#these were meant to go up with the practice sketches of them individually but

[sopuu]

lab “partners”

[pinkroseblooms]

Birthday Wishes

Summary: Uramichi may not like birthdays, but he might like you. 2.5k A/N: Official art from Gaku Kaze; Uramichi Omota/F!Reader, lots of fluff and some humor. TW: Mentions of depression and self esteem issues (kinda a given considering it's Uramichi, but still) Enjoy!

Working on Together with Maman was one of the most thankless, tedious jobs you’ve ever been underpaid to do. While the director got to lord over the staff and the actors got some praise and respect, you were just one of the many unsung heroes behind the scenes. Editing out Uramichi Omota’s regular mental breakdowns and existential crises from the show’s footage was a full time job in and of itself, but you did it every week without fail for the past three years. At this point you could practically do it in your sleep; sometimes Uramichi’s strained, desperate attempts to keep a cheerful expression on his face made regular appearances in your dreams. You suspected the void that was his stare would haunt your mind long after the time came for you to leave Together with Maman .

You did feel a bit guilty at the twinge of resentment you had toward the cast when they got the lion’s share of the glory. After all, they all had their good points: to start, Kumitani was fairly considerate of the staff, particularly those on the lowest rungs of the workplace hierarchy. Speaking of hidden kindness, despite Utano’s complaints, she was a devoted and thoughtful girlfriend. Iketeru’s childish wonder and joy was infectious; he hardly ever complained and was very appreciative. Even Usahara with his bad habit of putting his foot in his mouth, was still committed to a certain level of professionalism and was quick to amend for his mistakes. When everything was said and done, you had a fondness for them all.

Last but not least, there was Uramichi. One works with many different types in the entertainment industry and you were no stranger to washed up, jaded, regularly drinking their weight in booze performers putting on a show off and on camera but Uramichi was the worst.

Needless to say, you were crazy about the man.

Today was Uramichi’s 32nd birthday and though he no doubt would prefer to ignore such a day all together, you couldn’t help yourself. This was the perfect time to do something to show your appreciation for Uramichi and not just as a gymnast oniisan. With any luck, he might not hate it. In fact, you were certain he was going to love what you chose to do.

After making up an excuse to get his attention, Uramichi dutifully trailed after you, grim faced and changed out of his costume. You intercepted him just as Usahara and a somewhat less enthusiastic Kumatani were going to usher their colleague to a bar for a night of begrudging celebration. As unlikely as it was that Uramichi would rather spend any evening doing more work, you thought he seemed a bit relieved to be taken away. 

“Sorry, this won’t take long.”

“It’s fine.” Uramichi assured you in the most unconvincing attempt you ever heard. “Your job is editing, right? What do you need me for?”

“I wanted to get your approval on a few things. I wanted to work in some parts of what you were saying to the kids before.”

“From the segment about labeling?” 

That particular sketch was meant to teach the children about putting their names on their school things. Doing this would help them keep track of their positions, as well as teach them about personal responsibility. It could even be a good chance to allow children to practice their spelling and penmanship. It all went about as well as it could have.

“The bit where you warned the children about adhering to the labels others will try to assign to you and how the pressures of society are designed to slowly crush any trace of individuality that doesn’t help them go with the flow was a bit long winded, but I think we can keep in bits and pieces.”

“You…want to keep it in?”

“I mean, it’s not a bad message.” You type in the passcode to the staff room. “The script is good, but you have a way of talking to kids so they can understand without talking down to them. Not everyone learns at the same pace; it helps when adults can get on a kid’s level. Most are too proud.”

“You,” Uramichi followed you into the room. “Are you saying I lack pride as an adult?”

“What? No.”

As you pull out a seat for Uramichi to use, his face says he doesn’t believe you. Seeing how despondent he is makes you want to call the whole thing off, but then you would have to come up with an excuse as to why you requested his presence in the first place. 

Anyone would be justified in feeling insulted at Uramichi’s knee jerk reaction to assume the worst; it’s hardly charming, but you get it. How much of Uramichi’s attitude is natural or something he uses like a shield is anyone’s guess. 

“I guess it makes sense. It’s not like we know each other that well. Besides, this is our first time speaking one on one and I had to lie to you.” 

Uramichi was glancing around the room; there wasn’t any projector or cameras or a computer. 

“Wait, so you don’t think I have any pride?”

“Hey, are you even listening to me?” You stare in disbelief. “I meant about looking over the footage. Hold on, I need to-”

“So then…was all that other stuff you said just to get me to come here?”

“No, it wasn’t. I’ve already got someone editing that segment anyway.” 

In the corner is an easel, like one of the props they use for presentations in the show. Instead of a whiteboard or a display of cartoon images, there’s a sheet covering up the project you’ve been working on just for today. 

“That’s good.”

“Huh?”

“I thought you were going to lecture me about being more professional so you didn’t have such a heavy workload. I’m sure most of your time is taken up erasing the evidence of my family unfriendly fits of despair. My bad.”

“Even hearing you apologize is bumming me out.” You sigh. “Listen, it’s not that much trouble. Besides, it’s really not my place to scold you or the other cast members.”

“Why not? You have to make up for our screw ups. Don’t tell me it can’t be stressful. You look tired just being here.”

“That’s not really something you should say to a woman. Well, anyone really.”

The blank stare widens as Uramichi realizes what he implied, but you cut him off. Things have gotten awkward enough without dragging on this conversation. Besides, you brought him here to cheer him up, if that’s even possible.

“I hope you like this. I made it for your birthday. Well, I put it together. The kids made it.”

You unveil the display with a smile, hoping you had this right and Uramichi wasn’t going to walk out. Or worse, put on his fake smile to spare your feelings. You prefer an honest reaction to your efforts.

“These are all the drawings kids have sent in for the past year. I got the idea to save them up and make a collage.”

The board is covered in crayon doodles, rough sketches, and messy paintings. There’s some postcards and pages ripped from coloring books. Almost all of them are of Uramichi-oniisan in various costumes, mainly his tracksuit: in some he’s frolicking with Kumao-kun or Usao-kun or holding hands with Utano and Iketeru. Some illustrations are of Uramichi surrounded by children or animals or just random scribbles. There’s also a decent amount featuring Kotori-san but you try not to think about that too hard. 

“I thought maybe we could show the board in a show, but I wanted you to see it first. We could keep it safe in the studio, if you don’t have room for it in your place. It’s your birthday present.” 

Uramichi stands up to get a closer look; he doesn’t look appalled and you choose to take this as a good sign. You step to the side, trying not to seem too nervous when he stands by your side; after a minute, Uramichi still hasn’t said anything. Even so, you’re feeling more worried by the second.

“Do you like it?”

“Yes.”

“Oh. Good.” You smile, but don’t feel too relieved. “You’re not just saying that, right? It’s okay, you can be honest. Is it too cheesy? Maybe I should have left out the ones with Kotori-san.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I hate that demon, but the kid’s probably worked hard to draw it. I don't mind so much. You said this took a year?”

“More or less. Uramichi, whatever you think, you’re appreciated. The kids see you do your best. It’s more than a lot of people bother to do. I figured you wouldn’t want a staff party, but everyone here sees it too. We’re glad to have you as our gymnast oniisan.”

Uramichi was still looking over the pictures. “You work a lot harder than I do.”

“I wouldn’t say that. Our jobs are just different.”

“But no one gives the behind the scenes crew much credit. I’ve never been especially considerate to your job before, but you spent a year making me a present?”

“I only collected the drawings. It only took a couple hours to actually put it together.” You replied. “Is this too much?”

“Yeah. I don’t deserve this.” Uramichi told you bluntly. “I don’t get it. Why did you do this?”

For a long time now, you’ve watched Uramichi drag himself through the day; as much as he professes going through the motions, you know that’s not exactly true. 

“The thing is, I wish I could do more. I want you to have a nice birthday.”

“I don’t like celebrating my birthday. It just reminds me that I’m a year older and I’ve wasted more time. Which is strange, since I don’t even know why I feel that way. I can’t even imagine what else I would be doing if I wasn’t an oniisan, so why do I feel like I’m wasting time at all? I can’t do this forever. I’m already 32, but I don’t have anything planned for when I get too old for Together with Maman. ’’

“You could probably still find work on another show. It doesn’t have to be physical. Unless you want to leave the industry for something else entirely. I bet you could do something with your physical education degree; you’ve had experience with children, then maybe you could work that into whatever you go for next.” 

“That…sounds like a lot to think about.”

You can’t help laughing a little at how defeated Uramichi looks just from the prospect of having to start over. It’s oddly cute, like a sad puppy being told they have to go to the vet.

“It is, but if you do it one step at a time, it won’t be so daunting. That’s why I like birthdays: I see them as a chance to, well,” You scratch your head. “It’s like, yes, I made it another year! It wasn’t easy, but I’m here and that’s enough. It’s something to celebrate.”

“Hey, you should be more careful with how you phrase things.”

“What did I say wrong?”

“You’re going to make me think you have feelings for me or something.” Uramichi chuckles dryly, turning his back on you to head toward the door. “If I was Usahara, I would take this as a proposal. But anyway, thanks. I can’t remember when someone tried so hard. I guess I should return the favor. I’m being emotionally blackmailed into going out tonight: if you want, you can join. Or not. Do you drink?”

“Yes, to both.”

“Both?”

“I wanted to tell you this now, before I start taking classes full time next month. Uramichi, I like you. I do, so,” You clear your throat. “Happy birthday. I hope you’ll still accept the poster. It’s more from the kids than me anyhow. I was going to bake you something, but I wasn’t even sure if you liked cake or-”

“You talk a lot. Hold on, I need a minute.”

Uramichi has his head in his hands; he looks pale and visibly disturbed. It seems like your confession wasn’t appreciated, but you could have guessed as much. Maybe you’re too different or maybe Uramichi just isn’t interested in dating.

You can respect that, no matter how much it hurts you. In hindsight, it would have been better to keep quiet or just wait until your time was done at the studio, but you naively assumed Uramichi might like hearing someone cared. Not everything comes with conditions or ulterior motives; sometimes the pay off is as straightforward as making someone else’s day a little easier to get through. 

“I’m sorry. I should go.” You make your way past him to the door. “I hope you enjoy your night!”

“Wa-wait don’t just leave! You can’t drop a bomb like that and just breeze past like-like-!” Uramichi stumbles to get to you before you rush outside. “You’re serious? Did Usahara put you up to this?”

“No.”

“Well, are you, like, sure? You didn’t mistake me for someone else?”

“You’re Uramichi Omota?”

“Yeah.”

“If this makes you uncomfortable, you really don’t have to worry, I never said anything to anyone else.”

“It’s not that. I’m just…processing. Do you really?”

“You know, maybe the next segment we do should be on active listening skills.” You cross your arms. “Uramichi, this isn’t rocket science. If you’re not interested, okay. I’ll live. I don’t mind being single, but I wouldn’t be bothering you with this if I wasn’t serious.”

Uramichi seems calmer, but no less baffled; it’s probably the most emotion you’ve ever seen him emote at once that wasn’t irritation or exhaustion. Surely he has had other girls confess to him before; you heard he was pretty popular in school. You don’t see why he’s having a hard time handling this one. 

“When I was drunk, I said I thought you were cute. I wouldn’t put it past that damn bunny to try to rope you into one of his pranks.”

You grin. “You did? When?”

“Come on, I’m embarrassed enough. I’m too old for this.”

“For what?”

“To act this way.” Uramichi sighs and drags a hand over his face. “I hate it. It’s like I’m back in high school or something. It’s awkward and I don’t know what I’m doing.”

“Don’t you already feel that way?”

“That doesn’t help.”

“So then?” You shrug your shoulders. “Am I cute enough to date?”

To your surprise, Uramichi’s cheeks flush slightly; you wonder if your own nervousness is showing. Truly, adults pretend as much as kids do. 

“Is that offer for a drink still valid? Unless you don’t want me flirting with you in front of everyone.”

“No way.” Uramichi objects. “I don’t want to deal with that headache. Let’s not say anything until after you’re done working here.”

“Oh, now who’s making big plans for the future?” You can't resist a little more teasing. "I thought looking that far ahead was too much to handle?"

“That was when I didn’t have something to look forward to.”

Uramichi might not have meant it to sound like a line; he said it with the same bland, borderline monotone that he usually spoke with, but you feel butterflies all the same. 

[tomiyeee]

how long does it take you to draw and colour? since you post everyday which is great for me :D any tips for colouring cause Im still tryna figure all that out

hmm welllll, i don't exactly time how long it takes to draw but my partner said that sometimes i'll be working on a piece when they go to sleep and i'll still be working on it when they wake up 7 hours later so...my guess is anywhere from 3-8 hours each depending on complexity? at least for the art that i normally post, most of which is relatively simple.

not entirely sure what kind of tips you were looking for, but i'll just throw out some of my thought processes and stuff i try to keep in mind whenever i color. i'm gonna try and keep these relatively to the point so i won't go into much detail on art terms n whatnot, BUT i am also pretty terrible at explaining things so if you need clarification on anything, feel free to ask!

(sorry it's so longggg, i got carried away. i am...very wordy when it comes to art lol)

i like to block in the colors during the sketching stage before i do the lineart, especially for pieces where i know i want to do something funky with the color palette. you can see this in a lot of my process shots. doing colors in the planning stage just gives me a lot more freedom to focus purely on the colors and shading and how they work with the composition, without having to worry about the minute details like making sure the colors are inside the lines.

in order to save time while coloring, i'll usually just select the negative space (after making sure all the lineart is closed) > expand selection by 1 pixel (to make sure the edges are hidden within the liineart) > invert selection > fill bucket, then use clipping layers above that to color individual areas.

layer modes are your friend! i use multiply, overlay, and glow dodge (this one may be specific to mangastudio?) in almost every one of my drawings, but it's definitely worth playing around with all of the modes just to familiarize yourself with them if you haven't already.

color is honestly SO subjective. i'm never a fan of color picking (from source material or my own refs or whatever) bc while it may have its uses when it comes to consistency, imo it's much more fun to make them up as i go. you get a lot more variety from piece to piece while also familiarizing yourself with the character's palette that way. usually i'll start by deciding on the overall mood/palette (cool/warm, de-saturated, neon, pastel, etc), filling in the background color, then picking the characters' colors based on that. like with this venti pic, i started with a purple background and based my colors around that purple so they all fit the specific look i was going for. i could maybe get a similar effect by starting with the normal colors and using filters, shading, layer modes, etc to get the funky colors, but it will be much harder/more work and doesn't get as drastic of an effect imo.

on that note, don't be afraid to use shades/colors that may seem odd! you'd be surprised how many times i've used gray in place of blue, orange, purple..basically any color. in the above example, you can see just how different the colors ended up being from the original. after i decide on my palette + bg color, i'll just throw down the color i think will work and then (bc that first guess is usually wrong and meant only as a ballpark estimate) see if it needs to be warmer or cooler/darker or lighter/more or less saturated/etc and adjust accordingly. it's like mixing paint or tuning an instrument! it takes a little bit of practice, but after a while you start to get the hang of what colors will look like in which color palettes. white is usually the easiest to start with bc it will always just be tinted whatever color your palette is (like how the "white" in the above example is just a light purple).

this and the next point are more about shading but i include it as part of the coloring process: the easiest way i've learned to do shading is to darken the entire image/character/part you want to shade (usually with a solid color multiply layer) then add in the lighting either by erasing parts of the multiply layer or by using a separate layer set to overlay or glow dodge (or a similar lightening layer mode). it works a lot better than drawing the shadows imo because it kind of mimics how light works in real life; things are dark by default until you let light in and it hits what it can while leaving the rest still dark.

if you want to blend shadows, i usually still use the above method, but just blur certain areas of it and when i'm deciding which parts to blur (bc i don't just do so indiscriminately) i'll mentally sort all of the shadows into 2 categories:

shadows created by light being blocked by an object: like putting your hand in front of a flashlight. these shadows will retain their sharp edge, but can transition into the 2nd category if they are far enough from the obstruction, like how your hand's shadow will become blurrier the further you move it from the flashlight. the more distance between a light source and the surface it's projecting onto, the more chances for the light to scatter = softer edges

shadows created by light "rolling" off the surface: like the shadows on a ball or rounded surface. these will get blurred and i usually like to put a little bit of color along the blurred edge (a different and usually brighter/more saturated color than the rest of the shadows) just to add some life to the shadows.

here's an annotated version of this mikey pic with just the shadows so it's a lot easier to see :) sorry im bad at annotating..

aaaand this post has probably gotten way longer than you were hoping for so i'll cut it off here 😭 hope this has been at least somewhat useful, and good luck with your art!

[anjukurada-fanfic-rec-blog]

@thecommonmold I know I'm not Neil, but I would like to add to this if you would allow me.

I was always creative when I was a child. Always daydreaming, being lost in my mind and the worlds I would create, but I never really knew how to write in a "good" way. I actaully started writing when I was 14, starting out with self-insert fan fictions for my favorite anime. My best friend and I would even collab with these stories, passing notebooks back and forth and learning to work WITH another individual and their ideas and the direction of the stories. For about 3 years, all we did was self-insert fan fictions until we felt comfortable enough to write something original. I would read her stories, she would read mine, or we would collab and build worlds. We developed our writing skills through practice, through observing other writers, through critiques from other friends or online strangers. We thought we were AMAZING writers at the age of 17!

But every time we looked back at the stories from when we were kids, they were really bad! We laughed at how horrible we were at writing, and how we thought we were so great. BUT (and this is very important) we were able to look back at these stories and see where we came from, and how much we have progressed! Look at people who have learned to draw. Maybe someone who makes AMAZING art. Look at where they started, and where they are now. They could have looked back at their old artwork, they could have gotten discouraged, they could have stopped and never picked up a sketch book again. But they didn't. They learned from their mistakes, they looked at their old artwork as Progress instead of garbage.

I know how hard it is to get started with something. I overthink so badly, and I feel like I need to be perfect or it's not worth it. I'm 32 and still suffer with those thoughts. BUT you can't make progress without practice. Here are a couple bit of advice and practices you could use:

Do NOT write for perfection. You will get so caught up in the details that you will be stuck and you won't end up writing anything at all. Your own mind can be your worst enemy sometimes... Write for the joy of writing, regardless of mistakes! You can always go back and fix it up later!

Do not get discouraged by your old work. It is going to be bad! And going forward, some of your future works are going to seem bad in a few years. They are PRACTICE! They are PROGRESS! Cherish your bad works and learn from them. They are not garbage, they are learning experiences.

Don't only write things that are meant to be a part of a bigger story. Write things JUST for practice. To get out of your comfort zone, to give you a different view.

FOR EXAMPLE:

Take a notebook to a park. Fine a spot where you are comfortable, sit down, and describe what you see. The sights, the sounds. What the birds are doing, what the plants sound like in the wind. What the sun feels like on your skin, what the other people around you are doing. Emerse yourself in your "scene". You can do this anywhere as well. In a mall, on a bus, in a classroom, on a bench in the middle of a city. This helps with building believable descriptions and helps with emersing readers into the scene that you are setting.

Once you are comfortable with doing this, add a character to the scene! Describe what they feel while walking through the park, the city, the school hallways. Learn how to describe what your characters are feeling and observing.

Find writing promts online, and write short drabbles revolving around those prompts. Get out of your comfort zone and just write "pointless" stories! There are plenty of books and sites that have writing prompts that you could use. Some are simple things where you are given a list of words that you need to use in your story ("Use Lobsters, green, wind, robot, and dice at some point in your story") and you would have to build a story using those things, or you could use prompts that tell you how a scene opens and you finish the scene.

The most important thing is to keep writing. Not everything needs to have a meaning, not everything needs to be perfect and publishable. You need to practice somehow! I developed ALOT of my writing skills with role playing! You can find role playing sites to join and practice that way as well!

Don't be too hard on yourself. You are still young, you are still learning. You will NEVER stop learning and getting better. You just need to put pen to paper and write SOMETHING even if it's just a jumble of words!

Hello Neil,i know you have 120k asks, so you will never see this, but genuinely, how do i start writing? I know it probably sounds silly to you, but I am 15 and already feel behind. I want to be a writer, I have loved reading ever since I read Coraline at 9 and have always wanted to do something creative with my life and to be an author just feels so fitting for me,I just don't know how to do it I guess. I keep trying but it always turns out bad,I don't even know where to beigin and how to pace the story or do anything really.I write short fanfics sometimes and when i go back to read them they are just objectively bad. I know what I do and dont like in stories,I just can't seem to accomplish what I want when I try to write it. And I do have so many ideas, but it never goes anywhere, and I can't put the words on the page. I know improving takes time but I just wish I had some guidance on how to improve(English is my third language so I probably made mistakes, I apologize )

You sound a lot l would have done at the age of 15, had I been articulate enough for anything like that. At the age of 15 or I knew was that I really wanted to be a writer and that I wanted to write and draw comics one day. I had some ideas that would turn out to be good ideas 15 years later or 25 years later but at that time they were just ideas and I didn't know how to make them into stories.

The most important thing you can do is to keep writing. The second most important thing you can do is to live and learn and experience the world and accumulate a store of things that you have to say and things that you need to write about.

[transformers-fan-continuities]

Spotlight: Ties That Bind

This one’s a doozy folks! If you missed the last spotlight you can go read it here, but strap in for The Ties That Bind, an absolutely brilliant take on humanformers. It’s hosted here at @tiesthatbind-tf​ created by @artsy-hobbitses​!

Q) Give us a run down of your cont! What's it about, what's it called, what's it like?

Ties That Bind is a humanformers-based original continuity which is part Science Fiction and part Alternate History where the invasion of Quintessons and introduction of their technology to Earth in 1920 sets the world and humankind on a completely different trajectory. The active narrative spans a period from 1920 to 2070, covering the First and Second Quintesson Wars, the interplanetary Antillan War (leading to the creation of Unicron on Mars) and the Great War which involves the Autobots, Decepticons and Functionist stalwarts, and how it affects the characters.

The cast is pretty sprawling and the narrative is mostly centred around human drama with bits of humor interspaced and a dash of horror (mostly centred around how the previous government often chose to utilize the technology left behind from the Quintesson Wars to create new systems of oppression, which affected many of the characters, in the name of worldwide rebuilding efforts).

Q) What characters take the lead here? Any personal favorites?

I will admit to this continuity being very much heavy on the relationship between Old Bastards  Optimus Prime and Megatron, which is given considerable weight as they were best friends who had known each other since childhood and were deeply intrinsic to each other’s growths as individuals, which makes it all the worse when guilt and betrayal enter the party. Despite being captains in two corners of this battle, there’s a part of them that just cannot let go of their pasts together and they need to reconcile with how this will affect their agenda (Megatron) and how they lead their team (Optimus) who don’t necessarily share their history.

Other characters with significant development include:

Starscream, a Cold Construct in a toxic working relationship with Megatron with whom he is hiding a dark secret, who struggles to balance the underhanded viciousness he believes he needs to gain power and his innate desire from his Senate days to make the world a better place. 

Windblade, a Camien native who fights her government’s apathy concerning the situation on Earth which they see as unsalvageable compared to their more Utopian society. 

Prowl, a Cold Construct raised from childhood to be a cop in a police state, who finds out that he was brainwashed several times  to ensure his obedience and efficacy as a government asset and is now working to reclaim some semblance of the humanity he was never allowed to feel and figure out how much of him is who he really is and how much is programming.

Hound, a sheltered Beastman who joined the fight to ensure that Beastmen the world over would have the same rights he did in his homeland of Shetland Isle, but is forcefully stripped of his humanity and faced with his animal side during the war and has to relearn what personhood means amid his trauma.

Q) Is there a bigger point to this, like a theme or some catharsis? Or is it just fluffy fun?

God with the amount of time I spent sleepless trying to figure out how the logistics of this or the semantics of that were supposed to work in universe, I cannot for the life of me say it’s fluffy fun, but I can’t exactly say it hasn’t been pretty engaging either!

There’s elements of war being messy for everyone involved where there doesn’t seem to be a clear line between friend and foe at times, but I think for most part it prescribes to  Jean-Jacques Rousseau’s belief that people are inherently good, but are corrupted by the evils of society. Despite its dark themes (Including but not limited to child abuse, torture, illegal experimenation  and brainwashing), love and friendships do prevail, kindness does beget kindness, found families are made, even the smallest actions matter, and things do get better because there are people on both sides who genuinely want to, and strive to make it better.

With Cold Constructs and Beastmen, it also delves heavily into what it means to be human; to have agency and personhood.

There’s also a strong undercurrent of taking responsibility for one’s actions, even if they were made with the best of intentions (Avoidance of this is what eats up Starscream and Megatron from the inside, and what Starscream eventually embraces).

Q) How long have you been working on it?

There’s two answers to this!

I’ve had a Humanformers-related universe going all the way back to 2007 around the time the first Bayformers came out---basically I had a choice between learning to draw cars or draw people (I was an anthro artist back then) and I immediately chose people.

The 2007 draft however had no worldbuilding or connective storylines and was mostly a fun little venture into character design and practice which were actually instrumental to me experimenting and learning how to draw humans properly.

I left the fandom for about a decade and when I came back to it in late 2020 around September via the War for Cybertron series on Netflix, I immediately got hooked on the 2005 IDW comics I missed out on and wanted to get around to updating my old designs as well find a way to translate several of the concepts I wanted to explore in a human sense, so the 2020 update became its own full-fledged original continuity with detailed worldbuilding and history.

You can see the artistic evolution of several characters from their original incarnation below!

Q) It’s incredible to see your artistic improvement too! Give us a behind-the-scenes look! Show us a secret ;))

Say hello to my workspace! I’ve been working exclusively on the Ipad Pro since late 2016, which is fantastic because I can basically whip up concepts and sketches on the go anywhere. Nowhere is too out of bounds to work on TTB!

Also, do enjoy this sneak peek at true!form Rung, whose synthezoid human body took years to perfect.

Q) YESSSSS alright I must admit this is one of my favorite Rungs, and certainly my fave within TTB. Amazing. Phew, anyway. Where did you draw inspiration from? What canons, what other fiction, what parts of real life?

TTB was initially conceived as a faithful retelling of the IDW 2005 narrative before it was transformed into its own continuity and as such, it borrows heavily from concepts and mirrored plot lines introduced in that run! I chose to have the series inspired off it specifically for the amount of history and worldbuilding it introduced to the franchise.

Anime like Gunslinger Girl and Beastars inspired the depictions of Cold Constructs, especially the more harrowing aspects of their upbringing as government assets instead of children, and Beastmen (Beastformers) in TTB.

I haven’t depicted the world itself in my art all too much, but the architecture from Tiger and Bunny, which has sort of a futuristic Art Deco feel to it, is what you’d usually see in major cities. There is an in-universe reason for that---with a Point Of Divergence set in 1920 followed by 25 years (an entire generation) of progress basically being kicked to the curb due to the Quintesson wars, mankind was basically in a time-locked bubble until the end of the wars, and by then their heroes were 1920s-style rebellion leaders, which lead to 1920s fashion (especially among the Manual Working Class---Megatron, Jazz and Optimus all rock 1920s fashion at some point of their lives) and architecture being celebrated and retained as sort of a reminder of how things were before The Invasion. This anime’s background design is also where I adopted the tiered system TTB’s major metropolises are often built on (with each tier being designated to a different working class) from.

The main artistic style itself is a love letter to 90s cartoons, in particular Gargoyles’ deep and drama-driven character narratives and designs as well as The Centurions’ take on body armor logistics.

I also take inspiration, especially armor-wise, from the characters’ given heritage and background. As an example, Hotrod who is depicted as Irish has the flames on his armor done up with Celtic knots. Welsh aristocrat Mirage’s armor bears olden knight-style filigree and has his Autobot logo designed as a coat of arms. Indonesian Soundwave’s armor and Decepticon logo takes cues from Batik and Wayang Kulit while their mask is based off the Barong.

Q) They are absolutely gorgeous! Show off something you're really proud of, a particular favorite part of your cont.

The worldbuilding in general! Most Humanformers I’ve seen tend to treat it like a fun exercise which it is and is definitely valid, but I found myself wanting a full-fledged world to lose myself in and I sought to try and make that world myself by drafting a detailed history and timeline of events which would affect ongoing narratives, having indepth worldbuilding to include almost all societal aspects of the universe and  expanding on the concept of Beastmen and Cold Constructs existing in a human setting.

I’m not so secretly proud of the research and diversity included to make the cast look like the multicultural, globally-based team that they were meant to be instead of being locked to a single region! My original draft from 2007 was, to put it simply, quite culturally monolithic and I wanted to improve on that aspect with TTB.

I’m also proud that I’ve kept to it this far! I’m a notoriously flaky person jumping from one idea/fandom to another and to have kept at this continuity for the better part of ten months is honestly a personal feat.

Art-wise, this scene depicting a young Megatron working alongside Terminus and Impactor (cameo by @weapon-up-wallflower​‘s OC Missit!)  is definitely one of my favorites since it helps build up the world they live in and plays to familial bonds and comfort found in one another despite their less than ideal circumstances.

Q) Everything has come together so beautifully, you absolutely should be proud. What other fan canons do you love and why? Would you like to see them interviewed?

I am dying to hear more from @iscaredspider​’s Sparkpulse continuity! Her designs are MIND-BLOWINGLY GORGEOUS and I want to hear more about what inspired her to work on it!

Also YOU. Yes YOU BLURRITO. LET ME HEAR MORE ABOUT SNAP.

Q) [wails and squirms away in the mortifying ordeal of being known but in a very flattered way] I WILL SOMEDAY I PROMISE aflghsdjg thank you QwQ

Well that was fantastic, Oni, thank you muchly! A magnificent continuity with so much to look forward to! Coming up next is another personal fave of mine, the first inspiration for SNAP, so stick around...

[bookshelfdreams]

@awordwasthebeginning I am so glad you asked :D

My absolute very fave (although all bog bodies are cool af) is Bernuthsfeld man, or Bernie for short.

He was found in 1907 by two teenagers working on the bog who, fearing they might get into legal trouble, promptly reburied him. Luckily though word got to the police shortly after and the body was dug up again; at first there was suspect of foul play, but it soon became evident that the body was not a recent murder victim because he was over a thousand years old*.

The soft tissue was almost completely decomposed, but his skeleton was remarkably intact. For a long time it was theorized that he was murdered because his skull war partially caved in; however, this was likely caused post mortem either by the pressure of layers of earth or the teens who discovered him. He was buried in a chamber layered with moss, his body was curled up on his side.

The body underwent extensive analysis in 2011 and 2012, including genetic analyis. When he was alive, he was probably around 185cm tall. He was white, light-haired and light-eyed, and died between the ages of 40 and 60 in the 8th century AD. He was very ill before his death; he suffered from severe arthrosis in his hip joints, he had a blockage in his spinal column that would have made moving his upper body painful, he possibly was suffering from bone cancer, and he had chronic sinusitis. He probably was very limited in his movements or even bedbound in the year leading up to his death. All this makes a natural death likely. (He did have very good teeth though, so that's something)

The most remarkable hing about him though, are his clothes. Well-preserved clothing of this age is a rarity, and Bernie's outfit is absolutely unique. He was wearing a cloak, tunic, shawl, hood and leg wraps, all made from wool. He probably had linen undergarments too but those decomposed. Here's a schematic sketch of his clothes:

The coolest thing is his tunic. It was made out of 46 individual pieces, of around 20 individual fabrics. Some of them were clearly repurposed, even layered double when they were too worn down. And even though the fabrics lost their original hue in the bog, one can still see that there was quite a bit of contrast going on; it was clearly made to be eye-catching, the patchwork wasn't just necessity. The other things (except for the cloak) are also made with this patchwork technique.

Here's a picture of the reconstructed outfit from the museum in Emden, where he's kept. The fabric was all handwoven (even using handspun yarn!) to be as accurate as possible.

& I think it's fascinating because why was he dressed like that? Was he an outcast, so dirt poor he couldn't afford anything better? Unlikely, since a) someone (or several someones) had to take care of him for quite a while before his death b) he had a very nice, elaborate funeral and c) that cloak is made of one piece, which is an amazing display of weaving skill, and it's practically brand new. This would not have been cheap.

There are so many theories; my fave is that he was some sort of wandering teacher or storyteller and the tunic served him as a sort of mnemonic device. But we will never know! Maybe he was a hipster. Maybe he was a weaver and this was meant to display his skill. Maybe he just liked to be flashy. There's a hundred possible reasons.

In any case, this garment is an amazing sampler of early medieval craftsmanship; and the chance of it surviving for us to wonder about are so incredibly small it's a miracle we get to enjoy it. So whoever buried Bernie: Thank you <3 And thank you to Bernie as well for having the most incredible style in all of medieval East Frisia.

Here are reconstructions of his face to give you an idea what he might have looked like:

Hi Bernie! I love you.

*Aside from everything else, this really illustrated how amazing it is we have any bog bodies at all; first a dead body has to be in a place where it mummifies, which is incredibly rare, then it has to be found more or less intact, which is also rare (& didn't become more likely in the modern day) and then the body has to survive to the modern day. A lot of ancient mummies, esp natural ones, have decomposed since their discovery, even really famous ones. All that remains of Tollund man, for example, is the head even though his full body was preserved by the bog.

[edendaphne]

“Discordant Sonata” Chapter 19

>>Click here to read on Ao3<<

>>Click here to read on Wattpad<<

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CHAPTER 19: ATTACCA

Music glossary:        Attacca - "To attack at once"; used as a direction in music at the end of a movement to begin the next without pause

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(Mood music: "The Conversation" - Pearl Django)

Being mere months away from graduating lycée meant that their group of friends didn’t have as many classes together, due to their diverse individual interests and talents. However, they always made sure to make time to hang out after school before their extracurricular activities began.

And thus, Adrien, Nino, and Alya made their way to the classroom where the art club gathered to meet up with Marinette. From there, Adrien would make his way to either fencing lessons or Chinese, depending on the day of the week. Marinette would join him on days when he had Chinese (as she’d become determined to master the language ever since her uncle visited from Shanghai a few years back), Alya would go to her journalism club, and Nino would travel to his part-time internship at the local recording studio.

“–and the backlogs just keep piling up!” Alya spoke as they walked, voice full of vigor and excitement. “I’ve had to recruit yet another mod to help me keep order in the forums! Especially since the Ladyblog has started going international and we’ve had to organize servers in different languages. You wouldn’t believe how crazy it’s gotten in there recently!”

“Dang, babe,” Nino interjected. “Sounds like things are super rough for you right now.”

“Not really, more busy than anything. Especially because I have that big research article due next week, there’s just not enough hours in the day to try to read everything that goes on in there. But I have my mods report to me daily, ‘cause I always like to stay on top of everything that goes on in the chats!”

“What’s gotten everyone so riled up in the Ladyblog lately?” Adrien chimed in. “I don’t recall it being nearly this busy last year.”

The trio entered the art club’s classroom and settled down at the table where Marinette sat, getting her various sketches organized. The art teacher was quite easy going, so they didn’t have to talk in hushed whispers and could come and go as they pleased.

“Well, to be honest, it’s because of Chat Noir,” Alya replied.

Adrien tried to contain his surprise. “R-really? What– uhhh, what do people have to say about him?”

He winced inwardly. He knew he shouldn’t ask. But curiosity got the better of him today. Maybe learning the news through the filter or Alya’s paraphrasing instead of reading the negative comments firsthand would lessen the sting of what people said about him.

Marinette whipped her head around at the mention of his alter ego. “Wait, what about Chat Noir?” she inquired.

“Girl,” Alya replied, her voice filled with renewed exuberance. “You would not believe how much we’ve had to censor and moderate all the inappropriate things people have been saying!”

Adrien flinched in his seat. “Wow… do people really hate him that much?” he asked, trying to conceal the dejection in his voice.

Alya busted out into loud guffaws. “Hate?! Dude, most people don’t hate him; they LOVE him! By ‘inappropriate’ comments, I mean the kinda stuff you wouldn’t want your grandma to catch you reading! There’s a whole giant section dedicated to his new fan club!” she said as she removed her glasses so she could wipe away the tears of laughter.

“WHAT?!” Adrien squawked in confusion, his face feeling hotter than the ovens back at the bakery. “A fan club??”

Marinette burst into uncontrollable snickering. “Has it really gotten that bad?!”

Nino joined in, “Bro! Adrien, I can’t believe you haven’t heard Alya rant about these rabid fans before! They call themselves the ‘Noir Nation’, and the kind of things they’ve been writing would make adult romance authors blush like schoolgirls!”

Alya nodded, thoroughly amused. “And that’s not including all the fanfiction people have been writing.”

“Wait– the WHAT?! There’s fanfiction?!!” Marinette gaped in shock, as if she’d been hit in the face with an enormous pie. “Alya, how come I never knew about this?!”

“Why? You wanna read em? Girl, you’ll get no judgment from me. If you wanna check ‘em out for yourself, just go check under the hashtag ‘Ladynoir’.”

Marinette stammered as her arms flailed in her bewilderment, accidentally knocking her phone off the table and onto the floor, her eyes bigger and rounder than Adrien had ever seen them. “They have a ship name?!” she screeched.

“Just mind the ratings though,” Alya advised. “Some of them can get pretty steamy. You wouldn’t want someone to catch you reading those in public,” she added with a wink.

Marinette continued to sputter incoherently. “NO, I am NOT gonna read it!! It would be different if they were fictional characters, but I could never read fanfiction about real people!”

Alya raised a skeptical eyebrow at her. “Mm-hmm… Sure.”

Marinette’s hands flew to her face, trying to hide how red her entire face had gotten, and released a long squeak that resembled a hamster on helium. As shocked as Adrien was about these rather unexpected news, seeing Marinette’s over-the-top reaction brought a wide grin to his face and he busted out laughing.

He bent over to retrieve Marinette’s phone, since she was too busy being mortified to notice it had fallen to the floor. As he was about to hand it back, the screen lit up and Adrien saw the lockscreen wallpaper: it was the same photo of Ladybug and Chat Noir that he himself had saved earlier that day. He smiled, not exactly sure what to make of it, but finding it adorable that she’d liked the photo enough to set it as her lockscreen.

He tapped her shoulder, waiting for her to respond. She emerged from behind her impromptu hand shield and turned her head, then her eyes widened once again as soon as she saw what Adrien was showing her. She jolted straight up, stiff as a board, and her eyes met his, cheeks turning tomato red. He winked at her, amused about this little secret between them, and handed back her phone without a word.

Marinette accepted it with a meek-sounding, “Thanks,” looking like she wanted to explain the photo, but not able to do so unless she wanted Alya and Nino to find out that she was potentially a… ahem– “Ladynoir” shipper.

Switching the conversation to something else (which Marinette seemed to be eternally grateful for), the group chatted until it became time for them to scatter to their next destinations.

With a wave, Adrien exited the classroom and headed towards fencing practice, one of the few activities he decided to stick with despite not being forced to participate. Fencing, along with Chinese lessons, were not only enjoyable, but were also quite useful. Sadly, he didn’t have access to a piano anymore, so he wasn’t able to pursue that hobby for the time being. Hopefully later down the line, when things had settled down and he’d found his own place to live, he’d be able to finance one.

Thinking about the future had become an exciting pastime instead of an anxiety-inducing one, and it was all thanks to his friends and those he cared about. He smiled as he reached the door to the locker rooms, continuing to daydream of what was to come.

(Mood music: "Recollection 3" - Shirō Sagisu (BLEACH OST, "The Diamond Dust Rebellion")

Adrien finished getting dressed for fencing, his head still blissfully floating in the clouds. He stored his belongings into his assigned locker, shutting it with a loud clang, which echoed through the empty room.

Huh...? Empty?

He swiveled his head around, surprised that there was no one beside him. He stood up and began walking down the large room, peeking down the other locker rows looking for his classmates; but there was nobody.

Where was everyone? There’s no way that every single one of them was running late. Had his lessons been cancelled and he’d somehow missed a text message or email? He began heading back towards his locker to check his phone for any schedule changes.

Before he reached his destination, however, heavy thudding footsteps broke the eerie silence. Adrien whipped his body around to greet whoever they belonged to.

The owner of those footsteps was one of the last people Adrien expected to meet here.

“Gaspard?!”

Adrien stood agape, face to face with his old bodyguard, whom he hadn’t seen in a couple of years; not since he’d resigned and moved out of the country. Nathalie had mentioned that in his resignation letter, Gaspard said that he’d become involved in an overseas business venture involving the market of rare action figures. Nevertheless, Adrien couldn’t help but suspect that his father’s ill temper and poor treatment of their employees was the true reason for his departure.

Adrien’s first reaction was surprise and joy, and he rushed forward to greet and embrace him. However, as he approached and got a better look at the man’s face, Adrien’s mood instantly morphed into confusion and apprehension. There was something odd about his eyes.

Something wasn’t right. Why was Gaspard here? And why now?

He came to a halt about a meter before reaching him. An oppressive weight seemed to press in all around him, and he had to suppress a shiver. “Wait. Gaspard, did–” he gulped, “–did my father send you?”

His old bodyguard did not reply, but took a heavy step towards him. Adrien stepped back.

“Please… I can’t go back. I live somewhere else now, and I’m very happy there. Whatever he told you about the situation, it’s a lie.”

His bodyguard continued to approach him, his stare vacant and unsettling.

Fighting the urge to panic, he pleaded, “You don’t have to do this. If he’s offered you compensation, I can match it; it’ll just take me a bit of time. But we can work something out, right?? For old time’s sake?”

He continued walking backwards until he bumped into something firm, but it wasn’t a wall; it was another person. Before he could turn around, they grabbed him by the shoulders, detaining him and preventing him from running away.

He was about to shout for help when something sharp jabbed him on the side of the neck, injecting a cold liquid. Adrien’s eyes grew wide in terror.

Shit.

Adrien swore as he jerked away, elbowing whoever was behind him and managing to break free. Rubbing at the spot where the syringe had stabbed him, he glanced back to take a look at his other assailant, only to see... another Gaspard?

Why are there two of him??

This was wrong. Gaspard didn’t have a twin; he knew that for a fact. He’d worked for the Agrestes ever since Adrien was a toddler and was too young to even pronounce his name correctly (hence the nickname “Gorille”, which stuck around for years afterwards). Additionally, there was something uncanny, otherworldly, even, about the way these two men looked and moved.

He shook himself out of his stupor. He didn’t have time to contemplate any possible explanations. He had to get out of there fast.

He sprinted towards the exit, but only managed to travel a few paces before he lost his footing and tripped. He fell to the ground hard, almost hitting his head on a nearby bench. As he struggled to get up, he realized that his fingers and toes had already gone numb.

Not good.

Time was running out. Adrenaline coursed through him and, with a grunt, he hefted himself to his feet and scrambled towards the exit, as fast as he could despite a heavy limp. Though his heart was hammering and his legs felt like they were filled with sand, he pushed himself, concentrating on reaching the door.

After taking a few steps, however, he realized that even if he did manage to exit the locker room, the area beyond was an open courtyard. Meaning he wasn’t going to be able to reach someplace safe before getting caught. He had no choice but to transform into Chat Noir, and hopefully Plagg’s powers and strength could help him escape and find somewhere to hide.

He’d scarcely uttered the first syllable in the transformation phrase when he was tackled to the ground. A giant hand swiftly covered his mouth and Adrien felt his hands get bound together with thick zip ties behind his back. A muffled scream of writhing frustration made its way up his throat as his limbs became more and more useless by the second.

No… This can’t be happening! Please, this can’t be how it all ends!

Just when his life had finally gained a semblance of normalcy and he’d found happiness again, it would get ripped away and he would disappear without a trace, leaving everyone to wonder what had happened to him. Leaving his friends to think that Gabriel had pulled him from school and they would never see him again. Leaving Ladybug to wonder if Chat had abandoned her forever. Leaving her to fight Hawkmoth alone. Again.

He couldn’t let that happen. He thrashed and struggled as furiously as he could, fighting the feelings of overwhelming helplessness that threatened to consume him. Nearing despair, he was too distracted to notice Plagg phrasing through the wall, away from the skirmish, in search of the only person who could save him.

(Mood music: "Run" - Ludovico Einaudi)

Marinette fidgeted with her pencil, her feet wiggled and bounced under her desk. She didn’t understand; when she’d arrived at the art club, her head had been filled with inspiration and ideas that she’d been excited to draw and execute. However, at the moment, her mind was filled with noise and disquietude.

Having had enough, she excused herself to visit the restroom. Once she’d walked far enough from the classroom, she opened her purse to talk to Tikki about her current dilemma.

“It’s the same feeling as last night, Tikki! Except that would mean one of three possibilities. Option A.) It’s nothing and I’m going crazy. And— don’t give me that look, Tikki! I can see what you’re thinking and I don’t have time for your cheeky sass right now!” The kwami snickered while Marinette cleared her throat and continued, “Option B.) that Chat is here, at this school, which is impossible because his school’s on the other side of the city, that’s why he always leaves the house super early for his long commute.”

Tikki opened her mouth and looked like she was about to say something, but then didn’t (...or couldn’t?).

Marinette resumed, “Or, C.) that my–– what do I even call it? My ‘Spidey sense’??–– that it’s got a long distance mode, and Chat is all the way across Paris and he’s in trouble! But what am I supposed to do about that from here?! I wouldn’t even know where to begin looking!”

Tikki shrugged. “Follow your instincts, Marinette. There’s no harm in taking a quick look around the school, right?”

Marinette groaned. “UGH! It doesn’t make sense!! Am I going to get interrupted like this all the time from now on?” She shook her head resolutely. “No. I can’t just go off on random field trips every single time I feel a random fit of anxiety. I’m sure it’s just leftover jitters from last night. I’m supposed to call Master Fu after school anyway; he can help me figure everything out. I’m just gonna go back to class and forget about it.”

Tikki frowned, not quite convinced, but deciding not to press further.

Marinette made her way back to the classroom in a frustrated huff. But as her hand reached to turn the handle, the feelings of danger and urgency multiplied tenfold. Without a word, she sprinted away in the opposite direction, not even knowing where she was running to, only knowing she had to get there immediately.

She reached the large common area of the school downstairs. Her head whipped around, frantically searching for something, anything. In her haste, she didn’t notice a small black creature zoom into her open purse.

A few moments later, she felt a frantic tugging at her shirt from below.

“Marinette!! Over there! Check the locker room, quick!!!” Tikki whisper-screamed as she peeked outside the purse, her tone uncharacteristically frantic.

Marinette nodded, then sprinted to the locker room.

“Wait! You should transform first!” Tikki added.

No time!

“Marinette, wait!!”

Despite Tikki’s protests, Marinette raced towards the double doors, tackling them open.

Three sets of eyes landed on her as she skidded to a halt, but only one pair consumed her entire attention. She gasped in horror, hands flying to her face as she stared at what was occurring in front of her. Adrien let out a desperate, muffled scream urging her to run.

His panicked voice snapped her out of her dazed shock; but instead of running, she stood her ground, eyes darting back and forth across the area searching for something useful. The room was remarkably barren except for a lone broom a short distance away from her. She grabbed it and leaped towards the closest attacker (the one holding Adrien down), swinging it like a baseball bat.

The man didn’t even try to avoid the hit; the broomstick merely bounced off the side of his face where Marinette had hit him. She frowned in confusion, then tried hitting him again, bringing the stick down on the top of his head like an axe.

SNAP.

The end of the broom flew off, and Marinette stared in shock at the broken broomstick.

“What the hell are you?!” Marinette exclaimed, shifting her grip on the shortened wooden stub.

She pounced at the second bodyguard, bringing her weapon down in a stabbing motion; but he swatted at her hand, disarming her. She yelped in pain, leaping backwards to get some distance between them.

She was outmatched. The only strategy available was to use their own size against them. With a feint to the side, she shot at his legs for a takedown, hoping to catch him off balance. He called her bluff and shoved her backwards with his giant palm, then kneed her in the stomach.

Winded from the impact, Marinette doubled over with a gasping wheeze, fighting with all her might to keep herself from collapsing onto the ground. She forced herself upright and attacked again. With a clumsy jerk, she lunged forward, swinging wild punches at her opponent. The shots connected but his expression barely changed; it was like beating a breathing punching bag.

The bodyguard backhanded Marinette across the face. Pain shooting across her cheek, she staggered, almost losing her balance. In her daze, she watched helplessly as the man reared his arm back. There was no chance to dodge. His fist connected with her abdomen, delivering a liver shot that shut down her entire body. She crumpled to the floor as if boneless. She tried to call out Adrien’s name, but her mouth merely opened in a silent scream.

Marinette could hear Adrien’s distressed screaming, but it sounded distant, like they were underwater. The edges of her vision grew black and fuzzy, the entire room dissolving around her. She had to consciously force her lungs to inhale, but couldn’t fill them all the way, as if a boulder had been placed on top of her chest.

Faintly, she felt herself getting picked up off the ground and carried away over someone’s shoulder. Disoriented and semi-blinded, the sudden movement and rough jostling made her head spin and gave her vertigo. She gritted her teeth and squeezed her eyes shut, trying to block it all out.

A few moments later, they stopped moving, and she heard a door burst open. Where were they? Before she could gather her senses, she was in the air, thrown several meters away, landing with a hard thud. A sharp pain traveled down her body as she rolled into the wall across them. The shriek that tried to escape her throat emerged as a strained, shallow whine.

The man stomped out, leaving her alone in the room. “Stop…!” she rasped out, managing to tilt her neck upwards, head pounding.

The bodyguard slammed the door shut, followed by a bang and a clattering sound that could only mean he’d broken the doorknob of whatever room she was in.

Marinette's vision became more and more blurred. At the verge of losing consciousness, she fought to keep her eyes open as tears pricked at the corners of her eyes.

No, she couldn’t pass out! She had to save Adrien! Stay awake, Marinette, stay awake!!

She bit down on her lip hard, focusing on the sharp sting, on the swelling that was already forming around her right eye, forcing herself to feel the pain her body was in. At this moment, feeling pain was better than falling unconscious. She concentrated on her breathing, slowly regaining her senses.

She reached down to open her purse and get Tikki’s help… only to be met with emptiness. Panic settled in her gut as she realized that sometime during the skirmish, the purse had slipped off her shoulder. She sat up, slowly, so she wouldn’t risk feeling faint again from the change in positions.

She squinted, adjusting her eyesight to the darkness of the room. It seemed to be some sort of supply closet. After a failed few attempts to stand, she crawled towards the door instead, careful not to bump into the crates and shelves that filled the area.

The girl eyed the broken doorknob wearily. She was pretty proficient at lockpicking and breaking into things, but not as good at breaking out. Her only hope was that Tikki would be able to find her… if she was even nearby.

She swore to herself. Why had she rushed in and attacked two grown ass men (who, incidentally, may or may not be supernatural to boot!) instead of hiding and creating a strategy?! Now she was useless, Tikki was gone, and Adrien was surely on his way to get auctioned to the highest bidder in the criminal black market and ransomed off for an enormous sum. Great job, Marinette. Adrien’s been abducted and it’s all your fault.

Gathering all the determination she could muster, she tried to call out for help. But her voice was still too hoarse, and only a weak croak came out. She clenched her fists, grumbling irritably. Time for a different approach. Somehow, she needed to make noise.

After a brief search, she found a hard, metallic object that she could use to hammer on the door. She tested it out; it was surprisingly effective. She doubled her efforts, making as big a racket as possible. Hopefully, it would only be a matter of time before somebody heard her, let her out, and she could go find Adrien.

She couldn’t let anything else happen to another loved one. Not again.

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I'M REEEAAAAALLY SORRY FOR THAT CLIFFHANGER JSHDKFJHSKDF ᕕ(╯°д°)ᕗ  I tried splitting up the sections differently but it didn't really flow as well.

But the next chapter is almost done, so I'll have it ready by next weekend!!

[moiraineswife]

Innocence Died Screaming - An Adolin & Jasnah Fic

I RETURN. I RETURN WITH EMOTIONAL KHOLINS TO MAKE YOU ALL EMOTIONAL TOO!!! ENJOY!!!!!!

Title: Innocence Died Screaming

Rating: T  Content warnings: mentions of accidental mother murder

Summary:  Set loosley pre-Rhythm of War. Jasnah requests some duelling training from her expert duelist cousin. Adolin sees it as a way to spend more time bonding with his cousin. He gets a little bit more than he bargained for when Jasnah calls him out as only Jasnah can for always putting himself down. They have a good heart to heart and I have Emotions.

Teaser:

'“Truthfully?” Adolin said, stalling for time.

“Always,” Jasnah said, with aching sincerity, because she was Jasnah.

“You suck,” Adolin replied bluntly, unable to find a fancier way of saying it to soften the blow.

Jasnah just smiled at that, then gestured at him, “Hence the reason you are here with me presently.”'

Link: AO3

Wit answered the door to Jasnah’s chambers with a flourish when Adolin knocked. Uncharacteristically, there was no quip. Probably because he’d seen Adolin bracing for one, and didn’t want to seem ‘predictable’. Though how anyone was supposed to predict someone like Wit was beyond him. 

“Jasnah, your beefy cousin has arrived to demonstrate the intricacies of hitting people with large metal sticks,” he announced to the room behind him where Jasnah was no doubt working. 

He made to sweep out after that declaration, but Adolin caught him by the arm and raised an eyebrow, “Beefy cousin?” he repeated, incredulous. 

“Well it couldn’t be handsome cousin, Adolin,” Wit replied smoothly, “That’s how I announce Renarin!” 

Adolin opened his mouth to reply to that, then closed it again, grinning, imagining Renarin’s face if that was, in fact, how Wit announced him. 

“What’s wrong with ‘Adolin’?” he asked instead, scratching his head. 

“Well it’s just so boring,” Wit said conversationally, lounging against the door and grinning at him. “Jasnah has a very difficult, taxing job,” he explained, with an almost conspiratorial air, “I need to seize any opportunity I can to inject a little humour into her life.” 

If rumours were to be believed, humour wasn’t the only thing he was injecting Jasnah with at the moment. 

Adolin didn’t say that. He did note, however, as his cousin approached them, that the two of them were alone, without a chaperone. 

That wasn’t entirely surprising. Jasnah had always just kind of done things her way. And she was a woman nearing her fortieth Weeping. But still. There were some rules you just shouldn’t bend, even if you were Queen.

Though Pattern wasn't exactly a model chaperone for me and Shallan, so I probably shouldn’t be judging Jasnah that harshly, he admitted ruefully to himself, grinning a little, then immediately hoping Wit hadn’t noticed.

Wit, fortunately, had eyes only for his queen at that moment. 

“Enjoy yourself, Brightness,” he was saying, waving an elegant hand at Jasnah, “Try not to hurt him too much.” 

He clapped Adolin on the shoulder, winking, then withdrew at a nod from Jasnah. 

Clearly his departing when Adolin arrived was a prearranged agreement between the two of them.

Adolin wasn’t entirely sorry about that. He liked Wit, might even be storming fond of him at this point, but he would be more relaxed without him in earshot of his every word. 

“Cousin,” Jasnah said, nodding to him in greeting. 

“Jasnah,” Adolin returned, grinning and stepping forwards to embrace her. 

All of them had had to get used to more hugs from him in the recent months. His father had been the one who had always rebuked him for it, while his mother had always encouraged him. Given recent events, he found himself more inclined towards listening to his mother. 

Besides, since losing Elhokar, he’d had his eyes opened to how precious his family was. He had loved his cousin, and his king, but he hadn’t felt as close to him as he’d wanted. 

He’d felt similarly towards Jasnah, and was determined not to let that happen again. She was his family. And as his family, she got a hug when he saw her. And had been forced to get used to him dropping by more often to spend time with her and get to know her properly. She seemed more comfortable with that than the hugs.

She was used to them by now though, and tolerated it, awkwardly patting him on the back to indicate she’d had enough of his affection for the day. He drew back, grinning. 

“Shall we get started?” Jasnah said briskly, stepping into a large section of her chambers she’d had cleared of furniture. 

She was also wearing a messenger style havah - shorter than the traditional garment, with high slits in the sides to allow for swift movement, and leggings underneath for dignity’s sake. Very practical, very Jasnah. 

“Sure,” Adolin said, following after her. 

He’d been surprised when she’d sent him a note requesting some training from him in dueling, but had been eager to accept. It would help with his new cousin-bonding goals. And he was always happy to help someone learn how to properly use their blade. 

“I’ve seen you fight a little with your Shardblade before,” he said, as they moved into position, “During the battle of Thaylen City. You were mostly Soulcasting, but you used your blade a couple of times, too. So I know you’re not totally useless.” 

“Thank you for that assessment, Adolin,” Jasnah replied coolly, though there was a hint of a smile in her eyes when she said it. 

Adolin blushed slightly, “What I meant was that you at least have some idea what to do. So I thought it might be best if you summoned your blade and showed me a few stances and movements that you know already? Do you know any katas?” 

“A few,” Jasnah replied, “Though they may be unfamiliar to you.” 

“Pick one,” Adolin said, leaning against the wall, well out of the way, “Go through it as you normally would. I’ll observe and see what needs to be corrected from there.” 

“Very well,” Jasnah said, nodding her assent at this plan. 

Adolin folded his arms across his chest, feeling a little odd. He’d given instruction to Shardbearers before. Zahel had sometimes had him help assist in the training of men on the practice grounds. Zahel didn’t much care that he was a prince, he’d been there, and that had been enough. 

He’d also given Shallan and Radiant extensive training now in the use of her blade. He wasn’t a stranger to being a teacher, and he found that he enjoyed it, especially as something productive he could do for the new Radiants in the tower. 

He’d just never expected to be doing it with Jasnah. 

Though, as she summoned her blade, he did feel there was something appropriate about the image of Jasnah Kholin standing there with a glimmering sword in hand. A completeness to the picture. Shallan would have wanted to sketch it, he was sure. He’d have to invite her along to one of these sessions, if they became a regular occurrence. 

“Very nice,” Adolin said, nodding approvingly as he examined the gleaming length of her weapon. 

He’d seen it before, but never up close or with the ability to take in the details. It was an elegant weapon, like Jasnah herself. Long and slender, with a slight curve to it. 

Jasnah held it comfortably. Because how else would the storming woman hold it? No one had yet managed to discover something Jasnah Kholin was objectively just bad at.

She frowned at this comment, “I haven’t started yet,” she pointed out.

Adolin grinned at her. “That’s a bit arrogant of you, Your Majesty,” he teased. She raised an eyebrow at him, and he added, “I was talking about your sword," he nodded to it, "Very nice indeed.” 

Jasnah glanced at the blade and her usually impassive features displayed a look of momentary surprise.

“Ivory says thank you,” she informed him. A pause, then she continued, “He says that he worked hard on perfecting the design and shape of this form.” 

Adolin nodded his approval. The attention to detail was obvious, and told him a lot about Ivory, and why he worked so well with Jasnah. Jasnah was all about the details. 

A slight crease formed between her eyes as she added, sardonically, “He also wishes me to pass on that he is pleased someone has taken notice. Finally.” She pursed her lips.

That made him smile again. He raised a hand and faked a cough to cover his urge to laugh at his cousin's expression. 

He had never met, or even glimpsed, Jasnah’s spren, except when he was summoned as a blade. According to her he was a private individual, who preferred not to be seen where possible. He sensed there was something deeper to it than what she’d said, but hadn’t pressed the issue.

Still, it was hard not to find Jasnah’s long-suffering tone oddly endearing for what it spoke of regarding their relationship. 

“I see Ivory is a man, uh, spren,” he corrected hastily, “Of fine taste, like myself," he said, with a small bow.

“Yes,” Jasnah replied, with a slight roll of her eyes, “Well if you’re both finished admiring swords for the moment, perhaps we could begin?” 

Adolin blushed slightly at the innuendo, which wasn’t something he was used to hearing from Jasnah. 

“You’ve been spending too much time around Wit,” he muttered, before he could think better of it. 

Fortunately, Jasnah only smiled at that, and made no remark. 

Adolin hastily gestured for her to continue, and concentrated on observing her form, rather than considering the tangled rumours of her and her wit. That was not why he was here. 

There was clearly something practiced about the motions of the kata, but it was obvious she hadn’t trained much, and that whoever had trained her previously hadn’t been very good at correcting small, but obvious, mistakes. 

There was nothing overtly wrong with what she did, but there were obvious improvements to be made that he could spot straight away. 

“Not bad,” he said, moving away from the wall, summoning Maya as he went, so that he could demonstrate, “Your stances have the right shape, but you need to commit to them more.”

He gave her a slight nudge with his elbow as he reached her and she wobbled, which illustrated his point, though she seemed displeased by it. Not at him, he sensed, but at herself.

“Sink down into them,” he said, showing her, “Anchor yourself, like a tree, roots planted deep into the ground.” 

Jasnah studied him for a moment with a critical eye, then replicated what he’d shown her, exaggerating the stance she’d chosen as demonstrated. 

“Good,” Adolin said, nodding in approval, “Alright, your grip, don’t overlap your hands like that, there’s room on the hilt for both hands to rest comfortably. Ivory’s not a bastard.” 

He chuckled to himself at the joke. Jasnah just raised her eyebrows. 

“A bastard sword is another name for a hand-and-a-half,” he explained with a shrug. 

Jasnah sniffed, “I think perhaps you might have been spending too much time around Wit.” 

There was no danger of that. If he wasn’t with Jasnah he was nowhere to be found these days. Adolin didn’t point that out either. Not while Jasnah had a shardblade in her hands, anyway. 

Instead he cleared his throat and carefully corrected the placement of her hands on Ivory’s hilt. 

“Alright, try that,” he said, gesturing for her to repeat the kata she’d just completed. 

“Better,” he said, nodding, “You’re right, by the way,” he told her, as she continued to implement what he’d just shown her, “I don’t recognise this kata. Who taught you?” 

She glanced at him as she turned, then grunted, “Swordmaster Katar," before continuing the sequence.

Adolin frowned, “Elsecalling lets you jump between here and Shadesmar, right?” he said. 

“Yes,” Jasnah replied slowly, seemingly confused by the question. 

“Does it let you jump through time, too?” he said, “Because otherwise I don’t see how Swordmaster Katar trained you. Since I’m pretty sure he’s dead.” 

“He lives on in the books he left behind,” Jasnah said, “As do all great historical figures.” She added, with a slight smirk, "I'm glad at least some of them made enough of an impression for you to take note of them."

Adolin put his hands on his hips, and snorted with laughter, unable to stop himself, “Only you would try to learn dueling from a book, Jasnah,” he said, shaking his head. 

Jasnah drew up at that and replied, blandly, “When I first bonded with Ivory eight years ago, there weren’t a lot of living swordmasters who were willing to train a heretic woman displaying ancient, forbidden powers steeped with negative connotation after the original Knight’s betrayal." She met his eyes and half-shrugged, mildly "I improvised.”

Adolin scratched his nose awkwardly and coughed to cover his momentary embarrassment, “Fair enough,” he muttered, “Given that, you’ve done pretty amazingly, I’m impressed.” 

“And without the context of my…Unorthodox education?” she asked, seeming genuinely curious about the answer. 

“Truthfully?” Adolin said, stalling for time. 

“Always,” Jasnah said, with aching sincerity, because she was Jasnah.

“You suck,” Adolin replied bluntly, unable to find a fancier way of saying it to soften the blow. 

Jasnah just smiled at that, then gestured at him, “Hence the reason you are here with me presently.”

“You have done well on your own,” Adolin told her, honestly, wanting to clarify his words. He hadn't expected her to agree with him, and that had thrown his response a little, "But-”

“But context can only excuse one’s lack of skill so far,” Jasnah supplied smoothly, “Before relying upon it simply becomes an awkward crutch to attempt to justify your inability.” 

“Sure,” Adolin agreed, nodding at her. Did she always have to talk like she was writing a new academic text? Storms. “Let’s get back into it, okay?” he suggested.

Jasnah nodded at once and complied with his instruction without a word. 

It felt very strange to be giving Jasnah orders. Stranger still to be instructing her, and correcting her. And even more strange that she deferred to him on everything and took whatever he said on board without question or hesitation.

After a little while of this, he paused in the middle of a sequence, shaking his head, bemused. Jasnah drew up, noting his expression. 

“What is it?” she asked, straightening up and raising an eyebrow at him. 

“This is just...Weird,” he said, running a hand absently through his hair, unable to find a more eloquent way of putting it. 

“Because I’m a woman?” Jasnah guessed evenly. 

“No,” Adolin said, waving a dismissive hand, “I got over that months ago with Shallan.” 

Jasnah smirked slightly at that, but made no comment. 

“It’s just-” he struggled to find the words to explain his emotions, “It’s you,” he said finally, which he knew wasn’t entirely helpful. “You’re Jasnah,” he added. Which was about as useful as his earlier sentiment. 

“I’m aware of that,” Jasnah replied, slowly, clearly struggling to piece together what he was trying to say. 

“It, well it-” Adolin stammered, feeling as lost as he would have if she'd asked him to summarise Aunt Navani's fabrial lecture for him, grappling with fitting his unwieldy emotions into insubstantial words. 

“It feels strange for me to be teaching you anything," he managed finally, "You’re Jasnah storming Kholin. The world famous scholar. This fantastic thinker, and historian, and all of that," he said, gesturing expansively before he said, voice and hands falling flat, "I’m Adolin, the family idiot, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Silence stretched between them for a long, uncomfortable moment. 

“I think that we should take a short break,” Jasnah announced abruptly, dismissing her blade. 

Adolin decided not to point out that they’d barely been going for an hour, and with Stormlight, there was no way she actually needed a break. If he’d been Zahel he’d have laughed at this suggestion. But he wasn’t. And he knew better.

Jasnah would do what Jasnah wanted to do. She was already heading towards the seating area of her chambers. The easiest thing to do was to thank Maya, then dismiss her and follow his cousin.

Jasnah was pouring them both wine, orange for her, yellow for Adolin, and pushed the cup towards him, settling on the couch and gesturing him to the seat opposite her. 

Sighing, Adolin accepted the cup, and the chair, and sat down as indicated. 

Jasnah was eyeing him over the rim of her own cup, considering him like some dusty historical treatise she was trying to pry secrets from.

“I’ve noticed that you do that a lot, Adolin,” she remarked finally, lowering the cup. 

“What? Drink?” Adolin joked, rather feebly. 

Hastily he raised his own cup and taking a gulp of the wine. It was good. Jasnah had appropriately fine taste. But there was a bad taste in his mouth. Less from the wine, and more from the memories that rose at the mention of indulging in it too often.

“Put yourself down,” Jasnah said bluntly, ignoring his attempt at humour. “Particularly with regards to your own intelligence. You seem overly fond of comparing yourself negatively in that regard to those around you.” 

Adolin shifted uncomfortably in his seat and took another sip of his wine before he answered.

“Kind of hard not to,” he said, aiming to keep his voice light, “I mean there’s you. Aunt Navani, Shallan, Renarin. Wit’s never normally far from you, either. Even the Storming Bridgeboy-” He caught himself, realising he’d probably slipped into sounding more resentful than he’d intended. 

No doubt Jasnah had noticed. But he lounged back in his chair, giving her an easy grin to try and smoothe over the sticky moment.

With a shrug he said, “I’m just surrounded by a lot of really smart people all the time. It’s natural to make comparisons.” 

“Hm,” Jasnah replied, in a way that suggested she didn’t at all believe him, “Yet I don’t see you comparing yourself in other areas. You never remark on your lack of ability to draw while around Shallan, for instance. You don’t talk about the fact you can’t set a fracture when you’re around Kaladin. You’ve never once mentioned not being able to play the flute while around me.” 

“You still play the flute?” he deflected, while actually being vaguely interested in the answer. 

Jasnah, again, ignored him. Which was getting annoying. Shallan was a lot easier to distract and divert off course whenever she mentioned things like this. Which he did every time she tried.

“And you also don’t seem to point out the areas where those around you are lacking, either,” Jasnah continued, with characteristic unavoidable intent. “Even if they also form easy points of comparison. I don’t hear you disparage my lack of ability in the areas of personable conversation. Nor Kaladin’s inability to process failure. Or Shallan’s lack of focus. The only person whose perceived flaws you feel the need to accentuate are your own.”

She raised her eyebrows pointedly at him and settled back in her chair, raising her cup to her lips again, watching to see how he reacted.

Storms. He’d forgotten how sometimes conversing with Jasnah could feel like going to battle. Usually his head hurt less after the actual battles, too. 

He sighed and ran a hand through his hair, trying to process what she’d said, and the point she was driving at.

“I guess,” he said, not looking at her, “I guess it’s just...Easy to feel less than surrounded by a bunch of genius Radiants all the time. And you are all smarter than me, you can’t deny that,” he said quickly, pointing at her in accusation.

“No,” Jasnah agreed slowly, “But it’s also not something you should seek to highlight in nearly every conversation.” 

“I don’t-” he began. 

“You do,” Jasnah interrupted, voice surprisingly gentle, yet unyielding as ever. “You always find some way to mention your lack of comparable academic capability. Even in situations where it has little to no relevance. Such as our dueling practice earlier”

Adolin sighed, “I suppose you’d take exception to me pointing out that my lack of, what was it, ‘academic capability’ is really hurting my ability to properly argue with you right now?” 

Jasnah smiled thinly at that, “It would serve to highlight my point rather well, actually. So on this sole occasion, feel free.” 

He groaned, “No offence, but I really hate talking to you sometimes, Jasnah.”  

She inclined her head as if to say she understood, and agreed, with that sentiment. He found that curious about her. Most people shied away from criticism or insults. Jasnah seemed to welcome them, like a rockbud opening up to gorge itself on storm rains. Maybe because so few people were ever brave enough to tell her what they really thought. 

“You could point out that this is an area where I am not particularly skilled,” she said, swirling her wine thoughtfully, “Talking with others. Connecting. Encouraging them to open up. Empathising with their emotions and struggles.” She met his eyes again as she said, lightly, “An area in which you excel, I might add. Perfectly reasonable grounds for one of your comparisons.” 

“I would never say that to you,” he protested without thinking. 

Only after he caught the triumphant glimmer in Jasnah’s eye did he realise that she’d maneuvered him into that to make her point. He glowered at her. 

“Can we get back to dueling again?” he growled, “I have a sudden urge to start hitting you with Maya.” 

She just smiled at him. 

Adolin flopped back in his chair, running a hand through his hair again, “It’s just. It’s hard, Jasnah,” he admitted, his voice softening a little, though he avoided her penetrating gaze as he spoke, “I feel like I blinked and the entire world was pulled out from under me like a rug. I’m still struggling to get back to my feet while the bridgeboy is soaring in the sky, and my wife is infiltrating cults. Oh, and my brother has visions of the future, and my father is communing with the Storming Stormfather. And you’re the most powerful Radiant we have and I’m...Still just me.” 

“I understand,” Jasnah said quietly. 

Adolin snorted before he could stop himself. 

She raised an eyebrow at him.

“I’m sorry, Jasnah,” he said, sitting up and putting a hand on her arm, “I just find it hard to believe that you of all people can possibly understand what this feels like.”

Jasnah was quiet for a moment, tapping her finger on the side of her cup, then she said, “I spent years researching the Desolations. I collected hundreds of fragments from ancient texts detailing everything I could find related to the Radiants, Urithiru, the Voidbringers, and the events that had nearly destroyed mankind. I barely slept, barely stopped, barely rested for years to accumulate all the knowledge I could.” 

“I know,” Adolin said, scratching his head, unsure why she was telling him this, “Shallan told me.” 

Jasnah nodded, then continued, “I was the newest Radiant, I have achieved the highest Ideal of any of the people we’ve found. I am the most practiced with my powers, the most accomplished. At one time I had more knowledge, and more experience, with the Radiants, and the Desolations, than almost anyone else on Roshar.” 

“Isn’t that what I said?” Adolin asked, bemused. 

“Then the Ghostbloods sent assassins after me on the Wind’s Pleasure. I was stabbed through the chest and almost killed and ended up Elsecalling accidentally for the first time and became trapped in Shadesmar,” she went on, tone barely changing, even as she described this traumatic event.

Adolin winced at that. He remembered the reports that had come in claiming the Wind’s Pleasure lost with all hands. At the time he’d been so worried about Shallan he’d barely spared a thought for Jasnah. 

Of course, Aunt Navani’s insistence that she was fine had been a little distracting, but… He should have been more distressed at the news of Jasnah’s presumed death. Even if it had turned out to be false. 

She was family. Even if she was a little odd, and they had never really spent all that much time together or gotten to know each other that well. He was working to change that with her. 

After Elhokar’s death… Well, he had realised how precious his family was. He wanted to make the most of the people he had left.

“Having been lost there yourself, you’re aware it’s not exactly easy to get out. Or to navigate through, particularly without supplies or Stormlight.” 

Adolin nodded, grimacing at the memory. It couldn’t have been easy for Jasnah, trapped there, alone, with no preparation or warning. She’d never really spoken about it to him. Or, as far as he knew, to anyone. 

She’d published accounts of what had happened to her there, and he’d had Shallan read them to him but… They were put across with Jasnah’s usual academic slant. There wasn’t any mention of how she had felt, or how it had affected her. That wasn’t really Jasnah’s way. 

Her voice was softer when she continued, with a sigh, “When I emerged at last it was to find that the Desolation had already come. The Everstorm had been loosed across Roshar, the Singers had awoken. All of my fears had been realised without my even being there to witness them. 

“In my abseence my uncle had refounded the Knights Radiant, with him as the Stormfather’s Bondsmith. My cousin was a budding Radiant, my ward was another, and then there was the bridgeman strutting around like a prized Rhyshadium with my family, seeming to fit more with them than I ever did. It was somewhat overwhelming.” 

Adolin gaped at her. He had never heard Jasnah admit to anything overwhelming her. Ever. Well, except perhaps Aunt Navani. But she could overwhelm a highstorm at times, so that didn’t really count. 

Jasnah was always, well, Jasnah. The model of Alethi regality and dignity. Always composed, always assured, confident, never in doubt or afraid, or any of the things he seemed to feel so often these days. 

She smiled, a little sadly, and said, “I went from being one of the most knowledgeable people to having everyone know the things I had worked so hard to discover. I’d spent years struggling alone. I’d written to leaders across the world and received only scorn, and mistrust. 

“Ivory and I had been alone, struggling to comprehend our powers and our bond. At first I feared that I was going mad. No one else understood. No one else could understand. And so I had to. Then suddenly Radiants were popping up everywhere like rockbuds after a storm. 

“I thought that I was so prepared, and so informed, and in a moment all of that had been for nothing. Everything I had done had been wasted time. It had made no difference. Everyone knew. Everyone knew more than I did, in fact. Everyone had moved on to a world I had feared was coming for so long. And I was left feeling lost and utterly out of my depth.” 

She took a sip of her wine, and her eyes grew more distant, more pained. He had never seen her like this before. As open, as vulnerable, as human as she continued, very quietly.

“Then Kholinar fell. And Elhokar died. And just like that, I became Queen of an empty, broken nation. A scattered, fragmented people. As lost and overwhelmed as I was. But they looked to me, their Queen, their most experienced Radiant, a ‘genius’ as you name me, and expected me to have answers, to be a shining light of salvation in the darkness of the thing I had dreaded for so long. They wanted me to save them, without ever realising I had already tried to do just that. And that I had failed.” 

So looked up and met Adolin’s eyes, her gaze steady, in spite of what she’d just shared with him and said, with a little humourless smile on her lips, “So yes, Adolin. I think I have some idea of what you have been feeling since all of this began.”

Adolin sat, feeling somewhat stunned, as if he’d just been cracked over the head with a Shardbearer’s warhammer again. 

Then he found himself leaning forwards, taking Jasnah’s hand and nodding to her, “Yeah,” he murmured, voice a little hoarse now. “Everything changed so much so fast. Everything except me.” 

She squeezed his hand. Just a brief pulse of her fingers around his, but it somehow gave him courage to say things he’d never been able to properly voice aloud before. 

“I was one of the most important people on Roshar. Shardbearer. Expert duelist. Heir to a princedom. In line to the throne of Alethkar itself,” he reeled off dully.

He shook his head, and downed the rest of his wine. Jasnah wordlessly refilled his cup for him, and he nodded his thanks to her before continuing. 

“Then the world ended. And there were Storming Knight’s Radiant again. And my father was one. And my brother was one. And my fiancee was one. And my returned-from-the-dead-cousin was one,” he said, gesturing emphatically towards her, “And my bridgeboy was one, too, because of course he storming is.” he went on, waving his cup around so much that a little of the wine slopped over the rim. They both pretended not to notice. “And I was just...Some guy with a dead spren and no place in this new ending world.” 

He met Jasnah’s eyes and gently squeezed her hands as he added, “Then Elhokar died. I failed him. And I failed Kholinar. We only got out of that mess because of my father-” he broke off, clenching his fist and turning away. 

Jasnah let him sit quietly for a moment, gazing vaguely off into space, brooding. There was darkness inside him. No one ever seemed to see that. He never wanted to let it show. But it was there. And it was swirling to the surface now, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to stop it. 

“My father,” he said, very quietly, still not sure if he wanted to fall into this chasm, “Who killed my mother.” 

His voice caught and he was forced to swallow hard to clear the sudden lump in his throat so he could speak again. And when he did he found that he couldn’t stop.

Because he met Jasnah’s eyes again and knew that she, too, had dark thoughts she never wanted the world to see. There was a strange connection being forged between them. An understanding he’d never thought to find, or even look for, with her. But he felt that she understood, and would not condemn him for the words that started pouring out of his mouth like poison.

“And he wrote a storming book about it and told the world what he’d done. How he- What he-” He broke off again, but made himself keep going, “What he did. How he visited the Nightwatcher and she took his memories of her. Or, or a god took his memories of her, because they hurt him so much after what he’d done and I-” 

He balled his hands into fists and pounded them against his knees as the teras pressed behind his defiantly closed eyes. 

Through clenched teeth, he forced himself to get out, “As though he was the only one suffering. As though I was fine. As though I wasn’t in agony every storming day after she died.” 

Something broke in him then. Something that had been fraying for a long time. And he couldn’t hold it back anymore. 

“And it was his fault! He should have felt pain. He should have felt guilt. He should have felt every storming thing that was killing him after what he did because he deserved it. I didn’t. Renarin didn’t. But there was nothing there to take our pain away. We didn’t even have him. We lost both of our parents that night, and he didn’t even seem to care. Still doesn’t. He only thinks about what it cost him. What he lost. What he took away from the world. And from me.”

“I’m sorry, Adolin,” Jasnah said quietly, “I know that you still miss her.” 

“Of course I still miss her!” Adolin snapped, then winced at how loudly he had said that. He sighed, clenching and unclenching his hands several times, like a heartbeat, then said, “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you.” 

Jasnah just nodded, wordless acceptance of his apology.

He set his jaw, then took another sip of wine, finishing his second cup. But when Jasnah made to refill it again he shook his head. He kept the cup in his hands so he could fidget with it, but he didn’t want more wine. He didn’t want- He didn’t want to be the man who needed it to get through something difficult. He didn’t want to be his father. Not anymore. 

“I still love him,” Adolin mumbled, “Even after what he did. He’s my father. And he- I can see that he’s trying to be a better man. She saw that in him, you know.” 

He looked up and saw Jasnah frown slightly, struggling to follow his confused, meandering thoughts. He didn’t blame her. 

“My mother,” he explained, wiping his nose on the back of his hand without really noticing what he was doing. “She was a good person. And she saw a good person in him, too. And she was right. She just-” 

He was crying now, jaw gritted against it, unwilling, but the tears were still coming. He wasn’t sure when he’d started. He supposed that it didn’t really matter. And with that realisation came the freedom to just..Cry. 

His mother would never have chided him for that, for his emotions. She would have welcomed them. Even angry, bitter, grief-drenched tears. The bad feelings couldn’t be kept inside of him, they would make him sick. And they would. They had made his father sick. So sick he’d had to beg a god to heal him.

“Why did she have to die before he listened to her?” he blurted, not expecting an answer from Jasnah. Not expecting an answer at all. Just needing to put voice to the things that had tormented him for so long. “Why did he have to storming kill her before he could become the man she always knew that he could be? Why couldn’t he have been that man for her? The man she deserved? Because she- She deserved better than the man that he was. There. I’ve said it.” 

He turned away from Jasnah, rubbing at his eyes, hoping, stupidly, that she might not have seen his tears. That was pretty impossible, given that she’d been staring right at him, and she was more perceptive than a skyeel spotting rats on the crowded streets of a city sometimes. 

And given that he was doing nothing short of openly weeping at this point. But Jasnah made no comment. Just silently handed him a silk handkerchief she had in a pocket.

“She was a good person, Adolin,” Jasnah agreed softly, “And you are her son. As much as you are your father’s.” She paused, then said, “More.” 

Adolin cleared his throat and sniffed several times before meeting her eyes.

She nodded, answering his unspoken question, confirming for him. 

Then she said, “She used to do the same thing that you do now, you know.” 

He frowned slightly at that, “What?” 

“She would compare herself to the other women of the court. Say how she was not as smart, nor as cunning, as they were, that she lacked their skill in politics, and Alethi scheming.”

“She was a better woman than all of them,” Adolin whispered, wiping his eyes again, “She had a good heart. She was gentle, and kind, and loving. She saw the best in everyone, and everything, even when they’d shown her nothing but the worst parts of them. She always believed things could be better, that we could be better. That’s what she taught me, and Renarin. And she was right. She-” 

He broke off, meeting Jasnah’s eyes again, and found that glimmer in them. She nodded slowly to him, and he swallowed, but nodded back to her, understanding passing between them.

“You are more like her than you allow yourself to be, Adolin,” Jasnah observed quietly. “You have her heart. But you hide it behind your own perception of all the things you’re doing wrong. All the things you aren’t good at. You ignore your greatest strengths to dwell upon your flaws. Until that becomes a flaw itself. It’s holding you back from the man that you could be. The man you should become.”

“When I was younger, I wanted so badly to be like my father,” Adolin said quietly. “I wanted to be the Blackthorn. I wanted to fight alongside him on the Plains. I wanted to see the greatness that everyone spoke about when they talked about him. The unstoppable Shardbearer. The undefeated warlord. I thought he was the best a man could be, the best thing I could ever aspire to be.” 

“And now?” Jasnah prompted gently. 

Adolin clenched his fist in his lap and stared into the candle flame flickering on the table between them, “Now that’s the monster who killed my mother,” he whispered, with a naked condemnation he hadn’t dared approach before. Not even in his own thoughts. “And thousands of other innocent people. And the less like him I am the better I’ll be. The better Alethkar will be, too.” 

He paused, then looked up at Jasnah, realisation sparking in him.

“That’s what’s wrong, isn’t it?” he said quietly, “What we are, what we do? We- We focus on the wrong things. On how good we are at killing and conquering. Or how accomplished our women are at scheming, and manipulating people.” He met Jasnah’s eyes and said, “That’s what you’re trying to change, isn’t it?” 

“No, cousin,” she said, actually reaching out and taking his hands, “That is what we are going to change,” she said, firmly. 

Adolin squeezed her hands and nodded, “We will,” he agreed. 

Jasnah smiled at that, not her usual, small, guarded little smirk, a full smile, her eyes dancing, her intent clear. And Adolin found himself smiling with her. 

As one, they stood, and embraced. Without any reluctance or ginger back patting on Jasnah’s part this time.

As they drew away, Adolin eyed her. “I think Wit has been rubbing off on you,” he observed, giving her a wry smile. 

Jasnah pulled back, frowning at that, “What do you mean?” 

“This feels like the kind of thing he’d do,” Adolin said, shrugging, “From what Shallan and Kal have said to me about the times he’s popped up to give them cryptic advice when they’ve needed to talk about stuff.” 

Jasnah sniffed, “I don’t think anything about that conversation was ‘cryptic’, Adolin. Nor was it intended to be.” 

“That’s true,” Adolin said, nodding, “If it had been Wit he’d have told me a three hour story about how chulls shouldn’t judge themselves on how good they are at flying by comparing themselves to skyeels or. Something.”

Jasnah smiled at that, and her expression softened in a way Adolin had never seen from her before. 

He paused, wondering if he dared ask her if the rumours surrounding her and Wit were true. 

Then the softened expression dropped from her face as she turned back towards him looking decidedly more business-like, and he decided that he didn’t dare. 

She might be his cousin, and they might have just bonded over things he’d never dreamed she of all people could have the experience to understand. But no.

Adolin Kholin might not be able to name all seventeen varieties of fingermoss, or have any idea how fabrials worked, but he was not stupid.

***

[vicious-vixxxen]

Ugh. I’ll I’ve been able to think about for days is Kirishima.

Pro Hero Red Riot is always on the move. Always busy. Saving people, doing interviews, kissing babies, the whole nine yards.

When you and Kiri started dating fresh out of UA you knew what you were signing up for. Being part of the hero support course yourself, never afforded you much grandeur or fame, but that was okay. You were trusted with one of, if not the most important part of a hero’s identity- their suit. You were more than happy to tinker away at revisions, or sketching new styles for up and comers, than being out on the field.

You were the only one in the support class, even above Power Loader himself, who Kirishima took his costume and ideas to. You’d made the very first alterations to his hero costume when he first arrived at UA, after the USJ attack. From then on it was sort of a wonderfully professional relationship. As professional as someone like Kiri could be- all large toothy grins, bad jokes, and hands on communications. /Very/ hands on. Kirishima never thought twice about leaning over your shoulder to watch you sketch up the inner workings of other suits, breath ghosting the shell of your ear, always warm and sweet, like all he consumed was candy.

Or sitting next to you, thighs and sides flush as you grew frustrated over his helmet design. He’d snicker and lay one large hand over your own- because by his third year he was already towering over half the staff, let alone the students- to drag your pencil in a different direction, voice soft and secret, just for you.

You never spoke outside of the support class really, especially as the years progressed. Kiri was class 1A after all, and as your own talents started to blossom, the busier you were kept as well. Being consulted to help pros with their designs in just your second year.

But you treasured the hours after school you got to spend with Kirishima. He’d never struck you as particularly male leaning, so while you’d entertain the idea sometimes, in the privacy of your dorm room, of being Kirishima’s boyfriend, you didn’t allow it to mess up the relationship you’d built with the other boy. You chalked it up to your first real crush, and, having always been an overtly rational individual, knew you’d work through it sooner or later. Unwilling to entertain the idea of not even being friends with Kiri. Cuz being his friend would always be better than nothing at all.

But imagine your surprise, the day after graduation, when he arrived at your doorstep. Flowers and chocolates in hand, and a thick envelope nearly bursting at the seams, filled with letters he’d been writing to you over the course of your high school careers.

Apparently, Kirishima hadn’t wanted to trouble you with his feelings when you two were so focused on school, and absorbing as much as you could, and for good reason. But now, he’d stated so clearly- the hesitance behind his wavering grin made your chest tight- you were both adults, out in the world, and if you’d have him, he’d love to take you out.

The rest was sort of history.

Three years later, still going strong.

Though Red Riots newest ranking- from his wavering 7-8, all the way up to 4, had meant an influx in work the last 3 weeks. Kirishima been all over Japan, helping out on various reconnaissance missions, interviews of the rising hero variety, and just generally being kept busy by his agency.

Kiri popped in ever few days, when he could. A quick dinner and cuddle till he had to leave again. A nice long Skype session as he was flown to a new mission, if you were lucky. But the two of you always made things work. You loved each other too much to even entertain the idea of your professional loved interfering to the point of no return, in your personal lives.

It didn’t mean it wasn’t hard, but it did mean it was a manageable. Especially when the two of you tried so hard.

And your combined hard work paid off. Kirishima had been praised internationally, after a mission he was brought in for in Europe went fantastically. The Japanese Hero Commission splashing Red Riot on the front page of anything that consisted of pages, honestly. And awarding him privately with paid time off.

Paid. Time. Off.

That had been yesterday, Friday evening. You’d both returned home late, and despite how tired you both were, it didn’t stop you from fully christening some new sheets you’d bought, before passing out together.

The christening of which you recalled as you sat, sprawled out on the sofa in the living room- one leg thrown back over the back of the sofa, the other extended out towards the opposite end. A book in hand in front of you, free arm cradled behind your head. Trying to focus on the pages, as the bright, early morning sun splashed across them.

Which was hard, when all you could focus on was the blossoming bruises on your inner thighs, and pleasant ache in your ass, and the sting of the bite on your neck whenever you turned your neck even a fraction.

The night previous had been rushed, all teeth, and gnawing, and clawing, and racing towards the end together. It was wonderful, and you’d always loved the aftermath Kirishima would leave on your body. Ever the closet possessor he was.

He’d never been much of an early riser, so it was another two or so hours of trying and failing to read for you, before the familiar sounds of large, lumbering footsteps could be heard slowly making their way downstairs. You smiled, cheeks flushing, despite the many years you’d known the man, as you caught a glimpse of his wild, shoulder length red hair first. Soft at the tips, wild at the root. Kirishima yawned, ducking below the entryway into the living room, and just barely catching you staring, before you lifted your book higher to block his view of your face.

You could practically hear the grin behind his chuckling, as he stalked towards you with more purpose now. His legs in view under your book, and his hair a plum of red above the top as he crouched at the edge of the sofa. Two large hands cupping each of your feet- teasing your toes briefly, snickering at how you giggled behind your book.

Kirishima’s eyes raked over you slowly- noting what seemed to him, as miles of gorgeous, unblemished skin, ready to be marked up. Clad in just a pair of briefs you’d thrown on before coming downstairs, almost every inch of you was bare to your husband. Kirishima drinking it in slowly, as he crawled above you on the sofa. Hardening just one fingertip, and tracing it from your ankle, all the way up to your inner thigh, as he towered over you on the sofa finally. The prick of sharpness on the soft flesh of your thigh causing a hitch in your breath. Which you held, until Kiri’s finger turned smooth once more, and he took a handful of the meatiest part of your thigh into his hand, and /squeezed/.

((NSFW warning ahead, I can’t help myself so continue reading at your own risk ;3))

“Ei-Chan,” you breathed out finally, setting your book down on the floor beside you. Bright red eyes meeting yours, as one of your hands found it’s way into Kirishima’s thick locks, the other wrapping around his broad back, palm settled just between the mans shoulder blades.

“Marked you up good last night, huh pebble?” Kirishima snickered, and you huffed. Faux annoyed as you smacked the mans back, tensing once more as Kiri’s fingers danced along the bruises and bite marks littering your thigh. Tapping each one gently, causing you to flinch with pleasure each time, before he moved to your other thigh. Doing the same, as he dipped his face down into the crook of your neck, and just breathed.

The shaky sigh he let out afterwards was victory enough for you, you reasoned, as even the mans strong shoulders shook as he breathed you in.

“Missed me that much, huh?” Kirishima nodded quickly, nosing along your neck, huffing like a puppy as he went.

“I missed you too,” you reminded him, biting into the mans shoulder gently, as the hand on his back drifted down to Kirishima’s ass, and you shook it jokingly. Feeling the weight of the mans cheek jiggle in your palm, laughing despite yourself as Kiri growled at you.

“Don’t tease me, dude,” Kiri mock cried, pulling back to give you a pout, as the hand on your inner thigh drifted center again, where, unprompted, Kirishima cupped your cock through your underwear. Smirk tugging at his bitten lips- bad habit he’d always had, you’d long since stopped trying to get him to fix it- as he ground his palm against you, almost too rough, and you groaned. Eyes fluttering shit, lip between your own teeth as he bucked up, shifting your hips just right to grind your quickly stiffening cock against Kirishima’s hand.

“So eager,” Kirishima mused, balking suddenly as you moved your hand cupping his ass, into his boxers- palming at his cheek briefly, before two fingers delved into the hot cleft of his bubble butt, brushing just briefly against the tight pucker of his hole, causing the larger man to twitch, and fall flat against you. Tense for all of two seconds, before he propped his ass back up, and wiggled against your fingers.

“You’re one to talk,” you laughed, head tilted back, long enough for Kirishima to latch onto your Adam’s apple, and suck hungrily as he continued to stroke you through your underwear. Lasting all of two seconds, before shredding through them with a finger, and taking your cock in his hand.

“Those were my best Calvins, jackass,” you huffed, brushing Kiri’s hair back out of his eyes as he leaned up- holding your gaze as he let a long string of spit fall from his Mouth- letting it drip down the side of your cock, before he slicked you up, and began stroking you in earnest. Hot, and wet, calloused palm perfectly rough, and you were putty.

Mewling and fucking into Kiri’s fist with quiet, breathy ‘Ei-Chan’s’ rolling off your tongue. Clinging to enough sense, barely, to bring two fingers up to your mouth to wet, before shoving them back down and into Kiri’s ass, teasing his hole briefly, before sinking your middle finger to the hilt in his hole- both of you moaning out, Kiri at the intrusion, and you at the spasming heat of his tight hole, like a vice on your finger as you fucked the man on it slowly.

You both shifted, Kirishima up on his knees, bringing you into his lap to stroke the two of you together, constantly spitting down on your lengths, hot and filthy, to keep you wet, as the larger man began to pant into your face. Morning breath be damned, you finally, /finally/, kissed him. Reaching between the two of you to cup Kirishima’s heavy ball sac as you did, kneading them gently, and tugging on them whenever Kirishima began to breath a little too heavily.

“Fuck, I love you. I love you so much, so so much, love- love- ah, fuck- love,” Kirishima whined, vulnerable in a way no one else would ever get to see him as you took over for him- needing both hands to stroke both he and yours impressive lengths, Kiri’s hands at your back holding you up in his lap- his arms shook with the force it took, especially as he neared his orgasm.

“Cum for me, Ei,” you whispered against a Kirishima’s lips, eating up his whimpered pleas as they ghosted your lips. “Come on, big guy, cum. Cum all over me, Ei, Mark me up. I wanna feel it, on my cock. Come on.” And that was all it took. With a loud shout, Kirishima’s grip on you tightened, and he hun he’d over your shoulder, quiet all of the sudden, before making a sound like he’d been punched in the gut as he began to cum. Cock thickening up, before pump after pump of thick, hot cum burst from the top of it. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight long ropes of cum shooting out all over your chest, and combined cocks, before slowing to a dribble every time Kirishima’s cock throbbed.

You overworked him though, his softening cock, and your own hard length making the filthiest squelching noises as you continued to overstimulate your husband- his cries into your shoulder sending you over the edge, as you leaned against his shoulder, and came undone yourself. Adding to the sticky, hot mess in your laps, before the both of you went quiet. Just the deep, heavy sighs as you caught your breath together filling your the surrounding space.

“My dick feels like it’s gonna fall off,” Kiri muttered finally, leaning you both back into the sofa- making a mental note to get it deep cleaned, as he snuggled you deep into the cushions- his spit wet hands skimming your sides, before they slid beneath you , and he settled comfortably on top. Careful of his weight, always too conscious of crushing you- unless you asked for it, that was, he thiight idly. Fondly.

“We’ve got the next eight days all to ourselves, so I’d maybe see if he can hold out till at least then. Though I’d accept an early leave- no earlier than Thursday, I suppose, if he can’t keep up,” you drawled, wiping your cum covered hands on your stomach as best you could, before wrapping your arms around Kirishima’s waist, and closing your eyes.

“Eight days,” Kirishima echoed, kissing your closed eyes, closing his own as he did so, and shifting to lay more comfortably, face in your neck as he felt sleep threatening to take him once again.

“Eight days,” you parroted back again, snickering, and yawning. Ignoring the tacky cum that was going to dry all crusty and gross between the two of you, in favor of hooking a leg around Kiri’s, and allowing sleep to take you.

But not before whispering one last “I love you” between the two of you, Kirishima mumbling contentedly back at you before falling back asleep as well.

[imayjinmin]

Dazed Ⅱ

Vampire prince Enhypen x Shadow fairy princess reader

Word count: 2.2k

Playlist here

Synopsis:  Shadowfen was a normally a peaceful place consisting of shadow fairies. The city was beautiful beyond belief until Grimmingthorn invaded. Vampires now overpopulated the city. Both of the Queens being pregnant they decided on a deal of which they live together. Making the new fairy princess and vampire kings grow together. Leading with a lot of obstacles on the way of childhood.

Warnings: Angst, trauma, manipulative themes mentioned, PTSD

Waking up, he was surprised to see two guards at his door. Coming fully to, he sprung up to his feet. “Where’s Y/n?!” The two guards continued staring forward without a sound. “Answer me!” Still not receiving a reply he shoved at the guards. Grabbing his shoulders the two guards finally looked at him.

“This is for your protection. There is a hunter in the castle. The queen gave us demands to not allow you to leave.”

“I don’t care what mother wants! I want to know where Y/n is! Is she okay?! Tell me!” Shoving him lightly, the guard scowled at him.

“We are not allowed to answer that. Go sit down kid. Also do you really believe she would be alive after that?”

“She has to be alive! She wouldn’t leave me alone.” Dropping to his knees he started bawling. “Please just tell me. I won’t tell mother anything. I just need to know if she’s okay.”

Laughing amongst themselves the two watched him. “Fine you want to know...”

“Please...”

“She’s dead.”

Feeling his world crumble and start to collapse from under him, he stopped everything. Figuring he does not have a purpose anymore if she was not alive. Standing to his feet, the two froze. Confused as they watched him pace to his bed and sit down. 

“Are you okay kid?”

“I’m fine, at least now I can be who I truly am.”

“Huh? Do you understand him?”

“Not really. I thought he loved her.”

“Me too. Kid, why are you so calm?”

“She wouldn’t allow me to do what I want. Didn’t want me to hurt anything. I’m free to do whatever now.” Still watching him walk over to his desk tensed. Opening the drawer, pulling out his family heirloom he was gifted. “Mother always said I was to use this when I felt it was threatened. She would understand when I tell her the guards hurt me.”

“Kid put that down. It is not to be played wi-” His words were cut short as his blood hit Heeseung’s face.

“Listen kid, you don’t need to do this.”

“But I do.” Swinging the sword through the air once more as the other body hit the floor. Dropping to the ground as well, he started crying hysterically. Feeling his soul leave he passed out.

                                                        ⨶⨶⨶

        Ten years have passed as the seven princes were becoming young adults. The Shadowfens still wondering what happened to their soon to be princess. All that was known was that the same night she disappeared, a blood bath occurred in the kingdom. Told simply that a deranged hunter got inside the castle. Now with the princes ranging from fifteen to nineteen soon to be twenty years old many things have changed. Especially the oldest prince. He is known as the most heartless and ruthless being to exist. Fearing even simple eye-contact with him became normal. Fearing that he would murder anything that looked his way, no one dared to initiate with him. Having heard the rumors that he went on a killing spree that  dreadful night in the kingdom. The many times someone was harmed by speaking his name was worrying. Even his own family stayed beware of his presence. He was always surrounded by his brothers who were just as ruthless as him. Getting the nickname the dreadful seven for many reasons. Grimmingthorns started to become weary of what would happen when the new King was crowned. Rightly so, as it was only three months away from the coronation. Still there was no new word on where the princess was. The poor queen was caught bawling on multiple occasions. The princes were asked if any of them could remember that night, but every time it was the same answer. ‘No, we were all in our rightful rooms’. Many thought the answer did not add up to the events that were previously told by their mother. Stated on numerous occasions, that there was a hunter, and the princes were scattered throughout the castle. She answered that she cannot remember once putting the seven princes in their rooms, but in fact keeping them out of them for safety. The more their stories collided the more people started to worry. If the princes and the queen were that easy to lie about the murder of a princess how easily would they lie about another. Many believed the oldest son, Heeseung preformed the act. Guards saying that on occasion he would become too protective of the princess. Some even saying he threatened them for being close to her. Hatred was thrown onto the four oldest princes Heeseung, Jay, Jake, and Sunghoon, while pity was thrown onto the youngest. Many felt bad for the three princes that grew up in a sad city because they were so young when the event occurred. None of them answered the questions when asked because they did not know. This affected them in Charter School, which is where a lot of questioning came along. Jungwon was known as the target of most issues. Being the smallest prince led to a lot of jokes, most being that he was going to be a joke of a prince. That was until she arrived. Walking by shoving her shoulder into one of them as she walked by. Going to find her only for her to already be gone. Jungwon wanted to thank her but could never find her. None of the seven could. When the story of her broke throughout the school many believed that she was an in-school bodyguard. Denying it to be true for the very reason that all of their guards were knights. A woman was not to be allowed the position of a knight. She would always appear when she was needed as if she was summoned. When Jay almost tripped down the stairs, she grabbed his shoulder telling him to watch his step before it even occurred. When Jake was attacked by a hunter, and she saved him. When Niki was down because of the training to become a prince, she lifted his chin high telling him to get back on his feet and that he was destined for greatness. The most shocking one was when Heeseung got shot by an arrow. Witnesses saying that she treated him with no hesitation muttering something about returning a favor. Some quoting the exact phrase, “This is returning the favor. Thank you, Hee.”. No one knew what it exactly meant, but many said his face dropped at her words. All color leaving his face when the syllables hit his ears. From that day forward nobody was able to find the mysterious woman. There was no trace of her ever, no footprint, no scent, no hair, nothing. She was conned the name pretty stranger. Known only for her pretty appearance and bravery. As time got closer and closer to coronation she appeared more frequently. Puzzled people that saw her started sketching he to hand out papers with her face, hoping someone knew something. Still nothing came up on the pretty stranger.

                                                             ⨕⨕⨕

“Heeseung, have you gotten one of these papers yet?”

“No, wait what paper exactly?”

“The one with her on it. They are everywhere now.”

“Oh, yes. I got three of them yesterday. Why do you ask, Jay?”

“Well, who do you think she is? I mean you know everyone in this city. How could she come from nowhere without you knowing?”

“I don’t know how she did it. May I ask you a question, Jay?”

“Go ahead.”

“Do you remember what Y/n looked like? I know you were young, but something has to have stuck with you.”

“No, no, I remember her clearly. You don’t think?”

“I do.” Staring at Heeseung for a moment, before rapidly pulling a chair out beside him. Sitting down loudly, still staring at him with wide eyes.

“Why? How? How could that be her? I thought she died that night ten years ago?”

“So much is leading back to her. Her scent is familiar, practically the same. Her eyes, they hold so much in them. They pierce into you in a different way. Her presence is dominating. She is what I would have expected Y/n to be like when she grew up.” Getting up, he ruffled his hair while pacing to the window. “Jay...do you really believe she died that day? Honestly?” Peeking over his shoulder, seeing his brother gapping like a fish a few times before dropping his head.

“I-I don’t know what I believe. Mother said that she died, but I don’t remember her ever being attacked like Mother said as well.”

“That’s because she wasn’t! She was shot! An arrow went straight threw her chest! Jay, nobody can get past those gates without being let in! Mother had to have opened those gates. She had her shot! She planned it! I saw it with my own eyes! There was no hunter! At all!”

“Calm down, Heeseung.”

“No! Mother is lying through her teeth! And you’re believing it! Everyone is believing it! They pulled me away from her Jay! Did you know that?!”

“I didn’t.”

“Exactly! Mother told me that night that it was for my own good! That she was dangerous! How?! How?! How was she dangerous?!”

Watching his brother scream as his emotions took over. Hearing footsteps as the other five came in. Stopping by Jay’s side as Heeseung let out everything that was bottled up over the past ten years. Crying, screaming, dry heaving was on the low scale of what was happening. None of them got near him because they knew of the consequences that would happen. It hurt them to watch, he was the strongest, the oldest, the brave one. He was letting every wall he had built fall. He was vulnerable, but not gullible. Most of his emotion was anger, no hatred. Aimed mostly at the woman he had to call his mother. Anything she tried to tell him, he ignored. He would sit back and watch his brothers get spoon fed lies. The only thing that she did not know, was that the boys followed their older brother over everybody. When he started showing hostility toward her so did the rest. Especially Sunoo, Jake, and Niki. The rest already had their individual reasons for not respecting her. Jay’s sprouted from constantly having to rebuild his brother because of her. Kneeling in front of his brother wrapping his arms around him, feeling him trembling. Feeling his brother shove his face into his chest, grabbing his shirt roughly. Yanking him forward a few times before slamming his fist into his chest. Wincing as he grabbed his fist. Opening Heeseung’s fist, while places his head on his shoulder. “Stop. Stop this. Don’t let her get this satisfaction. You are showing her that she is getting to you. You don’t want that.” Standing up, watching his brother slouch on his feet. “Get up. I said get the hell up! Are you weak? Do you belong on the ground?” Hearing a faint no, he repeated himself. Getting a louder response the second time, he leaned down wrapping his arms under his shoulders. Making him stand. “You don’t deserve this. Stop letting her get to you. You are stronger than her. Better than her. You are the new king.”

“But Y/n is gone. She killed her.”

“Heeseung, do you honestly believe she is dead?”

“I don’t know what I believe.” Sighing, Jay turned to his brothers. Zeroing in on Jake.

“Jake, did you meet her yet?”

“Pretty stranger? Yeah...more than once actually.”

“What did you sense from her?”

“There wasn’t anything that came up when I met her. However, there was a barrier put up.”

“What do you mean?”

“There is this block put up around us, when she gets nearby. It’s hard to describe. If I said a dome...would that make sense?” Pausing to hear some conformation, he continued. “There is a dome over us, not her. When she gets near us, there is a sense of familiarity. Our conscious recognizes her, but our brain can’t seem to remember her.”

“So you’re saying we do know her?”

“Exactly. She has history with us somewhere. Our paths have most definitely crossed at one point.”

“If we did then why can’t we remember her?”

“I already said why. Our memory was basically erased with anything that was about her.”

“Do you think it could possibly be Y/n?”

“I’m not saying yes, but it’s not impossible either. I would say to ask Heeseung because he was the closest with her, but also had the closest encounter with the pretty stranger. I don’t believe that would go well though seeing as he is a slobbering mess.”

“I’m not a mess.”

“Yeah, and we’re not princes.” Sunoo scoffed at Heeseung’s words. “Do you ever think you will get over her? This happened years ago and you’re still not over it. I get you were in love with her and all that but come on. You weren’t the only one of us that was affected. We all were. You are a selfish, mopping mess. Do you think Grimmingthorn will survive with a King like you? One that is so emotional that they break down at the mention of her name.”

“I do not break down at the mere mention of her name. Right now however, I am upset that there is a possibility of the pretty stranger being Y/n. Not her particularly, but us for not realizing it earlier. Next time you see her, stop her.”

Taglist~ @neptuniees​

[comrade-meow]

“On what foundation is the present family, the bourgeois family, based? On capital, on private gain. In its completely developed form, this family exists only among the bourgeoisie. But this state of things finds its complement in the practical absence of the family among the proletarians, and in public prostitution.” —Marx and Engels, Communist Manifesto

“It is self-evident that the abolition of the present system of production must bring with it the abolition of the community of women springing from that system, i.e., of prostitution both public and private.” —Marx and Engels, Communist Manifesto

Introduction

“[…] the question of prostitutes will give rise to many serious problems here. Take them back to productive work, bring them into the social economy. That is what we must do. But it is difficult and a complicated task to carry out in the present conditions of our economic life and in all the prevailing circumstances. There you have one aspect of the women’s problem which, after the seizure of power by the proletariat, looms large before us and demands a practical solution.” —V. I. Lenin, Conversation with Clara Zetkin, 1920

The subject is endlessly debated on the internet—and terms like “sex work” are slipped in to distract would-be Marxists from examining the matter of prostitution. But we must begin by stating that the matter of prostitution for Marxists has been resolved for approaching 200 years, and there is no ambiguity on this. It is mentioned three times in the Communist Manifesto—the most basic introductory text to Communism that all Communists unite around. To be a Marxist is to oppose prostitution. More importantly, Marxism gives us the framework to analyze exactly why Marxists have historically come to this position, and why Marxists today reject terms like “sex worker” that seek to sanitize prostitution, which we understand as sexual violence, mainly against women.

It is trendy to compare prostitution to work—without ever delving into what Marxists even mean by “worker”—and to frame the most basic Marxist positions as “backward.” Without delving too far into the individual theorists behind the sanitation of sexual violence as “sex work,” it is enough to identify this tendency as the inheritance of third-wave feminism, which has overlapped with postmodern method of analysis. Engels himself likened prostitution to slavery, and for very precise political economic reasons. What brought Marx and Engels together to begin with were Engels’s astute observations on political economy. Suffice it to say, Engels is a great authority on the subject second only to Marx. Engels wrote,

“Wage labor appears sporadically, side by side with slave labor, and at the same time, as its necessary correlate, the professional prostitution of free women side by side with the forced surrender of the slave.”

Engels viewed these as a necessary correlate, meaning a unity of opposites, where the identity of each depends on the existence of the other.

When examining the trend of “sex worker advocacy” we see two things most often. The first is to totally hollow out the term “worker” of any of its political-economic definitions. The second is to lump various classes and strata together into a single category—this means even distinct trades undertaken by distinct classes are conflated and flattened into one singular “oppressed” group. By defect of the first error, which destroys the understanding of the economic identity of the worker, we arrive at the second, that porno movie performers, exotic dancers, street prostitutes, “cam girls,” and others are all one thing. Apologists maintain this as if the exchange of money for a sex service or sexualized service somehow, in and of itself, constitutes such an ultimate commonality among these “workers” that it obliterates the profound concrete differences in each case to their actual relationships to production. One of the most critical phenomena erased in their analysis is the profound stratification, which exists even within groupings that do have a similar relationship to production. Putting their position into practice entails forcing class collaboration between management, entertainer, and slave.

A brief history

Comrade Mary Inman, one of the staunchest antirevisionists in the CPUSA of the 1930s-40’s, whose contributions will be discussed more thoroughly later, offers the following powerful passage:

“Prostitution did not start with folk customs. It did not grow out of group marriages between free people, for pre-slavery tribes had no such institution. It did not grow out of mystic rites, nor sex worship. It was always a rape institution. Even in the earliest records of prostitution, the evidence shows that the people lived in terrible degradation rising from economic slavery, and did not have the freedom to decide such matters.”

We do not have any interest in going over the earth’s recorded history of prostitution, and will use this section only to establish some relevant facts pertaining to its history in the US.

In the war for control over the colonies that some call the “American Revolution,” as well as throughout the US Civil War, women were unofficially enlisted as prostitutes to follow the soldiers to “keep morale high.”[1] At this time, the ruling class found this a necessity in order to sustain the war. It is useful to understand the shifts and changes that the ruling class makes in terms of prostitution. In wartime, their puritanical Christian opposition vanishes in favor of the cold pragmatism of whatever they think it takes to win.

Prostitution, while technically illegal in the 19th century, was widespread, and brothels were commonplace. The laws were simply not enforced. This period was not without war, considering the increase in Native genocide carried out by the settlers during westward expansion. And this colonial expansion meant the expansion of brothels as well.

In the early 1900s, the precursor to the FBI, the Bureau of Investigations, cracked down on prostitution in earnest for the first time in US history.[2] Their reason, far from having anything to do with the rights of those experiencing sexual violence, was, as they put it, “to oppose white slavery.” In practice this effort constituted a political maneuver as well as a propaganda effort. In order to enforce social segregation and further consolidate settler-colonialism, the ruling class attempted to get white women out of brothels. This campaign has had long-lasting effects: even today the majority of prostitutes are not white. This is similar to the way the US imperialist ruling class carries out the “War on Drugs,” primarily to harm the oppressed nations of its population.

What we have attempted to sketch out here is that the question of prostitution in the US cannot be separated from the US history of settler-colonialism—that these things march in step as what Engels might call “necessary correlates.” Prostitution, like chattel slavery and settler-colonialism (genocide against the indigenous North Americans), was an ingredient in the US imperialist project, and it served its master well. This argument, that prostitution and colonialism in the US are necessary correlates of each other, deserves its own paper, but here we must move on from it.

In all of these instances, economic conditions provide the impulse for prostitution.

Some basic prostitution statistics

One of the strongest examples of the unbreakable link between, on the one hand, the fact that the US is a prisonhouse of nations, built up through settler-colonialism and slavery, and prostitution on the other hand, is the fact that 40% of prostitutes in the US are Black[3] (Black people constitute only 13.4% of the overall population), while the majority of johns are white.[4] And it is commonplace that many regular johns are police.[5]

According to Havocscope, a website dedicated to researching global black markets, the average cost of a trick in many places is £14–50, with minors earning less. Due to the constant conditions of national oppression in the US, Black people tend to earn less than others. This trend cannot be forgotten when we evaluate prostitution. This is yet one further way the stratification of the trade takes shape. While prostitutes earn twice as much as the average US worker and three times as much as the average woman in the US, much of this income is withheld by pimps.

The sex-positive apologists of prostitution will without fail argue that the trade somehow is or can be “empowering.” But statistically, the majority of prostitutes are victims of child abuse (one study found 73% were physically abused as children)[6], and there is evidence that they enter the trade at an average age of 15.[7] An average starting age of 15 or anywhere close all but eliminates the myth of the consenting prostitute. Underage prostitutes—which is what the majority of them start as— face physical violence, emotional manipulation, and other forms of gendered abuse to coerce them to start.

It is economic necessity that sets the conditions for prostitution—there are no exceptions. Sex that a woman would not otherwise engage except in exchange for money is no longer “sex” but rape, as the ability to consent is removed by economic coercion—and a prostitute is always coerced economically. Prostitution is most often rape.

Some men are prostitutes as well, but 69% of those arrested are women, including arrested johns and pimps.[8]

Atlanta, one of the US cities with a majority Black population, is home to the country’s highest-grossing pimps, who reap about £23614 a week on average.[9] Some of these pimps are women who maintain hierarchy and obedience among the prostitutes, another way stratification manifests. This also makes it obvious that prostitution is caused by economic conditions and is not just (as some maintain) a result of personal sexist attitudes.

For obvious reasons, the majority of assaults experienced by prostitutes go unreported. 89% of adult prostitutes want to quit, but due to economic coercion feel that they cannot.[10] Being in thrall to a pimp, who controls everything and deploys severe psychological and sometimes physical abuse, makes the victim of prostitution far less likely to admit to wanting to quit, which itself skews statistics. Understanding that many enthralled women cannot speak up about their abuse, we would do well to understand that things are far worse than the picture painted by what makes it into official reports.

Which prostitute?

Unlike workers and more specifically proletarians, prostitutes are not engaged in productive, socially-productive, or reproductive labor. They do not receive a wage in the proletarian sense (of receiving a portion of what they produce in a value form/money, with the bulk of their labor being exploited by the owner) and are not devoid of the tools of their occupation, which in this case are the bodies of the prostitutes themselves. To return to the question of stratification, we can observe that in terms of relationship to production, a woman engaged in street-level prostitution without a pimp is distinct from those with pimps, and both are distinct from women who work for escort services or through self-promotion on websites (past examples are Backpage and Craigslist).

For the majority of women trapped in prostitution, the reality of a pimp forces them to the lower strata (this is combined in many cases with national oppression). They have no financial independence from their boss/owner, who makes all or all major decisions regarding their activity: what they do and do not engage in, what subsistence is allowed, and what accommodations are awarded or denied. But those in this most common situation do not qualify in any sense as proletarian despite the pimp behaving like a boss or even like an owner, because he does not simply “own the business”—he owns the women. These women come far closer to being slaves than to being workers. The wage of a slave is nothing except subsistence; the owner of the slave, in our instance the pimp, is the chief executive of every aspect of life. That includes housing, food, clothing, tools, and everything else—provided by the pimp to subsidize the prostitute in order for her to live and continue earning them profit. This is one of the most extreme forms of exploitation, not to mention the most inhumane. Nonetheless, the degree of oppression and brutality one faces does not determine one’s relationship to production, nor does intense oppression alone place one in the social class of the proletariat. Further distancing the enthralled woman from the worker is the fact that she cannot just quit of her own accord; like the slave, she can only organize her escape.

The only method of organization for a slave is rebellion and escape; there are no such things as reformist options for the slave. These contradictions are part of why slavery as a widespread mode of production was replaced by feudalism (in turn replaced by capitalism), which was more manageable, and why capitalism itself is more profitable than slavery in terms of the performance and capacity of the productive forces.

This highlights the position that in the women’s struggle, the only Communist approach regarding the majority of women in prostitution is to organize them out of it, and that this is accomplished mainly through People’s War and socialist revolution. At some stage of revolutionary struggle, this means the use of revolutionary violence against lumpenproletarian gangs that back up the pimps in the military sense. Short of this option, the only acceptable tactic is to secure the transition of individual women into productive work and the opportunity to gain other skills, a total change of social environment, and continuous political education and thought reform. This can improve the conditions of some prostitutes and rehabilitate them into being proletarians, but it cannot emancipate them as women or end prostitution. Furthermore, it requires a high level or organization: it needs Party committees and mass organizations to lead the effort and a Red Army and militias to defend this work and protect the ex-prostitute, securing her escape from the trade, preventing retaliatory action from pimps, and so on.

Any effort to transpose the methods used in workers struggles’ into the realm of prostitution falls hopelessly short. A struggle against a pimp cannot be carried out in the same way as a struggle against a factory owner or regular boss. Arguing that it can and must be carried out the same way—viewing prostitutes as workers and pimps as bosses to be struggled against—really lacks all Marxist understanding of why workers can be organized against bosses and so lapses into a subjective moralist approach to combating oppression. People of this persuasion attempt to implement prostitute unions; like the syndicalist, they dream of a union for everything, and are under the delusion that slaves can unionize and struggle for reforms against their slave-master.

While the so-called Maoists who promote right-opportunism will admit that prostitution cannot persist under socialism, they often make concessions, by believing in and promoting the construction of prostitute trade unions.

Being under the control of a pimp prevents a prostitute from all independent activity and independent thinking. The woman chained by the pimp cannot be organized into a trade union. A union of prostitutes who through some unknown force have ceased to be enthralled to pimps, due to the inevitable emergence of leadership and people who professionally manage such a union, will inevitably just generate its own, internal pimps. This is true because if the union bureaucracy is not completely ineffective (that is, if the union actually exists and functions), they would find themselves enforcing payment from reneging johns, securing housing in times of income shortage, bribing or negotiating with police, and sustaining their professional organizers with dues: they would in essence be pimps with a more charitable subsidiary. The use of violent reprisal and or the lack thereof is not the decisive factor in determining a pimp’s relationship to production—what is principal is the fact of reproducing prostitutes. The likelihood of successfully organizing such a union— or even making a substantial attempt at doing so—is so slim that it hardly merits mention beyond the totally hypothetical. We give it attention here only to point out the utter ridiculousness of the right-opportunist line.

In the case of prostitutes without pimps (who are not being pimped upon the point of being organized), who basically take contracts independently and have full access to their own income, these are more or less the lumpenproletarian (declassed) version of the petty bourgeoisie who own their own means of production. For them the formation of a union is impossible. After all, a “union” of those who own their own means of production (lumpen or not) is actually called a cartel. Furthermore, the existence of a cartel gives impulse to the hiring of a general staff—plus, the stratification of prostitution would allow the cartel to employ other prostitutes under its protection—this again is a return to pimping. Prostitutes who become pimps are not unheard of, and some reports show that new pimps are drawn to the trade through familial connections with prostitutes.[11]

A free market always has a trajectory that can be scientifically understood and described. A free market that sees the formation of cartels to manage the market will in turn eventually see the formation of conglomerates and monopolies. For legal and illegal trade, this inevitably leads to war. It is much more difficult for illegal businesses to establish conglomerates and monopolies due to the nature of the competition in these markets. In this case, competition is for clients (market share), for slaves (“workers”), and for other resources. The organization of competition for illegal businesses brings war faster and more often than it does for legal business. This facet restricts growth—nonetheless, these prostitution cartels would be held to the same economic laws as drug cartels and would need the same level of maintenance (the protection of the business’s interests through violence).

The existence of all sexualized business further engenders pimping, by normalizing sexual performance for money. This is made worse with the line that sex is work.

“Sex work” as a catch-all term

Rarely is the word “worker” so arbitrarily attached to any trade (or multiple trades), without any regard to class as it is with sex trades. Yet the bourgeois feminists of the “sex positivist” variety will insist that “sex worker” is a legitimate and useful category, like “service industry worker.” While it is true that sexualized professions are organized along industrial lines (including aspects of reproductive labor), prostitution, sexual entertainment, and so on do not even constitute a single industry, and this fact certainly doesn’t qualify everyone in these industries as “workers.”

Attempts to treat “sex work” as a coherent scientific category run into trouble immediately. In the case of prostitutes, a slave is not a worker, and a small business venture does not make one a worker either. A stripper is ultimately a performer. No one would assert that a professional comedian or actor is a “worker,” just as professional athletes are not “workers” and so cannot be lumped into the category of “athletic worker.” A stripper, like all performers and entertainers, has a totally different relationship to production from a worker, given the category of workers as it is understood by Marxists. Even in instances where they do not own the venue or website, these professionals still mainly own their own means of production, making them part of the petty bourgeoisie and not part of the proletariat. In the instance of those carrying out their trade in strip clubs, the stripper most often tips out the staff and pays the club a portion of her earnings. For workers, this relationship is the other way around: a hostess at a club or restaurant, like the rest of the general staff, is paid a wage by the business itself (even if she is forced to rely on tips) and thus experiences exploitation of her labor power.

Like a craftsman or small merchant who rents a booth or a stand, the “cam girl,” like the stripper, is merely paying a rent or service fee to the club or website. Furthermore, unlike workers, these people are making a brand for themselves, cultivating a clientele that follows them from outlet to outlet.

Women in pornography in some cases are coerced or trafficked and therefore have a relationship to production more like that of a pimped prostitute. In other cases, the individual has an agent and is free to take contracts, as an actress would—and no professional actress can be classified as a worker. Therefore the overwhelming majority of people engaged in pornography in the US, who occupy one of these two relationships to production, cannot be scientifically understood as workers.

It is far more apt to say that, of those whom (apologists of sexism) call “sex workers” who aren’t engaged in prostitution, the majority are small-scale sex-capitalists of the petty-bourgeois class. The term does not hold the same appeal as “sex worker” for these apologists precisely because it does not serve the purpose of sanitizing sexual exploitation, violence, and rape. While there is much discussion about rape culture, there exists a massive blind spot in its organization through the sex trades.

Sanitization of rape and sexual violence through terminology

“To describe prostitution as sex work and a prostitute as a sex worker means to give legitimacy to sexual exploitation of helpless women and children. It means ignoring the basic factors, which push women and children into prostitution such as poverty, violence and inequalities. It tries to make the profession look dignified and as a ‘job like any other job’.”

—New Vistas Publications, originally printed in People’s March, an organ of the Communist Party of India (Maoist)

The term “sex work” was coined in the 1970s by Carol Leigh, for exactly the purpose identified and criticized in the above quotation. Leigh heads an NGO called BAYSWAN (Bay Area Sex Worker Advocacy Network). A large part of the financing for this organization comes from its collaboration with law enforcement.

As with all efforts to sanitize rape and other violence against women with the term “sex work,” BAYSWAN uses the term as a catch-all to include anyone in the “adult entertainment” industries, as well as street prostitutes. Its ambiguous inclusion of “massage parlor employees” is just an obscurantist way of providing ideological legitimization to brothels, most typically attached to human trafficking and the sexual abuse of undocumented women. While BAYSWAN claims to provide social benefits and other types of help to these women, their liaison work with the police speaks the loudest to their actual class position. The police are nothing more than the strong arm of the bourgeois state. Typical of NGOs in imperialist countries, BAYSWAN serves as a managerial department delegating scraps from the master’s table to some of the most destitute. This is not undertaken in the interests of the people but in the interest of maintaining and reproducing the rule of the imperialist class at home. It is important to state that the main purpose of BAYSWAN, and other NGOs like it, is not to rehabilitate women out of prostitution but instead to normalize the abuse they face, so that their trade is seen as comparable to any normal job, and accepted like any other.

The typical liberal and postmodernist analyses of the oppression faced by prostitutes hold that its roots lie in socially imposed “stigma” rather than in the exploitive nature of capitalism—as if workers who were proud of their assembly-line jobs would be any less abused and exploited. Even proletarian jobs under capitalism that maintain some shoddy “integrity” in the social sense or at least lack “stigma” are still alienating for the worker and operate on exploitation of the workers’ labor. But again, prostitution is unlike any proletarian job, as nothing is produced or reproduced, and the “labor” itself is not socially necessary. In fact, for women as a whole and particularly for women of the proletariat, it is socially destructive.

For the Marxist, not recognizing prostitutes and entertainers as proletarians is a matter of political economy and not of any kind of outdated moralism. Marxism does not blame the victims, in this case women forced into sexual violence and exploitation due to economic hardships.

Marxists have never evaluated prostitution in moral terms but instead have insisted on examining it in political-economic terms and, as always, with a class analysis. This is why Lenin considered bourgeois women to be engaged in prostitution. Lenin also grasped the progressive aspect of those would-be defenders of prostitutes, but he drew the line at defending prostitution itself. In his conversations with Clara Zetkin in 1920, he explained how this moral impulse can turn into a backward idea:

“I have heard some peculiar things on this matter from Russian and German comrades. I must tell you. I was told that a talented woman communist in Hamburg is publishing a paper for prostitutes and that she wants to organize them for the revolutionary fight. Rosa acted and felt as a communist when in an article she championed the cause of the prostitutes who were imprisoned for any transgression of police regulations in carrying on their dreary trade. They are, unfortunately, doubly sacrificed by bourgeois society. First, by its accursed property system, and, secondly, by its accursed moral hypocrisy. That is obvious. Only he who is brutal or short-sighted can forget it. But still, that is not at all the same thing as considering prostitutes—how shall I put it?—to be a special revolutionary militant section, as organizing them and publishing a factory paper for them. Aren’t there really any other working women in Germany to organize, for whom a paper can be issued, who must be drawn into your struggles? The other is only a diseased excrescence. It reminds me of the literary fashion of painting every prostitute as a sweet Madonna. The origin of that was healthy, too: social sympathy, rebellion against the virtuous hypocrisy of the respectable bourgeois. But the healthy part became corrupted and degenerate.”

While addressing the means that bourgeois forces use to “combat” prostitution (or, in reality, to maintain it in whatever form they need it to take in a given historical circumstance), Lenin was equally critical: “What means of struggle were proposed by the elegant bourgeois delegates to the congress? Mainly two methods—religion and police. They are, it appears, the valid and reliable methods of combating prostitution.”

Lenin did not argue for the legal recognition of prostitution to combat social stigma, but for its end, through socialist revolution, which destroys the root economic causes of it. We must understand that even after socialist revolution, exploitation does not vanish overnight; it is done away with in the processes of the dictatorship of the proletariat and, critically, with cultural revolution. Marxists, while insisting that prostitution is not “sex work,” still stand firm against the hypocritical moralization of the bourgeoisie, who create and preserve the very conditions that force women into prostitution.

What is crucial to understand in the position of the great Lenin is that he simultaneously opposed the organizing of prostitutes as prostitutes for the revolution while at the same time condemning the bourgeois moralism that helps reproduce prostitution and deepens the oppression of prostitutes. After the revolution, Lenin and those who held the revolutionary line after his premature death worked tirelessly to abolish prostitution. We will get more into the experience of the socialist projects’ approaches to prostitution in later sections.

Arguments for legalization

Those most committed to the sanitization of rape and sexual violence are the most vocal advocates for the legalization of prostitution, which Marxists emphatically oppose. Legalization, far from securing “workers’ rights” in the instance of prostitution, only opens the floodgates for major investment of capital on the part of imperialists. With legalization, the pimp becomes protected by law—taking on a new form, and the prostitute legally owes and pays him a portion of her earnings. With legalization come legal recruitment and the widespread indoctrination of women and girls to prepare them for the trade.

Arguments that legal recognition protects the employee are based on bourgeois moralism and not Marxist political economy—and profound naiveté or ignorance of the actual workings of capitalism. Miners, factory workers, and fast food workers all have laws that are in place (usually hard-won through class struggle) that are supposed to protect them, yet as long as capitalism persists they are hounded, worked to death, and exploited without mercy. The legal recognition of these trades has not stopped the boss from stepping on our necks.

The idea that legal recognition will somehow limit the use of trafficked girls and women is also absurd. Pornography has been legal for decades, and the flow of black-market pornography and coerced women has not gone away. For that matter, many workers are hired illegally for all sorts of trades, hyper-exploited, and then discarded like old shoes. This would be magnified with legal prostitution. Countries with legal recognition of prostitution can and do see an increase in sex tourism;[12] people from all over the world can go exploit and dominate women in these countries, the only difference being that in these places the bourgeois State can tax it officially rather than unofficially through payoffs.

“Prostitution Is Sexual Violence,” first printed in People’s March, an organ of the Communist Party of India (Maoist), explains the global forces behind prostitution in this way:

“Firstly, the sex trade is now organized on a global basis just as any other multinational enterprise. It has become a transnational industry. It is one of the most developed and specialized industries [and] offers a wide range of services to the customers, and has most innovative market strategies to attract clients all over the world. The principal players and beneficiaries of the sex industry are cohesive and organized. The intricate web of actors involved in the sex trade today includes not just the prostitutes and the client, but an entire syndicate consisting of the pimps, the brothel owners, the police, the politicians and the local doctors. The principal actors connected to the sex trade are not confined by narrow national or territorial boundaries in the context of a globalized world. They operate both legally as well as clandestinely and it is believed that the profits … to the organizations of [the] sex-industry currently equal those flowing out of the global illegal trade in arms and narcotics. Moreover [it is] like any [of the] other multinational enterprises, such as the tourism industry, entertainment industry, travel and transportation industry, international media industry, underground narcotics and crime industry and so on.”

From this they draw the following conclusion:

“Thus the magnitude, expanse, organization, role of capital accumulation and range of market strategies employed to sell sexual services make the contemporary global sex industry qualitatively different from the old practice of prostitution and sex trade.”

Suffice it to say that genuine Marxists must insist that any legalization in the US would be the further bane of women in the nations oppressed by US imperialism. As “Prostitution is Sexual Violence” puts it,

“in fact this argument [for legalization] is being promoted to make it easy to legalize the import of prostitutes to the imperialist countries and other centers of tourism.”

They highlight the dialectical relationship between the sex trades of the imperialist and oppressed nations. We will quote the pamphlet at length:

“As Engels succinctly put it, it is ‘the absolute domination of the male over the female sex as the fundamental law of society.’ She is a victim of patriarchal oppression within the profession. Once a woman enters the trade, there is no way out. She is completely at the mercy of the sex-starved customer, the pimp and the police. Physical assaults and rapes are a daily occurrence. More than half of the prostituted women in the Third World countries had contracted HIV/AIDs. A 1985 Canadian report on the sex industry reported that the women in prostitution in that country suffer [a] mortality rate 40 times the national average. It could be even worse in countries like India. All this proves that the argument that once prostitution is legalized it can be more effectively regulated[,] making it safe for all those involved, that the spread of HIV can be slowed, that sex workers can have access to health and so on, are sheer fraud. The fact is that all forms of sexual commodification, whether legalized or not, lead to an increase in the level of abusive and exploitative activity.

The interest of the State in permitting legalization is not the prostitute and her rights but to check the spread of sexually transmitted deceases. It involves heavy regulation of prostitution through a whole host of zoning and licensing laws. Zoning segregates the prostitutes into a separate locality and their civil liberties are restricted outside the specified zone. Licensing means issue of licenses, registration and the disbursement of health cards to the women. Legalization makes it mandatory for the women to undergo medical check-ups regularly or face imprisonment.

Legalizing prostitution is legalizing violence.”

We must look beyond the ideological sanitizers of sexual violence, who speak loudly from academic, activist, and “harm reduction” circles and look closer at the actual economic forces behind these advocates. It is the commercial sex industry that stands to benefit the most from legalized prostitution, and so they are its biggest backers. Legalization is just a moral shield to protect and secure greater profits from the continued sexual abuse of women. With legalization, small brothels can become big chains, and whole corporations can be built up; those involved legally and illegally in the sex industry who possess the most capital are in the best position to reap the profits. The same issue exists with the legalization of the recreational use of marijuana: the small-time grower/dealer gets swallowed up by the white corporate elite, while oppressed-nations people remain incarcerated for their role in the trade. Legalization, in the final instance, benefits only the ruling class.

The Indian Maoists address the question of legalization succinctly:

“Legalization of prostitution is not a solution because legalization implies men’s self-evident right to be customers. Accepting services offered through a normal job is neither violent nor abusive. Legalizing it as a normal occupation would be an acceptance of the division of labor, which men have created, a division, where women’s real occupational choices are far narrower than men’s. Legalization will not remove the harmful effects suffered by the women. Women will still be forced to protect themselves against a massive invasion of strange men, as well as the physical violence.

Legalization means [the imposition] of regulation by the State to ensure the continuation and perpetuation of prostitution. It implies that they have to pay taxes, i.e., the prostitute needs to serve more customers to get the money needed. Legalization means that more men will become customers, and more women are needed as prostitutes, and more women, especially women in poverty, will be forced into prostitution. Legalizing prostitution will only increase the chances of exploitation. The experiences of the countries where prostitution was legalized also show how this [has] given [a] big boost to the trade and [has] increased sexual abuse. For instance, in Australia and in some states in the US where legalization was implemented, it was found that there was an alarming increase in the number of illegal brothels too along with an increase in the legal trade.”

Prostitution, through allowing the purchase of access to women’s bodies, harms all women, and not just those in the trade—legalization, far from being harm reduction, just increases social harm for all women. Recruitment is one of the cornerstones of pimping. With legalization, the horrors of recruitment and the pressure to be recruited take on dystopian proportions.

American exceptionalism: The legacies of revisionism and settler-colonialism

The women’s struggle was going strong in the Communist Party of the USA—up until Earl Browder became general secretary of the Party and began implementing his arch-revisionist line. The revisionist ideology that overtook the CPUSA—Browderism and then William Z. Foster’s continuation of it—was like a prototype of the revisionism that would take hold in the Communist Party of the Soviet Union. Even though the latter would completely consume the former, the former was in many ways its forerunner. Foster, like Brezhnev, would come out against his predecessor—and just as it was with Brezhnev’s condemnations, this was only superficial politicking that still carried forward, and in fact fortified, the revisionist position. This revisionism brought deep harm to the women’s movement, with a lasting stain on the US left today that extends far beyond the husk that calls itself the CPUSA.

Browderism successfully liquidated not only the program of the Party but the Party itself in 1944. It comes as no shock that Browder’s wife led the liquidation of the women’s struggle against antirevisionist women in the Party like Mary Inman. Inman wrote a great deal on the question of prostitution, devoting three chapters to it in her book In Woman’s Defense. To understand the question of prostitution today, it is important to grasp the reverberating effects of Browderism. Rightist lines that seek to either sanitize prostitution by dressing it up as “sex work” or misconstrue prostitutes as a revolutionary subject all result in part from a faith in American exceptionalism—first, in that they all seek to establish a reformist, class-collaborationist approach to prostitution; and second and more importantly, because they divorce the phenomenon from imperialism. It is important to remember that the bourgeois definition of “work” is anything you do for money. In this way they can frame owners and bosses as workers alongside those they exploit, since any job (legal or illegal) can therefore be misconstrued as work.

Many of these rightists (who are abundant in progressive struggles as well as in every revisionist organization) will concede that sex-based tourism in the Third World and human trafficking are, in principle at least, something to be opposed. They take no major issue with the writings on the subject from the Maoists in India, including the text “Prostitution Is Sexual Violence.” But when it comes to applying these universal principles at home in their imperialist country, they stir up the ghost of American exceptionalism. For reasons they cannot explain without their belief in this exceptionalism. They impose an artificial disconnect: here in the First World (not just in the US but clearly in Canada also, with the opportunists in the fake PCR-RCP), prostitutes are now workers, and furthermore an important part of the proletariat!—and to hell with actually studying nearly 200 years of Communist agitation and propaganda on the matter! They charge those who do assert the correct historical position with being outdated dogmatists. To oppose prostitution from the Marxist position, just as Marxists have always opposed it, earns one a volley of buzzwords and condemnation as a SWERF (that is, “sex worker exclusionary radical feminist”)—even while (a) “sex work” is a made-up term that runs counter to Marxist political economy and (b) Marxists explicitly reject radical feminism on a fundamental level. Without any economic analysis, the American exceptionalists have made defending prostitution a prerequisite for being a leftist, not only defending it from a moral standpoint but even going so far as to frame degradation and abuse as empowering. Revisionism still plays its part in turning a thing into its opposite.

Mary Inman described the continuum of revisionism aptly:

“Furthermore, wrecking on the Woman Question has not only continued since the ousting of Browder, but has even been accelerated under the leadership of Dennis (ably abetted by Foster, who warned against an ‘over correction of errors’ at a time when nothing had been done to stop their liquidatory practices affecting Communist work amongst women).” (13 Years of CPUSA Misleadership on the Woman Question)

The liquidation of Communist work among women today is assisted tremendously by postmodernism, which has practically been established as “common sense” for the left and occupies a near-hegemonic position in mainstream US activist movements. And of course, postmodernist cretins agree with Browder that the class struggle itself is mitigated in a country like the US, where “free women” can “freely choose” prostitution and it is backward to pass critical judgment on the trade of women.

Inman referred to this thinking as the “culture of prostitution”:

“Prostitution has been laid at women’s door, and it is said that she enters the practice from choice because it suits her nature, and is one of the attributes of Eve. Nor is this all. Prostitution has created its own degenerate philosophy, which has penetrated into circles not directly affected by it.” (In Woman’s Defense)

The contemporary apologists still maintain that prostitution is a choice, by insisting they are workers like any other who are free to choose a career (within the confines of their class and circumstance). Even though they do not resort to Scripture to justify their views, the same metaphysics finds traction.

Inman contributes valuable criticism of bourgeois culture’s portrayal of prostitutes in films as free-spirited travelers who select their own johns. Writing in the 1930s and 40s, Inman portrays this superstructural device, which has remained in currency since the time of her writing:

“Persons who acquired their opinions about prostitution from such as Mae West pictures, wherein the talented star portrayed the woman of questionable character who went freely about the country having adventures, knowing romance, wearing swell clothes and dominating the situation in which she found herself, selecting carefully her lovers and avoiding those men who did not appeal to her esthetic tastes, in fact roving, wise-cracking, free-lance, exploited by no one, will have the wrong picture of the real lives of such women.” (In Woman’s Defense)

We can cite obvious examples like the film Pretty Woman, but the message is driven home in the more up-to-date postmodern approaches in films and television shows, where the term “sex worker” has fully replaced the term “prostitute,” and “prostitute” is now viewed as nothing more than a sexist slur. The culture of prostitution still exists, finding its niche in the phony progressivism of postmodernism, which tirelessly seeks to pass off a fanciful illusion as the truth.

On the website Mel Magazine we find articles like “The Most Realistic Sex-Worker Portrayals in Pop Culture, According to Sex Workers.” In this article we find such gems as the following: “The Deuce is a sweaty buffet of debauchery calling back to the kind of heroin-soaked freedom Janis Joplin sang about.” Only the most profoundly deluded petty-bourgeois dilettante would conflate heroin with freedom, as it exists mainly as a weapon to keep the lower classes enchained, robbing them of even the most basic freedoms.

The author continues, “The protagonist is Candy, a clever veteran escort played by the excellent, but oddly cast Maggie Gyllenhaal, who walks the tracks, pimp-free. Unfazed and visibly bored, Candy works alone while her cohorts — mostly large and lovely black women — get smacked around by their white regulars and bullied by their pimps. She says to one fast-talking hopeful, ‘No one makes money off this pussy but me.’ Candy’s optimism in this regard is admirable but naïve (capitalism, for instance); still, she has more agency than most of the show’s other characters.”

The tokenization and abuse of Black women is merely unpleasant background noise for the free-spirited “Candy,” whom the author finds immediately relatable. No mention is made of the fact this devil-may-care character rises throughout the series to become a well-paid pornographer and exploiter of other women. The only real criticism of the show put forward by the article is on the basis of crude identity politics—they complain that the show was written by men and not co-written by “sex workers.” This is the best they can come up with when parroting the culture of prostitution today.

For the petty-bourgeois dilettante, “sex workers” are often imagined as struggling heroines, usually white women who choose prostitution as a clever way of bucking the system, and thus they view it as a rebellious act against capitalism itself. They are far removed from the mass tragedy and genocide that the women of the Third World face. Nor can they fathom the anguish of the people of the internal colonies in the US, where prostitution is the most prevalent.

The “sex worker” image constructed by bourgeois intellectuals has a special allure for the petty bourgeoisie: it evokes the myth of class ascension (like that of the fictional Candy mentioned above). With this myth we find a girl—most likely from a troubled background—who grinds her way toward becoming a small business proprietor. Maybe she becomes a pornographer producing the films after starring in them. For the identity politics crowd, this is thrilling because now exploited women are the ones exploiting women. They are not at all concerned that exploitation remains intact and has now simply found a better way to apologize for itself. This rags-to-riches story so often told is a powerful device in the service of ruling-class management of class relationships under capitalism. After all, their argument goes, this is just the unchained agency of free modern women.

In the following passage, Inman might as well be writing in the present day on the question of those who argue for the existence of agency in prostitution by rebranding it “sex work”:

“There is a noticeable tendency in much of the literature on prostitution to confuse a wanted sex act with prostitution, and efforts are made to show by indirection, or otherwise, that they are either the same or that the former leads into the later.” (In Woman’s Defense)

Of course, she also recognized that the phenomenon is not exclusive to women from the working class:

“The scope of prostitution is wider than the working-class women, for by no means are all the daughters of the middle-class families secure, nor, for that matter, are daughters from professional and upper-class families where fortunes were affected by economic breakdown.” (In Woman’s Defense)

Anyone “freely choosing” “sex work” without the pressure of economic conditions is not experiencing the reality of the declassed women Inman is writing about, or of the majority of women trapped in prostitution in the US for that matter.

Browderism did not limit its assaults only to the women’s struggle. It also directed attacks against the national liberation struggles of the internal colonies, and a major casualty of this time was the Communist work among the Black Nation. The work among the Black Nation was more or less eroded by the Popular Front period of the Communist International, and it was none other than Popular Frontism that gave powerful impulse to the rightists in the Party, led by Browder and then Foster.

The national question has all but gone from the program of the CPUSA and only a few of the revisionist relics of the New Communist Movement still uphold it even superficially. And even given their acknowledgment of the necessity of this work, no meaningful struggles are led to conquer the power of self-determination for the internal colonies. And it is perfectly natural for these types who insist on delinking prostitution from colonialism to be seduced into the quagmire of prostitution apologia. No honest study of colonialism can go without mentioning the settlers breaking the colonized into prostitution, through direct violent coercion as well as the violence of economic coercion, both equal in their atrocity.

Even cursory examinations of the real conditions faced by indigenous people in the US and people in the internal colonies—even studies carried out by bourgeois researchers—can highlight the way settler-colonialism manifests in prostitution, as the following passage reveals:

“Many AI/AN [American Indian and Alaskan Native] people live in adverse social and physical environments that place them at high risk of exposure to traumatic events with rates of violent victimization more than twice the national average. High rates of poverty, homelessness, and chronic health problems in AI/AN communities create vulnerability to prostitution and trafficking among AI/AN women by increasing economic stress and decreasing the ability to resist predators. AI/AN women are subject to high rates of childhood sexual assaults, domestic violence, and rape both on and off reservations. The vast majority of prostituted women were sexually assaulted as children, usually by multiple perpetrators, and were revictimized as adults in prostitution as they experienced being hunted, dominated, harassed, pimped, assaulted, battered, and sometimes murdered by sex buyers, pimps, and traffickers.” (Farley, Deer, Golding, et al., Prostitution and Trafficking of American/Indian Alaska Native Women in Minnesota; citations removed from quotation for brevity)

The argument that prostitution is a free choice, combined with the disproportionately high representation of Black and native women in prostitution, is nothing short of the thinly veiled racism of the petty bourgeoisie.

It is as absurd and cruel to divorce these facts from the US settler-colonial project as it would be to pretend that South African apartheid had nothing to do with prostitution in that country, as elaborated on here:

“Indigenous South African women are at great risk for all of the factors that increase vulnerability to prostitution: family and community violence including an epidemic of sexual violence, life-threatening poverty, lack of educational and job opportunities, lack of health services throughout their lifetimes, and lack of culturally appropriate social services that would help them escape prostitution. When alternatives to prostitution are not available—although it can appear to be a choice—prostitution is coerced by social harms such as child abuse, racism, sexism, and poverty. All of these forms of violence against women, including prostitution, are related.” (Madlala-Routledge, Farley, Barengayabo, et al., “‘I feel like I’m still living under apartheid’: Racialized Sexual Exploitation of 100 Women in South African Prostitution”)

While bourgeois feminist researchers can come up with no actual method of abolishing prostitution, they can be useful insofar as their data can be verified. Socialism, meanwhile, has direct means of both fighting and abolishing prostitution successfully.

According to Lenin, “no amount of ‘moral indignation’ (hypocritical in 99 cases out of 100) about prostitution can do anything against this trade in female flesh; so long as wage-slavery exists, inevitably prostitution too will exist. All the oppressed and exploited classes throughout the history of human societies have always been forced (and it is in this that their exploitation consists) to give up to their oppressors, first, their unpaid labor and, second, their women as concubines for the ‘masters.’”

The great socialist projects’ approaches to combating and abolishing prostitution

“We are now approaching a social revolution in which the economic foundations of monogamy as they have existed hitherto will disappear just as surely as those of its complement—prostitution.”

—Engels, Origin of the Family

“Not only have the people in the Soviet Union abolished prostitution, but wherever the people have become the dominant economic power, even in part of the country, they have abolished prostitution, for example in the districts in China controlled by the people’s movements.”

—Mary Inman, In Woman’s Defense

Engels was speaking of a hypothetical socialist revolution, but one that would inevitably take place based on a concrete analysis of concrete conditions. This social revolution would erupt in Russia in 1917 and have world-changing consequence:

“The workers’ revolution in Russia has shattered the basis of capitalism and has struck a blow at the former dependence of women upon men. All citizens are equal before the work collective. They are equally obliged to work for the common good and are equally eligible to the support of the collective when they need it. A woman provides for herself not by marriage but by the part she plays in production and the contribution she makes to the people’s wealth.” (Kollontai, “Prostitution and Ways of Fighting It”)

Kollontai—understanding that society maintained much of its old superstructure post-revolution as well as widespread conditions of economic hardship, low productive capacity, and other difficulties resulting from the still-developing economic base—firmly grasped that the revolution, while having abolished the main causes of these things (private property, etc.) still had much to do in the struggle against prostitution that persisted in these conditions.

She took up the charge to lead the Communist Party of the Soviet Union in this effort:

“Some people might say that since prostitution will have no place once the power of the workers and the basis of communism are strengthened, no special campaign is necessary. This type of argument fails to take into account the harmful and disuniting effect that prostitution has on the construction of a new communist society.”

The above quotation should be particularly salient for Maoists who grasp that revolution must continue under the dictatorship of the proletariat to align society with the new socialist base.

She further insisted that the prostitution that persisted under the proletarian dictatorship posed a great risk to social unity, to class unity, and to the economic construction of the Soviet Union. Her position was that prostitution was a private enterprise running counter to the workers’ republic and hence had to be abolished.

And great changes had indeed begun to take place in the workers’ republic, revolutionizing both the base and the superstructure. Merchants of any sort were now considered speculators, and all citizens were to be involved in productive labor. Kollontai writes,

“We do not, therefore, condemn prostitution and fight against it as a special category but as an aspect of labor desertion. To us in the workers’ republic it is not important whether a woman sells herself to one man or to many, whether she is classed as a professional prostitute selling her favors to a succession of clients or as a wife selling herself to her husband. All women who avoid work and do not take part in production or in caring for children are liable, on the same basis as prostitutes, to be forced to work.”

In the period of tsarist Russia, just prior to the revolution, prostitution was regulated but not illegal. There was punishment for procuring and pimping but not for prostitution. The revolution stepped in to shake the world and change everything. This included the lives of women in prostitution, who were now to be provided productive jobs.

Given that the conditions which give rise to prostitution were being combated, and that former prostitutes were undergoing political education and engaged in labor, prostitution could not remain the force that it had been in tsarist Russia. Women were mobilized in Soviet society, and prostitution did not come back in force until capitalist restoration post-Khrushchev.

China, having the oldest brothels in the world, surpassing even those of the Netherlands, had much to accomplish after Liberation in 1949, approaches developed in the liberated areas, where prostitution had been abolished must now be applied country wide. Pre-revolutionary China, like tsarist Russia, had only regulated prostitution rather than legally banning it. In pre-revolutionary China there were “licensed prostitutes,” who were some of the worst victims of social oppression. These were called “mist and flower maidens.” After the victory of the revolution, these women were provided lodging and education in socialist reformatories. Most crucially, these women were liberated and taught the differences between the old and new societies.

One of the first acts of the socialist State in the People’s Republic of China was the abolition of old marriage laws that treated women as the property of their husbands. The overthrow of these laws benefited the former prostitutes, many of whom were women and children sold into lives of sexual slavery by husbands or fathers trying to avoid starvation. The liberation of China from the yoke of imperialist and colonial domination reverberated through all of Chinese society (and in fact throughout the whole world), with Mao’s great declaration that “women hold up half the sky” signaling a new age where women would come to carry out half of production.

The women’s movement found its continuation and further flourished in the Great Proletarian Cultural Revolution, when Jiang Qing helped to lead an assault on the old culture, which at best portrayed women as little more than accomplices to male revolutionaries—and at worst as property. Notably, this can be seen in the remake of the Chinese classic “The Bride with White Hair,” wherein the heroine, instead of relying on a male soldier as in the original, sees to her own liberation. And the old society’s conceptions of prostitution came under similar attack.

With the persecution of Comrade Jiang and her three comrades, who represented the Communist line against the reactionary line of Deng Xiaoping and his clique, came an assault on the women’s movement of an even greater magnitude than the one that occurred in the US.

Among many other comparable measures, Deng removed women from such jobs as factory worker and train driver and threw them into office administrator positions.[13] Gendered labor that had been combated during the Cultural Revolution found its full expression in the Deng years.[14] Sex-based advertising and prostitution made a big comeback.[15] Female stereotyping made a return even in children’s books, training a new generation for the restored capitalist mode of production.[16] The Japanese film Yearning for Home that depicted prostitutes was aired on state TV and defended by the Dengite-run Beijing Review against critics who insisted that the film harmed young women and ran counter to the revolution. The old operas that had been banned—ones like “The Drunken Beauty,” about an emperor and his concubines—were performed at the Peking Opera. Pornography and prostitution were restored with capitalism.

Of course, the existing People’s Wars in Peru, Turkey, India, and the Philippines provide living examples of how to regard prostitution, how to end it in Communist-controlled base areas, and how to organize women out of the trade and into the People’s Army. Unlike bourgeois or imperialist armies, People’s Armies have no need for prostitution in “boosting the morale” of male troops, and so bands of prostitutes do not follow the soldiers. People’s soldiers are upstanding and fortified against such low behavior.

Before becoming a full-blown revisionist, Parvati described the effect of People’s War on the women peasants of Nepal:

“People’s War has given a revolutionary alternative life to young aspiring men and women. Women’s lives, particularly in rural areas, are so monotonous, set in a repeated pattern of reproductive activities. [With] marriage being arranged at much younger age[s], they have no way of escaping from this beaten track life cycle. For aspiring women to venture out of village means almost getting trapped into prostitution or being trafficked to India (it is estimated that about 150,000 women from Nepal are trafficked to urban centers of India!) or are trapped to [low-paying] sweat shops where sexual harassment is rampant. Thus for such aspiring women, the People’s War offers them [a] challenging opportunity to work side by side with men on equal term[s] and to prove their worth mentally and physically.” (“Women’s Participation in People’s War in Nepal”)

Conclusion

Many apologists for prostitution refuse to hear analysis on the question from anyone who is not “a sex worker.” Others still will claim that they are or have been “sex workers” themselves, and are therefore beyond the need for an objective class analysis. Few have actually studied the economic forces behind prostitution, getting deeper into what is actually being bought and sold, who owns the business, what class forces are in contradiction, and so on. Many still refuse to explore prostitution as an economic phenomenon—one occurring in a world in the thrall of imperialism at that. They have (likely before even reading this article) come to the conclusion that the only possible criticisms of prostitution are moral ones, ones that intend to stigmatize the prostitute for daring to defy the chastity sometimes imposed on women. Like the bourgeois religious hypocrite, they cannot fathom prostitution beyond moral objection—morality is the only framework they can find.

As discussed above, Marxists, unlike any of the above-mentioned camps, do not view prostitution (or almost anything else) in terms of morality, but in terms of class struggle—this means we criticize on the basis of an economic analysis. It is, after all, economic conditions that provide impulse to the trade in the first place. Moral objection does not rate here.

There are those who will say they are Marxists, but that they are “not dogmatists”—thereby justifying their clean break with 200 years of analysis on the matter. They may not be dogmatic Marxists, but they are dogmatists nonetheless: dogmatists of postmodernism, of identity politics, of third-wave feminism, and other degenerate bourgeois ideology. They do not so much object to the conclusions of Marxism (at least not most of the time), and they may even have a strong dislike of capitalism. What they oppose is the Marxist method—the same method that is universal and ever-improving, which has led comrades throughout history to develop clear lines on the matter of prostitution. This method and framework for analysis has been sharpened through discovery and mainly through violent class struggle. It has made new discoveries (a scientific analysis of modern imperialism, an understanding of the necessity and forms of proletarian dictatorship, cultural revolution, etc.) along the way. None of the apologists of prostitution can offer a single development, discovery, or condition that fundamentally alters the historic Marxist analysis of prostitution.

Marxists have never understood prostitution as simply the plight of “fallen women” who were just “raised wrong” in slums or other harmful conditions. Marxism has never sought to blame women for the conditions that force them into prostitution. Yet accusing all critics of prostitution of this thinking is the knee-jerk reaction of the apologist. This is the only response they can imagine from those who do not see the trade as “empowering” or “a job like any other.” No job, legal or illegal in the capitalist system, is empowering; all jobs without exception are alienating.

So how do the sanitizers of anti-woman violence come to their distorted views? Well, when an adventurous and impulsive petty-bourgeois dilettante, like one of Mae West’s characters, willingly chooses “sex work” (as a growing number of petty-bourgeois people are claiming) and finds the “stigma” to be the only uncomfortable part, all while never experiencing the raw and inhuman degradation that is imposed on most women in these trades—her goal can only be to sanitize the whole thing. In their attempts to be seen as better than the majority, they work to rebrand any trade that has to do with sex or that has been sexualized—now framing entertainers and performers and even enslaved women as “workers,” now not only defending prostitution as a trade but even preaching its virtue to anyone they can guilt into listening. Some of them will even insist against all reason that these trades must be allowed to continue under the socialist system. But, of course, a socialist society cannot “legalize” or “nationalize” prostitution without the state becoming a pimp. These women who claim that “sex work” empowers them, at the same time, are acknowledging that regular working-class jobs are disempowering. This speaks volumes about their class stand and ambitions, and their detestation of the working class. They would rather be sexually exploited than engage in production alongside the proletariat—these can only be considered sham Marxists, and likened to compradors among women. For these it is not economic poverty or low social status or colonialism that drives them to the trade—it is the mere threat, faced by all petty bourgeoisie, of forced integration into the proletariat. They are in solidarity with the rest of their class in labor desertion.

Feminism emerged with dual aspects of progress and reaction. It has existed with these contradictions ever since and has principally become a tool of the bourgeoisie, in a buffet of bourgeois feminisms. The worst of these take facets of women’s oppression and simply re-dress them as their opposites, women’s empowerment. Now the most degrading trades imposed upon women are the most championed. The petty-bourgeois sex adventurist will brag about making more than the stupid women at work in maid service, food service, transportation, and factory work. She will say that she is smarter and has managed to get out of the rat race. She identifies her trade as labor desertion, and she is correct. But she is incorrect that this somehow makes her choice the correct one while the women of the proletariat are just sheep. It is one thing to have an incorrect idea—it is another to spread it like gospel.

The petty-bourgeois sex-capitalist has nothing in common with working women. She lives a life of bourgeois decadence and is a commercial for misogyny. She insists that it is a good and normal thing for women to be able to be rented. She gives men a fair price, so as to reproduce the idea within themselves and among men broadly, that women are a commodity. All the women who struggle against this collectively form a sort of picket line, and the petty-bourgeois sex-capitalist gleefully crosses it. She is uninhibited.

For the Communist in the women’s struggle, the line is perfectly clear: we must serve the people. Inman writes,

“The struggle against prostitution is the struggle against the capitalist class. Since prostitution has an economic basis and the woman enters it because of economic insecurity, one form of the struggle must be economic: demands for a living wage for all women who work.

And for those denied a role in industry or social production, either directly or indirectly in legitimate service, demands must be raised that they be given compensation. Social production in general must be made to bear the responsibility of their support until such a time as they can be given a part in such work.

But an effective struggle against prostitution must also attack and expose the whole cynical, decadent moral structure that supports sex-subjugation, and the role of sex vigilantes who then dog the footsteps of subject women.” (Inman, In Woman’s Defense)

Thus our aim is not to stigmatize the women forced into prostitution but to justify their liberation from slavery with a Marxist class analysis.

Article by Kavga

Notes

Sarah Handley-Cousins, “Prostitutes!” National Museum of Civil War Medicine website.

Melissa Gira Grant, “When Prostitution Wasn’t a Crime,” AlterNet.

rights4girls.org, “Racial & Gender Disparities in the Sex Trade.”

Devon D. Brewer, John J. Potterat, and Stephen Q. Muth, “Clients of Prostitute Women.”

Matthias Gafni, “Oakland Police Scandal: How Often Are Cops Having Sex with Prostitutes?” Mercury News (Bay Area).

Jo-Anne Madeleine Stoltz, Kate Shannon, Thomas Kerr, et al., “Associations between Childhood Maltreatment and Sex Work in a Cohort of Drug-Using Youth,” Social Science & Medicine 65, no. 6, 1214–21.

Janie Har, “Is the Average Age of Entry into Sex Trafficking between 12 and 14 Years Old?” PolitiFact; Emi Koyama, “The Average Age of Entry into Prostitution Is NOT 13,” eminism.com.

Howard N. Snyder, “Arrest in the United States, 1990-2010,” U.S. Dept. of Justice, Bureau of Justice Statistics.

Erin Fuchs, “Atlanta’s Underground Sex Trade Is Booming,” Business Insider.

Melissa Farley, “Risks of Prostitution,” Journal of the Association for Consumer Research 3, no. 1, 97–108.

Meredith Dank, Bilal Khan, P. Mitchell Downey, et al. “Estimating the Size and Structure of the Underground Commercial Sex Economy in Eight Major US Cities,” Urban Institute.

Barbara Kavemann, “Findings of a Study on the Impact of the German Prostitution Act,” Social Science Women’s Research Institute at the Protestant University of Applied Sciences Freiburg.

Hong Guo, “The Impacts of Economic Reform on Women in China,” MA thesis, University of Regina, 1997.

New Vistas Publications, Women in the Chinese Revolution (1921–1950).

Elaine Jeffreys, China, Sex and Prostitution.

New Vistas Publications, Women in the Chinese Revolution.

[dxmmymxmmywrites]

Caught Your Fancy

Maito Gai x F! Reader Smut

Warnings: swearing, suggestive themes, unprotected sex, oral sex, pwp

There is not nearly enough Might Guy smut, so I’m here to fill the void! Personally I think this dude would absolutely fawn over a sassy lady, so this was a real treat to write.

Enjoy it ya filthy animals 🖤

...

It was leaner than your other leg, but it looked somewhat normal. You could move mostly on your own with some aid, which often came in the form of your staff. Despite having your dreams of following a nindo crushed, you still had dreams for your life you wanted to make a reality.

And there were many bumps in the road. You would trudge along during your day to day life, trying to be generous to the community while also building up your reputation as a creative. You dabbled in a bit of everything— writing, sculpture, painting— whatever could keep your hands and mind busy. It did wonders to stave off your boredom, and it gave you your own personal haven when the day was done. You could retreat inside yourself for rest.

It was where you were immersed now, sketching along in ink to quiet your mind. Your thoughts had been raging since earlier in the day, happy as it had been. Your hands seemed to move on their own as you doodle with an anatomy textbook open for reference. Some strokes collected into refined nudes, others were simplistic doodles of hands or feet or what have you.

Critters scuttling outside your window finally brought you out of your reverie. When they quieted down, you finally took in your last sketch that had taken up most of your parchment.

You’d drawn a man with strong features just from the image of him that constantly plagued your brain. His bright smile, his sweet dimples— that stupid bowl cut.

You scooted your supplies and paper to the side of your workbench so you had enough space to groan into your hands.

...

You’ve been companions for what seems like ages. Calling Gai a friend sounded odd due to the nature of your... everything, but it was the closest word you had to describe him.

He made you laugh, and you teased him. He walked you home when you ran into each other at markets, and you had stopped in on a practice or two to watch him with his genin.

Most of the time, he would attempt to woo you and you would play hard to get. Gai most likely enjoyed it— the thrill of the chase in the springtime of youth or whatever— but you’d be lying if you said you didn’t enjoy it too.

Spending time with him on little adventures always left you giddy, feeling like you could actually run a mile without falling on your face. He would send an unapologetic but weirdly sincere compliment your way, and you wouldn’t show how it affected you until you were parting ways once more.

You’re expecting it to repeat as he walks with you to your home on the outskirts of the village now. You had managed to run into him when you’d run out for a last minute ingredient for your dinner. It was like he always managed to find you in a sour mood and make you feel at least a little bit better— you had been exhausted beforehand, but you were happily content listening to him describe his most recent training session with his students.

“—That reminds me!” He perks up like a puppy. “A friend of mine recently said you were once enrolled at the academy! You never told me you pursued ninjutsu!”

It wasn’t meant to be a harsh comment, but you felt yourself wince internally. Somehow, you felt more painfully aware of your leg than ever.

“Yeah... that was a long time ago. Yknow,” you tapped your limp foot with your staff. “Before this happened.”

The panic in Gai’s expression rises quickly, but fades just as suddenly. “I wouldn’t want it to hurt you— but if you ever have an interest in revisiting the basics, let me know!”

You laugh a bit. At least he was trying to make you feel better, pity from others could get tiring.

“You trying to make me one of your genin?” You playfully jabbed.

“Only if you’d like to! Though I wouldn’t mind a one-on-one practice. However you are most comfortable.”

His voice calms towards the end, to a casual but gentle tone you don’t often hear him use. Gai took you by surprise often as well.

And it really was touching. You never thought you could get back to how you were, or that you could ever be an adequate ninja. It didn’t stop you from yearning for it— something you had hinted to Gai before. He had paid attention.

It made a sort of heat rise to your face. Very few could get that reaction out of you, and Gai’s accomplished smile confirmed he knew just as much.

“It’s a kind offer... thanks.” You finally spoke as the two of you approached your humble abode.

His mouth opened to leap into a grandiose plan of action for your training— but you shifted to plant a kiss on his cheek and he stopped in his tracks.

“I’ll think about it, Gai.”

...

Since the time you had shared your vulnerabilities to him, Gai became even more of a common occurrence in your life.

He would nearly bust down your door at some ungodly hour of the morning and start making you a healthy, youthful breakfast. If he ran across a book you’d been dying to read, he would find you wherever to deliver it himself. And whenever you had some opportunities to work within the village, he would make a point to stop by and insist on you filling him in on your day.

It took you off guard. How could someone be so... purely good? How could he be such a bright light to you, and not want a thing in return?

You swore that even if you tried to run from him, he would always manage to get to you. Like running from a ray of sunshine at lunchtime.

So as he reached out to you more and more, you became more available. Parts of you that had been walled up for years came crumbling down with every act of kindness he gave you. Whatever he did, you practically melted for him. And it often scared the shit out of you.

But still, good things continued to happen. You made time to visit Gai and his team when you were invited to the training grounds. You dragged him by the ear to your home several times to feed him a purely indulgent meal, saying he couldn’t just eat superfoods for the rest of his life. You start writing down little poems that make you think of him, and go out of your way to stick them in his pockets when you think he doesn’t notice.

He does. He reads each one, marvels over your calligraphy, and keeps them tucked away in an old jumpsuit.

Around the time your poems became a habit, you start inviting Gai and the genin to your home for dinner every weekend. You come to know each of his students individually, and you grow to love each of them so much.

Lee marvels you with his spirit, and his willingness to scarf down whatever you cook is flattering. Tenten makes you laugh every time you see her with her quick wit, and Neji becomes intrigued with your interests in the arts, and admires whatever project you’ve attached yourself to at the moment.

You don’t catch him in the act, but Gai steals more looks at you in these calm moments with his students more than ever. There’s a moment when you poke fun at Neji with a genuine laugh that he feels his heart skip a beat.

How did he find such a beautiful, youthful spirit like yours? He never wants to let you go.

...

After you had really come out of your shell, you finally agreed to meet Gai for a private session on the sparring grounds. It made you a little nervous, but the excitement in your chest pushed you further and further until you were rushing out the door in whatever workout gear you could find.

You arrive a little early, willing to wait for him if need be. Yet as you approach the encirclement of combat dummies in the field, you can hear the familiar smacks of someone putting the dummies to good use.

The sun finally moves out of your eyes, and your greeted with the sight of an unabashedly shirtless Gai landing hit after hit with no margin for error.

It’s... a religious experience to watch him move. Sweat glistens over his battle hardened muscles with each punch, and you carefully watch a trail of sweat glide down the center of his abs down to the prominent “V” shape of his hipbones.

You try not to drool.

He notices your presence and turns to give you one of his glorious smiles.

“You made it! Glad to see it wasn’t too early for you.”

“I was... motivated,” you manage, watching him step closer to you.

If he noticed your bothered state, he didn’t pay it any mind.

“I have a plan to get you used to the movement of combat. You’re certainly in shape, you only need to learn to follow the flow of combat to start.”

It vaguely makes sense to you, but he takes your hand and leads you to a larger training pit void of combat dummies. You almost don’t want to let go of his hand, but then he lets go and begins to circle you.

“Throw a punch, or hit me with your staff. Let’s begin slowly, and then I can follow your movements.”

It’s nerve wracking, but you can feel the butterflies going insane within you. You slowly go to swing your staff at him, but he slowly counters you and explains his reasonings as he does so. With each movement you make, his process becomes more calculated— and he gives you enough time to consider his words and apply them to your next move.

Like a game of chess, you work in tandem and simultaneously against each other. To be so in sync with him becomes almost intoxicating, especially zoning into his voice and following the grace of his marble-like body. He becomes the epitome of temptation.

Was this his plan all along?

In your single moment to falter, he is able to catch you from behind with a strong arm held around your throat. Your eyes bulge. But your ovaries do a summersault.

“And because of this, you must stay grounded in combat. And not in your head.”

You can feel a shiver convulse throughout your body at his voice being so close, so hot and breathe against your skin. This time, he does notice— and goes stiff.

He goes to say your name, but you painfully grip his wrist and then shove him to the ground.

He jumps when the end of your staff stamps itself inches from his ear, but he feels himself reddening at how tightly your straddling his waist. And those eyes— they sear him to the bone.

“Are you having fun?”

Your words are loaded, coated with either honey or venom and he can’t tell which. Does he care for the difference?

“Are you feeling inspired by my lesson? Do you already feel yourself improving?” He manages that picturesque smile again, though it’s certainly strained.

You lean closer to him, and he gulps. Your stare never wavers.

“I think I could teach you a few things, Maito Gai.”

The deadly desire in your voice makes him feel like he’s floating but falling at the same time. What are your plans? What would you have him do to you?

What would you do... to him?

His determined grin grows, and you feel your heart rate quicken.

“I’m at your mercy.”

You can’t take it anymore. Your freehand shoots to grab the back of his neck and your lips crash against his. He frees his hands then, and they heatedly run up your sides and cup your back until he cups your face with the most tenderness possible.

His kiss, however, is not so tender. Your tongues passionately intertwine with a ferocity that riles the both of you up with each passing second. You moan deliciously into his mouth, and he seems to melt into you.

It leaves him open to you pulling the back of his hair so you can shove your tongue farther into his throat. He continued to groan such sexy noises into your kiss until you begin to fervently grind on his lap.

When you break for air, you slowly grind your core over the outline of his growing hard-on.

“A-ah! Oh, darling—“ he heatedly moans again, making you wetter than ever, and pulls you in for another kiss.

His grip on your pelvis tightens as he sits up, and with you perched on top of him, he takes advantage of your exposed neck. His flushed lips trail lovely open-mouthed kisses all over your pulse-point, and you feel yourself wrap your legs around him as hard as you can.

You grind continually onto him, and keen lowly when he sucks a hickie into your neck just as he times a roll of his hips expertly between your legs.

“Hooooly fuuuck, Gai,” you say as your head rolls back. “Can we do this?”

“Absolutely,” he groans into your neck, pulling at your back so your sweaty torsos rub together.

How did you get so lucky to find him? You look down at him, breathing heavily, into his equally lust-blown pupils. You cup his chin to give him one more passionate kiss, where you lick over his lips and revel in how weak he is for your touch.

And then, you knock him down into the ground with a thump to his chest. Leaning over him so he has a face full of your tits, you instruct.

“I’m gonna ride you. But first, I’m going to sit on your face and blow you into next week.”

The blush across his face is prominent, from the joyful mixture of heat and hormones. But he excitedly smiles.

“Yes ma’am...” he says contentedly, freeing his dick from his pants while you readjust to kick yours off.

In no time at all, you reverse and lean your ass onto his face. He enthusiastically grips your thighs, and pulls your underwear to the side to place a long stripe to your soaked cunt.

You inhaled, but then he quickly pulled you into him and plunged his tongue into your sopping pussy. You shriek.

“Oh fuck! Holy fuck, Gai!” You whine as he hums into your cunt, and you feel your legs quiver as your eyes roll into the back of your head.

Hearing you rendered so helpless on top of him spurred him on, and his grip tightens. You can’t submit to him just yet— no, you’ve been dreaming of this for too long to back down now.

You stretch forward as much as you can manage and encircle the head of his cock with your lips. At that moment you knew Kakashi was full of shit when he mentioned Gai had an acorn of a cock— he was clearly a grower, and fisting his girth made your mouth water.

You begin to bob your head on his length, and you feel his pace weaken. It spurs you on, and you try to open your mouth as far as you can to suck him with all your worth.

Gai continues to eat you out to his heart’s content, and you feel him shake as you drool over his immense cock. You feel your determination building again despite the tremors of pleasure overcoming you— and you take him to the back of your throat. You hum as you arch your back, and run your nails tightly down his muscular thighs to hold him in place.

He sputters against your cunt, and you hold his legs to the ground while you render him undone, swirling your tongue around every detail of his thick cock.

As he begins to tremor again, you take a hold of his cock and run the flat of your thumb over his head, teasing his slit.

“Are you ready for me?” You breathe onto his cock, and flatly lick the precum dribbling from his slit.

He exhales as you rise from his face, legs shaking. He leans onto his elbows for a moment, smiling as he wipes your juices from his mouth to lick off his fingers.

“I’m always ready! But especially for you, my love” Gai says in a deeper, more loving voice then you’ve ever heard him use before.

It makes you ache in the best possible way.

You jostle your weaker leg over his lap, and he puts a hand out to hold you as you adjust. Sitting down, you intentionally adjust the lips of your pussy to glide over his shaft, and slowly grind along his length as you kiss under his jaw. Gai moans deep in his chest, running his hands over your back, trying to ground himself through the pleasure.

“D-don’t tease,” he manages, and leans into your touch as you lick up his jugular.

His voice is a symphony to you, while he squirms under your touch. You know you’re both ready then— so you angle his cock to finally sink onto his length.

Both of your mouths open in ecstasy we you ease onto his length, marveling at how your wetness lets his girth take you. It takes a moment to adjust, but eventually you settle into his lap fully speared on his erection. The two of you are breathing heavily, and you’ve only just begun.

You settle your foreheads against the the other’s.

“When you’re ready,” he lightly comforts, and you nod.

You feel yourself grip him harder, and you use your legs to pull him closer to you. Your lips interlock once more, and you groan at the taste of your pussy on his tongue. It encourages you to sway your hips forward, while Gai slowly moves your ass to relish your pull.

You slide deliciously around his cock. The more he relishes in the moment, the more of a slave he becomes to the passion between you. Your bodies begin to move in a glorious rhythm, composing a beautiful dance while your gasps of pleasure begin to harmonize.

Gai takes the liberty to gentle buck into you, feeding off your pretty moans while he hits your g-spot repetitively.

You loving pull you name from his tongue, while you pant and try to see straight. You could get high off of how sweet his touches were— how deeply he looked into you.

“Ahh, fuck, Gai—“ you purr into his ear, holding onto his shoulders for dear life. “Harder!”

His quiet laugh is so deviant and sexy as he picks up his pace, to where he’s rutting into you with his balls slapping your skin. You can’t help but keep bouncing and bouncing on his merciless cock, thighs screaming, crying out as the noise of slapping flesh and wet squelching echos into the air.

“Take me, fucking take me!” You growl into his ear, clawing at his back to try to stay in place. “Ooooh, fucking ruin me Gai!”

“You have a filthy mouth, my love!” He exclaims, still fucking you like a damn race horse.

“And you like it, don’t you baby? You like me being a greedy for your cock?”

Your words run him through with so much shock and absolute list all at once. You punctuate the filthy whispers by biting down hard onto his shoulder— and he cries out as you set a brutal pace to milk the remainder of his stamina.

“AHHHhhh! Darling—! I’m— aAAAaag— closing in!”

You purr like a devil into his shoulder, liking the bruise you’ve left. You’re shaking like an addict, and I you know you’re close too.

“I’m gonna cum all over your cock, Green Beast! Cum for me, cum for your slut!” You pant out, and Gai nearly screams as he fucks into your pussy more furiously than ever.

In the heat of it all, you shove him to the ground again. You grab his chest and put all your weight onto him as you ride out your orgasm, moaning like a bitch in heat as you chase your highs to oblivion.

Gain holds your hips enough to mark them, forcing you down into his cock— but then he looks at you in all your glory on top of him. Sweating rivulets down your reddening skin, singing for him as you take his cock like it was made just for you. He pulls you we close as he can and lets out a strangled scream as he orgasms hard.

Tears stream down your face as you feel your pussy clamp down onto him afterwards, whining with glee we his cock throbs within you. You exhale hard, and you can feel your heart jump over the moon.

All before you collapse off of him, and lay down beside him in the grass. Both of you are dirty, exhausted, and covered in sweat— and you wouldn’t have it any other way.

Somehow, you manage the strength to plant a kiss on his cheek.

“You’re amazing.”

He grins, surprised he has enough energy to laugh. “And you are the most beautiful creature to exist.”

You laugh through a blush, and snuggle into his strong arms as he pulls you into his chest.

“I think I should train you more often!”

[moldisgoodforyou]

james and julia

this is for u james anon :) also let’s hope the tags work this time lmao 

___

“What’s up with the boys lately?” Julia asked Sophie after a stall in their conversation over ice cream. The six of them hung out occasionally, mainly when they went out, and Sophie loved the way they all fit together so seamlessly. She easily fit in with the boys and Rafe could hold his own hanging with the girls (probably thanks to his sisters), so it was no surprise that all of them together was always a fun time.

“Hmm. Nothing special, really...oh, James is getting back to dating. I did a complete overhaul of his Tinder the other day.” Sophie told her.

“Back to dating?” Julia cocked her head.

“Yeah, and his girlfriend broke up after three years a few months ago. Something about her not being able to handle long distance anymore, I don’t know. He took it pretty hard. Obviously.”

“Poor guy.” She commented, sitting back in her seat, thinking.

Sophie rolled her eyes. “Yeah, and my idiot boyfriend suggested he needed to get over her by getting laid.”

Julia snorted. “Lovely.”

“Right? Anyways, James went on a date after like a month and I’m pretty sure he came home and was miserable for a straight week, so I’m glad he’s kind of moving on. I don’t think the guys ever really liked her, but you know how stubborn people can be about high school relationships.”

______

After that conversation, Julia swiped through her Tinder that night, more purposeful than ever. It didn’t take long for James’ profile to pop up, and they two matched right away. She sent him a teasing message - funny seeing you here - then immediately cringed at her choice of words. James replied with an equally teasing tone, and the two texted for a while that night - and two nights following.

The group all went out that weekend and there was an awkward tension between Julia and James, but Sophie couldn’t quite place why. Instead of being the class clowns of the group like normal, they were both unusually quiet, not really contributing to conversations. When Sophie leaned over to Rafe, whispering her observation, he furrowed his brow, not having noticed a single thing.

“I’m gonna go get another drink, anyone want something?” Julia asked at the end of the night, raising her empty cup. “Yeah, I’ll come with you.” James stepped up, following her through the crowd to the bar. After they both ordered their drinks, standing shoulder-to-shoulder so they could fit in the tightly packed space, he broke the silence first. “So.”

“So.” Julia echoed, raising her eyebrows.

“Can I take you out?”

“That’s awfully forward of you.” She commented, smirking.

“Sorry, out of practice.” He offered a cheeky grin back. “Dinner tomorrow night? At that Mexican place on ninth, I’ll pick you up.”

“Sophie’s gonna kill me.”

“That’s not an answer.” James nudged her arm with his elbow playfully, sliding cash across the bar to pay for both their drinks. “And Rafe will probably kill me too, but hey, at least we’ll go down together.”

Julia hid her smile in her cup as she took a quick gulp, more for confidence than anything. “Or we could get out of here now. It’d probably take them a while to notice...”  

“Now who’s being forward?” He smirked, then glanced over to where their friends were, blissfully unaware. “We’ll have to -”

“Go out the front, I know. Yours or mine?” She grinned, taking another long drink and willing herself not to shudder at the cheap vodka.

“Mine, I’m closer.” He knocked back the rest of his beer, then offered his hand. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” Julia nodded, accepting his hand. “I still want that date though.”

He laughed as he leaned closer, making her shiver as his lips brushed against her ear. “You got it.”

Meanwhile, Rafe and Sophie were starting to get suspicious. “What do you think they’re so held up for?” She asked, pulling out her phone to text both of them separately. Rafe shrugged. “Friday night, we know it’s always packed here.”

“Ahh.” Sophie nodded in recognition, showing the group her phone with individual texts from each of them with a half-assed reply about meeting someone. Allie grinned. “You think it was that guy on Tinder she keeps texting?”

“Maybe. Wait, is this the first time -?”

“Hell yeah it is.” Rafe grinned, high-fiving Colin and Sophie rolled her eyes. “Well, good for him, I guess. Hope it’s a nice girl.”

_____

The next night, both Julia and James were getting ready for their date at their respective houses. Julia had refused to spill any details, claiming ‘a lady doesn’t kiss and tell’ when Sophie begged for the story. Colin and Rafe had snagged a few cupcakes and spare gel icing from the house chef, eloquently writing Congarts on the Sex - misspelling and all - as a present for James. He had laughed and snapped a photo, but didn’t tell much, just that it was a fun night and she left right after.

“Skirt or the jeans?” Julia held up both options with her turtleneck sweater, glancing in her closet for shoe choices.

“Depends on what sweater you’re going to wear.” Sophie stood and started rifling through her closet, shaking her head as she pushed multiple hangers over.

“What do you mean! This sweater is fine!”  

“Yeah, for church, not a date with someone who’s already seen you naked!” She retorted, pulling out a v-neck sweater instead and a sleek leather skirt. “You want this, with the white boots. Trust me.”

“You’re the worst.” Julia grumbled, but took the clothes and changed anyways. “Should I curl my hair?”

“Hm...no. Not worth the effort. Are you planning on hooking up with this mystery man again tonight, do I have to go to Rafe’s?” Sophie handed her a lipstick to match the outfit.

“Um - uh, probably not -” Julia stuttered, racking her brain for a solution. “You know, when was the last time you two went out?”

“We went out last night.” She raised her eyebrows. “Are you nervous?”

“Going out with all of us doesn’t count. I meant on a date.” Julia took a breath, pleased with her distraction, and smoothed the color over her lips.

“Um...” Sophie trailed off, thinking. “A couple weeks, I guess, I’ve been busy. Where are you going, Rafe and I will go and stake out the date for you.” She grinned. “We’ll be subtle, I promise.”

“You and Rafe have like half an ounce of subtlety between you two, combined.” Julia snorted. “Make him take you to that new restaurant, the one that was in the student paper.”

Sophie thought it over for a moment, her smile faltering. “It’s kind of expensive.”

“Your ability to forget your boyfriend is rich is impressive.”

“Jules.”

“I’m serious! Plus he gets so excited when he can take you out, it’s kind of adorable.” She pressed. “It’s not like you’re doing anything else tonight.”

“Yeah, he kind of does.” Sophie agreed - Rafe loved spoiling her as often as possible, even though she was still getting used to it. “Can I at least get his name?”

Julia had prepared for this question, at least. “It’s Jack, and no, you don’t know him.”

“Ugh, a J name.” Sophie shuddered jokingly, shooting a text to Rafe.

“Yeah, his only downfall.” Julia laughed, albeit a little forced as she thought of the main reason the two of them were probably doomed.

___

Meanwhile, Rafe was hyping James up for his date, blasting rap music way too loud as he ironed his clothes for him. (“Because no one fucking appreciates a well-pressed pant around here,” Rafe had argued, snatching James’ wrinkled clothes out of his hands.) “You kind of did things backward with all this.”

James shrugged. “Guess so. It was her idea.”

“The date or hooking up?”

James grinned as he accepted his freshly ironed shirt from Rafe. “Hooking up.”

“You should be careful though, you know? I mean, you shouldn’t launch into all this so quickly, take it easy.” Rafe told him a little warily, just wanting the best for his friend.

“I know, I know, it’s casual.” James reassured him.

“So...are you gonna need the room? It’s kind of early for dinner.”

“Uh...I mean, I’m not sure...”

Rafe’s face lit up as he received a text from Sophie and he eagerly shot back a reply. “Never mind, looks like I have a date night tonight too. Where are you taking this girl? If you’re going to that new place, I’ll see you there.”

“No, just the Mexican restaurant on ninth. Not pulling out all the stops.” James laughed, shaking his head at Rafe’s sudden mood switch. “Sophie’s got you wrapped around her little finger.”

“I...yeah, probably.” He decided against a rebuttal. “But she’s finally letting me take her out on a nice date, for the first time in ages, so I’ll take it.”

“Didn’t you go to the art museum downtown a couple weeks ago?” James asked, grateful for the conversation topic changing.

“Yeah, and it turned out she had to go for one of her classes and do a few sketches. I swear she can’t go three seconds without being productive.” Rafe shook his head, though he smiled fondly as he talked about her.

“Fucking simp.”

“C’mon, you’re the romantic, you know it’s love.” Rafe grinned and James rolled his eyes as he grabbed his keys and headed out the door. “I’m leaving, have fun.”

“You too! Text me if I have to go to Soph’s!” Rafe called after him.

_____

After Rafe and Sophie’s dinner, Rafe insisted on taking her to a swankier bar downtown by the restaurant instead of their normal college spot. When she paused, calculating in her head and reaching for her phone to check her budget app to see if she could swing expensive cocktails, he grabbed her purse and slung it over his shoulder. “On me, angel.”

“Everything has been on you lately.” She protested, holding her hand out expectantly for her purse.

“Good, so it’s how it should be.” Rafe shot her a grin and took her hand as they walked down the street. “You should have brought the navy purse instead, the black kind of clashes with my outfit.”

Sophie snorted, giving in. “Didn’t think you’d be wearing my accessories tonight, my bad.”

“Ah, but you should never assume.” He pressed a kiss to her temple, glancing in the window as they walked to the door - and did a double-take, spotting James. “Hold on, is that -”

She turned and followed his gaze, seeing Julia opposite James at a dimly-lit back table through the bar. “Holy shit.”

“Do you still want to go in?”

“Yes, we’re going to go interrogate -” She tugged on his hand, pulling him into the bar as Rafe leaned back. “Soph, maybe we shouldn’t -” He hissed, but she ignored him, walking right past the hostess’s stand.

“Ma’am, all our tables are reserved -” The hostess called toward Sophie, but Sophie turned on her heel and shot her a sweet smile. “That’s alright, we’re meeting friends.” She tugged her hand out of Rafe’s and strode over purposefully as he followed quickly behind. Once she made it to their table, she just stopped short of slamming her hands on it, both the drinks rattling a little.

James glanced up with nothing but fear in his eyes. “Oh, Sophie, nice to see you here -”

“What the hell is going on here?” She demanded, shooting glares at both James and Julia. James slunk back a little in his seat, while Julia just winced.

“Actually, yeah, I’d like to know too.” Rafe chimed in, sliding into the booth next to James as Sophie did the same.

“I told you they’re both off limits, James.” Sophie pointed an accusing finger at him. “Did you somehow forget my one rule? Literally just one?”  

“To be fair, you don’t speak for me -” Julia started, only for Sophie to whirl on her. “You! You were being so sneaky when you normally spill every detail - I should not know how big every single dude you’ve hooked up with is -”  

“Wait, you two hooked up? Julia’s the mystery girl?” Rafe made the connection a moment too late, then threw his hands up in exasperation. “Dude!”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” James apologized quickly. “But if we’re pointing fingers, it was her idea -”  

“James!” Julia sighed, shaking her head. “Oh my god, I knew this wouldn’t work.”

“You said we could keep it a secret!”

“Not from fucking Sherlock over here!” Julia snapped, jamming her thumb toward Sophie.

“Was it worth it?” Rafe interrupted the argument, stepping on Sophie’s toe gently to hopefully put out some of the flames in her eyes. She only kicked him in the shin in response.

Both James and Julia shared a glance, debating their answers. “Honestly?” She asked.

“Yes, honestly.” Rafe nodded, sending a warning look to Sophie to keep her quiet.

James hesitated, not wanting to hurt Julia’s feelings. “I mean, I think you’re really nice -”

“Yeah, and the sex wasn’t bad -”

“Oh my god, please don’t even start there.” Sophie mumbled, her face twisting at the thought of her friends together like that.

“And I think you’re pretty -” James started again.

“But there’s nothing there.” Julia finished for him, offering him a quick smile. “I think we’re perfectly fine as friends, but that’s it.”

James nodded in agreement, relieved she felt the same. “Yeah, exactly. No hard feelings.”

Sophie let out a slow exhale. “Alright. I mean. You’re sure? Because if there’s really something, I can, like, chill out. Probably.”

Rafe smirked. “I’d say your entrance here contradicts that.”

Julia laughed, breaking the tension. “I’m sure. We were just talking about his ex before you interrupted, so I don’t think anything’s going to happen.”

Rafe shoved James’ arm, shaking his head. “That’s the one topic I told you to avoid.”

“We actually were having a decent conversation, if you two don’t mind? The least I can do is get you another drink, Julia.” James laughed, pushing him back aimlessly.

“...Fine.” Sophie stood, shaking her head. “Just as friends, though.”

“Just as friends.” Julia promised, sending her a grateful smile.

As Rafe and Sophie left, he let out a loud laugh as soon as they exited the bar. “Jesus Christ, Sophie. James looked like he was about to piss himself, he was so scared.”

“Good! She’s off limits! I warned him!” She exclaimed.

“I know, it’s like incest.” Rafe shuddered and slung his arm around her shoulders, walking with her to find another bar. “But hey - you think Allie and Colin might be a good match?”

“Rafe Cameron.”

“I’m kidding, I’m kidding!”

taglist: @whoeveniskendall @kkmaybank @karsinner @outerbanksbro @outerbankspreferences @randomficsandshit @sunshineitsfine44 @jailcalledlife @tovvaa @moniamaybank @illbesafeforyou @dontjinx-it @freddymaybank @jjmaybankzz @g4bster @oopsiedoopsie23 

[notspazztrapavacado]

'Poor Touch-Starved Bastards'

Dr. Kondraki x Reader fluff

(Y/n)'s eyes scanned over the paperwork one more time. (He/She) was finally done with them, and could afford to file tomorrow. It was already two hours past their time to leave anyway.

The late night silence was welcoming, where the rowdier workers had gone home or finally got tired, where the hush that enveloped the facility was only broken by the sound of rhythmic, tapping keys or shoefall on the outdated, smudged tiles.

Finally standing up, (Y/n) stretched, the soreness in (his/her) stiff muscles leaving just as quickly as (he/her) had noticed the ache had been there at all. (He/She) really hadn't moved around in a few hours, and was obviously out of tune with the demands of (his/her) mortal prison. Striding across the room in purposely long strides to stretch just a bit more, (he/she) flopped over on the loveseat that was put in this office when it belonged to (his/her) predecessor, who apparently slept in here.

(He/She) chuckled into the quietness about how (he/she) once thought it was absolutely absurd to sleep in one's office when (he/she) got here, not even naps were acceptable. That mentality lasted just short of a month, before (he/she) realized that this place really couldn't afford to fire anyone and had more important things on their hands than who was sleeping in their off time. It's not like this place ever closes.

The door opened with a small creak, but (Y/n) paid it no mind. If they need (him/her), they'll get (his/her) attention. 

"Going to bed?" The stifled laugh from (his/her) crush of the last 10 months had (him/her) shooting up to greet him in a matter of seconds, wide awake.

"Ben!" (he/she) greeted eagerly, "To what do I owe the pleasure?" (he/she) noted that, as he walked past the desk, he was not here for work. He looked kind of . . . upset? Was (he/she) in trouble?

"Need your table." He sat down on the edge of the coffee table and turned, laying over it and groaning loudly. He draped his arm over his face dramatically, though it was really just to block the light.

"Someone's missing a stray princess." (He/She) had caught a glimpse of the individual instance of SCP 408 he had with him today perched on the side of (his/her) coffee creamer, probably smelling the sugar and getting some that had dribbled down the side without (his/her) noticing.

"I'm a king, not a princess." He moved his arm enough to peek at (him/her) under it.

"Kings don't talk to butterflies and stare at the stars for hours on end. Plus, you're single, can't be a king without a queen." (He/She) partly said it to remind (himself/herself) of that. He wasn't taken and that meant the crush was totally valid, not at all morally corrupt… Maybe hopeless, but not particularly wrong.

"You flirting?" He managed a lopsided grin, left eyebrow raising at his question as he finally moved his arm fully.

"You want me to be?" (He/She) retorted.

"I want you to lay on me." He mumbled it, but, upon realizing just what he had said, his face turned cherry red instantly.

"I meant f-for the weight! My back hurts. That's why I'm here." He corrected his statement and his blush faded to a pink.

"If that's what you want." (Y/n) could feel (his/her) heart trying to break (his/her) goddamn ribs as (he/she) tried to play this cool. It's for his back. It's for his back. Because you're his friend. Single or married or whatever, doesn't matter, he sees you as a friend, be a good one.

Fighting (his/her) own blush, (he/she) set a knee on the table on one side of him, and swung the other over him, effectively giving a position to lay (his/her) torso over the pained doctor's own. 

Kondraki was absolutely thankful, just downright believing in god right now, that he hadn't popped a boner on the spot from the excess of skin contact that he was in no way used to. Also counting his luck at the fact (he/she) was now unable to see his face turn red once more. He practically felt his pupils morph into tiny hearts.

"Been quiet awhile… You okay? Was that a joke?" (Y/n) went to move, but he pulled his arms up around (him/her) to keep (him/her) right where they were.

"You're helping greatly, don't move." His voice broke, betraying him. 

He could feel (his/her) heartbeat quicken as (he/she) drew a sharp breath, surprised. He followed their gaze to the source of the surprise, to find 408 now sitting on his mess of dark brown hair…

And much to his horror, the SCP was trying to play matchmaker, fluttering and putting simple little heart patterns over its wings, ones he'd recognized as his doodles on the backs of outdated documents he tended to draw on before shredding so no one found out he could. Last thing he wanted was Clef, Rights, or Bright demanding he draw them…

"408's just glad you're here, they do that." He tried to validate the behavior as normal of the SCP, and had (him/her) nearly fooled as the insect stopped…

Before an old sketch of (him/her) appeared on the surface of their wings, fanning out to get the whole thing.

"Who drew this?? It's beautiful." (He/She) marveled at it, lifting a finger to let the butterfly step on so (he/she) could move it to see the intricate details better.

"I don't remember posing for a picture?" (Y/n) was not tolerating his silence now.

"You didn't. I… I used one of the ones I'd taken of you as a reference…" He guiltily admitted to the picture. "It was the reference I had on hand, okay?" He defended it, trying not to sound creepy and really hoping (he/she) didn't ask again.

"Oh? What's this? more?" (Y/n) was now more than smug as their free hand went to the table, propping (him/her) up so they could both easily see the dozens of art pieces across the surface of the insect.

"I swear, I'll put you back right now!" He threatened it, face practically on fire at this point, as it just continued to do it's thing.

"You got a crush, Benny?" (he/she) purred close to his ear. He tensed up. 

(Y/n) could hardly believe it, eyes widening. That was a joke, but he'd obviously taken it seriously. Was it true?

408 fluttered back off to the coffee creamer, letting (Y/n) move (his/her) hand to his chest.

'Well. We broke poor Konny. But I'm not one to pass up opportunity.' (He/She) gathered some courage, eyes closing so (he/she) couldn't see the horrible mistake (he/she) was making, grabbing a fistful of the front of his shirt to steady (himself/herself) further and went for it. Lips pressing to his carefully, sealing a kiss that was every bit as sweet and passionate as (he/she) wanted it to be. His eyes, upon realizing what was happening, closed fast as he reached up with his left hand to tangle it in (his/her), (h/c) locks of hair, deepening the kiss.

They pulled away with hesitance, and (Y/n) laid back down on him.

"Alright… 408 can stay out more…" Ben chuckled, a smile as he was just happy with whatever that was. He was in desperate need of affection.

"My back really didn't hurt all that bad, I just want to keep you here." He admitted.

"Thanks for clarifying." (he/she) breathlessly muttered, embarrassed.

"You do know you're stuck with me now, right?" he held (him/her) a little tighter.

"I'd hoped." (he/she) broke into a smile of (his/her) own, relieved that the answer was clear and verbal now to the burning insecurity that had plagued (him/her).

"Let's move this to the cot in my office before I actually do have worsening back problems." They both laughed lightheartedly at the statement before getting up. They'd be sleeping very well tonight, poor, touch starved, bastards.

[ashamefullife]

ash-blond & peacock-blue

On such a pleasantly mild summer evening, surrounded by chirping birds, Albedo sometimes forgot what time it was, forgot to look at his pocket watch, and forgot to ride back to town in time. His old bicycle, slightly rusted in some places, was leaning against an apple tree. He himself dangled his legs half over the rock he had climbed and sat on. From there was truly a fantastic view over Mondstadt, though the spot was a bit too far away to see more than blurry outlines of the city walls and houses.

Albedo exhaled loudly and ran his hand through his loose ash-blond hair. The sun was slowly tilting towards the horizon, which meant that the sky had already changed by several shades and levels of blue. Normally, Albedo would take the opportunity to capture this chart of honey yellow, mandarin, fire red, turquoise and lilac on a canvas. He would crawl over to his backpack and search for matching colors, mixing them if necessary, probably almost missing the sunrise in his search. The painting would still look passable, not that he praised himself for it, but the people in town would have liked it for sure. It was always like that. Still, the young artist couldn’t be satisfied with his talent. Today Albedo didn’t pick up a brush, today there would be no painting to show Klee and the other children in the neighborhood. That was unusual for him.

But usually, Albedo's mind wasn’t on certain person either. He would’ve never imagined that it would throw him off track like this - especially now, at a time when he was so busy trying to hold his life together by any means necessary. A nervous breakdown, he thought and then a soft but panicky laugh escaped his mouth. While his fingers were still caught in the middle of his hair strands, he dropped his back onto the warm rock. Although Albedo couldn’t see the sunset anymore, his thoughts felt lighter and his eyes relaxed after staring into sunlight for so long. To lie here, somewhere surrounded by trees, by nature, by fresh air - gave him the feeling of being alive, of an emotion, even if he did not always feel. Even in moments of inner numbness and dullness.

People, on the other hand, gave him the feeling of being a burden, the feeling of having to be active and productive non-stop. It was important to be someone, to be useful for others. To function right. A human machine until the point one could no longer be or no longer wanted to be human. Albedo had already learned that before he came to Mondstadt and he had never questioned it. He liked to learn and work, he liked to be diligent and he knew a lot from an early age on. Others would describe him as inquisitive and curious, but also as a loner and rather quiet type.

But since he knew Kaeya, Albedo began to question things. All philosophical thoughts he had discussed with Sucrose, a girl who sat next to him in some university courses, never seemed to connect with himself - whether he was blind, whether he just didn't want to see it. He didn’t know.

Since he knew Kaeya, he noticed. He realized how naive he had been, how much energy he had lost in the past, how many things he didn't know, even though he loved to learn and was inquisitive and curious. All these details made sense and they were true, not because Albedo wasn't trying, but because he was trying in the wrong corners or trying too hard. He finally understood that it was okay not to have to please everyone.

Nevertheless, the young artist hated this truth, a reality he would like to avert. And he hated that it was Kaeya who gave him the words, the sense, the feeling of meaning, of emotion.

At best he wanted to tell himself that he hated all of this, but it was surprisingly hard. Because every time Kaeya wore his long peacock-blue hair open and took individual strands in his hand, he looked over to Albedo. Followed by stroking some hair out of his face, slowly, practically in slow motion, and every time he did so, this guy grinned. A small dimple formed in his left cheek, nearly invisible, not for an artist, and a skin incredibly delicate and smooth, darker than of the other Mondstadt citizens. The sky-blue eye on the ash-blond young man, no matter where or when, queer through the lecture hall, around the foyer, in the library. As if Kaeya knew what Albedo was thinking. In fact, he wanted nothing more than to immortalize the peacock-blue hair and the owner of it on paper.

Albedo hardly noticed how it was getting gloomy around him, the sun had passed the horizon by 3/4 and the first fireflies were buzzing around in the air. Warmed up by the sun shining during the day, the rock beneath him still radiated pleasant warmth and he slowly turned on his side and pressed his cheek against the stone. The touch felt not unlike a hand. How lonely. How beautiful.

Clearly, he imagined Kaeya's hand, he imagined Kaeya lying next to him. On this lukewarm summer evening when it was not worth being productive or depressed. On which Albedo could have painted a sunset but had changed his mind - because the words in his head that had formed into Kaeya-poetry were louder than the inspiration for art. All the rumors Albedo had heard about the Casanova, the macho, the loudmouth, the egotist. All the women who wanted to bring Kaeya a coffee in the morning, get in his way, while he was almost late for his first class. All his jokes, sarcastic replies, his permanent laughter, and grin - how he knew what he was doing to please. Albedo thought he would loathe Kaeya, but when the ash-blond realized, when he absorbed and understood.

Internalized.

The fascination was overwhelming, the interest awakened in him confusing.

All the terms he usually used in chemistry and physics seemed too scientific. A pure theory. Because what did it mean, what was that chemical love formula, it was one with which you couldn't explain it. Red cheeks and butterflies in bellies have nothing in coming with letters and hexagons.

No matter how hard Albedo tried to remember their first conversation or how words eventually turned into sentences, he couldn't recall it. A whole semester long, the two did attend a few classes together, knew each other's names, and probably had a handful of mutual acquaintances - but didn’t talk. Nothing unusual at a rather large university for two students whose majors took different directions. Still, there must have been a moment, something that had shifted Albedo's attention for a second. It seemed to the blond as if his life would hang on this memory. He wanted to know, he longed for this moment. Albedo needed to understand when the first time had been, when he had looked over at Kaeya and felt him no longer as a student among all the other students, but as a man out of a painting. Too beautiful, too bright to look at with the naked eyes.

What he could remember was that Aether, one of their mutual acquaintances, had mentioned how Kaeya liked to drink Death After Noon, a particularly strong wine, and of the fact that shortly afterwards, Albedo had walked into a campus pub and poured himself a glass of it. The ash-blonde had wanted to know what was so special about it, wanted to know what Kaeya might have experienced on his tongue and taste buds. The wine was fine, Albedo was not a connoisseur in the field anyway, in fact he felt rather confused about why he had been drinking alone.

He didn't want more wine, he wanted to know more about Kaeya.

Kaeya revealed little about himself and tried to keep himself and everything around him in check. He lived with his facade, which got him ahead in life, but seemed to suck him dry emotionally. Control was nice, Albedo knew that too, but not long-lasting and very fragile. The peacock-blue haired one was joking, laughing, and giving his best flirts. Everyone around him fell for his charm, wanted to be around him and hung on his lips. No doubt, this man was charming, but Albedo could see that he also had wounds, scratches, places where his facade tore huge holes and left damage.

There probably wasn't that one moment in which Albedo was aware.

At some point random words had spilled out of their mouths, perhaps they had exchanged trivial text answers or planned a project for a course together. Albedo thought about everything they had talked about in the past. What ideas and fantasies had left his mind to connect somewhere and not be lost in the darkness, such as in his head. There was so much he hadn't said because he didn't know how. Perhaps because of insecurity, fear - because he liked to go on as it was right now. Sometimes they would meet on campus after their last class and sit under a tree. No one talked, shared silence. Kaeya read a few pages in his book and Albedo sketched a rose or a cecilia. It was as if they had agreed in advance, but most of the time it happened naturally and without them coordinating. Later in the evening, when they were both in their own homes, Kaeya would usually send passages that he had liked best from the pages he had read earlier. And then he would add a meme or a funny video, completely out of context, yet appropriate. Albedo had meanwhile completed the sketches, not always showing them to Kaeya, but the latter did not push him.

Some days Kaeya completely disappeared from the picture surface. Neither on campus nor in the chats, Albedo could reach him. Although he didn’t appear to be sick, he wasn’t present. These were the days the blond artist felt lonelier than usual. Funnily enough, he had been used to being alone in the past, a state that had never seemed particularly unpleasant to him. These Days, however, something was missing, a part that slipped into his circulation like serotonin and gave energy for everything necessary.

Yes, Albedo wanted to tell himself that he hated that it was Kaeya who gave him the words, the sense, the feeling of meaning, of emotion. That he hated how much he enjoyed Kaeya's attention, his glances, every conversation he was allowed to have with him. He was unhappily and happily attracted to him. Albedo was afraid that it would eventually hurt him and that he would not be able to bear the pain caused.

But it was so incredibly difficult not to long for Kaeya.

The ash-blonde opened his eyes and stared straight up to the sky, simply to find out that it had become pitch dark. Stars offered him the only source of light, even the fireflies were gone. His cheeks felt wet, the hand numb under the weight of his head and the rock under his body had cooled noticeably.

It was not easy to resist someone like Kaeya. And maybe Albedo didn't want to either.

[mythgirlimagines]

Reaching the stars and coming back none for the worse is this Tuesday’s Talentswap, Myth Anon, the Former Ultimate Astronaut! (Fusion’s Interpretation)

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BACKSTORY AND TALENT

Having grown up in a rich and affluent family known for their contributions to scientific research, Myth had a whole bevy of scientific knowledge forced into her at a young age, ranging from physics to medical studies, and her hunger for knowledge meant that she just ate the knowledge up. But deep down, the sheltered yet studious heiress wants to explore the world beyond her lavish estate. Fortunately, Myth’s intellect made her a prime volunteer for NASA’s research, despite her age. She passed the high-difficulty astronomy and astrophysics exams with flying colors, and is slated to go on the research shuttle when she becomes a legal adult. But she is willing to postpone her studies if it means chaperoning the Ultimates and Jr. Ultimates, as well as meeting up with some fellow Former Ultimates. 

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RELATIONSHIPS

Wyre Anon, Former Ultimate Tennis Pro

With Wyre’s parents being business partners with Myth’s parents, they were practically inseparable, ever since they first met during a charity gala. Wyre regularly helps to physically train Myth for her astronaut exams, and Myth regularly helps Wyre study up for academic tests. Wyre regularly tries to get Myth to loosen up and have some fun for once, and they just live for one of Myth’s rare smiles. Despite Wyre’s rough, tough, and rebellious attitude regularly getting on Myth’s nerves, Myth knows that Wyre is a loyal and kindhearted companion to have. 

Outfit: A red visor with a black checkmark on the front, a red tennis jersey, a white undershirt and shorts, red and white knee-high socks, white sneakers with red laces, intact glasses.

Anon Scar, Ultimate Artist

Spending most of her elementary and middle school years as a wallflower, Anon Scar has taken to sketchbooks as her prime mode of entertainment. Although Scar mainly specializes in pencil sketches, Scar eventually mastered a whole museum of art forms. Now that she is in high school, she decided to forge herself a new identity, as the “Overlord of the Monochrome Realm”. But she doesn’t do a particularly good job of keeping up the charade, and turns out to be a bit of a concerned mother hen. Myth is regularly confused by Scar’s vocabulary and rich inner world.

Outfit: Shaggy hair in double buns held up by art supplies, elaborate black and white make-up, black overalls splattered with paint, a black and white striped sweater, black and white striped stockings, black rain boots with paint on the bottom, a black and white striped scarf.

Fusion Anon, Ultimate Magician

Having started out performing magic on the streets to help his struggling family, Fusion is a master at both quiet sleight of hand and loud bombastic performances. Fusion’s specialization is pulling disproportionately large items out of his long sleeves and large afro. Despite Fusion’s unnatural talent, Myth couldn’t help but admire his optimistic and paternal personality. Somehow, Fusion always knows whenever Myth needs something and pulls whatever she needs out of his hair/sleeves, and he always weirds the lady of science ever time. However, Fusion couldn’t help but envy Myth’s upbringing.

Outfit: A blue cloak with oversized and floppy sleeves and yellow details over a red t-shirt with a big yellow star on the front, blue pants with a red pattern on the end held up by a brown belt with a yellow star-shaped buckle, blue curly-toes shoes with yellow jingle bells on the end, glasses from original design.

Fusion Anon II, Ultimate Pianist

As the only child and rebellious heiress of a wealthy family, Fusion II has dominated piano competitions after piano competitions with her fast-paced and finger-flying compositions. But with the pressure by her parents to inherit the family business, Fusion II adopted a flippant and aloof personality that is dominated by piano-covered meme songs. Both Fusion II and Myth bonded over the troubles of being born into wealthy families and having to shoulder various burdens. Myth also regularly has memes taught to her by Fusion, and in exchange, Fusion II gets to play a soothing piano piece for Myth.

Outfit: Smoothed down hair, music note pin in the center of her red bow, light blue off-the-shoulder sweater with a piano key design on the ends over a white tank top, floor-length white skirt with a black music note design near the bottom, black heels.

Just Anon, Ultimate Inventor

A lazy yet strategically and mechanically intelligent young man, Janon would much rather lie in bed all day then actually lift up a tool to complete an invention. Despite being a chronic procrastinator, the few inventions that he manages to finish managed to revolutionize the scientific world as a whole. When meeting the Ultimate Inventor, Myth was internally excited to meet a fellow genius. But when Janon’s foul mouth and poor work ethic was revealed, Myth instantly took all of that back. Even today, Myth and Janon regularly feud about each other’s work ethic and general attitudes. 

Outfit: A grey gas mask that hides his face, an oversized pink overcoat with grease stains all over over a white button-up shirt, brown gloves, pants, and boots.

Sparkle Anon, Former Ultimate Child Caregiver

Having started a successful babysitting business from a young age, Sparkle’s eccentric, dramatic and rather childish attitude just attracts kids like metal to a magnet, particularly when it comes to her magical girl persona, “SPARKLE THE SPECTACULAR SPELLCASTER”. Eventually, Sparkle decided to just keep up the persona full-time, and that just attracted even more children and parents to her babysitting agency. While confused by Sparkle’s magical girl persona and general attitude, Myth knows that Sparkle means no harm, and just yearns to entertain and care for people.

Outfit: A pink frilly dress with white and gold details, an elaborate and long pink wig, white gloves with red flower bracelets, red knee-high boots with white details and laces, light blue contacts. 

3-GG (aka. Egg Anon), Former Ultimate Robot, and Wet Sock Anon, Former Ultimate Entomologist

Just like Myth, Wet Sock is the heirexx to a prestigious scientific family, with Egg being specially-crafted by the family to be a sibling figure to Wet Sock. But ever since one of Wet Sock’s pet moths flew into one of Egg’s circuit boards, Egg’s mindset hasn’t been the same, causing their parents to boot them both out of their estate to never be seen again. Myth couldn’t help but take pity on the two, and looking past the cursed comments that both of them made, Myth found two broken and lonely individuals. Myth yearns to get closer to the two and learn more about them. 

Egg’s Outfit: Pale armor-like skin, an ahoge that functions like a satellite dish.

Wet Sock’s Outfit: Glasses from original design, a black jacket with a blue butterfly design near the bottom over a blue sweater vest, a matching tie and a white button-up shirt, black pants and matching shoes.

Curious Anon, Jr. Ultimate Cosplayer

Growing up with an unremarkable presence and a trouble with expressing emotions, Curious has taken to cosplaying and pretending to be different fictional characters. No matter the gender or personality, Curious manages to accurately portray the character, both in appearance and personality, with hand-crafted costumes. Because of Myth‘s sheltered upbringing, she hasn’t been exposed to anime until Curious came along to educate her. Myth is currently interested in magical girl and science fiction anime. However, Myth couldn’t help but want to craft Curious a proper identity. 

Outfit: A white-button up shirt, a red tie, dark green pants, black slip-on shoes, fake glasses.

Anon Nerd, Former Ultimate Adventurer

Having been abandoned in the wild at a young age, Anon Nerd had to do his best to survive in a dog-eat-dog world, as well as find a permanent home. Nerd’s socially isolated backstory made him rude and irritable, regularly mauling and pummeling people he doesn’t like (read: everybody) with his fists. Myth understandably steers well away from Nerd, fearing what would happen if she got on Nerd’s bad side. Which is a shame on Nerd‘s part, considering that he finds Myth cute. Unfortunately, Myth is far too dense to pick up on those feelings, and Nerd responds to unknown emotions with violence. 

Outfit: Mid-back length hair, a red headband, a black sleeveless parka over a tight white shirt that shows off his muscles, blue jeans, nothing on his feet. 

Eldritch Anon, Ultimate Anthropologist

Eldritch is well-known in the anthropology circuit for his cynical and misanthropic philosophies, and his elusive shut-in behavior. Eldritch seems to have the idea that Myth is either a malicious robotic overlord or a hostile alien queen, considering her fascination with space and her limited emotional range, and yearns to stay as far away from her as possible. Myth wonders what could have went on in Eldritch’s past to make him despise and distrust humanity this much, and why he doesn‘t seem to view Myth as a human. Myth just wants Eldritch to trust her, and gain his friendship. 

Outfit: Shoulder-length hair in a ponytail, a black face mask that covers his mouth and nose, a lavender and black poncho over a matching sweater and pants, bandaged hands, white shoes.

Dream Anon, Ultimate Supreme Leader

Despite Dream’s impulsive and childish behavior, Dream‘s followers renown her as sunshine in human form, and a beacon of hope, joy and optimism. At first, Myth was skeptical about the validity of Dream’s talent. She thought that a teenage girl, let alone someone as childish as Dream, couldn’t possibly be the leader of such a large organization. But upon witnessing Dream’s optimistic and rousing speeches, Myth was beginning to see why her followers named her the leader. Dream gifted her a sports jersey with her name on it, as a sign of friendship and acceptance. 

Outfit: Same outfit from her original design, only with her sidebag being replaced by a cardboard crown and a black cape. 

Iris Anon, Jr. Ultimate Detective/Assassin

While Astronomer!Iris has her interest in true crime, Detective/Assassin!Iris has this interest taken to an entirely new level. While Iris is known on the lawful side for her clumsy, yet intelligent and optimistic personality, Iris has an entirely different reputation on the opposite side of the law, as a devious little assassination master, who uses her clumsy and dorky personality as a facade to draw suspicion away from herself. Having a positive outlook to just about anybody, Iris took a liking to Myth already, loving how intelligent and well-put-together she is. However, Myth can’t help but feel as though there’s something off about Iris.

Outfit: A dark blue overcoat with a star badge pinned on the front over a black button-up shirt and a yellow tie, a light blue plaid skirt, black knee-high socks with a noticeable sliver taken out of the right one, red Mary Janes, glasses from original design. 

Purple Anon, Ultimate Aikido Master

Having been raised in a traditional family skilled in both martial arts and traditional dance, Purple’s aikido manages to mesh both of these traditional art forms together into one picturesque martial art. Purple, despite her combat-based talent, is timid and cowardly, regularly hiding behind her good friend Fusion. Purple’s vocabulary, if you managed to get it out of her, is very old-fashioned and loquacious. Luckily, Myth is intelligent enough to understand Purple. Just like with Wyre, Purple and Myth regularly like to meet up together and do physical training together. 

Outfit: A black headband, black hakama top, bandaged arms, purple hakama pants, white socks, brown sandals.

This series centers around the intelligent yet awkward and isolated astronaut learning about friendship from the colorful personalities surrounding her. 

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PERSONALITY

Because of her upbringing, Astronaut!Myth is cultured, highly-educated, mild-mannered and polite, never raising her voice or speaking before she’s spoken to, and when she speaks, her words come out clearly and precisely. Also because of her upbringing, Astronaut!Myth is also solitary, socially inept, not very good with emotions, and has a tendency to come off as cold. Despite her cold tendencies, Astronaut!Myth is actually really kind-hearted and tends to get excited and cheery when talking about her interests, about the only times when she ever actually smiles.  In her off-time, Astronaut!Myth can sometimes be seen practicing her smile in the mirror, in order to come off as more friendly.

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APPEARANCE

Astronaut!Myth wears her undyed hair in a moon-shaped ponytail. Astronaut!Myth’s upbringing is shown very clearly through her clothes, which consists of a navy blue vest with golden buttons and her family’s logo on the right lapel, a white dress shirt with a light blue tie and sleeve ruffs, a black belt with a gold star in the center, a navy blue skirt with a constellation design, black leggings, and black boots with light blue buckles and soles and white fluff on the insides of them. 

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Well, I’m finished with this week’s design. Let me know what you think of this talentswap! And don’t forget to tune in later for more of Fusion Anon’s creations, both in written form and visual form!

-Fusion Anon

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Very nice!