

"Ehhh, actually I do, you're just a little mainstream for my tastes." the person responded disdainfully.

"Phi..." Hope replied, relieved. "H-how did you find us?" Out of the corner of Trance's eye, he saw Wraith slink into the shadows again.

"I had a little help." Phi explained, then glanced back, but their line was somewhat undermined by no-one turning up yet. "OK I sprinted up here but the other two will be here in a minute, I swear." Since Wraith was missing, they pointed the gun between Trance and Jet. Jet tore away from Egon to put his hands up, wincing. Trance stared hard at them. He was already pretty out of range.

"Ph-Phi, d-don't!" Hope said with a little worry. "Don't shoot!"

"Don't shoot which one?" Phi asked, lowering it slightly. Trance turned to them, looking for their reaction, even though he was pretty sure he knew what it was going to fucking be. Except, they didn't actually answer, just looking to Phi and shaking their head.

"Ohhhhhh." Wraith chuckled, popping up behind Phi and squeezing tight around their arms so they couldn't raise the gun again. "Your friends are really letting you down here, huh? One's simping for every human boy left." he commented, then glanced at Trance. "Well, human-ish. And the other..." he raised one of his hands up to thier neck. "Just got you revenge killed."

"No!" Hope yelled. "Zaze, please!" Azazel fired a blast from his eyes that knocked them both back against one of the walls, but it didn't do anything about Wraith's grip on Phi. They went to elbow him in the ribs but he didn't hesitate, sinking his claws right into their jaw as they let out a blood-curdling scream. He tutted at them.

"Quit being such a baby." he teased as the claws on his other hand sliced through their chest with a very unpleasant squelching noise. Phi struggled but couldn't say or do anything, shuddering and gasping in his arms as they began to bleed out.

A very pale man with long blonde hair seemed to suddenly speed up as he ran down the hallway. He looked completely overwhelmed by what he'd ran into for a second, but when he spotted Wraith and Phi against the wall his distress only increased. He stood with his mouth open in horrified shock. "Ph-Phi?" he said, sounding distraught as the blood-covered Phi looked over at him, still looking to be in agonizing pain, and then suddenly he launched towards Wraith baring sharp fangs. The demon, however, slunk back into his shadow form, obviously done with his payback for Egon, leaving Phi to fall upon the ground, still shuddering and gasping. The vampire didn't even attempt to pursue him, instead cradling the bleeding victim, murmuring softly. "No... nonono..."

"Silas..." Trance heard Hope say sympathetically and possibly a little guiltily from behind him. "I'm so, so sorry..." He didn't even look up at them.

"Si..." Phi gasped out, now hyperventilating from the pain but reaching a blood-splattered arm up to his shoulder shakily. "Please..."

A green-haired woman Trance vaguely recognised from a picture Jet once showed him on his phone runs across the hallway too. "What the fuck is going on here?" she asked as she surveys the scene. "Jet... Azazel... you're OK." she realised, breathing a sigh of relief. "Oh... oh shit-" she added, seeing Phi in Silas's arms.

"Bogy!" Jet exclaimed,  sounding a mixture of relieved and still terrified from what's gone on, his voice shaking. He looked around, and when Trance caught a glimpse of his face, he looked like the shock was about the only thing keeping him conscious right now. "It was Wraith, he's-" he began to explain.

"Don't be a tattletale, Jet..." Wraith's voice taunted with a chuckle. "I might have to start asking whose side you're on..." That was when Trance noticed there were two shadows over Egon's body. It seemed he was not the only one, however.

"Jet, run!" Hope yelled. Trance turned to see them beckoning him, rolling his eyes.

"NOW." Seiren urged. "You don't wanna see them running away together again, do you?" he taunted. Trance took the hint, springing into action and launching towards Hope, coming up behind them and bringing his knife to their throat. They sighed through gritted teeth, a surprisingly understated reaction. Maybe they knew he would eventually do it, just not when.

Jet began to run in their direction, but Wraith materialised and grabbed him by the ankle, Jet responding with a yelp as he was thrown to the ground on his front. However, there was a shot of fire to Wraith's shoulder that took him by surprise enough that he let go again, turning his head slightly. "Ah! The hell?" he questioned, only to be hit with a much larger flame to his back. This one however, overtook him, wrapping around his entire body, leaving him struggling to proceed. When Trance looked up for the culprit, his knife still sitting at Hope's throat, he saw Bogy with her arm outstretched. "Calm... down... I was just gonna... fuck with him..." he growled, clearly in pain.

Bogy looked like she was very much on the verge of letting him go. But then she looked to Azazel. Then to Jet. Then to Phi, who Silas was currently feeding from the neck of while they drunk from his wrist, and she didn't back down. The flames grew more intense as Jet scrambled back in the direction of Hope and Trance, watching in shock and slight awe. She twisted her wrist and Wraith was brought face to face with her. She gave him a disapproving look at first. But then there was an odd flicker of what looked like... recognition.

"Wait..." she said, sounding shocked.

"Wait..." Wraith echoed, only to be followed by a loud roar of pain as the flames consumed him, raising him right up into the air and back down into a pile of ash much like the one that had scattered over Azazel. Bogy stood there, frozen, looking like she'd seen a ghost. He could only reason that maybe she'd never killed anyone before. She slid to her knees, still looking shell-shocked. Azazel rushed over to check on her.

"Th-thank you." Jet replied to her with a smile then turned back to Trance and Hope. "Trance..." he said, looking worried. "C'mon man, this isn't you." Trance huffed. He wasn't sure that was true at all, not anymore. "You're a cool guy, y'know, just... just put the knife down and...and we can all talk."

"That's funny." Trance replied. "Because I remember giving you the same fucking option when I was stood outside that door."

"I... wanted to believe you Trance, I really did..." Jet insisted, looking to Hope. Obviously they'd had to coerce him a little. "But this... does kind of prove them right..." he pointed out.

Trance saw a shift out of the corner of his eye. The lifeless Phi was beginning to revive.Thier plaid shirt was still soaked with blood but their skin was flawless, their complexion little less healthy looking but free of all the clawmarks and gushing wounds, a subtle brightness to their green eyes. They looked up at Silas and smiled with relief, baring long fangs. Then they shifted onto their knees and turned, and the two vampires embraced each other and kissed. Bogy and Azazel were also embracing. Ugh.

"Yeah?" Trance snapped at Jet. "Well why shouldn't I prove people right?" he replied. "You want to think I'm a bad person for this, fine!" He clutched tighter at Hope, his knife beginning to dig into their neck ever so slightly while she let out a slight gasp. "Who isn't?" he looked around at the chaos of his house. There was basically nothing left of Wraith and Lana, Egon's body was still on the floor, Phi's blood was everywhere, Azazel's holy fire was softly spreading. "This is people!" He didn't care if it was humans, angels, demons, whatever. It still rang true.

"Trance." Jet says shakily, pulling out a pistol that Trance didn't even realise he'd had tucked into his underwear. He guessed he still thought it was something else. Egon's gun. When the fuck did he take that? He moves quicker than Trance can, pressing it to his forehead. "I don't want to do this, but you need to put the knife down!" Even Seiren stopped taunting Trance and squeaked in self-preservation, forcing him to pull the knife back to half an inch or so away from Hope's neck.

Trance couldn't see a way out of this. Not right now. If even Seiren was willing to abandon their victim, why was he even still fighting, anyway? He did think he knew... it was just really hard to admit. He side-eyed Hope. "I can't believe I was stupid enough to start to get attached to you." he muttered to them bitterly. Their own eyes flicked towards him, staring hard.

"That's the look that did it, wasn't it?" Seiren taunted him. "When they look like they actually care about you."

"Shut up, Seiren!" he yelled aloud. Jet and Hope were both staring at him. So were the other four now, and he hated it. "Make sure you take a good look around, sweetheart." he growled to Hope quietly. "This is all your fault." With that, he pushed them towards Jet before he could be tempted to change his mind. The two of them managed to stop themselves falling by stumbling back a little. Jet pulled them to him with his free arm, though he still had the gun trained in Trance's direction. They were both still staring at him, too. He looked around at those who were left alive. Everyone was staring at him, even as they all clutched to another. He guessed he was the fucking monster among them now. What else was new?

A sudden beam of light lit up the room, blindingly white. The hell? The ceiling was still intact but it seemed to be beaming right through. Huge. Beautiful. Celestial. It was like it was forcing them all towards it, like it wanted to pull them all in.

"I don't like it..." Seiren whined uncomfortably. If it was what he thought it was, Trance wasn't exactly the happiest about it either. But there were two people having a lot more issue with it. The vampires.

"Si, why does this hurt so fucking much?" Phi yelled out, shaking in pain.

"I... don't know..." Silas whined back, trying to crawl away with them. "I can't... we can't..." It was the last thing that could really be made out before the two of them devolved into unintelligible screams of pain, pulling each other close as the heavenly light fried them alive.

"Si... Phi..." Hope whimpered quietly, tearing up and pushing thier face against Jet's shoulder. "What... what the fuck?"

"Azazel." called a voice from the sky. Booming and gentle all at once.

"M-" Azazel began, rising to his feet and helping Bogy up, who seemed to be having the same discomfort with the light as Seiren. "M-Michael?"

"Yes." came the reply.

"You just k-killed my friends..." he replied, clinging tighter to Bogy. There was an atmospheric pause, but his actual point went ignored.

"Destroying two demons is not an easy feat, Azazel." Michael replied.

"Well it was only really... one... directly." he replied awkwardly, glancing at Bogy.

"Nonetheless." Michael told him. "You are accepted back into heaven." Azazel looked shocked and... oddly horrified.

"N-no..." he replied. "I... I don't want to I... I want to... stay here." he insisted. "With... with Hope..." he glanced at his friend, but then his gaze returned to Bogy, and there was a hint of a stronger affection there. "And... w-with you." he told her directly.

"Azazel..." Bogy said softly. "Are you sure?"  "If this is where you need to be then..." She glanced over at Hope against Jet's shoulder, who was peeking over at Azazel with wet eyes. "Me and Jet will... will take care of your friend... make sure they're not alone..."

"I... I don't like it there." he told her. "But, mostly I want to stay here with you, I..." he took her hands in his. "Bogy I've never... never had the chance to tell you... just how much you mean to me." he said softly. Before she spoke though, a voice boomed from the heavens once again.

"Your ascension is not optional, Azazel." Michael responded. "You must return to heaven where you belong." Azazel looked between the light and Bogy.

"Th-then you have to let me take her with me!" Azazel insisted, not letting go of Bogy's hands. "Sh-she killed one of the demons too! It's only fair!"

"Azazel..." Bogy replied. "I don't... know about that." It didn't look entirely like she didn't want to go, more like there was something else. Something she wasn't telling him.

"I suppose... if there is another with you who helped achieve this, then yes, they may ascend." Michael responded. There was a pause. "I just hope you're not repeating any of the same mistakes, Azazel."

"I... I never made that mistake in the first place!" Azazel insisted. "I- I never d-did anything with a demon, I... think I was framed..."

"Azazel..." Bogy warned with a little more worry in her voice. He turned back to her, looking willing to hear her out, but Michael spoke first.

"Very well then." he agreed. The two of them began to ascend into the air.

"W-wait!" Azazel insisted having seen Bogy's expression, but it was too late. Azazel was being pulled up fluidly, even as he struggled, but Bogy... the light was lifting her too but it was like it couldn't take her completely, it was ripping her into long, thin, bloody shreds as she screamed.

"BOGY!" Azazel yelled, trying to grab for her frantically, but he was already being pulled up further, starting to glow translucently as he ascended through the ceiling and disappeared completely.

"Bogy?" Jet whimpered as the bloody ribbons began to cascade to the floor and the light started to withdraw again. Suddenly he looked like he was wobbling considerably.

"Jet?" Hope checked despite also sounding horrified. "Oh, woah, woah, try to stay with me Jet." There was a clunk as Jet dropped his gun as he passed out, all Hope's focus on trying to keep him from falling.

Apparently, Seiren didn't trust Trance to act upon it himself as he took full control, lunging and grabbing the pistol. Trance didn't even have the energy or the motive to fight it. Everything that had happened all at once had only left him feeling more screwed up than he already was.

"It's OK." the imp reassured both Trance and Hope for different reasons, then turned to her. "Killing you this way wouldn't be any fun for me..." Trance could feel that he just wanted to have it, so that they wouldn't have an advantage.

"Seiren..." Hope replied in recognition. It was interesting for Trance to see how their face shifted. Her looks to him had started to become a lot softer than this. They really didn't look pleased to see him. There was little Trance could do about it but watch, and see what Seiren's plan was. Jet managed to open his eyes again, still looking woozy.

"I still need your blood..." he insisted, then smiled a little, swinging the gun between the two. "Maybe... maybe both." Hope shook her head and began backing away. Seiren laughed slightly, taking it as a game and moving closer. Hope grabbed for Jet's hand but this time they didn't run, just still stepping away slowly towards the end of the hallway with the balcony.

"Can't we... find someone else?" Jet bargained. "I can find anyone on the internet!" he said with a nervous laugh. "I can make sure they deserve it."

"No." Seiren insisted. His attempts to be tough broke down a little as he was honest with them. "It'd take too long, I'm starving..." Hope looked back a little and saw the flames that had spread from the little cupboard they'd been hiding in.

"Jet..." she warned. Their path was completely blocked by them, though it wasn't that high. "Are you any good at jumping?" they asked him quietly, though Seiren could still hear them. He wasn't too bothered. If they could jump it, so could he.

"Yeah." Jet replied, letting go of them again but grabbing their hand. The pair managed to run and jump over the flames... but it fanned them a little, making Seiren reel back slightly. He could still jump it, he was sure he could, but... that was fire from Heaven. It was scary. To make matters worse, Hope noticed his face and suddenly ran to a large painting at the wall, pulling it off, hesitating but then throwing it at the fire. Jet saw another painting and threw it, too. It seemed the holy fire spread so easily with every single thing it touched, because the flames were pretty high now.

"Seiren, if you're going to jump this you better hurry up." Trance pointed out as he took back control for a minute. Again... he wasn't sure he even gave a fuck about pursuing them anymore.

"I will!" Seiren insisted, still hovering. But the fire had suddenly grown exponentially. It forced Jet and Hope right onto the balcony, though it didn't seem to spread over the threshold. They teamed up and toppled a potted plant onto it for good measure. It was risky now, but... he could still try. Trance saw Seiren's thinking and seized back control as best he could.

"No, no way, we're not doing it now." he insisted. "I'm not risking you fucking my body up."

"But we have them trapped!" Seiren insisted. "I have to! I'm going to-"

"Seiren, no!" Trance insisted, but it was too late. Seiren forced Trance into an ill prepared run and leap forward. They made it over, Jet and Hope stepping back in shock, but it caught a good portion of one of Trance's legs in the process. He yelled out in pain, dropping the pistol and rolling on the wet concrete of the balcony to put it out, while Jet and Hope looked like they had no clue what to do about it.

It was hard to focus though, because inside his head, Seiren was absolutely screaming like he'd never heard him. He heard the scream break through into his own voice, leaving him unable to even ask Seiren what was wrong. Even when the flames had subsided, leaving Trance with a notable large burn and the lower half of one side of his pants burned off, Seiren was still screaming.

"Seiren?" he finally managed to ask.

"Tra... Trance..." Seiren began, his voice sounding like it was fading away.

"Seiren?" Trance repeated, kind of concerned now. But there was no reply. Whether he had merely been cleansed from Trance's body to reside elsewhere or died permanently... Seiren was gone. He stared into space, perturbed. Jet and Hope looked down at him, both still holding some concern. He hated it. "Don't fucking look at me like that." he muttered to them both. The two goths exchanged glances.

"Like what?" Jet asked. His tone was a lot more sullen than his usual one.

"Like you fucking care." he snapped.

"W-we do care, Trance." Hope told him, clutching both hands tight at Jet's hand and arm. He could see marks from his fucking knife on their neck and they still had sympathy for him... and that pissed him off. "Is... is Seiren... gone?"

"If you cared, you wouldn't have run away from me." he muttered, ignoring the question. He'd always thought Seiren leaving him would be kind of freeing but instead... he just felt emptier than ever. Looking at the two of them, with neither Seiren's assurances or taunts, he still felt... betrayed.

"Trance... we were scared, man!" Jet insisted. "That doesn't mean we don't still like you." He paused for a moment, looking to Hope. "Let's just..." He began to pull his phone out of his waistband. "Just... call for some help and..."

"Stop it!" Trance interrupted. "Stop pitying me!" he yelled, beginning to advance towards the two. Right now though, it was Jet who it was painful to look at. Jet, who could just bound through everything and fucking smile. Who could be hit with all sorts of trauma and still keep fucking talking. Trance just couldn't do that.

He was broken.

"Trance, c'mon, we're... we're friends, right?" Jet asked with a nervous laugh, still trying to talk through it all, clinging to his phone but putting his hands up again.

"Jet..." he said, shaking. "You know what Jet? For everything... everything you've done today I... I need to return a favor." He reached out to grab the other man's wrist. Violet eyes met grey ones. Hope was still clutching at Jet's other arm, shaking their head with worry. "Thanks, man." he said viciously, bringing his knife up, and stabbing it back down, deep into Jet's spine.

Jet cried out in pain. Hope screamed in shock and horror. Good. Maybe they'd finally realise he wasn't just some fucking tortured little soul they could sympathise with. He pulled the knife back out of Jet's back with an arc of blood and let him fall onto Hope, who was already beginning to whimper a quiet, repetitive strand of "Nono... no..." as they sunk to their knees with him collapsing into their lap. Trance replaced his knife into his pocket. Staring at them both.

"Hope..." Jet choked out through the blood that was beginning to fill his lungs. He passed them his phone shakily.

"Y-yeah?" they asked, taking it from them, their eyes already filling with tears.

"At... Theo's... when you... told me you were going to be OK..." he whimpered through the pain, giving them a subtly hopeful look. "...how did you know?" Hope began to full on sob at that, the tears that were building streaming down their cheeks.

"Jet..." they replied quietly. They glanced at Trance, then leaned down and whispered something in Jet's ear that Trance couldn't make out, further aggravating him. When they drew back up, Jet looked up at them with an odd mix of confusion and... what looked like awe.

"Y-you can?" he asked. Then he looked down at his own body growing paler by the second. "...Oh." he replied.

"But that doesn't mean..." Hope stuttered. "I'll... I'll call an ambulance and..."

"It's... OK..." Jet told them, his voice choked now as tears fell from his own eyes. He raised a shaky, bloodstained hand to their face. "I know... you... hate phonecalls." he joked, the last thing he said before his eyes rolled right back into his head, his arm flopped back to the floor, and then suddenly everything felt... very quiet indeed.

Trance didn't know what to do with nothing but Hope's quiet sobs filling the still night. But then they looked up at him, tired, scared, traumatised. But there was more to it than that... something was different, they were...

They were looking at him the same way as when Seiren had been in control.

Some part of him knew, at that point, he'd fucked up irredeemably. "I... I never said... I was good..." he reminded them in response to accusations they hadn't even spoken aloud. "I... I told you I was... was going to kill you from the beginning... I... told you..."

"Shut up." Hope snapped quietly. Subtle. Understated. No yelling or screaming. It was so much worse. It was like a knife stabbed straight into the middle of his chest, but it silenced him. Hope closed their eyes for a moment. Everything felt agonisingly silent and still. They opened their eyes again with a sigh, leaning down to plant a kiss on Jet's forehead, laying him down gently on the ground in front of them.

"That's... who you are, then." Trance mumbled in assessment. Hope looked up at him. There was an emptiness in their eyes, but there was a fire raging, too. Much like Trance's home. They said nothing. "A guy you just met gets you off one time and suddenly he matters more to you than everyone else?" Hope looked both shocked and furious at that. They rose slowly to their feet.

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" they asked, sounding hurt and absolutely furious. "How... how can you even say that?"

"I'm saying out of everyone, everyone who's died today, he's the one who makes you lose your faith in humanity?" he accused. Their mouth hung open slightly, theit brows knotting into a frown as they shook their head.

"You didn't kill the others, Trance!" they pointed out, eyes boring into him in a way he'd never seen before. "People are assholes. I know that. But I haven't lost my faith in humanity. I never have even though, even though at times I have... really fucking wanted to." Their tone was definitely a little off, they sounded more unstable

than they had at any point throughout their capture. They sounded certain though. "I've lost my faith in you."

The metaphorical knife twisted hard. It needed to stop. It needed to stop hurting. Right now Trance's only instinct was to lash out. "Don't say that." he warned, stepping closer.

"I hate you." they muttered. He was desperate for her to stop, stop hurting him like this.

"Hope..." he pleaded softly. Soft like the way they'd treated his threats of violence several times. Until he lost even their trust, apparently.

"I HATE YOU!" they repeated, and Trance launched towards them, toppling the two of them over the railing and off the balcony, falling rapidly to the ground.

Somehow Hope managed to use the momentum to flip them before they actually got there, landing with them pinning Trance to the ground. They were both hurt... but he took the brunt of it, landing with a sharp wheeze. He wasn't even sure what was fucking broken, he just knew he was in so much pain he could barely move. "Why..." he responded, still lashing out verbally because he didn't know what else to do anymore. "Why'd you have to fucking do that?" He wasn't really expecting an answer giving it was basic self-preservation, but Hope looked at him, eyes narrowed.

"Because I am tired of being on the bottom." they said, their eyes filled with an endless amount of hurt. "I am tired of fucking losing." They kept themselves propped up with one arm, returning to clutching Jet's phone to her chest. "Can't I win one? Just one?"

"That's life, sweetheart!" Trance muttered. "Glad to see you kept his precious phone intact, by the way!" He wasn't even sure why that mattered anymore.

"You sound ridiculous." Hope snapped back. Annoyed, Trance attempted to roll them both over. He just about got Hope pinned to the floor, but he screamed out in pain. At least one of his legs was broken, the one that wasn't already horribly burned. He reached for his knife. It wasn't there.

Hope looked to him. Then around them, as he did so too. He spotted the knife a few metres away. But it looked like she had too. They wrestled against each other as they both tried to wriggle towards it. Hope took Jet's phone and smacked Trance in the face with it, pushing him away. They tried to rise to their feet but their ankle buckled with a yell of pain. They settled for crawling, but Trance was crawling too, on his stomach. His fingertips just about managed to graze the handle, but Hope was the one that grabbed it, staring down at him as they moved it swiftly away from his grasp, still on their hands and knees.

Trance rolled onto his back with a groan, aware his hands could be his only defense here. They looked over to him, but it was like their mind was elsewhere, like they were looking straight through him, working things out. It was a little creepy. "You... wouldn't hurt me, Hope, would you sweetheart?" he asked. He wasn't even trying to manipulate them into believing he wouldn't have quite likely killed them, not really. He just genuinely didn't believe she was the type to. Sure, she'd tried to run away from him when he was trying to kill her, who wouldn't? But they were sweet, too sweet for their own good, and he was convinced that would save him.

"You're gonna die, Trance." they told him flatly. "I... don't need to hurt you, because if you don't get medical attention, you're going to die here." It sent a chill up his spine because he was pretty certain she was right. He was severely burned and some of his bones were definitely broken. At the very least if he survived that, he'd starve to death if he was stuck here. They crawled back closer to him, kneeling by his side. "I can't let that happen." they said seriously. Trance's eyes widened as they passed Jet's phone to him, placing it on his chest. Maybe... after all he'd done to them... they still actually cared about him.

"That bad with phonecalls, huh?" he teased lightly as he took the phone in his hand, but then gave her a surprised but affectionate look. "Thank you..." he muttered more genuinely, but Hope shook their head.

"I'm not doing this for you." they said, sounding incredulous he could even think that.They raised the knife and begun to trace lines across their arm, looking rather distressed. Trance held off on dialing for just a moment when he saw.

"Woah, woah, Hope, what are you doing?" he asked. Hope said nothing. "Hope... look... I know the last hour or two has been... insane, frankly. But please don't do this." She looked set to make a small, vertical cut around her inner elbow, digging the knife in hard but then shaking, gasping and drawing it back. "Hope... look, I know what it's like to... to want to hurt yourself, believe me..." Trance tried to reason, attempting to grab the knife, but she shuffled back, away from him, wincing hard as she dragged her own ankle.

"So do I." they muttered defensively. "I've spent years trying to fight the urge and I've done so. Fucking. Good." She looked over at Trance. "Even in spite of people like you."

"...well fucking ouch." Trance muttered softly. He knew as well as anyone that most people were absolute bastards. He just never really expected to be lumped in with the worst of them. But he guessed little by little, he'd managed to paint himself into the role of the bad guy in their eyes. "Look... whatever. I'm not trying to be a hypocrite. But if you have to, if you absolutely have to, at least go the other way! You're gonna kill yourself!"

"I used to have to fight so hard not to do it." they mumbled, seemingly ignoring him and staring at their arm. "But I... I have... had... friends to be accountable to. That helped so much." They looked to Trance, who was getting a little freaked out by their detached monologuing. "I guess over time it's become... second nature. My body's... sc-screaming at me not to do it."

"Then don't do it, Hope." Trance suggested as kindly as he could. He looked at the way their hand was shaking. "You... you don't want to do this, I can tell you don't."

"I don't." they agreed. "I don't want to." They begin to raise the knife up in the air, away from their arm, which they kept loosely in their lap. Trance breathed a sigh of relief. "I have to." they said determinedly, raising the knife higher and stabbing it deep into the tiny cut they'd made. They screamed at the top of their lungs but it didn't stop them, they kept cutting, a deep, bleeding line torn viscerally from elbow to wrist, while Trance looked on in horror.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?" he yelled, realising their intentions were far, far worse than he thought. Hope gives him an obviously very pained look, blood gushing out of the huge slit in their arm.

"Do you... think... it's going to hurt?" they gasp out, shuffling back closer to him on their knees, their face contorted in pain.

"WHA- YES!" Trance replies, still shocked and terrified. "OF COURSE IT'LL FUCKING HURT!"

"Make it quicker?" they urged, handing him the knife and offering their right arm. "Please, I can't..."

"You... you want me to..." Trance replied, surveying the blood up their entire left side and then the untouched right arm. "I'm not doing that to you."

"You were... going to kill me anyway." they pointed out. "Just, please, please..." They look at him with wide, begging eyes, the same as they'd looked several times when tied up in his basement, those same times he just knew put him in danger of becoming attached to them. "Make it stop hurting, Trance..."

"Ugh... god... fuck!" he exclaimed, finding the whole thing incredibly traumatising. "Fine, OK, I'll... I'll do it." He didn't cut the proffered arm though. Instead he pulled on it, pulling them down onto the ground beside him, wrapping an arm around them, right across their chest, and holding the knife to their neck. "Are you sure?" Hope let out a pained whimper, apparently barely able to speak at this point, but made a motion that looked like a subtle nod. "OK." He could do this. He'd done it before. He slashed hard into the side of their throat with firm pressure, their blood spraying and dribbling and oozing all over him. Hope emitted a gurgle that could well be a thank you, but he guessed he'd never know as they appeared to fade from consciousness in mere seconds, and it only took a few more for their heartbeat to suddenly stop beneath his forearm.

Hope was gone.

Trance let out a series of shaky breaths. He leant his head back and let himself feel just a little of the trauma, tears stinging his eyes. He sobbed for a moment. Everyone was dead. He reached for Jet's phone, some tiny shred of self-preservation remaining enough to try to call 911.

But strangely, he felt an inability to control his body as it seemed to disappear away from him. This wasn't what he'd ever expect death to feel like; everything felt like it was shifting, unravelling around him.

It was already too late.

Theo- You Died: Ralph snapped your neck Hauer- You Died: Wasei's heart needed more Ralph- You Died: Phi axed you Wasei- You Died: Rahim didn't like your manners Egon- You Died: Leilana took back control Leilana- You Died: Azazel got scared Phi- You Died: Wraith shredded you Wraith- You Died: Bogy incinerated you Silas- You Died: There are worse things than sunlight Phi- You Died: Wow, twice in one day? Azazel- You Died: Back where you belong Bogy- You Died: Heaven said no Seiren- You Died: You couldn't handle the holy flames Jet- You Died: Trance stabbed you in the back Hope- You Died: Trance put you out of your misery Trance- You Died: Hope removed you from play

[tehuti88-art]

8/26/23: r/SketchDaily theme, "Movie Week: Free Draw Finale." Well, I don't watch many movies, so couldn't think of any to draw, so decided to go off theme and draw one of my characters like I usually do for Free Draw Friday. (I feel guilty to skip a week as I plan to eventually draw them all.)

This week's character from my anthro WWII storyline is Noah Kirchheimer. He's not a major character, though does play a few important roles in the background, working for the resistance. He kind of has an attitude problem, though. There'll be more about him later in my art Tumblr and Toyhou.se.

Regarding his design, he should look a bit angrier rather than perplexed.

TUMBLR EDIT: There's quite a bit about Noah's role in the story in his cousin Johanna Wolfstein's entry. So I recommend looking at that. I don't really know his background yet except that something occurred to make him quite angry, bitter, and distrustful, as well as so overly protective of the much softer-hearted Johanna that Otto Himmel mistakes the two for husband and wife. There's nothing inappropriate between them, just that in the absence of Johanna's brother Jakob, Noah takes on a protective brother role and tries (a bit too hard at times) to keep her safe.

Noah and Jakob Wolfstein can easily be compared to Josef Diamant and Tobias Schäfer on the canine side of the story. While Wolfstein and Schäfer remain kind and moderate despite their awful experiences (both of them were incarcerated in labor camps, with Wolfstein being experimented on and tortured in Project Doomsday, while Schäfer was literally purchased for the price of a tapestry before he could be executed), and still try to believe in the goodness inherent in most people, Diamant and Noah go in the other direction, becoming angrier, more distrusting, and more militant. Although Diamant attempts to minimize civilian casualties as the leader of a resistance movement that often engages in bombings and attempted assassinations (the SS declares them a terrorist group), there are times when innocent people get killed anyway, and Diamant himself often engages in morally murky behavior including torture. He, too, was imprisoned in a camp, where he was deliberately targeted by the commandant, Ernst Dannecker, who subjected him to frequent physical and psychological torture (there's an instance of a sort of sexual abuse as well, though Dannecker uses a proxy for this) which left him badly traumatized and partly crippled in one hand; ironically, Diamant ends up taking on so many of Dannecker's personality characteristics, including his unnerving smile and his fondness for Russian roulette as an intimidation tactic, that Schäfer (who'd been in the same camp, yet at a different time) describes him as having "sold half his soul to the Devil," the Devil being Dannecker's nickname (der Teufel). In effect, Schäfer is saying that Diamant has partly become his own enemy and tormentor, Dannecker. And in some ways it rings true, the only real difference in Dannecker's and Diamant's actions at times is that they're on opposite sides. (Both Dannecker, if he were still alive (Diamant murdered him), and Diamant would vehemently deny this, which kind of proves Schäfer's point.)

Which brings us to Noah. Noah's attitude is described quite well in Johanna's entry; even well after the war, he's openly hostile toward Himmel, who had actually worked to undermine his fellow Nazis' efforts in wartime--largely with Noah's assistance. It doesn't matter to Noah (not until very late, at least)--like Diamant, he can use somebody to achieve a goal, yet then they become expendable, especially if they're allied with the enemy. Considering the circumstances, such a mindset makes sense; even Himmel acts in such a manner when he confronts Corporal Anna Julian. What is somewhat a mystery still is WHY Noah has such a militant attitude. He's the only one of these four, as it happens, who DOESN'T spend time in a camp, or end up nearly killed. Although he does have to go into hiding with Johanna, his life is relatively safe and much easier in comparison, as he has a wide network of resistance allies to help and protect them. So what's the basis of Noah's occasionally over-the-top rage?

Like I said, given the timeline of the story, it's not unreasonable for Noah to be this way just because he sees what's happening to others. His behavior strikes me as a little TOO aggressive at times, though. There's almost a feeling that he's overcompensating. And in fact, I feel this is what he's doing: He knows he's relatively safe and well off, he has people to help him, he has a good number of resources that many of his fellow Jews lack. He's working from a position of privilege, and I think it wears on him. He likely has not only a sense of guilt at being in such a position when so few other people are, but also more than a trace of spite that he can't approach this battle from the same angle of struggle that many of his peers can. Noah's never been a soldier, he's never fought in a war. He's never been in a ghetto and he's never been in a camp. No Nazi has ever experimented on him, tortured him, forced him into slave labor, played mind games on him or relegated him to death or traded him for a wall hanging. Aside from Himmel, he's never even directly faced a Nazi down--and Himmel was Noah's captive, not the other way around. Noah's entire existence, even during the war, has been pretty safe and cushy, and I think he resents that. He likely feels like a bit of a fraud and wishes he had a more appropriate background to be fighting from.

Result, he tends to overdo things. He acts like more of a tough guy than he actually is (Himmel nearly calls his bluff, and Noah ends up regretting it when he's thus forced to try to prove himself by following through on his threats--Himmel's son Kolten flies into a rage and turns Noah into a ragdoll until Himmel convinces him to stop), antagonizes both friends and foes far more than he should (even Wolfstein gets fed up with him more than once), and basically infantilizes Johanna by insisting she's too weak and gullible to effectively look out for herself or make her own decisions. Late in the story he nearly ostracizes himself from the rest of his family due to making every disagreement into the hill he's going to die on.

Oddly, it's Himmel who talks him down from this, or rather, Himmel's letters, written to his deceased wife since the birth of their son. Noah finally gets a glimpse of the human behind the enemy's face, and learns his reasons for making the choices he did. (Himmel never believed in the Nazi cause, joining the party only in the hopes it would protect Kolten.) Himmel may be a very rare exception to the rule, but that's the point. An exception exists yet Noah had been willing to pretend he doesn't, at the risk of losing his own family. His entire worldview doesn't change--he still rightly distrusts and despises others like Himmel--but there's a very slight shift. He realizes he can't just take at face value that everyone in a group is exactly the same...that sort of mindset is what got everyone here.

(PLEASE NOTE, I'm talking about fiction here, where I know all the characters' true motives because I created them. This doesn't apply nearly so cleanly to real life, where if somebody is wearing a swastika, you can likely correctly judge their mentality at a glance; I'm by no means saying give Nazis a chance. I know I wouldn't.)

Anyway, without taking a good deal of time to brainstorm Noah's past, and maybe not get anywhere yet (these guys reveal stuff on their own schedule), this is what I've got for him. I suspect his past was quite normal and tame, and that's ironically what helped make him so tense and hostile in the story; he feels he has to go out of his way to prove himself to everyone else who didn't have it so easy, and always worries that he's not good enough. Unlike Wolfstein, Schäfer, or Diamant, who each had concrete, external enemies, he put the chip on his own shoulder.

[Noah Kirchheimer 2023 [‎Saturday, ‎August ‎26, ‎2023, ‏‎2:00:17 AM]]

[ravencromwell]

All righty, let me see if I can address these somewhat in order:@pinkcupboardwitch YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSS. I dunno if any of you have encountered Naomi Novik's Scholomance trilogy—it is very! Much my template for conceiving Makt, as a magic haven horror show where people are thrust into a building which will kill them because the outside is so, so much worse. One of the key parts of the mythology there is that to produce magic, you have to expend *effort* preferably doing something you're not fond of (hence the main character, a terrible! Fiber artist knitting or crocheting her little heart out only to rip it up and start again because every attempt produces magic.) Along those lines: Makt as a world where not only did you *choose* how you hurt, but the more painful a tattoo was, the more control it gave you over the magic—think those tiny scars in the corners of Talya's eyes which must have been *shudders* oof. (Also, re your tags: fuck yes Holl hates the twins cuddling for warmth, and it's all deeply fucked up becase it's also one of the few moments of gentleness. And so he hates both the act--the intimacy they have earned absolutely no fucking right to--and the fact that there's a physical and emotional response to it beyond the hatred (glad of the heat; the not being alone to relive his mistakes in constant vivid color; glad there's not pain. Just a whole fucked-up soup, that then brings up all these memories of people he would rather be doing this with.)

@muffinworry

OH MY GOD Danes blood-drinking as transfusion thank you *makes room on the tiny boat* I've thought this for ages, and inflicted a lengthy message thread on poor Pink about how the blackening of veins are clearly the creation of gates through which magic can flood a body. And we see with Vitari that once the magic fills up the body, people just sorta scorch from the inside into a pile of ash when they've reached all they can hold. But we also know! That the one thing pure chaotic magic seems to fear is Antari blood, because it's what Osaron fears. So just yesssssssss to the Danes slowly burning themselves alive, and being scared shitless because they know what's coming, and Holland's blood is the only thing slowing it down—not even _stopping it just slowing it down. Which then makes trying to open the rift o' hell into Arnes make so! Much sense because maybe if their world is flooded with magic Makt's will become less cancerous. And so, it achieves two goals: putting their names in the history books as the ones who absolutely! Saved Makt, no matter what anyone whispers about them being psychotic bastards; the Danes, forever in glory and prolongs their lives, or at least ensures they die less agonizingly embarrassingly as people stumbling around, dependent on the care of those who hate them, cut off from so much of the sensory enjoyment of the world. Like I feel they'd hate not so much the dying as the ignominy!

Yes to, regarding Makt as being richly communal. Going back to Scholomance for a minute: there's such! A rich network of trades and favor-for-favor; it's very mercenary in some ways, and of course there are people excluded for various reasons. But just! That idea that of course I'll help you, literally if for no other reason than I may be in a bind tomorrow and need the favor returned. That as a Makt sensibility makes so, so much sense—not only makes sense but would be the only way they hadn't just descended into some Lord of The Flies shit and wiped their population out centuries ago.

@dr-dendritic-trees

A. I have absolutely! No idea why you would consider any of this annoying, but pls consider this your open standing forever invite to come talk to me about Makt and childhood diseases and childhood mortality anytime anywhere. I don't have the scientific knowledge to contribute meaningfully, but I shall flail my hands as I soak up yours. And oh my god yesssssss of fucking course there are vitamin shortages because the very coldness of Makt's climate straight-up limits what can be grown. No citrus to ward off scurvy, for instance everyone should be fucking losing their teeth. This's driven me batshit! As a historian who's just like agriculture moves on east-west latitudes because there are so many warm-weather crops you can't _grow in the cold!

[sidenote, but my personal hobby-horse: Vor's cigars oh my fucking god those things must come from some remote island community that's found a more harmonious balance with their magic—more akin to the Arnesians treating it as a kind of equal and so having slightly better growing seasons because of a magically warmed climate. And he must pay out the fucking nose! For them. I've been screaming for months there is no way he gets them in London tobacco doesn't fucking grow in cold weather I'm from prime tobacco-growing country.]

But back to the vitamin stuff: rickets, because of the weakness of sunlight, right? There's so much I'm missing, but I've dredged the end of my science. Filing *everything* on childhood illnesses away like an angst goblin yes thank you.

And absolutely there was child mortality—"the only blood he had left" is Holland's reference to Alox. God they must've lost sibs (I think Muffinworry even refers to this in Snake Charmer, and I know @bluecichlid is also a member of the "dead children in Makt" for maternal health reasons club.)

Re poverty in Arnes: oh god yes. Like, if you don't have any magic, or very minimal magic, your life must be fucking abysmal because everything runs! On the stuff. *whispers* work-houses that, for room and board of their limited magic workers, make those luxury goods everyone else thrives on. A Rhy, who wasn't a Maresh, given his limited ability with fire, making the palm-lights everyone gleefully buys to light the Night Market and then just throws away.

some scattered disability and White London thoughts:

Schwab missed a hundred thousand opportunities for disability rep; this is a bleak, apocalyptic landscape where one of the prevalent currencies is blood, and both children and adults are frequently attacked for their power.

Sign language. Look. Most magicians need to speak to focus their power, though Schwab makes clear it's more a way to keep up concentration than a necessity (take Lila's tiger, tiger, burning bright. So I wanna see that taken to its logical conclusion: tongues removed because many. many people think they! are the source of power, or at least where immense magic will nest.

Therefore: A thriving culture of sign language, where everyone is at least semi-fluent.

Holland, watching Talya's hands trace the old stories in gorgeous, fluid arcs with her hands as her face takes on a million expressions. Later, finishing them beneath the blankets, fingers tracing words intohis skin in the dark.

Holland stands out as much because his Antariness has allowed him to avoid disability as for the power itself.

Way the fuck more prosthetics particularly prosthetic hands considering how so many people carve element-control runes directly on their skin. Take away your hands, and some enemies would think they could take away your ability to fight.

Lethally sharp hooks for hands, with the runes carved directly into the metal and the most ruthless fighters absolutely willing ready and able to gouge out your eyes with their prosthetics.

Consequently: prosthetic care. Eventually, you have to take your hand/hands off; moisturize the stumps etc. Who you choose to be that vulnerable with says a thousand things about your character. (and the moments when you don't particularly *choose* it but you need to anyway because you've had it on too long and the skin is blistering; infection in Makt would be deadly.

The irritations of amputations. I know from some other characters I've researched for: things like washing your hair with only one functioning hand: an absolute bitch.

Anemia. In AGOS, part of what Ojka says Osaron's powers does is "warm her blood". Everyone in that city must be A. constantly cold; and not cold like a coat can fix. Cold from poor circulation and generally "weak" blood. People who have an affinity with bone magic (Athos, Vortalis, Holland himself) would have a significant advantage because everyone else is moving just slightly sluggishly, always dragging at the weight of exhaustion. It's part of what would make Talya's dancing so fucking _impressive, that she moves like that even despite the headaches, dizziness, etc.

Holland as Antari: essentially a fucking human heated blanket to anyone who isn't afraid to be so close to y'know the extremely dangerous magician.

God, there's so. so much more, but my brain is swiss cheese. But I at least wanted to start the ball rolling, because I feel like this's a corner of fandom that's just _bursting with possibilities.

[thethirdrose]

A Chronicle of Anne Shirley’s Girlfriends

So listen. I know the Anne of Green Gables books really very well. But the more I reread them the more frequently I have moments where my queer lady self really can’t do anything except howl “HOW COULD THIS EVER BE CONSIDERED HETEROSEXUAL??????”*

And so I have taken it upon myself to chronicle the progression of Anne’s intimate relationships with various women throughout the first five books, mostly just citing the actual text as actually published because it kind of speaks for itself. This is meant to serve as textual support for my contention that Anne is hella, hella gay and would probably have be happiest taking a couple months off every year to go live in a lesbian writer’s commune.

*Yes, I am aware that the answer to that is “by the power of ever-changing but no more or less restrictive standards of heterosexuality.” That doesn’t change the underlying point.

SO. LET’S BEGIN.

EXHIBIT A: DIANA BARRY (THE FIRST LOVE)

This is the one that everyone loves to cite. I mean, to be fair, it kind of cites itself. It starts off with an oath of friendship clearly cribbed from some sort of romance novel, but that’s easy enough to put down to Anne’s canonical desperation for companionship. But then –

Yes. This is definitely, 100% a normal friendship reaction. Totally! NBD! I also get intensely jealous of the hypothetical romantic partners of all my totally platonic friend relationships. It gets better though. Diana’s mother is introduced for the sole purpose of separating the two friends and forbids them from playing together. They’re given ten minutes (!) to say goodbye.

(As a side note, check out how “I didn’t think anybody could love me” is a real thing that Anne Shirley says that just gets slipped in there.) Anne then asks for a lock of her hair (!!!!), which Diana happily gives her. Of course, they’re soon reconciled, and Anne immediately goes back to spending every possible moment with her and talking about her nonstop whenever they have to attend to silly things like school and chores and families.  

On the other hand, the thing about Diana is that while Diana is happy to follow Anne’s lead and is clearly Anne’s first love, Diana is also…actually pretty straight. Unpopular opinion, I know, but for her, her relationship with Anne is clearly a platonic-best-friends kind of deal. Anne is important to her, Anne is her best friend, but her relationship with Anne isn’t central to her life. It’s not all-consuming and life-changing in the way that the way Anne feels clearly is for her. Diana quickly and contentedly gets married to a dude, while Anne has a wistful moment (or three) (or ten) over the slow changes in their friendship.

BUT the stage is set for Anne’s long catalogue of intense and intimate relationships with women.

EXHIBIT B: PHILIPPA GORDON (THE MANIC PIXIE DREAM GIRL)

I have an outsize love for Philippa (aka Phil), who seems to waltz onto the page with careless abandon and proceed to charm the pants off everyone, including the reader, and definitely including Anne. At this point Anne is a grown-up damsel of twenty, past the loves of childhood and ready to expand her horizons in her college years. Two of her “chums” from books past, Stella and Priscilla, appear frequently as well, but Phil has a particularly intimate relationship with Anne, which makes Anne (for once) the one pursued rather than the one pursuing:

Phil also flirts shamelessly with everyone in sight, regardless of gender:

I love that Phil clearly started out as a morality play City Girl intended to showcase the Corruption of Wealth and High Society in contrast to Anne’s Wholesome Country Girl, and then managed to undermine the moral entirely by dint of her total appreciation of and lack of resentment for Anne. Just look at this moment where Phil tries to convince Anne to come home with her for the holidays:

It’s a bit of a one-sided relationship in some ways – Phil doesn’t have as much to teach Anne as Anne has to teach her – but it’s nice to see Anne be fully appreciated and loved by someone very different from her.

EXHIBIT C: KATHERINE BROOKE (THE ENEMY-TO-FRIEND)

Katherine Brooke is the other principal at the school Anne ends up working at while Gilbert is in medical school, who spends at least a year and a half making a point of being mean to Anne at every opportunity in the pettiest ways possible. It is later revealed that this is because she’s jealous of Anne’s happiness, although she puts it in slightly more poetic terms:

Anne, of course, is able to win her over, although not before delivering the iconic line “Katherine Brooke, whether you know it or not, what you want is a good spanking!” They share dark secrets with each other – Katherine is the first person that we see Anne share her horrible childhood with as an adult and Katherine tells Anne about her experience being brought up by her abusive uncle and aunt, her feeling of being trapped as a teacher, and her longing to travel. (Just as a side note, it is probably an under-acknowledged fact that these books do not pull punches when it comes to childhood neglect and abuse. Anne spends her entire childhood up to age eleven (after she’s orphaned as an infant) as an unpaid maid/nanny before being sent to an orphanage; Katherine’s fate is similar minus Anne’s deus ex machina adoption.) Anne also makes her over, in very classic (gay) ugly duckling fashion, convincing her to enter a reading competition and then helping her dress for it. She even, by the end of that semester, has convinced her to change careers and take a job that will actually let her do the traveling she wants, although she leaves a forlorn Anne behind, saying wistfully in a letter to Gilbert “There was so much to discover in Katherine, when you once got past her guard.”

EXHIBIT D: LESLIE MOORE (THE ANGSTY THREESOME)

Leslie Moore is sort of a special case, in that her relationship with Anne is the only one of these intense and intimate friendships that Gilbert Blythe (Anne’s ongoing love interest/husband) also participates in. She’s Anne’s neighbor in her and Gilbert’s first home, a beautiful woman with a tragic past. Anne sees her without knowing who she is as they approach their new home and christens her “the girl with the splendid, resentful eyes.” Then they meet again on a stormy night, when Leslie accidentally sees Anne dancing and laughing on the shore (the original meet-cute!!!) resulting in this wonderful introduction:

Anne doesn’t quite know what to make of her, but finds her deeply interesting, saying to her husband later:

Yeah, ok.

It emerges that Leslie was bullied into a marriage with an abusive man who had an accident soon after they were married and now is severely intellectually disabled, leaving Leslie as his caregiver. This just sets the scene for a friendship that rivals Anne’s friendship with Diana for intensity:

And she does!

And yet, something remains between the happy pair and Leslie, clearly a product of the tragedy of Leslie’s situation:

(My kingdom for a really good, angst-ridden fic where Leslie ends up having a threesome with them, honestly.)

But Anne soon faces her own tragedy, in the sudden death of her first-born daughter after she herself almost dies in childbirth. And soon after, Leslie makes her declaration of love, in a chapter very aptly titled “Barriers Swept Away,” which honestly deserves to be quoted more or less verbatim:

They spend some time processing, but finally it seems that nothing remains as a barrier between them:

I MEAN. THAT’S FINE. LET’S JUST LEAVE OUR TWO HEROINES LITERALLY CRYING ABOUT HOW MUCH THEY LOVE EACH OTHER.

They have a beautiful summer together before further shenanigans ensue, and Leslie eventually gets free of her terrible husband (through a truly glorious plot twist); the book starts to wrap up with this lovely little gem:

That seems – well, like a good place to end this, honestly. QED, Anne’s friendships with women are the most beautiful collection of interesting and varied loves anyone could ask for. It’s a good reminder of what fiction looks like that runs rings around the Bechdel test and then tosses it out a window, which honestly we could all use a little more of.

[asha-mage]

Missing the Mark: Language, Style, and a Discomfort with Ambiguity

I have a lot of respect for Sanderson as an author, even if his books are decidedly Not For Me, I can appreciate that clearly he has enough skill at his craft to have attained a degree of success as an author that few even dream of. And beyond that, reading his forward of The Gathering Storm has never failed to make me burst into tears, as his clear grief and pain at the passing of Robert Jordan comes through in a way that speaks to my own. I've very rarely felt like a kindred spirit to an author the way I do reading that forward, sharing in the loss of someone who was such a huge and important part of my life because of the books he wrote and the impact they had on me.

That said.

I can respect Sanderson's decision not to try imitating Robert Jordan's signature style of writing for fear of it being a kind of disrespect, while still thinking he did not expend enough effort to adapt his own style to the world and characters of WoT. Some of this is subtle (the way he mentions the 'soil made red by iron' or 'the very carbon of their spears'), which while annoying doesn't fully break with the sense of world. But their are cases where it is far more overt and far more jarring.

For example the use of the phrase 'medical aid' in the prologue, despite the fact that the word 'medical' has never appeared anywhere else in the entirety of the story. Sanderson likely does this to distinguish the aid the characters in question (Seanchan sul'dam) will get from the power-based Healing that the readers are more familiar with (which the sul'dam would find repellent). The desire not risk equating lower-case-h healing with Capital H Healing makes sense, since Sanderson doesn't want to confuse the reader. But it betrays a lack of the trust in the reader to be able to distinguish between the two, and more over a lack of imagination to phrase it in a way that wouldn't begat confusion. Instead Sanderson turns to a very modern phrase that doesn't frankly fit the world of WoT.

This is a broader problem with Sanderson, who I've always said writes like one hell of a scientist. He has an innate desire to categorize, identify, and separate terms, resisting ambiguity and doubt in how he writes. Sanderson's tenor sees the term 'channeling' go into common practice by all characters, and distinctions between saidar and saidin users, even among characters for whom it makes no sense to understand those terms or use them. Jordan has most characters, especially ones without much worldly knowledge, lump all use of the One Power together, and think of all channelers as Aes Sedai whether or not it makes logical sense (Rand ran into this problem especially early on internally and externally). Most people are certainly not even really familiar with the terms saidin and saidar for most of the series, not understanding the difference unless they have cause to know. By contrast, even common farmers understand the difference in Sanderson's run, and can draw a clear distinction between Wilders, Aes Sedai, damane, and Asha'man, without any prior experience with those groups, and moreover comfortably use terms like channeler, saidin, and saidar, despite all the fear, doubt, misinformation and ambiguity about the One Power that exists throughout Randland.

This also leaks over into the way Sanderson depicts characters, who all possess a baseline level of self awareness that shows his lack of comfort with ambiguity and doubt. One of the maximums of Jordan's writing is that people in general know very little about themselves, and are more likely to see themselves and others in distorted or incorrect fashions based on their prejudices and basis. I'll talk more about this when I talk about Perrin and Mat specifically (and more over how Mat's charm and Perrin's central character conflict are wrapped up in the distorted views they have of themselves, and the distorted views others have about them), but what's important for this particular meta is that it shows again Sanderson's lack of comfort with ambiguity. Characters always see themselves and their problems with clarity, and the struggle is not a search for understanding of themselves and others, but rather a means to overcome the obstacles of their problems. They also are far less likely to have distorted views of each other, and when characters do judge each other based on biases and misunderstandings, these are often cleared up with very little strife. Gawyn gets the worst of this, where he manages to basically correct his assumptions and biases about Rand entirely on his own through self reflection, without ever ACTUALLY having to confront or speak to Rand to realize he's wrong. Instead he simply magically realizes his own classism and prejudice are the problem, resolves to get over them, does, and never has to deal with it again.

Sanderson writes as I said, like one hell of a scientist: conflicts and characters are clear cut and well defined, as are the terminologies and language that they use to describe their world and each other. Conflict under him becomes more like a mathematical equation, a matter of getting the right pieces and the right characters into the right place to solve the problem at hand, without any of the messy more human parts to meddle with achieving that solution.

This stands in sharp contrast to the way Jordan writes conflict, which is heavily interlocked with how he built his world. Jordan writes conflict and characters as a tangled web, each thread and action pulling on others, shaping the story and events in ways both obvious and subtle, for good and bad. An often repeated maxim of Egwene's character arc, the law of unintended consequences (where regardless of whether what you do has the effect you want it to or not, it will have at least three you never expected and at least one will usually be unpleasant) is largely forgotten under Sanderson, replaced by a much simpler and more direct law: where each action has cause and effect, each problem has a solution, and the conflict lays in overcoming the obstacles to completing those actions, and arriving at those solutions.

Is that a bad way to write? Not really. It's just different. And yet that difference is fundamental, and it clashes with the nature of the story of WoT in a way that, each time it's made apparent, throws me out of the story, sometimes a little bit, sometimes a whole lot.

[uwusenpaiuwu]

Sleepovers At The Baji Household feat. A Fed-Up Chifuyu

Summary: Chifuyu just wants to sleep, man, but Baji wants to be a jealous crackhead at 2 AM.

Pairing: Sano Manjiro | Mikey x Male Reader

Note(s): I had a little free time and wrote this. So, please enjoy! ALSO, to the anon that sent me a request a few days ago, I saw it and have it filed on my to-do list!!! I will definitely get to it as soon as I get a break in my schedule :)

"Chifuyu, ya wanna see some real discrimination?"

No. No, Chifuyu does not want to see what Baji means by 'real discrimination.'

Does he tell him that, though?

Yes, actually, because it's 2 in the fucking morning and, as much as he respects the other boy, he wouldn't put it past himself to smother him with a pillow after having his dream of cuddling with a sea of puppies suddenly destroyed.

Unfortunately for his sanity, Baji either doesn't hear him or, more likely than not, doesn't give a fuck, because he's already flopping onto his belly and whipping out his phone to do God knows what.

The dial tone that sounds from the speaker a few seconds later makes Chifuyu cringe, especially since it's only ever been a calm silence fit for a good night's sleep prior to Baji bulldozing through it with his absurd question. (At the very least, he's thankful that the latter has half a mind to keep the brightness on the lowest setting, otherwise, Chifuyu would have had to fight.)

On the far end of the row of carefully-laid futons, you shift in your sleep, eyebrows furrowing together at the noise. Rotating onto your side, you unconsciously reach for Baji, and just when he thinks you're being cute and trying to cuddle him, you smack him in the head.

Baji doesn't flinch, instead, takes his pillow and shoves it in your grasp to keep your unconscious self occupied, so that he can focus on getting through to the person who reuses to pick up (understandably so).

Releasing a frustrated groan after being redirected to voice mail for the fifth time, he dials the number again, muttering an impatient, "Pick up already."

Chifuyu feels sorry for the poor soul on the other end. He would've blocked someone following the first call, because again, it's-

The blond has to squint his eyes up at the digital clock on Baji's nightstand, which confirms that it's already 2:22 A.M, further solidifying the fact that he shouldn't be awake right now. And this also applies to the ever persistent first division captain, who insists on bothering who Chifuyu soon discovers is Mikey from the contact ID that flashes across the screen.

Why Baji is so keen on bothering him is a question he doesn't have the mental capacity to ponder over. The most energy he'll expend is to listen in when the call miraculously connects.

"What...?" comes a muffled voice from the receiver, tone laced in an irked grogginess birthed from a slumber rudely interrupted.

There's an absurdly loud, almost angry, roar of Mikey's name, one that has Chifuyu curling in on himself in a futile attempt to escape a sound that should be illegal at this hour.

But you know what else should be illegal?

The fucking whiplash Chifuyu gets when Baji's deep voice takes an abrupt 180°, switching from its normal gruffness to a squeaky, ear-piercing shrill as he screams, "I love you, love you, love you! Do you love me, too, Mikey-kyun~♡?!"

The room is dead silent.

Not a word. Not a murmur. Not a breath.

Just pure, unadulterated silence as both Chifuyu and Mikey process the words that hang in the air, permeating it with a goosebumps-inducing eeriness from having heard such a...a girly, overtly cutesy screech from Baji.

Then-

"What the fuck? He hung on me!"

Chifuyu opens his mouth, thinks better of reacting to the cursed scene he had the misfortune of bearing witness to, and promptly closes it.

Other people may have sleep paralysis demons.

But Chifuyu?

Chifuyu has Baji.

With both hands partially raised in prayer, he begs for the shenanigans to be over and done with.

They are not.

While his eyes remain closed in a last ditch effort to convince himself that it's all a bad dream, he hears a lot of grumbling happening on your side of the room, courtesy of Baji, who's scrambling around in search of...something. One quick peek reveals him fiddling with a phone - yours, to be exact, as evidenced by the distinctive phone charm of your favorite anime character hanging from it.

"(Y/n), wake up for a second," he hears him whisper. It takes a bit of prompting, until he's able to successfully rouse you enough from sleep to elicit any kind of response, which is, essentially, nothing short of an incoherent, slurred mess. Although, Chifuyu is pretty damn certain he heard you call Baji a 'dickhead' for the trouble.

Unperturbed, he continues shaking your limp form, coaxing you into wakefulness with, "Repeat what I tell you, and I'll let you go back to asleep. Deal?"

You squint your eyes at him, only able to make out a vague outline of his visage in the lightless room. "Promise?"

"Cross my heart, hope to die," he automatically responds with the same phrase he's become accustomed to saying whenever you two made a promise, something done purely out of habit, formed when the two of you were just kids and he wanted to get you to do something absolutely ridiculous either for him or with him. And just 'cause he knows you're more susceptible to complying if he does it, he also interlocks his pinky with yours.

"...Fine."

The approval is his cue to proceed, and it's as he's putting the phone on speaker that he turns back to a regretfully wide awake Chifuyu, mouthing a wordless, 'Watch.'

The phone rings, loud and clear, precisely once and only once.

"(Y/n), what's wrong?" It's important to note that even though Mikey still sounds tired as hell, his tone is much lighter, much happier really, than when it was Baji, which is an offense in itself to the said teen that's off to the side, attentively listening to the conversation unfold.

Then, it strikes Chifuyu, what Baji is trying to do, and fuck does it give him an instant headache.

Meanwhile, your mouth morphs into the dopiest of smiles with the pleasant surprise of hearing your boyfriend's voice, chest instantly overtaken by a warm fuzziness that never fails to make an appearance whenever he's involved. Sappy, you know, but it's true!

A light but firm nudge to your shoulder reminds you of your mission. It's too bad that, teetering along the edge of sleep as you are, the words Baji whispers are barely repeated correctly.

The initial phrase from before, the one Baji greeted Mikey with, is shortened to a simple, "You wuv I...?"

But, without missing a beat, you receive Mikey's confident reply of, "Mhm... I wuv you a lot."

There's a sleepy giggle then - a fucking giggle - before your voices drop to sweet whispers that the third and fourth wheels can't fully comprehend from where they are.

"Where the fuck was my 'I wuv you,' huh?!" Baji whisper-shouts, considerate of your conversation even when ranting and raving. "Shit, I would've taken a simple 'I love you,' too! I've known that bastard way longer than (Y/n), and this is what I get?!"

Okay. Toman's president answers his boyfriend's late night calls faster than he does anyone else's and openly expresses his love for him. So what? Chifuyu wouldn't exactly call it 'discrimination,' per se. 'Favoritism,' maybe if you wanna stretch it, but using as strong a word as discrimination, especially taking into account you two are dating; it's normal? Nah.

"You wanna say 'bye' to them? Mm. Baji and Chifuyu." A pause. "Fuyu, Mikey says 'bye.'"

"Bye, Mikey-kun."

The other person in the room waits, and waits, and waits, and when it's clear that there is no intention to address his presence whatsoever, Baji turns to Chifuyu with an almost scandalized expression, making wild gesticulations with his hands, clearly distressed. "See?!"

Blank blue eyes stare back at him, unblinking. Honestly, it's a common occurrence - Baji spiraling in a nonsensical rage - so it's easy for Chifuyu to block out the muted, jealousy-driven temper tantrum as he takes his pillow in both hands, raises it as high as he can, and-

Sigh.

-lets it flop right back onto his face.

He can't suffocate Baji. Shouldn't. Wouldn't. Couldn't. After all, they're best buds, meaning he has an obligation to put up with shit like this once in a while. (Plus, he'd probably get his ass kicked before he succeeds anyway. Totally not worth the beating.)

"Did you hear? Mikey said he wuvs me," he hears you drawl dreamily as soon as you hang up, sounding very close to clocking back out for the night.

"Yeah, yeah. Cute shit. Happy for ya, dude," Baji huffs. Thankfully, he sounds like he's in a similar state to yours, if the yawn that follows his sarcastic comment is anything to go by.

"...He soooo ignored you."

That warrants a punishing punch to the arm, dulled only slightly by the combination of the thick quilt you're swaddled in and the raven-haired boy's fatigue.

"I'll fucking throw you out right now, (Y/n). Don't test me."

"You won't."

"I will."

"Won't."

"Will."

The conversation gradually dies down shortly after, the exhaustion that took its sweet time getting to both of you having reached its peak with the help of the childish bickering. It takes 10 minutes, maybe 15, before two sets of light snores fill the room.

Finally.

Let it be known that there is a lesson to be learned from tonight's events. Really, there is. Y'know, something along the lines of 'Don't agree to a sleepover with Baji, if you plan on actually sleeping,' or whatever.

Alas, Chifuyu's consciousness fades before he realizes what it is.

~~~

"Mikey, be honest. Who do you love more? Me or-?"

"(Y/n)."

"But-"

(Y/n)."

"I-"

"(Y/n)."

Baji is only momentarily discouraged, sharp eyes glaring at the blond that lays his head on your lap after hi-fiving you. He didn't want to do this, but he's left with no choice.

"(Y/n) or Babu?"

From the way Mikey stiffens up, refusing to look at either him or you in the eyes, Baji knows he has him right where he wants him, has him torn between a cute face or a sweet ride.

"Oi! Don't pretend to be asleep! Answer the damn question! OI!"

(After hours of serious contemplation - even though you told him it doesn't particularly matter - it's revealed that, of course, Mikey loves you more. Babu just happens to trail behind as a very close second.)

[primrose-path-of-dalliance]

jester began falling in love with caleb in episode 103.

not any earlier in my opinion, and not later, either.

there's two elements to why i believe e103 is the turning point.

(1) the first is caleb's actions and jester's responses to them during the night they all sleep by the waterfall—his support of her idea to sleep underwater, his conversation with her after her commune with artagan, and his casting of programmed illusion in the dome.

(2) the second is the way her behavior toward caleb pivots around e103. before e103 is a noticeably different beast to how she begins to treat him after e103—the attention she pays him, her efforts to hold more standout interactions with him, and a dramatic swell of emotion and thematic meaning in these scenes’ respective subtext.

the rumblecusp arc is the point in which jester’s character growth, and caleb’s efforts to unconditionally support her, really begin to shine. throughout the complex growing pains that jester and artagan's relationship was experiencing, the one person who truly takes a moment to offer her support without any agenda or judgment is caleb.

(e103, 1:22:55, bold mine)

CALEB: You okay over there?

JESTER: (tearful) Yeah, I'm fine. Just—I'm just drawing.

CALEB: Maybe didn't go as well as you were hoping?

JESTER: Um... In some ways it went better. But no.

CALEB: I can't speak for him. But you do have us.

JESTER: I know.

CALEB: So whatever you land on, Jester, we'll make it happen.

JESTER: (shaky laugh) I have to figure out what I want to land on.

CALEB: That is the, uh—sticky wicket, isn't it?

JESTER: Yeah. Everything's confusing.

CALEB: Maybe... Maybe we sleep on it, it'll make more sense in the morning.

JESTER: Yeah. Yeah. Thank you, Caleb.

CALEB: I didn't do anything.

jester confesses that her commune with artagan didn’t provide the answers she was hoping for—that he knew about the curse on the island—and caleb doesn’t remark on what that seems like. he deliberately avoids speculating on why artagan is doing these things because “he can’t speak for him.” he doesn’t assume anything about what she might choose to do and explicitly leaves that choice up to her. jester vents briefly about how difficult the choice is, and caleb offers her reassurance, a reminder that some time will make things clearer. he doesn’t suggest solutions.

unlike fjord or beau, caleb doesn’t ask her to voice outright whether artagan is being a good friend. he doesn’t continually question his character and imply any personal opinions to her or what he thinks she should do. instead, he asks whether she’s okay. he listens. and he offers unconditional support.

this is consistently the stance caleb takes in the rumblecusp arc. and it’s not discussed much, i think, exactly how monumental that was to jester.

(hold on, this is a long one.)

jester is a young woman who grew up sheltered and wants to define herself outside of that shelter. for her, this campaign has essentially been a coming-of-age journey (talks for e76-77, 14:12). she is deeply sensitive to whether or not she’s respected because she’s aware of how her personality and general lack of experience makes others think she’s naive, immature, or incapable (talks for e79, 31:51).

it’s also incredibly evident that her relationship with artagan is unique. in e105 (1:15:01), jester tells the m9, “he really got me through a lot when i was younger, you know? and he was all i had, really.” he was her best friend from childhood in a home where she spent most of her time hidden in a single room. when she was younger, the few times she left the chateau, she was bullied by other girls (e110, 3:34:59). her best friend, though? her best friend was a god. a god with an incredible sense of humor, an aggrandizing attitude, and adoring respect for a young girl in a difficult situation who had as wonderful a personality as him. in every way that matters, artagan’s friendship undoubtedly saved jester’s life.

and she is so, so aware of this. she cares for him deeply, trusts him unconditionally, and is determined to be there for the one person who had been there for her when no one else was, not even her mother.

the renegotiation of this friendship after artagan revealed his full identity was clearly extraordinarily difficult for jester. she was having to reevaluate her entire relationship with the being that pulled her through a childhood of isolation and misery, question his intentions with her and whether they could even remain friends at all. and this was amidst her arrival at a dangerous island with her other friends to help him clean up his mistakes.

asking her to make a judgment on artagan before she’s ready to do it on her own, while managing some high expectations at the same time—not only is it a lot of pressure, it’s frustrating and painful. jester did not want to judge artagan without giving him his fair due and a proper conversation. knowing that her new friends dislike her old friend, besides being hurt by it, distracted her. she had to both defend him outwardly and interrogate him internally. and if she tried to explain how important artagan is to her, a lot of vulnerability would’ve been necessary when she was trying to be a leader and seem competent and capable, instead of a child who needs patronizing guidance.

this latter point is exceptional. because jester lavorre is so vulnerable when it comes to how much she thinks her loved ones respect her and consider her a valuable, equal, and trustworthy individual. and it’s difficult to feel like you’re being valued and trusted when people are repeatedly questioning you about a person and a relationship that they don’t understand in a way that, despite genuine concern, comes across as them doubting your own judgment of one of the most intimate parts of your life.

in this precise moment in e103, caleb is the only person who acknowledges—to her in person, even—that he doesn't have any place in judging her relationship with artagan. that it’s not what she needs from him or anyone else. that he’s content waiting for her to reach a decision. that he will respect that decision.

and jester can believe him. caleb’s done nothing but remain consistent on this stance. he repeatedly supports her choices to run travelercon, trust artagan, and come to his aid.

when other party members question artagan's legitimacy, caleb is the one who almost always speaks up to support jester (some examples: e61, 30:43 / e77, 49:17 / e95, 1:09:17 and 1:15:24).

he actively and enthusiastically offers his magical talents to her to provide for the event preparations. he has a whole conversation with her in e91 (beginning 1:53:41) where he expresses his immense respect for her and her personality, explicitly validates her faith in artagan, and shows her a tangible example of how he wants to help her during the upcoming travelercon. when she suggests some ideas, despite their arguable silliness, caleb takes them at face value and openly admits his lack of expertise in this area (e91, 1:58:35).

when they first arrive at rumblecusp, he directly reassures jester about the ‘travelercon 3000’ banner she leaves on the wrong beach by mentioning that he can make her a new banner (e101, 48:18). once preparations begin in earnest, caleb expends spells very freely, including ones of higher-level, to produce whatever jester requests.

in e103, he hears out her idea of sleeping underwater and gives it equal consideration in spite of other party members trying to shoot it down. the first time she suggests it (36:23), caduceus comments against it and no other party member acknowledges her except for caleb, who agrees with her quietly while the others move on. the second time jester suggests it (46:08), veth comments against it and caleb steps in to openly agree that it’s a good idea, even after fjord and beau join veth in being dubious.

compare these active, consistent moments of support and validation from caleb to similarly active and consistent examples of the other attitudes that manifest during the rumblecusp arc, in contradiction to people’s apparent claims of trust (one such claim of trust: e95, 1:00:21).

plainly insulting artagan to jester as if it’s a given, such as fjord’s “he’s generally full of shit, right?” (e107, 49:42);

fjord, beau, and caduceus’s conversation about “not ruining jester’s big day,” yet distrusting artagan to the extent of planning to keep her from being alone with him, preparing to attack him should he try to sacrifice 200 people for some speculated unknown ritual and/or hurt jester, and discussing all of this behind jester’s back (e108, beginning 15:41);

caduceus’s said shift to distrust of artagan because of a semi-disturbing conversation that jester was equally a part of (e107, beginning 20:40);

and the discussion right before jester’s commune with artagan where beau questions if artagan sent them to rumblecusp knowing of the memory problems, without regard for their well-being (e103, 29:40).

the unfortunate assumption being made by these party members’ repeated questioning and protectiveness of jester is that she cannot be trusted to have good judgment. despite their familiarity with some of the context of her relationship with artagan (especially after e105), they disregard her repeatedly-expressed support of him. they indirectly disrespect her ability to judge for herself whether someone is dangerous to her or her friends. they don’t acknowledge jester’s own role in creating dubious situations and instead direct all their negative feelings and sense of fault to artagan, minimizing her agency.

the e108 conversation is a dense microcosm of how the party perpetrates these assumptions throughout the rumblecusp arc as a whole. without qualm, they discuss deliberately controlling jester’s time with artagan to ‘protect’ her and their willingness to kill the evil image they’ve constructed of him, and dodge jester directly asking them what they’re talking about—even though it is a known given that the m9 would defend her with their lives with or without any prior discussion. the purpose of holding this conversation isn’t to make sure that jester is safe. like caduceus near-explicitly says, it’s to “feel better knowing” that “anybody else was on board with this” (20:26 and 18:57)—to validate their unacknowledged distrust of jester’s judgment with each other, behind her back.

and as laura has said: jester, with her very high wisdom, tends to know what’s going on even if she acts like she doesn’t (talks for e79, 32:39).

in e103, when jester is crying because she’s found out that artagan did know about the island’s memory problems, caleb doesn’t show any sign of taking this as proof of artagan's ill intent. what he does instead: he offers compassion for her pain with zero judgment. he promises to support her, no matter what she ultimately decides to make of this information. these are offers of safety and trust, ones that jester desperately needed.

then—caleb creates a programmed illusion of the m9’s lives. and it’s beautiful.

in comparison to all the analysis prior, this moment is straightforward. jester is an artist. she paints, draws, and creates, and she loves doing it. moreover, she loves making art for other people. though she doesn’t get many chances to do so, the mural of a flowery meadow that she paints for yasha’s room in the xhorhaus is a perfect example. similarly, she enjoys the art she makes when defacing other people’s property—altered signage or statue of the platinum dragon painted in rainbow—in part because they’re gifts to the traveler. she loves making those she loves happy.

happiness and love to jester is overwhelmingly about emotional intimacy. i’ve talked about this to some degree in a previous post about jester’s jealousy. please refer there for in-depth explanation. in brief, though, she puts value on how deeply she knows a person; how often she’s been able to be there for them. this is the love she learned from her mother and from artagan, and how she continues to love once she’s older.

caleb’s arcane rendition of the m9′s lives floating around the inside of the dome is a display of exactly this kind of love. not only is it art crafted from his magic and imagination and love—it’s blatant evidence of how much he cares for every member of the party and where they’ve come from. he remembers their stories and hangs them in the air in hopes that it’ll help them resist the memory erasing. he moves the memory of yasha and zuala in a meadow over to yasha’s pillow-side so she can watch it until she falls asleep. he creates a memory for vilya of her, her husband, and her daughter, listening to and respecting the emotional gravity of what she’s confiding in them.

only a few minutes after jester’s disappointing commune with artagan and her conversation with caleb, she walks into the dome and sees this art. she laughs and stares in wonder at all the memories (e103, 1:46:08). when beau points out the humorous memories of fjord being attacked by turtles so they can all laugh, she tells caleb with equal awe and joy, “wow. this is amazing, caleb” (e103, 1:47:04).

...of course, as lovely and meaningful as these back-to-back moments were for jester, it's not quite evidence of her starting to fall in love with caleb around this time.

that’s where the following episodes come in.

[id: three screenshots of messages sent in a discord channel by the user “prim” (the op). all are timestamped to friday, august 28, 2020, the day after the live premiere of e107. the first has an additional timestamp of 12:53 PM, the second 1:03 PM, and the third 1:30 PM. they read:

honest to god though i don't know if it's just the shipper brain that is making me think laura is trying to roleplay jester beginning to reciprocate caleb's feelings [...]

like........ the golden dick hunt teasing is definitely on par with jester's past shenanigans, but the compliments have been Catching My Attention bc it's honestly not normal for jester to compliment caleb of her own volition like that, just as a one-on-one "i appreciate you" reassurance

and i'm thinking less about the spells from last night's episode (although how much jester was emphasizing the compliments made me go "awwwww") and more of the moments like jester telling caleb "that was impressive" after getting cad out of the tunnel with beau's help

but laura is absolutely a shipping troll with jester this campaign so i'm here like "I'M MAYBE 80% SURE I'M BEING FUCKED WITH BUT IT MAYBE HOLDS UP????" [...]

basically laura keeps doing things that make the alarm in my brain go off and i don't know if i'm picking up something legit or if i'm projecting my hopes, like the recent pattern of compliments from jester LOL

/end id.]

i’m not going to lie, if i try to list every single receipt like i otherwise prefer to do in these metas, i think we (and especially i) would all lose our minds. so while i’m about to provide a lot of citations, they genuinely are just a few possible examples that will mostly be within the dozen episodes after e103.

the more important detail that can be observed from this is that e103 is a turning point.

prior to e103, jester does not particularly go out of her way to interact with caleb. by and large, most of their direct interactions are either initiated by caleb or prompted by the context of a general party conversation. the majority of other moments that could be referred to as ‘widojest’ are of caleb’s evident feelings. beyond early campaign days, jester rarely teases caleb about sexual topics while insinuating things about her own sexual life at the same time.

after e103, laura and jester begin to go out of their way to interact with and intertwine jester’s time with caleb.

the rate of jester’s compliments and enthusiastic gratitude to caleb skyrocket (some examples: e104, 30:36 / e107, 16:49 and 1:11:28 and 1:12:15 and 3:10:39 / e110, 15:58 and 3:37:24 / e111, 36:15 and 38:41 and 50:58);

several mature jokes/flirtations she makes involve both caleb and herself (examples: e107, 1:16:17 / e110, 1:18:07 / e115, 1:52:53);

she deliberately and specifically engages caleb in full-blown interactions, such as the conversations during the tour of her childhood bedroom (e110, beginning 1:11:38), hanging out with him on the icebreaker ship (e112, beginning 3:45:29), and the reading of der katzenprinz (e115, beginning 1:52:43);

as well as the expansion of more extended ‘conversations’ like their motif of dancing (e108, 13:39 / e109, 2:54:14), their parental relationships (e110, 20:44 and 3:38:41 / e115′s der katzenprinz / e121, beginning 1:52:12), and polymorph shenanigans (examples: e107, beginning 2:58:41 / e117, beginning 1:13:55 / e118, 43:57).

thrown in are additional background details that further tie jester to caleb, such as her determination to recover caleb’s amulet after their defeat of vokodo (e106, 25:33), the knowing comments on his purchasing of paper (e109, 22:32 / e111, 1:25:49), her deliberate choice to ride whaleb during the avantika chase (e113, 2:32:28), her retrieval of caleb’s coat when he’s attempting to remove the necromantic emerald (e115, 1:30:56), and her deliberate reference to der katzenprinz to iver (e120, 3:05:14);

and simply everything about the tower. it’s another example of the art and creativity caleb produces with his magic to make his loved ones happy, which jester acknowledges at least twice (refer to the e111 compliments). contrarily, jester also makes note of the signs that this tower shows less love to caleb than she thinks he deserves, in keeping with her value of emotional intimacy (e115’s der katzenprinz / e122’s floor 8, room 1).

the reading of der katzenprinz in e115 is arguably the pinnacle of these examples. it’s intentionally initiated by jester. she both takes the step to visit caleb's room and indirectly requests him to read the story to her. laura’s implication that she remembered this subplot because of beau’s reading of a very romantic letter from yasha is particularly suggestive. the story itself incorporates many similar characters and themes that are present in jester’s backstory: the lonely, sheltered boy and his single working mom as jester and marion; the dubious cat prince who ultimately gives the boy freedom and confidence as artagan; and the deep love between the boy and his mother because of how they only have each other, which compels a powerful being to have compassion and thus set the boy free so that they can be together. very similar to both jester’s depth of relationship with her mother and her pleas on artagan’s behalf to the moonweaver’s celestial servant.

and the post-story conversation—caleb’s confiding of its importance to him because of his mother. jester’s open willingness to compare the cat prince to artagan, knowing that caleb respects their friendship and has treated artagan fairly. jester’s lingering, repeated looks toward caleb while smiling and holding her copy of der katzenprinz to her heart.

with all this dramatic expansion of the emotional and thematic intimacy between jester and caleb beginning to roll down the hill after e103—in brilliant contrast to their more muted, less reciprocal dynamic before this episode—e103 is more than likely the turning point of jester’s feelings. and based on the events and context, it was caused by the combined emotional appeal of caleb’s offer of unconditional support and his display of love for his family in the programmed illusion of memories.

[siswritesyanderes]

Would you be willing to write yandere Loki from MCU? I like this character very much and I love your writing. I would be very grateful if you could write this.

Ohh, I definitely would, but at what point in Loki's life?

So many options.

(In all cases, Reader is for Earth, as far as I'm concerned; he could've found someone on Earth anytime.)

Pre-Thor Loki is a mishievous, magical prince with no particular emotional baggage, but he does feel that he lives in his brother's shadow, advising against rashness and seemingly less impressive, to a society fond of war. Yandere Loki in this stage of life would be sweet, and not quite as possessive as he would be later in life. He would be very hungry for acknowledgement and praise. You would pretty much have to compliment him all day long, but he would give you a nice, palatial room and a flowing Asgardian wardrobe and a banquet table full of the best foods, and he'd be very affectionate.

Thor-era Loki learns about his true lineage. This could go a few different ways: three, I think.

1. Broken Loki. He's inconsolable, and you're his only comfort. He tells you what he is, and what happened with Odin, and you have to tell him that he isn't a monster, that everything will be okay. He doesn't believe you, but you have to keep saying it, because if you don't, he'll go mad. He brings you everywhere with him, to keep him anchored.

2. Close-to-the-chest Loki. After such a disruption to his self image, he can't bear to lose you. He keeps you in the dark about everything, kind of like he does Frigga. He doesn't tell you what transpired with Odin, and he makes sure to frame his own actions, with regards to Thor, in a way that paints him as helpless to contest Odin's laws, or justified in maintaining them. He's much more controlling towards you, though. After all that's happened, he can't risk letting you around other people; Sif and the Warriors Three resent him, and what if they start whispering in your ear? Making you hate him? He can't let that happen. He can't let anyone talk to you but him. You don't even have servants anymore; he'll make sure you're cared for, with magic. He needs to maintain your love for him, at all costs, now that he can't love himself.

3. Lashing out Loki. He tells you that he's a Jotunn, and he tells you that he is a monster, and he tells you that it's his fault that Odin is in the Odinsleep, and he confesses to every bad thing he's done in his life, and he tells you about the bad things he's planning on doing next. He appears to relish in giving you every reason to hate him; it's a way of punishing himself, kind of. He almost demands that you hate and fear him, while fearing that you really will. Whether you respond with hate/fear or not, he'll keep pushing. He needs to show you his worse self, needs you to see him as he is. If you (justifiably) want to leave at that point, he'll make you sound unreasonable for doing so. What, you can't love him like this? Would you prefer the polished, silver-tongued, Asgardian prince? Or perhaps you would prefer Thor? Everyone would. No matter how monstrously Thor acts, he'll never be as much a monster as Loki, will he?

Avengers-era Loki is more sadistic. If this is the point where he takes an interest in you, that's real unfortunate. This one could go two ways:

1. He scepters you. Your eyes turn a misty blue, as he takes control of your mind. He makes you walk by his side and call yourself his, with a proud smile on your face. He caresses your cheek fondly. The Avengers are very unsettled by the display of power and ownership, telling him to let you go, and that you have nothing to do with this. He asks them, "What difference does that make?" You're like a flower that he picked on a whim and put in his lapel. It isn't until they see how resistant Loki is to letting you be rescued that they realize that he's serious about keeping you. He found a Midgardian he wants, and he will have his Midgardian, even if you pose no strategic advantage for him, and even if he has to expend effort to keep you.

2. He doesn't scepter you. It amuses him to just kidnap you, and surround you with eerie, mind-controlled people, and see your fear and helplessness. When the Avengers see you (and you're not as on-display, in this version, as you are in the other), they're puzzled as to why he hasn't sceptered you, and what his plans are with you. When Hawkeye isn't needed for a mission, he's guarding you. He's fairly personable, but he only talks about how great it is to be mind-controlled and how lucky you are that Loki abducted you, and it's very creepy. When Loki himself is around you, he's very teasing and malevolent. He doesn't go so far as to actually touch you in a licentious way, but he doesn't really have to; you're trapped among his mind zombies and can't escape, and his vibes toward you are ominous enough.

Alternate ending post-Avengers Loki, just because a Loki who wins would be very spicy indeed. You're like...the spoils of war. And he'd give you lots of gifts; he'd drape you in the crown jewels of England and house you in whichever palace he likes the most, but that's more a matter of his ego (decorating something that belongs to him, like buying clothes for a doll) than your comfort. And he's still in sadistic Avengers-era mode, so he mocks you for your powerlessness and how your planet succumbed to his will. And obviously, you have to kneel to him a lot. Everyone you interact with on a daily basis (your servants and his, mostly) are sceptered, but you are not.

(In this kind of alternate ending, there would also be questions about Thanos slaughtering half the planet and the remaining infinity stones on Earth, but for the sake of this we're ignoring the lore implications.)

Post Thor: the Dark World Loki: king of Asgard, but in a chill way. Super playful, but also with absolute power. Less sadistic than Alternate Avengers Loki, less sad and dependent than Thor-era King Loki. This Loki is maybe a mischievous stalker type. He just messes with your life to prove he can do it. He doesn't even have to kidnap you, because he's so in control. (Eventually, he will anyway, though, just because it's inconvenient for you to be on Earth while he's on Asgard, and he's tired of using the bifrost. But he'll only transport you to Asgard; you don't have to live in the palace. Screwing with you is more fun when you have some freedom.) He tinkers with every aspect of your life, while you're on Earth. He finds it fun and satisfying, to know that he's left his metaphorical fingerprints on everything.

TVA, series Loki: Too soon to tell, but opens up a lot of possibilities.

[atlasmisery]

fatalism vs. existentialism in shadowbringers

i have reason to believe one of shadowbringers’ main themes is fatalism vs. existentialism. eulmore & vauthry represents the former, while the crystarium & the crystal exarch represents the latter.

the fight between these two ideals, narratively, reaches it’s peak and conclusion after the WOL faces vauthry in the innocence trial. but i believe that the more interesting parts of this conflict lies in it’s foundation and build-up. our introductions to the respective cities, and the meeting between vauthry and the exarch.

eulmore vs. the crystarium.

when we are (very smoothly) introduced to the crystarium, we’re immediately given a clear impression of what kind of city we landed into. this is a post-apocalyptic safe haven. here, everyone works together to keep that title. in the face of the horrible tragedy of the flood of light, the people of the crystarium banded together to keep this little corner of life alive, even if it takes some hard work. katliss makes a point of this herself, when you first talk to her. you can get what you need, but in return, you’ll have to work for it. 

life isn’t easy in the crystarium but, there’s little choice in the matter. yet, even then, it doesn’t seem like people suffer or beat themselves up to just survive in the crystarium. the honest hard work everyone puts into feels so genuine, within every resident of the crystarium lies a resolve to survive in a world completely ruthless to them.

they represent the existentialist thought. the world of the first is cruel, and one could say it renders all lives meaningless. it has become a blank and dying world, where sin-eaters rule, and men suffer. yet, at the face of a world that seems so pointless, the residents of crystarium continue to create meaning in their lives. 

eulmore is the complete opposite of the crystarium. it consists of people who have grown complacent, lazy and cruel-- relying on those they deem ‘beneath them’ to serve them. this already draws a sharp contrast with the values of the crystarium, wherein you have to put honest hard work to attain what you want. in eulmore, it’s given to people on a silver platter, because they value hedonism above all things.

this hedonism is drawn from the eulmore residents’ clear fatalism.

the eulmore residents have long accepted the world is approaching it’s end, and the only thing left to do is to make merry and drown in pleasure. they have thrown away both the past and future, and choose to live in the present, not working a day to a better tomorrow, nor honoring those who have fallen in the past.

(not to mention, the obvious hostility the crystarium residents have for the eulmore residents, having insulted them numerous times, it’s already a very obvious impression to the player that these two cities are at a conflict even past the metaphorical.)

the eulmore residents have resigned to their fate, and see no meaning in their lives anymore. the crystarium residents fight for the morrow, and strive to create meaning in their lives. 

vauthry vs. the crystal exarch

i believe that vauthry and the crystal exarch are foils of each other. how they rule, their ideals-- everything, sharply contrast one another, just like the very city states they rule. they also represent fatalism and existentialism in their purest form.

vauthry is an ‘all-giving god’ that can be commonly found in extreme fatalist beliefs. in eulmore and gate town, the people have completely lost their own agency, stopped thinking, and leave it all up to vauthry (or those serving vauthry) to do the thinking for them.

this is taken to an almost very literal extent, wherein vauthry feeds eulmore residents and khoulsia residents ‘meol’ to completely hypnotize them and bring them under his control. 

the people of eulmore do not seek meaning in their lives anymore, but banal and simple desires for meaningless pleasure, all thanks to vauthry’s stance as an all-giving god that provides for them and hypnotizes them to his whims.

the exarch is the culmination of the existentialist beliefs of the people who survived the 8th umbral calamity, the crystarium people and himself.

both the post-calamity source and pre-crystarium side of norvrandt suffered from an apocalyptic hellscape with a lack of true, coherent civilization. but, the exarch had become a ‘symbol of hope and meaning’ to both of them.

in the case of post-calamity source, the exarch was a ‘symbol of hope and meaning’ due to the fact he was their only hope of restoring the source to it’s former glory. he, possessing the power of the crystal tower, can help mend the first and therefore save the source. 

in the case of the first, the exarch was a ‘symbol of hope and meaning’ because he was the one that gave the gentle push to the people to create the crystarium. he is the one who, as much as he dislikes putting this way, ‘rules it’ and guides the people to a better tomorrow. without him, their efforts would be much harder than usual, and because of him, he helps create meaning in people’s lives without taking away their agency.

in the case of the exarch himself, or rather, in this paragraph, ‘g’raha tia’, g’raha himself was awoken to a world without meaning. he struggles with this, but eventually wins out because he creates his meaning for himself: he wants to save the warrior of light and the world. in a world so absurd and cruel, he decides for himself what he wants and works towards it, if not for a lack of choice, but for the sake of his own sanity as well.

these two extremely different characters clash hard upon meeting each other, and it’s very fascinating.

at the start of the conversation, the crystal exarch asks a valid question, and vauthry reinforces fatalism. he calls himself a ‘god’, and emphasizes on his determinedness to provide the people the mindless pleasure they want. he considers himself separate from his people, and views them like animals to herd, not as individuals. he is ‘their god’ providing them ‘sanctuary’. sanctuary being a world with no meaning, and only power to him.

while you could say he has a point in regards to spending the last few remaining days happy and blissful, this point of his is conflicted by various inhumanities he commits.

forcibly hypnotizing people and feeding them meol, that makes them more susceptible to it

preying on those who are suffering in gate town, seeing them as expendables who can be invited into eulmore for a short time as servants, and then turned into sin-eaters and meol afterwards.

the complete lack of regard for his people’s agency, and basically just treating them like pets.

while it IS true that it was basically impossible and completely difficult to save norvrandt in any way, the fact he enables the sin-eaters (the very beings that terrorize and kill people) without any regard for those who have suffered at their hands is... disturbing.

he has a very “hm, makes sense.” sort of goal, but the things he does and the things he say to reinforce that goal are absolutely disgusting. he has no faith in his people, and only in himself.

the exarch responds to his speech with a clever quip, and then a counter.

whereas vauthry flaunts his complete lack of faith in people, the exarch expresses his belief in them. vauthry sees the people as mindless animals to be herded before they hurt themselves, but the exarch sees them as individuals and people to be given guidance and true sanctuary-- a better tomorrow.

vauthry protests. he claims that people only live in the present, and do not care about the future. after all, why work hard for a tomorrow you’ll never see? but, again the exarch counters. because he’s fully aware, and has seen himself, the kinds of people who’d work towards a tomorrow they’d never see.

the exarch is the living proof of the existentialist ideals of those of the source and the first. the people who desire a better tomorrow, the people who desire meaning in their lives, and meaning in their children’s lives, and in their children’s children’s lives.

he refuses to take away, or disrespect, the agency of people, and acknowledges vauthry’s ideals for what they are-- gilded chains. 

and with a smile, the exarch re-affirms his stance, for he believes in those who those who dare to dream of meaning in a meaningless world.

shadowbringers is a story that confronts many themes, and i believe one of these is what it means to live in a world that doesn’t care about you. and seeing it confidently defend the decision to continue living, to strive for meaning for yourself, instead of succumbing to fatalism-- is hopeful and heart-warming.

[omwriter]

Some Character Thoughts

[in regards to Belphegor]

Happy Valentine's Day, I don't. Have ROMANTIC content per say, but this should contain discussion of Familial Love .. and we've evolved enough as a collective society to have today be about all sorts of love, right? Right,

My.. notes?

These might be an unpopular opinion. Fair enough, I just wanted to address that.

This will, unfortunately, look a bit like a written variation of the Pepe Silvia meme. Apologies in advance.

I might ...? Do more of these? Or even more parts to this one? We'll see. Would like to know if anyone cares for this sort of thing. (Though that won't exactly affect whether I do more or not.)

There are spoilers for chapter 16, in case thats a concern. Also mentions of death.

I find that while quite a few will tap into other aspects, one aspect I don't really see is Belphie's love for his family and the lengths he will go for them.

(Interestingly enough, this is a similar thing I've noticed when looking for content about Lucifer.)

Yes, Belphie killed MC because he hates humans. Yes, he only really started warming upto them after learning about their connection to his sister.

But I haven't really seen the connecting of dots between "Belphie went to the point of killing MC, and after all the obstacles put in front of him" and "Belphie hates humans because he believes his sister is dead because of one".

Or rather, those two points have been made but . Not the points in between? Or the points after? (?)

Belphie hates the humans he once loved so much because of his sister's death... and feels a big enough type of way about a human being in close proximity to his brothers to the point of plotting their death.

(Anger? Fear? A mix of both?)

(Is this making sense...? In other words..) Belphie, the Avatar of Sloth, the lazy demon that sleeps through most everything and is smart without really trying, went through the effort of plotting MC's death after being locked away. Not for himself, but because he felt some Big type of way about his brothers interacting with humans, a feeling(or feelings) probably influenced by his belief that the root of his sister's death was a human.

...What I'm trying to say is that he cares about his family to the point of expending this sort of effort to keep them safe and with him. (Time and again with Belphie actual effort put in = care.)

('Why are you saying it in this weird roundabout way?' I'm trying to be open about subjective details haha. 'Isn't this whole post subjective?' ... I SUPPOSE!)

Backtracking a bit, I also don't see alot of mileage out of "Belphie loved and was fascinated by humans"? Though, to be fair game canon kind of threw that in and then didn't do much of anything with it.

(Very odd.. my first thought when considering it was .. "Belphie loved and was fascinated by humans.. surely he would have been the perfect person to put in charge of looking after MC for their student exchange program if he hadn't been locked away? As long as they were both watched carefully.. or even if they weren't wouldn't it be interesting if-")

(Maybe this should have been a post about my contemplations on that divergence of the timeline. Haha.)

(.. did you really stick around to the end here? Ok. A Note. Do I think Belphie is completely redeemed in killing MC? Not really. However, I do think there's more nuance on the hows and whys and whats that I hope others can consider as well!)

(I'm kinda open to discussion.. however I also acknowledge that again, I don't think I'm in the majority 😅 so quite a few things I've found I just don't agree with when reading them.. this to say that don't let me discourage you from differing HCs!)

[umbry-fic]

existence

Summary: It's a quiet day in the Sekai without a name. Miku wonders where everyone is...

Fandom: Project Sekai Colourful Stage! Characters: Hatsune Miku (Nightcord), Kagamine Rin (Nightcord), Megurine Luka (Nightcord), Meiko (Nightcord), Akiyama Mizuki, Shinonome Ena, Yoisaki Kanade, Asahina Mafuyu Relationships: Everyone & Hatsune Miku Rating: G Word Count: 1930 Mirror Link: AO3 Original Post Date: 01/09/2021

Notes: Written for Hatsune Miku's 14th birthday! This was not inspired by the official birthday art that Project Sekai released, since I wrote this back in July. What a happy coincidence that the art ended up featuring Nightcord Miku though!

I refer to 25 ji Nightcord de as Nightcord.

~~~

Miku hummed a tune with no name, the very same one that had left her throat when she’d come to realise her existence in this colourless world, and that had continued to fill this wide space in the months that had passed since then. A song with no lyrics, only a melody that had slowly evolved, from a hopeless, flat loop to one with crests and peaks, able to bring a smile to the girls of Nightcord and elicit a warmth within her heart, which did not beat.

Miku appeared to be completely alone, standing in the middle of the nameless Sekai. Rin was nowhere to be found. Perhaps she was hidden in one of the many corners or behind one of the countless walls, as she usually was. No matter the case, there was no sign of her.

But the silence that pressed on Miku’s shoulders was made all the more conspicuous by the lack of Meiko or Luka. The boisterous pair loved to argue, having done so nonstop ever since Luka’s arrival. This place hadn’t been quiet since then, their raised voices carrying all through the Sekai, giving her and Rin no respite from the noise. They’d had to resort to sitting behind a wall, which helped to muffle the sounds somewhat.

Rin had complained many times while in that position, but Miku thought that the other girl likely felt the same as herself - happy, that it was more lively here, the air no longer cold and dead. She just didn’t know how to say it out loud.

Without Meiko or Luka around, the silence that had once been the norm was now rather... overbearing. How had the two put a stop to their arguing for once? Had they simply grown tired of it? What were they doing, then? In fact, what was everyone doing? Rin, Meiko, Luka… Where could they be hiding?

And… why?

Were they hiding from her?

The familiar sound of someone entering the Sekai broke Miku out of her reverie. She stopped her humming, turning to face the visitors, wondering which of the four girls from the real world had come to visit today, and for what purpose. Sometimes they didn’t seem to have a purpose, stating that they were here “just for fun”, as Mizuki liked to say. She didn’t understand why anyone would want to do such a thing, to come here “just for fun”, when she and her companions weren’t what was considered good company.

But she never spoke up. She liked being in the presence of the girls. Surely, her fellow Vocaloids felt the same.

If the girls had come to seek help or assistance, then Miku would render it, to the best of her power. She would do anything that she could, even if she struggled to comprehend the complicated issues and emotions that these girls toiled with. Kanade’s guilt, Mizuki’s uncertainty, Ena’s lack of confidence…

For that was her purpose for existing. In her first second of consciousness, she had held the knowledge that she was meant to give Mafuyu as much comfort as she could. A wish that had come to extend to Mafuyu’s three companions.

She could not save Mafuyu on her own. She did not possess the necessary power, or even a physical body to protect the vulnerable girl. Her own emotions confounded her - it was that rare that she could put a name to the currents of her heart, let alone tell Mafuyu the best course of actions to soothe her pain. She could only give what she deemed was the best advice possible. To truly help Mafuyu, she needed the help of kind Kanade, determined Ena, and sensible Mizuki.

Miku didn’t know why, or how, any of this had come to be. Other than by the strength, or perhaps more accurately, the absence of Mafuyu’s feelings. It did not matter. She would gladly perform her purpose.

Miku expected to see one girl. Perhaps even two. Instead, the sight before her shattered all expectations.

All four members of Nightcord stood before her: Ena, Mizuki, Kanade, and even Mafuyu. Ena and Mizuki were sporting matching mischievous grins on their faces and holding back laughter; Mizuki holding a ribbon-adorned box by the corners while Ena gripped… unfamiliar cone-shaped hats with polka-dots on their surface. Kanade had a small smile on her face, and even with the blank expression on Mafuyu’s face that she always wore, she came off as strangely jovial. Kanade had a giant stack of paper decorations balanced precariously in her arms, while Mafuyu held what seemed to be a folded banner.

Confused, Miku cocked her head to the side. What was all this for? The last time all four girls had come was when Kanade had played her new song for everyone to hear, and Mafuyu had broken into a small, true smile for the first time in a long while.

At that very moment, the memory of Mizuki telling her about birthdays surfaced. She was fairly certain they had mentioned all the “equipment” here were involved in celebrations.

So all of this was presumably to celebrate a birthday… But whose? Nightcord had already celebrated Ena’s, and Mizuki’s, just a few days before… Hm, she supposed she could wait for them to explain, for she didn’t know the dates that everyone’s birthdays fell on.

But none of the four said a word, only continuing to stand there as if waiting for something.

All of a sudden, a ribbon revealed itself over a nearby wall, swaying slightly. It was quickly followed by a familiar head of golden hair, blue eyes blinking as Rin stepped out, black-and-white dress fluttering around her knees. Meiko and Luka were not far behind, the two already glaring at each other, raring to go.

So the three of them had been close-by all this while? Why the need for concealment, then?

What was going on? She couldn’t help but ask that question to herself again.

No answer presented itself, and she could only watch as her three fellow Vocaloids walked up to Nightcord. Materials passed between eager hands, fingers pointing in every direction as everyone split up to the four corners of the Sekai. The atmosphere was festive, conversations held in airy tones to coordinate where to position decorations.

In no time at all, the Sekai was bursting with colour. Banners hung from the remnants of overturned lighting trusses, now fulfilling their original purpose of holding objects, though rippling fabric was a far cry from spotlights. The cone-shaped hats sat securely on everyone’s head except her own, the mysterious box safely stashed by a wall.

She was still frozen in the centre of the hubbub, hands clasped over her heart. A faint thought whispered in her head, tickling the corner of her mind like a feather.

She was the only one not being involved in the preparations. And just days ago, Mizuki had been spared from expending any effort on the day of their birthday, left to lounge in a corner and watch with a smile.

“Here!” The exclamation attracted her attention to a waving Mizuki, who ran up and came to a stop in front of her - the first person to approach her. With the additional height they had on her, Mizuki was easily able to plop what Miku now realised was a pink party hat on her head, gently adjusting the strap so that it ran under her chin. Miku could do nothing but blink and stare at Mizuki, wondering if she was dreaming, if any of this was actually happening, or if the Sekai had somehow collapsed and sent her into an illusion.

“Perfect!” Mizuki commented, grinning and stepping back, their hands clapping together with a resounding sound that knocked Miku out of her speechless daze. “You look so cute, Miku!”

Upon spotting everyone else calmly walking over, she finally opened her mouth, fingers tightening over her chest.

“Is it…?”

Those were the only words she managed to get out before she clammed up. She couldn’t articulate the thoughts racing through her mind, nor the conclusion she had arrived at.

It couldn’t be fake. That was the only thing she was sure of. The colours, the sounds, the people and the expressions on their faces, their true emotions… It was all too vibrant, too real, too much.

Kanade nodded, seemingly understanding everything she wanted to say from her shaking words alone. Ena did the honours of cautiously opening the cover of the box with a steady hand, revealing a beautifully crafted cake, swirls of whipped cream artfully forming the border, strawberries topping the vanilla.

Written elegantly on its surface in red cream were the very words that left Kanade’s lips now.

“Happy birthday, Miku.”

“Yeah! Happy birthday!” Both Mizuki and Ena chirped, reaching into their pockets and throwing out handfuls of confetti that caught in her hair.

“Thank you for everything you’ve done for us,” Kanade continued.

“Yes.” Mafuyu nodded. “Happy birthday,” she said in her usual flat tone, face displaying no sign of emotion. Perhaps Mafuyu was only saying it to go along with what she’d been told to do, to avoid angering Ena. Perhaps she meant nothing by those words, was truly incapable of packing any scrap of emotion into them.

Yet Miku could sense… that same smile from the time before, hidden behind the pale, unmoving expanse.

“I…” Miku murmured. Something was choking up her throat. Her heart both felt like it was soaring, and like an invisible hand was squeezing it, something intangible filling it up to the brim. It was so full that it hurt. Not a sharp pain, but an ache, one that consumed her whole chest.

Something wet slipped down her cheek, salt hitting her tongue.

“You’re… crying,” Mafuyu said, eyes a little wide, just a little hint of awe in her voice, where there should have been none. It was, after all, nothing but an observation.

Miku reached up a trembling hand to press against her cheek, bringing it away stained with tears.

Ah. Mafuyu was right. The impossible had happened, emotions making their sudden, mystical appearance when they should have been kept away, blocked by an unbreakable lock.

“Miku…” Mizuki muttered, gaze sympathetic, a small smile on their face.

“Thank you,” she finally managed to force out, breaking into a smile larger than any that had come before, stretching from one corner of her face to the other, even as tears continued to leak from her eyes.

She knew now, why her heart hurt.

As she enjoyed a wonderful day in the Sekai with those that had become her friends, a day that she would never forget - eating the delectable, sweet slices of her birthday cake; being subject to Mizuki’s hairdressing as they tried their best to tame the unruly tangles of Miku’s massive locks with an assortment of ribbons; receiving birthday wishes and the strangest of presents from everyone... she finally came to understand.

The answer had arisen, making itself crystal clear.

Her heart hurt from happiness. True happiness, which could shatter just as easily as it could uplift, could stab just as much as soothe, when one was not used to it.

True happiness, from her friends remembering her birthday.

True happiness… from someone finding her existence worth celebrating.

And there were still some questions that couldn’t be solved, the answers to which were not in sight, and may never be.

But that was alright.

She would simply eke out her existence, moment by moment, taking what may come and enjoying the company of her friends.

[joachimnapoleon]

I was asked by @tairin​ to write about Murat’s personality.

This is going to be a bit long and in no particular order whatsoever.

Occasionally his personality seems like a jumble of contradictions. He never fell out of love with being a soldier, grew restless and bored during times of peace, always eager to be back in the field, but then, once there, hoping to get back home to his family as soon as possible and never having to leave them again. He became a king, and viewed his authority in Naples as absolute (or as absolute as it could be with Napoleon constantly breathing down his neck), yet he never fully shed the republican principles he eagerly adopted as a young man during the French Revolution. Bold, confident, and determined on the battlefield, he was often vacillating, indecisive, and unsure of himself in politics; yet in both circumstances he was also capable of extreme rashness, and his hasty judgments often led him to taking regrettable actions.

He was, like Napoleon, bursting with energy. He always had to be doing something. Upon taking the throne of Naples, he worked so tirelessly, day and night, trying to sort through the affairs of his predecessor and get his new kingdom in order, that for a time his wife Caroline was scarcely able to see him. This energy never dissipated, even into his forties; one English visitor to Naples in 1814 described him as "endowed with a large amount of pure animal vitality, which pleasureably expended itself in the active deeds of war, but found no sufficient vent in peace." (Cole, The Betrayers, 212)

Also like Napoleon, he could be very short-tempered; but unlike Napoleon, he never quite learned to contain his rages. When Napoleon threw one of his notorious temper tantrums complete with the hurling and stomping of his hat, it was generally done for show. On the other hand, I've come across multiple anecdotes of Murat, having to be physically restrained by either his staff or his ministers from attacking someone (one of these instances occurred during the 1812 campaign, when only the exertions of his chief of staff, General Belliard, prevented him from stalking out, armed, to the tent of Marshal Davout after the two had engaged in a bitter quarrel in front of Napoleon earlier). That being said, Murat's rages, like Napoleon's, were usually of short duration, often burning out within minutes. Caroline was well aware of her husband's temperament, and did her best to try to help him keep it in check; in one letter, she gently chides him to "calm a little your head, which gets hot so easily."

He was very opinionated, open, and frank--for better or worse. Some of his letters to Napoleon are honestly just breathtaking in their forthrightness; while as a general rule he bent to his brother-in-law's will (however begrudgingly), when provoked he was not afraid to express his discontent or disagreement with a brutal honesty which undoubtedly rankled Napoleon at times. Alone among the Bonaparte family, he spoke out vigorously against Napoleon's plan to take an Austrian bride as his second wife, and urged Napoleon to marry a Russian princess instead. When it became apparent that the decision had already been decided upon beforehand, he angrily accused Napoleon of setting him up with the intention of rendering the soon-to-be empress, and by extension the Austrian royal family, hostile to him. In short, he was far from being the groveler to Napoleon some have made him out to be.

He didn't handle high-stress situations particularly well. One theory I've read is that he suffered from psychosomatic illness, and I'm inclined to believe it. In Spain in 1808, when the people began to revolt and the situation rapidly spiraled out of his control, Murat fell ill--deathly ill, to the point where it was thought he might've been poisoned. His health experienced a similar collapse during the calamitous retreat from Russia in 1812, when he was placed in charge of the disintegrating Grande Armée. And a year prior to that, in the wake of an exceptionally bad quarrel with Napoleon over Neapolitan affairs, his mental state became so bad that Caroline kept his ministers away from him for days, and his overall health suffered throughout that summer.

His general demeanor was upbeat and happy, though I would argue that this was considerably less so during the last few years of his life. But he seems to have always at least tried to preserve a cheerful outward demeanor, and numerous memoirists have remarked on his happy nature.

He could be vain and boastful; he loved telling people about his exploits in war (and with women). He did make an effort to cultivate the manners of the nobility though, wanting to fit in as well as possible after his meteoric rise into the upper echelons of society. But he seems to have gone a bit overboard with it all. Hortense de Beauharnais writes in her memoirs that

He sought to have good manners and overdid them. One saw by his exaggerated dress and his attentions to the ladies that he wished to resemble the Villarceaux and Sévignés of the days of Louis XIV. These famous courtiers were the models he had chosen, but the rough hearty republican could not be completely hidden, and the mixture of the two opposite types of character would have been ridiculous at times if one had not been conscious of the honest, frank soldier in the background who reconciled the puppets one to the other. (The Memoirs of Queen Hortense, Vol. 2)

A less charitable contemporary, the Countess Potocka, whom Murat tried and failed to seduce in 1807, writes of her first encounter with him:

It was easily seen that his manners were sham, and that he usually had others. He did not talk badly, for he watched himself carefully; but his Gascon accent and some too soldierlike phrases belied the “prince” a little. He was fond of telling of his feats of arms, and talked war to us for over an hour. (Memoirs of the Countess Potocka)

He was, as even Napoleon described him, generous and kindhearted. When he became a king, he was so eager to bestow his Order of the Two Sicilies on anyone and everyone, that Caroline chided him that he must stop doing so, as it was becoming a joke in Paris. General Pépé writes of Murat's generosity in granting the petitions of the common people, describing one instance in which Murat was thrown from his horse while in the middle of receiving a petition from a woman begging for the life of her husband; after getting back to his feet and "cursing roundly in the French fashion," Murat promptly signed the petition to spare the life of the man. However, Pépé also points out that Murat's generosity and compassion occasionally worked against his own interests:

People of all classes, and even officers in the army, were in the habit of presenting themselves to the King, as he passed through the streets, with a petition in one hand and an ink-stand in the other. The good King Joachim granted those requests with too much facility, not considering that far from increasing his popularity by such conduct, he drew upon himself feelings of hatred, since the petitions so granted were for the part such as ought not to have been entertained. His too easy compliance, therefore, was calculated to awaken discontent and distrust of the efficiency of the laws. (Memoirs of General Pépé, Vol I)

He was also extremely prone to flattery (this ties into his earlier-mentioned vanity), and apt to reward and promote those of his generals who succeeded at ingratiating themselves with him but who may not have been the best commanders in the field.

He was very independent and chafed at being under the command of someone else. This was the case for the entire duration of his military career: he was discharged from his initial enlistment for apparently participating (and possibly leading) a "mutiny" against some officers; his stint in the National Guard was brief, and he wrote to condemn the officers over him for being "royalists;" in the 21st Chasseurs à Cheval, he quickly found himself at odds with his commanding officer, Landrieux, which devolved into an ugly affair with Murat going on trial before the Committee of Public Safety; he would likewise chafe under the commands of Brune and Berthier in Italy, and, for almost the rest of his life, he would chafe under the domination of Napoleon. Especially after being made a king, which he seems to have naively believed would grant him some amount of independence from the Emperor; in reality he merely became one of Napoleon's satellites, and became increasingly embittered by it.

He could be very politically naive (see 1814 and his belief that he could keep his throne by separating himself from Napoleon). He could also be extremely paranoid. His correspondence is replete with references to "my enemies." With the exceptions of Josephine and Savary, I've never come across the names of this mysterious cabal of enemies Murat believed to be actively undermining him and turning Napoleon against him in Paris while he ruled in Naples. His paranoia occasionally extended to his wife, whom he accused at least once of being in league with his enemies--this was in a letter written during another time when Murat was under extreme stress, during his failing Sicilian campaign. In 1815, his paranoia led him to abandoning his new allies, who he believed were on the brink of turning against him; so it can be argued that this aspect of his personality, combined with his hastiness, played a large part in his final ruin. (In the wake of Napoleon's escape from Elba, the English and Austrians both, out of desperation, hurried to send Murat guarantees for his throne if he would stay true to the alliance; but they arrived too late.)

He was extremely flirtatious, loved dancing and the company of women in general, sexual or otherwise. (See here for my post on Murat and women.)

He was a doting father, obsessed with his children; and an affectionate, if not always faithful, husband.

I'm probably forgetting some stuff, but I'll leave off here. Hopefully this provides a pretty good overall understanding of Murat's personality. Feel free to toss me some asks if there's anything you'd like me to expand on, I'm always happy to talk about Murat. :)

[internalsealpanic]

Lesson Learned

summary: Pinning exercises are a lot easier when you ask nicely.

a/n: The backstory to this piece was that I went to the church part of our discord server and told people about me being thirsty about Slade and they collectively went: DO HIM. The reader does have a backstory which boils down to rich girl from a crime family is a little shit because I thought this would have a funny dynamic with Slade.  Special thanks to @batarella and @knightfall05x for proof reading and giving me ideas. Would this count as my one entry for kinktober? 

warnings:  This is straight up smut. Please read responsibly. Brat taming, strength kink, daddy kink, orgasm denial, and hinted size kink. (Hilariously half of these were by complete accident.) There is some injury mentioned but not too graphically. Both characters are assholes.   

masterlist

Slade was on the ground, his head was swimming even as the sharp shriek of sirens rang loud in his ears. His senses were at once too sharp and too unfocused. Whatever drug he'd been hit with had to have targeted the nerves in his muscles too. He couldn't move. Not substantially anyway. Not in a way that would actually help him.  Through the haze he hears the clicking of heels against the floor, then a sharp pain shoots through him when said heel dug into one of his still closing bullet wounds. 

 You stood above him, your shark's smile hidden behind your mask.  "Well old man, I didn't think you would be caught this easy. I might need to rethink this meeting." You hummed tapping your chin as you lean down your heel digging further into his flesh. It's a tactic your sister had taught you. People were less inclined to think clearly when in excruciating pain.  If Deathstroke was this easy to capture, was he really worth your money? 

 He was watching you, blue eyes looking defiant. You whistled low. You liked a hard negotiation. It kept things more interesting. The rapid footsteps of men drew you out of your contemplation much to your annoyance. You debated on just paying them to go away. It would make your life easier but there's a chance these men were truly loyal to the man you had just paid a visit to.

 You weigh your options. His reputation may be enough to keep your siblings away. Maybe just long enough 'til their petty little war is over. "I'm going to hire you-"

 "-this assumes I'm going to say yes"

 You snorted. He noted the confident roll in your shoulders, the kind of cocky self-assured gesture of someone who knows they're going to win.  Every movement, every angling of your form deliberately used to show a difference in power and lack of respect. In short, it made you very punchable.

 "Your statement assumes you have a choice." You chuckled tilting your head to the side in challenge. He scowled at you and you try to keep the sheer delight you feel out of your body language. You weren't sadistic by any means but for one, brutality was practically bred into you, and two, you are, what your darling eldest brother had so kindly put, a  little bitch.  "I'll tell you why you'll say yes to my proposal." You said stepping off of him and pirouetting towards your duffle bag. "One, I'm offering your more than a million dollars in cash for the simple job of training me-" You observed his face as it remains carefully impassive. You expected as much. You heft your bag into your arms and unzip it rummaging through the cache of weapons you had stored just in case plan A through F failed you. "Unless we're associated, I'm the only one walking out of here with any money for their troubles." You said tossing the severed head of his target in front of him. You gave him an all too pleased grin. 

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 You find yourself pinned down again in the span of 15 minutes, face squished against the training mat, your arms pinned behind you, and most annoyingly your ass raised while your bastard of an instructor laughs in your ear, his lips dangerously close to your ear. You hiss and bristle feeling the fibers in your muscles burn from the uncomfortable angle they've been forced into.  You squirm trying to buck him off but his strength rendered your efforts moot. His enhanced strength keeps your body firmly between the sweat-covered mat and his large, toned body which just made you bite your lip to keep anything vulgar from escaping you. 

 You were 110% sure he was fucking with you at this point but any smart remark you had was either smothered by the mat or died whenever you felt acutely aware of your skin against his.  

 "Get off of me, old man," You snarl, making a futile attempt to kick him off with one of your legs. He chuckles at your weak attempts, the reverberations from his chest pressing against your back sending a thrum of excitement rolling over you concentrating into more distracting areas. You can't see it but you know he's grinning smugly above you and you can't decide whether it's your horniness or your anger that will win out. You sincerely hope it's the latter. 

 "C'mon, kid, you can get out of this," He encourages but you don't miss the playful mockery dancing in his tone. You squirm and wriggle and sigh. "Just let me out," You demand, politely. He doesn't budge. You turn your head to pout petulantly at him. That doesn't do anything either. 

 You sigh again. You hated pinning exercises with a carefully cultivated passion which you would normally direct at whatever instructor was dumb enough to force it upon you. However, that wasn't really possible as of this moment. One of the reasons for this hatred was that you were never pinned down unless you wanted to be, even then they were usually too hesitant to follow through so you never really saw any practical use for the skill. That is until last week when you found yourself being pinned down by the Red Hood which was honestly a fantastic position if you weren't trying to get away from him. Apparently, the large man didn't take too kindly to being shot at even when your very professional self explained that you were in fact a decoy. After you were entirely unable to slip his hold, you begrudgingly agreed to let Slade teach you a few maneuvers. The other reason was that you liked being pinned down. Your body is far too enthusiastic about the feeling of being pinned down. You're pretty sure you've expended more energy into suppressing your thrilled shivers than you have trying to get out of any of the holds he's demonstrated so far.  The fact that he was an attractive asshole with no shirt did not help.    

 "Maybe if you ask nicely, princess" He drawls his teeth grazing your ear, beard bristling against the sensitive skin of your shoulder. You bite back a groan and stop the cant of your hips. "Or are you even capable of that?"

 "I am, sir" You grind out but it sounds too breathy to be threatening. You feel the curve of his lips against your shoulder.

 "Dunno, brat, I've never seen you do it," He taunts pressing closer to you. You're suddenly aware of just how close you two are. You hate how the way he called you brat sent thrills up your spine. You try to even your breath but you're entirely too feverish both body and mind. You had to think of something before you were lost in a haze.

 You nudge your arm one last time before an idea strikes. A familiar shark-like grin spreads like wildfire across your features. Pressing your ass against his crotch, you roll your hips, the movement slow and deliberate and painfully tempting. Sure, it was a dirty trick but 1) he never said anything about using your assets 2) you've been wanting to do that since the first hold. You feel his muscles tense and you can't help but radiate smugness.  Your smile vanishes, however, when he rolls his hips against yours giving you a feel of his hardened length through the thin fabric of your gym shorts. The slow, tantalizing friction against your core draws out a vulgar moan from you. 

 "Do you wanna run that by me again, brat?" He whispers low and husky emphasizing the last word with another grind of his hip. You pant, hips answering back with their own desperate movement. You want to let your hips keep moving, to make him move, to feel his cock against your core but pride flared in your chest. "Make me." You bite out. "I really should teach you some manners."You feel the low rumble of his answer in response seemingly amused by your continued resistance. He rocks his hips against yours drawing out another breathy moan from you. Out of spite you bite your bottom lip and rock your hips in tandem with his. What did you hope to accomplish from this? You don't know but it certainly felt good. Your skin feels hot and oversensitive as your bodies continue to move at this rhythm. The feel of his muscles rippling against you makes you arch your back. You wanted more but you had too much pride. As if spurred on by the movement, he presses a kiss on your shoulder and sucks at your flesh, a rough hand grips your waist tight enough to bruise. "Slade!" You choke out losing your composure.  The cry sounds more like a plea than you would like. You sound so small and needy beneath his ministrations. 

 Distilling your anger into your weakening limbs you try to buck him off again. You make a small noise of triumph when he budges but whine when his grip on you just gets tighter. "Not quite, princess,"  

 He flips you onto your back. A hand pins both your arms above your head as he situates himself between your legs. His lips capture yours in a rough kiss, the type where you feel two bodies fighting each other for dominance. His teeth bite lightly against your bottom lip asking for entrance. You open your lips less in concession and more of a challenge. The wet muscles of your tongues entangle. Your nose is filled with the musk of him. It was overwhelming. You moan into the kiss and you feel him smile into it. Another small victory. 

 Slade ends the kiss having undeniably won the match. You try to move your hand to punch the grin off his face but again your hands don't budge. You curse his enhanced strength halfheartedly as the feeling of the heat coiling in the pit of your stomach takes over. Instead of diving back in for another kiss as you expected, Slade trails kisses down your jawline, your throat, and your collar bone leaving very defined very visible hickeys. There was something oddly possessive in his actions.  The look in his eye was predatory. 

 You, foolishly, let your attention wander to your hands seeing what angle you could possibly force them into so you can slip his grip and maybe turn the tables. Your attention snaps back to him when the pressure around your chest loosens and the distinct sound of a zipper fills your ears. Your eyes widen as you watch as he unzips the front of your sports bra with his teeth. Your breath catches even as your chest fills with the lack of constriction. Your too hot skin is grazed by the training room's cold air. He places a kiss in the valley between your breasts but when you whimper and move slightly urging him to proceed. He moves on to your stomach. "Asshat" You seethe through gritted teeth. You let out a groan of frustration. You were going to kill him. You honestly don't care if you've just wasted half a billion dollars on this asshole. 

 His kisses drift down to your inner thigh drawing a moan from you. Slade chuckles seeing your desire seeping through the thin fabric of your shorts. He isn't entirely surprised considering how unsubtle you are about your interest. A rare moment of embarrassment blankets you. Your legs try to close but rough hands pry them apart placing them on his broad shoulders. You bite your lip when he plants a kiss on your inner thigh. Your lips are puffy and red at this point, looking delicious as you panted. Slade wonders how your lips would feel around his cock but he decides he'll save that for another time. He hooks his fingers on the waistband of your shorts and his eye widens momentarily when he doesn't feel a second layer of fabric underneath it. He looks at you incredulously.

 You shrug trying to keep the mischief off your face looking absolutely unapologetic. "It's laundry day-" You shrug a little amused that this is the detail that caught him off guard. "-I did tell you I had stuff to do~"He also supposedly had stuff to do but, apparently, you were stuff. He chuckled and without dignifying your comment with an actual response, he rips your shorts off with ease and tosses them somewhere behind him.  A complaint or a threat, you weren't entirely sure, died on your lips when his tongue gave your core a nice long lick. A loud, needy keen escapes you. Your hands now free from his grasp dig into his scalp.  Pleased with your reaction he continues. His skilled tongue exploring your core hitting spots you didn't even know were there. Your hips meet to match his pace as he fucks you with his tongue. You whine when he withdraws his tongue but mewl loud and wanton when you feel two rough fingers stretching your insides. His mouth latches onto your sensitive bud, fingers pumping in and out.  You throw your head back not being able to contain your moans.

 "Look at me, brat," The command is deep and resonant. Your whole body buzzes with excitement. Slade can see your eyes dilate as his voice drops an octave. 

 "Yes," Your breath hitches when he doesn't move. "Sir" You add as a concession hoping it was enough. You felt your pride waning from the small piece of power being given away. Thankfully, he rewards you with another long lick before you can dwell on it. Slade watches as your face twists in pleasure trying your best not to throw your head back. You see the smugness on his face even when half of his face is buried between your legs. You don't attempt a threat simply because you don't trust whatever comes out of your mouth to be coherent. You were so close. You rock your hips trying to chase your high. Your skin is flush and glistening with sweat. You were so close. He feels your walls tightening around his fingers. Another needy keen escapes you as you were about to tip over the edge. 

 The motherfucker pulls back. You snarl at him but it comes out sounding more like a needy croon than anything else. He chuckles at you even as he captures your lips for another kiss. His tongue is thick with the taste of you. Your hand tangles itself into his hair while the other tugs at the waistband of his sweatpants.  He pulls away giving your lips one last nip before his body is off of you. It's funny how just moments ago you wanted him off of you badly enough that you'd play any dirty trick you could think of but now your skin is burning for his touch.  He takes off his sweat pants and his engorged cock slaps against his abs. It takes every brain cell at your disposal not to drool at the sight of it. He was BIG. You wonder briefly if he would even fit.  

 He spits on his cock rubbing his head against your thoroughly soaked folds. You mewl. A playful look in his eye does not go unnoticed but you were far too preoccupied with other concerns. Thankfully, so did he. Slade eases into your pussy in slow shallow thrusts. You can physically feel your walls stretching inch by inch as he works his way into your tight pussy. He can feel every bit of resistance your pussy is putting up. It's his turn to hiss when he finally bottoms out. Your walls cling to his member trying to milk it for all its worth. You drag your nails down from his shoulder to his arms. You pout when his skin heals immediately. You wanted to mark him as he did you but apparently, his healing factor was not up to being kinky today.   

 He laughs at your little protest and gives you a quick kiss. He begins to thrust shallow and languid. Your lips are locked in, sensually nibbling at each other's lips. You arch your back pressing your chest against his musculature savoring every bit of stimulation you could get.   You cant your hips against his urging him to go faster. His large hand grips your hips and pins them down. The coil in your stomach grows tighter at the ease at which he stops you. You feel him grin against your hot skin. 

 "Didn't I say I would teach you some manners?" He pulls himself out leaving you feeling hollow and wanting. You're pretty sure if you weren't drunk on your arousal the look in your eyes would be nothing short of murder, however, this was not the case, Whatever venom you had in you vanished in a swirl of neediness that racked your body. Your cant your hips uselessly trying to find friction only to be met with cool air. 

 "Slade pleeeeaaase!"

 You gasp, as a sharp stinging sensation on your pussy knocks the breath out of you. Slade gives you an expectant look. 

 "Sir, plea-"

 Another slap. Your back arches.  You’re panting heavy, mind swirling and searching. 

 "Daddy please!" The words tumble from your lips thoughtlessly. You both freeze. Slade's face is unreadable making you want to shrink away and let the earth swallow you whole. Panic rises in your chest until you feel his hips slam against yours. The force is enough to knock the breath out of you. He manhandles your body to fuck you at a better angle. His grip on your thighs tight and bruising. You whimper when he dips his head down near yours pressing kisses to your jaw and the pulsating flesh of your neck leaving your mouth free to moan his name like a mantra.   A deep resonant growl rumbles in his chest sending thrills through your skin into your spine. Your hardened nipples drag against his chest as they bounce with his pace. His cock pumps in and out of you at an animalistic pace. You were absolutely going mad over his rough pace but it wasn't enough to push you over. You were both so close.

 "Daddy, please! I- I need-" Slade's cock twitches. His pace goes from animalistic to punishing in the space of a heartbeat. He growls into your ear as he reaches down to rub your clit with skilled, calloused fingers. Your walls tighten around him as you go over the edge.  Your orgasm hits you in a flurry of heat and electricity. He fucks you through it as he chases his own. He pulls out his cock. Ropes of cum covering your chest and your stomach. 

 He lays beside you pulling you close. You moan quietly still feeling the aftershocks of your orgasm. He nuzzles his face into the crook of your neck, planting an open-mouthed kiss. You ease into his hold and close your eyes. 

 "See how easy your life is when you're a good girl, princess," He whispers mockingly into your ear. You raise a middle finger at him too fucked out to care whether it actually conveyed as much venom as you wanted it to. 

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Thanks for reading! Next week will be our regularly scheduled fluff unless I get possessed by the thirst muses. 

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