#this could be a point for very interesting discussions about how to go about effectively fighting an imminent fascist threat and analyzing

[comicaurora]

You mentioned in a previous ask about Arcane that wanting to do something better can be a great motivator, but recently I've seen a lot of discussion about fanworks created out of "spite" like Spiderman Lotus or that Transformers fan film. Do you think these come from different feelings, leading to their end result, or that the motivation just needs to be handled carefully?

Ah, I see the confusion. When you have ideas for what a story could do, and then the story goes in a different direction and bypasses what you thought it would do, that can be an incredibly useful motivator for using that unused inspiration for telling your own story. Taking someone else's completed artwork and saying "move over, idiot, I'll show you how it's done" is a recipe for hubristic self-immolation.

Setting out to "fix" someone's work has to be approached very carefully. Artistic criticism is a complicated skill, but it isn't treated that way. Especially in the age of the internet, several wildly different things have been conflated under "criticism", and I think that's why spite-motivated "fixes" almost always end up tripping on their shoelaces and falling flat.

Art critique - "fixing" someone's work - is about figuring out how to make the art the most effective version of itself. Determine what it's going for, and make suggestions for how the artist could improve the execution of that goal. Clarify a confusing moment, change the score a little to be more emotionally impactful, break up the pacing with moments to breathe, tighten up the pacing to maintain the frantic vibes.

However, the broad perception of what art critique is has been bundled together with several other forms of criticism, including snarky reviews (a judgment of quality rendered after a work is completed and aimed at prospective audiences so they don't end up wasting their money), general knee-jerk mockery (it is easy and fun to score points off of other people's sincerity via a little casual bullying), critical analysis (taking apart how a story works to learn from it, a useful approach for other artists trying to improve their own skills) and, of course, fanfiction.

Ahh, fanfiction! If you don't like a story, you can just take the characters, setting, premise, worlbuilding, and the general shape of the plot - ignoring the fact that at this point you've borrowed about 80% of the work that went into building the original story already - and then you can just make the characters do what you wanted instead. If you think Spider-Man would be better if everyone was miserable and grieving a dead buddy the whole time, you can do that! Two hours of misery for everyone!

This approach is ostensibly trying to accomplish what art critique does - to make a better version of the story. But in practice, it's almost never interested in interrogating what the story was actually going for. In fact, it's actively scornful of what the story was going for. It doesn't take it apart to see what did work, it just says "I didn't like that and I could do better" and produces something trying not to be like the original it disliked.

I kind of think of it like this. If you ate a meal and you were like "there's not enough salt in this," you would not produce a better meal by focusing exclusively on loading it down with all the salt you could find, even if you were starting with all the same ingredients. Do you understand how they were put together to begin with? How the meat was brined, how the vegetables were cooked, what seasonings went where? Do you think all it needed to make it work was salt?

So you get fanworks that do indeed focus on the part that the fanartist thought was missing. You get Spider-Man Is A Sad Jerk For Two Hours. It accomplished what the fanartist wanted, but it fails in its true goal of being Like The Original But Better, because it never actually made the effort to understand what made the original tick. Why do people like Spider-Man in his other movies? Well, there's lots of reasons that work for different audiences - he's funny, he's good-hearted, he's graceful and well-choreographed, his fight scenes are fluid and exciting, his dynamic with the people of New York is lively and comedic, he's hapless and hurting but he always tries his best, he gets knocked down but he always gets back up-- there are many reasons to like these stories. But if all you can focus on is what you wanted them to add, you'll have a lot of trouble parsing out what functional elements you'll need to carry over into your fanfiction to not lose the core of what made it actually mostly work.

If all you focus on is accentuating the bits you wanted them to do without recognizing the parts that were working fine, you end up with a heaping plate of salt.

✨ as the ask states, this post is very specifically about spite-motivated "I can do it better than the writers" fanworks and not fanfiction in general ✨

[ambrosiagourmet]

Hey, Kabru and Mithrun spend some interesting time together, don't they?

With Mithrun having just officially premiered in the anime, and a lot of discussions swirling around about him, I've been thinking a lot about that section of the story quite a bit. These chapters - Roasted Walking Mushroom and 6 Days - are some of my favorites. For a lot of reasons, really. Not only are they are a huge turning point for the story as a whole, but they have some excellent character work, and represent an important shift in Kabru and Mithrun's individual arcs and relationship to each other.

The chapters are also kind of a fully contained story arc just on their own, which is an impressive bit of writing, and makes them super fun to analyze. So that's exactly what I'm going to do!

This will be structured as a close reading of chapters 61 & 62, with some asides for additional important context. I'm going to talk a little bit about a reading that I disagree with, but for the most part I just want to focus on how Kabru and Mithrun's relationship progresses during these two chapters. In particular, the ways they both grow from the time they spend together.

Also I just want to quickly note that this isn't written as Ship Content. It's meant to be an analysis of their relationship as presented in the text - layer whatever additional meanings and filters on top of that as you'd like, but please respect that my intent is not to talk about or champion a ship, or frame any of this content as romantic.

So, with that all being said:

How do Kabru and Mithrun help each other?

First of all, I think there are two important pieces of context that inform the Kabru & Mithrun Dungeon Adventure chapters. Both are related to Kabru's state of mind, and both are set up before or during the chapters in question.

The first is the context of what happened just before Kabru and Mithrun fell into the dungeon. Specifically, the events that led Kabru to make them fall.

Kabru, essentially, gives up his life at the end of chapter 55. When he stops Mithrun, and when they both plummet with the collapse of the first floor, he is okay with dying. Mithrun warns him that they will both die if Kabru doesn't let him go, and Kabru accepts this as a worthwhile exchange.

Why?

Well, because he doesn't want the elves to take over the dungeon. Throughout the last 3 chapters, the Canaries have been effective, but they have also been cruel in their efficiency, and they have made it clear that they don't care about collateral damage. They lured people into the dungeon specifically to provoke a violent reaction from it, without regard for who might get hurt by the violence.

What's more, they are keeping important information from Kabru, and he knows it.

He's not just looking for a solution, he's looking for the truth - a truth that he believes that he will only find through conquering the dungeon. With good reason, to be fair! The elves make it very clear that they aren't there to treat the other races on the Island as equals.

So Kabru uses the only tool he has available to him - his own life. It won't get him the truth, but it at least gives a chance for another person from a short-life species (namely, Laios) to earn it in his place.

This dovetails nicely with the more thematic context that's introduced in at the start of chapter 61: the room where he could eat all the cake he wanted.

This place, a place that Kabru never wants to go back to, is a place where he is safe, and a place where he is ignorant. A place where he is sheltered from danger, but also from the truth. The same place the Island would become, if the Canaries had their way. He doesn't just want to be safe, and he doesn't even just want the world to be safe, though he does want to be able to protect people from what happened in Utaya.

But he doesn't just want to entrust that safety to the paternalism of the elves (especially since he is all too aware of the ways they can fail, or the people they are willing to sacrifice in the name of that "safety"). He wants to be given the agency to seek safety and peace for himself.

He wants to understand. And he wants the chance to act.

This is the context we have, going into the arc of 61 & 62. But before I talk about how the chapters build on this context, I want to take a step back and look at what else the chapters establish early on, before delving into their exploration of Kabru's agency.

First of all, I kind of want to challenge the framing of Kabru and Mithrun's relationship as solely that of a caretaker and his charge.

Obviously, Kabru is forced into a caretaker position - at the threat of his friend's safety, no less. (Okay, it's actually Toshiro and Namari that are being held, but still. There are hostages involved in this) But I do think it's important that Mithrun isn't the one who puts Kabru in this position - Cithis is.

Before this conversation, Kabru and Mithrun are already exploring the dungeon together. Mithrun doesn't threaten Kabru, or force his hand. He kind of just assumes that Kabru will join him. It's rude, and not particularly respectful, but given the dangers of navigating a dungeon alone, I don't think that's really an unreasonable assumption. And it certainly isn't the same as Cithis' approach.

If they were left alone with no intervention, they probably would have ended up in a similar position to the one that Cithis leveraged them into. Kabru is smart, and he could have figured out the things that Mithrun needed help with. And, to be clear, those are things that Mithrun needs help with not because he is selfish or thinks they are owed to him, but because he is disabled. It's not unreasonable for him to need that help, and it's not unreasonable for Kabru to provide it, under the circumstances.

Besides, they both need each other down there. Kabru wouldn't have survived without Mithrun - he doesn't know enough about monsters, and isn't familiar with the deeper dungeon's layout. And Mithrun wouldn't survive without Kabru - he isn't able to notice his basic needs and would burn himself out without food or rest, making him an easy target for the monsters he could otherwise take care of on his own.

Aside from both needing each other, another interesting layer to their relationship, which is established right away, is that Kabru doesn't have to - and literally cannot - put on a mask of social niceties around Mithrun. He can't suck up. It doesn't work.

So Kabru, who spends so much of his time concerned with how others perceive him, and who compromises his own comfort in order to become the most appealing version of himself at any given time, has that tool taken away. He has to help Mithrun, but notably, he can only help Mithrun to a certain point. He cannot compromise his open and honest feelings to help maintain someone else's view of the world - or at very least, it doesn't benefit him at all to do so.

Instead, they sit together, in the same position, share the same shitty mushroom dinner, because they both have to:

And that's notable, too. They both have to. Cithis' demand is most specific about the need to eat. Three meals a day! But this is something they both need, not just Mithrun.

Still, their relationship at this point still isn't exactly supportive, or even respectful. Kabru may have realized that he didn't need to keep up an act around Mithrun, but ya know, he still turns around an immediately try to, with that shitty mushroom dinner.

(The 'badly drawn shapeshift Kabru' gag here isn't just funny, imo, it's also a reminder of the thing he JUST LEARNED. Mithrun is immune to the Kabru smile anime sparkles filter.)

Mithrun also doesn't tell Kabru any helpful information at this point, and doesn't really put much effort into helping him at all. He slaps him awake out of a Nightmare, and treats him with the same disregard he did at the start of the chapter, focused entirely on moving ahead.

But then Mithrun collapses, and the current structure of their relationship collapses with him.

I think it's interesting here that the shift in their dynamic also includes Mithrun explicitly noticing Kabru's desires. Obviously it's not actually like some kind of I truly see you and recognize your humanity moment shared between them, but I do still like the way that it pulls Kabru's internal wants to the surface. Kabru not voicing his desires doesn't mean they don't exist, and Mithrun recognizes that the same way the dungeon does.

And then Mithrun does, in fact, grant one of Kabru's deepest desires. He tells Kabru the truth.

Just like how they are working together in the first place, this truth is as much a necessary concession to survival as anything. But that doesn't mean it's not impactful for Kabru. This is the thing that every other elf in his life has kept from him. A secret foundational to his core belief that long-life and short-life species can never come to mutual understanding.

And Mithrun isn't just giving him the bare minimum information here. What he shares isn't just a truth, it's his truth. It's a level of complete and total vulnerability that few people share with each other. And again - some of this may just be coincidence and necessity. I imagine Mithrun is so open, at least in part, because he doesn't have the same barriers that other people do when it comes to sharing these things.

But, then again... we see Mithrun at his most vulnerable and empathetic when he is talking to dungeon lords & potential dungeon lords, and trying to convey to them the truth of the trap they are walking into.

This face:

Is very similar to this face:

These are some of the few instances that we see Mithrun emote in this way, and his story does come just after he notices the dungeon responding to Kabru's desires.

But, no matter if Mithrun's openness is in response to Kabru being tangled in the dungeon's hunger, or just part of his nature (or, maybe, a little of both), his story changes things for Kabru. It gives him the chance to make actual choices, now that he understands the truth. It gives him a chance at agency in the story.

And he immediately turns around and uses some of that agency in an interesting way:

When asked about why he can't sleep, Mithrun says he needs to be magically compelled. Being magicked to sleep is simple, and it is efficient, but he doesn't even just say it's the best option. He seems to believe it is the only option.

So much in Mithrun's recovery has been framed through how it will let him fight the demon. Recover so that you can return to the dungeon. Sleep so that you can return to the dungeon. Eat so that you can return to the dungeon.

But rest, much like eating, isn't just about achieving the bare minimum required for efficiency. And as Senshi would probably say, the easiest path isn't always the best.

I don't think that the Canaries are intentionally running Mithrun ragged or anything, but as I mentioned earlier, they are very focused on efficiency, with little thought spared to what is lost or hurt in the process.

And there is something different about Mithrun's time with Kabru in the dungeon. Lycion even notes it, when they finally connect back up.

I don't think it's a huge leap to say that how Mithrun falls asleep here is emblematic of that difference. When Kabru helps Mithrun to sleep by massaging his feet, rather then using magic, he is explicitly taking a step beyond the minimum. He is providing comfort to a body that has been given only necessities for a long, long time.

These two events - Mithrun sharing the truth of the dungeon with Kabru, and Kabru choosing to help Mithrun to sleep through a foot massage - shift their relationship. There's a clear difference in how we see them treat each other, and especially in how Mithrun treats Kabru.

Before, Kabru provides food that he has gathered himself (okay, it was a mushroom he put his foot through on floor one, but the point still stands that Mithrun offered no help at all with getting food).

Afterwards, they gather food together.

Before, Mithrun teleports Kabru towards a monster, using him as a weapon when he can't find anything else.

Afterwards, he helps Kabru escape monsters, and fights them directly.

Before, he slaps Kabru awake after 5 hours of uncomfortable, Nightmare-filled sleep. A rest which, notably, Kabru didn't even intend to take for himself.

Afterwards, we see Mithrun keeping watch while Kabru sleeps in a bedroll.

I don't necessarily think that all of these things are choices that Mithrun consciously makes. Like, after 6 days, Kabru would have to get some actual sleep eventually, and Mithrun would pretty obviously have to keep watching during that time.

Nonetheless, there's still a difference in how these scenes are framed, and the fact that it is these things that are used to portray their journey together. Kabru is not the sole person providing food and sleep and safety - they provide these things for each other. Kabru eats alongside Mithrun, hunts alongside Mithrun, and he sleeps in the same way we see Mithrun sleep, laying down and resting deeply enough to be groggy when woken up.

What's more, during their time together, there are even a couple of instances of Kabru being more willing to care for himself and accept care. The sleeping is one example - note how he is surprised at having slept "that long" when told he was asleep for less than even the minimum recommended amount of nightly sleep - but I think the pattern of his eating is even clearer. In making sure that Mithrun eats regularly, he is forced to eat regularly too.

And I especially like the progression with the Barometz meal. After Mithrun has fallen asleep, Kabru thinks about wanting to "give [Mithrun] something nice to eat," but also notes that Mithrun's lack of desire "means there isn't even anything he wants to eat." So what does Kabru do?

He makes Mithrun something that he wants to eat.

I've already talked a bit about the ways that Dungeon Meshi depicts people finding support through "borrowing" the desires of the people who care for them, and I think this scene is a great example of that idea. Especially in the way that it pulls an expression of desire from Kabru, who is so prone to ignore his own hunger and needs. The meal may not end up anywhere close to the flavor intended, but it's still a far cry from the roasted walking mushroom.

All of these pieces come together at the end of chapter 62, resulting in a pivotal choice that could only happen because of the ways Kabru and Mithrun have, at least a little bit, grown closer to each other.

As they are preparing to leave, Kabru hears a bell ringing in the dungeon, just as he hears Toshiro's matching bell on the other side of the portal. Realizing Laios is nearby, Kabru hesitates. He knows the truth about the demon, and how he has a chance to act on it.

Cithis, the person who extorted Kabru into taking care of Mithrun in the first place, pushes for Mithrun to follow along with the plan.

(okay a quick aside here I just want to say I do love Cithis and I'm not trying to bash on her here. I just think it's interesting that she is the one to establish the terms of Mithrun & Kabru's cooperation, as well as the one who tells Mithrun to leave the dungeon at the end of the chapter)

But Mithrun doesn't go along with her command. Instead, he does something unexpected:

He asks what Kabru wants to do.

In contrast to Milsiril's smothering comfort,

and in contrast to his Mithrun's own assumption that Kabru will follow him, when they first wake up in the dungeon,

Mithrun follows Kabru's lead.

This, right here, is the change between them. Not only that, but it's a shift in the entire balance of agency in the dungeon. For what might be the first time in a very long time, Kabru - a tall-man - knows the truth, and is acting on it. He makes a huge decision purely on his own judgement. He is not trying to appease or coerce anyone, and he doesn't win Mithrun over by hiding his true intentions.

Rather, it's the honesty between them that builds to this moment. Mithrun's honesty earns Kabru's trust, and Kabru's honesty earns Mithrun's respect. They bond not because they are forced to spend time together, but because they choose to spend that time giving each other more than the bare minimum - even when they are both people used to accepting the bare minimum.

It echoes Laios' argument with Toshiro, in a way. They eat three square meals a day (Cithis mandated admittedly), they get plenty of sleep, and in doing these things, they take each other seriously. They treat each other as more than just a means to an end.

I don't necessarily think it's a flawless, unbreakable bond that's built during this time - hell, they both kind of revert back to their old behavior, once reunited with the rest of the Canaries. People don't completely change their habits overnight, after all.

But it is a shift. It's a shift that gives Kabru the chance to steer the story towards the ending he has fought for all his life, and it's a shift that helps Mithrun find a way to move forward after he loses his own reason for living. They reach their goals, and then they step past them - facing life beyond the moments they thought defined their reasons for living. Facing life beyond the bare minimum.

And that is how they help each other.

[vamphorica]

Bear with me on this one, but I think the parallels between Mello and Light need to be discussed.

Due to the very nature of Mello being L's successor, and L being as much of a foil to Light as one can be in fiction, there are obviously going to be various overlaps in that regard (as is the case with Near and Light, too). However, I do think that in Mello, we see several discrepancies from L and Near in how he navigates the Kira case, which are far more confrontational to Light because there's an understanding of Light, the human, rather than Kira, the omniscient God. I think that kind of awareness can be interpreted as a familiarity with Light's personality. With Mello being more socially adept than L and Near, there are several similarities between himself and Light that make his attacks more effective.

We can start with the very simple comparison between them: they are both criminals who commit their crimes with the intent to seek justice. Granted, I think it can be generally agreed that the manner of their crimes contrast, with Mello more prone to kidnapping and traumatising victims for an instant response, whereas Light grants instantaneous heart attacks to his victims in pursuit of humanity's eventual utopia coming to fruition (incredibly noble of him). Yet the fact still remains that they both have blood on their hands as a means to achieve their shared ambition of righting the world's wrongs, even if what that looks like differs between the two of them.

It should also be noted that Mello's victims tend to be individuals with a personal connection to the case in some capacity. This isn't a justification for his kidnap of Sayu, or holding Halle at gunpoint, but I think it is interesting that while Light will kill anyone and everyone he deems as 'rotten', in a very methodical and distant capacity, Mello very much takes advantage of the relationships people have with one another when choosing his victims. He realises very quickly that Takimura was not a good enough candidate to obtain the Death Note, hence why he ends up abducting Sayu. It is implied Light kills Takimura, and it serves as yet another example that his intent to rid the world of criminals extends to an intent to rid anyone who gets in his way, regardless of whether he agrees with their morality.

Returning to similarities between them, I think Mello and Light's histories are interesting to analyse in comparison to one another. Both men were highly intelligent children who grew up in environments where they faced a significant amount of pressure as a direct result. Mello's childhood is simple to analyse here — he was raised in an orphanage where he fought to become L's successor. Light requires a little more nuance. There is speculation as to whether Light suffered from the expectations placed upon him by his parents, and while I certainly don't believe he had to deal with the same intensity instilled at Wammy's, I do think there is a strong sense of reputation in the Yagami household that both Soichiro and Light frequently embody throughout the series, which is a pressure in of itself. You can tell even from Light's disdain towards Misa that the idea of someone else adopting the persona of the 'authentic' Kira means he is very conscious about his own image. While I personally don't see much merit to the idea that Light grew up in an abusive household, and Mello was certainly the one who dealt with higher expectations from a younger age, the environments in which they were raised both defined their ambitions to be as extreme as they became.

If we are going to delve into trauma, they actually share one, which revolves around Soichiro. Regardless of your feelings on the man and the motivations he had for each instance, Soichiro threatened to kill both Light and Mello at certain points in the series. I could (and probably will eventually) write a whole essay on the scene in which Soichiro holds Light at gunpoint, because I genuinely think it is one of the most horrifying, yet underrated, events in the whole manga. Even though the entire ordeal was conducted under L's directive, I think it goes without saying that the effect this would have had on Light was incredibly damaging, even more so because he had forfeited his memories at this time.

Mello is more mentally resillient to the possibility of losing his life by the time he is confronted by Soichiro, but his reaction to hearing his name spelt out aloud indicates a certain disturbance, even if just in response to the reality that Soichiro has the Shinigami Eyes. Needless to say, Mello has to contend with the fact that Soichiro can kill him, and undoubtedly expects he will. Light also expected his father to kill him in the car years before. The difference, of course, is that Soichiro cannot convince Mello in his act for as long as he did with Light.

This is extremely tenous, I admit, but a small voice in the back of my head does wonder if Soichiro's apparent reluctance to kill Mello could be traced back to a guilt in putting on the performance of executing his son. After all, Mello is at this point roughly the same age as Light was, and maybe Soichiro saw a brief resemblance between the two that caused him to falter. There are many interpretations of this scene, so I am not supposing this is the fundamental reason behind his hesitancy, but I wanted to mention it because it could be another possible connection between Light and Mello recognised within the series.

I also think Light's death is not reflected in anyone else to quite the same extent as Mello's. By this I mean to say that Light's conviction that he is the only one who could have "done it" and "come this far" is true to some extent in regard to being Kira, but not so much in chasing his goal to his dying breath. Even L at times is shown to be utterly depressed by the state of the case and while a lot of that was an act to provike Light, I get the impression that L's relationship with Light (and I am talking about the canonical relationship here) ended up serving as a detriment in arresting Light as quickly as he ought to have done after Higuichi. Even if L ultimately sacrificed himself while working on the case, L's death, as shocking as it was, was relatively quiet and anticlimatic all things considered.

So if we consider Mello and Light's respective deaths, a few days apart from one another, we can see that they both died as a direct result of their ambition. Additionally, you could say both their deaths were actually positive for the narrative as a whole - don't get me wrong, I wish Mello had survived, I really do, but without his death, the likelihood of Near successfully exposing Light as Kira would have diminished substantially, as Near himself admits. I don't think I really need to explain how Light's death was beneficial to the plot, do I?

Very quick tangent about Takada, but through her, we have a unique parallel of Light and Mello. From her perspective, Mello is the enemy who kidnapped seeks to endanger Takada, while Light is the hero who she can rely on as long as she does what he says and trusts in him. The reality suggests an opposition to this viewpoint. While yes, kidnapping people is bad, Mello shows no actual signs of seeking to harm Takada, and seems concerned with her dignity and agency, in spite of the fact that in doing so, it costs him his life. Light, meanwhile, immediately condemns Takada to the horrific death of setting herself alight, negating any possibility that he had her best interests in mind.

Finally, would this be a Certified Vamphorica Essay without me bringing up religious imagery? I think this adds a fascinating element of conflict to Mello and Light's relationship, if we are under the interpretation that Mello believes in God, but is actively going against a man who calls himself God. I've written more about religion in Death Note more broadly here if you're interested.

Ultimately, there are plenty of disimilarities between Mello and Light, and I'm not trying to assert the narrative that they are one and the same. However, I do particularly like the interpretation that they are more alike than either would be willing to admit, and it is this connection that perhaps contributes to how effective Mello's attacks are against Light, encouraging him to surrender the Death Note. I wish we had a little more interaction between the two, but that's where fandom can deliver, I'm sure.

[cherry-burst]

Rafayel x F!MC  "First Time For Everything."

Love and Deepspace

Smut 18+🔞 MDNI | Established Relationship | 1st F!Anal | Anal prep w fingers/toys/mouth | F!Anal Penetration | Praise | Cockwarming if you squint

WC: ~3k

She was lying naked on her stomach atop the bed. A pillow was under her hips, elevating her ass off the bed into the air. 

Rafayel pulled out several toys he’d collected for this very occasion along with a bottle of lubricant. He lined them up by size next to her legs and kept rubbing his hand over her thighs, tracing aimlessly as he got organized. A content smile was on his face as he hummed a gentle tune.

She looks back at her boyfriend. “That’s a lot of plugs…” 

Her nervousness was made clear well before all of this started. Rafayel promised to stop anytime for any reason, no questions asked if she wanted him to. But, he was adamant that she was going to thoroughly enjoy this. Almost as if he knew something she didn't.

“Well, I may have gone a bit overboard. Some of them are just for pleasure and not really prepping. We won't use them all ” He picked two up and compared them, the lamp light glittering in his blue-fiery eyes. “This one,” He lifted a tapered egg-shaped plug. “It's more for stretching, and, well it is also pleasurable.” He smiled. His cheeks were already pink and the tips of his ears were glowing red. “This one,” He lifted the other. It was tapered and longer with three bulges. “This is a bit more for pleasure. I probably won't use all of them.” He raked his hand in his hair, visibly excited. 

He leaned over her body and pressed a kiss to her shoulder blade. They were both fully nude already and their lips were puffed from the make-out session they’d had that led them to this idea for the night.

“Well,” She said in a sing-song voice, wiggling her hips a little. Rafayel’s gaze shot to her ass region in an instant. She smiled at the effect this was already having on him. “I’m ready when you are.” She finished. 

He cleared his throat. “We will take it slow.” He reassured her, “We go at your pace, Cutie.” 

The opening crack of the lube bottle’s lid gave her heart a squeeze. She was nervous before, but the adrenaline was starting to kick in. 

His lubed finger slid over her slit up to her ass. He rubbed in a slow circular motion on her hole, carefully exploring this previously untouched part if her. It felt a bit chilly on her skin but warmed very quickly with his constant friction. 

Her eyes fall shut and she relaxes into the bed. “Mm, no one has ever touched me there before, so-.” She lets out a soft laugh. “It’s a bit… interesting.”

“I really like touching you there…” Rafayel spoke in a low voice. All his earlier playfulness was quickly dissipating. She wondered exactly how long he’d fantasized about this before he casually brought the idea up to her a few months ago. 

He’d brought this up to her more times than she could count during the course of the last few weeks. At first, he was joking about doing it, but then it quickly turned serious and she could see the look of desire in his eyes grow each time he mentioned it.

It wasn’t that she didn’t want it. It just felt a bit too taboo to her and made her nervous to try something out of the box. But, she trusted her boyfriend. Plus, the way his face lit up when she agreed to it made her more happy than she dared to admit. He was always going out of his way to please her, it was time she relished in one of his fantasies as a reward. 

He was already obsessed with touching her ass and keeping his hand on it when he could get away with it. She knew he was a bit obsessed with her body at this point and very much loved the effect it had on him. 

Rafayel's finger oh-so gently pressed inside her and she tensed back up. She took several deep, calming breaths like they’d discussed and tried to get herself to let go. The digit went deeper and she took in a sharp breath. 

“Whew…” she breathed. The lube made it easy for his finger to intrude as quickly as it did. She jerked her hips when he moved his digit in and out, slow and rhythmic. 

“You’re doing so well, just relax.” He rubbed her thigh comfortingly. “You will get used to the sensation after a bit.” He reassured her. She felt his warm lips kiss her lower back, trailing over the curve of her ass while his finger did the work. 

She blushed when he started to play more. He moved his finger all the way in, twisting and pulling out. He dripped more lube into the valley of her ass as he did this, getting her insides nice and coated. 

Rafayel was between her legs while her ass was propped up with a pillow in the air like some kind of art piece on a pedestal. Her legs were spread to accommodate his width and he could see everything from his viewpoint. 

“It’s a bit… humiliating.” She tries to joke but her breath hitches when a second finger presses against her hole. 

“It’s just us. No need to feel embarrassed.” He kissed her inner thigh and slowly added the second finger. Her body accepted it, stretching to accommodate the intrusion. 

His free hand moved up her waist and down to her knee. He caressed her skin as he eased his fingers in and out of her. It helped ease the tension in her body and reassured her that everything was okay. 

“Do you have to watch like that?” She asks breathlessly. 

“Yep.” He sent her a smirk when she looked back at him.  

The intrusion didn’t feel normal for a while. It was nice, just strange. She could feel how relaxed her hole was getting and whimpered when he removed his fingers. 

“Shh, shh,” He was grinning. “I’m just getting a toy now, okay? I’ll put something inside you again, don’t worry.” As he spoke, his voice lowered to a sultry whisper. He pat her thigh reassuringly, teasing her with a wink. His delight was obvious that she was enjoying herself too.

She buried her face in the pillow to hide her blush. Was she really starting to crave the sensation? 

A blunt object pressed against her asshole and she tensed. It was covered in cold lube.

“Relax, Cutie.” He soothed. 

She relaxed and squeaked when he pressed harder. 

Rafayel sighed, squeezing her ass cheek with his free hand. “I’ll take it slow. Let me know if you need to stop.”

It took a few minutes of him slowly pushing, but soon she was shuddering as the plug fit snugly all the way inside. 

“Mm,” Rafayel let go of the toy and let it sit inside her. He grabbed her cheeks and squeezed, spreading them wider, pushing them up, and kneading them. “How does it feel?” 

She looked back and happened to notice just how hard he was getting. 

“Feels fine, it's good. I’m comfortable.” 

He nodded, working hard to fix a smile on his lust-filled face. “I’m going to move it a bit now.” 

She nodded and felt him start to pull on the plug. He pulled just enough to take it out halfway before pushing it back in.

“Woah-” She gasped.

“Good, bad? Need a break?” He stood still. 

“Good! It's fine. It just feels so interesting. I’m kind of liking it.” She sends him a small smile. 

Rafayel’s face lights up as he starts to tug on the plug again. He doesn’t remove it all the way and keeps pulling and pushing it back into her. 

She felt quite stretched at this point and told him so. “I think I'm ready for the next size up.” 

“I was about to say, I think you’re ready for a bigger one.” He agrees and slips the plug out. He sets it off in another pile away from the unused ones and looks at his row of choices. 

He seems to be thinking for a long moment and his girlfriend pipes up. “Everything okay?

Rafayel gave her a smile. “Yeah! I was just thinking. It’s just that you’re doing so well. I was thinking of skipping the medium and going up to a larger one. Would you want to try?” 

She trusted that he knew what he was doing, and also that he knew her body well. “I will try. I feel very ready.” She answered. 

Rafayel swallows thickly at her words. This was most definitely getting him worked up. He gets the larger plug, saturates it in extra lube then presses the tapered tip to her hole.

“We’re going slow, okay? Tell me the second anything hurts and I’ll stop.” He reassures her, touching her leg lovingly. 

“Understood.” She agrees. 

She takes the plug slowly. It stretches her deliciously and she clenches her eyes shut. Okay, now it was starting to feel good.

Rafayel is breathless as her hole accepts the larger plug so readily. 

She notices him give his cock a few pumps while she stretches much farther than ever before. 

She whimpers as the plug gets to the largest part, breathing through the stretching with her hands digging into the bedsheets. 

Rafayel bites her thigh, kissing along the skin up to her cheek. He bites her ass cheek and groans when her hole finally sucks in the last bit of the plug.

“Ah-, Woah…” She moans, her clammy forehead pressing into the mattress.

Rafayel squeezes her cheeks and leans in, kissing around the plug buried in her ass. 

She moans at all the sensations, rubbing her chest into the bed and arching into his touch. 

His tongue runs all along the rim eagerly. He pulls at the plug and then pushes it back in, keeping his mouth on her at the same time. 

“Rafayel!” She moans breathlessly. Little tremors of pleasure skittled through her body.

His tongue slides all around, his saliva lubing the plug even more. She can’t help the shameless whimper that escapes her.

He pulls the plug out and pushes it back in, over and over while MC mewls and twitches below. When she easily takes the toy with no resistance, Rafayel removes it and tosses it in the ‘used’ pile.

“The next size up is my cock,” He breathes heavily, his voice dipping low. “Do you want that? Do you want me?” His hands dig into her thighs.

“Yes. I want you. Please,” She begs, looking back at him as he adds lube to his cock. "I'm ready."

He strokes himself, eyes glued to her ass. Lube is dripped along his length and he pumps his fist to spread it around. He braces one hand on the mattress and lines himself up. He then folds himself over her body, pressing his chest to her back, arms on either side of her face, caging her in. 

“I’m going to stay still, and I want you to push back into me at your own pace, okay? Can you do that for me?” He moves her hair to one side and plants sweet kisses along her shoulder. 

She nods eagerly and pushes her hips back. He adjusts himself so he’s perfectly angled at her asshole then cages her in again. “Slowly, Cutie.” He reminds her with a whisper in her ear.

She goes slow, moving back against the blunt tip of his cock. She feels it stretch her as she presses harder. 

“Mm, that's it. Take your time.” He encourages her, his lips still seeking to press against every inch of her skin he can reach. 

She does, pressing slowly as moments pass. Finally, the thick head of his cock pops passed the tight ring of her ass and they both gasp. 

“Yes!” She takes a breather. “Oh. The stretch feels so good.” She whimpers. 

“Fuck.” He pants. “Yes. You’re doing amazing. Keep going.” He praises her, nipping at her shoulder with gentle bites. The way his voice gets deeper when he's in a heated state sends butterflies fluttering around her stomach walls.

Neither of them expected to get this far tonight. The training was supposed to be a build-up over the course of the weekend, but he’d made her feel so relaxed and took his time, her body acclimated very quickly. 

Rafayel panted as she started pressing back again, taking more of him. 

“Take it, Cutie. Take me all the way.” Rafayel moaned, losing himself in the moment. He always got chatty when things heated up. “I’ll make you feel so good,” His lips trailed over her shoulder along the back of her neck. 

She trembles as she dares to take in more of him. Her knees quake as she slowly presses back into his hips. The sensation was strange but oh-so-good. The more his cock stretched her, the more she wanted. 

She moans louder and Rafayel starts breathing heavier. His fists shake as he holds his body weight up above her.

“Take more, take more of me. Go slower if you need to. I won’t move.” He promised, breathing harshly into the back of her hair. 

The sensation of his cock sliding into her felt never-ending. 

“Oh! It feels so deep.” She catches her breath for a moment. 

“I’m not even halfway,” He kisses her neck and ear. “All the toys were short just to help prepare you for penetration. Is this okay?” 

“Yes, Rafayel. ” She allows her body to acclimate for a moment more before pressing back again to take more of his cock inside her. 

His chest presses down on her back and she can see just how much he's stopping himself from thrusting all the way to the hilt. His heart beats wildly against her back while his breathy moans continuously met her ears. 

They both groan the farther in he was. Finally, fucking, finally, his hips press directly against her ass. He was all the way buried inside her. 

“I need a minute,” Rafayel drops his head into the crook of her shoulder, breathing deeply. 

“It feels… feels a bit violating.”  She lets out a small breathy laugh. 

Rafayel inhales deeply “In a good way?” 

“Oh, yes.” She reassures him, rocking slightly to tease him.

“I’ve been wanting to 'violate' you for a while now.” He lets out a breathy chuckle and so does she. 

She pushes back a bit, trying to encourage him to move.

“Ah, fu-” He groans. 

“You’re so deep,” She moans, gripping the sheets. “I feel so full.” She adds quietly.

“Say that again. Tell me again,” Rafayel pleads, forehead pressing into the back of her head. 

“I feel so full, Rafayel. You’re so big…” 

Rafayel lets out a burst of air, tickling the skin on her neck. 

“Mm, and I’m going to keep filling you up, nice and deep, over and over again.” His voice is sinfully low. “Do you want that? Hm? Tell me,” 

“Yes! I want you to keep filling me up,” 

He groans and adjusts his position minutely. “Ready for me to move?” He scrapes his teeth over a sensitive spot on her neck. 

“Yes, start moving a little bit,” She braces herself for the foreign feeling. 

“Let’s see how well you take me,” He whispers in her ear and kisses it before he gently moves. 

He rocks his hips slowly, filling her to the brink before pulling out again. 

“Mmm!” She yanks on the blanket. 

“You’re doing so well,” He thrusts a bit faster when she doesn’t protest. 

She moans and sucks in breaths. “I’m going to fall apart, fuck…” 

“I’m just getting started,” He uncurls himself from her and sits back on his knees between her legs. He lets out a moan at the sight of his cock in her ass and starts fucking her faster. 

The absence of his body heat makes the air in the room feel cold on her back. She shivers as she whimpers little cries of pleasure. “So full…” 

“Yes,” Rafayel drives his cock home, again and again. “Your ass takes my cock so well,” A quiet ‘fuck’ falls from his lips. 

“Ha- Rafayel…” She pants as he goes faster, fucking her at his normal stride. 

Rafayel’s hands grip her ass. He sits back and spreads her cheeks, watching himself fuck into her. “This is incredible.” He moans.  

“That angle! Yes!” She desperately pleads.

“I never want this to stop,” He huffs as he fucks her at the angle she requested. “You like this angle? Is it pressing against all the right spots?” 

She found her center of gravity again and started pushing back into each of his thrusts. The angle he was hitting her at made her feel all kinds of good things inside. 

“It is, Yes! Oh, don’t stop,” They find a matching rhythm and speed up together. 

He squeezed one of her ass cheeks, gripping and pulling her with each thrust.

“This is better than my fantasy,” He let out a breathless chuckle. 

Her neglected pussy was slick with desire. Rafayel reached around and rubbed her little clit in circular motions.

She was yelling out ‘yes’ and ‘more’ as he touched her intimately. 

He used his other hand to squeeze her ass again and then she was falling, flying, shaking under him. Her orgasm hit her like a bus. 

“That feels good,” Rafayel commented on how her walls squeezed his cock as she came. 

As her orgasm ended, she started to squirm and whimper. He removed his finger from her pussy and went back to chasing his own release. 

His hands gripped onto her ass cheeks, thrusting faster and faster. His knees dug into the bed and each thrust sent her body jolting forward. The pillow below her hips got pushed and pulled so much it basically became useless. 

“Ha-” Rafayel moans louder the closer he gets. “I’m close,” He alerts her. 

“I want it!” She mewls into the bed. “Cum inside me, please” She begs him. 

“Fuck…” His hips studders. “Tell me again!” He demands as he huffs air. 

“Please cum inside me, please, please, please.” 

Rafayel thrusts into her deep one last time and his cock throbs hard as his eyes clench shut. 

He curls back down on top of her against her back, keeping their bodies locked. His moans fill her ears as his body pulses with pleasure.

His chest is much warmer now against her back, sticky from sweat, but so comforting. His familiar musk fills her nose and her whole body relaxes in his embrace.

“Just gonna…” Rafayel kisses her neck lazily. “...stay inside you until I get hard again.” 

She let out a breathless laugh and Rafayel cracked a smile. 

“I have a feeling you’re going to want to do this more often.” She spoke quietly between them, resting her cheek on the bed and looking up at him. 

“You bet,” He reached out and cupped her face in his hand. “If you’re up for it.” 

They relaxed like that, catching their breath and having some pillow talk before Rafayel’s body inevitably reset for round two. 

[hyakinthou-naos]

HelPol Discourse & Ableism

A more nuanced addition to this post - which I made on a low spoons day (if you're just interested in the ableism part then scroll to the bottom).

The Dunning-Kruger Effect

“The Dunning–Kruger effect is a cognitive bias in which people with limited competence in a particular domain overestimate their abilities”

- Wikipedia

The Duning-Kruger Effect was first pointed out to me by another pagan practitioner - and in that context it was used to describe those who claim to know what is “right” or “wrong” for all practitioners within a given tradition.

This fellow practitioner (I can’t remember their name - this was at least 2 years ago) pointed out that those who are incredibly knowledgeable about a given tradition don’t tend to go around policing others practices.

Why?

Because being knowledgeable about any religious or spiritual tradition means recognizing how incredibly human made traditions are. They are loose - flexible - ever changing and ever evolving within both individual and community practice.

Now - that doesn’t mean “anything goes” within a tradition or religion, quite the opposite.

It instead means that the best way to create a cohesive tradition (or revive a cohesive tradition) is through working together as a community to discuss what is and isn’t valid praxis.

One individual (or a small group of individuals) speaking on behalf of an entire community is very rarely a good idea.

Bold “unpopular opinion” posts - telling others what is and isn’t valid praxis - is not only incredibly hubristic, but is also only going to lead to anger and infighting.

It is through conversation that we can get to the root of an issue and try to find consensus as a community.

As an example: I could make a post explaining my interpretation of, and feelings around, people worshipping Medusa. I could explain that I have negative feelings because this type of worship was not seen in antiquity. But then I could also make it clear that this is just my opinion - and that I’d be interested in hearing others points of view*

*some of those caught up in this controversy have done this, and have wrongly been demonized for it - while others have done the exact opposite, stating their opinion as law.

If someone makes a post similar to the example and you’re still going to be antagonistic or cruel - then just block that person. You’re going to save both them and yourself a lot of needless stress.

If someone makes a post that is actively inflammatory - you can do one of two things:

1. If you have the energy and bandwidth, you can engage with them in a discussion or civil debate.

2. If you don’t have the energy or bandwidth, or if OP is unwillingly to engage you in such talks, then just block them. Again - it will save you a lot of needless stress.

Lastly - we as Hellenic Polytheists need to be better about our ableism.

If there is something in our faith that is ableist (example: you must always stand with arms outstretched during ritual) then it shouldn’t be part of our faith.

Just because some people do not have any limitations on their physical mobility or mental energy - does not mean that the able-bodied way of doing things gets to be the default or “correct” way of practicing our faith.

I want to make a longer post on the ableism that is rampant in both the HelPol and wider Pagan communities - but for now I think that will suffice.

Askbox is open, as are DMs - The Temple is always open to community building, community discussion, and (civil) community debate.

Eirene - peace and farewell,

- Temple Hyacinthus

[avifaunaa]

i tasted ash and knew [ it was you ] [ r.v. ] [ pt.2 ]

Authors Note: Okay -- wow. The feedback was unexpectedly amazing! Thank you guys so very much for the reblogs, tags, likes, and comments. I do not know how many parts I have set for this -- it could end after P.3 or it could go on longer depending on how I go about it. I hope you enjoy this! As usual, please check the content warnings and keep yourselves safe.

More Trivia:

Women could be pharmacists in the fifties! However it was a newer job field. Other new job opportunities for women at the time included: engineering and real-estate.

TV dinners were the first of their kind created and released into the world in 1953 as a quick meal that could be heated up in an oven and reduced the dishes one had to do, and fit onto a "TV tray". Added free fact: The first actual type of dinner of this kind was a Thanksgiving style meal and it was a success!

Milk was ordered through, humorously, a "Milkman" that would come door to door like the newspaper and deliver fresh bottles of milk usually daily and, depending on the company / location, took the empty ones.

Phone lines did use to connect the way they did through an operator and had multiple people trying to connect sometimes. What a tedious job!

Reader grumbling about religious scripture being sent to her home is a reference to Jim Jones — who would start the People’s Temple one year later [ 1955 ] and end up committing one of the most notorious religious massacres in history while murdering a United States official. It was a terrible tragedy and it opened a gateway to other cults who preyed on people just like Jim Jones did.

PART ONE | PART THREE | PART FOUR | PART FIVE | PART SIX | PART SEVEN

MASTERLIST

Pairing: Rio Vidal x Fem!Reader

Summary: Death has caught up with you but she has not come to retrieve your soul as the natural balance demands and has for the near seventy years you've evaded your fate. Rio appears to be seeking some form of stability and control through you, but you are going to make it decidedly very difficult.

Content Warnings: Dark -- use caution and keep yourselves safe, flashbacks that contain period-typical views on gender norms and sexuality, discussions of death and past abuse, Rio making R her housewife, kidnapping, misuse of magic [ Rio ], manipulation, obsessive behavior, really stupid murder attempts [ reader giving lmao ], Stockholm Syndrome beginning to take a tiny bit of effect, READER CRASHING OUT, non-con, face sitting, fingering, ruined orgasms [ all Rio!receiving ], magic strap [ r!receiving ], breeding and possible impregnation [ r!receiving ]

Word Count: ~7.6k

2024

Rio was doing it again.

You did not have proof of it but you could just tell she was.

The stuffed duck at the foot of your bed was taunting you and you wanted to strangle the hell out of it if you weren't on strike right now, willing the fake witch to take her physical form and become visible to you.

After having been chained to her for a period of time you had come to know when she was close. It was the one part of the magic she worked that you had never revealed to her and she hadn't assumed to ask if you could sense her presence like she could yours depending on proximity.

The beady, blank eyes of your companion was the only way you knew she remembered your interests -- or ones you had at one point.

It was an old, much loved thing. Won at a fair back when you had first come to grow closer with her after the death of your husband. She insisted on getting you out of the house and event was only for a week and she bribed you with the promise of a Ferris wheel ride that you'd always dreamed of riding.

It was one of the items she had waiting for you upon setting you up in this bedroom and told you to. "stay put" while she went and did her Deathly duties which you assumed included brooding and prowling ally ways when she was bored.

The bedroom was designed to your tastes and it made your tongue curl into your throat. She had been watching you long enough to get to know you all over again -- how the years had reshaped you so she could adjust to them accordingly.

She had even taken the new cookbooks you'd purchased from your coffee table, price sticker partially picked and all, and placed them in a very noticable way on the stuffed bookshelf in the corner.

Your door creaked open. Your head moved from the stare-down with the duck to the direction but found only Rio's idea for a gift sitting in the doorway with sharp eyes.

She got you a fucking cat.

A large, fluffy thing with a long feathery tail and tufted ears. Dark brown with sharper stripes than most knives you used to cut your ingredients and so standoffish you wonder if she found him in a dumpster somewhere and took him screeching, spitting, and hissing.

Well, tough luck dude. She did that to you too.

She had deposited him onto your lap not even fifteen minutes after fucking you into a stupor and you threatening to kill her with a smug smile. "His name is Billy. I figured you'd need something to take care of while I'm out working."

Billy had hissed, affronted, at Rio and scrambled off of your lap to somehow squeeze under the sofa across from the one she had lead you upstairs to recover on.

"You got a cat," you said, eyes focusing briefly on the spot where the tabby had disappeared before returning to Rio's features.

"We got a cat," she corrected, flopping down onto the couch next to you. "I can't have you getting bored and destructive when I'm gone at work, can I?"

Rage coiled inside of you tighter than a bedspring. "I wouldn't be bored," you started with an attempt to keep your tone steady, "if you hadn't trapped me in a cage."

"Hardly a cage, angel," Rio rebutted, legs stretching and feet crossing across one another on the coffee table. "I gave you the entire house and backyard to work with -- pool and yard included. That's three floors and a basement. An upgrade since the last time we did this, no?"

Her eyes stared holes into the side of your head and you refused to meet her gaze. You knew what you'd find, anyway. You'd find that prodding and incessant glint that she always had when she spoke to you in that fucking tone.

Your rage could only be filtered into one thing at a time and you decided that fighting a battle you couldn't win right now would only succeed in humiliating you further. So you decided to focus your melting attitude onto something you could absolutely control.

"Get your feet," you replied, teeth gritting, "off the fucking table."

That grin became feral in the corner of your eyes but she did as you bid and uncrossed her feet and spread her legs lazily across the floor instead. "Yes, ma'am."

"We do not have things to care for a cat."

She tilted her head at you. "Don't we?"

You blinked and opened your mouth to argue with her, but in an instant you were quickly set quiet. A large cat tree with multiple tiers sat in the floor to ceiling windows of the entry way not far off, cat toys and beds seemed to appear in the house later, too.

Not to mention the random cat food you found in the cabinet when you went to fix something later that night to get away from her.

But now Rio had bid you adieu with a peck to your cheek and a shit-eating grin.

You nearly smacked her and had your fingers flexing as if debating the outcome and if the repercussions would be worth it. Rio laughed and puffed away in an air of smoke before you could so much as lift your hand.

You and Billy now had an alliance of sorts. He had allowed you to put a collar with a cute bowtie and a bell on it so you could hear him prattling about -- only after you fed him a numerous amount of treats.

He also despised Rio and swatted at her if she came near if he was cuddled up to you. It was fun watching Rio ride out the consequences to her actions and she often threatened to make a new hood from his coat or use his teeth in a potion, or went the most mature route and hissed back at him.

But still -- you appreciated his company even if he often times only graced you with it fifty percent of the time.

"What do you want?" you finally asked the feline, who had taken your silence as an invitation to skulk into the room and rub himself across the furniture.

Letting him do whatever it is cats do, you return your attention to the duck and curl your fingers into the bedspread beneath you as the memories start to take over.

1954

Rio had been your rock for the last six months in which she took you in. For the first two you were in a numbed state of shock that barely had you moving about out of bed if Rio hadn't encouraged it.

Perhaps she was right in how she had confronted you so boldly that night you appeared on her doorstep. There was no grief in your heart for your husband as you planned his funeral with the help of your mother and father, sister in tow.

No grief for what "could have been" should he have not been in the accident that took his life when you bleakly watched from a distance as funeral goers left and four men began to lower the cheap casket into the grave.

There was not a drop of regret in you as you approached and dropped a green rose from Rio's gardens into the grave instead of dirt as your past and marriage was buried all in one.

You sold the house like Rio suggested. It was empty without his complaining and too clean when there was no bloody noses to clean up. No beer to restock or work clothes for the next day to be pressed and set out early for him.

Instead you handled well-kept skirts and fine women's wear without being asked.

Rio had found you one day after returning home from her work -- a pharmacy technician, according to her.

"I handle medications that doctors prescribe for people," she told you when asked. "Make sure they get the right dose and that the paperwork is handled. Call doctor's offices if needed and consult with the patient."

You had given her a look that she had memorized for the rest of her life. One of shock, awe, and absolute wonder. "You're able to do that? Isn't that a man's job?"

Rio smiled at you, leaning into the doorway. "This world is starting to become less theirs and more ours, angel. Society cannot run on the basis of the male gender alone and many areas of the workforce are recognizing that."

You had accepted her answer as truth.

She had three white medical jackets in which her name was stitched onto them provided by the drug store in town for her that you made sure to wash by themselves and iron before she went to work each morning.

She would often watch you do laundry -- hers or yours, after you moved in -- even if you were simply ironing in front of the television in the living room while she sipped on a bear in her suspenders and untucked white button-up, eyes focused on you rather than what the current state of the country was.

You had also changed the state of her eating habits in the time you'd been there, as well. You were horrified with what you found in her refrigerator and pantry.

Which was nothing pretty much.

The first night you had stayed over at her home you had also tried to cook. Mostly to have an excuse not to return to that dark, empty house just some stretches away, but also to thank Rio for creating a plan to ensure your comfort would remain.

Only to find she had little in terms of food. She had five TV Dinners stacked haphazardly and you cringed backward. Those were perhaps only good for Saturdays when one could sit in front of the television and enjoy their shows. The thought of Rio eating one every night left you nauseous.

You spotted an empty milk glass and snatched it out to set on the porch to be grabbed and replaced in the morning with fresh milk.

You stomped to the phone dangling on the wall and waited to be connected to the operator on the other line.

"Hello, number please?" the bored drawl asked.

You gave the older woman the number Rio provided and the answering clearing of a throat filled your ears. You heard a few flicks. "Thank you, please wait while we connect you."

"Sure." You held the phone to your ear and waited until the ringing started again.

"Westview Pharmacy."

"Rio," you greeted, wrapping a finger around the curly cord. Your heart paced in your chest at the sound of her voice.

"Hello, angel," she responded back, sounding pleasantly surprised. "What can I do for you on this fine day?"

"You have a sad excuse for a kitchen," you told her plainly, "and had you not taken the car I surely would have myself to go to the supermarket."

"I left some food for you to heat up, angel," she told you, confusion filtering through the line.

You huffed. "That is not -- I wish to cook, Rio. I may be a terrible baker but I am quite good at cooking otherwise and your lackluster pantry is ensuring I cannot do so."

There was a brief silence on the other end and for a moment you worried you'd overstepped, but then Rio let out a breathy chuckle. "Okay, okay. I apologize for any offense my kitchen and I caused."

You flushed. "I should hope so," you grumbled back, "I simply cannot understand how you lived this long. Did you not cook for your husband ever?"

"We weren't homebodies before he was drafted, no," Rio told you. You heard a rattle and assumed she was filling a prescription as she spoke with you. "He had a heart for eating out in diners and picnicking at the park. Every day was a new surprise."

"I see." You bit your lip and tapped the tiled floor with your flats. You regret bringing it up at all. "Well -- I only called to ask if you could run by the store on your way home and grab some essentials. Just enough for me to cook with until I can take the car."

"Of course I can," the brunette agreed instantly without thought. "And on that topic just start making a list of things you think we need so that way the next time we do go out we can grab it."

"I can do that."

"Good girl," the woman said. "Now, thank you for calling and asking me for something you needed. I do have to get back to work though. I will see you tonight?"

"Of course," you agreed, heart fluttering in your chest at the image of her walking into the doorway with that soft grin, "Sorry for keeping you."

"Never apologize, angel." With that, the line disconnected and left a low buzzing tone to tell you the line was dead. You hung up the phone and smiled wistfully to yourself.

It had been the first of many nights wherein you cooked for her and did her laundry and cleaned her house. She never missed a minute of telling you that she was grateful, or pointing out how well the dynamic seemed to be working out damn the gossip you feared would crop up.

Things changed drastically six months in as autumn began taking over Westview in a chokehold with no release.

The leaves were a falling and leaving the ground covered in the dark orange and yellow hues that you loved so and a chill began to sweep and take over the summer heat.

You eyed the calendar up on the wall in the kitchen and noted that Rio seemed to be gone more often in October, November, and December.

You had wanted to ask why but your engrained sense of minding your business and leaving it be kept your tongue stabled to the roof of your mouth for the most part.

"You're burning holes into the wall, sweetheart," Rio called from the kitchen table. She was sitting neatly in the chair reading the morning paper, coffee in front of her as she waited patiently for breakfast.

"I'm sorry," you murmured, returning to the stove and slipping the skillet before the bacon could blacken the bacon completely. The two strips fell onto the plate next to the eggs and you carefully set the skillet back down.

Your plate was empty on the counter next to the stove. Rio had few rules but one of them was that you made yourself a meal first unless you had time to share one together, and then make hers while you ate.

It was odd and very unusual for what was normally expected from most "housewives" in this case, but she was insistent and you were hardly one to deny Rio after she's taken you in and practically cared for you in place of you having to work.

You didn’t protest to her few rules — you obeyed them willingly and dutifully. In turn she ensured you had her company and you were comfortable.

Rio was at work one afternoon before a fair you had agreed to attend together and your mother had come to take you to lunch at a hot new diner.

She was updating you on your sister and her children, and the new car the family had obtained. Though eventually she asked when you’d find yourself a way out of Rio’s home— an opportunity to do something new and get out of the town where it all occurred.

You had simply looked at her questioningly, and asked, “Why would I ever want to leave? Miss Vidal has become my best friend and a dear comfort to me. She knows what I go through.”

Your mother’s lips pursed and her eyes crinkled around the edges in a way that was all too familiar. Like she knew something you didn’t. “Sweetheart, that’s why I wanted to sit you down really. See your father and I have been communicating with the sheriff. You remember Richard Howards right? You were in the same class in grade school.”

A town as small as Westview hardly awarded privacy and the idea of being strangers to others. So you simply said, “Of course.”

Your mother nodded and fiddled with her pearl necklace as she spoke, “After the funeral we went down to settle the business of your husband’s work details. We wanted it done through the sheriff’s office just in case they tried to cause problems for you.”

“Why would they do that?” you wondered as you sipped your coffee and looked out the window toward the drug store Rio was contained in.

Your mother frowned deeply. “Have you not been looking through your mail? I suppose most of it must be trash — a lot of it is advertisements and magazine samples these days — but Eastview Grain Milling wanted to deny wrongdoing. They were going to try and drag his widow — you — through the mud in the process.”

Your eyes flashed back to her, eyebrows shot up high. “Under what grounds? I’ve no money and he certainly didn’t have much after his paychecks. He died in their factory.”

Your mother nodded slowly. “Precisely the issue, isn’t it?”

“Is it taken care of?” you asked hesitantly.

“We handled it. Mostly your father — he’s, well, you know how he is.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Your mother eyed you. “When did you become so uninterested in what happens to you, darling? You used to call your father if you got religious scripture —“

“Shouldn’t it be wrong to send that to someone’s home instead of finding other creative ways to advertise? Who wants to join an indescribable society without merit and has no name?”

“My point,” she interrupted before you could get riled up, “is that you haven’t been . . . You. Not for a while.”

“Well, my husband died.”

Your mother gasped your name out, slamming her cup on the table in shock. You stared back at her with a weak shrug. “It’s true. I’m trying to . . . I don’t know, Mother. Rekindle my desire to live?”

“Then go to the doctor!” she cried, and you paused to note the look of desperation in her gaze, “Come home to your father and I while you recover — you know we’d take care of you. But please, sweetheart, something isn’t right about this woman.”

“You don’t even know her,” you snapped. Then you breathed out, startled at your own tone. You gathered yourself, your thoughts, and said, “She’s my only friend. My neighbors aren’t kindly women, Mother.”

“Have you asked her anything of value?” she demands. “How she came to be widowed? What year she got married? How they met?”

“Why are you so suspicious of her? Do you think she’s a commie? I assure you, Mother,” you bit out, “after the death of her husband she’s never been more drawn to this countries’ ideals.”

“No.” Exasperated, the woman who looked so much like yourself leaned back into the shiny leather booths and rubbed her temple. “Mister Howards did a check on Miss Vidal’s records.”

“Mother, you didn’t.”

“She was never married,” she blurted once again, cutting you off from whatever it is you began to say.

You sat in frozen silence, shock more than anything coating you like a wet blanket. “W-what?”

“Rio Vidal has a completely blank canvas, sweetheart,” your mother told you, eyes softening when she took in your expression, “and I’m afraid that means that no records indicate she was ever married, much less to a man in the service.”

2024

You flipped the page of the current cookbook and steadied it on the stand, dropping a few chives into the soup you were prepping.

You almost destroyed the kitchen in a fury when you saw perfectly tailored apron that you always eyed in the store hanging on the hook near the back door.

You settled for dumping out Rio’s beers instead and getting to work. She allotted you as much time in the kitchen as you requested — but the knives you used were somehow spelled to never turn against her no matter how hard you tried. They would be come heavy in your hands and eventually disappear when you grew defeated.

You had an entirely different plan for her instead of stabbing her to death. Less messy and a lot more manageable in terms of sneaking it into dinner.

You didn’t know if you could kill Death — but you sure as shit would try. She’s kept you cooped up for no less than three weeks so far and any and all attempts were met with mockery and depending on her mood, you facedown and fucked into oblivion.

You hated it.

Fuck.

You emptied your brain for now to keep your attention focused on making this dinner as heavily flavored as possible. You tipped in a little wine for extra flavor, even, and took a giant gulp from the bottle yourself.

You set the table and poured wine for both of you. Your hands shook despite yourself and your body was stiff. You folded napkins just as perfectly as your mother had taught you and set the silverware in order.

You served each bowl a helping of the soup.

At the last second before you knew she would be walking through the door, you opened the box of rat poison and dumped all of the contents in and stirred carefully and hoped there was one thing that could defeat Death.

Your desperation — it was making you sloppy. Perhaps if you had waited it out longer and thought about it you would have decided that fucking rat poison wouldn’t work on her.

But it didn’t cross you — not when you could feel the subtle shift of the invisible chain around your throat that dug in anytime you inched too close to the property line. Not when you tried to make a new design for the rooms and ended up in bed for hours for thinking you could try to enjoy this life again.

Never. Again.

She came in through the garage door with a flourish. For whatever reason you couldn’t grasp, she wore suits when she left and came home as though she were going to a normal nine to five job instead of reaping souls for her jars of whatever the fuck she did with them.

She strides through the house, calling your name and finding you waiting at the table with a fake smile plastered to your face and your chin resting on your palm as you greeted her.

“What a sight,” she drew out as she took her jacket off and slung it over her chair before rounding the table, “and what a beautiful dinner, too,” she added, finger lifting your chin. You let her guide you into a soft kiss, playing your role until you could unleash yourself entirely.

“Mm,” you said, then spread a hand out. “I made something new. It may not be up to my normal standards, considering.”

Rio eyed you curiously as she undid her sleeve cuffs and sat down across from you. Steam was still rising from the bowl and she stretched her arms out to allow her sleeves to ride up.

“I am sure that whatever you’ve made will be as delicious as the things you’ve made ten times before.” She went for the glass of wine first, so you followed in suit.

For once you started to feel like the lioness stalking her prey rather than the prey itself. You knew for sure that Rio could sense your observant gaze — how you kept attention to her over the rim of your wine glass and as you twirled and sipped at your soup.

It sparked curiosity and perhaps even a little suspicion from her end of the enchantment she had on you. Good. It was your turn to play a game with rules she couldn’t possibly follow.

“What did you do today?” she asked, setting the glass down and going to grab the spoon laid pointedly out instead. Dipped into soup, lifted to a mouth.

You smiled as she sipped it, and said casually, “Oh I didn’t get up to much. The house is quiet even with Billy around to keep company. Too big. I pulled some weeds from the garden and harvested some vegetables.”

“Did you now.” Dark swirls of magic in her eyes — an illusion to keep you from reading her. You hated that she used it so often.

“Mm.” You ran your finger around and around the rim of your wine glass. “I think a dog would be nice too. More company and would be enough to keep me busy.”

“A dog,” Rio echoed as she ingested a second sip of soup. “I thought you hated dogs.”

“Until I learned they hated you. Now I think one would be rather nice.”

Eyes locked across the table, and a small smile formed. “My angel wants a dog. As if it would protect you from me.”

Silence filled the room as you prepared for a standoff. Something about her demeanor had grown darker and more pronounced than when she stepped through the door — and if Rio knew you a hundred ways you knew her at least ninety-nine.

She knew.

She finished the entire bowl and let the spoon fall with a clang into it, leaning back into her chair to finish her wine. “Angel, what a delicious meal. I was worried I would never get to taste your cooking again. It’s one of the ways I can understand how you’re feeling without invading you with my. . . Abilities. Your cooking is your tell.”

You held your glass loosely in hand, allowing your features to come across as lazy and uninterested despite feeling as though a bloody battle were about to ensue. You lay your chin on the top of the back of your hand holding the glass.

“Oh?” you say, pretending curious reactions to keep her talking. She would be gone by now if the poison had worked, so you could only hope she couldn’t have tasted it. “What did this meal tell you about me tonight, then?”

Rio takes one of her index fingers and runs it along the inside of the bowl until it comes back with remains. She sticks it onto her tongue and leans forward as if to tell you a secret.

“It means, angel, that tonight you gambled with Death and you were feeling bold and tried something new and out of your usual style. So fucking bold that you thought a mortal poison — a weak one at that — would destroy me.” Something deadly and calm crossed her face, but the smile was something you’ve only seen a few times on her, “I am no rat, angel. All you’ve done tonight is play a little game I indulged in.”

Blood filled your ears. You could hear your heartbeat so fucking loud and you were drowning in the thickness of it.

Then pain pulled you out of it as quickly as it forced you in. You jumped, turning and realizing you’d broken your glass. Wine mixed with blood as shards of glass struck deep into your skin.

The pain didn’t do much to douse the fire that was your rage, your upset, your years of distress.

It lit them all up like gasoline on a volatile fire. You slammed your bloody fist onto the table and shoved it into Rio, who grunted in surprise as her hands flew up to catch it before it rammed into her abdomen.

“I am not your plaything for you to amuse yourself with when you’re bored and can’t find Agatha to annoy,” you spat, shoving the chair with your foot and causing the table to inch deeper into her palms. “I will find a way to destroy you — collar or not.”

Something you said was wrong, or perhaps the way you said it. One moment she was shocked and even bemused at your explosion and next she shoved the table back into your direction. You had to leap out of the way with the speed in which she had kicked it.

Glass and silverware went flying as the table slammed into the entryway and wall, shattering into broken pieces. A piece from one of the bowls snagged your cheek but the pain was minuscule and you grabbed the empty pot from the sink and threw it at her.

“You’re fucking pathetic, sweetheart.” Rio whipped her hand out and caught the pot with a swirl of dark green. She twisted her fingers and you watched in despair as the object was crumbled like a ball of paper and tossed out the window behind you.

You ducked for cover and cursed viciously as she crunched through broken plate ware and kicked aside table-legs for good measure in case you got any ideas.

She knelt down before you and wrapped her hand around the back of your neck tenderly, caressing the spot where her sigil hummed the loudest when she was near.

"You are my only focus now," she told you calmly, then grinned as though sharing a joke, "As long as we don't count the soul-reaping I do. But that's not really something I can simply give up, I'm afraid. I will admit I was impressed by your sad attempt at freeing yourself from me that I rewarded you with . . . enclosed freedom. I decided to decrease the size of your enclosure, really, is all I did. You never left me."

You bared your teeth at her in a meek attempt at having some sort of shield from her mocking. Blood dribbled into your mouth, between your teeth, and soaked into your tongue.

"I will never be complicit to this again," you spat at her. You hoped the droplets wouldn't wash out of her pants. She ignored the staining as though it were a common occurrence. "You can't make me happy, Rio. All of this -- from the day we met -- has been built on a lie that has crumbled around you. You aren't lovable."

The pressure suddenly eased as Rio seemed to process what you said to her. You had hoped to hit a weak spot and get her angry enough to back off, but her next response was the exact opposite.

"If I cannot make you love me," she whispered, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to your ear, then your jaw, "then I will give you a part of me that you have absolutely no choice but to love. Much better than a dog."

Dread slapped you across the face as Rio pulled back and snapped her fingers.

You were out before you could process her statement entirely.

You awoke in the bedroom under the cool sheets. You had a distinct throbbing in your head that reminded you of drinking too much or pulling an all-nighter during the nineties when you went to college for the first time.

You sat up slowly to prevent the increase of pain and crossed your arms when the sheets fell. You were naked -- entirely fucking naked -- and there was no evidence of any indication of Rio being around while you were out.

You trembled when you went over the events of the night. The alarm clock said it was five in the morning -- dinner had been at six. you slept for eleven hours straight . . . or were kept in a controlled state of unconsciousness by Rio until she could decide what to do with you.

As if summoned by your loud thinking, the door opened and in came Death herself. She looked rather stern as if you had started a stupid, petty fight and were at fault for it.

You wanted to wring her neck.

She took your silence in, the hostile expression, and swaggered on over to the bed like it was an invitation rather than a warning. She was wearing a silk robe and on closer inspection you noted her wet hair was in a bun.

"Did you get the tantrum out of you?" she asked casually, leaning over to turn on the bedside table lamp.

You curled your lip at her like a tethered animal that's been cornered and whipped.

"Because, you see," she continued, undoing the belt of her robe and letting it slide off her shoulders to reveal nothing but her prone form underneath, "I've decided that despite your outburst to give you a gift."

"I do not want," you breathed, finding leverage and support in the sheets keeping you covered, rage now leaking into your every word, "any gift you think to offer me. I don't want it. Fuck off."

Rio sat down next to you with a pout as she revealed a green rose in perfect beauty to you. "From my own personal gardens. It grew and died for you, my love."

The phantom sting from your thumb where one of her roses had cut you when you first saw one of those damned things in years made you fist the mattress underneath the comforter and sheets covering you.

"I am tired of things dying for me."

And suddenly a palm was on your forehead, shoving it down onto the soft, feather-stuffed pillows as Rio flung a leg over your waist and leaned over you. "Well, isn't that just too bad?" she murmured. "I don't get your love, and you don't get to stop those that lose their lives in your place. A pity all around."

You tried to ignore her, dragging your eyes upward to the ceiling instead as tears threatened to rise. You were so fucking tired -- of her, of living like this, of fighting.

"You're going to make me feel good in return for that stunt you pulled during dinner," Rio told you in a matter-of-fact tone, not minding you not keeping focus on her as she ripped the protection off your body and allowed the cold to sweep over your skin. "And after, I'm going to give you something I've only ever given to one other person."

You did not follow the line of discussion, the branching topic she wiggled in front of you like meat on a string. You told her you did not want it because her gifts always came with unspoken implications.

She moved suddenly and quickly, her body moving upward until she was hovering over your upturned face and she reached a hand down to run fingers through your hair. "Remember to breath, angel," she purred and then lowered herself onto you. Then she tugged when she got no initial reaction, “You’re gonna touch me, sweetheart. Go on. Don’t make it worse for yourself.”

Even as your tongue began to lick upward on instinct, you debated with yourself on biting her. Hard.

She’d probably only be mildly irritated at most and take it as a challenge rather than an attempt to get her off of you.

Your hands shakily reached up instead and with one hand you dug fingers mercilessly into the meat of her hip while a second hand scrunched between you two so you could thrust two fingers upward at the same time as your tongue entered her.

Rio released a moan that was breathy and sweet in essence as her thighs took form around either side of your head. You felt the headboard move and figured she was grabbing onto it with her other hand.

“Fuck — you still remember what I need, don’t you, angel? Good girls always remember even if they don’t want to,” she whispered in unsteady gasps as you found a rhythm. She kept herself from moving at first, instead using built up energy to dig nails into your scalp as your fingers thrusted upward while your tongue created tight friction.

Everything about her made you ache — down to the familiar smell of her and the way she twitched when you thrust slowly in the circular motion that she liked.

She was going back and forth from offering praise to you to being unable to form coherent words for some seconds when you let your teeth graze her clit every so often. Never enough for her to come.

“You’re being a tease,” she told you obviously, grip tightening with warning. However the grip faltered ever so slightly when you found the spongy tissue inside of her and added pressure. She fell into a low gasp and a knock against the headboard made you guess she had dropped her head on it.

“Fuck — right there. Yes, angel, keep going.”

You obeyed for a brief period in order to draw her closer to the edge. She was fiercely grinding her pussy down against your face now as she kept herself balanced.

Her thighs were beginning to twitch around your head and she was getting slicker by the moment. She was entirely vulnerable above you but you now knew not to make the mistake and think she didn’t have some sort of defense ready if you did something really stupid.

Just when you knew she would tip over is when you pull away, allowing your fingers to brush her g-spot one last time and sending her careening over that sharp edge. She let out a choked moan, surprised, as you abruptly removed all stimulation minus the forceful grinding she was giving you.

She panted above you but she didn’t sound satisfied like she usually does when she has an orgasm. She sounded wrung out, like reaching something with no payout.

“You have some goddamn balls,” Rio snarled, slipping away from your face and snatching it in her palm despite the wetness covering it. “You ruin my orgasm and think it’ll go any good for you?”

You stare her down with unwavering contempt. “You still came, didn’t you?”

“Oh, I’m loving this new part of you. The vile rage that seeps from your pores every second you’re around me,” she sneers as she wipes a trail of her slick from around your chin and shoves the appendage in your mouth.

You bite her finger but she does not flinch, does not blink. She only grins at you. “Oh yes, you wild little thing of mine. I am going to enjoy what I am going to do next. It will dampen that fire in your belly — or perhaps it will enrage you further. I cannot wait to see.”

You were grabbed so roughly you hardly at time to fight back. Arms and legs were rearranged and your face was shoved facedown into the pillows this time as fingers drifted gingerly down your spine.

“So pretty,” your captor mused, as if considering a piece of art in a museum. They trailed down even further until they brushed against the backs of your legs and angled them up so your knees and ass rose into the air. “Yes, angel, I’m going to want you to stay like this. Be my muse.”

“I will destroy your entire being,” you vowed as the magical directive took effect and your muscles relaxed without your consent. The weight of the bed lifted as Rio removed herself and murmured something under her breath.

“While you work on that, I think I’ll work on something else more productive,” she mused as she rejoined you a few moments later with her pelvis resting against the very bottom of your ass.

“You say a lot of words but speak such bullshit,” you snarled back, unable to move your hips an inch despite your attempts.

Rio laughed. “Fuck, I love you so much. Which is going to make this all the more fun.” And then you felt it sliding between the crevice where your cunt was.

“Absolutely not,” you jerked your upper body forward in desperation with no prevail, you were unable to get away. To make it worse she placed what she believed to be soothing hand on your now clammy back. “Rio — Rio, stop.”

She ignored you and tested you for wetness, and you were embarrassed at what she found when she sought it out. She leaned her body over your upturned hips and whispered, “So wet and yet you claim you want me to stop?”

“That’s how consent works, Rio,” you panted, jerking your shoulder but gaining no traction as she moved just out of reach in time. “I say stop and you stop.”

“I’m afraid that’s not in our contract, my love,” she sighed as she fingered the area around your neck and somehow managed to pull tight. Your airflow was restricted and you gasped out for air. “I own you entirely and have for a very long time. I decided you were mine the second I was called to take you away. I’m gladly taking others instead — and you’re granted a lifelong advantage on top of that. It’s time we add to it — don’t you think? Keep that destructive, wandering, little brain of yours busy will do wonders so I don’t have to dumb you down with my magic.”

She released you and your head fell back down as you gasped and inhaled for breath, fingers flexing into the sheets as dizziness swirled around you.

The tears started then. Rio crooned as she kissed gently down your back and entered you with an ease of a lover who actually cared would.

“Oh, angel, there is no need for those,” she murmured as she sucked bruises where each kiss was left. “Tears are a waste of your energy when considering why you’re crying.”

“Fuck you,” you sniffled, the emotions overwhelming you too much and your brain filled with an overload of pleasure chemicals to say much else.

“I’m so trying,” she promises followed by a very deep thrust. “Do you know what I’m doing, love? Why I chose to wear the cock?”

You didn’t answer her, too wrapped up in your own feelings to play her game and amuse her as she fucked you like her life depended on it.

“It’s because,” she continues like she was discussing the weather with you, “I’m going to breed you. I’ve put some thought into it — you’d be impressed how much time I spent thinking instead of acting on innate desires.”

Your body shuddered when the ridges of her specially designed cock rubbed your walls, followed by one of her arms reaching around so she could cup your breasts. “You never liked being bored, did you?” she grunted as she found a better angle and upped her speed.

You let out a sob-filled moan and suddenly you could move your hips again — and the first thing you found yourself doing was thrusting them back in time to meet her.

“Good girl,” she whispered, kisses lining your jaw, down your neck as she squeezed your breast and kept you in a constant state of physical overstimulation and unable to clearly think. “You’re doing so fucking good despite how fucking difficult you’ve been lately. That’s okay — we’re going to fix that aren’t we?”

Suddenly you were drawn upwards until you sat on her thighs, with her chest pressed against your back as she rolled her hips as deep as they would go and held you up with the arm holding your tits.

“I’m going to make sure you stay, angel. I’ve lost — I’ve lost too much already.” Through the fucked out haze you thought you detected despair and need within the tone she used — but she didn’t allow you long to process it as her other hand reached down and started rubbing your clit with harsh beats that met her thrusts.

“I’m going to — I’m going to give us a better life, okay?” she whispered just as the build up continued to grow with no possible escape in sight.

You gave in — at least for this — and closed your eyes and leaned your head back against her shoulder as she kept her pace violent and unyielding, seeming to have a goal to achieve.

It didn’t take much longer — not for you or Rio. Both of you were thrown into orgasms that had you rocking forward back down into the bed, your groan and gasps eroding away at any belief she would ever let you go.

A tingle that you came to associate with her use of magic started rippling across your skin like electricity until Rio stopped moving inside of you, growing briefly still.

You were shaking and trembling, biting your tongue so hard that blood filled your mouth as you contained your devastated cries and curled your legs into you.

Rio brushed some hair away from your neck and rubbed at your back in an effort to comfort you. Perhaps she thought you were overwhelmed in the way she was — you weren’t entirely sure ever what Rio thought most days.

“It’s going to be okay,” she tried to soothe, her touch like burning oil as you tried to flinch away from her. “Angel? I promise. It’s going to be okay. We’re going to be a family. I am Death. Nothing will take us away.”

But who was Death really when she was able to create life? The very thing Rio had once claimed was against her rules.

Rio and Reader will return in Part Three.

Taglist [ holy shit I remembered ]: @girlsgotissues ( it won’t let me tag u im so sorry )

PART THREE

[pandapetals]

Truth or Dare

logan howlett x fem!reader - x-men play never have i ever, drinking, fluff, teasing, truth or dare, flirting, no y/n used, no reader description

You and the X-Men play Never Have I Ever until it gets out of hand leading to you and Logan playing Truth or Dare.

read on Ao3

“This was a stupid idea,” Scott grumbled, taking a long swig of his beer and glaring around the room, earning an unimpressed look from Storm.

“This was your idea!” you shot back, smirking as you sat cross-legged on the floor of Storm’s room, a beer in hand. The entire team was gathered in a loose circle, acting like a bunch of teenagers playing party games. The latest one? Never Have I Ever. As expected, things had escalated quickly.

The first round had been tame enough—questions about embarrassing crushes and schoolyard antics. Then, of course, Logan had to go and drop a risqué bomb, shifting the game’s tone completely.

“Well,” Scott huffed, clearly flustered, “I didn’t sign up to be asked if I’ve ever kissed a guy.”

Logan chuckled, leaning back against the bed with an amused smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You don’t have to answer, Slim. Just drink if you have. Thought I was the old-school one around here.”

Scott rolled his eyes, taking another long sip of his beer. “It’s not the question,” he mumbled, clearly trying to avoid further embarrassment, “it’s just... I wasn’t expecting that.”

Jean, sitting beside Scott, gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder. “It’s just a game, Scott. No need to get worked up over it. If it’s too much, we can always switch to something else.” Her voice was gentle, but there was a glimmer of amusement in her eyes.

Logan, on the other hand, wasn’t about to let it slide. “Oh yeah? What about truth or dare?” he suggested, his smirk widening. He clearly knew how to push Scott’s buttons and was having way too much fun doing it. “Bet we’d get even better answers outta you.”

“No, no way. I’m not playing that,” Scott said quickly, a hint of panic creeping into his voice as he took another large gulp of his beer.

You couldn’t help but gasp dramatically, leaning forward with a mischievous grin. “Wait a minute—so does that mean you have kissed a guy, Scott?”

A few chuckles echoed around the circle, and Scott’s face turned an even deeper shade of red. “That’s not what I meant,” he muttered, clearly flustered.

“You’re awfully defensive, Summers,” Logan drawled, raising his beer bottle to his lips with a knowing look. “Kinda makes me wonder.”

“I’m not defensive,” Scott shot back, crossing his arms like a petulant child, but the blush creeping up his neck betrayed him. “I just don’t feel like discussing... things.”

Storm, sitting next to you, raised an eyebrow, her lips curving into a small, amused smile. “You don’t have to discuss it, Scott. That’s the whole point of the game. You either answer or you drink.”

Scott muttered something under his breath, and everyone shared a knowing glance. Jean gave him a supportive nudge. “It’s really not that big of a deal.”

He sighed, reaching for his beer again. “Yeah, well, still not talking about it.”

“Looks like that’s a yes,” you teased, giving Scott a playful nudge with your elbow. “Don’t worry, Scott, we’re all very open-minded here.”

Logan chuckled lowly, clearly enjoying Scott’s discomfort. “Hey, no shame in it, bub. You’re not gonna hear any complaints from me.”

Scott groaned, rubbing his temples. “Can we move on to something else now? Please?”

“Sure,” Jean said with a smile, always the peacemaker. “Logan, why don’t you go next?”

Logan’s eyes gleamed mischievously as he leaned forward, clearly not about to let things calm down just yet. “Alright, alright. Let’s keep it interesting.” He paused for dramatic effect, glancing around the room. “Never have I ever... hooked up with someone from the team.”

The air in the room immediately shifted. You could feel the heat rise to your cheeks as you tried not to react, but Logan’s eyes flickered toward you for just a second too long, that smug, knowing smirk never leaving his face.

The silence stretched for a moment before Storm, always calm and collected, raised an eyebrow and lifted her drink to her lips with a small, measured sip. Jean, on the other hand, looked slightly flustered while taking a sip. Scott seemed too focused on his own embarrassment to catch the weight of the moment.

Logan’s gaze lingered on you, waiting, watching. His smirk widened when he noticed you hadn’t moved yet.

You huffed, feeling the tension rise as everyone’s eyes started darting between the two of you. “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

“Just curious,” Logan said, his voice casual, but the glint in his eye said otherwise. “You got somethin’ to confess?”

You narrowed your eyes at him, your heart racing despite yourself. “Oh, please. I don’t kiss and tell,” you quipped, raising your beer and taking a slow, deliberate sip just to prove a point.

A chorus of “Ooooohs” echoed around the room, and you felt your face grow hotter as Logan let out a low, amused chuckle.

“Damn, didn’t expect that,” Scott muttered, looking genuinely shocked for the first time all night.

Logan gave you a knowing grin, his eyes never leaving yours. “Good to know.”

You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the way your pulse quickened under his gaze. “Your turn’s over, Logan. Someone else ask a question before this gets out of hand.”

Storm, ever the voice of reason, shook her head with a smirk. “I think it’s already out of hand.”

Jean laughed softly. “Well, it’s certainly more interesting than grading papers.”

You snorted, glad for the distraction. “I’ll drink to that.”

The night went on, with the tension ebbing and flowing between lighthearted fun and moments of charged silence whenever Logan’s eyes lingered on you a little too long. The banter was playful, but beneath the surface, you could feel the unspoken energy between you and Logan simmering, neither of you willing to fully acknowledge it just yet.

The game was a dangerous one, and as the night wore on, you couldn’t help but wonder if something had shifted. If maybe, just maybe, there was more to Logan’s teasing than he was letting on.

By the time the beer was gone and the group had dispersed, you found yourself standing in the hallway with Logan. The others were heading off to bed, but Logan lingered, leaning casually against the wall, his arms crossed over his chest.

He gave you a sideways glance, that smirk still playing on his lips. “So... you gonna tell me who it was?”

You blinked, caught off guard by the question. “What?”

Logan straightened up, stepping closer, his eyes glinting with amusement. “Who was the lucky guy from the team, huh?”

You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms defensively. “Please, Logan. I wasn’t serious back there. I just didn’t like the way you were looking at me so I drank.”

He raised an eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-huh. Sure.”

You took a deep breath, feeling the tension between you two start to thicken again, the playful edge in his voice not enough to mask the heat beneath his words.

“And you, Logan?” you asked, stepping closer, challenging him. “You never drank either. So what’s your secret?”

Logan chuckled, his eyes darkening just a little as they met yours. “Guess you’ll have to keep playin’ to find out, darlin’.”

He gave you a wink, then turned and headed down the hallway, leaving you standing there, heart racing, wondering just how far this game was going to go.

You stood in the hallway for a moment, your heart still racing from the playful, heated exchange. Logan's words echoed in your head—Guess you’ll have to keep playin’ to find out, darlin’. He had left you standing there, that signature smirk of his teasing and inviting all at once.

Before you knew it, your feet were already moving, carrying you down the hall after him. There was something about the way Logan had challenged you, leaving things hanging in the air, that made it impossible to just let it go. He always knew how to push your buttons, but tonight? Tonight was different. Tonight, it felt like you were both daring each other to cross a line that had been drawn long ago.

You caught up with him just as he reached his room, his hand already on the door handle. “Logan,” you called out, your voice quiet but steady.

He turned, glancing over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow, clearly surprised to see you following him. “You lost, sweetheart?” he teased, leaning against the doorframe. “Storm’s room’s back the other way.”

You crossed your arms, feeling the familiar spark of tension between you ignite again. “We’re not done playing,” you said, your voice firmer than you expected.

Logan’s smirk returned, and his eyes darkened with something you couldn’t quite place. “That so?”

You nodded, stepping closer, your heart thudding in your chest. “Yeah. You still owe me an answer. Since the game was your idea, I think it’s only fair we finish it properly.”

Logan let out a low chuckle, his eyes never leaving yours as he pushed the door to his room open. “You sure you wanna keep playin’? I thought you were all talk back there.”

You swallowed, your pulse quickening at the way his gaze seemed to heat as he looked at you. “I’m serious,” you replied, stepping inside the room without hesitation.

Logan watched you for a moment, clearly weighing his options, before finally stepping in behind you and closing the door. The air in the room felt heavier, more intimate, as if the walls themselves knew what was going on between the two of you.

“Alright then,” Logan drawled, leaning back against the door, arms crossed over his chest. “What do you wanna know?”

You bit your lip, suddenly feeling the weight of the moment. You hadn’t really thought this far ahead—following Logan had been more of an impulsive decision, driven by a mixture of curiosity and something else you didn’t quite want to name. Now, standing here in his room, alone, the atmosphere between you had shifted from playful banter to something charged, electric.

“You never drank during that last round,” you said, your voice quiet but steady. “So, have you?”

Logan raised an eyebrow, his smirk never fading. “Have I what?”

You rolled your eyes, but there was a heat creeping into your cheeks that you couldn’t quite control. “Hooked up with someone from the team.”

Logan chuckled, pushing off from the door and stepping closer, his eyes never leaving yours. He stopped just a foot away, the space between you shrinking with every second. “Nah,” he said, his voice low, almost a rumble. “Never hooked up with anyone from the team.”

The way he said it made your pulse race. There was something in his tone, something suggestive that made your breath hitch.

“You don’t say?” you replied, trying to keep your voice steady, though you knew Logan could probably hear your heartbeat quickening.

He tilted his head, his eyes flicking over you with that same dark amusement. “Not yet, anyway.”

Your stomach flipped at his words, and you swallowed hard, trying to maintain some semblance of composure. It was hard—really hard—when Logan was standing this close, his presence so overwhelming, his scent of leather and faint aftershave filling your senses.

“Your turn,” Logan said, his voice a low rumble as he stepped even closer, his arm brushing lightly against yours. “You said earlier that you don��t kiss and tell. But I gotta ask... was that the truth? Or were you just tryin’ to get a rise outta me?”

You met his gaze, feeling the heat between you intensify with every passing second. “What do you think?”

Logan’s smirk deepened, his eyes darkening as they flicked down to your lips for a brief second before returning to your eyes. “I think,” he said slowly, his voice gravelly and low, “you’re a lot better at games than you let on.”

The tension in the room was palpable now, the air thick with something unspoken but undeniable. Your heart was racing, and you knew there was no backing out of this now, no pretending that the attraction between you was just harmless flirting. 

“Well,” you said, your voice soft, but steady, “if you’re so sure, maybe we should make things a little more... interesting.”

Logan’s eyes gleamed with intrigue, his smirk widening. “What did you have in mind?”

You stepped closer, closing the distance between you until you could feel the heat of his body, your breath mingling with his. “Truth or dare.”

Logan let out a low chuckle, his eyes gleaming with amusement and something darker, something that made your pulse race. “Alright. I’ll bite. Truth or Dare?”

You took a deep breath, feeling the quick thrum of your heart, each beat loud enough in your chest that you swore Logan could hear it. “Truth.”

Logan’s eyes darkened, narrowing slightly as he tilted his head. For a moment, he didn’t speak, just studied you, the silence between you thick with unspoken tension. His gaze, sharp and focused, flicked over your face, like he was weighing something, considering the space between you.

“Why’d you follow me up here?” His voice was low, rough around the edges, making the air in the room feel even smaller.

You swallowed hard, suddenly all too aware of how close you were to him. Close enough that you could feel the heat from his body, smell the faint mix of leather and smoke that clung to him. Close enough that you could reach out, close the distance, press your lips to his and give in to what had been simmering for months, just beneath the surface.

You held back, meeting his gaze, the weight of it pinning you in place. You gave him the only answer that felt true, even though it made your chest tighten.

“Because I didn’t want the game to end.”

Logan’s smirk softened, his eyes still locked on yours, a glint of something deeper flickering behind them. “Didn’t want the game to end, huh?”

You nodded, your throat tight, your heart racing faster now. “Not yet.”

The space between you hummed, alive with possibility. Logan’s gaze lingered, intense and unreadable, making your breath catch. The air seemed thicker, charged, as if the world around you had slowed down, waiting for something to break.

Then, slowly, deliberately, Logan reached out. His fingers brushed against your arm, a featherlight touch, but it was enough to send a shiver rippling down your spine. His hand lingered there, warm and steady, grounding you, but also igniting something deeper.

“Truth or Dare?” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath, struggling to sound steady while the tension swirled around you.

Logan’s lips twitched into a small smile—something teasing, yet dark. “Truth.”

“What are you so afraid of?” The words slipped out, quieter than you intended, but they hung there between you, heavy and unmovable.

Logan’s smirk faltered, the teasing glint in his eyes dimming slightly. He didn’t pull back, didn’t flinch, but you saw the way his jaw tightened, the way his fingers twitched at his side, like he was gripping onto something just out of your view.

There was a long pause, so quiet you could hear the faint creak of the floorboards as he shifted his weight.

“I ain’t afraid of much,” he said finally, his voice low, a little rougher than usual. But the way his eyes darkened told you there was more. Always more.

You tilted your head, stepping closer, closing just enough of the space between you that you could feel the warmth of his breath against your skin. "That’s not what I asked."

Logan’s gaze flickered to yours, his brow furrowing slightly as he took you in. His hand, still resting lightly against your arm, tightened just a little, as if he were grounding himself in the moment. The playful banter that usually filled the air between you was gone now, replaced by something deeper, something heavier.

For a moment, he didn’t answer. The quiet stretched between you, thick with tension, the kind that made your skin buzz, every nerve heightened. You didn’t push, didn’t fill the silence, just waited.

“I’m not afraid of fightin’, or losin’,” Logan murmured, his voice dropping to something rougher, more honest. “Not even dyin’. Hell, done that enough times already.”

His gaze lowered, but not before you caught the flicker of something vulnerable beneath the usual gruff exterior. It was fleeting, but it was there. His fingers traced a slow, absentminded line down your arm, the movement almost unconscious, but it sent a shiver through you all the same.

“What I’m afraid of,” he continued, his voice even quieter now, almost a growl, “is hurtin’ you.”

Your breath caught, your chest tightening at the rawness in his voice. It was rare, moments like this with Logan. Moments where he let down the walls, even for a second, and let you glimpse the man beneath the tough exterior.

"You won’t hurt me," you whispered, barely finding your voice. "I can handle it. I can handle you."

His eyes snapped back to yours, dark and searching, like he was trying to decide if you really meant it. If you really knew what you were saying.

“Don’t say that unless you mean it,” he muttered, his grip on your arm tightening just slightly, his thumb brushing over your skin in a way that made your pulse quicken. “You don’t know what you’re signin’ up for.”

You leaned in, the space between you almost nonexistent now. "I’m still here, aren’t I?"

Logan’s breath hitched, his gaze flicking down to your lips for just a split second before meeting your eyes again. There was something wild in his expression now, something barely restrained. You could feel the tension building, the unspoken question hanging between you like a live wire, waiting for someone to make the first move.

“Your turn,” Logan rasped, his voice a little more hoarse, filled with that dangerous edge that always sent a shiver down your spine. “Truth or dare?”

You swallowed, your pulse racing in your chest. “Dare.”

A smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth, but it wasn’t teasing this time. It was something darker, more intense, like the moment had finally caught up with him. His hand slid up your arm, settling on your shoulder, his thumb brushing lightly against your collarbone.

“I dare you to kiss me,” Logan said, his voice low and commanding, but there was something else behind it too—something vulnerable, like he was giving you an out, a chance to walk away.

Your breath hitched, and for a moment, time seemed to stand still. You could feel the heat of him, the steady rise and fall of his chest, the way his fingers gently brushed against your skin. Without thinking, you closed the gap, your lips meeting his in a slow, heated kiss.

Logan responded immediately, his hand slipping around your waist, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened. His lips were warm, soft but firm, and the way he kissed you was intense, as if he’d been waiting for this just as long as you had. The tension that had been building between you for months finally broke, and it was like a dam had burst.

The kiss grew hungrier, more urgent, and you found yourself pressing closer to him, your hands tangling in his hair as his grip on your waist tightened. Logan’s other hand cupped your cheek, holding you to him as if he never wanted to let go.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and flushed, Logan’s eyes were dark, his smirk gone, replaced by something far more intense.

“I think,” he murmured, his voice low and rough, “we’re just gettin’ started.”

You smiled, your heart still racing as you leaned in, your lips brushing lightly against his. “Good,” you whispered. “I like where this is going.”

[saphronethaleph]

Filing a P-90

“Young man, a few moments of your time?”

CT-0102 looked up, confused.

“...how so?” the trooper asked. “You’re, uh, if you want to talk, you can just talk. If you have orders, go ahead and give them. Ma’am.”

“I’d rather not force you to discuss something,” the elderly woman said, by way of explanation. “I was wondering if you had a perspective on… weapons.”

“Weapons,” 102 repeated. “I guess… I’ve been trained with them? Using weapons is my job, I mean? Does that count as an opinion?”

“It might,” the old woman said. “But I meant more the philosophy of why a weapon exists.”

She shrugged, one hand resting for a moment on a long box by her side. “And, in particular, whether a weapon’s design tells us something about what it’s meant for.”

“This is getting dangerously philosophical, ma’am,” 102 admitted. “It’s above my pay grade.”

“It’s not above mine, I think,” the woman told him. “If you don’t want to talk, say so. I give you that permission, if you need it. But what I mean is that, for example… a lightsaber is a Jedi’s weapon, and that means that it’s a weapon of defence and of decisive attack. A lightsaber in trained hands is able to both protect others and to bring a quick end to any fight, and the respect it earns from those who see it can prevent a fight in the first place… a blaster, meanwhile, well, it depends on the blaster, doesn’t it?”

“I suppose that’s true, ma’am,” 102 admitted, glancing up for a moment as the turbulence around the ship increased – for a moment, at least.

There wasn’t anything he could do about it, so he just shrugged.

“A small pistol is intended to be concealed,” the woman went on. “It’s a weapon of self defence, but it’s also a weapon for committing an unexpected crime. While a larger, more powerful pistol, that’s a weapon of intimidation. It’s bulky enough to be difficult to conceal, and it’s less accurate than a long weapon, so it’s for both scare tactics and bringing a battle to a quick end. So does that mean it’s like a lightsaber?”

102 considered that.

“Our training covered how to handle most weapons, but it didn’t really address the cultural side of things,” he admitted. “We mostly focused on weapons for once a fight is inevitable.”

“Quite,” the woman agreed – 102 hadn’t actually got her name at any point. “The long rifle, which is designed for military efficiency on a battlefield. Harder to conceal in civilian life, almost impossible in fact, but it’s more effective than most weapons on a battlefield… at least, until you start dealing with either larger targets that they simply can’t damage, or more confined spaces where you want a shorter weapon. They share the attribute of being practical.”

She looked at his eyes, through the helmet. “Isn’t that interesting?”

“I guess,” 102 said, not really sure how to react. “Why do you say that?”

The woman was silent for several seconds, and as she was CT-0102 heard over the battalion push that they were getting close to their deployment point.

“If you don’t mind, I’d prefer this gunship to take up an overwatch position,” the woman said. “I do apologize, I should have mentioned it sooner.”

She pulled the box over to her, and undid the latches, then paused before opening it.

“What about this description of a weapon?” she asked. “A weapon that is designed for killing?”

102 blinked.

“Aren’t… most weapons designed for killing?” he asked. “That’s why they’re weapons.”

“Not at all,” the woman replied. “As we’ve just discussed. Your rifle is designed for practical battlefield use. Weight, length, shot count, rate of fire, all these considerations went into making it. Many other weapons are shaped by different design constraints entirely – a hold-out pistol, or a large heavy blaster. A lightsaber. I’m talking about a weapon that isn’t designed for a fight at all. That isn’t designed to be seen. That’s meant to be used as sparingly as possible, because you’re only meant to use it in the very direst need.”

She pushed open the box, and revealed a kind of long weapon, perhaps a blaster and perhaps not. It looked archaic, with some of the furniture made of actual wood and the rest out of something 102 couldn’t even identify, and there were odd protuberances and glowing blue segments on it.

“For such a weapon, all other considerations would be secondary to lethality,” the woman said. “If they were involved at all. It’s not intended to be involved in a battle, where you try to defeat the enemy; it’s not intended for a warning shot. The only purpose is to kill, and it is only to be used when there is no better choice.”

She knelt down on the floor of their gunship, and a few seconds later the Commander called out the launch order. Their assault ship was passing over the target zone, and all the gunships deployed.

Below, 102 could see the desert, and the darting red shapes of Aethersprite starfighters giving them cover against Geonosian fighter craft. More gunships were deploying, blasts going left and right, and 102 grabbed onto the handles overhead with a free hand for stability.

The woman didn’t seem to notice.

Instead, she took something from her belt, and slotted it into the weapon. It lit up, and she tapped a few controls before snugging the stock of the weapon into her shoulder.

“It’s a shame, you know,” she said, almost conversationally. “He was a great friend of mine, once. I thought he still was, until recently.”

“Who was?” 102 asked.

“Dooku,” the woman answered, her voice slightly distracted. “Emotion, yet peace… my old friend, I do not do this for revenge, but to prevent a greater wrong.”

The strange weapon spat out a bolt of brilliant sky-blue light, one that was like a solid bar connecting their gunship to the ground, and the woman hesitated for a moment… then let out a sigh.

“May you find the peace in death that so failed you in life,” she said, in tones of quiet prayer.

“Sorry, but – did you just…” 102 asked.

“What the kriff was that?” the gunship pilot asked, over the comm connection.

“Well, you can view it in two ways,” the Jedi Master said, ejecting her lightsaber from the rifle and examining it. “No, three, I think. Firstly, that my lightsaber and I were united in the need for that to be done. Secondly, that Count Dooku was too great a threat to peace in the galaxy to live. And third…”

Jocasta Nu placed the rifle back in its box.

“Nobody messes with the Jedi Archives,” she concluded.

[mintedwitcher]

Maybe I should come off anon to have an actual conversation because I think what you said the whole them not committing to the effects of the Kim arc makes a lot of sense. Character assassination may have been a strong term for me to use but I think I meant it more in the terms of the fact that they kinda threw Kim there and did nothing with Eddie's character about it. Like okay yes, Chris goes away but that's it. And while that is the worst thing that can happen to a parent beyond their child actually dying, the show let's it fall flat. We get a bit of kinda depressed Eddie and the whole find joy priest thing, but for a plot point that could have been so interesting they fumbled it to the point of why even have it? Again I love the concept of the character Eddie Diaz. I have all these things I wish they did but they won't. Like the whole PTSD thing, that's a life long struggle and it's brought up once. They introduced the man by having him remove a grenade from a person outside of a war zone?!! HE WAS SHOT! AND THEY DID NOTHING!!! Sure we can write away he was expecting the grenade to go off he was prepared for it, even the helicopter when they introduced Taylor Kelly (who i also love, kinda wish they kept her around because Buck needs a friend who will tell him when his support system is being shitty and it's okay to be angry with the people he cares about and I feel like her and Tommy would have great bitch out sessions), dont even get me started on the whole fight ring thing. There was zero build up to that besides him punching one guy who definitely deserved it.

And I've lost the plot again. What you said about how they could have handled the Kim situation would have made great TV. And from a writers perspective I can understand why she was a good plot device but from a viewers it fell so flat and was disappointed.

Let me add another random topic. I feel like I would be so much more behind Buck and Tommy if they gave us even one scene with Tommy apologizing to Hen and Chim. As an audience we can assume since they reached out to him for help they must have made up at some point, and I understand the whole internalized homophobia and trying to fit in at the good old boys club had a heavy hand in what Tommy was like in the Hen and Chimney Begins episodes, but I just want one apology about how even if we dont see him activity participating in the whole old 118 being shitty to new people especially POCs, queer, and women how he acted was wrong, he'd probably actually move up to one of my favorite characters. Because god to I love how Lou plays that man, he sometimes does these small gestures or expressions that just scream he's a bitchy gay and it's so fun and at odds of what we usually see of gay men on TV because the man is built and very masculine and usually we only get twinks being the fun bitchy gays not the guy who is ex military and flies helicopters into hurricanes and plays pick up basketball with his buddies.

Sorry it seems your ask box has become my sounding board for my wayward 911 thought.

don't be sorry, I enjoy discussing this show. that being said, I'm gonna be as nice in my disagreements as possible right now.

This is going to get very long, and the first part of this is going to be entirely character meta/analysis, I'm ignoring every outside influence (writers/directors/etc) for the Eddie portion. The more technical side of things will come back into play when I get into your comments about Tommy. I'm going to try and touch on all of the things you mentioned in your ask, so buckle in. I'm gonna put this under a cut because it is obscenely long.

Eddie's PTSD is an undercurrent leading almost all of his character decisions.

He didn't have a visceral reaction to the grenade in the moment, because he was under pressure. He had to stay calm in that moment, triggers be damned. He had no other option. If he had panicked, if he had reacted negatively in any way, it would've made the entire situation - in which he had not one but two people relying on his expertise - so much worse. We don't know how he reacted after the fact, when he was alone, because we don't see it. It's also very possible that grenades simply don't trigger him.

The helicopter, as well. It's very possible that it's not a trigger for him, OR that he's already compartmentalised that particular trauma. It could be context dependent - Taylor Kelly's helicopter went down, yes, however, Eddie wasn't involved in the crash, only the rescue, so he might have been able to separate that from his personal trauma. Same as the grenade; he had civilians (non-military) relying on him to remain calm, to use his expertise effectively. Compartmentalisation is an incredibly important skill, and Eddie seems - at least at first - to have a very good grasp of it.

However, there are only so many traumas a person can take before the cracks begin to show.

There was, actually, a lot of lead-up to Eddie joining that fight club. Shannon, and all the baggage she represented. The insecurity of his relationship with her, the resentment he still held for her leaving, the hope of reconciliation, the pain of having that hope crushed three-fold: first, she wasn't pregnant, second, she wanted a divorce, third, she died in front of him. That is a LOT to handle in a VERY short amount of time. In canon, all of those events take place in under 24 hours. It's hit after hit after hit. This is where his decline starts.

Then, his best friend is crushed by a ladder truck, and Eddie has to watch from the sidelines, unable to help. That would have been a triggering event for him, too, calling back to his last ride with the Army. Buck was pinned, in the "line of fire" as it were, and Eddie was unable to help. There was nothing he could do until the bomber was contained and the threat eliminated. Again, we don't know how he reacted to it once he was alone, because we didn't get to see that, but we can imagine how traumatic that must have been.

Then, the tsunami. Even though he was unaware of Chris and Buck's involvement for most of the day, he still had to spend hours performing search and rescue. He likely came across dozens of corpses over the course of that day, which - no matter how well-adjusted you are - would leave an emotional bruise. And then, of course, at the end of that exhausting, emotionally draining day, Eddie finds Buck. And he finds out that both Buck and Chris were on the pier when the tsunami hit. And he realises that Chris isn't with Buck now. There is a moment there, where Eddie truly believes that his son is dead. Words cannot express clearly enough just how much agony Eddie would have experienced in that moment, especially so soon after Shannon's death. And then the emotional whiplash of having Chris turn up, alive... honestly it's a miracle that Eddie didn't fully break down right then and there.

But you see, all of this trauma compounded on top of each other. Shannon, Buck, Chris, every single hit that Eddie has taken since joining the 118, all of it has built on top of each other, and he's never taken the necessary steps to counter it. He knows he has PTSD, but he doesn't go to therapy for it. So all of this has been building up on him for over a year, without an outlet or healthy coping mechanisms in place to help carry that burden.

That was the build up. The guy in the parking lot was just the first piece of the dam breaking free.

Then Lena introduced him to her hobby: street fighting. She used it to blow off steam, to have fun. She had no way of knowing just how close to breaking Eddie really was, so she wasn't expecting him to latch onto it the way he did. But Eddie took what could have been a healthy hobby - if paired with extensive therapy - and turned it into a necessity. More cracks in the dam, to continue the metaphor; more leaks springing free, with no way to plug it back up. Then the money came into play, and Eddie got hooked. He could fight, and get paid well for it? He could use this to provide for his son? Sold. Another crack.

Until he nearly killed a man during a match, and he had to step back and realise, finally, that the dam was breaking and he was in the tidal path.

But even then, he had to be mandated by his employer to seek help. Because Eddie had been raised with the mentality that men did not need therapy, that therapy was 'admitting weakness' - he was raised steeped in toxic masculinity, and that has shaped every single decision he has made regarding his own life. His stint in therapy is short-lived - only so long as the mandated sessions continue - and then he leaves and never looks back. The dam is patched, he claims, even if it's just with duct tape and chewing gum.

Eddie doesn't effectively deal with his trauma, and so it continues to build up. He's just gotten better at ignoring it, shoving it aside, focusing on the better parts of his life - in this case, his son, his job, his best friend, and his new girlfriend, Ana.

Then the pandemic happens. Even more trauma to add to the list. He has an immunocompromised son, so he can't even be inside his own house for a good few months; he stays with Buck instead, until it's safe for him to return home. His son is struggling with the isolation of the pandemic, not being able or allowed to see his friends, or his caregivers, or his own family, because of the risk factor. Eddie, losing himself in the 'better' parts of life, decides to be spontaneous and Bold, and tries to introduce another person into Chris's life without taking his son's own trauma and insecurities into account.

He's operating on the stance that, well, any day could be his last. He could lose Chris in a freak accident, or he could die on the job, or he could screw up so badly that his parents come and take Chris from him. So he throws caution - and good sense - to the wind. This is common for people like Eddie. He's survived terrible traumas, he's finally happy, and so that happiness must be shared, because it could all disappear in the blink of an eye if he doesn't grab it with both hands.

And he very nearly does lose it all when the well collapses on him.

Eddie is happier, but he's no less traumatised. He still hasn't addressed his past, his grief, his fears, and those are all still building in the background. But he's determined not to care about them.

Which is why the shooting is so jarring.

He was helping, he was doing his job, he was saving someone, and he got shot on home soil. This is another major triggering event, far more similar to his last ride with the Army than anything else he's faced so far. Those "patched" cracks start leaking again.

Again, much of the recovery is glossed over, but that doesn't mean that the trauma isn't still affecting him. As mentioned above, he's gotten very good at ignoring his own trauma.

This is compounded, again, when he and Buck are taken hostage. And again, when he finally talks to Chris. His own son saying that he doesn't want him to die is another crack. Eddie quitting his job is another crack. Eddie losing his sense of self in Dispatch is another crack.

Eddie learning the fates of his former Army teammates is the TNT that brings the dam down completely.

Eddie has been carrying years of guilt and grief and pain and trauma, compounded endlessly and ever-growing behind his nice little wall of denial, but now he has no choice but to face it. Drown in it.

He breaks, properly, for the first time. His PTSD is unmanaged and unmanageable, his trauma is far heavier than he expected it to be, and he's been so busy pretending that he's fine, that he hasn't noticed the detonator in his hands the entire time.

He finally, finally, realises that he needs to seek help on his own terms. He can't be mandated into it, he can't be dragged, he has to take that step on his own, and it's one of the hardest things he's ever had to do, but he does it anyway. Because he knows he can't keep carrying all of that weight forever alone. He needs help, so he finally goes to seek it out.

All of this is an extremely long winded way of saying: the show does, has done, and continues to carry Eddie's PTSD, even if it's not explicitly mentioned on screen all of the time. It doesn't need to be. It's an omnipresent shadow looming over him at all times. Sometimes it's lighter, sometimes it isn't, but it's always there.

Which actually, helpfully, leads me to my next point: Tommy.

An on-screen apology is entirely unnecessary. It's been made clear already through character interactions (as far back as season two) that Tommy has mended his fences with both Hen and Chimney. If you want to see something like that depicted on screen, you'll have to rely on fanfic, because this is not that kind of show. We don't need to be shown every time a relationship is changed or repaired. We're also never shown Chimney apologising to Buck for punching him, does that mean that their relationship wasn't repaired? No, obviously not, they're in a good place now, and it's clear that what happened between them is water under the bridge. The exact same can be said here.

Tommy also wasn't nearly as bad as the fandom makes him seem. He makes two offhanded, poorly thought-out comments in both Hen Begins and Chimney Begins, but by the time Bobby Begins Again happens, he's already on friendly terms with them both. They go out drinking together, they make bets together, Hen and Chim organised a going-away party for him when he transferred stations. It's very clearly presented to us that Tommy has changed his behaviour in the time between Hen Begins and Bobby Begins Again. So why do we need to see him apologise? Through context clues and on-screen interactions, we can see that they're on good terms. Is that not enough? Would Hen or Chimney willingly remain friendly with someone who still exhibits bigoted behaviours? Should we not at the very least, trust these two incredibly intuitive characters to be able to make a judgement call regarding Tommy?

I'm not saying any of this to be rude to you, nonnie, but I do want you to consider carefully why you think it matters more to see Tommy apologise - and what level of apology you would "accept" - rather than to believe what the characters have shown us, which is that Tommy changed, made amends, and is on good terms with almost all of the original 118. Hen likes him, Chimney likes him (enough to keep his number even a decade after Tommy left the 118, by the way), Bobby likes him. Eddie and Tommy click almost immediately when they met. So, with all of that to be considered - and knowing Tommy's own recounting of that time, where he openly admits that he was a worse person under Gerrard as the 118's captain - what do you genuinely expect an on-screen apology to provide?

If you do want to come off anon, I do have my DMs open. If you'd rather continue like this, that's fine by me as well. I only ask that you consider everything I've said here. I'm sorry this got SO long, but Eddie's trauma is a very long topic, and I only covered seasons 2-5.

(This response has taken me an hour to write, so please, please, consider it carefully. I've been as neutral as possible despite my opinions on Eddie and Tommy, respectively, and there's a lot to cover in all of that. Sorry this got so absurdly long, but I'm looking forward to continuing this conversation, in any format you choose.)

[cripplecharacters]

Hi there, i have a character in my original story who is blind, specifically because he lost both eyes (one from injury, one from infection at birth). However, he doesn't have access to prosthetic/glass eyes as he lives in a secluded group of warriors. I've been drawing him with a blindfold to protect from infection, but upon reading your posts about eye coverings on blind characters, i'm unsure if this is offensive or not, but i also can't think of a good alternative other than going bare. He is a warrior, so i don't think glasses would stay on for very long, but i'm wondering if maybe goggles would work? Hes not the only blind character i have (one of the others is a born-blind cane user who does not wear glasses) but i still don't want to misrepresent or spread misinformation. Any help would be appreciated, thanks

Hello!

@blindbeta has an excellent post on the subject, which I'll link here [Link].

In your character's case, the cover would serve more for protecting their eyes and less for photophobia or other sensitivities. One of the points that's mentioned heavily in the post is to ask why your character is using a cover for their eyes.

In this case, you've already answered that question. Your character needs to protect their eyes from infection and further damage but doesn't have the option of prosthetics and glasses are inconvenient and could fall off or get in the way.

That being said... wouldn't a blindfold also get in the way?

A blindfold would be more of a problem in combat than a pair of glasses with a strap securing them. A blindfold gives his opponent another way to grab onto him (Think of ponytails) or something else to get caught on.

Also, if the goal is preventing infection, a blindfold would do the opposite here. Fabric is notorious for encouraging the growth of bacteria, fungi, and other microorganisms. When it's pressed up against your character's eye sockets while they're fighting and sweating, it's also creating a very humid and moist environment.

Back when I was still rock-climbing and would go blindfolded, the blindfold would become gross and sweaty after just a few rounds. I don't even want to think about how it would have been after a day of fighting and adding in the blood and other fluids that would be on it. This can be especially problematic if your character is living in a secluded place where he may not be able to properly wash the blindfold as often as needed.

In general, the goggles (Or a pair of secured glasses) may be a better way to go. They'd be less of a liability in combat and be much more effective at preventing infection than a blindfold would be. There's also the fact that they would be much easier to clean if it ends up being necessary.

Now, you didn't specifically ask about this but I would just like to point out that prosthetic eyes aren't just used for preventing infection. Prosthetic eyes allow you to maintain the function of your eyelid and ensures that your eye socket keeps its shape. Depending on your character's circumstances, this may or may not be a concern for them.

Regardless, I'd definitely suggest looking into this and giving it some thought if you haven't.

Here's a few links to get you started:

A brief article discussing the benefits of prosthetic eyes.

An article that talks about prosthetic eyes in general. It also includes some brief information on prosthetic eyes in the past, which may be of interest to you.

Some FAQs about prosthetic eyes. Most of this is more specific to the current prosthetics offered but has some general info as well.

If you haven't done so already, I'd also advise checking out the linked post from @blindbeta since it has some excellent information about the specific trope.

Cheers,

~ Mod Icaus

[shalfeis]

I really like your hsr character as a cat can you do the other way around?

Like reader as their cat 👀?

cat!reader x astral express

possible ooc

The Astral Express often travels to a variety of places and planets, and it's no secret that the crew finds interesting curiosities, things, and so on from time to time. Or the residents themselves bring unusual items as a thank you.

Actually, this time you and the other crew members helped one merchant, and he showered you with thanks and gave you a whole box of various cool things.

Some were very ordinary and nondescript, others were a little more interesting. But what caught your attention the most was an amulet with a blue gemstone. Surprisingly, it perfectly matched your image, as if it was originally made especially for you.

You calmly walked with him all day and at some point began to feel strange. The last thing you remember is going to your room. You woke up on the floor, fumbling with your paws and meowing, instead of talking normally.

What happened next?

March 7 was the first to discover that you were missing. Although, like, she was just walking towards you, as you had agreed to spend the night, and found you. At first she didn't understand where the cat was coming from on board the train, but from your desperate attempts to explain and reactions, she guessed what was what.

She thinks you're charming. She didn't stop chirping about how cute you were and took a whole bunch of photos non-stop. You're afraid that the camera might run out of memory. And when she heard you meowing and purring softly from her caresses, that's it, March grabbed the blow. It's too charming.

Caelus didn't help either. He flew into March's room, saying something about trash and a recently released game along the way, and fell silent when he saw you. After a moment of hesitation, he joined March. Caelus wouldn't be Caelus if he didn't tease you and act like you're really a cat instead of a human in a cat's body.

Of course, it was fun with these two, but this situation started to bother you. I would like to get my original body back. But you couldn't not take advantage of your situation. So while March and Caelus were distracted by an argument about some nonsense, you slipped through the door and headed for the only sane person on the express.

To whom? That's right, to Dan Heng. Since Himeko and Welt were away because they were away on business, you could only count on him.

You prayed to find him in the archive, and fortunately, the eons heard you. He was sorting through the data when you snuck into his room. You gently touched his hand, and he was surprised to find a cat in his room.

- Hmm? Hmm, I don't remember that we took animals on an express train - Dany picked you up and began to examine you.

It didn't take him long to put two and two together and realize that you were in front of him.

Before he could come up with a plan of action, Caelus and March 7 came to him with a very guilty look, crying that they had lost you. However, they quickly calmed down when they saw you in Dan Heng's arms.

- Y/n, that's not fair! We almost had a heart attack! - Caelus looked offended and relieved at the same time.

- Exactly! You need to warn us before you go anywhere in this state! - March was indignant, although she gradually calmed down that you were okay.

You, as is typical of a cat, turned away from them, wagging your tail. I also made myself more comfortable at Dan Heng's. The three of you started a playful altercation, which caused the archivist to smile slightly. He was definitely enjoying this situation.

After calming down, they began to discuss what to do. Having made the most reasonable decision, Dan Heng contacted that merchant and began to ask about this amulet. As it turned out, he did not think that there was still energy in the amulet, so he gave it as a gift. Fortunately, the amulet's effect doesn't last longer than a day, so all you have to do is wait.

Although, sitting back and doing nothing is too boring, isn't it? That's what you thought, and you decided to have a pajama party in Dan Heng's room (not that he was against it). After a few hours, you were completely exhausted and fell asleep.

Upon returning to the train, Himeko and Welt found the four of you sleeping with your arms around each other. They giggled and decided not to wake you up, quietly going to another place to discuss a recent trip.

a/n: I thought it would be a bit boring to write as reader is a cat of the characters, as I did before, only the other way around, so this came out.

[cosmerelists]

Bridge 4 Discuss Terrible Pickup Lines

As (sort of) requested by @dewypeach and @imtheseventh

So back when @cam-ulu29 asked for a Kaladin flirting list, I ran a poll about whether it should be a sincere, sweet list or a list full of terrible, out-of-character pickup lines. The former won by a MILE, but some people were interested in the latter. Dewypeach & imtheseventh in particular suggested doing something with Bridge 4 either suggesting terrible pickup lines or having Kaladin try them out. So here's something like that!

Skar: Worst pickup lines you can come up with. Go.

Lopen: I suggested one for Kaladin, but it wasn't terrible--it was really good. He acted like it was terrible, though--does that count?

Kaladin: It WAS terrible.

Kaladin: And...weird.

Kaladin: I'm not going to flirt with Dalinar. He is my boss. And married. And old.

Lopen: So what I said, right, was that Kal should look Dalinar right in the eye, all serious-like, and say, "My relationship with my father is terrible. Will you be my new Daddy?"

Moash: [spits out drink]

Skar: No!

Lopen: Listen, it would work! I can read a man, and I KNOW that would work on Dalinar!

Kaladin: I DON'T WANT TO FLIRT WITH DALINAR, MY MARRIED ELDERLY BOSS

Lopen: Okay, okay! If you prefer to flirt with Navani, you just gotta roll up with something like, "So I heard you like long, thick towers. It just so happens that I..."

Kaladin: NO

Moash: See, the thing is, Kal, you're attractive enough that you could probably get away with a really bad pickup line.

Moash: I bet you could tell someone that you want to "Plunge straight into their their Honor Chasm" and I bet it would work.

Kaladin: That would absolutely not work.

Moash: You say that, and yet...

Rock: Moash has point, though! We are all well-known now, yes? All good-looking (except maybe for Lopen, who is unfortunately very short). I think men like us get away with some pretty bad lines, yeah?

Letyen: "You did a bridge run straight into my heart."

Moash: "I wanna explore YOUR chasms."

Kaladin: (What's you and the chasms, man?)

Lyn: "Let's...bridge this distance between us."

Teft: "I'm from Bridge 4. Do you want to get a drink?"

Skar: "Let me show you how good I am with my spear."

Sigzil: "You prefilled the forms in my heart."

[They all look at him]

Sigzil: What? In Azir, that's a very effective line.

Moash: Is that true, though, or are you making up Azir stories to trick us stupid Alethi?

Sigzil: [sips drink enigmatically]

Kaladin: Fine, fine, okay!

Kaladin: If I wanted to "pick someone up" with my Bridge 4 cred, I guess I'd try something like...

Kaladin: ...

Kaladin: Uh... How about: "My days in the bridge crews were horrible and dark. I barely survived. I lost a lot of friends. Good friends. It haunts me still. But now that I'm out, I've decided to live. And that means doing things that make me WANT to live."

Kaladin: "Like going out with you!"

Kaladin: [Looks at them expectantly]

Moash: Oh, Kal...

Lopen: Even your pretty face can't save that one, gon...

Skar: The thick tower line is looking better and better...

Kaladin: WELL YOU GUYS ARE THE ONES WHO BROUGHT IT UP

[rosalietodd013]

Idk, I respect what you’re saying, but I don’t entirely agree. Comparing fanfic writers and published writers is like comparing apples and oranges.

Also, that “you are not entitled to engagement” argument, while founded in a way, is unhelpful when you pair it with how writing on this app works and the current climate on writeblr.

Nobody’s being forced. A tag is a way for people to filter content. One or two stories that aren’t interesting won’t hurt anyone. All you can do is… scroll. Or block.

These conversations are valid, but they’re unhelpful because the root cause isn’t being discussed. Saying writers aren’t entitled isn’t helping. These writers don’t feel entitled (i’m speaking of the general vast majority), but if people ask to be on taglists and even those people don’t respond, it is discouraging and fosters an unhealthy environment within a fandom. In the grand scheme of things, the mistagging feels like a non-issue.

I do get what you mean and people should tag things correctly. But knowing why they don’t is also important. Fandom culture and community is effectively dying in many fandoms because of the imbalance between people who work hard to provide free entertainment and consumers who believe it is their right. And the only argument they have is “you aren’t entitled to feedback” when all some of these writers are asking is for an acknowledgment that they didn’t just post something to yell into a void.

Some people use likes like bookmarks and then unlike when they’re done reading a post. You may think it doesn’t matter but the person behind the blog can see. Especially if the like count is low.

This isn’t meant to guilt trip anyone. But we can all sort of… meet in the middle and be compassionate. I’ve seen too many writers heartbroken on this app because people send hate and death threats and expect free content and suck the fun out of a fandom for these writers until they leave (zero exaggeration).

We can have conversations about respect and proper tagging, but we also need to have conversations on how to prop up and support writers as well, so they’re not compelled to grasp at straws trying to get their work seen. Only then can we truly sit here and expect change. Might sound dramatic, but for a lot of people, these communities are very valuable. So yeah, talk about mistagging all you want. It’s completely valid.

But please acknowledge one of the major reasons for why it happens and (i don’t really follow you but this is for anyone reading) reblog and share work of your fav artists on here to support them. If you enjoyed something, say so! Just a small “hey this was nice” is enough. Or even a silent reblog. It helps keep a community going. If you value your fandom, you need to value the people that are a part of running said fandom—the artists.

Just offering a different perspective :)

POTENTIAL TL;DR. The very last paragraph is honestly a good summary.

I do see where you’re coming from and you make some valid points. Are there bigger issues on here? Absolutely. I support and comment on writers when I am genuinely moved by a piece. I am one of those people who runs through stories and posts on here by the hundreds a day and thousands per week. Would I like to like and reblog more? Yes. But I tailor my content and posts by my own tastes. Is it selfish and not great that I don’t interact more with writers? Sure, but that’s also my choice. I’m very highly aware of the big issues here, but I’m focusing on one part at a time. I’m voicing my opinion on an issue I see regularly.

I think it’s interesting that your say “comparing published writers and fanfiction writers is totally different”. What makes them different? The fact that one makes money and the other doesn’t? Not all published authors are experts in their field or majored in some form of English or literature or even went to college so that can’t be it either. So if you could explain that part I’d appreciate it.

I do stand by my “no one is entitled to engagement” statement. Just because you post something doesn’t mean I have to respond or give positive feedback. It’s a choice. Not everyone agrees with or likes what someone posts on here or any other platform. When you ask for feedback on something publicly you have to understand that you’re likely gonna get both positive AND negative responses. I personally would prefer if someone skips the comment if it’s not nice or helpful which is what I do for other writers as well. If I don’t like or am not moved by something I’m not gonna comment, post, like or reblog it. No one is entitled to a response. It sometimes does more harm than good.

By saying “a tag is a way to filter content” then say “one or two stories that aren’t interesting won’t hurt anyone” are highly contradicting to your point. You’re acknowledging that tags are ways for people to find stories and content they want to see. The reasons we search for tags and filters is so we only see the content we want to. By saying those one or two stories won’t interest us confirms that it doesn’t belong there and could spark frustration. So just because a writer wants more views on content that audience doesn’t want to see means I should just suffer the frustration? How is that fair? If someone wants to read what is posted and the tags are correct then the audience will find it the right way. It doesn’t have to be forced. It also opens the door for more criticism to that writer which could make their situation/mental status worse.

If I want to be one someone’s tag list and reach out to ask and compliment their story, isn’t that engagement? Doesn’t that say “I care about and am invested in this story and want to know when another chapter or installment comes out”? But that also means I have to do something every time something else comes out? I’ve already engaged so you know I’m interested. What else are you looking for?

Mistagging might be a “non-issue” to some people but it matters to me. That was the whole point of my original post. It matters to the people who comment and like and reblog that post. That post has gotten more attention than any story I’ve ever written. And yes you can check that. I didn’t do it for attention. I just wanted to express something I felt. Whether or not someone responded or interacted was NOT my intention. People interact because they were moved or thought about it at least once. Isn’t that the whole idea of doing that? Because they connected? Shouldn’t people who are moved or appreciate a work or message say it if they mean it but also not feel obligated to do so? The people who saw and didn’t agree either commented or kept scrolling and that should be ok.

As for the whole liking posts to save them and unliking them once you’re done, I’m guilty of that. I will admit that is a problem I am a part of and I wish it wasn’t the case. Unless I’m missing something, tumblr doesn’t have a way to save stories that I don’t finish immediately or want to revisit once or twice and never see again. I used to use my likes as just that. But I realized that it didn’t give me a way to sort the stories I wanted to go back to from the ones I genuinely liked. That I will say is an issue that tumblr can fix and is a larger issue. That’s something I will own. I’ve never been proud of it but I’m not sure how else to combat this. I’m not gonna keep something liked that I have zero interest in or has nothing to do with me. I’m just not.

Again, I understand that there are larger issues at play and to some this is considered something inconsequential. But to those of us who are affected regularly and care, this IS our issue. We shouldn’t be made to feel bad or care about more than we choose to. People should care about climate change, famine, animal cruelty, war, racism, nationalism, misogyny and a litany of other things but not everyone does. That should be a choice. I should be allowed to care about and express issues that I care about. Is it selfish to not acknowledge the entire picture? Yes but what I consider a major issue and what someone else does isn’t always gonna match.

You used logic and reasoning and terms that made sense but the main reason this response is so long is because even with all you were saying, you were minimizing and brushing off an issue that I care about. It probably wasn’t your intention but that’s what happened. It didn’t inspire sympathy from me at all which is why it took a minute for me to respond. I do hear what you’re saying though. That has to be enough right now.

[thosearentcrimes]

Read Too Like the Lightning, part of the Terra Ignota series, by Ada Palmer. I generally try to be a lot nicer about books written by living authors, on the off chance that they read what I'm saying. For example, I tried not to be very mean about the Baru Cormorant series, which I thought was pretty bad but had some strong points I could highlight, but I was perfectly willing to go in on Madame Bovary. All I can say is, I tried. You see, Too Like the Lightning is straight up terrible, and it is basically impossible to find anything nice to say about it at all.

Too Like the Lightning is an unbelievably stupid book. Now, I don't require total scientific fidelity from my science fiction, not unless the author signals I should. But I do think authors should be at least broadly aware of what laws they are breaking to get what they want, and Palmer very clearly isn't. Basically everyone has the predictive/prescient powers of Dune characters through mathematical oracles, despite this being provably impossible. Everyone travels in cheap supersonic private jets that probably also have VTOL capability, which are powered by Fucking Magic presumably, the author sure as hell doesn't seem to care. This wouldn't be as annoying if the book didn't spend so much time musing on the deep sociological effects of the FM-powered aircars, while entirely forgetting that evidently both Fucking Magic and oracles apparently exist and should probably affect society in some way also. There's also more minor points. At one point, the first of the aircars is analogized to the Nina and Pinta and Apollo XI, all of which were notable exploration vessels, not technical breakthroughs. The appropriate comparisons would be to something like the Kitty Hawk Flyer or Stephenson's Rocket or some of the Trevithick machines. Sure, it's a minor error, but for a novel this pretentious, all errors are serious. There is no appreciable narrative reason for this error either. If the book were edited, perhaps someone would have noticed.

The ideological and historiographical (more on this later) background is also just kind of dumb. The book is trying to make some tedious liberal points and also say that we need to have very serious discussions about like sexism and racism or whatever. What the content of these discussions is supposed to be is extremely unclear, and as far as I can tell simply the existence of them will basically fix things on its own because discussion is magic and leads to Truth and such, except, of course, when the narrative needs for it not to. Also destroying a book is kind of like killing a person, and other trite garbage. Anyway, where the book actually ends up is in my opinion quite far from the apparent intent, but unfortunately not in a very interesting way. Suffice to say, if I wanted to read kinda racist gender-normative rapey fiction with clockwork twists scattered around, where all the characters are secretly serial killers (notably Mycroft and the Saneer-Weeksbooths) because that makes them edgier or something I guess, I suspect I could still do a whole lot better than Too Like the Lightning, for example by reading self-insert Wattpad romance novels about pop stars, or werewolf erotica, or self-insert Wattpad erotica about werewolf pop stars. The incest is boring as hell and cowardly, too. It's a book that's trying to shock you, but the author doesn't know how to actually do that because, again, just not very good at writing at all. It doesn't help that the pacing is so horrible that none of the shocking twists actually land, especially since absolutely nothing keeps actually happening. Sure, Too Like the Lightning is the way it is for a reason, but so is the werewolf erotica, and helping other people jack off is a far more noble pursuit than jacking yourself off.

If the book is so stupid, why do a lot of fairly intelligent people seem to like it so much? Well, a lot of those people are Rationalists it seems (or close enough to it), and Rationalists have insanely bad taste in fiction for some reason. Actually Rationalists have insanely bad taste generally speaking but it's especially marked in fiction. And it's obvious why Rationalists would like the book, it treats intelligence as a comic book superpower the way they do, there's group homes and libertarianism and all sorts of other stuff they like. But there's a more fundamental feature that I think a certain kind of nerd loves about Too Like the Lightning. It's the omnipresent didactic tone, just like with Baru Cormorant, though here it's somehow even more obtrusive. Some people evidently like it when the author has a character read an encyclopedia entry for a paragraph or two for no particular reason, or pointedly make and then exhaustively explain a reference. I suspect it's because if they knew the reference, they feel like very clever students who read ahead, and if they didn't know the reference they feel like they are learning. I think it might be a form of high school nostalgia, the nerd version of student athletes unable to move on. Which is normal I suppose, I still think about doing amateur theater after all, but it does seem kind of embarrassing. To me, at least, the didactic tone always feels insulting regardless of if I knew the reference or not.

This insistence on transforming most of the characters into condescending lecture or encyclopedia entry delivery mechanisms understandably has serious consequences for the readability of the novel itself. It is impossible to believe that any of the supposed 10 billion people in the Hives that we barely ever see any actual traces of are actually persons in the eyes of the author or the narrative. Nor are most of the several dozen very important characters we do meet, to be fair. There is a single character, Eureka, who reaches the dizzying heights of "is an actual character" and she barely shows up. Thisbe is the only other one under consideration, but, eh, nah. Everyone else is functionally just a rhetorical device, because outside of the exposition most of the novel is poorly stylized as philosophical dialogue in Enlightenment style.

According to the Author's Note, Palmer sincerely wants to be participating in the Great Conversation. Now, this is a lost cause from the start. You cannot engage in a conversation by just parroting the words of others, and if you don't have any ideas of your own (and it is quite reasonable not to, there are so many people and so few ideas to be had), then a bare minimum would be the ability to rephrase or synthesize them. Now, maybe Palmer can do this, in lectures to students. Or maybe not, I have known instructors like that too (especially in history, lately). All I know is that Too Like the Lightning is no thoughts, all cliches. But if there were original ideas, the framing device would interfere anyway. You fundamentally cannot participate in a conversation while maintaining plausible deniability for everything by hiding behind your fictional characters, as Palmer does with Mycroft. Whenever I object to, well, more or less any feature of the novel, its fans can always say that actually I just haven't been paying enough attention to the unreliability of the narrator. This objection tends to be either false or irrelevant, but it's a pain in the ass to prove, and the only reason it is possible in the first place is that the author is actively refusing to stake out a position to be held to.

For what it's worth, I don't think it's out of cowardice. Palmer seems to have noticed that the tradition of the conte philosophique and the genres that take off of it includes a lot of different styles and narrative devices, and has ultimately decided to use most of them, invariably quite poorly. I've read conte philosophique, and it does not read like conte philosophique, sorry, the writing is all so painfully 21st century. Ironically, the one major device for philosophical stories I can think of that was not used, the travelogue, is the one I think is clearly most appropriate to the sort of worldbuilding-based speculative fiction Palmer is engaging in here, both from a practical and a historical perspective. The eclectic stylistic muddle makes the novel much longer without giving it any additional depth, the styles do not complement each other, and also the author very obviously does not have the skill required to pull any of it off. Authors, unless exceptionally competent, should pick at most one gimmick per work. Might not have helped here, but it's good practice either way.

One of the techniques that gets talked about with regards to the book is the unreliable narrator, probably because the device is referenced in the book right at the start. In fact, contrary to what people insist, it is not really present in the sense I would understand it, of a narrator styled as deliberately deceiving the audience in order to promote his own agenda. Since the narrator of Too Like the Lightning, like basically every other character in the novel, evidently only actually has an agenda or motive as an informed attribute, there is no way for the reader to reason their way to the implied meta-narrative of what "actually happened", because I'm pretty sure that meta-narrative doesn't actually exist. As far as I can tell, the only actual function of the extremely tedious and obtrusive in-universe narrator is to justify telling the exposition in a particular twist-preserving order, which, again, is not what the unreliable narrator is.

The novel really does consist almost exclusively of dry narration and loredumps. Nothing ever happens in this miserable 460 page slog. I really mean this, nothing actually happens and nobody really does anything except flit around irrelevantly at supersonic speeds. A bunch of characters talk to each other, or talk at each other, or read the encyclopedia at each other. But it turns out none of that actually matters, because enough of the characters are basically omniscient (except for all the stuff they can't know otherwise the story falls apart, even though there's no conceivable way they wouldn't know) that there is no appreciable difference between characters talking at each other and thinking at each other, which they also spend way too much time doing. None of the dialogue serves to develop the characters, because, as discussed earlier, there aren't any. None of the dialogue serves to establish the plot or stakes, because the plot gets retconned every other chapter with yet another tedious twist so there's no real point in following the intrigue, which I'm pretty sure consists mostly of plot holes by the end anyway. Worst of all, a consistent pattern in these retcons is that it becomes clearer and clearer that an alarming number of the conversations in this book are actually functionally just a guy talking to himself.

It kind of makes sense that the novel is more or less entirely people talking to each other (well that and poorly done metatextual horseshit) because it turns out the novel endirses a fundamental theory of historical change consisting entirely of people talking to each other, specifically, a variation on Great Man Theory that says change happens because the most important members of the very real and existing natural aristocracy get into a room together in order to figure out what's going to happen next by finding the smartest bestest boy from among them all and all just doing what he says, and then maybe some other stuff that doesn't matter happens after who cares, all of the actual persons have made their decisions. History of ideas people are basically all wacky, but this seems extreme even for them, so I sure hope Palmer isn't actually teaching anything like this. In addition to being based on a variant of it, Too Like the Lightning references and then explains its own reference to Great Man Theory, and naturally has its own Great Man in the narrative itself, the guy talking to himself from the last paragraph, and boy is he unbearable.

The guy in question, Y.U.D.D. MASON, is genuinely in the running for the most insufferable character ever written. I wouldn't mind him being written like a particularly annoying teenager with delusions of grandeur who has evidently somehow read both far too much and far too little philosophy so much if the novel did not take every single opportunity to make it absolutely unquestionable that this horrid little git is in fact an unparalleled superhuman intellect omniscient oracle capable of outright mind control through speech alone. And no, that's not a unreliable narrator thing. My understanding is that somehow this gets much worse over the course of the rest of the books, which I will not read because frankly 460 pages was an unreasonable test of my patience and commitment to reviewing everything I read and finishing everything I review. Apparently at the end he starts a civil war and becomes God-Emperor of Humanity or whatever, who even cares.

Look, a persistent obsession with Mars, nonsensical car-based revolutionizing of transportation, references to De Sade, excessive confidence in mathematical oracles, these are not the preoccupations of a serious thinker, these are the preoccupations of Elon Musk. Musk really is a convenient example of the sort of Great Man that actually exists by contrast to the ones you get in fiction and in Carlyle. Richest man on the planet, widely acknowledged power behind the throne of the most powerful state out there, owner of what was once (you know, before he bought it) regarded as the online public square, AI magnate, rocketman, surely here we have the Great Man of our time? Except, wait, we know him. We know him from his irrepressible habit of Posting, his now decades of pathetic self-promotion, his desperate need to turn himself into a living meme to get the attention he never got from his father, and which he in turn will not give to his two dozen kids. He is a massive loser whose aesthetic interests consist of the most accessible symbols of coolness and futurism that he can find, up to and including the glyph 'X' and memes that got old over a decade ago. What does it say about Too Like the Lightning that half of its aesthetic language is not only shared with this fucking loser, but is even projected out to the 26th century? Nothing good, that's for sure.

It is my opinion that novels should be edited. Unfortunately publishers do not seem to agree. Editing could never have made this book good, but it might at least have informed the publishers of the scale of mistake they were in the course of making. This novel was a lost cause the moment it was accepted for publication, which happened by a mechanism I am still quite unable to explain. The Author's Note does contain a very helpful list of the extraordinarily many collaborators allegedly responsible, of whom I would pick out for particular discredit the editorial decision-makers and the peers who apparently encouraged the creation of the work. That this book was written was a mistake, that it was published was a travesty, that it got sequels is an absurdity. The existence of Too Like the Lightning is an enormous embarrassment to the entire genre of Science Fiction, whose reputation was frankly already quite bad for very good reasons. Anyway, I'm never going to read Worm that's for damn sure.

This novel made me afraid to write my own intended stories, for fear that they will end up like this. Ordinarily, this is where I mention what kinds of person might enjoy the novel, recommend it to someone even if I did not like it myself. Frankly, I think I have provided enough information for people to figure out whether or not they would like it, but I have to confess that I do not think anyone should read this book, including the ones who would enjoy it. It's not for moral reasons or anything, I just think the book is that bad.

[revvethasmythh]

you say you think Veth should divorce, could you expand a bit on that if you don't mind? what do you see as a happy ending for her?

To be fair, "should divorce" is kind of a conditional statement. By which I mean, as it stands now, I more think Veth and Yeza need to have a serious conversation about their relationship and start having some open communication about what they both want, and then take things from there--which could end very happily for them! Or it could, theoretically, end in divorce. So, it really depends on how that hypothetical conversation might go that would determine if I actually think they need to get divorced. Tragically, that is much more nuanced and way less funny than just posting #BrenattosDivorceWatch2k24, so here we are.

As for what I think a happy ending for her would be...it's interesting, because I don't think she has an unhappy ending now. I think she is, largely, happy. I would call her ending an imperfect one, and I don't mean that in a bad way--all of Veth's potential endings were imperfect. That was the nature of her conflict in the later campaign, that no matter what she did she was losing in some aspect or another. If she keeps adventuring, she runs the risk of acting the absentee mother to Luc. If she goes home to her family, she's leaving her friends out in the cold and might not be there to help if they need her. Her story was about making a choice and living with the consequences of that choice, which was very much highlighted by her extra-marital feelings for Caleb.

And I don't mean lust here--Veth lusts a lot, famously for Sunbreaker Olomon, which she justified by saying "50/50 chance my husband's already dead, so" 😂. But I mean feelings for Caleb. And I think you'll find that the vast majority of Veth stans are, if not actively on #BrenattosDivorceWatch2k24, then at least more keyed into the marital issues between Veth and Yeza than your average watcher. Because in C2, Veth had what amounted to a long-term emotional affair with Caleb that pointedly did not resolve, and you largely see the general, non-Veth stan audiences fail to acknowledge or engage with that aspect of their relationship and how that, in turn, effected her relationship with Yeza. In c2e85, Veth first hedges that she "used" to have a crush on Caleb, to which Beau replies, "You know, I kind of got that vibe before, thought there might be that feeling." Then, after c2e97, Sam outright stated Veth was frustrated with Yeza and wasn't sure she was still in love with him at all on Talks. In the early 100s, the Veth playlist dropped and confirmed she had romantic feelings for Caleb. In c2e121, Veth and Caleb have an incredibly emotional one-on-one about guilt, how much they love each other, and how much they'll miss each other when Veth leaves, where Veth tells him, "I will always love you." In c2e126, Veth sees Astrid having a breakdown after talking to Caleb and says, "Well, wouldn't you [have a breakdown] if you wanted to be with this amazing young man, and couldn't be because of circumstances tearing you apart?" and then later that same episode tells Caleb "Nothing is more important than you" (to which my good friend, upon watching with me, immediately said, "Umm???? Veth, don't you have a husband and son???").

Then, in c2e129, Luc dies. And from then on out, Veth is wholly focused on finishing out this mission and finally, permanently returning home to her family. Not that this wasn't her goal before, but it's clear that a choice has been made at this point and she's sticking with it. She's choosing her family, which was really the only choice she could make. And a consequence of this decision is that those extra-marital feelings she harbored are never discussed, never confessed to anyone (and I don't mean to Caleb here, I mean, like, to a friend), and fundamentally never resolved.

I said this before somewhere, but I don't think it was a bad choice to avoid finding resolution to this sort of thing in the campaign. It's a bit of a sensitive, awkward topic to noodle around with in your TTRPG. But I do think that lack of resolution to either Veth's frustration with Yeza's easy acceptance of whatever she does or her extra-marital feelings in general led Veth to a place of wanting. Which was always what her story was about to begin with, so there's an interesting symmetry to starting and ending with her wanting something. It was easy to name what she wanted at the start of the campaign--her body back, her life back--and much more difficult to face the idea that you may not be completely satisfied with having all that returned to you, that there's still other things to want.

Though, I actually think the Wildemount Wildlings helped her strike a great balance between the things that she wanted, adventuring and homesteading, just that it was an impermanent solution. Because she's not going to willingly resolve any issues she has with Yeza (nor Yeza with her) because Veth is a terrible communicator who will never outright tell Yeza if she's feeling this way, and Yeza is too passive to really push her into talking, so they just dance around their issues, pretending not to see them while the issues just fester and get worse. That's why I'm a #BrenattosDivorce Truther. Because i HATE indecision and dawdling and staying in a situation where you're not completely happy when it does a disservice to yourself AND your partner and THIS is why I am always the first person in the group chat to say "BREAK UP WITH HIM."

So, yeah, personally? I'd just want that potential for conflict that exists between Veth and Yeza to come to some sort of head. That's my happy ending, vague as it is. But that's far from the only way she might get resolution. Or she might get no resolution, which is as imperfect an ending as any of her options, and I'm okay with that too.

[messydiabolical]

i’d once read a Mass Effect take that has been stewing in my melon ever since, about Wrex and him demanding a cure for the genophage during the war in 3. (I think it was on twitter but I can’t remember for sure. Just the idea of it stuck with me.) The general sentiment was that this was a dick move on his part, that there were “bigger problems” and this wasn’t the time and it was cruel and manipulative of him to put Shepard in that position. He should have helped out first and Shepard would have helped him back once the war was over. A lot of people chimed in agreeing, saying how they stopped liking Wrex after that. It bothered me for a bunch of reasons I didn’t feel I could adequately articulate, but i’m gonna try now. Prepare for my meandering thought style! The governing bodies of the Mass Effect Galaxy have repeatedly proven that they believe themselves superior to other species and know what’s best for everyone. They don’t let all species have a say in the council, always look out for their own species’ interests in so much as it pertains to keeping things as they are, and will happily go along with literal genocide to aid this. They approve of secret police and biological warfare espionage tactics. They weaponise bureaucracy to hide their cruelty behind ‘oh red tape has us bound, sorry uwu’.   I’m going to try to remain pertinent to the Wrex subject but as one great example of these governing bodies ways of dealing with percieved outsiders: The first contact war is a great example of how ludicrous and fascist things are.. ‘It’s ilegal to use this thing so we’re going to kill you for it’ without so much as a heads up. How were humans supposed to know that, exactly? The governing bodies of this place do not care about anyone outside their own self interests. Fall out of line and they will work to end you. Until you prove you might be useful or of interest to them in some way (or a threat). And then of course we later learn the asari were breaking these laws themselves, hoarding this tech to stay superior. Classic. Anyway, back to Wrex. Wrex knows this. Wrex has seen how the krogan are regarded and treated, the dangerous monolith species, outsiders who can never be let in, never forgiven, never given a chance to grow or change. For a long arse time. “But the krogan were getting out of control and also committing genocide, the genophage was a last ditch resort to stop a galactic war” … And it’s been hundreds of years since then. That 'last ditch resort' wasn’t used as a stop gap, a reset to even out the playing field so that new negotiations and relations could be developed. It was used to end the krogan, and has been actively maintained to continue that, ever since. Do you really, truly believe that if Wrex petitioned the council/ world leaders to negotiate reversing the genophage, they’d even let him have an audience with them? And if they did, do you really think these people, with their history and all the shit they pull, would listen and be reasonable? I can already hear the responses, that weaponised bureaucracy (“you raise an interesting point Mr Wrex but unfortunately we are recovering from a war don’t you know, please come back in 300 years for review, we are very interested in discussing this further then!”) Wrex is old, wise and knows exactly what is up. The only way the governing bodies of power were ever going to have a listen, was if he had something they needed. The war with the reapers provided that. And even then, he knew that they wouldn’t listen outright; having Shepard’s voice was a way to get the foot in the door. It makes my heart hurt to think about that honestly; how dehumanising (dekroganising?) it must feel to be the ruler of your people and know that you have to rely on your alien friend to even get someone to listen to you, when what you want to say is an extremely reasonable “hey committing genoicde against my people sucks, stop that now”. Anyway, Wrex was right, this was his one chance to save his people and he took it. Good for him.