#v: bad ending

[aeternxm]

anon asked: “Takeshi, babe, your ass is FIRE and I love pullin’ on your hair as I nail ya from behind. Your piercin’s are pretty hot, too.” ( compliment my muse! )

❝ baby, honey, sweetness - light o' my fuckin' life - ya think hidin' behind some lil' mask means i won't know who's talkin' ta me? ❞ he's offended, truly. ❝ why don'tcha take tha' mask of an' keep talkin' pretty ta me? i'll make it worth yer while-- ❞

[tatatale]

Side comic "Promise" finally finished! ♥

You can check the previous parts I made years ago here: Part 1 - Extra - Part 2 (PLEASE CHECK THE WARNINGS BEFORE START READING)

UnderFell belongs to @/underfell and what happens here is only canon in A L I V E, not in the original AU!

Oh yeah the chapter comes with a speedpaint!

[hitlikehammers]

eddie doesn’t understand how steve can ♥️love♥️ him (eddie is frequently worryingly oblivious with a side of ✨self-worth issues✨)

“I’m dead weight.” Eddie’s voice is so fucking tiny, it almost undercuts his resolve. Almost. But it’s a fucking fact, so his useless resolve doesn’t actually matter either way, which is kind of a comfort. Until Eddie blinks, and between lashes fluttering Steve’s in his face. Leaning over him, caging him in not with his arms so much as the heat of him, the weight of his presence more than any part of them presently touching. And still those fucking eyes; stars could be born inside them. Eddie just wishes he deserved a future where maybe he’d get to watch a whole new one burst into life, where he’d deserve that kind of privilege— But he wasn’t exaggerating. He is dead fucking weig— “I know what it feels like when you’re the closest you’re ever gonna fucking get to dead weight,” Steve somehow bites it out so sharp while sounding so level, just stating facts like his eyes aren’t on fucking fire: “This is nothing like that.”

rating: t ♥️ tags: established relationship, post-s4, softness, fluff, tiniest bit of angst because of eddie’s headspace, eddie has self-worth issues, true love, fitting each other’s jagged edges♥️, romance, happy ending 💕

for @steddielovemonth day nineteen: “Love is putting up with someone's bad qualities because they somehow complete you.” ― Sarah Dessen, This Lullaby

Eddie’s staring at the popcorn ceiling, gnawing on the pick hanging from the chain around his neck: yellow—blindingly so, couldn’t miss it if you tried—in place of the old one.

Steve told him it wasn’t good for his hair to chew on it. Eddie doesn’t think he absolutely loves the way he’s replaced the habit, but. It’s symbolic: Steve in his sunshine-y wardrobe, the way he’s Eddie’s sunshine always, the way Eddie wants basically any and every part of Steve in his mouth at all times—

See? It makes sense; it shakes out perfectly logical.

But there’s good reason Eddie needs the sunshine, his sunshine, and a constant reminder snug against his chest: his head’s prone to going dark places, now, ever since—

Well. Ever since.

It’s basically the main reason he sometimes just…sighs and throws himself farther back into the still-stiff-but-slowly-braking-in cushions on the sofa, in this also-still-too-pristine-but-a-valiant-work-in-progress living room, and huffs, half-disbelieving, wholly-disgusted:

“How the fuck do you put up with it, man?”

“Hmm?” Steve hums distracted, distant, not even in the same room because he’s washing dishes, or else, rinsing them before the machine does the work which Eddie will never understand. Eddie hadcleared the table, so he hadn’t been totally useless, but…

But.

“How,” Eddie flicks the chain where it sits atop his shirt, pulled out now, watches the pick float for a second; “do you,” and he tries to make himself not pull the thin ball links into an angry new brand inside the divot-line of the scar already around his neck:

“Put up with it?”

Eddie doesn’t know if something about his words shifted, his tone, or if Steve’s just knows him, or if the dishes are just done now.

But Steve’s in the doorway with his hip jutted toward the frame of the opening, his sleeves rolled up but still damp at the edges, his hands not helping where they cross over his chest.

“With what?” Steve asks, lost; cloudless. Oblivious.

Which, to Eddie’s mind, is just…absurd. Because the answer is right there.

Right fucking there:

“Me.”

Eddie’s moods. His rambling. His stubbornness. His nightmares. His inability to even get so much as a sit-down for a job around here. His freakish interests. His woefully limited ability in the kitchen. His uselessness in cleaning up: too little, too cluttered. His wild sense of most things in the worst ways, at the worst times. His general billboard-sized advertisement of ‘Waste of Space: Steer Clear, You Can Do Miles Better’.

How the fuck do you put up with me?

So it is almost obnoxiously conspicuous, sticks out like a goddamn sore thumb, right?

“The hell did that come from?”

Or not.

Steve’s not standing in the doorway anymore.

“I just,” Eddie swallows, because Steve’s eyes on him are intense, low, laser-focused and Eddie’s suddenly not entirely sure how much of what just cycled through his head maybe came out through his mouth so he settles on a sanitized version, a middle-of-the-road sort of example that gets the point across but…anemically:

“I’m always lounging around while you’re doing actual things, y’know, contributing,” he throws his weight back into where he’s doing exactly that just now, gesturing to the suds on Steve’s arms near the creases of his elbows to illustrate the stark difference: “where I just stare into space and try to plot twisty-turny things that’ll trip the shitheads up next session,” and he shrugs, looks back up at the ceiling because Steve’s never something he wants to look away from, ever, which is why this hurts so much to wrestle with.

But right now, those eyes on him are…a lot.

“I’m dead weight.”

Eddie’s voice is so fucking tiny, it also undercuts his resolve. Almost.

But it’s a fucking fact, so his useless resolve doesn’t actually matter either way, which is kind of a comfort.

Until Eddie blinks, and between lashes fluttering Steve’s in his face. Leaning over him, caging him in not with his arms so much as the heat of him, the weight of his presence less than any part of them presently touching.

And still those fucking eyes; stars could be born inside them.

Eddie just wishes he deserved a future where maybe he’d get to watch a whole new one burst into life, where he’d deserve that kind of privilege—

But he wasn’t exaggerating. He is dead fucking weig—

“I know what it feels like when you’re the closest you’re ever gonna fucking get to dead weight,” Steve somehow bites it out so sharp while sounding so level, just stating facts like his eyes aren’t on fucking fire:

“This is nothing like that.”

Eddie’s throat tightens, his stomach drops.

“Steve,” Eddie chokes, a hand fraying to clamp around Steve’s wrist held rigid.

“You know what I mean,” and yeah he begs it a little. He didn’t mean that.

“I do,” Steve nods, never looking away, barely blinking. “But I meant what I said,” then he softens a little, turns his hand in Eddie’s grip and bringing them palm or palm, seeming to study their hands and Eddie doesn’t get it, doesn’t know what he’s looking for—just kinda knows his heart in his throat, and the way the world feels more right, maybe the only right it has in it at all, when Steve’s hand’s in his, in any way at all.

He’s holding on to that certainty, that feeling that always puts up a hell of a fight against all the dark in Eddie’s chest, just inside the warmth of that hand.

So he startles a little, when the words break through, so close:

“You have no fucking clue, do you?”

Eddie…Eddie only knows that he blinks. Only knows how to blink because: what?

Which he supposes answers the question; seems to clearly enough that Steve huffs, shakes his head, lifts up like he’s going away and Eddie’s blood runs frigid—no, no, the part of him the suspects this end result isn’t ready, he’s not strong enough yet—never will be, but maybe closer, maybe—to stand up and fight back to hold and keep—

But then Steve’s crossing his arms, leaning back on his heels as he looks Eddie up and down, reads him like a book as he’s somehow learned to do; somehow cared enough to learn to do—

Then he’s settling across Eddie’s lap, strong thighs bracketing Eddie’s hips on either side as he lifts broad hands to cups Eddie’s cheeks the same, hold him in place—but he doesn’t have to.

Those eyes are steel; more than enough.

But the lips that land on his forehead, so soft, are both wholly at odds but…perfect.

Eddie feels something unspoken inside him start to tremble; prepare to crumble.

“The stuff you like? All the goddamn noise choseyou pay for on cassettes?” Steve smirks as Eddie squawks a little in instinctual protest, not even something he consciously decides; but it earns Eddie those lips pressed now to the corner of his own—so: maybe not just instinctual, possibly Pavlovian before Steve leans in to whisper:

“It plays at a pitch I can barely hear anymore.”

Eddie pushes back into the couch to meet Steve’s eyes, chest tightening again because: he didn’t know that. He’s wondered, sometimes, just little quirks, but now his heart twists because his Stevie’s hurt, something is wrong with his Stevie, and what is it, what does it mean, will it get worse, will it be—

“Too many knocks to the head,” Steve taps that same head gently with a crooked grimace and all Eddie wants is to grab those hands and move then, it’s not a thing to take lightly, but Steve’s just shrugging as he pushes on:

“They actually don’t expect it to like, get worse,” Steve reads him, as ever; “but there are just certain…”

He makes an ear-piercing sound in the back of his throat that sounds nothing like Eddie’s music, and he’d take offense, if…he wasn’t still reeling with the revelation Steve’s just set before him.

“It kinda sounds like office music,” Steve says it like a confession, like he’d been holding on to that admission and is only letting it out now in a time of dire need; for Eddie.

“Almost…pleasant in the background,” his nose crinkles a little. “Soothing almost, because it’s familiar,” then his features go smooth and lax, and he grins small, fond before he breaks Eddie’s heart not least because he stretches it bursting too fucking fast:

“Because it’s you.”

And that’s…that is—

“I don’t really like exciting food,” Steve’s plowing onward, now, purposeful and on a mission, hands not yet leaving Eddie’s cheeks: keeping him right where he is.

Keeping him.

“I like predictable food. I really do believe fried chicken is a worthwhile meal as a treat,” he shakes his head in the way he has when he remembers a time that’s not so long ago but feels like a different life after everything; Eddie tucks it in his back pocket to ask about if the right time ever comes, just because every part of Steve is a thing Eddie aches to know.

“Your kitchen skills are perfect,” Steve pokes his chest with real force to it, and Eddie’s wondering how much of his internal running commentary was maybe accidentally voiced aloud—or if Eddie’s just known that well, in a way he’s never had before. “They’re always just what I want, and they taste special because I don’t always expect it, because I think you’re shy with it because you think it should be something grand or whatever,” and again, Steve soften, leans to pop a kiss to the top of Eddie’s nose:

“But it is something grand, dumbass,” Steve murmurs close; “because you make it for us.”

Something warm and kinda…kinda like, expansive? Like it’s alive and growing and spreading through him in time with still-shaky heartbeat that wants to believe the dark things that rise in his head are don’t hold sway, the warm-thing in his belly that’s spreading up and around the rest of him feels like it’s trying to convince him that yeah.

That’s all any of it is. But still—

“Did you know I used to get pissed as fuck every laundry day?”

Eddie whips back into the present; frowns up at Steve’s solemn expression.

“You love laundry day.”

Steve hums a little mournfully, but there’s a twitch to his lips that gives him away.

“I don’t own enough bona fide darks for a full load,” he laments mostly tongue-in-cheek, but most in the just-over-half sorta way, because almost-most of him is genuinely lamenting that state of affairs,

“I either had whole parts of my wardrobe waiting weeks to wash in a corner,” Steve literally shudders at recalling it, the dweeb—and fuck, but Eddie loves him; “or I ran like, quarter-loads at best.”

A cardinal sin. Absolutely unforgivable. His poor poor Stevie.

His Stevie, who’s pecking at his lips with a bit-back grin and glowing eyes as he comments pointedly:

“Don’t run into that problem anymore, do I?”

And the way the words land, like Eddie’s a good thing, something that adds to Steve’s world in a ways that may look small but that Steve feels mean something. It’s, it is…

“I love it here, you know. With you,” Steve says like the second half’s the only part that really matters, and the spreading warmth has made its way through Eddie to wholly swirl around his heavy-thumping heart; “but before you moved in?“ and that’s the first time Steve glances away, even if it’s only a second, and Eddie grips for his hand again, hard this time—the fear in him still breathing, even if it’s for a death rattle to it, for the sake of the man on top of him.

“You have no idea how much I used to dread the drive home,” from Eddie’s, from him and Wayne, where they still spend nearly half the week even if this is home base, and Eddie could never have imagine what it would mean, how it would feel to hear that said out loud; “the part of the day that’s supposed to be the best part, the relief after everything,” Steve shakes his head, glances around and grips Eddie’s hand back to match in strength:

“It was a tomb in here. It fucking echoed.”

And the warmth in Eddie’s chest seizes a little: heartbroken on principle, Steve’s hurting always more devastating than his own could ever be. Livid that this man could ever have been left alone that way. Enraged that he hadn’t noticed, stopped it.

“I used to play little games, with myself, like,” Steve licks his lips; “how long would it take for someone to notice if I died in here.”

The warmth in Eddie’s chest retreats in an instant, because just…just that idea in the world—Eddie’s heart remembers what almost losing Steve feels like.

And Steve’s not talking about reality, sure; but he’s also not talking about almost.

“It’s big enough that the stench would take forever, like, for the neighbors,” Steve reasons in the most rational voice saying anything but: “and—”

Eddie’s hand on Steve’s must be painful, or maybe it’s the way his nails might be digging in hard enough to draw blood because Steve stops, looks down at their hands and then softens, looks apologetic but only just, like he…like in all of this he knows he’s hitting painpoints, not the biggest ones but not the easiest ones either, and he means to.

He’s making a point of what he sees instead of dead weight.

But still—

Eddie’s breath catches when Steve brings his hand up to kiss his knuckles, and doesn’t ease the hold between them one bit for doing it.

“I know it’s probably legitimately psychotic to rinse the dishes when that’s why I buy the good detergent,” Steve exhales between Eddie’s fingers; “part of it’s habit, from,” his eyes dart, and Eddie knows the look: he’d deck Harrington Senior, and maybe just give Mommy Harrington the stink eye until she folded, he’s not sure—he just knows he hates them, for the toll they took on Steve.

“Beyond that, though,” and Steve’s features brighten in an instead, curl a little sly and flush a little pink on the apples of his cheeks: intoxicating:

“Mostly it’s just so I have a good angle to watch you, right here,” Steve knocks his shoulder against the back of the sofa. “Being you. Doing things that make you, you.”

And fucking hell, but the way he says all that like it’s almost a gift.

“Your nightmares break my heart,” Steve turns Eddie’s palm to kiss there, to speak deep into the lines; “but if I can make you feel even the slightest bit better? Safer?” He kisses one more time before he draws their joined hands in between them, rests them safe between both their laps.

“It makes me feel less like I’m just mooching off you for doing the same for me in return,” Steve shrugs, but he’s earnest, he means that, and that is so not how any of that even works—

“That’s not—” Eddie stats but Steve cuts him off with his lips, dirty fucking pool.

Goddamn effective, but such a fuckin’ cheat.

“Maybe we both have stuff we still gotta work through,” Steve sighs, shrugs again a little, like their stuff doesn’t include death and dying and monster and apocalypses—and maybe the fact that it doesn’t doesn’t matter, because it doesn’t change a goddamn thing.

“But then maybe I believe with every bone in my body that even if I have to spend the rest of my life working through it? Doing it with you, both of us doing it together,” and Steve smiles at him, a delicate thing because it holds almost too much love inside to stand:

“That sounds like kinda the best life. With you.”

And Eddie regrets only one thing in what he does just then, because it breaks that delicate smile by design.

Because he surges straight up and kisses those lips and breaks that delicacy wide fucking open so he can taste it; drink it in like manna, like ether, like something that can bring him back to life.

The way Steve kisses back and shakes Eddie’s pulse in wild ways for the force, the feeling: it’s no less than exactly that.

“Your rambling is how I know life’s okay, that the world’s spinning,” Steve pants between them when they shift position, before they dive back in; “it’s like how you know your own heartbeat like, like when I used to do swim, or how you get ready when shooting a basket, or plain…shooting,” he hugs and then Eddie’s too greedy to keep any distance, too needy to wait any longer to taste Steve on his tongue a little longer, a little more.

“I only paid attention when I needed to focus,” Steve barely breathes as they both have to concede to a breather, to literally steady their lungs, and he presses down at the center of Eddie’s chest to balance, maybe, but Eddie suspects it’s most to make his point:

“But you know when it’s fucking off, not quite right,” and then Steve stares at his hand on Eddie’s heaving chest, eyes a little glassy for a minute as he whispers, kinda broke :

“Or when it’s missing.”

Eddie slaps an uncoordinated hand on top of Steve’s and helps him feel closer, feel more, the vessels and the chambers and the valves or whatever; the only place Eddie trusts them—only places he ever could—is in these hands.

“You’re that,” Steve declares simply, lifting his lashes before his gaze.

“You just,” he swallows hard, a little; “I understand more now than at the start. I want to keep understanding more, but,” and Eddie gets it, what Steve’s inching toward—Eddie’s lived with his story close to the chest, held tight and safe but Steve’s closer, now, and it’d be hard to hide from him, even if it hasn’t always been easy letting it free, story by story, card by card.

But it’s Steve. And any hard thing is worth it, if Steve’s the endgame. At the very core, there’s nothing he wants to hide from Steve.

It’s just more been about the things he’s too afraid to let anyone see, because they’re too much, they be the final straw, and he—

“It’s more the you part, than the what. The fact that it’s you, whatever there is to know.”

And that’s where Eddie’s gonna work on it, because he wants the same in return. For the first time in his whole life, Eddie Munson is giving his all to this. To them.

Maybe they’ll stumble. They already do. But fuck if it hasn’t been a revelation to know he’ll always be picked back up in less than a heartbeat, and never once be proven wrong.

He doesn’t realize there’re tears involved on his end until Steve leaning down, kissing them away.

“I love you,” Steve breathes into his cheekbone on the right; “all the parts of me I thought I had to hide because they were weird or wrong or not shaped right,” and he pauses then, kisses a little line of fluttery things along the left line of Eddie’s face to match; “you fit where they live like you were made to,” then he kisses, draws a shiver through Eddie’s whole body, when those searing lips trace the line of the scar that’s mostly faded pink, now, but pulls down the lower length toward Eddie’s jaw.

“And all the jagged edges of me that I thought were gonna leave me alone forever,” Steve mouths there, kinda adoring, reverently; “they make where we fit snap into place that much stronger, that much more sure.”

And he looks down at their hands, and lifts them a little, let’s go only enough to clasp loose, like a businessman might to seal a deal.

“Not like this,” he says, definitive; “like this,” and he locks their grip then, finger braided across finger, tight and automatically feral against the force he puts on trying to pull it apart when he’s done, to show it; to prove it:

“Not going anywhere.”

And Steve’s eyes are still flame-bright, still intense to the point of stealing breath but it’s not stealing when it’s given free, when Eddie wants all of him to be Steve’s, for always. Not dead weight. The same weight in the same body. The same soul twined together; the same fucking beating heart.

“You get it?”

And Eddie nods, as best he can, before he catches their hands—unbeatable—between their chests this time to kiss Steve until the love in him is the only taste Eddie even knows.

✨permanent tag list: OPEN (lmk if you want to be added/removed): @ajeff855 @allmyfavoritethingsinoneblog @anthrobrat @askitwithflours @awkwardgravity1 @bookworm0690 @bumblebeecuttlefishes @captain--low @depressed-freak13 @disrespectedgoatman @dragoon-ze-great @dreamercec @dreamwatch @dreamy-jeans137 @estrellami-1 @friendlyneighborhoodgaycousin @goodolefashionedloverboi @grtwdsmwhr @gunsknivesandplaid @hiei-harringtonmunson @hbyrde36 @imhereforthelolzdontyellatme @kimsnooks @live-laugh-love-dietrich @madigoround @mensch-anthropos-human @nerdyglassescheeseychick @notaqueenakhaleesi @ollyxar @pearynice @perseus-notjackson @pretend-theres-a-name-here

divider credit here

[cybernomads]

you got a fast car // i want a ticket to anywhere maybe we can make a deal // maybe together we can get somewhere

[aeternxm]

he wants one -- like, yesterday. sure, a bat was a great weapon! his fists? well, these two bad boys have never let 'em down yet! but a fuckin' nail bomb--? man, that sounds like the coolest shit ever. takeshi's mind is runnin' wild with all the uses, all the people he could fuckin' use 'em on!

s'dangerous, sure. but that's like - all the fun, right?

❝ um? fuck yeah -- how's tha' even a question! y'make these things? shit's fuckin' sick -- y'got one now? they hidin' in yer pockets or somethin'? wanna see 'em in action! ❞

" got it, got it ! " he exclaims excitedly, clasping hands together as he happily relays his thought process. " so we can use a nail bomb ! they're so so so fun & they do lots of damage. "

" it's a little explosive device that we fill with metal shrapnel, that way when it goes KABOOM it significantly increases the likelihood of injuries. whaddya think ? "

[thelvadams]

METAL GEAR SOLID V: THE PHANTOM PAIN

Now do you remember? Who you are? What you were meant to do? I cheated death, thanks to you. And thanks to you, I've left my mark. You have, too. You've written your own history. You're your own man. I'm Big Boss... and you are, too. No... he's the two of us. Together. Where we are, today? We built it. This story - this 'legend' - it's ours. We can change the world, and with it, the future. I am you, and you are me. Carry that with you, wherever you go. Thank you... my friend. From here on out, you're Big Boss.

[call-me-vico-or-nico]

Happy Valentine's Day 💝💖

for the puzzle boyss 🥰

[sen-ya]

First off, I love ur art so much. Ur style is so amazing and the stories u come up with are so fun (or sad) and I think they're incredible.

Second, Law and Luffy at the pool headcanon bc it's over 100 degrees where I am rn. Luffy cannonballs in before they even set up their chairs and Law just stares at him. He refuses to get in, so Luffy has to surprise him and push him in. He's mad, but then Luffy laughs and all is forgiven because he is the sucker for Luffy's laugh/smile.

Ahhh hello!! Tysm for the kind words! 😭❤️ funny story it is ALSO 100 degrees where I am and I have spent today recovering from dehydration and heat exhaustion 🫠🫠

[aeternxm]

he'd expected a punch, being pushed away - something other than what he'd got, that much is for sure. takeshi's only all too aware of the fact that he comes on too strong a lot of the times, but if you ask him it's all a part of his charm! but imagine his fuckin' surprise when tall, dark and handsome over here fuckin' pulls him back in by the shirt with the type of desperation that takeshi hasn't seen a long time.

he doesn't miss a beat though - if kai wants a fuckin' kiss then that's exactly what he's going to get. takeshi'll give him a damn kiss to remember!

tattooed fingers waste no time threading themselves through dark hair and settling on the back of kai's head while his free hand rests upon the other's bicep, fingers digging into the flesh there and pulling him closer until there's barely any space between the two of them. it's not as though takeshi's touch-starved; he's never gone without for long - there's something about crazy that people seem to gravitate towards, and he's never had to worry too much about getting his end off. but there's something about kai that ignites a fire within takeshi that he didn't even know he had. for the first time in a long time, takeshi craves someone's attention, wants kai's eyes on him only - and takeshi's never been great at accepting defeat, so he'll do whatever is in his power to make sure that he keeps kai's attention for a long time to come.

his tongue darts out to meet kai's own, an unabashed groan into the other's mouth as they kiss. for all takeshi cares, kai could bend him over the fuckin' bar and fuck him until he's weak in the knees and struggling to walk. he wouldn't fuckin' care! shame is not something that takeshi has ever subjected himself and he doesn't plan on starting now.

there's no intention of stopping, not as far as takeshi's concerned, the hand that had been resting upon kai's bicep moves down his arm, across his back - fingers splayed out as he pulls the other in closer, might even hitch his leg over the other's hip for show too. by the time they do break apart takeshi is damn near breathless, still holding onto kai as though he has every intention of kissing him again.

and maybe he does.

❝ fuckin' hello to ya too, sweetness. tha' how ya greet everyone or am i jus' special? ❞

@aeternxm from here

Why the fuck did he keep seeing this chatterbox everywhere he went? It was like a curse or something. Even after strangling the man, here he was, waving to him across the bar like they were fucking sweethearts. If he kept this up all night, people would begin to suspect they were together, and he’d have zero chance to score. How tragic that would be— he hadn’t gotten lucky in far too long for his tastes, even if it had only been a couple weeks.

Downing at drink after drink, he tried to ignore Takeshi. He really did, but every time he even glanced at the other man, they would make eye contact. Ugh. It’s not like Takeshi wasn’t cute, either— he was just too chatty and nosy for his tastes. As a hitman, having someone around who asked too many questions never turned out well, so he had learned long ago to steer clear of those types. Yet somehow, fate or chance or probability or whatever the fuck kept bringing them back together. It would’ve been comical if it wasn’t ruining his chances of getting laid.

The rest of the night went by quickly, and by the end, he still hadn’t been successful in bringing someone home. Somewhere along the line, he lost track of Takeshi, but that was probably for the best. More than a little drunk, he ordered his last drink of the night and sat at the bar, staring down into the ice melting in his scotch. What a fucking drag of a night.

When someone sat down next to him, he didn’t even look to see who it was, busy asking the bartender for something. The next thing he knew, he heard the chatterbox’s voice again right next to him. Kai turned to face Takeshi, annoyance knitting his dark eyebrows together.

“What the hell? No, I didn’t fuckin’ come to—” he began, only to be cut off by something he could’ve never predicted— a kiss. Out of fucking nowhere. It was quick, though, and soon Takeshi was pulling back, saying something stupid again. He really needed to learn how to shut the fuck up, but the kiss had felt way too good, the warmth of the other man’s lips causing goosebumps to rise on his skin. Yeah, it felt nicer than he wanted to admit, and found himself staring at Takeshi’s soft lips when he pulled back. He didn’t even listen to what the other man had to say about missing him, alcohol drowning out his reason as he leaned in closer.

“You’re annoyin’ as fuck. If you’re gonna fuckin’ kiss me, at least do it right.” He growled, then pulled Takeshi in by the front of his shirt to kiss him, this one much deeper than their first, the hitman’s tongue tracing his bottom lip before moving into his mouth. He couldn’t care less that they were making out in front of the bartender— it had been two weeks too long since he had been touched, and maybe this could help sate his hunger.

[aeternxm]

@gloryundimmed asked: “pretend you're my boyfriend.” (the “safe” way Kai gages Takeshi’s reaction to asking him to be his boyfriend 😩)

( prompted | accepting! )

❝ huh? whaddya mean pretend-- ❞

oh, he almost looks sad for a second, pout and all. to be fair, it's not like they'd ever really talked about whatever the hell they were, never thought of defining it, because what was the point? kai fucked like he fought and damn it if that fact alone wasn't enough to keep takeshi coming back for more. he'd grown attached - but he had a tendency of doin' that too, yanno? as far as takeshi was concerned - kai was his the second they'd kissed, the second that kai had kissed him back, really. y'think takeshi just kept running into him by pure coincidence? hell no! he was doin' that shit on purpose - at first it had just been 'cause he was cute - cute an' not afraid to put takeshi in his place.

fuck -- that shit was sexy as all hell.

but now? well, truth be told it was still a lot the same and yet, different somehow. it's confusing for takeshi if he thinks about it too much, hurts his head. but he supposes what he's trying to say is that kai means something to him ; what that something is? shit, even takeshi doesn't know.

takeshi shifts from kai's side to stand in front of him, hands unable to help themselves from feeling the other up a little. i mean c'mon - it'd be a crime not to! there's a thoughtful look on his face as those hands move up to rest on the back of kai's neck - an overwhelming urge to thread his fingers through black hair and fuckin' yank it. god, he can just imagine it now - that his of pain, the pissed off look that kai would give him, the way he'd fuckin' drag takeshi to the nearest corner and just--

ah, gettin' distracted again! focus, takeshi! focus!

he leans in, surprising even himself when his own touch is so slow and deliberate, pressing kisses against kai's jaw, his cheek ; before brushing their noses together. ❝ what if i don't wanna pretend, sweetness? what happens then, huh? ❞

[vivika-ka]

Some instances that I feel show how some messages in MHA are detrimental, especially on how victims react to their abuser, can be gauged by responses that tend to be highly prevalent in the fandom.

(Definitely not every fan, but a great majority).

Endeavor is a great example. Whenever you post criticizing his approach to atonement (and ultimately criticizing Horikoshi’s writing), you get BOMBARDED by people either belittling you for not liking his character or essentially forcing you to like his character by frantically writing “at least he tried” arguments.

If I have the CHOICE whether to forgive his character or not, especially given he goes through an atonement arc and not a redemption arc, why is any form of criticism about his abusive behavior and essentially his abuse of power practically ignored by the story unacceptable?

The message was detrimental because people operate on the notion that for victims to be good people, they must forgive and even help their abusers. MHA presents people who choose not to forgive him as either a monster (Toya) or inconvenient (Natsuo). And if they are still unforgiving, they must admire the abuser for doing the bare minimum (taking responsibility; this is also about Natsuo).

Essentially, they are considered "imperfect victims" because they weren't merciful in their approach to their abuser.

The majority of the fandom tends to ignore the lack of actual consequences for Endeavor's actions because he vows to talk to Toya every day. Insisting that doing the bare minimum, which is recognizing his son's existence and suffering, became his "hell" is a wildly fucked up message, in my opinion.

It harps on the issue mentioned above that if a victim isn't receptive to forgiveness or doesn't act "demure," they are seen as an inconvenience—which is how the Todoroki family ultimately views Toya.

On a less critical note, I'll vent, so if you don't like this, just ignore it.

I'm so fucking tired of stories depicting imperfect victims as people who deserve death and torture. Plus, having to be on the brunt of so many people acting like you're morally fucked because you're not impressed with how a writer handled abuse. Horikoshi is not the first writer to try to atone a character who is an abuser (and he isn't the first to fail at that, either).

I'm not about to dick-ride every decision every author makes. Especially if the message convinces some audience members that victims are inherently broken if they can't bring themselves to forgive and/or admire someone who hurt them.

[quintessential-candles]

Hi I ranked mystic messenger characters based off of how likely they are to stab you

[shakingparadigm]

what is the theory that ivan manipulated the event where till and mizi met the wagyein?

It's not a theory, actually! It's confirmed that Ivan orchestrated the whole event. The true reason as to why however is still unknown. The information provides more context to this scene, though:

During the earlier times of ALNST the most rational explanation for this scene was that Till ran after a flower crown (presumably Mizi's) and Ivan followed him in out of curiosity. Now we know that Ivan was conveniently just standing there because he was waiting.

Side note, I find it heartbreaking (and maybe a little funny, sorry) that Till most likely didn't notice Ivan in this scene. That's just like him, isn't it. Always too busy running after Mizi while Ivan trails behind, an ever-present shadow.

I'm not sure how Ivan manipulated the circumstances for both of them to end up there, but it is confirmed that everything was intentional. What strikes me most is how they describe this particular scene:

I can't copy down what they said word-for-word (Patreon info), but they described Ivan watching "creepily" as Till and Mizi are faced with danger. We know that Ivan was familiar with the Cerberus wagyein beforehand, enough to touch its teeth and even to rest himself inside its maw. To Ivan, the wagyein is not dangerous, but to Till and Mizi, it could be. Ivan prepared the wagyein, led them there, and watched "creepily" from afar as Till fell on his knees, seemingly injured.

The closest I can get to making sense of Ivan's "scheme" is that he wanted to see how other children would react in a dangerous situation. Ivan's always been an observer, after all, and he's learned to survive by copying the more "normal" behaviors of his peers. This situation occured when Ivan was still young and had not yet developed his more charming mask, so perhaps he staged this encounter to study a situational response, to learn and mimic the emotion of fear. And what better subjects for the experiment than two of the most expressive and reactive humans of their batch? It helps that he was already fixated on Till beforehand, too. I think Ivan became irreversibly obssessed after this incident, especially since it's framed as a turning point in Ivan's life, comparing Till to the stars.

This is just my attempt at an interpretation, though. It could very well be for another reason. He most likely chose Till and Mizi specifically for personal reasons, not just for reaction. I'm still not sure on the purpose behind the whole thing.

The team wanted to capture Ivan's "dark emotions" through the shot of his stalking, which could relate to his more sinister intentions. His gaze can be read in a few different ways, though. Curiosity, interest, fear, etc. Maybe that's why they decided to redraw the shot in ROUND 6.

I think this better sells the feeling they were trying to convey.

[glouris]

tf they want me to do with all that

[nightwonder7]

Alice's possible fates

So we are not sure of what becomes of Alice once the events of Ashes of Memory has transpired. The only thing we are 100% certain of is that Orpheus survives the ordeal at the cost of his memories. These are roughly the possible outcomes for Alice in AoM that I've thought of:

She meets her demise; during the game or right after by assassination (the game masters cannot risk having their secrets exposed).

She escapes alone; either continues living her life or goes into hiding.

She escapes with Melly OR Norton; they part ways afterwards, keep in contact or start a new life together.

She escapes with Melly AND Norton; same as above. Either she keeps both or none of them close. Or one more than the other.

She escapes with someone else entirely; for example a staff member or even Frederick if he's still around. Maybe even someone on the outside, like the coworker she assumed the identity of. Perhaps she could have been a back-up escape plan?

She gets abducted; before she manages to escape, she gets abducted. They finally found her and are bringing her back to her adoptive father to continue the experiments. Another twist would be that she is forced to join the game masters after they successfully wipe her memories or something, and together they start the manor games anew elsewhere in secret.

[tvok]

3 extra people in your head = 4x the hairstyle opportunities