#which surprised me because I thought it was earlier but womp womp

[latibvles]

playing pretend.

who up mourning that this is the last prompt. it’s me im up. anyways for Dress Uniform we’re going all the way back to Wendover. It’s December, 1942, and John Egan’s about to find out that he is in fact, a very good actor.

—

The frigid air reminds him vaguely of Manitowoc.

Of course, it would get much colder, snow piling up against the door. He’d help his dad dig out the pathway leading up to the house, the sidewalk, the driveway. And he remembers steam puffing up around their mouths, how he’d take his dad down in the snow to save his sisters from the “dragon” and how powder would cling to his curls. It’s something sobering, warming — he’s not drunk, not enough to have much trouble finding his way.

Wendover isn’t big. There’s base, and there’s the town, and the local bar. On a weekend, they might’ve taken a bus into Salt Lake City, but it’s Thursday, so they all settled for this instead with no practice flight tomorrow. He could take his chances walking back alone, and he doesn’t hate the memories that are choosing to accompany him. He likes the cold, for the most part.

He shoves his hands into the well-worn pockets of his dress uniform, hums under his breath as he takes in the windows with their lights off. If he had a watch, he’d check the time, but he doesn’t. Bucky just knows that it’s late, because he’s never been the kind of guy to call his nights early.

The song they’d been singing in the bar has wormed its way into his thoughts and he’d have to pester Brady for the name of it tomorrow.

He’s halfway between bar songs and shoveled snow when he hears hurried footsteps behind him. He doesn’t have much time to turn around before he’s being swathed by the scent of a peachy perfume, arms hugging one of his and he’s met with slightly frizzy hair, and eyes boring into his own; hazel ones, alight with something indiscernible. He knows her face, because it’s hard to forget something that pretty, but he and Lieutenant Savorre hardly ever spo—

“There you are!” She practically chirps, jovial. If it weren’t for the fact that he can’t smell anything on her breath he’d ask if she was drunk. She’s not though, as she tilts her head up to sear a kiss against his cheek that’s warmer than the whiskey in his blood. Her breath ghosts against the shell of his ear, making him shiver.

“Sorry for the trouble, Captain, but those boys back there have been trailing me for the past block. Could you play along?” Bucky hears it, then. The loud laughter, and as he turns his head he catches glances of the group in his peripheral vision. How they double over one another and stumble, loud and reckless in the quiet. They aren’t Army, not by the way they’re dressed. If Savorre’s scared or nervous, she doesn’t show it. Her lips are pressed into a tight smile as she looks up at him and they keep walking.

Bucky’s never been much of an actor, but he figures he can try.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he leans forward, daring to press a kiss to her hair and Savorre bows her head to let him, like they’ve practiced this before. “Took you long enough.”

“Got caught up with a friend,” Savorre’s reply is breezy as she lifts her head once more. “Missed you like crazy though.” Bucky swallows, harder than he means to, at how easily the words come to her. And if it weren’t for the clamor behind them, he could easily forget that she was just saying it to say it.

“Like crazy, huh?” he counters with a grin of his own. Savorre’s nose scrunches, her eyes narrow.

“Don’t tease me.”

“Can’t help it,” he counters. She huffs, and he chuckles. “C’mere.” Bucky moves his arm from her grip to drape around her shoulders, pulling her into his side and dunking himself further in the scent of her, the warmth of a body pressed against his own. Her hand finds his heart through his jacket, hand curling against fabric.

She’s too good at this.

Savorre keeps looking up at him, laughs at the jokes he comes up with and counters his quick remarks with her own. His thumb presses into her shoulder as he tries to make sense of their predicament. Or rather, the fact that this is the most they’ve really spoken since meeting a couple weeks ago. And he can’t help but be mildly surprised at how easy she makes this all look: she laughs and lightly pats at his chest and bats her eyelashes like she really is his “sweetheart.” It’s impressive. It’s off putting.

He glances behind them momentarily as he leans down as if his plan is to whisper something salacious in her ear.

“Bank left,” he mutters, and Savorre giggles and gasps out a “Sir!” that sells as he veers down a sidestreet with her in tow. They move a few feet behind and Bucky looks behind them to watch the group of boys stumble past, paying them no mind.

Savorre untangles herself from him with a soft sigh, straightening out her jacket and he watches for a moment. His well of words has run dry and all he can really do is stare as she rights herself; straightening her tucked in tie and rumpled collar, before her gaze drags up the length of him to settle on his face.

“Sorry for the trouble, sir. I hope I’m not uh– in trouble for that.” Bucky balks at her.

“What? No. I’m not—” he pauses, before waving his hand dismissively. “Stays between us. That happen often?” Savorre looks a little caught off by his question, before she presses her lips into a line.

“Sometimes, in Texas.” She shrugs, looking at the main street. “Usually we… travel like a pack but my partner had to make sure our Radio Op got back safe and I was handling something with the bar owner.” She reaches up to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. He doesn’t miss it — the way she keeps the details vague and he isn’t going to press her for them. But he does smile a little bit.

“Your partner, that’s—”

“Neumann, yeah. Tiny one, black hair,” Savorre demonstrates by holding her hand near her mouth and Bucky can form the image pretty quickly. It was hard not to stare at them.

“I don’t think she’s a fan of me,” Bucky admits and Savorre chuckles at that. He’s pretty sure this is a real laugh of hers, and she shakes her head a little bit.

“Everyone thinks that. It’s just her face. Promise she hasn’t said anything bad, sir.”

“So you girls talk about us?” Savorre rolls her eyes, but he doesn’t think it’s malicious as she raises a brow towards him.

“If you’re hoping for the inside scoop all I can offer is that we’ve been calling you ‘the tall one’, so don’t get too excited,” Savorre smiles a little, like it’s the secret he’s been waiting to be let in on. Maybe it is, because he’s been curious about all thirty of them since he met the pilots on the runway. He presses a little more.

“If I’m the tall one then what’s Kidd?”

“That’s classified information for the 349th to know and for neither you or Kidd to ever find out.” Bucky kisses his teeth, makes a hissing noise as he puts a hand over his heart as if he’d been wounded. She laughs again, with a slight shake of her head and a roll of her eyes.

“Y’know Savorre, they say secrets are poison to a marriage.”

“So now it’s a marriage? I thought it was a rescue mission.”

“Well I’m hoping if I promote myself I’ll get clearance to know what it is.” Savorre makes an ‘ah’ noise, then hums, like she’s really considering it. Makes a point to take her chin between fingers and stroke it pensively, staring up at the cloudy night above them before clicking her tongue and shaking her head.

“Sound argument, sir, but no can do. Plus I’d have to be the one to promote you anyways if that’s how you wanna play it.”

She’s got him there. There’s a glint to her eye — something like mischief — and Bucky’s pretty quick to decide that he likes talking to her and wants to do it more. Mostly because she’s funny, which he didn’t know, and in part because somehow she’s made the idea of Jack Kidd being called anything besides Jack or Kidd seem like the most interesting thing in the world. It feels like a game in some respects and Bucky likes a good game.

“You can drop the sir,” Bucky offers. “...when we’re offbase.” An olive branch, or something like it, he watches the way her face softens up some in surprise, before she tilts her head and furrows her brows.

“Are you sure?”

“It’s just us. Bucky works fine.” Savorre looks like she’s contemplating it for a moment, her expression virtually unreadable. It’s always been pretty easy for him to decide who he does and doesn’t like; it’s easy for him to file Savorre into the prior category as opposed to the latter. She nods, slowly, mutters his name under her breath before fixing her gaze back on him with a smile; warm, friendly.

“This isn’t just a way to get yourself on the fast track to promotion, is it?” Bucky scoffs in mock offense.

“Y’know, if you weren’t smiling all nicely I’d be offended by that.” He whines. Savorre snorts a little bit, which he doesn’t expect.

“Well then sorry, Bucky, and you can call me Viv when it’s just us. If that’ll make it up to you,” She offers and he nods. Viv. And then it’s almost like an immediate switch; how she rocks back on her heels for a moment, looking away from him to one of Wendover’s low rows of businesses and houses. “And thanks again for… playing along. I wouldn’t’ve done that if I had another option.” She sounds almost apologetic and Bucky rejects the unspoken apology with a wave of his own hand, a shake of his head.

“Anytime,” he assures, before amending the statement. “Well, maybe not anytime but if you need a bailout I’m not… it doesn’t bother me.” Viv nods, and he takes her in a little bit. The pinkened state of her cheeks and tip of her nose from the December air, and the progressive softening of her features.

She’s not readable, at least not in any way he understands quite yet. But she’s not stiff either, or rigid. The only other time he’s ever gotten some kind of read on her was when she’d breezed past him with two other pilots to go greet Veal with a “What took you so long?” and a smirk that reminded him of just about every other pilot he’d met, including himself. Maybe she didn’t have sharp edges, but she wasn’t shy or meek about anything.

She’s not shy or meek now either. Maybe comfortable, which feels like some kind of reward for him.

“I might give some of mine the heads up on that,” she admits. “If you don’t mind. Some of them are too shy about that kind of thing and don’t know how to ask.” It doesn’t sound like a complete thought, more like she had more to say but is withholding it. He decides not to pry into it.

“I don’t mind,” he agrees, instead. They lapse into silence for a moment, stiff with that uncomfortably frank knowledge that, yeah, this isn’t the first time any of them had been followed around. Bucky decides, quickly, that he doesn’t like it: the silence and the knowledge. He can do something about both, thankfully enough. “So can I keep walking you back or do you plan on leaving me in the dust?” Viv makes a noise, somewhere between amused and disbelieving.

“Yeah you caught me, I was planning on running for the hills ‘till you opened your mouth.”

“Yeesh, am I that bad of a husband?”

“Well I wouldn’t know. You promoted yourself pretty quick — and it still doesn’t count.” She walks towards him, and then brushes past, and he turns on his heel to follow her, falling in step pretty easily.

“I’m taking that as a ‘No, Bucky, you’re great and also terribly funny. An absolute catch.’” That makes her snort again and she reaches to lightly shove at him, but he doesn’t move much as she shakes her head.

“Sure, Bucky. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”

[waitmyturtles]

THE MORNING AFTER: ONLY FRIENDS, EPISODE 4 (“UHHH, IF I FEEL SOMETHING, DOES IT MEAN I HAVE FEELINGS, WOMP?”) EDITION

That’s how I felt after watching yesterday’s episode. I have NO BUSINESS writing meta in my current life-mental state, but I NEED to get a few words down. Just some list-y thoughts.

Shit’s starting to gel for me. The cast seems like they’ve warmed up to each other by way of actor-ly chemistry. (I know scenes are never shot in order, but there was maybe a little stiffness I felt at the start of the series? At this point, it might just be Lookjun carrying that, but I also don’t think she does “drunk” as well as the others.)

Such good meta that sustained me during my packing yesterday. @ranchthoughts on an ephemerality BREAKDOWN. @respectthepetty Senpai on sluts slutting — and HOW WE AUTOMATICALLY JUDGE AND LABEL SLUTS FOR SLUTTING (more on this in a BIT — go OFF, RTP Senpai). And @slayerkitty on nailing the narrative frameworks, which really struck me this episode, and this goes back to ephemerality again. Can’t believe I’m gonna meta, but let’s boogie, ‘cause I gotta.

@ranchthoughts — Ranch, I’m probably going to repeat some of what you wrote, so please forgive my stress-addled brain. I just lost it at Khaotung this episode, I thought he was just OVERFLOWING with BEST-NESS this episode — and the way we lived with Ray in his past in this episode. It was another play on time. And I love that @slayerkitty nailed that it was the flashbacks that were doing the talking this episode — because especially for Ray, the past is doing HIS talking. His mother didn’t love him in his past. Therefore, because of his past, he is unlovable in his present. (Interrrrgenerationalllll traumaaaa — the past affects your present. The opposite of ephemerality. That shit’ll STICK with you UNTIL you decide to face it head-on, like our beloved PatPran.)

Ooooh, baby. Gosh. The combination of the use of flashbacks, with Ray living in his past, only listening to music his parents listened to. And Sand — falling for Ray! — is holding Ray’s hand and bringing him to the present and the new. Sand’s a figure of change. Ray keeps toeing BACK to the past, to his memories, to his “love” for Mew, and Sand’s like, let me hold you down. (Ray going back and forth — like relapsing.) Ray STILL flashing back to Mew, holding that pendant (THAT LOOKS AN AWFUL LIKE AN ECLIPSE SYMBOL, AMIRITE AMIRITE) — and flashes again back and forward to the record store, where Sand found Ray’s hand.

What will Ray need for Sand to do to pull Ray even closer to the real-time present? How will Sand help Ray face his trauma? Will Sand really hold Ray down?

I am a big believer in the ships sinking, but goddamnit, First and Khao ATE this episode. GAAAHHHH.

Just musing: If Jojo and team started out this series having us think on ephemerality, the general lack of accountability, and the disappearance of time — are we entering the next act of the series where the characters grapple with the impacts of their pasts? That if you’re engaged emotionally and/or sexually with others, that not being accountable for your past and present is NOT an option? (That’s a kind of frame that speaks very closely to Jojo’s devotion to messages of sexual health in his past shows — especially regarding Nat in Gay OK Bangkok, who was HIV positive.)

Also musing: I saw some posts on my dash grappling with Top and Ray using coke. Drug use is obviously common on the partying circuit — their using coke doesn’t surprise me, especially considering that Top and Ray were both shown also being familiar with pills earlier. But I will note that the entire SE Asian region prosecutes the drug trade quite harshly, so to be honest, I was surprised to see Top actually snorting (but not surprised that that would be in a Jojo show). (Some passing links: when I Googled “drug use in Thailand,” this study shows that of a sample of vocational students in Thailand, LGBTQ+ students were more likely to use three or more drugs than heterosexual students, plus more findings. And this article briefly reviews the history of drug prosecution in Thailand.)

Also musing: really loved how Top’s demeanor was SO different with Nick and Sand. Maybe this indicates how much he’s “controlling” himself around Mew (@ranchthoughts , beep beep, control). Especially when Nick was talking with Top — it seemed like Top had been approached for money like this before. And the way he was so forward with Sand, confident to tell Sand that Sand wasn’t up for keeping Boeing — that was a totally different Top than who we see with Mew.

Okay, penultimate point. @respectthepetty says: sluts gonna slut. @bengiyo says: dudes gonna dude.

Cheum calls Boston a ho. Top says Boston is nasty. Nick calls himself nasty. Nick is Boston’s “favorite.” Jojo challenges the viewer to think that Top was gonna sleep with Beam, as RTP Senpai writes. Top’s already slept with Boston while dating Mew. On and on and on.

I wrote in my review of Theory of Love that I related to Khai, and now I relate somewhat to Top by the way that some of the viewership has judged Top. I was VERY often called the slut/ho of my friend groups in my younger years. OFTEN. And this was while I was in my twenties, exploring myself, my boundaries, my sexuality, all of it.

I relate to the struggle of trying to shed labels. Ray is a “burden.” Boston is “nasty.” Mew wants the truth from Top as to if Top has been with anyone else while they were dating. Therefore — Mew is assuming that Top IS sleeping with other people.

Call these people by their labels, and they’ll start believing them. It’s just another kind of trauma, similar to intergenerational trauma.

I wrote in my Theory of Love piece that as a global society — humans don’t really believe that our fellow humans can CHANGE. We don’t accept change well. (Cancel culture rarely allows for someone to be uncancelled — right?) If someone takes on a label — we tend to believe that label, and we have a hard time believing that someone has SHED that label after time. If Ray was called a burden by his mother — what work will it take for Ray to shed that label? And same for our sexually active guys, too.

Think about how you talk about your friends to others. Think about if you use labels to talk about them. Think about how old those labels are, and if they’re accurate in the present. And. Think about how you judge others by their pasts. (“Remember when so-and-so was sleeping around?”) Think about whether or not you use the past to judge and/or justify your FEELINGS about someone.

Now, I don’t even KNOW if these guys WANT to change these paradigms. We get the SLIGHTEST hint that maybe Boston wants to do so with Nick in next week’s preview.

But. I just fucking love that Jojo is playing around with this. If someone is HIV positive — that’s a label, a stigma. If someone is a ho — that’s a label, a stigma.

These dudes are burdened by what everyone else is thinking and saying about them.

And we have Sand, on the other hand, processing his feelings with Nick. We have Nick acting like a damn BASKETCASE, but at least he admitted the wiretapping to Sand (??? lol honey but you gotta stop this now, nervous giggles, put Boston’s phone down). We didn’t see Yo in this episode, but we know Yo believes in accountability.

There’s something about the Ray-Mew-Cheum-Boston friend group that allows things to both slide and fester. We’ll get ever more clarity in the following episodes on this, but — these young folks are having ish dealing with their labels, the labels of their pasts, and what are they gonna do in their presents and futures to deal with changing themselves?

FINALLY, and then I’m done rambling. Is that supposed to be a penis, or something penis-like?!

(What’s good, Ephemerality Squad? Wish me luck with moving today! @slayerkitty @ranchthoughts @lurkingshan @neuroticbookworm @clara-maybe-ontheroad @twig-tea @distant-screaming @chickenstrangers)

[aurorawest]

⭐️⭐️Hi! Can you give a commentary for anything at all you'd like to talk about? 😊

Thanks! I’ll talk about far away from here and closer to somewhere else. I wrote this fic for Froststrange Week 2021. This fic is about Loki and Strange running into each other in Hong Kong. I did a lot of Google Streetview-ing of Hong Kong, and just a lot of random googling to get some sense of what the place looks like. I’ve never been, clearly. And now I want to go! It looks really cool. I decided to set it on Lamma Island, which is right offshore and has regular ferries. There are two towns on the island and a hiking trail that goes between them.

I went through a couple different iterations of what I wanted the plot of this to be. I knew Loki and Stephen would get drunk and play truth or dare, because those were the prompts, but one of my ideas was that they actually went to a restaurant and ate dinner together. Then I was just going to have them go to a bar. In the end, I settled on them basically having a picnic and drinking the booze Loki had earlier bought to share with Thor.

Throughout this fic, Loki is real thirsty for Strange. There is a lot of innuendo (if you thought to yourself, ‘did she mean to word it that way...?’ the answer is almost certainly YES). As he gets drunker (on baijiu, which I also researched, and have never had), he keeps having these really vivid fantasies. This is kind of the first time, chronologically in my verse, that Loki really confronts that he has feelings for Stephen. He starts out the fic sort of reveling in his sexual attraction, but by the end it’s freaking him out, because he’s kind of realizing that it’s more than that.

This is the section where they play truth or dare to the end. Loki chooses dare. Stephen thinks really hard about it.

He breathed out slowly. “Are you thinking of something?” he asked.

“Yeah,” Strange said. “I don’t—” He swayed. “—don’t want it to be boring. Like, I could ask you to sing. I’ve never heard you sing.”

“You don’t want to,” Loki said. “‘S’not good. 

My head canon is that Loki has a truly terrible singing voice. He also hates singing.

Also!” Coup de grace—Strange couldn’t dare him to sing after this. “I am far too…too…too plastered to remember the words to any of the songs you like.”

Womp womp. Shouldn’t have admitted to that, Loki. I just wrote a bit in an upcoming fic where Loki actually thinks about the lyrics to a song Strange played a lot and about how they apply to his situation (that fic takes place shortly before this one).

“You know them?” Strange asked. There was surprise in his tone.

Stephen is a way better actor than Loki gives him credit for. Loki thinks that Strange doesn’t give away what he’s feeling. And while that’s true...it’s kind of more than that. This thrills Stephen. Absolutely thrills him. It’s a sign that Loki knows his favorite songs. It’s a sign that Loki is interested in music.

“Maybe,” Loki said, only realizing at the last second that he shouldn’t have admitted this. “Or maybe I’m lying,” he added. “That’s why I didn’t choose truth, you know. Because I’m a liar.”

I both love and hate writing drunk people. This line makes me laugh because Loki sounds like an idiot.

“Uh huh.” Strange’s hands were resting on top of his thighs, twitching now and then. “Okay. How about this. I dare you…to tell me the truth about something.”

At first, Loki laughed. But Strange just watched him, looking smug, and Loki’s smile faded. “That doesn’t really seem in the spirit of the game, Steph—St—Strange,” Loki slurred.

This was one of the first exchanges I thought of once I had the plot of the fic nailed down. Strange basically cheats, Loki lets him...and also nearly calls him Stephen.

With a sloppy looking shrug, Strange said, “That’s the dare.”

Loki stared at him in consternation. Then his eyes flicked down to Stephen’s mouth, set into a crooked smirk, and he couldn’t help thinking, The truth is that I want to kiss you right now, but even as drunk as he was, he wasn’t drunk enough to say that. Was it even true? Or was it just…alcohol? Probably just alcohol. He was sure, quite sure, that if he were sober, he wouldn’t want to kiss Stephen Strange. So what if his lips looked full and soft; so what if Loki had always had a weakness for the feel of a well-groomed beard against his face? Just alcohol. And heatstroke, probably.

Does Loki even believe himself here? That’s kind of the question throughout the entire slow burn. Does Loki actually, really believe the bullshit he keeps telling himself, that he’s not in love with Strange? The fun thing with Loki is that he’s perfectly capable of lying to himself. In fact, he often elevates his lies over the actual truth, because he would prefer the lie to be true. So even when he knows it’s a lie, he almost gets into this state where he thinks if he just repeats it enough, he can will it to be the truth. This is actually something that Loki thinks about Thor sometimes - that Thor can just mold reality to his will if he wants something enough. Loki sees himself as telling stories, and he desperately wants the stories he tells about himself to be true. The fairy tale that he isn’t in love with Stephen, though, that’s a losing battle.

His mind turned to the ‘dare.’ There were many things that Strange didn’t know the truth about, some innocuous, some much less so. Some, they had talked about haltingly, but never in great detail. 

This was me hedging—when I wrote this last November/December, I knew that I was going to have Loki and Strange talk about their respective tortures at the hands of the Black Order in an upcoming fic (I’d already written some of that dialogue, in fact).

He could say, I know what Ebony Maw did to you because it was done to me too; 

Somehow, despite shipping Loki and Strange for over a year and adoring both of them, it didn’t really occur to me that they have this in common until like, six months ago.

he could say I understand what it’s like to think you’re someone and find out the opposite. He could tell him about sneaking Jotuns into Asgard, about the fact that he had delighted in being wicked during the Battle of New York because it was exactly what everyone had always expected of him and he was giving them the performance of his life. He could tell him how he’d hated Thor so much, but loved him with an equal fierceness.

But Loki thought Strange might know that last one already.

Strange doesn’t know about sneaking Jotuns into Asgard, but he actually knows both of the other two things Loki lists here.

Taking a deep breath, Loki said, “I think you have a nice singing voice.”

Strange actually looked stunned. That was worth something. For a full thirty seconds, he stared at Loki, a comically befuddled expression on his face. Finally, he asked, “You do?”

Loki compliments Strange very rarely. This is one of the most uncomplicatedly nice things he’s ever said to him.

Loki rubbed at a smudge of dirt on his pants. “Yes.” Flicking his eyes to meet Strange’s, he said, “Nicer than mine. But actually just…nice.”

It would have been so much easier for him to stick with the comparative here. This is character growth, that he admits that Stephen has a good voice, full stop.

There was another long pause. Then, Strange said, “Thanks.”

With a shrug, Loki looked out over the sea. “You dared me to tell the truth about something.” Clearing his throat, he said, “Well then? What about you? Truth or dare?”

Strange rubbed at his beard and Loki wondered what internal debate he was having. What the pros and cons of each choice were. Because Loki knew Strange. 

You can really see the absurdity of Loki’s repeated assertion that Strange and he aren’t friends right here. Loki is absolutely right - he does know Strange; he knows him so well that he can guess what he’s thinking, even though Strange tries pretty hard to hide what he’s thinking from Loki.

He knew that was the reason for the hesitation. Strange was trying to guess how far Loki might needle him.

Another few seconds of silence passed, and then, Strange said slowly, “Truth.”

Oh.

Oh. No jk. Believe it or not, the Oh. Oh. trope doesn’t appear in this series, because Loki never really has that moment of realization about his feelings.

Loki had assumed he would choose dare. Dare was easy. Loki would have dared him to do something stupid, like create a barbershop quartet composed of himself and invite the Avengers and their new young acolytes to a special performance.

I really struggled to come up with a stupid thing that Loki might dare Strange to do, for some reason.

But truth? Oh, he wanted to ask, is that something you want to talk about? The truth? 

This was one of the prompts for the event.

Which he supposed would have been a question that Strange could have told the truth in response to, and Loki could call it done, but…even that felt like opening a box he didn’t want to open.

Questions flickered through his mind. Impossible questions. Does the way you look at me sometimes mean anything? Do you even like men? 

Loki still thinks Strange is straight at this point.

Do you find me attractive? Do you want to kiss me? Do you know what a spectacularly bad idea that is? Do you understand why I can’t?

Loki doesn’t even quite know why he can’t. This moment is almost like...please tell me why I can’t, because I know I shouldn’t, but I can’t quite come up with a good enough reason.

He was so drunk. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck, he clearly couldn’t drink this much, ugh, no, not around Strange, not when it was so hot and it had been so long since he’d had—since he’d been with—since he’d had any kind of romantic partner except his own hand.

The last time Loki had fully consensual sex (where he reached climax) is at least decades in the past. Possibly longer. In The Real Asgardians of the Galaxy, Kalmsh goes down on him, but Loki stops him.

That thought made him giggle a little. He had made supremely poor choices today. He was just sensible enough not to make another one.

Strange was staring at him. There was an odd look on his face. Loki couldn’t identify it.

But if he had to, he’d call it…expectant. No.

Hopeful.

Loki knows and tells himself he doesn’t.

Loki’s fingers curled into fists and he asked, “How did you and Wong meet?”

@mareebird suggested this for the question.

The change on Strange’s face was subtle. Nearly imperceptible. Loki was surprised he was able to detect it, considering the state he was in. The hope, if that was even what it had been, dropped away, replaced by…resignation. “I wanted to borrow a book from the library,” Strange said. He smiled, though it seemed joyless. “In Kamar-Taj. He took it too seriously.”

I wanted this moment to be absolutely devastating. To be honest, I don’t think I really pulled it off. C’est la vie. I plan on rewriting this and adding it to my series, so maybe I can fix it then.

“As always,” Loki said. His voice felt like it was coming out far too heartily. As though some line had been crossed and they both needed to retreat, but Loki was acutely aware, horrifically aware, that he had done something wrong, or if not wrong, then something that had wounded Strange in some way, and that was…idiotic. It was stupid. Nonsensical. There was nothing Loki could do to emotionally wound Strange. The man had proved that time and time again. He didn’t take Loki seriously. If you didn’t take someone seriously, they couldn’t hurt your feelings.

It really, really bothers Loki that Strange doesn’t take him seriously. He’s wrong about that, of course, but it’s something that’s driven him absolutely insane from the moment they met. At first it’s more of a like, dick measuring contest, lol. But it becomes much more than that, and the anger turns to this kind of...desperate hurt. Loki wants Strange to take him seriously. His unhappiness over the perceived slight appears many times.

Which was why Strange had never hurt Loki’s feelings, incidentally, because Loki didn’t take him at all seriously, 

Uh huh yeah sure.

this human sorcerer with his lovely eyes, blue or green depending on the light, and his soft-looking lips and neat goatee.

Riiiiiiight.

The two of them lapsed into silence. The drunken buzz had gone out of Loki’s veins entirely. Alcohol—it was fun until it wasn’t. Now he just felt foggy and slow. The world was spinning unpleasantly. How the hel was he going to fly back to New Asgard like this? He couldn’t. Sourness sloshed in his stomach. He’d probably be lucky not to be sick.

Now, this, I felt I described pretty well. It’s such a distinct feeling when you’re drunk and having fun and suddenly you cross some line that you didn’t know was there...and you’re not having fun anymore. And there’s no way to get back.

Loki’s legs felt stiff and he extended them. That other buzz had gone from Loki’s veins, too. It had been stupid. Stupid fantasies. [...]

His mouth was starting to feel dry. The sourness in his stomach was gaining more bite. The humidity in the air wasn’t helping, either. Loki felt like he couldn’t get a breath. He wasn’t quite nauseated, but the possibility didn’t seem far off. If he could breathe some cool, crisp air, he was sure he’d feel better. Everything would probably be better if he could just do that.

Me, writing this: Think back to all the times you’ve felt like shit walking around Disney World!

Strange shifted. Their shoulders had been touching, Loki realized. And now they weren’t.

“I s’posp…s’posp…” Loki grit his teeth. “I…suppose you need to get back to Yew Nork. New York.”

Realistically there would be a lot more slurring in both of their speech, but who wants to read that, honestly. I use that sort of thing sparingly.

There was a silence, so Loki turned his head to look at Strange. He was staring out over the sea, his gaze faraway, like he wasn’t here at all. Not thinking about Loki at all, let alone what had just happened. 

IDIOT. Obviously, Loki is exactly wrong here. Stephen is absolutely thinking about Loki and absolutely thinking about what just happened. His heart is breaking.

Whatever had just happened. Stupid thought. Nothing had happened.

Since nothing had happened, the barren hollowness inside him was just an illusion. And Loki knew about illusions. He was good at them. So that made sense.

I wrote Loki’s internal monologue in a simpler, almost more childlike way here to try to capture his inebriation. And also his sadness. He’s sort of like a kicked puppy here.

“Guess so,” Strange finally said. Without looking at Loki, he laboriously climbed to his feet, swaying alarmingly. Norns. What if he stumbled right off the cliff into the sea below? Flashes of that played out in front of Loki’s eyes, intrusive and horrible, and something that felt awfully like panic clutched at his chest. The idea of Stephen dying suddenly seemed so terrible, so very terrible.

Foreshadowing. Stephen will die in about fifty-five years. Loki will be devastated and never get over it.

Loki got to his feet too, ready to grab Strange if he wobbled too close to the edge of the cliff. But Strange seemed steady enough on his feet, now that he was standing. Silently, Strange unhooked his sling ring from his belt, shakily slipping it onto his fingers, as Loki vanished the empty food containers into his pocket dimension. They were a problem for a future version of him.

Just like Future Emily often has to cover for freaking Present Emily. She’s the worst.

The empty bottle, though—he bent over to pick that up, sliding his fingers over it. He was seized by a sudden, violent urge to fling it into the sea. Except you couldn’t fling a bottle into the sea on Earth without putting a message into it. That was a cliché here. A message in a bottle. A message you couldn’t send any other way because you were stranded. A message that had no hope of actually reaching its intended recipient. What kind of message would he send?

I hate you. I hate this.

Even if it was the opposite.

They’re caught in this limbo where neither one of them has the guts to tell the other how he feels. They quite literally have to resort to games, but even then, they both chicken out. Loki can’t even imagine being able to be honest with Strange about this. He can’t even be honest with himself.

Loki closed his eyes, then vanished the bottle into his pocket dimension, as well. Where had he actually landed his ship? Would he be able to find the way back? Everything seemed murky in his mind. And—this thought hadn’t occurred to him until now—was the ferry even running anymore?

This is your author realizing at the same time that Loki took a freaking ferry to get here.

Perhaps he’d have to spend the night here, leaning against the rocks until he nodded off into fitful, drunken sleep.

As though Strange was reading his mind, he said, “Let me bring you back to your ship before I go back to the Sanctum.”

“Oh.” Right. Stupid. Strange could bring him anywhere, instantly. “I…” It felt as though his head was full of wool. “Yes, that would be…thank you. Don’t think—don’t think the ferries are running anymore.”

Strange finally looked at him. “You think I’d let you walk back to your ship like this? Even if they were?”

His ship is the same one from The Real Asgardians of the Galaxy, The Bifrost, but I don’t name it in oneshots because I don’t like to assume that people have read that fic.

“Like what?” Loki asked. Drunk off his arse, clearly. Why was he even asking? Just to hear Strange say it? Even an Asgardian could be taken advantage of in a compromised state.

Loki has been sexually assaulted many, many times. He’s not really too concerned about it here on Earth, but it’s certainly something that would occur to him. His most recent experience is with the Grandmaster.

But Strange didn’t answer this question. Instead, he asked, “Where is it?”

There had been ships. Big boxes. Loki knew the kind of place. He knew the word. “Um, docks,” he said. “Container ships.” He closed his eyes. “It was Container Terminal 8.” Complete sentences—look at that.

Yes, this involved more Google Streetviewing.

“Okay,” Strange said. He extended his arm and circled the other. The portal started to bloom in front of them, swelling a little before it shrank back down. Orange sparks sputtered weakly. Loki stared blearily. There was a joke here, but the idea of making it seemed devastating in a way that he couldn’t articulate.

I checked with @mareebird before I made this erectile dysfunction joke because quite honestly she’s the queen of sexual innuendo, and I needed to see if it passed muster.

But Strange tried again, and this time it worked. [...] Uninvited, Strange followed him on board, where he stood as Loki drifted to the bridge. Loki mostly just wanted to lie down. He didn’t know why Strange hadn’t left yet.

Clearing his throat, Strange asked, “You’re not going to fly home right now, are you?”

Part of him wanted to say yes, just to see the look of horror on Strange’s face. Would Strange go into Good Guy mode and tell him he couldn’t? There were signs on some of the roads in Norway admonishing people not to drive their cars while intoxicated. Imagine what they’d think about flying a spaceship when he could barely walk in a straight line! 

A stylistic note - I almost never use exclamation points in prose like this.

The thought amused him and he started to giggle.

The feeling faded quickly and he swayed on his feet, then took several unsteady steps to his berth. As he flopped down on it, he said, “I’ll stay here. I’ll sleep it off. That’s what you want me to say, right? You want me to be good. Good Loki, he’s so well-behaved, doesn’t put a toe out of line. Can’t really, can I? I’m a guest here on Earth. We’re all guests.”

This is also me vagueing, because I knew future plot points but didn’t have them totally nailed down. Now that I’ve almost finished with the fic that will directly precede this in the timeline, this was actually pretty spot on. It completely calls back to that, which I didn’t really do on purpose. Gonna pat myself on the back for that.

He stared up at the underside of the other berth. A hard, swollen feeling rose into his chest, a feeling of wanting. Just…wanting. He didn’t know what he wanted. All he knew was that as good as things were now, as much as Thor and he had repaired things, there was something gaping inside him. It would be easy to say it was New Asgard, stupid tiny ugly reeking fishing village New Asgard, but it would be a lie.

Then again, he liked lies. Well, he didn’t like them. They were just easier. Lies were so much easier. The truth was hard.

Lies are easier, which was why he just repeatedly lied to himself in the paragraph above. Doesn’t know what he wants? Right.

He turned away from the raw ache and rested a wrist on his forehead. “Well?”

There was a metallic scrape as Stephen’s feet shifted on the deck. “I don’t want you to crash into the ocean and never be seen again.”

Loki snorted. Suddenly, he felt as though he was going to cry. “I’m sure you’ll see me again, Stephen.”

Every time Loki thinks of Strange as Stephen or calls him Stephen, it’s very intentional.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Strange take a step closer. He looked unsteady, too, swaying, his gaze unfocused, his hands shaking. Mentally, he dared Strange to come closer. Truth or dare.

Why the hel had Strange chosen truth?

The truth was too much. The truth was difficult. The truth was impossible. It was vulnerability and pain and handing your heart and soul over to another person. The truth was something Loki had no interest in. Certainly not whatever truth Strange would tell.

Deep down, Loki knows how Strange feels about him.

Slowly, Strange nodded. He was starting to look a little wan, as though he wasn’t feeling well. Wouldn’t be much of a shock. Loki didn’t feel well and presumably he could hold his liquor better, even with the heat. “Hope so,” Strange mumbled.

Head canon: Stephen actually doesn’t hold his liquor well at all. He never has. Because he sometimes takes painkillers from his hands, he’s even worse at it (I have to thank @nonexistenz for that one). Presumably he hasn’t taken a painkiller in several days in this fic, since he’s still conscious after drinking half a bottle baijiu.

The two of them looked at each other. Loki’s vision kept fuzzing around the edges, but he concentrated on Strange, Strange in his t-shirt and his jeans, looking so human.

In earlier fics, Loki admires how Strange looks in his Master of the Mystic Arts get-up. That shifts over the course of the future fics and Loki begins to find Stephen’s everyday clothes much more endearing and attractive.

Terribly human. Stay, whispered a traitorous voice in his mind. It was a voice that would have him move over on the berth and hold out an arm. An invitation. An acknowledgement.

This is the closest Loki has ever come to an admission of his feelings.

Impossible. Loki closed his eyes and rolled over onto his side, facing the bulkhead. “Good-bye,” he said, knowing he sounded pitiful. He had officially reached the stage where he wondered why he’d ever touched any alcohol ever in his entire life.

It’s a cliché but it will never not be funny.

“Thanks for dinner,” Strange said.

“Welcome.”

“Thanks for…” But Strange trailed off.

Strange probably doesn’t even quite know what he’s going to say here. He’s just stalling, hoping Loki is going to make the move that he (Stephen) is too afraid to.

“Strange.” Loki’s head was starting to hurt. “Good-bye.”

There was silence, then the sound of a portal, which spit, hissed, and closed.

The truth. The truth could go to hel.

Loki hoped he didn’t remember any of this in the morning.

He does remember a lot of it, but he’ll pretend he doesn’t, or chalk it up to drunkenness.

Thank you for asking!! Hopefully you liked what I chose 😊 

Fanfic Writers: Director’s Cut

[saint-eridell]

TdMo fluff/smut drabble

Oh boy. First post on the new blog.

This is loosely based on the yakuza AU @the-angriestpineapple​, @deadassqueeraf​ and I have been writing. It’ll definitely get expanded at some point, but someone on our main server decided to poke my brain and this fell out. Unbeta’d, we die like men (which means it’ll take forever to get to my AO3, womp womp).

4.1k; Yakuza AU. Shouto and Momo are married, all characters are in their mid-twenties. Story building, lots of fluff, smut toward the end. No major content warnings.

---

It was fairly common for Shouto to wake up for work incredibly early in the morning. His office didn’t technically open until eight, but he was sometimes out the front door at least an hour and a half before that to account for surprise traffic and coffee lines. The unusual part was Shouto waking up incredibly early for two, nearly three weeks straight: every morning, seven days a week, the same chime playing before the sun had even remotely touched the bedroom curtains.

By the end of the third week Momo’s patience had worn down to a wispy sliver pulled taught as a piano string. She’d anticipated her own irritation upon going to sleep the night prior, but hearing Shouto’s alarm go off just before five in the morning pulled what remained of her patience until it snapped with a force that surprised her even in her post-sleep delirium. Her eyelids flew open as she felt Shouto roll over behind her, grunting while he fumbled for his phone to turn off the alarm. She didn’t move with him or indicate she was awake, instead letting him sit up and stretch himself awake in silence as she stared at the dark wall across from her side of the bed.

The mattress dipped soundlessly behind her as Shouto leaned into her to press a tender peck to her cheek, her eyes only barely closing before he leaned into view of her features. He hovered for a moment before a warm fingertip brushed a lock of dark hair off her temple and behind her ear. “I love you,” he whispered, soft and reverent like he never was anywhere else, before sliding away with practiced grace, leaving Momo alone in the bed as he stumped off to take a shower and ready himself for the day.

She grinned into her pillow. Despite the obtuse block of wood that Shouto could be, his tender side was something Momo would never be over and she was a terribly lucky woman for having to all to herself. She loved him beyond the point of finding words to describe it.

Once Shouto left the bedroom, she slowly lurched out of the bed and set herself into motion. She didn’t have to be awake that early on a day off, but she’d resolved the moment her eyes opened that she was going to get a break from that goddamn alarm, no matter what it took. The first step was getting herself ready - a drawn out shower to ensure Shouto had already left the house when she got out, the expensive hair serum she saved for big occasions, clean makeup with a shiny cherry lip and a hint of a sharp jet-black wing. Her hair was blow-dried into a long, flat sheet that hung against the back of the tight red cardigan she plucked from a dresser drawer, along with a dark gray tweed skirt that danced around her hips in loose petal-shaped pleats.

With everything seemingly in place, Momo gave herself a once-over in the floor length mirror that hung next to her dresser. She turned sideways, tracing the curve of her backside where it blotted out a hill of light emanating from her bedside table. Her hands smoothed over the skirt’s intricately woven tweed, the two silver rings on her hand catching the dim light against the dark contrast of the skirt fabric. Her smile returned, soft and genuine. He was caught in that same work rut again. She had do something drastic to break the cycle, and this seemed drastic enough to her.

“Damn, you look good,” she muttered to herself for an extra confidence boost before heading off for the kitchen to caffeinate for the day. Mina was going to be so proud of her.

Lunch was an easy affair to sort. They’d prepared daytime meals ahead of time, a habit Shouto had gotten her into that quickly became a staple of the very limited time they got to spend with each other during the week. That day’s boxes got tucked into a small lunch box lined with cold packs (of course he’d forgotten to grab his lunch again; Momo was going to smack him across the side of the head) along with two melon sodas before she set off for her car. Dinner was already in the slow cooker, the house was immaculate to a level that had to make him chill out, and Momo’s assistant was ready to cover her “sick leave” for up to a couple of days by the time she set off for his office. Perfect. So far, everything was going to plan.

Shouto’s office sat in the middle of a sleek street near the city’s financial district. The block was lined with shiny black mirror glass on both sides, the sidewalk below dotted with an equal mix of suit-clad businessfolk and minimum wage workers husting to their next bus stop. Momo navigated through them to park underneath Shouto’s office building before making her way into the parking level’s elevator, her heels clinking against the concrete that surrounded her until she was encased in steel.

Shouto’s suite occupied the entire top floor of the building. Momo tapped the last button on the panel just inside the lift’s sliding door and waited patiently as it lurched upward, not stopping until she’d arrived at the very top. She snorted quietly. Had he rigged the panel to go directly to his floor when prompted?

His receptionist - Ayame, right - was busy hammering away at her keyboard when Mono sauntered into the waiting area. Her tall boot heels heralded her arrival in staccato taps against the white marble floor, loud enough to get Ayame’s attention, who popped up with a surprised gasp before jolting to her feet. “Ahh, sorry Mrs. To-”

“Momo, please,” she cut in before the receptionist could finish. “I’m not here on official business.” She bumped her hip against the lunch box held at her side. “Just dropping off lunch. Making sure he hasn’t keeled over yet. The usual.”

Ayame sighed in relief, a hand clutched to her chest. “Oh thank goodness,” she breathed. “I thought I’d missed a meeting reminder or something.”

Momo frowned slightly. The poor thing looked like she was about to keel over herself. Her eyes were half-mooned with pale gray circles that pressed too hard into her skin for someone fresh out of college. She’d been working just as hard as Shouto, then. Momo would have to talk to him about remembering that not everyone is a semi-human work machine. For now… “Why don’t you take a couple hours for lunch?” she said softly, offering Ayame an encouraging smile. “Grab some coffee and take a walk around the park. You look like you haven’t breathed fresh air in days.”

Ayame’s surprise and relief were both palpable. She blinked, glancing at her boss’ closed office doors. “I don’t think I should,” she replied quietly. “His lunch hour is about to start, and there are meetings scheduled within the two hours afterward…” She blinked hard, a lightbulb seemingly popping to life between her ears. “I’ll route all calls to my work phone and take a picnic lunch. I’ll be back no earlier than 1:45.”

Momo checked her watch. It was 12:15. “Excellent.” She flashed Ayame a brilliant smile on the way toward the double doors leading into Shouto’s office. “Thank you. Really. I’ll make sure he knows how far out of your way you’re going.”

Ayame snorted quietly, her purse already hung over a shoulder. “You know me,” she replied cheekily. “I work to the bone for my paycheck. This really is the worst, let me tell you.”

Momo laughed in return. She waited for the elevator to close before reaching for the door knobs in front of her, unwilling to let anything else distract them. There was no reason for anyone else to be on that floor for the following hour and a half. Until 1:45, Shouto was hers. She twisted one knob and leaned her weight forward to push the door open, only to jump in surprise when it bumped against the sole of a shoe on the other side.

Shouto blinked back at her through the crack between the door and its frame, too stupid cute for his own good as he visibly tried to parse out what was happening. Momo had known him for over a decade at that point and he’d only gotten cuter over time. Good God, how was he even human? “Uh, hi,” he said, his confusion apparent. He peered around her toward the back of Ayame’s desk. “Did I hear the elevator twice?”

“Yep.” Momo didn’t give him time to investigate. She held the lunch box up and put it between them as she walked forward to make him focus on taking it from her hands while she closed the door behind herself. “Your receptionist is on lunch break and you left yours at home.”

It worked. He took the lunch box and gave her room by stepping back, smiling the whole time. “Thank you, Momo,” he said, eyeing the container with obvious elation. “I would have just had something delivered when I realized it was missing. You didn’t have to come all the way up here just to give me this.”

“Of course I did.” It was a casual day with nothing major planned as far as she knew, but Shouto was still dressed like he was going to meet a room full of politicians. His dove gray button up was rolled to the elbows, the rest of him all clean pressed lines and well tailored hems that hid what she knows to be a deceptively lithe frame. Under the expensive business drag, Shouto was built like an endurance runner. She smoothed her hand over the seam where his neck and shoulder met on the way to press a soft kiss to his mouth. He pulled in a sharp little breath through his nose, but immediately relaxed under her touch as the breath came out in a slow stream. She pushed everything she wanted to say out loud into that one brief kiss - you’re safe, it’s okay, you can relax. It seemed to get the message across, because Shouto’s hands were on her waist just a few seconds later as he eagerly returned the tenderness offered to him.

They pulled back before the contact became anything but chaste. Momo offered him an innocent smile, even as she lingered in his space and played with the pressed edges of his shirt lapel. “Take your lunch break. Please.”

Shouto’s gaze fell to the meager space between them, grip loose and gentle over the points of her hip bones. He looked so… tired. What could have possibly been weighing on him hard enough to make him physically slump over? Did she really want to know, especially if it had anything to do with his “ side jobs”?

“Okay.”

He tilted his head up again, and when he met her eyes again his flickered with sadness. “I’m sorry.”

Momo slipped her arms around his neck to pull him the rest of the way toward her and into a tight hug, their fronts seamed together from the collar down. He clinged back, snaked around her waist like he was afraid she would melt through the floor. That wouldn't do. “Don’t apologize,” she murmured back into the side of his head, her fingers snaking up through his hair on the other side to soothe his scalp with her nails. “You’re doing your job. It’s not your fault things are busy.”

“That doesn’t excuse neglecting you.” He stepped back again, taking the lunch box with him on the way to a massive wood desk sitting in front of the office’s floor-to-ceiling windows. “My lunch hour is all yours. It doesn’t make up for being so spacy the last few weeks, but I hope it’s a start.” He sets the container down on the desk to open it and unpack their lunch, but Momo quickly follows him and pushes his hands flat against the lid.

“Wait.”

He was still thinking too much, dammit. Shouto did as requested and went still under her touch while she scooted their lunch out of the way and rounded the desk in three long, slow strides. He tracked her every step, confusion warring with a spark of desire Momo fully intended to cultivate as she slid into his personal space again and nudged him back into his chair. He landed in the seat with a grunt and a quiet thump while Momo perched herself on the very edge of his desk in front of him.

“I thought you were coming by to have lunch,” he said plainly, a faint smirk edging across his mouth when Momo’s face pinched into a frown. He was needling back, the bastard. He’d already keyed into what was happening and was playing coy just to get back at her. Fine. At least he wasn’t thinking about work.

She nodded back. “That’s still happening.” Her hands gripped the edge of his desk on either side for leverage as she scooted up to take her weight off her feet, bumping his shin playfully but gently with the toe of a shoe on her way up. Her knees had been pressed tightly together until she hopped up, but once she was seated she let them widen until they were held reasonably wide without being too obscene. Her loose skirt pooled around her lap and across the span of desk between her spread thighs, effectively curtaining any direct view. If this didn’t get him out of work-brain, nothing short of a fan dance with tax forms would.

Luckily, it didn’t come down to burlesque with office supplies. Shout followed the shift of her knees with a slackened jaw, hunger building in his narrowed gaze and the fingers that tightened around the arms of his chair as he pushed himself up to his feet. His desk only increased their height difference by an inch or so, but it felt like he towered over her as his hands found her shoulders and pulled her into another kiss. The suggestion seemed to have gotten his head into the game; the faint edge of teeth pressing into her lower lip parted them and he groaned in appreciation as a callused hand smoothed itself over her lower back.

She hadn’t exactly chosen this life. It was unsaid knowledge that they would end up together before either of them could have even understood the concept. Truthfully, neither of them had been left with much choice. But as he pulled her onto the edge of the desk again in one smooth tug, seaming their laps together so quick it left her breathless, Momo couldn’t help the fondness that swelled in her chest. God, was she lucky to have ended up with him. Under all the coldness and professionalism and deeply-rooted anxiety was a man too kind and sensitive for the ugly world he’d been born into. If she hadn’t been the one “convenient” enough to use as a power consolidation move, would she have ever seen that tender side of him?

They’d barely found a rhythm between their mouths when Shouto broke away to hover at the side of her neck, just a breath away from her pulse. She jumped at the ghost of his breath over her skin, which she quickly realized was just a distraction as Shouto pushed his hands under the tulip hem of her skirt, palms flat to her bare thighs. “Bastard,” she grumbled as she stomped on the urge to squirm. He kept his office ice cold, which meant his fingers were usually about the same temperature in concentrated form.

She could feel his smirk against her neck as his hands trailed further up her thighs. She felt his fingertips poke into her abdomen, right at the bare seam where her hip and thigh met, and when he paused to groan quietly against her skin the urge to squirm became too much. “You planned this out,” he rumbled.

Momo circled her painted nails over the back of his neck. “Indeed,” she admitted while she toyed with the clipped strands at his hairline. “Down to the contingencies.”

He hummed again, deep and low in his chest, the rumble echoing through her as she clung to him harder. His hands were no longer frigid against her when they slid even further up, a comfortably familiar set of puzzle pieces that fit snug against the seams just below the points of her hips. When he met nothing but more bare skin, it hit some kind of switch in him because Shouto dipped to kiss her again with a newfound urgency, his grip tightening at the pads of his fingers until Momo wriggled against the pressure.

When he let go, it was only to slip down to his knees and tug her own over his shoulders. The bell shape of her skirt tented almost comically over his head as his arms bracketed her thighs against his ears, obscured until he audibly huffed and paused to shove the offending garment up toward her stomach.

Momo snorted as her skirt was abruptly jammed upward. “Easy down there,” she chided gently. “I like this ski-”

Her heatless protest was cut off by a sharp inhale as an impossibly hot tongue drags a long, agonizing line up the length of her exposed slit. Just as quickly, any thought she had to preserve her skirt flew out the window. He could have ripped it off her for all she cared (though logic screamed from somewhere in the void that that would be a terrible idea). A near save of throwing an arm back prevented her from losing her balance and falling back against the desk, the heel of her palm landing with a loud thud. His shoulder nudged her leg up far enough for her boot to find his chair and she eagerly took the leverage, his shoulder effortlessly holding the other leg wide.

He set into her like a man starved. It was all Momo could do to sit back and let him ravage her with only his mouth: reflex dictated she navigate them to the floor and re-position herself above his mouth until she was satisfied he’d decompressed enough. As it were, he drank in the praise that bubbled from her with quiet groans and subtle arches of his head into the fingers she had tangled through his hair, set on his task with an intense focus that had Momo nearly falling apart at the seams in what felt like moments.

When his lips locked around her core, there was no way she could have held herself up even if she wanted to. She dropped back to the top of the desk as gently as she could as Shouto nudged her hips upward, splaying her knees even wider than she’d been holding them over the edge of the desk. She buried her face in the crook of a sweatered elbow just in time to muffle the wail he tore out of her as he latched around her again with two warm, thin fingers sunk down to the hilt.

Momo had been on her fingers for long enough that being touched by someone else nearly sent her over the edge. Shout seemed to read her tensing up accurately and withdrew before she could fully commit to her orgasm, leaving her dangling on the edge until she sucked in a breath and forced herself back. When Shouto moved to stand, her sudden scowl only deepened. “What the fuck?” she breathed, but her confusion evaporated the moment she saw his hands go for his belt buckle.

Oh. Oh.

He was on her again before she could fully process the transition. Somewhere off the edge of the desk his belt jingled as he shoved his slacks down toward his knees, his once neatly tucked in shirt a rumpled mess against her skirt where it pooled around her stomach. Their lips sealed together hard enough for Momo to feel it against her teeth, a hand supporting the back of her neck when Shouto buried himself inside her with one hard, seemingly blind thrust.

God, that level of competency shouldn’t be possible, let along legal. Momo wailed again into their open mouths, the noise all but swallowed by Shouto as he allowed her a solitary second to breathe, then moved straight into a demanding pace that had her writhing under the intensity. Their hands tangled together on the way up to either side of her head, where the backs of her hands were unceremoniously pinned down as he fucked her hard enough to make the desk creak under them both.

Obscenities and even more obscene noises echoed around the otherwise silent office as they both approached their climaxes. Shouto looked like he was about to either pass out or fall apart at the seams; Momo encouraged him toward the latter by wrapping her legs around his waist and lifting her lower half off the desk to let him go as deep as he could and holy shit she didn’t know he could go that deep. Neither of them lasted more than a few seconds, Shouto bottoming out with a guttural moan that stuttered with his hips. Momo followed him as soon as she felt him fill her from what felt like the core out, her back arched up off the desk in a sharp crescent with Shouto desperately panting into her neck as she warbled out his name.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect. This was the man she’d fallen for, not the exhausted log she’d greeted at the office door. She couldn’t see his face but she could feel him smiling against her neck, his breaths coming in short bursts that fanned over her throat as he clung to her. “I love you,” he murmured between breaths. “So much. Gonna be better to you, promise. More of this, less of this morning.”

His hands have already begun to wander despite his bearings still clearly being scattered, soothing down her sides and circling her shoulders and seeking out every spot that makes her melt as she slumped against the desk, struggling for her own breath. Even while exhausted and strung out of his mind, Shouto still instinctively nurtured others before himself. The world really was too cruel of a place for people like him.

“It’s not a set of checkboxes,” she reminded gently. Her manicured nails dragged matching paths up the back of his head from hairline to crown, tilting his head into the center of her bosom. Shouto rolled with the touch and settled into her chest, his hands coming to a rest at her sides once she began idly circling through his hair. “It’s the effort that counts. I love you too. I’m not mad, promise. I just miss you.”

Shouto tilted far enough to peer up at her, mismatched eyes still hazy when they found hers from somewhere around the top of her covered cleavage. She hugged him into her chest tighter as it ballooned with fondness again. He hadn’t pulled out yet; he had no right to be that cute. “Let me get through one more call and then we can go home together,” he suggested. “Maybe we can make dinner and watch a movie or something.”

“That sounds great,” she replied before Shouto could have a moment to doubt himself. She beamed down at him, confident and assuring. “But first I think you might want to, uh…”

Shouto’s eyes darted to where their hips were still locked together and jumped with a quiet gasp. “Sorry.” He slowly backed himself away until he was completely free in one slow, almost agonizing slide, Momo’s knees closing within moments so she could haul herself upright and begin adjusting her sweater hems.

“Has anyone told you you’re incredibly handsome lately?”

Shouto froze midway through buttoning his fly with a little choked noise. She watched his eyes widen slightly as he stared at the carpet, his cheeks a slightly deeper pink than they had been when they separated. “Yes,” he said back with surprising certainty. “But it’s still nice to hear.” The smile he shot back at her was disarming to a concerning level, and Momo felt her own cheeks deepen when he fixed her with it.

Bastard.

[unityghost]

Release

For the 27th installment of Post-Asmodeus Sabriel Feels, I'm fulfilling two requests from Twistedlove on Archive of Our Own: write something that takes place a little earlier in the series, and show Sam's response to one of the fainting spells to which past stories have alluded.

“You mentioned this chapter [’To Slip and Fall’] about him losing consciousness in the past. I wonder how Sam reacted to that.”

I envision this as taking place somewhere between the second and third entries ("Heavy" and "Midnight Blue"). I've said it before: continuity is a little out of my reach because this was never supposed to become a series (whoopsie), but I do what I can to keep things as smooth as possible.

Got me thinking about the time I fainted in front of a crowd while giving a poetry reading. Womp womp.

Thanks for reading!

On the seventh consecutive day of rain, time began to feel crooked. Gabriel fell asleep at lunchtime and woke two hours later to his door creaking open.

Sam smiled when Gabriel rolled over to look at him. “Hey, Gabriel.”

Gabriel groaned and pressed the heels of his hands over either temple to try and ease an oncoming headache. “Good to see you, Sam. My favorite part of the reunion was when you didn’t knock.”

“You must’ve slept through it. We haven’t seen you in a few hours. Everything okay on your end?”

“I’m fine. What do you need?”

“Just wanted to let you know we saved some casserole for you in case you were hungry. I mean, you haven’t eaten since …”

Gabriel shoved himself upright. “I don’t remember either.”

Sam frowned at him, then glanced over his shoulder into the hall. “Hey … is it all right if I step in for a second?”

Gabriel scanned Sam’s face, his hands, his body. “What for?”

Sam looked a little surprised by the shift in Gabriel’s tone. “You can say no.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“I’m not …” Sam offered an uncertain smile. “I’m not here to punish you or whatever, if that’s where your mind went.”

Gabriel cleared his throat and ran a hand through his hair. “No, that isn’t what I thought. Um, yeah, make yourself comfy, champ.”

Sam stepped inside and shut the door behind him. “I was only looking to check up on you. Figured maybe you wanted to talk to me.”

Gabriel almost asked, Why? What am I doing wrong? Instead he answered with, “About what?”

“Well,” said Sam, “For one, you look kind of … awful.”

“That’s according to plan. The last thing I’d want to do is make any one of you feel jealous.”

“And also, you - ”

“Wait.” Gabriel held up a hand. “Listen, Sam: I’m sorry, but at the moment I’m not sure I have the stamina to rifle through a scrapbook full of bad memories. You know better than anybody how much that kind of works takes out of the both of us.”

Sam shrugged. “We don’t have to do anything like that. We could just … hang out.” He waited for Gabriel to reply. When Gabriel said nothing, Sam declared, “No problem. In the meantime, I guess maybe I’ll go get some coffee and hang out in the library. Dean just now told me he thinks he might’ve found us a case to work on in Connecticut. Nothing’s for sure yet, but might as well use the time to dig up whatever info might end up being useful, right? So if you need me - ”

“Don’t know why I would.”

“ - I’ll be in the library.” Sam turned, and placed a hand on the doorknob.

“Hold on,” said Gabriel, and Sam turned back. “Don’t go all the way to Connecticut.”

“We don’t have plans yet. Plus, I don’t have to be the one to go if it makes you nervous.”

“No one’s nervous; I just … I … you know.”

Sam looked puzzled. “No. I don’t know.”

What was Gabriel doing? It was ridiculous - not to mention wildly imprudent - that he should try and dictate Sam’s actions. It was even more absurd that he should feel threatened by the prospect of Sam not being nearby.

“Ah, never mind,” said Gabriel. “You can totally go to Connecticut. Pennsylvania. Arkansas. Colorado. The Pyrenees. Anywhere that tickles your fancy, Sam.”

Sam let go of the doorknob. “Gabriel, don’t take this the wrong way, but I think you’re spending too much time alone.”

Gabriel glanced at the floor, thinking of the nightmares and flashbacks to which Sam had been witness since Gabriel first arrived at the bunker several weeks earlier. He was afraid that, if he said anything now, he would be perpetuating a trend that he did not want to continue. “There’s some way to describe what’s up with me, but I’m not confident about getting it right.”

“Bad dreams?”

“Yeah. For sure. Always.” He continued to avoid Sam’s gaze. “They come at odd hours when I can’t keep track of day and night. The rain, you know? Not like we can see it from here. But I feel it. It’s weird, actually; it’s like I can sense it in a way I couldn’t before. Near-gracelessness and whatnot - makes me tired, causes pain … everything feels different now. But it’s not about the nightmares - that isn’t new.”

“So what else, then? Can you tell me?”

Gabriel remained silent.

“Gabriel,” Sam said, “You’re the only one who knows what you’re feeling.”

Gabriel shook his head. “I’m the only one who feels what I’m feeling. But I don’t know what it is, or how to give an accurate picture. Headachey, I guess. Exhausted.”

Sam waited for him to say more. When Gabriel didn’t go on, Sam took a few cautious steps toward the bed and sat beside him.

“I feel like you might be getting worse,” Sam said softly, “Not better.”

“Yeah, well ...”

“You’re spending a lot of time by yourself. And whenever any of us tries to get you to hang out, or eat, or go for a walk, or whatever, you just sort of … hide.”

“I don’t hide.”

“What would you call it?”

“Voluntary seclusion.”

“I’m not prosecuting you. You know that, right? It isn’t wrong if you need time to yourself. It’s just that I’ve never thought of you as a wallflower.”

“Excuse you. I’m the prettiest of all wallflowers; I’m a whole-ass bouquet.”

“You want to tell me what’s going on?” Sam’s tone was gentle. “As best you can?”

Gabriel fidgeted. “I mean … sure. I can give you what I know. But that’s all I’ve got.”

“Yeah, tell me.”

Gabriel took a deep breath, released it, and began: “You guys have a good, solid rhythm going. Your own thing. Your own little family. Who am I to look for a place in that, huh? Plus - and I know you won’t be happy about this, Sam, but it is what it is - sometimes I prefer not to be around the others. Dean is … intense, Cas is hard to read - especially when my grace is low and I can’t always communicate with him in ways I might have before - and Jack is … look, the fact of the matter is Jack is a stranger. I’m sorry, but you’re the only one I can trust even a little bit, and otherwise I’d rather be alone.

“There’s one more thing, and it doesn’t make a lick of sense: most of the time, I wish I wasn’t by myself - but I feel like I have no choice. Now, obviously, nobody’s depriving me of the option to saunter out there and say, ‘Screw it, I know not one of you is looking to throw me around like a bargain-bin Raggedy-Ann knockoff.’ But here I am, some castaway watching a cruise ship glide past on still waters, and I’m not doing a damn thing to get myself rescued.” Gabriel clenched his jaw. “So I go with plan B: lock myself in here like a sick kitten and cry.”

He heard Sam shift beside him.

“The point is,” Gabriel went on, “None of this makes sense. I don’t make sense.”

“I think it makes sense.” Gabriel tried to catch any revulsion or annoyance in Sam’s voice and couldn’t. “All of it makes sense to me.”

“Bully for you, Sam. I don’t know what metric you’re using, but something ain’t adding up.”

“I think you just need to let yourself adjust. Give yourself some space to heal. And time - you gotta give yourself time before you can expect to really feel better.”

Gabriel raised his eyes to meet Sam’s. “Time and space sound fantastic, but they’re not what I need. I need my grace. I need to forget about Asmodeus. And - ”

Sam furrowed his brow. “And?”

Gabriel swallowed. “And I need that now.”

Sam lifted a hand. “Can I - ”

“No,” said Gabriel, “Please don’t touch me.”

Sam lowered his hand. “Look ... Gabe … there’s no forgetting. That isn’t what you need. And you can’t hold yourself to that standard, because you’re setting yourself up for failure if you decide that the only way to improve is to forget.”

“Yeah, well, no one’s trying to make a case for its likelihood. All I’m saying is that’s the only thing that could ever make a difference. You asked me to talk, we can talk - but if you can’t handle the truth then maybe find another conversation partner. However, if you think you can metabolize it, you want to know what I’ve learned since coming here?”

“What’s that?”

“You really want to know?”

“Yeah, Gabe. I really do.”

“Dandy.” Gabriel made sure to hold Sam’s gaze this time. “Here’s your appetizer: on my first night here, I learned that sleep doesn’t have anything to do with rest, and that the unconscious brain can hold about ten different storylines at one time. A little meatier: after that I learned just how committed a graceless body can be to purging itself of phantom danger even when there’s nothing left to throw up. By now - and here’s your entree - I’ve learned that getting out of Hell doesn’t mean I’m not still there. How was I to know I’d be scared of my own brother? Scared of Dean? How was I supposed to plan for that? And how was I supposed to anticipate just how much help I was going to need when I ought to be damn well capable of helping myself?” Gabriel turned away. “Hope you enjoyed. Don’t forget to leave a tip.”

“Gabriel …” This time, Sam simply took Gabriel by the shoulder.

Gabriel jolted away. “Stop it, I told you not to!”

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” Sam softened his voice. “I really didn’t think. Listen, buddy, don’t be so hard on yourself about all this.”

Gabriel gave a cold smile. “Even when it’s happening all the time?”

“‘It?’ What’s happening all the time?”

“I see Asmodeus everywhere, Sam. Around every corner, behind me, next to me, in every one of you. Even you - sometimes. And I … that’s not all right, and I’m sorry.”

“You won’t get better by being sorry, Gabriel.”

“You worry about me holing myself up in here, away from the rest of you? You worry about not being able to monitor me all the time?”

“No. I get that there’s no reason to keep tabs on you twenty-four/seven. I worry because it’s nothing like you to pull yourself away from everyone around you and I feel like you might need … I don’t know. Something.”

“Yeah? And what do you think you’re gonna do when I finally agree to set the party ablaze with this killer personality Asmodeus cultivated for almost a millennium? You know, Sam, sometimes humans throw around this idea that it’s better to get it all out - to let yourself be messy, to break down freely. Because sure, all right: your kind aren’t built to house your pain in those bodies indefinitely. And then there’s me.” Gabriel laughed, harshly and quietly. “I can hold it. I can keep myself together. But, just like you, like any human being, I reach a tipping point. Fair enough; I can accept that. Except here’s one other fun tidbit I’ve learned: losing control doesn’t help. Sobbing myself into a coma never does a damn thing to make the pain anything but more real. Think twice about whether you’re prepared to see that for yourself, Sammy.”

There was a lengthy pause after he finished. Gabriel listened to the footsteps in the hall, the occasional click of a door, Dean shouting a question to Castiel.

When Sam didn’t speak, Gabriel kept on: “It’s easier, Sam. It’s just plain easier to hide. For me, and for you. For all of you. The truth is I’m - I mean - I’m scared out of my wits, and I don’t know how to change that.”

“That’s how you’re supposed to feel after somebody hurts you,” Sam replied before Gabriel could add I’m sorry. “And do you really think it’s easier to lock yourself up?”

“Why else would I be doing it? When have I ever done anything other than take the easy way out?”

“You don’t think maybe you’re making this harder for yourself on purpose?”

“I have no idea what I’m doing to myself!” Gabriel was beginning to feel sick. “I don’t know how much is me and how much is him.”

“You aren’t going to feel any better, any freer, if every time you feel like you’re back in Hell you reinforce it by holding yourself hostage. Gabriel - look - I won’t make you listen to me or talk to me, but I need you to know that I’m not as scared of seeing you in pain as you are. You don’t have to dedicate any amount of time to me or anybody else, but we’re here. I’m here. And I really don’t think you have anything to be ashamed of.”

Shut up, Gabriel wanted to say. I have everything to be ashamed of. But he couldn’t speak: his throat was locked tight, exactly the way he locked himself in the bedroom when he didn’t want the rest of them to see what was happening to him.

“You have the power to drown him out,” Sam continued. “He’s gone and you have the power to make sure he stays gone.”

Gabriel shook his head. He hadn’t had any kind of power for a long time now.

“And you’ve got more than that,” Sam reminded him. “You’ve got us. Me especially, if that’s all you want right now.”

“I don’t want anything,” Gabriel whispered.

If there could be no forgetting, he realized, then there had to be acceptance. Letting the others in - letting any of them, especially Sam, any nearer - would facilitate just the opposite by bringing the pain into the full sight of everyone, including Gabriel; allowing the others to see, to watch, would be to keep the pain alive.

Acceptance necessitated tolerance. Welcoming their gestures of goodwill not only showed intolerance for the memories that haunted him but signaled that he was prepared to fight what he knew would never, ever go away unless he could erase it from his mind completely.

He leaned forward, so that his forehead was close to his knees, and buried his fingers in his hair.

“Are you okay?” asked Sam.

“Yes.” But the truth was that Gabriel was struggling to breathe against the tightness in his throat. His headache had, within the last few minutes, grown exponentially stronger.

“Gabriel,” Sam murmured, “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing.” His heartbeat increased as he struggled to draw breath. He knew that he was able to breathe, knew that this was simply an unwelcome byproduct of the battle, but he struggled nonetheless.

“Gabe, what’s the matter?” He felt Sam put a hand on his back, and this time Gabriel didn’t startle. “Can you sit up, maybe? Are you gonna be sick?”

He sounded worried. Gabriel wanted to tell him not to worry, that nothing was seriously wrong; that sometimes, this was what it looked like when he decided not to give in, not to let go.

It occurred to Gabriel then that Sam had seen him break down before, and perhaps there was little point in going to these lengths just to shield Sam from something he’d already witnessed.

Then he remembered that thinking in that direction - the direction of maybe just this once - would trick Gabriel into believing that it was all right to put himself on display, to showcase this obscenely vulnerable side of himself to anyone who might toy with it; or, worse, to someone like Sam, who would probably never do any such thing and allow Gabriel to take advantage of him.

Way to breathe, dumbass, Gabriel thought as he grew dizzy; and then he realized that somebody was calling his name and that he was on the floor with no recollection of having placed himself there.

He tried to piece together the last few seconds - moments? Minutes? - and found that he couldn’t. Then he realized what must have happened, but why was there another presence? Who was standing over him?

“No,” Gabriel groaned, and tried to sit up just as a pair of hands seized hold of him. “Don’t - ”

“It’s just me, Gabriel, just me.”

“Let go,” Gabriel ground out, and Sam did. Gabriel lay back down again.

“What the hell was that?” Sam demanded. “What happened? Gabriel, man - you wouldn’t wake up for about two minutes.”

“Oh.” Gabriel closed his eyes.

“No!” Sam commanded, and Gabriel’s eyes flew open. He stared up at the ceiling, not daring to move. Sometimes moving, trying to get away - that only made it worse.

“Just stay awake,” Sam said, softening his voice. “Just - I need to know you’re all right.”

Gabriel turned his head to get a better look at Sam, who was knelt on the floor beside him, pale and wide-eyed but apparently not as angry as Gabriel had believed.

“I was going to call someone else in,” Sam explained, “But I figured if you woke up and there was another person here you might get nervous.”

“Sometimes,” Gabriel slurred.

“What? Sometimes what?”

“Happens sometimes. Like oops.”

“Gabriel,” Sam said, “I need you to give me a single coherent sentence before I decide not to get help.”

“No. Not a big deal. I get a little upset. Tired. Whatever. And then this.”

“Do you know where you are? Who I am? What year it is?”

“Floor; Sam; post-moon landing, pre-teleportation.”

“How do you feel right now?”

“Floppy.”

“Why’d you pass out?”

“I don’t know.”

“Really?”

“I mean … it’s like when I get sick, sort of. Moderately less degrading.” Feeling a little more alert, Gabriel pushed himself upright. Sam looked tempted to assist, and Gabriel was grateful when he didn’t try.

“A stress response,” Sam said. “One you didn’t mention.”

“Never came up.”

“So right now, just now - you worked yourself up to the point that you couldn’t even stay conscious?”

“Good at it, aren’t I?” Gabriel leaned against the bedframe and pulled his knees to his chest. He couldn’t tell what Sam was feeling, but he sensed a certain level of frustration. Perhaps Gabriel was confusing desperation with anger; but whatever emotions were driving Sam’s reaction to this episode, there could be no mistaking what Gabriel himself was feeling. He told himself not to be afraid of Sam, and yet …

“I didn’t mean to,” he told Sam. “I really didn’t mean to. I didn’t - ”

“I know you didn’t mean to.” Sam sighed. “I’m not mad, all right? I’m sorry. I’m not. That was just really weird to watch. You went white and started falling off the bed. I grabbed you when half your body was already on the floor, so you didn’t hit your head or anything, but - ”

“Thank you, Prince Charming. My head already hurts like a bitch so I’m glad to be spared.”

“This happens a lot?”

Gabriel tethered his gaze to the floor. “No. It happens when I decide to fight.”

“Fight? Fight what?”

“My instincts. When I decide not to buy into what I said about letting yourself just lose control. There’s no reason to indulge in a breakdown if all it does is make me feel worse. Sometimes this is a … a, ah, side effect of that.”

“God, Gabriel. This is why you need to look for someone instead of running away from us.”

“Can I ask you something?”

“Yeah. Of course. What?”

Gabriel peered up at him. “Can you look me dead in the eyes and tell me that you know from firsthand experience that giving yourself space to parade your emotions around for others to witness and potentially ransack has proven a helpful strategy?”

Sam blinked. “I … no. I can’t.”

“Then what the hell are we doing?”

“I never had a chance to find out for myself.” Sam gave a rueful smile. “But I know what I needed.”

“You’re not - oh.” Gabriel looked away again. “I didn’t mean to be an ass.”

“None of this is about me. I’m more interested in making sure you don’t collapse again.”

“I won’t. That only happens when I’m grossly inconvenienced by my own coping mechanisms.”

“Can I help you up?” Sam offered his hands, apparently to hold onto Gabriel; but Gabriel, who didn’t take well to the notion of being touched like that when he was too weak to retaliate, grabbed Sam’s hands instead and let him pull him up that way.

“Wanna lie down?” Sam asked as Gabriel retook his seat on the bed.

“No. No sleeping. No nightmares. Not right now. I just - I can’t.”

“Not even if I stay here with you?”

“You busted in here to talk, didn’t you? Not to watch me while I sleep. Don’t be weird.”

The mattress creaked as Sam sat back down.

“Oh, and for what it’s worth” Gabriel added, “I appreciate your discretion. Thanks for not bringing anyone else in.”

Sam smiled. “I’m glad you’re not too banged up.”

“Well, I’m sorry. For being such a diva. ‘Look at this, Sam; watch me swoon.’ Have you ever seen such melodrama in your life?”

“It’s not melodrama. If you’re struggling that bad - if you’re sick and tired and passing out and crying - that means something’s wrong. It means you need help. What good is there in bullying yourself just for needing help?”

Gabriel surveyed him. Sam looked alert, concerned - perhaps even a little frightened. “Sam … you know the feeling of when someone wants to hurt you and you’d do anything to escape? And the panic is so strong you forget how to put up a rational fight, and all you can do is throw yourself around like a trapped insect? Being kidnapped, or tortured, or held in place - you know that violent, helpless, hysterical feeling?”

Sam looked vaguely nauseated. “Yeah.”

“That’s what I feel whenever I know help is nearby. And if I give in to that feeling, I’ll scream myself raw and it won’t do any good. Losing control doesn’t make things better. It hurts. It hurts me, because I can never get it all out; I’m never empty, Sam, and that feeling is never gone.” His voice trembled. “Frankly, everything made way more sense in Hell. It all added up to an even integer. I was afraid because I was locked in a cell at the mercy of a narcissistic screwball who’d been handed complete power over me. But now? Now I have no reason to feel trapped and alone.”

“And you need one,” Sam said, “So you give yourself one.”

“No! I mean - do I? See, what does that tell you? I’m nuts. I’ve gone off the freakin’ rails. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. All I know is I need help and I’m not going to be okay no matter how much I get. So what’s the point in wringing myself out for something that’s not even going to make a difference in the end?”

Fragments of memory crept forward: Gabriel, screaming and sobbing through the stitches across his mouth, while Asmodeus laughed above him.

“I can plead until time flips itself inside-out,” Gabriel told Sam, “And nothing - nothing - is going to make all that fighting worth it.”

“Not with Asmodeus.” Sam offered his hand. After a moment’s deliberation, Gabriel accepted it. “He liked to waste your time. Here, with us, you don’t have to beg for anything. Food, water, help. Whatever. You don’t have to tear yourself apart just to get what you need.”

“It doesn’t do anything,” Gabriel pleaded. “Letting go, losing control - it just makes things worse. It makes the pain stronger, Sam. I can try and try and it’s still caught inside of me and it won’t come out no matter how hard I pull at it.”

“When you’re by yourself, sure. It’s not a one-man job.”

“I should be stronger than this. Stronger than any of this. Stronger than him, stronger than my own mind, stronger than this feeling. Sam - I don’t want to be like this. I don’t want to be whatever it is he turned me into.”

Sam squeezed his hand. “He didn’t turn you into anything. You’re still Gabriel.”

“But that’s not … I don’t …” Gabriel didn’t know how to explain that “Gabriel,” whomever that might be, had always been diseased, and that Asmodeus had simply hurt what needed to be hurt.

“I’m confused,” said Gabriel. “I don’t understand what’s happening to me.”

“You’re trying to heal. I think sometimes that can be as rough as whatever it is you’re trying to heal from.”

“I’m tired. Tired and terrified and - and I hate what I am, and how I see everything now; I hate that I don’t know how to keep myself under control. I hate that I come in here to cry. I don’t know; I don’t understand. I’m not - I don’t - ” Gabriel used his free hand to cover his face. “Everything is wrong with me.”

“But in what universe are you not supposed to be scared and upset and confused after everything that happened to you?”

Gabriel shook his head. His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. “I don’t know.” He felt tears glide over his cheeks and kept his face hidden as best he could with the one hand.

“Well,” Sam said, “If anybody would know, don’t you think it’d be you?”

Gabriel didn’t reply.

“Look.” Sam’s voice was gentle. “I really think you should consider swallowing your pride once in a while and maybe pushing back against your own instincts. Don’t bury yourself in whatever it is Asmodeus put into your head.”

Gabriel gave a strangled laugh and slid his hand from his face, forgetting for a moment that Sam could see the tears. “Is that really what you think? That my instinct is to hide and not come running to you? Sam, the only instincts I ever have tell me to throw myself at your feet and grovel.”

“Grovel? For what?”

“For understanding. For affection. For touch. I don’t know; all I can tell you is I need something from you and I have to push myself in the opposite direction so that I don’t disgust you. And so that I don’t get cozy, because that could be taken from me so fast. The number of times he laughed at me, Sam, or kicked me in the face because I didn’t stop crying when he told me to …”

Sam looked repulsed. “Gabriel, I would never do that to you!”

“He used to say, ‘I wish you could get a glimpse of yourself; even you wouldn’t believe you were looking at an archangel. You know what you are, don’t you? You’re a roach with a busted leg and guts all over the floor. You’re lucky I don’t just squish the life out of you here and now.’”

“Yeah,” said Sam, “Okay. Stop. I don’t think that about you; none of us think that. Don’t trust anything he told you. The guy was a monster.”

“Well, so is this thing inside of me, Sam. This thing that tells me to go looking for help - this thing that makes me so afraid and panicked and desperate - it’s insatiable and trying to feed it just makes it hungrier.”

“With him it would have. Yes. Because you tried to get what you needed and he didn’t let you have anything. If you really wanna look at it like that, as something that needs to be fed - I mean, what are you supposed to think if it’s always been starved?”

Gabriel couldn’t think of a response.

“I’m tired,” he said at last. “I feel sick and exhausted. I’m not - ” He leaned against Sam, who released Gabriel’s hand to put an arm around him. “I just don’t feel well at all.” He turned to press his face into Sam’s shoulder.

“This has been a hard time,” Sam agreed. “I know that. Trust me, I know. And that isn’t your fault.”

“I should be - ”

“Who’s holding you to anything, huh? You’re not supposed to be any one way about this. Really.”

Gabriel almost asked, Then why isn’t it acceptable for me to lock myself away? Then he thought better of it, because Sam had been right: it wasn’t like Gabriel to make himself unknown. He had run away, certainly - but he had not remained in the shadows. Gabriel had never kept himself entirely hidden. Never.

He didn’t often think of who he had been before his imprisonment. For all he knew, that version of himself was the one Asmodeus hated most, the version that had deserved the most punishment.

But the thought that Gabriel might never get that part of himself back, the possibility that Asmodeus had forced him into wanting to stay hidden - somehow this notion flooded him with horrified grief that came on like a surge of nausea. He didn’t miss whatever it was he had been - at least, he didn’t think he missed it, although since he deliberately paid so little attention he couldn’t be sure - but the absence of something that had made him who he was suddenly felt unbearable.

The tears came silently, blurring his vision and stealing his voice. The knot in his throat stung like needles and tightened his chest, so that he had trouble breathing again.

I’ll never get that back, Gabriel thought. It belongs to Asmodeus now.

Sam pulled him in closer and Gabriel grabbed onto him, afraid that Sam would let go. He remembered moments like this with Asmodeus - clinging to him in exactly the same way. It was only when Sam muttered, “I know, I know it’s rough; I know,” did Gabriel realize that he could distinguish between the two experiences.

Gabriel heard himself make a horrible, choked groan into Sam’s shoulder. He gritted his teeth against the urge to scream - an urge that soon became too much and manifested not as a scream but as fractured moaning.

“I know,” Sam murmured again. “I know. But it’s gonna be all right. You’re doing just fine, I promise.”

Gabriel tried to speak, but the words slid into each other and ricocheted off of each breath so that nothing could be understood.

“What?” Sam asked.

“I - I can’t,” Gabriel sobbed. “I can’t.”

“Can’t what?”

“Stop. I can’t stop. I’m trying. I’m sorry.”

“Nobody’s telling you you have to stop. Especially not me. Take whatever time you need.”

“I don’t know.” Gabriel shuddered in Sam’s grasp. “I can’t - can’t stop.”

“Then don’t. Nothing wrong with that.”

“No, I want - I need - I can’t stop; I need it to - ” He was gasping, choking. “Because it won’t do - won’t change anything, and I need it to stop.”

“Don’t think about that. Just relax. I’m here. You’re safe.” Sam paused, then added, “I didn’t mean to make you so upset. I just wanted to check on you because - ”

“Because you knew I was already upset.” Gabriel gave a shaky laugh. “Because you knew that I - that this was - ”

Somehow Gabriel couldn’t say it, but perhaps Sam understood: Gabriel had needed this, or something like this, to remind him that he was no longer in Hell. That there was no pain, no punishment, no derision. There was no clawing at the bars of a filthy cell and howling into a damp chamber full of bloodthirsty phantoms. Certainly, there was self-disgust; there was shame just as powerful as any he had felt with Asmodeus - but there was no fear.

Did that mean he truly would never be able to stop?

Gabriel pressed his face deeper into Sam’s shoulder.

Even if I can -

“All right there?” Sam asked.

- this will still happen again.

“I’m so sorry,” Gabriel whimpered.

“No.”

“I am. I really am.”

“What for?”

“For all the times you might have to see this.”

“Hey, no, come on.”

Gabriel didn’t ask whether Sam meant Come on, it’s not gonna happen again or Come on, of course you don’t have to be sorry. He was afraid of the answer.

“Think about it this way,” Sam said after a while. “If it were one of us - ”

“I know, Sam.” Gabriel closed his eyes. “But it’s not.”

“Yes it is.”

There was a knock at the door. Gabriel wrenched himself away from Sam.

“No one else needs to see,” he explained.

“Okay.” Sam got to his feet. “Let me handle it, then.”

Whoever it was knocked a second time. “Gabriel?”

Dean.

Sam opened the door. “Can you give us a minute?”

“Nope. Because if he ain’t gonna take what’s left of the casserole then it belongs to me.”

Sam sighed. “Dean …”

“Hey, I don’t make the rules, Sammy. But I did make the casserole.”

“He hasn’t eaten; can’t you just - ”

“It’s perishable. It’s a delicate recipe. Gabe!”

“Don’t,” Sam said quickly. “He’s - let me ask him.”

“It’s fine,” Gabriel said. He tried to speak loudly enough for Dean to hear, but his voice was hoarse. He cleared his throat and repeated, “It’s fine, Dean. Take it. I don’t need your germs.”

He heard Dean shift - perhaps trying to step inside. “Sounding a little rough there, bud.”

“Dean,” said Sam, “Go away.”

A pause. “What’s going on?”

“Nothing,” Sam told him. “Just …”

In the silence that followed, Gabriel had the sense that Dean was trying to read whatever signals Sam might be sending.

“You know what?” Dean said at last. “I’m suddenly in the mood for burgers. Gabe feels up to it, he can have the casserole. So I guess I’ll, uh … I’ll catch you two later.”

“Yeah.” Sam sounded relieved. “All right. Thanks.” He closed the door.

“Thanks yourself,” Gabriel said as Sam came to sit down again. “No need for him to see me like this. But hey, Sam - you know I’m not trying to monopolize your time, right? Because you have a lot of other jobs besides babysitting a whiny recluse.”

“Man, you have got to stop talking about yourself that way. Besides, I don’t have anything more important right now.”

“What about the case in Connecticut?”

“We don’t even know if we there is a case.”

“So go do a little digging, find what you can find; maybe it’ll help you decide what you’ve got on your hands here.”

“Really. There’s nowhere I need to be.”

“Sam, I’m gonna feel better if you move on from what just happened without any fanfare, all right? My energy is shot. I think it’d be good for me to take a hot second to breathe and you to get done whatever work might lower the odds of you getting yourself bloodied up in some elitist New England suburb.”

Sam looked both surprised and hesitant. “Do you wanna come with me?”

“No. Just give me a few minutes and then I’ll … if I need you, I’ll get you. How’s that sound?”

Cautiously, Sam stood up. “If that’s really what you think would be helpful.”

“Yeah. Go. And thank you.” Gabriel glanced away. “You had a point.”

“About what?”

“About - come on, don’t make me say it. You know what.”

Sam considered him. Then he nodded, and Gabriel hoped he remembered: It’s not a one-man job.

“I’ll be close by,” Sam told him. “And please - don’t try to pretend, okay?”

“Fine. But I’m good, Sam. For now, I’m good.”

Sam remained in place for a few more seconds, contemplating whether to heed Gabriel’s request. Then he smiled, tentatively, and moved toward the exit.

“But you can leave the door open,” Gabriel called, and Sam did.

Gabriel could hear Dean, Cas, and Jack somewhere in another room - although he couldn’t be sure which one. He slid off of the bed and moved toward the sound. They were in the kitchen.

The three of them, seated around the table with bottles of beer (When did those melonheads start giving Jack alcohol? Gabriel wondered), all fell silent when they saw him.

“Hey fellas,” said Gabriel. “Got room for one more?”

[smartguyreviewed]

1x4 - Lab Rats

Original air date: April 23, 1997

The master manipulator is back at it in this episode, this time to help our very own Morris L. Tibbs earn his first A on an assignment. 

This episode is only 15 seconds in when Marcus starts bothering this girl who sits in front of him. She refuses his advances because he’s a) loud and annoying as hell b) interrupting her viewing of this NatGeo rip-off where they’re discussing lions. 

The teacher then gives her assignment: study an animal and write about its behavior. I think she forgot her lesson plan that day, because all she did was show a video and then tell them to write a paper on an animal. Any animal? And they have to work in pairs, which seems so unnecessary for such an easy task. Mo revels in being paired with TJ and the two begin to contemplate what animal they should study. Since TJ is most likely on the spectrum for socio or psychopathy, he is including humans. After witnessing a queen bee relinquish one of her subjects and an alpha male bullying another guy out of his locker, they happen upon Marcus, once again chasing after this Alena girl, the same one from earlier. And again, she curves his ass. TJ then decides that his brother’s misfortuned attempts to get some pussy would make for a great case study. Mo, who is Marcus’s best friend, is totally okay with this.

After school, while TJ and Mo work on their assignment, Marcus actually calls Alena. How did he get her number if she won’t even talk to him? Why is he calling her when she’s clearly not interested? Marcus is harassing this poor girl and I wouldn’t be surprised if he just walked up to her house holding up a boombox after this.

Alena, once again, shows Marcus that she’s not interested when she hangs up on him. Mo was filming the entire time with a jerry-rigged camera-in-a-book. Mo suddenly has second thoughts about making his friend look like the ultimate simp but TJ insists that he does this all by himself. 

Yvette suddenly comes in and is pissed about her boy toy Tyler’s constant tardiness. Then Floyd does the adult thing and suggests a logical solution (dumping him) but Yvette quickly comes to his defense. Sounds about teenager to me. Tyler shows up and she eventually leaves with him, although Floyd is confused since he was on Yvette’s side. Mo caught this on camera as well. TJ tells him to keep it because instead of at least exposing only one sibling, he is now going to expose his sister, too. TJ is a petty little asshole.

Mo and TJ get to work on Marcus, selling him on wearing a bright red sweater to help him get the bitches. TJ postulates that Marcus would get more girls if he dressed a bit more loudly and flashy. They convince him that Michael Jordan wore something similar, so naturally, our desperate Marcus is going to take this advice at face value. For Yvette, they put altered instructions on how to train a dog, making it appear that the article is about how to train your man, inside one of her magazines. She of course, reads it right then and there. The next day, Alena miraculously comes around and starts flirting with Marcus and Yvette’s boy toy is letting her boss him around and give him treats for good behavior.

But trouble is afoot. Alena’s ex has “magically” re-entered the picture since she began dating Marcus all of five minutes ago. I put magically in quotation marks because I have this theory where she never broke up with her boyfriend but gave Marcus the time of day so that her man, the one who got stomped out by Loc Dogg, could beat his ass for harassing her. Like, I’m pretty sure Marcus knew she had a man, especially if Mo knows him by name. Warren tells Marcus that he’s gonna pound his ass the next day. Marcus, who can’t fight at all, is terrified. TJ realizes this is going too far and now he must try to undo his wrongs. But only for Marcus, not Yvette.

Mo and TJ watch Marcus flub free throw after free throw at their house and he tells TJ that his A is more important than the livelihood of his alleged bestie. TJ hatches another plan to get Warren off Marcus’s back that involves Mo auditioning for a role 4 years in advance and TJ intervening as the brother of one of Mo’s victims. 

It’s so silly because Mo is pretty much the same size as, if not bigger than Warren. But Mo is soft, and when Marcus tries to walk to Warren to get out of his beating, he ruins the plan. After he catches wind of what seems to be Mo going after Alena, he hits Mo and Mo winces! Warren realizes that this is plot-contrived bullshit and then they all fight. TJ and crew (minus Mo, for some reason) end up at home, watching the results of his findings. Floyd is more than fine with Yvette and Marcus kicking his little ass. But before that, Floyd has to inject TJ with some fatherly advice. He tells TJ that he needs to consider people’s human feelings and that they’re not test subjects. This is one of the many conversations Floyd has to have with TJ where I really begin to wonder if TJ is a budding narcissist because he is so good at manipulating everyone around him.

Case in point: the next scene, where he turns it on and plays that innocent role, only for Floyd to coddle him. When he leaves to grab his stuffed animal, TJ begins bragging to his camera about his deception. Thankfully, Floyd catches him and grounds him. He was grounded in the last episode, so I guess TJ is double grounded now? Womp. 

Stuff I noticed:

- Yvette somehow became a dom after reading that article. She actually hits Tyler with a rolled up newspaper when he’s bad, gives him treats when he’s good and she even bought him a collar!

- This sarcastic ass face TJ gives Marcus after he gets curved.

[intrepidmare]

Kadala

Summary: Mando returns to the Razor Crest after finishing a job and gets the help of the little guy.

This is my first fic for anything Star Wars related and my knowledge of canon is frankly pitiful, but I loved The Mandalorian (I'm obsessed, really) and I couldn't help my muse to get inspired.

I hope you like the story.

PS: I have to thank the wonderful @icannotbelieveiamhere for her great beta skills.

General / Post season 1 / one-shot / 1197 words

Also available on Ao3 (Versión en español)

As he enters the cockpit, Mando slumps down with exhaustion on the pilot's chair, keenly aware of the bruises on his body. He closes his eyes, giving himself time to summon the energy to move. He just needs to catch his breath.

Even stretching out his hand and ignite the engines to take off seems a Herculean task. He knows, however, that once the Razor Crest is lost in the vastness of space, he could take a long, well-deserved nap.

The job he'd taken two days ago when he arrived at this forsaken planet didn't go as smoothly as he would've liked. He got a handsome reward for it, however. The revenue will allow him to focus on his primary mission of finding the child's people, instead of constantly worrying about how to provide whatever they need during the journey.

The wisest course of action is not to attract too much attention to them. Mando hopes that there will be no more hunters out for the baby, but you never know. He has seen too much in life to know that enemies can make an appearance at any time, anywhere.

By creed, he has the duty to protect the foundling until he's reunited with his people.

"You are its father… You are now a clan of two."

The armorer's words echo in his head. Mando doesn't dare to dwell too much on how that makes him feel, yet he won't elude his responsibility.

There's nothing, no rustling or sound, that gives away his approach but Mando is suddenly aware of the tiny figure standing at the doorway. A wave of undeniable worry, that's not his, slaps him in full force before an unhappy coo breaks the silence.

"I'm okay, kid," Mando says gruffly behind his helmet, without opening his eyes. "Go back to sleep."

Vaguely, he marvels how yet again the kid has escaped from the bunk compartment in which he usually locks him up. It shouldn't be much of a surprise since Mando has witnessed the power the child wields with his tiny hands. Nothing is childproof for this kid.

A few seconds later, Mando feels the said tiny hands clawing at his right boot. Opening his eyes and looking down, he watches the baby trying to climb up his leg to his lap. The kid looks up, his ears twitching slightly and his big, dark eyes gazing intently at him. This is not the first time Mando feels as if the kid's gaze can penetrate the cover of his helmet.

The instinct to remain faceless, to hold up to the Mandalorian creed, manifests itself to a lesser degree than normal. Mando doesn't know why. Maybe it's because he's still reeling about the fact IG-11 took his helmet off a few days ago to save him. Mando was ready to die and, yet, as terrified as he was to break the code and to trust in the newly-programmed nanny, Mando let the droid to take it off. Never in his life, would he have believed that he would trust somewhat in a droid.

Perhaps, it's because of the bond he shares with the baby. He will deny it to anyone else, but he can't lie to himself. The charm cast by the kid is powerful and irresistible. Mando fell into its spell.

To the Mandalorians, children are precious and every adult has the duty to protect them. So, it shouldn't be unexpected that Mando has developed a protective instinct for the child. It started as nothing but the need to do the right thing back when he rescued the baby from the hands of the client. As time passed, however, the instinct evolved and grew to something more, something that Mando can't define yet.

Mando leans forward, hissing a curse as his ribs protest. Judging by how acute pain is, it leads Mando to think that he might've bruised a couple of them in the fight he had earlier. Ignoring the discomfort, he picks the baby up. The kid makes noises, a mix of happiness and apprehension, as he sits on Mando's lap and grips the Beskar breastplate tightly.

"I'm okay," he repeats. "I've had worse."

His reassurance has little effect. The baby whines softly and places his right hand open over Mando's left side of his torso. His intentions become clear to Mando when the kid squints his eyes in concentration.

Mando takes the baby's hand gently off the breastplate. "No need to do that. I'll heal on my own," the words come out soft-spoken even through the modulator in the helmet. Mando knows that using those powers take a toll on the baby. There's no need for the little one to drain himself when Mando will be good as new after a good night's rest.

As the stubborn little womp rat that he is, the kid stands on Mando's thighs and put his hand back on the breastplate and gazes up at him. His eyes plead earnestly.

They look at each other, neither wanting to yield. Then, throwing a low blow, the kid flattens his ears and whines unhappily. The sound wrings a string in Mando's heart. Damn it! He should have more willpower than this. He should be firm with the kid and say no.

Letting out a heavy sigh, Mando yields, "Fine. You can do your magic hand thing."

The echo of Greef Karga's words makes him smirk under the helmet. The kid, however, finds them confusing. He tilts his head, the creases in his forehead become more pronounced.

"Go on then, heal me so we can get off this planet."

With permission granted, the kid concentrates, all his body taut by the effort. Mando had seen it, but never experienced in the flesh. It's amazing how the second the child starts using his powers, Mando feels an immense relief. Suddenly, he takes deep breaths, expanding his lungs to their fullest capacity, which he hadn't noticed he had been avoiding to do. All the pain is gone.

Maybe his injury was graver than he thought and that's why the child had insisted so badly to heal him. Somehow, the little one knew.

For a moment, the child stands trembling because of the effort he's making. Suddenly, he flops down as his knees buckle, completely drained. Thanks to his quick reflexes, Mando catches the baby before he falls backward. Mando supports his back with one hand while, with the other, he caresses one of the kid's fluffy ears.

"Thank you," Mando says, in a voice laden with gratitude and astonishment.

The kid smiles and babbles softly at him before his eyes flutter closed for a moment. Mando takes him in his arms and cradles him against his shoulder.

"Let's get out of here, so we both can go to our beds. I think we've earned it."

A soft, satisfied sigh is what he gets as a response. With his free hand, Mando activates the controls and ignites the engines. By the time the Razor Crest is out of the planet's atmosphere, the baby is sound asleep.

"Good night, ad'ika. May you have sweet dreams. You have nothing to worry about. I'll protect you.

* *

I probably will write more about these 2, so if anyone wants to be tagged in future works, please let me know.

[sparda3g]

Kimetsu no Yaiba Chapter 164 Review

You see the chapter’s cover? That’s the illustration of two slayers slowly walking down the lane after a hard work. That’s their life in the nutshell, and it has grown more painful time after time. This chapter however have something else in mind. Rather than tormenting the fans, this was a welcoming change of pace and tone that had me laughing, grown to like that one character even more, and highly entertained. That is until the cliffhanger hits me hard with reality.

The chapter’s cover is nice, but it’s a sad reminder of what took place earlier. It was excruciating. I assumed the rest of the chapter would be more torture and suffering. Fortunately, it wasn’t and honestly, it’s much needed after two painful battles. It fits the nature of the series to have a comical moment in-between the situation. At that point, there was no ongoing battle, so it’s fitting to cool down. Jumping ahead for a bit, the upcoming battle will serve as a different style of combat that is puzzling, fresh, and fun.

The scene with Tanjiro and Giyu is amusing. They have regained consciousness, but they are still bleeding. As troubling that sound, the interaction is funny. It’s comical for how Giyu is trying to stop it, but because it won’t, he will have to cauterize the wound, which Tanjiro is dumbfounded. Giyu says it with a straight-face; the man is used to this wound. Poor Tanjiro is still new to this; better pray the bleeding stops. I like how he acts like a rookie, following his command like a trooper like, “Sir, yes, sir!” It got serious with the reminder of Upper Moon 1 and 2 are still around. Well then, a raven got good news for them.

It’s reassuring that Doma is really gone and the news spread to everyone. That way, it can raise the momentum for slayers, encouraging them that they can win. Tanjiro takes the news as such, which gives him hope that they will win. I don’t know if that’s setting up for a big surprise, but let’s hope he’s right to feel this hopeful. Another character takes the effect as well, but we’ll get to her in a moment. Basically, it’s an encouraging news that they all needed. Will it be easy? With the amount of sacrifices and pain, it won’t be.

I was immediately hyped when Kanroji appears on panel. I started to review the weekly chapter late and I have a lot to say about her, but long story short, the last arc made me like her a lot. I thought her first impression was a bit questionable because I didn’t know how she will be utilized on love and stuff, but the last arc made me a fan. It’s her charisma, charm, and personality that convinced me. This chapter is no exception, and the battle looks promising to be different from the rest, but in the same level of entertainment.

She and Iguro spot Upper Moon 4, Nakime, in which he notes how fast Muzan chose the next successor alas replacement. As mentioned earlier, the news of Doma’s death inspired Pillars, so Kanroji was affected. It’s good that she was inspired by Shinobu’s sacrifice, but she goes headstrong really quickly. Right to the point the door slam to her face by Nakime’s control; a sign of her power. I’ll still credit her for trying, but it was irrational. After she recovered from Iguro and a pep talk to get her mind straight, the real fun begins.

The battle is different from the usual clash that involves with physical contact. However, it turns out to be an amusing ride that certainly fits the tone with hilarity ensue. It’s really cool to see how the danger comes from a labyrinth rather than the demon herself. It’s a crazy puzzle game with buildings keep on shifting by her control. It’s also really cool how Kanroji and Iguro have to dodge and keep up the pace. While the sequence takes up the spaces, it keeps the tension flowing.

Kanroji steals the spotlight in many ways. For starters, her athleticism is really impressive; carefully stepping away from falling. It’s only when she gets pushed upward that she needed to react quickly, though it’s funny how she was like, “Ah! I’m going to get crushed!” Her reactions only get funnier. Thank God for her sword, she destroys the building. Amazing how gravity actually applies here, hence her struggle to budge; I’m used to series ignoring it. The best part is her second round at killing.

One of her strong perks is how energetic she is but in the right level of charm and humor. She feels so smart for figuring out Nakime’s ability, so now, supposedly, this assures her victory. I was ready to laugh out loud for a repeat, especially since the setup is nearly identical. Hell, I thought she would fall for the same trap, despite her determination, but she impresses me with her smooth evasion. That means she got this, right? Nope. She falls for a new trap that sends her out of the tower. Womp womp…

I’ll give her a credit for keeping up the pace and not foolishly repeat the same mistake. That said, she failed big time. That pouty face is priceless. That is a face that says, “…God dammit…” I laughed so hard at the whole scene, let alone her reaction. Her falling is funny as well. She is too precious to die. Iguro tries to take a stealthy swing, but no good for Nakime is quick to move the building. He said it best: her Blood Demon Arts aren’t deadly, but dammit to hell, it’s incredibly annoying. The battle just started and I find it pretty amusing already. As long it makes for hilarious reactions from Kanroji, I’m perfectly solid. I definitely can’t say the same thing for the cliffhanger however.

This chapter was more light-hearted tone with plenty of humorous moments. While the danger hasn’t escalated yet, the battle has proven to be another tough challenge. Then, the cliffhanger happens and the mood drastically shifts. As fun as the whole shifting buildings is, it is affecting elsewhere as well. Case in point, Tokito gets shoved away from Gyomei. Where does he land? In front of Upper Moon 1. I have serious bone-chills from the mere sight of the two. We already lost a Pillar; the possibility of another is pretty convincing. I’m not saying Tokito will die, but the chance is up there. For now, we can expect a terrible beating, and that alone is frightening to think about.

This was a pretty amusing chapter. There were plenty of fun interactions and counters from start to near finish. The action was a lot of fun and a nice change of pace. Kanroji had me rolling with her reactions. Seriously, that face was gold; all thanks to fine humorous artwork. The ending however changed the tone really quick as soon as Upper Moon 1 meets Tokito. It might escalate drastically if Tokito is someone he knows, which hinted at the very end. It’s exciting for sure, but horrifying nonetheless.

[thevampirediariesdiary]

1.19 Miss Mystic Falls (part 1)

So I watched this episode, and then spent multiple hours paralyzed in the face of writing anything about it.  Miss Mystic Falls is classic, iconic Vampire Diaries, and I unabashedly love it.  So naturally, that meant I eventually wrote so much that I decided to break the recap post into two parts.

Stefan pulls into the school parking lot in his flashy car, since it was a “waste to leave it sitting in the garage”.  Are we talking about the car or you, Stefan?  And how many analogues do we really need to see that Stefan wasn’t living life to the full and now he’s going whole hog? Elena asks him if he’s okay now, and he says, “Well, the worst part is over.  Now all I wanna do is spend as much time with you as possible.”  

“I’m okay with that,” Elena says, and kisses him.  But when she tells him they shouldn’t be late, he tells her to go on ahead so he can get his stuff.  Which isn’t technically a lie, because he does get his backpack – out of a trunk full of empty blood bags.  Womp womp.

Poor Alaric has had his lesson plans for the month waylaid by town pride, because apparently the town founding is more important than World War II.  His long-suffering teacher-ness gives me life, even though it’s a quality rarely on display. But both Bonnie and Stefan are back in school, so at least he has a full classroom, finally.  

Damon is being harangued on multiple sides, which is funny, because he actually seems to be minding his own business for once in his life.  Liz tells him there’s been another break-in and blood theft at the hospital, and John Gilbert suggests that he and Damon put their heads together to solve it. Damon agrees, but since Liz openly dislikes John as well, he isn’t nice about it: “Whatever I can do to keep this town safe, even if it means spending time with you.”  

I enjoy this, because it means his friendship with Liz is genuine enough that Damon doesn’t feel like he has to be generically-nice vampire-hunter guy all the time - he can also be day-drinking, arbitrarily-belligerent guy.  Then, as if this indignity wasn’t enough already, Anna shows up on his doorstep to tell him Pearl feels horrible about the whole debacle with Stefan getting tortured. When asked why Pearl isn’t there herself, Anna says, “She doesn’t really do apologies.”  “Well that’s a coincidence,” says Damon acidly, “since I don’t really do forgiveness.”  But they realize that neither of them was responsible for the hospital break-in, so what do you know, communication does have some uses.

Bonnie and Elena have a strained conversation. Elena had called to tell her that the tomb spell failed, and Bonnie says after that she didn’t really want to come home. But Caroline and Bonnie talked every day, apparently, and now that Bonnie’s back Caroline offers her a distraction: helping her prepare for the Founders Court and the Miss Mystic pageant.  

Stefan gets home and immediately gets pounced on by his brother, who wants to know if he has any stories from school to share. “You’re making smalltalk,” Stefan accuses, “…why.”  “You seem awfully chipper lately, less doom and gloom, more pep in your step,” Damon says, demonstrating said ‘pep’.  “You think it’s because I drank human blood again,” Stefan supplies.  “I mean I don’t wanna brag, but I would definitely take responsibility for this new and improved you,” Damon says. (Somewhere on the other side of the country, another vampire in a black leather jacket laughs and says “who am I kidding, I love to brag!”)  “Alright, well, I hate to burst your bubble but, I’m clean,” Stefan tells Damon.  “Yeah, not possible.”  “Not only is it possible but it is quite true.”  Damon isn’t swayed: “Stefan, let’s be serious for a second.  You spent the last century and a half being a poster child for Prozac, and now you expect me to believe this new you has nothing to do with human blood, nothing?”  Stefan just shrugs, repeats, “I’m clean.”  Damon’s voice raises an indignant three octaves: “You’re lying.”  “Believe what you want,” says Stefan.  But basically five minutes later Stefan goes downstairs to his creepy blood fridge and Damon pops around the corner and asks when he was going to share that he’s a closet blood junkie.  And Stefan, caught in the lie, completely reverses his previous stance: “So I’m drinking blood again, you’re the one who shoved it on me, what’s your problem?” Damon tries to explain that the problem is that Stefan is being obvious and they’re trying to keep a low profile here, but Stefan just adopts a “poor you” voice and says, “Have my actions negatively impacted you? I can’t imagine what that must feel like.”  Damon tries a different tactic, and asks about Elena, but Stefan says that nothing’s changed, he’s the same person as always – so Elena doesn’t need to know yet.  This frankly insane statement seems to get through to Damon, and he abruptly gets serious: “Look Stefan, you’ve been off the human stuff for years, if you’re having trouble controlling it –”  “I’m not having any problems,” Stefan interrupts him, shrugging smugly.  “Who do you think you’re talking to?” Damon says impatiently. “I know what it’s like, that Jekyll and Hyde feeling, there’s that switch, sometimes it goes off and you snap.  Right now is not a good time for me to be worried about you snapping!” Stefan answers, “I know that it pains you to see this, but I’m fine.  Okay?  I’m fine.  So, please, do me a favor, and back off.”

Side note: they do some really interesting stuff with lighting in this episode.  In the second half of this scene, Stefan is lit by the open fridge:

And Damon is, for a good portion of the scene, just a silhouette in the doorway:

Stefan is perfectly visible, if dimly lit; Damon on the other hand appears in total darkness, you can’t even see his face. But then again, Stefan, who appears more clearly, is lit by the very thing keeping him underground. And Damon only appears shadowed because the light from the stairs is directly at his back. All he has to do is turn.  Instead, of course, he steps forward to stand next to his brother.

Elena and Caroline and the other candidates interview for the Miss Mystic Falls position.  Caroline’s extremely impressive litany of extracurricular and volunteer activities is juxtaposed with Elena’s confession that she’s been distracted this year, but takes the nomination seriously, and regards it as a legacy from her mother, who believed in community, honor, and loyalty.  

John barges into the Salvatore house and complains that Damon has been dodging his calls.  When Damon asks why he’s even bothering with the charade since it’s pretty clear he and Isobel aren’t interested in catching vampires, John answers, “Isobel and I have a mutual interest.”  Damon’s eyes flicker for a moment, then John goes on to explain that there’s a stolen Gilbert invention that he and Isobel are looking for in the possession of Pearl. Damon, to John’s ever-so-satisfying surprise, tells him to leave: “I only entertained this whole blackmail scheme cause I thought you and Isobel could lead me to Katherine.”  But if John knew anything about Katherine, he would know who Pearl was.  “I’ll tell the entire council what you are,” John says, confused that this isn’t working the way he planned.  “Go for it,” Damon tells him, “I’ll kill every last one of them, sever your hand, pull your ring off and kill you too.” 

The Miss Mystic contestants and their escorts have dance practice.  “Flirt with your eyes,” instructs Mrs. Lockwood.  

“This is ridiculous,” Elena says. “You’re only saying that cause you don’t know how to do it,” Stefan tells her. “Sorry only one of us was around when the dance was invented,” Elena retorts.  Stefan grabs, twirls, and dips her while she giggles – more voluntary dancing from the newly-non-inhibited Stefan – before Mrs. Lockwood informs them that there’s no touching in this part of the dance, it’s just about the “simple intimacy of the near touch”.  Once she steps away, Stefan says, “If you ask me, the near touch is overrated.”  “You seem to be in a good mood,” Elena comments. “That a bad thing?” Stefan says, sensitive as ever to accusations that something might be off with him. “Would you prefer me to be brooding and tortured?” “Hey, I’m not complaining,” Elena says, and reaches for him to reassure him. 

“No touching,” he tells her, joking again.  

And honestly, all of this would be exceptionally adorable, except that I’m pretty sure Stefan is basically in the middle of a manic episode. It’s never explained flat-out in a convenient vampire-fact, but based on Damon’s Prozac comment earlier and everyone commenting on Stefan’s mood shift, it seems like having a healthy diet of human blood keeps a vampire’s moods steady.  So his many decades of only animal blood made Stefan a little bit broodier than he would be naturally, and now that he’s pretty clearly drinking more blood than his body actually needs, he’s buckets of fun and impulsivity.  He’s a diet-induced manic-depressive.

Caroline and Bonnie arrive, Bonnie filling in as Car’s escort while Matt works.  Caroline is, of course, anxious about her competition, particularly the sympathy vote Elena’s guaranteed because her parents died.  She knows it must seem unimportant to Bonnie, but confesses, “I want this, and I actually deserve this!”  Elena pulls Bonnie aside and Bonnie finally tells her what’s wrong: “She died for nothing….That’s just it, there’s nothing you can do.  I blame [Stefan], him and Damon.  But I’m not gonna put you in a position to choose sides.  I’m just having a hard time with it, okay?”   

Meanwhile, Stefan gets completely overwhelmed when a kid falls playing basketball and skins his knee.  I know this is teen vampire bread and butter, but I don’t buy it. Ignoring the many everyday scrapes and papercuts and half-healed shaving mishaps that people regularly walk around with, half of the population is actively bleeding one eighth of the time, you can’t tell me that this is the first time Stefan has encountered the smell of blood all day!  Give me consistent vampire fiction or give me death!!  Either you’re in control all the time, or you’re not, because there is ALWAYS blood. 

Alaric shows up to the Gilbert house to chauffeur Jenna and Elena to the pageant.  “I thought I was driving,” John says, pitifully.  “No need,” Jenna tells him.  Alaric grins at John.

Nothing is working out for Uncle John the way he wants.

Anna’s hair is, like, the Ideal 2000s Messy Bun.

She tells Damon (who, look at that, is gorgeously lit) that she was supposed to participate in this very event back in 1864, before everything happened.  “Ah,” he says, unsympathetically, “nostalgia’s a bitch.” But he helpfully shares the information he has about John and the Gilbert device. 

next up: Miss Mystic part two, everything goes to shit

[thebibliomancer]

Essential Avengers: Avengers #161: Beware the Ant-Man!

July, 1977

There’s just so much here.

I almost don’t want to talk about it. It glistens like a soap bubble and I’m afraid it will pop if I try to grasp it.

What I will say is this: the title and the poses of angry agony (angrony?) remind me very much of those Man’s Life magazine covers. The ones where shirtless men have knife fights with nature?

Also, I don’t know what Scarlet Witch is up to. It almost seems like she’s trying to pose sensuously but also is being bitten by countless ants. But is trying to make it work.

Anyway, take a moment to enjoy or be baffled by this cover while I get things started over here.

We start bewaring the Ant-Man with a nice splash panel seen from inside a panel as Ant-Man peeps in on some weirdos intruding in Tony Stark’s mansion.

Wait. I recognize these weirdos. I’d recognize Wanda’s inexplicable hair and Iron Tony’s incredible bossy way of pointing anywhere.

But they are weirdos.

For example, they’re all standing around admiring Wonder Man’s latest travesty of fashion. He had to get new threads after his jerkass brother shredded his old costume.

The Beast designed it for him.

And its easy to mock. I do it twice a week. But keep in mind that Beast only wears shorts. And before that I think Professor X dressed him. So. Yeah. He’s. Not great at designing new costumes.

And Wonder Man has been dead and dressed like an idiot for years so we can forgive him for not knowing any better.

But I’m very slightly surprised at you, Wanda. Don’t enable this.

Wonder Man’s turn on the figurative catwalk is cut short as a tiny voice demands Iron Man’s attention. If he really is Iron Man.

Of course its Ant-Man and he’s here for the first official meeting of the Avengers (haha whaaaaat?) but he doesn’t recognize all these strangers. Except Captain America but everybody knows Captain America is dead. And also, where are Hulk and Thor? And whats the deal with changing out of your golden armor?

So either this is a bad imposter or Hank Pym was rebooted all the way back to the time of Avengers #1. And I can’t go back to that overly controlling Hank, I just can’t.

When the ‘strangers’ don’t immediately fall over themselves to explain everything to him, Ant-Man immediately leaps to attack with the greatest power of all: a ludicrous number of ants.

So he has a swarm fly right into Iron Man’s mask through the eye slits and god that is just a nightmare. Biting his eyes and whatnot.

And then he launches himself right at Cap’s chin to play him some chin music. By punching him. That’s what you get for identity theft, friend!

Wanda is distracted by oh god ants ants everywhere crawling all over ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh so she can’t bring her vague powers to bear. And there’s so many tiny things flying around that Wonder Man can’t keep track of Ant-Man. At least he, Wonder Man, is personally safe from any and all things that Ant-Man could do.

Womp womp.

Meanwhile, in the records room, Beast was brushing up on all Avengers history. Because you gotta do your homework. Especially if it prevents him from being uninformed when some asshole from the Avengers’ past like Grim Reaper pops up again.

But Black Panther hears something so he and Beast go to investigate.

And immediately get KO’d by Ant-Man doing a growing double shoryuken.

Because apparently growth physics works thusly: you can add your momentum from a grow or shrink to add oomph to an attack. I think its sometimes called Shrink Fu.

I know people mock shrinking heroes and in-universe Hank Pym has a lot of insecurity about his role on the Avengers (Wasp never seems to have problems. She just loves Wasping, all the Wasp time).

And Ant-Man, Yellowjacket, Wasp, whathaveyou are often played up as ineffectual.

But looking here at this fight, its clear that ants is a great power and that shrinking can be used effectively.

By writer fiat. But usually its not, also by writer fiat. 

The writers go through all these permutations and changes for Hank Pym to try to make him interesting when they could just write him better.

And for that matter, Wasp. There’s no reason she shouldn’t be able to pull off just this kind of effectiveness but with also bio-electricity blasts and flying.

Just write your damn characters better, Avengers writers. If you put a person on the team, let them be effective.

Anyway.

Vision is a little better off. He went partially intangible so he can’t be hurt and the ants that intersect his body get shocked. So he’s untouchable but he can’t help anyone. Because he’s untouchable.

He especially can’t help Wanda who is experiencing the agony of the ant pile. There’s just so many ants. Just so, so many.

Why don’t the Avengers have a chemical safety shower or anything? Why aren’t they trying to do anything??

But suddenly Wasp flies in to save the day. As Ant-Man Hank has no counter to her Wasp’s sting, like Yellowjacket’s disruptor gun. So she just blats him off Anthony.

Ant-Hank plummets toward the ground but thankfully, Wonder Man catches him.

Which. I mean. At such a tiny mass, the fall should have been nothing. But if it was something, then hitting Wonder Man’s supertough skin slightly higher than the floor is hardly better.

But the comic treats it as saving him from a potentially dangerous fall so lets just roll with it.

Tiny Wasp activates some gas canisters to grow Hank back to full size because I guess in addition to a pill and serum, Pym particles also come in aerosol sprays.

And with Hank full sized unconscious in Wonder Man’s arms, Wasp unshrinks and-

Oh god.

Is that her new costume? That is terrible.

I know Wanda calls Jan the Avengers’ fashion expert but she has a lot more misses than hits. And also more outfits than possibly any other superhero? Or near the top of the list at least.

I guess today is just a day for bad new outfits.

So Wasp unshrinks and commands Ant-Man’s ant swarms to leave the mansion. She didn’t do it earlier because her ant control collar isn’t as strong as Ant-Man’s helmet. It is bigger. And shinier.

And now its time for Wasp to Explain It All.

So here’s a bit of old news: Hank Pym is not the most emotionally stable individual out there.

And his constant parade of identities maybe was a warning sign?

And at home, more and more of his projects were ending in failure, causing Hank to lash out in rage and frustration and smash his shit. Maybe this is also somewhat of a red flag.

And Hank is the type that feels emasculated that he’s living off his wife’s inheritance. And would be salty as hell if Jan offered to pay for him to see a psychiatrist.

So she just went to go see a psychiatrist on his behalf without telling him.

I’m not sure the kind of helpfulness you can expect from second-hand psychiatry advice but telling her to reinforce his positive behavior and convince him to rejoin the Avengers seemed to work.

He was acting like the Hank she remember, especially at home. Wink.

... She politely implies their healthy sex life right at the Avengers.

Anyway, when Hank and Jan flew off to improve his their powers at the beginning of last issue, something strange happened.

Hank just clammed up and flew away from her.

Figuring that he had moodily relapsed, Jan went home and designed a new outfit to ‘keep his interest’ and-

Oh god that’s not a superhero outfit, that’s a bedroom activity outfit!

I’m not.... entirely sure why a sexy outfit needs an ant-controlling collar but I already know far more about Wasp and Hank’s sex life than I want to.

I guess it says something that lingerie and a superhero outfit could be easily confused for each other but its not anything that hasn’t been said before.

So.

Moving on.

When Jan went to go get Hank, she found his lab destroyed and him missing. Because Hank Pym.

It was finally too much to face alone so she flew to get help and just so happened to help them instead.

And Jan wonders whether its too late to help Hank.

NONSENSE, expresses the Avengers.

Iron Man decides what they need to do is strap him into the pain-o-tron, er, I mean the subliminal recall-inducer. Y’know, that device that makes people recall things by hurting them a lot?

They’ll restore Hank’s memories that way, since he seems to have blanked everything since the very first day of the Avengers, for some reason.

Meanwhile, Beast will drive Wasp home to pick up some things to help jog Hank’s memory.

Beast, the Other Hank, agrees in his usual flippant clownery way, but Cap and Iron Man both yell at him for his inane antics at a time like this.

He sheepishly apologizes to Jan. Later, as Beast drives Jan to her house, she tries to say that his joking around didn’t matter. But Beast interrupts her.

Beast: “Mrs. Pym, it’s... hard to be a Beast... sometimes.”

An admission that a lot of Beast’s foolery is sad clowning. Goofing to hide and distract from his own insecurities and troubles.

Maybe Cap and Iron Man should be more understanding, really. Anyway, Beast is now in a mood.

He stays in the car when Jan goes inside because he doesn’t want to “upset” the neighbors with his appearance. And he thinks to himself how lucky Other Other Hank (Pym) is that he has a wife like Jan, “a lot luckier than a Beast could ever be!”

Meanwhile, Jan is thinking some sad thoughts herself.

Apparently Hank called the new house Jan’s “palace” because Hank Pym. But Jan wanted it to be their palace. And she resolves that if she gets her Hank back, she’ll never let something as stupid as money get between them again.

I’m not sure how she’ll manage that. Is she going to stop paying for the house and all his lab equipment and basically completely financing him?

Oh. And then Jan sees someone off-panel and yells “No! Not... you!”

Is it more ants? Don’t touch that nonexistent dial!

Back at the mansion, they’ve turned the pain-o-tron up to intolerable levels to no effect.

I guess subjecting a man to an alarming amount of pain just won’t cure amnesia.

...

HAS THE SUBLIMINAL RECALL-INDUCER EVER WORKED?!

Did... did Tony just build a torture chair and then play it off as something else when Cap asked him what it was?

Anyway, since pain didn’t work, the Avengers decide maybe surrounding Hank Pym with his oldest and closest friends will.

WHY DIDN’T THEY TRY THAT FIRST??

What kind of perspective does someone bring into a situation where unbearable levels of pain is the first resort to help a friend?

Alas, however, Thor is out of reach. Quicksilver is dealing with his own shit what with Attilan having blown up. And Hawkeye?

We get a full page detailing what he’s up to, for some reason.

He and Two-Gun Kid are working at the Cheery-O’s Dude Ranch. Hawkeye is helping Two-Gun deal with culture clash through a shared interest in flirting with cowgirls.

I don’t know why this.

I just know that Hawkeye is real proud of himself, thinking “boy if the Avengers could only see us now!” because yeah, they’d be sooo impressed, Hawkeye.

So the Avengers stand around a dazed and confused Hank Pym waiting for any callbacks when suddenly Beast limps into the room muttering:

Beast: “guys... he got... Jan! he’s coming... oh-h-h!”

And then the ceiling explodes.

BECAUSE ULTRON.

He never uses the front door.

And he mocks the Avengers for being startled that he’s not dead. After all, haven’t Captain America, Wonder Man, and Vision come back from seeming death?

But he also explains how he’s back. Because I guess he wants the Avengers to applaud his forethought.

See, Ultron had Charm’d Person several pawns to recreate him on the off chance that he was destroyed by an actual toddler.

That’s just the kind of guy Ultron is. Always planning those contingencies.

Vision charges forward to stop him again and again and keep stopping him until stopping him stops failing.

But Ultron prepared a series of win buttons before launching his attack.

For example: he knows every detail of Vision’s construction so he created a weapon in his silly head antenna just for Vision.

And although Vision tries to diamond hard tank it, it is for naught. And he collapses.

And then Iron Man, Black Panther, and a hesitant Wonder Man charge forward on Cap’s AVENGERS -- ATTACK! command.

So Ultron uses EXPLODE and its super effective.

Iron Man is the first to recover his feet, protected by his armor. And he charges Ultron to... try to strangle him? I’m not really sure what Tony was planning here.

And it was dumb. Because Ultron built power siphons into his suit to drain Iron Man’s armor. And the powerless armored Avenger collapses into a heap at Ultron’s feet.

Oh and then he headshots Beast and Wonder Man with the encephalo-ray, knocking them out.

Ultron marvels that it took almost two entire seconds for Wonder Man to fall before the win button encephalo-ray. Truly unfortunate that the Grim Reaper failed to keep up his bargain because Ultron would so have loved an interesting study subject such as Wonder Man.

Okay but while Ultron was talking to himself, Scarlet Witch has been aligning her chakras or waving her fingers or whatever it is that she has to do to psyche herself up. Shaking off the oh god so many ant bites maybe.

And not without cause, she declares herself the most dangerous threat Ultron will ever face.

Red witch versuuuus robot. RED WITCH HATE TECHNOLOGY ROBOT HATE THE RED WITCH THEY WILL FIGHT ETERNALLY

Also, magic is super effective against Ultron.

And sure, Wanda’s powers have been vague lately. Her power up from training with Agatha Harkness seems mostly forgotten and she’s back to probability alteration. But she makes it work here.

Because that pink wavely energy just made all of Ultron’s circuits short out at the same time. What are the odds??

And then a wall falls on him.

And then the ceiling falls on him.

Ultron deduces that Scarlet Witch’s powers affect probabilities to create random, unnatural occurrences but its very nature as a random factor means that Ultron cannot anticipate or cope with it.

Eventually, Wanda’s power will destroy Ultron.

And then Cap ruins everything.

He prematurely decides Ultron is defeated and gets between Scarlet Witch and Ultron. Bam. The encephalo-ray strikes down Cap. And then Ultron uses Cap’s body as a shield. Bam. Scarlet Wanda is encephalo’d.

Dammit, Cap.

Now the Avengers are all down.

ktang.

Except the Ant-Man. He doesn’t know who this robot is but he feels just so compelled to fight him. Like... he’s got a real punchable face or something.

And as he bounces all around tiny size throwing tiny rocks at Ultron, Ultron uses his vacuum finger to suck him up.

Because of course Ultron has a vacuum finger. Imagine thinking that Ultron didn’t have a vacuum finger.

And... apparently Hank Pym is what Ultron was here for.

Very conscientious of saving the planet but more a dramatic little shit, Ultron turns the lights off as he leaves, also metaphorically symbolizing that darkness has fallen on the era of the Avengers.

And then he smashes a NEW hole through the ceiling and flies off into the night.

Later...

Jarvis comes back with groceries to find the lab is a mess, there’s holes in the floor and ceiling and dead Avengers everywhere. He’s a butler for godsake, not a maid.

Okay but seriously, he’s horrified.

But facetiously, this is like the fourth supervillain home invasion in a week. He has to be a little bit jaded to it by this point.

Anyway, next time: Bride of Ultron BECAUSE WHY NOT??

My real question is when do we get Son of the Return of Ultron’s Revenge?

[womenofcolor15]

Azriel Clary Says Singer ‘Blackmails’ People Into Making Child Porn, Details Alleged Horrific Sexual & Physical Abuse + Kelly’s Attorney Says She’s Clout Chasing

Azriel Clary has freed herself from R. Kelly and now ... she’s talking...with bombshell accusations. Her allegations are in line with what the other women who stepped up before her are saying. However, Kelly’s attorney Steve Greenberg claims she’s only speaking out for clout. More inside….

R. Kelly’s former live-in girlfriend, Azriel Clary, is speaking out for the first time after she left his Trump Tower condo in Chicago earlier this month. And she left with a bang. Azriel got into a brawl with Kelly’s other live-in girlfriend, Joycelyn Savage, and it was caught on video, resulting in Joycelyn being arrested and charged with one misdemeanor count of domestic battery. By the way, they were fighting on camera on the singer’s 52nd birthday. Womp. You can see the fight and her mugshot HERE. 

          View this post on Instagram

                  suprise Let the healing process begin. Love yall and thank y’all I even thank everyone who follows me.. because you all believed in me when I could not believe for myself. #movingontobetterdays P.S - everyone will be posting there own fav photos so make sure y’all follow the family! #ontherunwithazriel

A post shared by Azriel Clary (@azrielmostwanted) on Jan 13, 2020 at 2:04pm PST

  Since leaving Kelly, Azriel has reunited with her family and is seemingly working to get her life back on track. She has her own place now and she said she has been enjoying regular things like dancing again as it has been therapeutic for her.

In her first post-R.Kelly interview, the 22-year-old accused the embattled singer of blackmailing and incriminating people around him to keep them quiet about his own alleged sex crimes. And this isn’t the first time we’ve heard this. Several women featured in the LIFETIME documentary “Surviving R. Kelly” said the same thing.

Azriel – who met Kelly when she was 17- said he has victims all over the nation, but they will not come forward because he forced some into making child porn and recorded it to keep them quiet. Or, he’ll have them write what he wants and sign it to keep them quiet.

“I think that there's hundreds of victims out there. Robert has his live-in girlfriends, he has girlfriends in every city. He has flings in every city," she told The Sun. “There's usually three main cities in every state. So three times 50 - that lets you know how many women are probably out there and that's probably not even hitting it on the nail."

”For the most part he blackmails everyone. He makes everyone do very degrading stuff, whether on film or writing it down, he makes them sign it.

The aspiring singer said these victims will not speak out because whatever sick and twisted act Kelly allegedly made them do to be apart of his circle is incriminating. She said he has “letters of people saying that they've stolen from him.”

“He has letters from people saying that they've been molested or touched by their parents or their brothers or a family member,” she said.

And the allegations get horribly worse…

“He even has people on film molesting their younger nieces or younger brothers,” she said.

“And so I know a lot of women out there are too embarrassed, humiliated, and ashamed to come out because this man had that much power to control them, to make them molest their younger niece or to molest their younger brother.

“Personally had I ever done anything like that, I would be entirely too ashamed to come forward. Thankfully, I've never been in that situation. But have I seen it done to other women? Yes, I have.”

Sick!

          View this post on Instagram

                  currently: practicing. practice makes perfect. #RIPKOBE. (sorry guys, I posted this before I found out he passed away.) May he Rest In Peace

A post shared by Azriel Clary (@azrielmostwanted) on Jan 26, 2020 at 12:39pm PST

  Azriel also shared details about how R. Kelly savagely beat her with his shoe for hours, how he forced her to have group sex with him and other men and women up to five times a day, and more. Check it:

“I was talking to my friends from high school and he didn't like that I was still talking to them … he thought that I was keeping things from him," she said. “I was just in communication with two of my girlfriends and he made me text them a very long lie, basically saying why I no longer wanted to be friends with them.. Then he beat me with a shoe - a size 12, Nike Air Force One shoe. And he beat me all over, it felt like hours and I was covered in welts all the way from my neck down."

She now admits she was brainwashed by the Grammy award winning singe:

“I definitely do believe that I was very naive and very brainwashed and manipulated by him,” she said. And as much as I hate to say it I'm woman enough and I'm grown enough to admit that yes, I was brainwashed and yes, I was manipulated. And yes, this man did have me wrapped around his finger. If he would have told me to jump, I would have said, ‘how high?’ It was all in because I just genuinely just loved him and I love hard.”

"Sexual abuse did happen regularly," Azriel said. "Robert had a high sex drive so usually 3 to 5 times a day was normal for him. It was always just something that happened, and if you did not want to participate, if you embarrassed him in front of other women, or even just did not perform well he would tell you to leave or wait in the restroom with the water on until he was finished."

"It was easier pleasing him then getting beat every other day...and everyone learned that very quickly."

Azriel said he controlled every aspect of her and the other girls' lives and would also get them to recruit other girls for him.

“Definitely you could not do anything without him knowing." she said. "You have to ask him if you could go to the restroom, you would have to knock anytime you entered it or left a room,” she said. "He controlled you to what you wore. Anything that was tight, hugging, revealing, was not allowed. You had to wear very loose clothing. The fact that I looked so young, I had to wear hats every time I left to go out.

“Every night every one had to ‘take places’ which meant go to your rooms. I would sleep with Robert every night."

Azriel was his “number one girl” and he promoised to one day marry her and have children with her.

“I’ve seen him ask women to go approach other girls for him and give them his number - like at the mall and things like that," she said. "It could be anywhere really, you could be out eating, at a park, in the middle of driving - if he sees someone that he likes, he’ll definitely send a girl that he feels confident in doing those types of things for him."

The R&B singer even controlled Azriel and Joycelyn after he was put in prison last year:

“MCC is on the left side of the street and there's a train that runs straight in front of the MCC in Chicago,” she said. "So everyday he would make us go up there and stand up there and wave to him at four o’clock through the window of the jail. Every day, whether it's snowing, raining, storming, he didn't care, just go up there and wave to him every day at four o'clock."

“I was the only one that he wanted to visit him in jail. So for those first four or five months, I was the only one visiting him, which was very hard on Joycelyn and it was still a way of manipulation, by keeping her angry at me because I'm the only one that can see him."

Sheesh.

You can read more here.

Kelly’s attorney Steve Greenberg said in a series of tweets that the allegations Azriel has made against Kelly are untrue and she’s only speaking out to “capitalize off their relationship.”

  We are surprised to learn that Ms. Clary is making these allegations. What she now says is directly contrary to truth, and the facts that have been brought forward by Ms. Clary in the past. It is also directly contrary to what we expect to be the proof. As with other "accusers",

— Steve Greenberg (@SGcrimlaw) January 30, 2020

  ”We are surprised to learn that Ms. Clary is making these allegations. What she now says is directly contrary to truth, and the facts that have been brought forward by Ms. Clary in the past. It is also directly contrary to what we expect to be the proof,” he tweeted.

  the lack of proof and their past actions impeach them. In sum, Ms. Clary had a long-term consensual relationship with Mr. Kelly. It continued after he was arrested, when she was free to do as she wished. It is clear that she now seeks to personally capitalize from their

— Steve Greenberg (@SGcrimlaw) January 30, 2020

  ”As with other ‘accusers,’ the lack of proof and their past actions impeach them. In sum, Ms. Clary had a long-term consensual relationship with Mr. Kelly. It continued after he was arrested, when she was free to do as she wished.”

  relationship, and the only way to do so is to parrot the false narrative. The allegations are not true. Still, Mr. Kelly bears only good will towards Ms. Clary.

— Steve Greenberg (@SGcrimlaw) January 30, 2020

  ”It is clear that she now seeks to personally capitalize from their relationship, and the only way to do so is to parrot the false narrative. The allegations are not true. Still, Mr. Kelly bears only good will towards Ms. Clary,” he concluded.

Joycelyn is still reportedly staying by her man's side. Her family was able to talk to her when she appeared in court for a hearing for the misdemeanor charge she copped. They're staying positive that she'll eventually return home.

R. Kelly is currently in prison on a rack of federal and state charges, which include child pornography, racketeering, violations of the Mann Act, obstruction of justice, bribery and more.

According to The Blast, Kelly has a hearing coming up on Feb. 6th and they are demanding he show up in court after he put in a request to skip a hearing.

The site reports:

According to court documents obtained by The Blast, Kelly’s lawyer wrote a letter to the judge presiding over the singer’s New York criminal case. A hearing is scheduled for February 6, where Kelly was expected to appear. The singer’s lawyer, Steve Greenberg, put in a request for Kelly to waive his appearance aka not show up. Greenberg said he would not be able to personally appear nor would one of Kelly’s other lawyers.

Prosecutors quickly fired back at the request saying Kelly needs to be present. They write, “In light of the upcoming trial date and the serious nature of the charges that the defendant faces, the government respectfully requests that, absent a compelling reason, the defendant appear by video conference at the conference scheduled for February 6, 2020.”

A judge denied his motion seeking to have the identities of two of his alleged victims labeled as “Jane Does” in the criminal indictment.

  We'll see what goes down next Thursday...

Photos: Azriel's IG

[Read More ...] source http://theybf.com/2020/01/31/azriel-clary-does-1st-interview-after-leaving-r-kelly-says-singer-%E2%80%98blackmails%E2%80%99-people-int