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moriiartist · 2 years

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(CALL THE) NUMBER OF THE BEAST

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PAIRING: Demon!Tangotek x GN!Reader

SUMMARY: You thought it was a joke. A goof. A funny ‘ha-ha’ story to tell to your friends later- how you tried to summon a demon. However, things haven’t exactly gone to plan, and now you’re stuck trying to send a resident to hell back to where he belongs. Too bad that he’s decided that’s wherever you are.

WARNINGS: Language, body horror, demonic imagery, blood and injury, self-mutilation/self-harm (as part of a ritual), fire, implied/referenced murder

A/N: Hey there demon(s), it’s me, ya boi. I lowkey may have stayed up past midnight to get this out on time, but we’re not going to talk about that!!! I had a lot of fun with this fic, and I really think it shows. Enjoy!

The chalk slid smoothly over the kitchen tile, the soft, rasping sound that it elicited filling your ears. Dust as black as pitch already coated your palms, the pads of your fingers, your skin- smeared shapes like the handprints of an absent-minded artist.

An intricate pattern of concentric circles, squares, and lines spread like flowering nightshade from where you were, kneeling in the center. They, too, were as dark as if they had been burnt into the ceramic; the loose powder surrounding the thick, confident marks looked like ashes.

Sitting back on your heels, you inspected your work with a critical eye. A hundred bucks was a hundred bucks, and if you didn’t at least try one of the spells in the old, creepy grimoire you’d found in the attic, you weren’t getting a cent.

Actually, in that case, you’d be getting negative cents.

You’d like to think that you were a reasonable, well-adjusted person. You’d finished college and gotten your degree, you worked a six hour shift at the local bookstore, and you put in an effort to keep in touch with your friends.

Which is why summoning a demon was somewhat uncharacteristic for you.

Your college roommate had invited you to hang out at their house last weekend, and of course, you’d accepted. They, a couple of their buddies they’d brought along, and you started drinking. You got buzzed. Then, naturally, you all started talking about random shit.

Of course, that random shit included all the weird and probably-cursed cult paraphernalia that had been left behind in the house that you’d moved into.

Your roommate had dared you, words almost slurred beyond comprehension, to try out one of the spells you’d found. At this point, you were nearing the point where you were starting to black out; your brain was starting to shut down, but your body got all ‘eye of the tiger’ and soldiered on.

So, like a dumbass, you agreed.

And bet one hundred dollars on it.

(To be fair, you never said you were smart. Just reasonable.)

You honestly felt quite silly standing there in the middle of your kitchen, staring down at the dark symbols you’d copied with a painstaking hand. Although you’d fully committed to winning this stupid bet after five days of twiddling your thumbs, you’d underestimated the amount of time it’d taken to get through the ritual. You’d started at around seven thirty, and it was now almost one.

In your defense, the book wasn’t easy to read. Most of it was in some strange, latin-like script that hurt your eyes if you stared at it too long; words slithered across the paper like rattlesnakes if your gaze unfocused for even a moment.

Luckily for you, however, you had ignored the ominous thoughts in the back of your head that begged you to stop now before it was too late and managed to reach the final step in your handy dandy ‘how-to-summon-a-demon-for-dummies’ guide. Hooray!

All that was left was the sacrifice.

Stepping back, careful not the smudge the chalk lines that were already starting to flake from the combined force of the AC system and the vibrations of your footfalls, you crossed over the salt circle that enclosed the whole shabang.

Tea candles- those little ones that you buy in bulk to put in Jack O’ Lanterns- flickered ominously, crackling and spitting not dissimilarly from oil in a pan. You had dimmed all sources of light beyond those candles and the nightlights plugged into the wall, so the flames cast eerie, dancing shadows all over the room.

You grimaced, regarding the kitchen knife placed on the counter next to you. The blade gleamed red and gold, flashing as you delicately picked it up.

The sight of blood wasn’t new to you, nor did it freak you out, but drawing it from yourself was an entirely different matter from the times you’d fallen and scraped your knees as a kid. It was different when you were doing it- when you were drawing blood from yourself intentionally. It made something underneath your skin writhe with discomfort.

Steadying your grip as much as you could, and ignoring the slight tremor in your hand, you pressed the point of the knife to the meat of your thigh. You’d read somewhere that the fattier parts of the body the better regarding pain- and you weren’t about to stab yourself in the ass.

You gritted your teeth as you drew the blade across your skin. A part of you wanted to shut your eyes and look away, but the more logical side commanded you to pay attention despite the sharp, stinging pain.

Despite the shallowness of the cut, it was already bleeding profusely. Rivulets of thick, coppery liquid already ran down your leg, dripping down onto the flat of your bare foot. In the low light, your blood almost looked as black as the chalk still coating your palms. The air filled with the faint scent of metal and salt.

Hastily, you set the knife down with a clatter. Pressing your fingers to the wound, you hissed at the sparks of pain that erupted from the contact. Blood mixed with the powder on your hands, coagulating into a sludgey mess that clung to your skin.

You flicked some of the mixture off of your hands and into the circle, pursing your lips to soften your disgust. The book had never specified how much of your blood should be used, and although you really wanted to win the bet, you weren’t about to sacrifice a pint to a ritual that might not even work.

A mix between a groan and a gag tore itself from your throat as you pressed a palm flat to your wound, watching more blood begin to drip from the gaps in between your fingers. With your other hand, you reached blindly for the tape and gauze that you’d set aside specifically for this moment, tearing a thick wad of the stuff off with your teeth and messily taping it to your thigh.

It wasn’t really sanitary, but then again, it wasn’t as if anything else you were doing was.

Fumbling with the book, you winced as you smeared chalky blood over the pages- staining the fragile paper with black-grey-red fingerprints. You flipped through the pages somewhat frantically, muttering curses to yourself as pain once again twinged through your leg. After a tense moment, you exclaimed softly to yourself.

You’d highlighted the incantation to summon the demon, and the garish yellow-green pigment now glared up at you from the page. The book must’ve been made with parchment or something, because the color was soft and fragmented at the edges unlike the clean, hard cut of highlighter on printer paper.

Clearing your throat, you ignored the way the letters slipped in and out of focus, mirage-like, and began to read.

“Primo ad nonum daemones,” you incanted, nearly choking as the syllables ran like water from your mouth, “vocationem meam audite et attendite.”

Immediately, the guttering tea candles stilled. Every dancing flame went straight and tall, burning white-hot. The dimmed lights buzzed, and an electrical hum seemed to fill the air. Your stomach swooped- the same sensation that one would beget standing at a precipice.

“ Sanguis meus gratis inferis datus est, et mihi paciscor.”

When did it get so cold? Your skin was chilled and damp with sweat, breath stuttering in your lungs from the shiver that wracked your body. The low hum that filled the back of your mind seemed to intensify. Static was all you could hear.

The voices whispering in your ear shrieked soundlessly, then disappeared.

“Caro mea velamen tollit, ossa mea signaculum portant, et anima- et anima mea ligat.”

Each word that escaped from your mouth burned your tongue like a firebrand, each more painful than the last. You felt like you were choking on your own blood as you spat out the last syllable, shuddering uncontrollably.

At some point, you had dropped the book. It was burning, delicate paper and dark leather cover flaking into ashes.

You couldn’t move, could hardly breathe; With each passing moment the pressure inside your chest increased, like someone had gripped your heart and decided to squeeze. Distantly, you recognized that your limbs were trembling.

“Quod fit non recipi.”

The lights cut out, and, like a great exhale of breath, the candles extinguished.

Shit.

For a few heartbeats, the only sound was your ragged breathing. Then, something shuffled in front of you. Something hard and sharp slid across the tile, sounding an awful lot like the knife still resting on the countertop.

Freezing, you felt your heart began to beat faster, hammering at your ribcage. Even your chest stilled, and you swallowed thickly to suppress a whimper. It smelled like a nauseating mix of sulfur and your own blood.

“Well,” a masculine voice murmured, tone colored with a mixture of surprise and amusement. “It’s certainly been a long time since someone’s had the guts to summon me.”

In a blink, the lights were reignited. However, instead of the warm, yellow hues that you’d been familiar with your entire life, they were blue. The tall, still flames that rose from the candlewick looked like they’d been carved out of luminous blue ice, hardly seeming to move.

You’d be more awed by it if you weren’t distracted by the dark figure standing in the center of the ritual circle.

It wasn’t very big- only a few inches taller than you, if you had to guess, and shaped like a person; two legs, two arms, and a head attached to a torso. However, everything about it was off.

It’s arms were too long, fingers tipped with glossy claws brushing the sides of its knees. It’s legs were longer at the ankle, forcing it to balance on its toes. It’s proportions were too different- like a poorly made puppet.

Every movement, from the tilt of its head to the roll of its shoulders was too smooth, too easy. Like there was no muscles, no internal structure to add resistance. You couldn’t contain your gasp as it’s neck made a horrendous, wet crack, spinning well past the limits of the human body to survey the room.

A long, black tail snaked out from behind it, pooling to the floor. Shards of what looked like volcanic glass were embedded in its forehead in the mockery of a crown, dripping with black and red blood. Similar pieces were buried in its spine and shoulders, bristling like spines.

“Shit,” you murmured.

With another snap, its head spun back around.

The demon’s face was pale, almost bloodless, and you could see the spiderweb of blue-black veins that ran below the surface. Pitch black holes were nested where its eyes should be, white, cat-like pupils narrowed in on your trembling figure. It grinned as you made eye contact, running a blue tongue over- what the hell, how many teeth does this guy have?!

If you squinted, it would almost look human. A spiky, aggressively emo human- but a human nonetheless. However, since you had somewhat of a sense of self-preservation, you weren’t doing that. No- you were wide-eyed and gaping, glued to the floor as you stared at the monstrosity before you.

“Excuse me,” it chirped, looking far too smug for its friendly tone to be genuine. “You summoned me, didn’t you?”

You blinked down at what remained of the grimoire. “... I guess.”

It grinned brilliantly, still with too many needle-like teeth. “Excellent!”

Then, it stepped over the salt circle. You hardly had time to squawk before it had seized your chin in its hands, turning your face this way and that as it inspected you. You would’ve pulled away, but the brush of the demon’s talons against the delicate skin of your throat was enough to have you falling still.

Every piece of media about demons you’d ever seen were different, but one thing seemed to largely hold the same: they couldn’t cross salt circles. It was one of the only effective ways to trap them, besides silver mirrors and maybe not summoning them in the first place- at least, according to what you’ve seen.

And then this asshole goes and dropkicks that knowledge into the fucking sun.

“Oooh,” it hummed, gaze calculating. “You’re a looker, aren’t you.”

It glanced down towards the hasty bandage job you’d done, a sly smile playing on its lips. It reached down, either oblivious to or ambivalent to your protests, and ran a finger through the still-drying blood.

Licking its hand clean, it’s pupils flared, growing to the size of nickels. “Tasty, too.”

Regaining your nerve, you shoved it away, stumbling back. It watched you go with an almost disappointed (?) expression, folding its arms across its chest. You finally stopped when your back hit a wall, refusing to take your gaze off the creature in front of you.

“... What the hell,” you managed to croak out. Was this shock? Were you going into shock?

The demon smirked. You were really starting to hate it when it did that.

“Indeed.”

Picking up the knife you’d set on the counter, it toyed with blade, whetting it against its talons. It paused, looking at it contemplatively, before rolling its eyes back to you.

“You’re new to this, aren’t you?”

It wasn’t a question.

Hesitantly, you nodded. While you were seriously regretting your decision to summon a demon of all things instead of, like, one of the easier spells, you didn’t see a point in lying to it about that. As far as you knew, magic wasn’t real up until two minutes ago.

The demon sighed. “Alrighty then. I thought you would be- it makes more sense.

“So, this is how this thing works. You ask for something- I don’t know, you want some guy who crossed you to mysteriously disappear, endless riches, fame and beauty- and I make it happen!”

It’s eyes gleamed red. “For a price, of course.”

Despite your fear, you deadpanned. The last thing you were doing was signing a deal with the devil. “No, thank you.”

“You don’t have a choice,” it countered. “You summoned me. I can’t return back to my realm until our, ah… business is complete.”

You threw your hands up. “Well, I’m not selling my soul or whatever else a creature of darkness would want!”

The demon pouted, looking almost offended for a moment. You didn’t trust it. “Hey- rude. Depending on the boon, I would only ask for, like, your childhood memories. Maybe your firstborn?”

“This is not helping your argument,” you sighed, glaring at it hollowly. It stared at you, grin melting until its expression was blank and unreadable. It’s tail lashed, slashing bluntly at the floor.

“If you don’t make a deal, I’m stuck here with you,” it cautioned once more.

You bared your teeth at it. “Fuck. You.”

It blinked, and for a moment you thought that this was it, you were going to die. Your last moments would be spent with a creature that wanted your soul for nefarious purposes, you would never get those hundred dollars-

The demon laughed, nearly doubling in on itself from the force. After a few seconds it looked back up at you, wiping a tear from its eye that sizzed as it hit the floor. In a blink, it was in front of you, staring at you with blown pupils.

“You’re delightful,” it whispered, sounding awfully delighted itself. “This is going to be so much fun.”

You blanched as it took your hands in its own, flipping over one to press a sharp kiss to your inner wrist. The demon grinned up at you, sly.

“Good luck getting rid of me now, angel. I’ll have your soul whether you want me two or not.”

It stood up, lengthening the spine until it towered over you. Its pupils burned in the shadows cast across its face, exactly the same as the flames at its back.

“The name’s Tango, sweetheart. You won’t forget it.”

There’s no turning back now for you- you were his. Tango would make sure of it.

@blufr0st @itsonlydana @amearla @bapthadapper @redactedsouls @sina-the-idiot @icarusthefoolish @blockyshieldmaiden

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whoredmode · 9 months

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ask meme 2 & 34!

Saints Row Character Building Questions

2. What is your character’s gender and sexual orientation? Did either of those factors have an impact on their relationship with any homies, or on their role within the Saints?

anteros is a bisexual man. i don’t think that really had much of an impact? i imagine when he first joined and before he cut his hair, he probably did get some jeers from random saints just because he was more effeminate. he has thick skin when it comes to that though, nor do i think it really ever got that bad. honestly with troy watching everyone like a hawk, he would’ve put a stop to anything that could’ve escalated.

i think johnny just assumed anteros was gay but he’s cool with it. julius didn’t care. troy didn’t see it as any of his business. lin is a lesbian so she didn’t give a fuck either. and dex was, at the time, struggling with his own sexuality and seeing a man who liked men so open about it did have an effect on him. anteros was dex’s first time being with a man and did affirm his own attraction to men (i hc dex as gay). i do think there was a point midway through where troy caught dex and anteros kissing but they never noticed him nor did he ever bring it up. he just kept it to himself; it did at least confirm his own suspicions about the nature of dex and anteros’ relationship though.

anyway all that to say ultimately i don’t think it had that much of an effect on how he was treated. i think if anyone ever had any reservations about it, once they realize how capable anteros is, they can adjust. and if anyone ever gave him any shit he’ll just snipe them. he dgaf.

34. What activities does your character do when they’re not doing Saints business?

i’m assuming we’re talking like. in-game activities and diversions. he does a lot of assassin work because he’s such a good shot with his sniper rifle. it’s also my personal favorite of the activities in the series so…gotta include it. especially during his early days he did a lot of theft and pawning. he didn’t do fight club or anything like that BUT my nod to it in my sr2 canon is that once he and troy get back together, they head to the abandoned drive-in and have practice fights there. they both enjoy it, and anteros needs to work on getting his strength and skills back at that point. to unlock troy in-game you have to complete the prison fight club, so i thought it’d be fun to include something similar but for my story. also something something intricate rituals to hold each other or whatever.

#asks #anon #thank you for asking!

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skyward-heir · 2 years

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some thoughts, because i need to purge myself:

i wish we could see a more morally complex world, them being pirates and all. not saying it isn't, but narratively it seems we're too limited to Stede's sanitized (dare i say, romantic) version of piracy: one where you can afford not to kill others—need not cast away parts of yourself—in order to survive, where your reputation isn't relevant because you don't need to board vessels for loot. protagonist-centered morality isn’t necessarily bad, but it'd be nice if s2 could change that a bit, what with Stede finally getting the "it's not about you" treatment. and please more female characters 🙏🏻

Oluwande, my beloved, i wish i was this cool. i just, i'm in awe at his common sense, his cuteness, his empathy! taking no shit from anyone! ahhhhh

congrats to Jim for having actually intelligible Spanish, for once, in an English-speaking production. i'm a native speaker (greeting from Argentina!), but my gods, why productions usually make it so hard to understand the designated Spanish-speaking character? (i know, expose yourself to other dialects outside your own, but like, sound mix teams do your job i beg you)

no thoughts, just... Frenchie 💖

didn't care at first for Lucius (might've been the sideburns i'll admit ajslkjk), but having the emotional braincell in this ship made me really like him

neither did i care for Stede, but like ✨ character development ✨ and gods he's great. love him. hopefully, the narrative will continue to push the whole 'be a little less self-centred my guy' thing. also i'd like for him to interact more with people who aren't Ed (and Ed with people who aren’t Stede). look i love their scenes together, but it'd be nice to see them outside the romance angle y'know?

Ed, honey, love you but please grow a beard again. it looks so good! anyway, been reading meta/headcanons on his Ambiguous Disorder™ and who he "really" is, but i think the outfit invites a comparison to... Road Warrior. in a world of nightmarish seas roads where "only those mobile enough to scavenge, brutal enough to pillage, would survive" and pirates gangs "took over the highways ready to wage war for a tank of juice", ordinary men like Max (a cop scared that he was beginning to enjoy the rat circus, only a badge saying he's a good guy) are "battered and smashed". despite taking his revenge, Max is the shell of a burn-out, desolate man, haunted by the demons of his past, who wandered out to a blighted place and learned to live again. (and that's like the intro only.) anyway, he lives in the wasteland, helping out only when it suits him, uninterested in companionship or a chance to rebuild his life. ("come with us." / "what are you looking for out there? [...] there is a better way!" → "i never get involved") yet there is kindness: even when he's lost everything, he can still reclaim his humanity. so where am i going with this? no idea. maybe it's about Ed being a legend, about struggling with trauma but surviving no matter what, about choosing solitude, about enjoying the violence, about atonement. that he needs to acknowledge forging himself in fire and blood, instead of handwaving it. (...also the outfit is mmgh 🤤)

how could i not sympathize with Izzy when he's out there living a Greek tragedy, victim of his own hubris, destined to fail and realize all too late he's only got himself to blame. that he's superfluous, unneeded in any way or form... least of all by Ed. ("i need you here"? where was that sentiment after the duel?) because they're not even friends, if Ed's to be believed. at "stages of fucking each other over" and all that. could there be more to their 'dysfunctional love' than the Intricate Rituals™? if so, the self-sabotage is all on him, isn't it? and no matter how 'deeply in love' Izzy is, he'll have to admit defeat to the man who's bested him in every single way that matters, who loathed him—and rightly so everyone would tell him—at first sight. (if he even lives until that point. alternatively, he'll have to fuck off for good so everyone can live happily ever after.) to admit that whatever he and Ed have matters so little that being maimed while he's completely vulnerable is acceptable. so, yeah, kinda tragic. i'd love a redemption arc for Izzy. like if the repressed white dude with far more privilege, who is consistently bad at not really seeing beyond his own needs unless someone calls him out, can change for the better, why can't Izzy? (something something palatable forms of trauma, something something Die For Our Ship at play, something something Steddyhands please askjlskj)

all three of them (Stede, Ed, and Izzy) i love precisely because they're flawed so i just can't understand the necessity of certain fans to reduce three-dimensional characters to 'never did anything wrong' while demonizing the other, instead of accepting it takes two to tango, as they say

#ofmd #meta #our flag meets death #ofmd meta #oluwande boodhari #jim jimenez #frenchie #lucius spriggs #stede bonnet #edward teach #izzy hands #(guess who watched the series for the first time two weeks ago)#skyward-tags #alternatively the guy he's loved for years decides to assault him #or guy puts 'jilted wife' in his place and no one bats an eye bc he 'enjoyed' it #wait that's not how it's supposed to be read as?

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baya-ni · 3 years

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The Queer Appeal of Sk8

Recently @mulberrymelancholy reblogged a post of mine with a truly galaxy brain take about how Sk8 “is a show made for queer fans” and generally how sports anime often depicts love and relationships in a way that’s more accessible and relatable to ace/arospec people than other mainstream media does.

Just, *chef’s kiss* fucking brilliant. I urge you to read their post here (note I’m referring to the reblog not the actual post).

And basically, it got me thinking about this concept of Sk8 as a Queer Show, and the kinds of stories and dynamics that tend to attract queer audiences in droves, regardless of whether its queerness is made explicit or hell, whether that queerness was intended.

And that’s what I’ve been pondering: What are the cues, markers, or coding, in Sk8 that set off the community’s collective gaydar?

I obviously can’t speak for the community. So here’s what aspects of the show intrigued me and what, for me, marks Sk8 as a Queer Show beyond the subtextual queer romances: a punk/alternative aesthetic, Found Family, Shadow as a drag persona, and The Hands.

1.) The Punk Aesthetic

All three of the above screenshots are taken from Ep 1, and every single one of them depicts background characters. They’re nameless and ultimately unimportant characters, yet each of them designed so distinctly and so unique from one another, one could mistake each of them for the main character(s) of another story.

Of what little I know about Punk subculture, I do know this: that the ethos of Punk is heavily built around a celebration of individuality and non-conformity. Sk8 seems to have incorporated this ethos into the very fabric its worldbuilding, and the aesthetics and culture upon which it takes inspiration appeals specifically to a queer audience.

I don’t really need to explain why Punk has such deep ties with the queer community. For decades, queer people have found community and acceptance within punk spaces, and punk ideology is something that I think is just ingrained in the queer consciousness as both lived experience and a survival tactic.

Therefore, a show that adopts punk aesthetics is, by association, already paying homage to Queer culture, intentional or not.

Queer fans notice this- like recognizes like.

2.) Found Family

This also needs little explanation.

Too often, queer individuals cannot rely on their “born into” families for support and acceptance. Too often, we are abused, neglected, and abandoned by those who we were taught would “always be there for us.”

And so, a universal experience for queer people has been redefining the meaning of Family, having to build our families from scratch, finding brothers, sisters, mothers, and fathers in people with whom we have no blood relation, and forming communities tied together by shared lived experience rather than shared genetics.

And this idea of Found Family is also built into Sk8′s narrative.

Like, for example, the way that Reki promises MIYA that he and Langa will “never disappear from [his] sight,” filling the void that MIYA felt after his friends abandoned him.

And in the way that JOE becomes a paternal figure for Reki, teaching him ways to improve in skateboarding, and ensuring that Reki doesn’t self isolate when he’s feeling insecure.

And in the whole Ep 6 business with Hiromi acting as babysitter to the Gang.

Hell, even ADAM (derogatory) is associated with this trope. Abused as a child, he finds solace in an underground skateboarding community and culture he helped create- his own found family (or some powertrippy version of it anyway).

Again, queer fans see themselves depicted in the show, but this time in the way that the show gives importance to Found Family relationships between its characters.

3.) Shadow and Drag

This is one that’s more of an association that I personally made. But I was intrigued by the way that Hiromi adopts his SHADOW persona. He wears SHADOW like a mask, and adopts a personality seemingly so opposite to his day-to-day behavior.

Further, the theatricality and general “gender fuckery” of his SHADOW persona, to me, just seemed so similar to a the characteristics of a drag persona (I don’t know a whole lot about drag but enough that I’m drawing superficial similarities).

There’s also this aspect of a “double life” that he, and actually all the other adult characters of the show, have to adopt, which is a way of living that I’m sure a lot of queer viewers see themselves reflected in.

4.) The Hands

Ohhhh the Hands.

One of the things I noticed very early on is the way the show constantly draws our attention to Reki’s hands, which I thought was a little strange for an anime about skating. After all, skating doesn’t really involve the hands, or at least the show doesn’t really draw attention to hands within the context of skating.

I count 3 times so far between Eps 1-9 in which hands are the focus of the frame.

First, when Reki teaches Langa how to fist pump after Langa lands his first ollie, second, when Reki and Langa make their Promise, and finally, when Langa saves Reki from falling off his board.

And you know what they say, twice is a coincidence but thrice is a motif (no one else actually says this I think I’m the only one who says this lol).

I’m not really certain why hands seem to be such a shared fixation among queer people (at least among those I interact with). All I know is that gay people are just fucking obsessed with them.

I have a Theory as to why, and at this point I’d love for other people to chime in and “compare notes” if you will, but I think it basically has to do with repression. And in the same way that queer people have had to redefine the meaning of family, we’ve also had to redefine intimacy.

Being overtly physically affectionate with someone of the same sex, even if they’re your significant other, or often specifically BECAUSE they’re your significant other, can still be dangerous, even now despite the “progression” of society. Queer people know this, this vigilant surveillance of our environment and ourselves, always asking ourselves, “Am I safe enough to be myself?”

Already, Western culture is pretty touch-averse. That is, it’s considered taboo to touch someone unless they’re a family member or a romantic partner. And to touch a person of the same sex in any way that could be misconstrued as romantic (which is most things tbh) is a big no no.

There’s just A Lot to unpack there.

But basically I think that queer people, by necessity, have had to learn to romanticize mundane or unconventional ways of being physically intimate so that we can continue to be romantic with one another without “being caught” so to speak.

Kissing and hugging is too obvious. But a handshake that lingers for just a second too long is much more likely to go unnoticed, braiding someone’s hair can easily be explained away as just lending a helping hand, touching palms to “compare hand sizes” is just good fun.

But for queer people, these brief and seemingly insignificant touches hold greater meaning, because it’s all we are allowed, and all we allow ourselves, to exchange with others.

God, I’ve gone off and rambled again. What’s my point? Basically that the way the show draws attention to Reki’s hands, and specifically how they’re so often framed with Langa’s hands, is one of the major reasons why I clocked Sk8 as a Queer. It’s just something that resonated with me and my own experience of queerness, and I know that I’m not the only one who noticed either.

So in conclusion, uhhhh yeah Sk8 the Infinity is just a super gay show, and it’s not even because of the homo-romantic subtext (that at this point is really just Text).

Because what’s important to understand is that Queerness isn’t just about same-sex romance.

Queer Love isn’t just shared between wives/girlfriends, husbands/boyfriends, and all their in-betweens. Queer Love can be two best friends who come out together, queer siblings who rely and support one another, a gay teacher who helps guide one of their questioning students, a queer community pitching in to help a struggling member.

And that all ties with another important thing to consider, that what we refer to as the “queer experience” or “queer culture” isn’t universal. In fact, it wrongly lumps together the unique experiences and struggles of queer BIPOC all under one umbrella that’s primary White and middle class.

So I think what drives a lot of my frustration about labeling a show like Sk8 as Queerbait is this very issue of considering queerness and queer representation within such narrow standards, and mandating that a show must pass a certain threshold of explicit queerness to be considered good representation.

I get that someone might only feel represented by an indisputable canonization of a same-sex couple. That’s fine. But labeling Sk8 as Queerbait for that reason alone ignores the vast array of other queer experiences.

The aspects of Sk8 that resonate most deeply with my own experiences of queerness is in the way that Reki and Langa share intimacy through skating (intricate rituals heyo). For me, them officially getting together ultimately doesn’t matter- I’ll consider Sk8 a Queer show regardless.

Similarly, @mulberrymelancholy finds ace/arospec representation in that very absence of an on-screen kiss. A bisexual man might find representation in Reki, not because he enters a canon relationship, but in the depiction of Reki’s coming of age, growing up and navigating adolescent relationships. A non-binary person might feel represented through CHERRY’s androgyny.

That’s the thing, I don’t know how this show will resonate with other members of the queer community, and it’d be wrong to make a judgement on Sk8′s queer representation based on my experiences alone.

That being said, Straight people definitely don’t get to judge Sk8 as Queerbait. Y’all can watch and enjoy the show, we WANT you to enjoy these kinds of shows, and we want you to share these shows and contribute to the normalization and celebration of these kinds of narratives.

But understand that you don’t have a right to tell us whether or not Sk8 has good or bad queer representation.

And even members of the queer community are on thin ice. Your experience of queerness is not universal. Listen to the other members of your community, and respect that what you might find lacking in this show may be the exact representation that someone else needs.

#and scene #i was up till 4am writing this instead of doing my hw #bc i hav Opinions dammit #sk8 #sk8 the infinity #sk8 meta #sk8 theory #queerbait

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milfzatannaz · 2 years

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Every time I see random ships with John I'm like bestie he would Not like talking with this character, even less to have a relationship with them but I try not to bully.

And Johnzee is Soo private, they wouldn't get into bed with your fav Chara, their rituals are too intricate

John is really not as shippable as everyone thinks he is. It’s sort of because people aren’t as familiar with his individual canon or solo material (outside of Rebirth or whatever. I’m not trying to say “nobody reads Hellblazer” but it’s what I’m implying). People see a foul mouthed bisexual man in a trenchcoat and treat him as a novelty. But he’s not very friendly or open, and he can certainly be flirty but I highly doubt it’d be with a Leaguer- he hates institutions like that. Zee is this exception because they go way back and he’s always held her in high regard.

I definitely place supporting Vita’s writing as a black person above my personal thoughts on John’s wider misinterpretation, but I’d be lying if I said them writing john flirting with Bruce didn’t bother me. It’s OOC and annoying to me, but ultimately harmless.

I don’t really get too offended about shipping past the occasional essay because I think comic fandom online has to have a certain amount of engagement to keep people interested. Meaning people who don’t really have the time or energy or interest in reading the comics themselves will rely on shipping and fanon to give them something to interact with.

I can’t begrudge random ships involving john bc they can be a fun outlet, it’s just not how I personally approach him. I don’t really engage with Hellblazer rooting for him to have 5 boyfriends and get married. Johnzee is so special to me because they kinda defy the odds of their own material. That’s another essay.

#answered

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dying-suffering-french-stalkers · 3 years

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Finally watching Goodbye Partner! I’m watching the dub, but I have the subs on so I can read the date/location popups and signs, so I’m getting a bit of dialogue comparison. I’ll probably go back and watch a few scenes with the original audio as well (Kiyoshi Kobayashi my beloved).

Here begins the liveblog, but all in one post and under a cut so it’s not as insufferable:

Starting strong with a heist escape sequence as per usual! As far as openings go, it’s hard to go wrong with that.

Oh, hello, literal actual Chopin courtesy of a timeskip/flashback.

What are these RWBY-ass CGI piano hands?? Y’all warned me and you were not kidding. Traditional rotoscoping would never hurt me in this way.

CUSTODY_OF_CHILD.JPG

Lupin playing in those see-through inflatable “hamster” balls skdfjskjdflsl

Intricate Rituals. Jiglup gunplay confirmed

Epcar’s delivery here was so much more aggressive than Kobayashi’s.

“Area 61, Colorado” just say Cheyenne Mountain

EDWARD ZNOWDEN

Fujiko really is terrible with kids

Listen, I love a good Dutch angle, but I’m starting to feel like I should set up a CinemaSins counter at this point. I’m glad to have some shot variety but there are other compositions, you know.

Motorcycle Jigen returns!!

Loving this little Morricone shoutout, which I unfortunately cannot seem to find on YouTube.

[strangled Goemon voice] “MISTAKE.”

God. GOD. Tony Oliver’s delivery in the betrayal scene is so good. Lupin is clearly not buying it at all and is quite willing to play along with whatever the hell this is - until Jigen shoots him right in the heart. That’s going to hurt a lot more than literally when he wakes up, though 1) given that the movie’s barely begun, I’m guessing he’s still not completely buying it (rightfully so) and is gonna look into this and 2) unfortunately this franchise isn’t known for actually digging into all the delicious angst and implications it likes to sling around. Cowards.

Also, I like that Lupin seems to be wearing a navy shirt and pink tie like he had in early Part 2 instead of the blue shirt/yellow tie he has in the other Red Jacket movies. Not sure why that’s what they went with but I’m down.

Okay, I went back and watched the betrayal scene in Japanese and OOF, it hits DIFFERENT to hear Kiyoshi Kobayashi deliver those lines. He’s so utterly casual about it and it’s all the more angsty since he’s, y’know, a million years old, so here his Jigen sounds much more tired/resigned compared to Epcar’s brasher gunman.

The way that the shots focus on not only Jigen, but also Fujiko when the boss asks about the betrayal...nice. Fujiko doesn’t know for sure if Jigen killed Lupin, but I imagine such a possibility would shake her at least a little - not just because she cares for that silly monkey man, but because that partnership has been a surprising constant in her life. If even that could finally crumble, her natural cynicism is about to get a whole lot deeper. Morbidly, she wants to know if Jigen had the balls to do it. It’d be a hell of a lot more kindred spirit between them than she ever expected if so. It’s a shame this plot wasn’t used in a Koike movie; it would’ve been great to see the deliberate parallel/foil from TWCFM continue.

“Why don’t we talk about your future?” the boss says as Jigen’s whole demeanor screams What future? Even though Lupin isn’t dead and Jigen has his reasons for why he did this, Jigen hardly expects forgiveness after all this. Lupin may be alive but Jigen has just killed the best thing he ever had and he can never get that back (except he can, because movie and long-running franchise, but y’know, Watsonian vs. Doylist).

The Dark Crystal (1982)

HATSUNE MIKU??? ACTUAL HATSUNE MIKU????? (just her voice but aksdjfkajsdkfjaklsjdfljasjdflajsdf)

Ohhhh, the Lupin & Clarisse / Jigen & the kid’s mom (still haven’t heard her name lmao) parallel was just uncalled for, my heart

Let Jigen wear burgundy more often

...Mr. Epcar, I love and respect you, but is it too much to ask that you vary your inflection a little more? Where’s the PATHOS?

Slightly cried instantly, “The Wendy lady lives.” Then Peter knelt beside her and found his button. You remember she had put it on a chain that she wore round her neck. “See,” he said, “the arrow struck against this. It is the kiss I gave her. It has saved her life.”

BLACK JACKET

Burgundy suit + round glasses Goemon!!!

There’s no way Pops is getting his job back after this one

Goemon: [turns his usual hot girl swordsmanship up to 11]

Lupin: Well mark me down as scared AND horny! dot jpeg

Again with the CGI hand crimes.

Wow he straight-up said Jigen was cheating on him

Ah, see, that “waste of oxygen”/“huge mistake” bit of dialogue is the kind of inflection I like to hear.

WarGames (1983)

It took me entirely too long to realize the president was supposed to look like H.illary.

Goemon: [slices open a door for Fujiko]

Fujiko: “Oh, you.” <3

This is all very action-heavy and surprisingly decent for a Lupin film so far, but uh. why is Jigen once again a side character in his own movie?

Ayyyy, nice reference to Zantetsuken’s composition from Part 1. Still insane that they melted down three awesome swords to make a different sword though.

Goemon snarks back to robots confirmed. Not that Lupin would ever be stupid enough to buy an Al3xa/etc. but can you IMAGINE

JAZZ PIANIST FUJIKO! Fujiko having actual interests and hobbies!!!

Comrade Emilka

TRIPLE PARALLEL WITH JIGEN & ALISA NOW

They just?? left Jigen in the middle of the desert after the absolute minimum discussion of All That???? That’s...on-brand actually but give me the angst this plot device deserved >:(

Michelle Ruff I would die for you

This variation on the main theme is my favorite. I’ve probably listened to it about a thousand times at this point but I finally got to hear it in context.

Welp, that was one of the better Lupin movies I’ve seen, but I do wish they’d done more with the whole Jigen betrayal thing that ended up being more of a subplot. Thank goodness for fics that do the work.

Edit: “There are about four different plots going on at once in this movie, and they forgot to focus on the one that’s in the actual title.” - @theimpossiblescheme

#lupin iii #goodbye partner #jigen #long post

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lilolilyr · 4 years

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Humans are weird: The five second rule

Eəlik was exiting the canteen with Human Anthea when she dropped her 'snack carrot', hastened to pick it up, exclaimed "five second rule!" and heartily bit into it again.

"...Excuse me?" Eəlik remembered his course in human manners when he wanted to ask about this strange behaviour.

"Oh, the five second rule" Anthea mumbled with a mouth full of earthly vegetable before remebering her own manners, chewing, swallowing and continuing to speak: "It's a human thing."

Eəlik had expected as much.

"Basically, when I drop some food, if I pick it up within five seconds or less, I can eat it without having to wash it again!"

Eəlik blinked. "That is- highly illogical. Terran bacteria as well as other contamimants do not all take the same time to contaminate different edible substances. In addition to this, the hallway E-71 as most other spaces on this vessel is routinely de-contaminated, any such rule would therefore be unnecessary in this space, even if it was logical in the first place."

Anthea laughs. "That's a fancy way of saying we could eat on the floor here! Yeah, no, sure it's not really logical, I really just do it cause it reminds me of home, illogical and all- we'd have picknicks and bonfires in the wild, and of course us kids would drop things, but we'd still eat it all according to the five second rule!"

"Illogical humans" Eəlik mutters under his breath.

Anthea tilts her head. "Oh, I don't know" she says quite thoughtfully. "Sure we're not very logical, but that's why illogical rules make sense for us, right? I mean, you'd probably know exactly which bacteria could be where and to what kind of food it would stick and in what dosage it'd be dangerous to you... we humans don't tend to know that, we just know something fell to the floor. And we're pretty durable, we can survive to eat most dirt. Plus, in human history, we were often short on food, so we couldn't waste things needlessly... but when something falls to the ground, it's gross or socially unacceptable to eat it- except with the five second rule, it isn't anymore!"

Eəlik stares at her. That even somehow makes sense. Still... "Illogical humans, coming up with such intricate rituals for the easiest things."

"Oh, shut up!" Anthea laughs, so he knows she did not mean it in a menacing way. "I've seen the way you layer your robes and stuff- don't talk to me about needlessly intricate rituals!"

And she does have a point about that.

#lilo writes #humans are weird #my post #mine #humans are space orcs #earth is space australia #sept'20 #25.09.20 #popular #instant popular #19 notes on #10+ notes on #really popular #50+ notes on #26.09.20 #200+ notes on #07.10.20 #really fucking popular

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twistedwonderlandimaginesblog · 4 years

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🧡 ❣️💓🔍🌹 w/ Silver!

Silver:

🧡 How do they confess that they like someone?

Silver figures the direct approach is best and it feels like he’s delivering some type of monologue rather than confessing his feelings to you. He tries to keep his feelings at bay to prevent himself from ruining what he wants to say but it can come off insincere which frustrates him as you make him feel almost too many things at once. It’s not as though you could just not believe him though as he wasn’t the type to prank you or lie to your face like this so you at least know exactly how he feels about you. When you explain feelings aren’t such a bad thing even if they feel embarrassing his cheeks are stained pink, apologizing for delivering you a lackluster confession and promising to do better in the future.

❣️ What makes them blush/gets their heart pounding?

Silver is sensitive to all kinds of physical touch coming from you. Even something as simple as brushing your shoulder against his is enough to get him to sit up straighter, suddenly on edge and reacting to everything happening around him. The bigger shows of affection on your part, like complimenting him or hugging him, are the ones that have his entire face highlighted red as he doesn’t know the proper way to respond to it (before you’re together). He’s not that much better after you’re together when it comes to being loved either, avoiding your gaze when you stared at him lovingly and stuttering out ‘I love you too’ when you verbally expressed your care for him.

💓 How do they act when they realize they’re in love/have a crush?

Silver’s internally a mess around you. He finds it hard to focus on protecting Malleus when you’re around which is why he might drift away or try to distance himself from you as he can’t be shirking his important duties to protect the young master but he can’t keep away from you for long. He doesn’t think he has time for love since he’s Malleus’ bodyguard but at the same time he craves the experience, wanting to know what it’d feel like to know you were his, to be able to hold your hand or to walk you to class each day… He daydreams a lot when he has the free-time to do so and is completely caught off-guard when Lilia or Sebek appear, one teasing him about his head being in the clouds while the other scolds him for not being attentive enough.

🔍 Do they ask for advice or just deal with their crush on their own?

It takes him time to build up the courage to ask Malleus and Lilia about something that seems so trivial but he discovers they’re both quite pleased that Silver came to confess his crush to them and ask for their advice; as long as it didn’t interfere with his official duties and his studies, he was free to woo you as he pleased. Lilia has some age-old advice that’s at least semi-helpful in charming you but it seems like it was made for a more intricate courting ritual while Malleus advises him to simply be straightforward about his feelings, presenting them to you in a way that couldn’t possibly be misconstrued. Lilia is incredibly encouraging about Silver making a move as soon as he can so you “won’t be swooped up by some other eligible bachelor” but this is mostly because he wants to watch from afar and see how much game he raised Silver to have.

🌹 Are they likely to say ‘I love you’ first?

Just like he managed to confess first despite his lack of experience, he’s also the first one to tell you he loves you. It might take him awhile to define the feeling but once he does he knows it’s tried and true, and he knows that he should tell you, heart hoping you feel the same. He can’t deliver it as matter-of-factly as he did his confession but he says it with a gentle expression, smiling as he tells you that you’ve made his life brighter and more interesting just by being in it. He expresses his wishes for you to remain by his side for as long as possible but understands if the commitment is too heavy for the time being, letting you know he has already planned to dedicate the parts of him that aren’t serving Malleus in some way.

#Silver #TWST Silver #Twisted Wonderland #TWST #Disney Twisted Wonderland #Disney TWST #Twisted Wonderland Imagines #TWST Imagines #Disney TWST Imagines #Twisted Wonderland x Reader #TWST x Reader #Silver x Reader #Emoji Meme

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akmongs · 3 years

Text

here’s a dumb headcanon that won’t leave my mind: steve and billy bonding over wrestling

in a post-s2 scenario where billy apologizes and they become friends (who pine for each other) they start hanging out at steve’s place a lot and watch wwf matches together on steve’s ridiculous big tv. it becomes a regular thing, they order pizza and drink beer and watch the show, arguing over who’s the best wrestler — they both like hulk hogan, duh, but billy still has to antagonize steve and give him shit for it (“you’re so mainstream, harrington” “um. you literally bought a hulkamania tank top last week? i was there?”). steve’s favorite is actually ric flair because he loves how extra he is and his flashy robes and his wooo’s, while billy’s more for the underdogs like bret hart and the villains. 1985 is the year of the first wrestlemania and steve can actually afford to buy pay-per-view and billy teases him about daddy’s money but he’s totally taking advantage of it so?

anyway the point is: the intricate rituals, ohhh the intricate rituals, because who watches wrestling without actually trying out the moves? so yeah, hard to play it straight when steve's constantly finding himself in chokeholds, billy's thighs squeezing his hips, chest against his back, or billy's pinned to the floor with steve straddling his thighs or his ass and holding down his arms? the heavy breaths and loaded eye contact, realizing how close and sweaty they are and how little it'd take to close the distance and. pretending they can't feel they're both hard. eventually the sexual tension will either kill them or resolve itself (it's the second one). fast forward some months later and steve gets them ticket for a live show for billy’s birthday and billy’s so happy, steve’s actually never seen him smile like this, excited like the kid he hasn't gotten to be in years. so yeah, give me dumb teenage boys bonding (and falling) over big muscular men

#harringrove #watching wwe in my formative years brought me here #it was the early 2000s and not the 80s but still #here's my hyper-specific self-indulgent hc #hc #text

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gerrydelano · 4 years

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in which martin and tim conduct intricate rituals, and jon doesn’t get in on it until it’s much too late.

or: the inherent intimacy in a lord of the rings marathon & the lingering grief that follows a special interest becoming intrinsically tied to loving someone

{ martin/tim/jon, 3.8k words, spoilers, made beta readers physically cry }

——————————————————————————————————

when they’ve just started in the archives, martin has a rough time adjusting. it’s a new environment, a new set of tasks to get down, which means all sorts of new ways to disappoint people.

martin has noticed that when jon rolls his eyes at tim and sasha, there’s actually a gleaning of fondness to it. he has noticed that the same is not afforded to him when jon thinks his head is ducked over a stack of papers enough to hide the fact that he’s rolled his eyes at all.

well, it’s not tim and sasha’s fault. martin doesn’t blame them; they’re likeable people. lovable, even, probably. he’s not close enough to them yet to really say much on it, but they must be if they've earned even the littlest bit of jon’s affection. enough of it that it’s visible on his face.

still, it does get to him sometimes.

it’s not the only thing that he can say gets him down, of course. there are plenty of other stressful things going on that he keeps to himself well enough that he almost struggles to identify what they even are. when he gets confused about what’s bothering him, there are always a few things he can do to hit his own restart button, if he can find the time.

so, one day martin mentions offhand to tim in the breakroom that he’s planning to decompress over the weekend with a few movies he’s really loved for a long time. usually helps him clear his head, you know, to immerse himself in something that helped him through rougher times than anything he’s dealing with now. helps him realize that it’s nothing.

what he doesn’t expect is tim expressing interest in it, and asking if he can tag along for a lord of the rings marathon.

record scratch. freezeframe. what.

truth be told, tim enjoys his own fair share of nerd shit from time to time. the ADHD just always made it rough for him to get through those monsters by himself. company and commentary helps him focus. plus, he worked in publishing, i mean, how could he not be familiar with lord of the rings.

the whole idea throws martin off a bit, and he stutters around the rim of his mug about how no, seriously, they’re really long and can be confusing, and he doesn’t want to trap tim in his house through something that he might very well be bored by.

(martin usually watches these alone so he can flap about it and quote as much of it word-for-word as he can and if someone is there he can’t do that, it’d be humiliating. what if he infodumps too much and drowns out the film and tim finds it annoying? what if, what if, what if—)

but tim is completely unbothered. he’s pretty dead set on this now, actually, if martin’s this clearly convinced that he’d be wrong to share his interests with somebody who is directly asking for permission to get to know him better.

“i might not be able to get through in one sitting,” tim clarifies, “but i’m up for giving it a shot if you’ll have me.”

and there’s no real reason for martin to say no to something like that, when tim says it like that, so he doesn’t.

of course he also doesn’t elaborate on the fact that watching the entire lord of the rings trilogy with somebody is definitely some kind of irreversible bonding ritual.

maybe if he doesn’t explain what “let’s willingly endure 11.2 hours of all-consuming emotional turmoil together in my living room” means in nerd language, it won’t feel so weirdly vulnerable.

“great!” tim beams. “i’m a nightmare during films, though. big talker. consider yourself warned.”

“oh, thank g-d,” martin sighs out loud, and then laughs. “i mean— these, these are movies you talk through. there’s a lot to work out and understand, it’s— it’s worth it, though! there’s— there’s a reason they’re my favorite.”

“i believe it,” tim agrees. “i’ll swing by ‘round seven?”

tim does not go into it expecting to cry as much as he does but boromir kicks his ass (and faramir will kick it worse).

like literally he came into this thinking “haha yeah i’m gonna have a fun hang session with a pal, he’ll probably get a bit weepy at the tragic parts lol good thing i’m just here for a laff xx”

but then three hours later he’s angrily throwing pillows at martin for laughing at him for how hard he’s crying at boromir taking all those arrows. just completely forgets his plans to be cool and strong and comfort MARTIN while HE cried about whatever the hell happens in these movies that apparently want him dead personally.

he wonders aloud how aragorn could have found it in him to forgive boromir for failing, and martin gets defensive. it wasn’t boromir’s fault; something had been playing with his mind, changing him into someone he wouldn’t have been if he had the choice. who he really was is someone who would take on an army alone and keep fighting with arrows in his chest i mean how could you not forgive him?

like wow tim, that’s a cold take, are you good?

well, tim doesn’t really want to think too deeply on that, or the troubled feeling it puts in his chest. weird. don’t like it.

so he copes by making fun of martin for blatantly identifying with sam and martin copes with THAT by tearfully swearing at him during the final scene between attempts to quote it under his breath.

“ ‘don’t you leave him, samwise gamgee,’ ” he recites with Perfectly Mimicked Intonation, “and i don’t mean to. i don’t mean to.”

tim wants to laugh at him so badly but he’s also crying at the actual scene itself so it’s just this disbelieving wet laughter that martin throws a pillow back at him for.

(and then they’re only laughing. it’s nice.)

they manage to start the second one and somewhere about a third of the way through, someone leans on someone and they stop caring about keeping to their respective arms of the couch.

it’s easier that way. easier to share the blanket that martin’s been using this whole time (a nice one he knit himself, a burnt orange colour and with only a few widened holes in it from threading his fingers through too many times). easier to elbow each other in the ribs for terrible jokes about legolas’ thousand yard stare and easier to hide their faces to muffle howling laughter at aragorn’s Horse Girl Movie subplot.

easier for martin to see that tim is just as much of a nerd as he is (albeit one that hadn’t spent a solid few years of his life teaching himself sindarin. which is surprisingly easy to admit he’d actually done, too, because tim’s response is a venerated “oh, wicked! teach me some!”)

easier.

until, of course, they’re just talking and goofing too much to pay attention and it becomes clear that the ADHD has struck for BOTH of them, so it’s best they pick this up tomorrow. they’ve both got the day off, as a matter of fact, so it works out.

“you’re sure about this?” martin asks him when the adrenaline of Special Interest Submersion wears away and reintroduces anxious doubt. “i-i know it’s a lot, you really don’t have to—”

“martin,” tim laughs, “i want to. if you’re actually alright with dealing with my tragic case of first-timer’s disease and waiting around for me to keep up. you’re a good time.”

part of what keeps martin awake after tim leaves is the weird brain itch that comes after stopping a movie halfway through. the rest of it is something else.

————————————————————

tim shows up a little earlier in the day the next day to give them a head start. they start the second movie over, and tim is so invested that he insists he can handle the third without stopping.

they spend even less time on opposite ends of the couch this time. when tim’s arm isn’t slung around martin’s shoulders, both of martin’s are slung around his.

the only time that tim disentangles himself from the blanket is when the pyre is lit beneath a still-living faramir and he bolts up to Yell about everyone just standing there as this man is about to be murdered for the high crime of not being his brother, while pippin is carried off screaming the same way he had when he’d been unable to help boromir.

while martin is a pretty passionate movie watcher himself, he knows projection when he sees it. he reaches out for tim’s wrist to pull him back down to sit. he won’t remind him that it’s “just a movie,” either. what good would that do? it touched a nerve that martin wants to understand, if tim will let him.

tim sits back down without a fight, and lets himself be folded up in the blanket again. he gratefully accepts martin’s spoilers about how faramir will be saved, don’t worry. pippin does things differently this time. he doesn’t settle for watching, and dives right into the fire for his friend.

(tim would be more humiliated by the outburst if he and martin hadn’t already been making jokes at length about the fact that by this point in the marathon, their brain cells have started to atrophy and literally no one makes it this far without screaming about something.)

cuddling resumes. the scene and story dissolve into triumph. hard to be embarrassed about getting invested in lord of the rings when you’re tucked up in the arms of somebody who literally taught himself sindarin.

tim doesn’t think twice about it. he’s watched plenty of movies all tangled up with sasha before. he’s pretty sure martin’s been long aware of how tactile he is for a while now. martin never really shies away from it when tim reaches out, but it’s especially nice to actually be held by him.

because they’ve shimmied around in the breakroom before when tim caught martin’s hand for a thirty-second dance. tim has clapped him on the back in greeting more times than he can count, and lately he’d been testing to see how long he can let his hand linger before it drops. it’s good to know what sort of touch people enjoy, and commit it to memory.

apparently, martin is alright with cuddling his co-worker on the couch through a really long movie.

and for some reason, martin doesn’t even think too hard about it, either. not as much as he would have thought if someone had told his past self that he’d end up here like this, with this person, sharing something that he does still feel a little embarrassed to call treasured or personal, but really is.

he just thinks about how last night had felt, too: easy.

————————————————————

it’s some amount of months before they discuss a rewatch.

martin’s completely unfazed by this type of marathon but he’s surprised that tim would actually be willing to go through this again.

maybe he thinks he’ll be immune to the pain of it the second time around. fool of a stoker.

but when tim waggles his eyebrows at martin before leaning his hands on the edge of jon’s desk with a grin, martin realizes that a great many of tim’s playful digs about sam’s unkillable love for frodo are going to culminate in something far more mortifying than the comparison itself.

“hey, boss,” tim starts, the loose bun tied up at the back of his head displaced by the gravity of him bending down to seek jon’s eyes. “any riveting plans for the weekend?”

martin watches from beside a filing cabinet, his eyes big with betrayal and bouncing between tim’s face and the back of jon’s head with desperation for... something.

for tim to rescind the offer. for jon to say yes. one of the two.

martin doesn’t actually know which it is. he just knows he’s disappointed when neither of those things happen.

jon’s read the books, he’d seen the movies himself ages ago, and is too busy to hole up in a co-worker’s house for such a miserably long time.

far too close for comfort, really. doesn’t like the idea of ending up squished in between them, or offending them by huddling off to the side. he can’t predict how he’d handle all the unfamiliar stimuli. if he’d just ruin their fun.

maybe if it was just tim, that’d be one thing. they’ve been work friends long enough that it might not be all that awkward, but martin...

well, it would feel wrong to step into his home. he knows martin has seen him rolling his eyes. just wouldn’t be right.

“do have fun, though,” jon says without lifting his head from his the latest hoax statement he’s managed to load up into his computer.

“suit yourself, boss,” tim says with a smile. “we’ll get you one of these days.”

and then to martin with a different sort, “it’s fine. it’ll just be our thing.”

————————————————————

there is an influx of humming to the tune of “they’re taking the hobbits to isengard” following the second marathon, and the sound of pens clattering to the floor after martin throws them across the room to bounce off of whatever part of tim’s chest and arms they manage to connect with.

tim has learned enough of the script to make direct quotes at random, for the express purpose of earning a few extra smiles from martin (and the sideways glances he knows he’s getting from jon, too.)

“never would have pegged you for a tolkien fan,” jon mutters to him one day, his eyes still cast down towards a stack of papers.

“i’d say i never pegged you for a stick in the mud,” is tim’s smooth retort, “but then i’d be lying. you should join us next time.”

jon looks at him then. “how many times could you possibly marathon those films? that’s ridiculous.”

tim shrugs, smiling. “as many times as it takes, boss. it’s a comfy couch.”

jon does the math. if they’ve done this twice already, that means that tim has lost nearly 24 hours of his life to lord of the damn rings. but he has a very strong feeling that if he says as much, tim will assure him that it has been no such waste.

jon watches the way they interact. scoffs at the brief reenactments. pretends not to hear it when tim warbles out a pleading “mr. frodo” instead of “boss” when asking for permission to do something unnecessary and earns a smack upside his head for it from a very flustered martin.

jon feels martin’s eyes flicker over and away from him, quick like static. he sees the way that tim boxes himself around martin like a shield, hiding the stubborn smile on martin’s face better than martin can through a burning blush. he sees the way martin leans into tim’s chest almost in gratitude.

he feels. something, about that. not sure what.

either way, he’s being taunted and he knows it. maybe rolling his eyes at it is better than trying to decode it, or insert himself deliberately into whatever it is they think they’re doing. surely, being invited over for a movie marathon isn’t the same as being invited into...

something.

it’s something. jon just isn’t sure what.

————————————————————

there is no third marathon. just worms and bitter and the silent moving of boxes without so much as a hello.

martin tries his hand at inviting tim over properly — tim had invited himself the first two times, after all, and... and doesn’t he look like he needs it? needs a weekend on the couch under a burnt orange blanket with something comforting playing on the television that they know well enough by now that they don’t even really need to watch it, just... listen? recognize? laugh?

maybe he could stay over instead of going home in between, too. maybe he didn’t have to leave.

tim accepts, but this time he’s quieter. he asks to turn fellowship off before boromir tries to take the ring from frodo in the forest. he’d been stiff since he picked it up out of the snow on the mountain.

martin thinks he understands. he doesn’t want to watch him die this time, either.

he puts on music instead, and lets tim lean on his chest until he mutters something about how he should be heading home eventually. tim doesn’t move to sit up as he says it, so martin doesn’t unwind his arms from around his shoulders.

it would feel particularly cruel to kiss his forehead, but the part of his hair seems safe enough. there’s no weird symbolism in that. no one’s dying in the leaves, or being left behind in the dark.

they have their own problems to worry about, and escapism into this comforting thing they share isn’t going to fix them.

but maybe holding onto each other for a little while can, just a bit. just for now.

————————————————————

when martin and jon are bored in the safehouse for weeks, there’s not much else to do but kill time.

martin is going through his DVD collection one day and finds the extended edition boxed set and tries to remember the last time he actually even thought about the lord of the fucking rings.

it’s been a long time, actually.

he pops in fellowship of the ring and sits down on the couch to start it by himself, but just after the opening monologue jon comes through the door with some snacks from the corner store and takes a look at the screen.

he asks martin to start it over from the beginning.

nothing sad even has the chance to happen before martin tips over and leans into jon’s shoulder. he just does, because it’s the only natural thing he knows how to do when jon sits down next to him nowadays.

it’s the most natural thing to do to the sound of galadriel’s voice telling them through blackness that the world is changed.

that much that once was is lost, for none now live who remember it.

he’d packed that burnt orange blanket, too, despite being in the process of knitting a new one of soft blush. it’s wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak. jon wiggles his way underneath it to press closer.

martin is quiet, and jon tries not to know why.

it’s kind of hard not to know, though, when martin bursts into tears the minute boromir comes onscreen. jon doesn’t want to ask yet, and martin doesn’t seem quite so ready to explain.

instead, to distract him, jon makes a game out of translating the conversations spoken in elvish without looking at the subtitles because dammit, the beholding is going to be good for something.

and martin is furious because he had to spend years putting real effort into learning these made-up languages, and here comes mister googly eye in the sky with his magic understanding of them out of nowhere? cheating. unforgivable. you shall not pass.

there’s a very different tone to watching these movies as the people they are now as opposed to the people they were then. they bicker about which characters are avatars of what.

“if you say ‘sauron ceaseless watcher’ i am getting up off this couch.” “jon, it’s a giant eyeball.” “next you’re going to tell me pippin is an avatar of the slaughter—” “i mean. isn’t he, though?” “what?” “yeah, it just feels right. doesn’t he give off slaughter energy?” “NO?” “but the singing during the war montage.” “...fuck.”

and so on.

there’s no escaping what happens when the sound of boromir’s horn carries through the trees, though, and martin ducks his face into his hands to weep. jon wraps himself around him and clings on, and keeps his own eyes closed.

martin tenses in anticipation before every arrow. he still flinches hard when they hit. one. two. three.

the distorted silence is painful. the sound of boromir struggling to breathe is worse. jon tunes out his pleading farewell to aragorn entirely, though some part of him wonders if he should be paying attention to the words he’s saying. if forgiveness given in reverse can make up for not earning it the first time.

they don’t pause the film. they’re not watching it now to watch it. they’re both very aware that they’re also watching it to grieve.

martin had been able to process the loss during the six months that jon hadn’t been able to, but he hadn’t quite processed the loss of his silly special interest to an overwhelming association with a person he will never see again.

they don’t straighten back up until boromir goes over the falls, and by then, martin is explaining that this— this was always the part that hurt the most, in the first one.

jon says he knows. there are plenty of things that will hurt going forward, but this one has always been hard to get through. even before he understood why.

it passes. the focus falls onto sam and frodo, still alive and still in love and still fighting to make it through to the very end.

jon remembers the teasing. he kind of hates how much sense it makes, especially now where it’s just him and martin on the run at what could be the end of the world tomorrow if they’re not quick enough. if he isn’t strong enough to bear what he’s been burdened with. if people keep stabbing him, or if he gets eaten by a giant spider.

at this point, it doesn’t make much sense to be embarrassed. makes more sense to rest his head on martin’s shoulder when frodo says something particularly adoring to denote sam’s strength and importance, and hope it speaks just as loudly.

they go through all of the movies in one sitting, only really pausing to make food and refill their mugs. stubbornly they shift around on the couch to find any comfortable ways to arrange themselves that don’t sap the feeling out of their limbs, at times standing up to stretch and do jumping jacks to restore bloodflow and good, honest laughter.

g-d, it’s so good to just laugh.

jon can’t do jumping jacks to save his life. martin hates jumping on wooden flooring, but he’ll gladly embarrass himself now since jon is proving himself willing to do the same.

they shake the room a bit and when their legs quit on them they fall back down in a heap on the couch, tangled up and sighing out the last of their giggles into each others necks.

martin doesn’t want to think better late than never, but it’s hard to think of anything else. jon doesn’t want to think i am so full of regret, but he is.

he knows that martin can see it. he wants to show martin that there are other things in there with that regret, too — love, for one, and joy. hope. apology. an inexplicable understanding of sindarin and quenya, and an eagerness to hold full conversations with martin in them if that’s something that would make him smile. all sorts of things that he thinks should matter just as much as the fact that it took him this long to show it.

and martin sees those things, too. he sees as much of jon as he’s been willingly afforded, and then some.

and when jon rolls his eyes at him for a spectacularly ill-timed pun (“One Does Not Simply Walk Into The Buried,” if you were curious), he sees the fondness in it.

#martim #jonmartin #jonmartim #martin blackwood #tim stoker #jonathan sims #jontim #the magnus archives #😳#martin #jon #tim #r.txt #r.writes #this got so far away from me but i promise it's full of actual emotions and i'm really gonna be thinking about this for 500 years #top

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i-will-physically-fight-you · 4 years

Text

Witches Get Stitches Fanfic

Title: Witches Get Stitches

Summary: Patton’s ecstatic to take to the skies on his broom for the first time. His familiar Virgil on the other hand? Not so much.

Pairings: platonic moxiety

Word-Count: 3.5k

Warnings: Panic, Crying, Blood Mention, Injury, Implied Child Abuse, Witches, Magic Discrimination, Hurt/Comfort

I started this fic back in July and I finally finished it!! This was inspired by this wonderful piece of art by @fandergecko

The moon views the colorful city below from behind the visage of clouds. The sky guardian is at the height of her rule; the full moon. Bright and bold enough to rival the streetlights and flashing neon signs of the city. The celestial court accompanies their ruler; pinpricks of starlight that scatter across the sky.

A summer breeze lazily sweeps in. It is not in a hurry like autumn gale in the tune of students scurrying to classes. Or sharp and piercing as the stern winter draft. Nor is it graceful and airy as the spring wind. For it is summertime, a time when children frolick without homework hanging over their heads. A time for snow cones and ice-cream. A time for mischief and tomfoolery.

In the city that rests beneath the moon’s eye there is hardly a peep. One might argue it is almost as peaceful as a sleepy village. Where is the excitement? Where is the bustle and hustle? The midnight mischief?

The moon looks on in disappointment. The stars whisper amongst themselves, bored and unamused by the humans’ offerings for nighttime antics. Dark clouds creep closer to the moon, covering her almost completely.

‘Come.’ They all seem to say, ‘Let us go and find another place more worthy of our light.’

Before the clouds sweep away their queen, a loud, excited hollar halts their advance.

“WOOOHOOOO!”

“P-p-pa-pa-pa-PATTON!”

On the heels of the summer breeze, comes their midnight mischief. From the perspectives of both the heavens far above and the streets far below, it is a fast blue flash zooming through the air. Look closer, and you might realize it is only a witch with his familiar flying on his broom.

His witch robes are a gentle blue like a peaceful sunny sky. Blue knee-high socks adorn his legs, with a cute cat face where the sock cuts off at the knee. He wears the traditional witch’s hat--big and floofy in all its’ witchy glory. It is dyed a lovely indigo with splashes of yellow that are crude representations of the stars above. This of course catches the nighttime hosts’ attention. For they like many are fond of flattery.

Wavy amber hair seeps out of the witch’s hat, resting gently on his spectacles. Freckles like stars scatter across his tanned face. His blue eyes shine brightly with excitement, his mouth open agape with awe. Books and other personal belongings fly out from the witch, unnoticed in their fast descent towards the ground.

It is clear to both the moon and her faithful court that this witch is having the time of his life. His familiar, on the other hand, is a completely different story

Like for many witches depicted in fiction, his familiar takes the form of a black cat. A very terrified, very small scrawny black cat. Hackles raised, ears pinned back, pupils dilated. The familiar’s claws are embedded in the wooden grain of the broom, as he tries to stay on for dear life.

If this was a movie, this might be the moment where the freeze frame happens, stopping on a zoomed-in shot of the screeching familiar. A voice-over recording occurs, ‘Hi, that’s me, Virgil. You’re probably wondering how I got into this situation.’

Fortunately, the Moon is well aware of this pair and their history. How could she not be? It was under her watchful eye the two first met.

A sniffling young boy with two missing front teeth and band-aid covered knees. A frightened malnourished black kitten barely five weeks old. Two young children lost and alone in the cold, unforgiving dark. All the Moon and her compatriots could do was watch and provide them their dazzling light.

“It’s okay,” The boy said, smiling through the tears dribbling down his cheeks, “I know you’re scared of me but it--it’s okay. I won’t hurt you, promise.”

The black kitten was just an ordinary black kitten. It could not understand the words the boy spoke anymore than it knew the little hand reaching towards it meant no harm. Despite this, the black kitten took a step forward. The boy stayed still. The kitten took another step and then another, until it sniffed the boy’s hand. Satisfied, the kitten headbutted the hand, a tiny purr rising from its throat.

A shaky breath caught in the boy’s throat. Carefully, he petted the kitten’s matted fur. The kitten didn’t run away, didn’t try clawing or biting the hand. It kept purring, its’ eyes squinting in delight. It wasn’t scared of him anymore. Everyone was always scared of the boy, his parents included. They feared the magic running through his veins and what it could do. The boy tried his best to be friendly, to hide it away, but it was never enough for anyone. Except, apparently, a little malnourished black kitten with a mangy coat.

The black kitten let out a surprised mew as the boy hoisted him off the ground. He wrapped his pudgy arms around its frail frame and sobbed.

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” The boy babbled, “I’ll--I’ll take care of you, I’ll make sure you’ll have plenty of food and we can be the best of friends--”

The black kitten once again could not comprehend these words. It did not understand why the giant, towering hairless kitten was so distressed. But it remembered how its mother purred to comfort the cries of it and its littermates. So the kitten continued purring, pressing its head into the boy’s chest. The boy was warm and most importantly just as alone and frightened as the kitten was. Clearly they should stick together for survival.

Neither knew at that moment, but the two had created a magical pact. One that bonded the two as witch and familiar. It was informal, created without the use of intricate spells and rituals, but as strong and enduring as a bond should be.

Slowly the kitten grew into not an ordinary black adult cat, but something more. A being endowed with magic and an intelligent mind of its own. As wonderful as this all is, Virgil found this at times very perplexing.

Imagine being a cat whose sole priority in life had been napping and now suddenly there are a thousand different other things to worry about. Things like possibly falling off a broom hundreds of feet up in the air. Then you might understand why Virgil wishes at times to go back to a much simpler time of existing.

This is a wish that shooting stars will never grant, for even they can see his love for his boy outweighs his frustrations of becoming more. Virgil loves his witch. He loves him enough to rake his claws across school bullies’ faces. He loves him enough to be the witch’s sole companion for years and years. He loves him enough that his sole priority in life is no longer naps but to protect and keep his witch safe.

Flying on a piece of wood? That is not safe. As much as Virgil trusts Patton, he cannot help but worry. He is no longer just a cat, no longer just Virgil, but a piece of Patton himself. He is the reflection of Patton’s magic. Something that the witch feared for so, so long. Growing up, it’d been best to hide it, to shove it away rather than embrace and understand it.

Virgil knows they’re now in a more magic-friendly town. They’re far away from judgmental parents and peers. Patton thinks it’s safer now. Virgil doesn’t. He remembers all the times Patton lost control of his magic and it hurt others, hurt himself. He remembers and fears the friendly faces of the city turning into hateful, jeering ones.

This is why he clings to the broom, heart thrashing loudly in his chest. It does not help he has a fear of heights in the slightest. Normal cats don’t worry much about heights, but again Virgil is not normal.

“This is so much fun, Virgil! I can’t believe we haven’t tried this sooner!” Patton laughs, completely oblivious to his familiar’s plight. This is his first time successfully levitating a broom, let alone knowing the thrill of riding it fast through the night sky. Yet another reason Virgil fears how high up they are. He trusts Patton, but he also knows how easy it is for a spell to go south quick.

“I--I can!” Virgil yowls, curling his tail around the broom. He snatches a quick look at the ground below, regretting it immediately. He shuts his eyes as he tries keeping a hairball down. The broom lurches to a stop and he doesn’t know if that’s a blessing or a curse. They’re still levitating as high as the city skyscrapers after all.

“Aw Virgil,” Patton says, “It’s okay, we’re safe up here.”

He scratches the spot between Virgil’s furry ears and really, that is totally unfair. Virgil still retains his feline traits, and he can’t help the pleased purr that erupts from that desired spot getting scratchies. He has to fight through it and focus on what’s important; Patton.

“No it’s not, it’s not safe, not safe, Pa-pat--” Virgil says, the unnatural human words becoming garbled in his cat throat in his panic.

Patton’s wide grin vanishes completely as a small frown replaces it. He gently picks his familiar up, caressing Virgil close to his chest.

“Hey it’s okay, Virge. We’re gonna go back home now, alright? Promise I’ll let you eat all the treats you want, and we can watch Nightmare Before Christmas, okay?”

“O-okay.” Virgil agrees. It isn’t Patton agreeing never to fly again, but it does mean no more flying for tonight. They’ll be on the ground, safe once more inside Patton’s apartment.

“Cool, cool, cool,” Patton murmurs, “Now, um, de-levitate!”

Nothing happens.

“De-leviatify? No, wait, it’s crescendo!” Patton says, “Ascendo? Something latin wordy, ummm stringendo?!”

“Patton,” Virgil begins, his voice eerily calm, “Please for the love of catnip tell me that you didn’t levitate a broom without knowing how to unlevitate it.”

“Would you kill me if I told you I may have gotten so excited about flying that um I maybe kindasoratforgotaboutthatpart?” Patton says, squeaking out that last bit.

“PaTtOn.” Virgil yells, his voice doing that awful echo. It only ever happens when something bad is gonna happen. Such as Patton losing complete confidence in the spell he’s currently casting.

“AHHH DESCENDO!” Patton yells, right about the time the broom drops downwards. Patton grips onto the wooden broom with two hands, leaving Virgil to cling desperately to the witch’s robes. They’re flying fast down to the ground below, faster than they were moments ago in the sky.

“I--I can’t control it!” Patton yells, tugging at the broom, attempting to pull it upwards for a softer landing to no effect.

Virgil doesn’t say anything back, his thoughts flying faster than the speed they’re currently falling. There’s absolutely no way they can survive this. Patton is too panicked to use magic and already limited by his inexperience. They’re going to hit the cement sidewalk hard, like bugs getting squashed beneath his clawed paws. He just knows it.

What he doesn’t know is that the Moon is watching. She is always watching from her throne in the night sky. Even on nights she hides her face from the mortals below. She is the protector of the night sky. As such, she has dominion over it.

“Grant them a safe landing.” The Moon urges the Summer Breeze. They acquiesce, but like a teenager they are sullen and testy about it.

Patton’s broom evens out as the summer breeze takes hold of them. Neither Patton and Virgil realize this; they are both too busy screaming. The Summer Breeze takes pleasure in their terror. It flexes its metaphorical fingers.

“Patton, what are you doing?” Virgil cries as the broom jerks abruptly upwards. Almost at a near-vertical slant.

“It’s not me, I swear!”

Patton still can’t control the broom. An unseen force jerks it around, up and around, from side to side and doing it’s best attempt at a cha-cha. The broom flies up high, high, higher than all the skyscrapers. It comes to a sudden stop. The Moon looms overhead, chastising the Summer Breeze for its’ fun.

Meanwhile Patton is still attempting to remember the correct spell.

“Descent, wait no, DESCENTUS!” He cries out, and the broom glows bright with his magic.

His spell snatches the broom out of the Summer Breeze’s hold. Patton grips it, letting out a half-terrified half-elated yell as he regains control. The Moon and Summer Breeze watch, stunned, as the mortals they both yanked like a pair of dolls take control of their destinies.

They don’t have to watch for long. The ground quickly approaches the two mortals, ready for a harsh asphalt embrace.

“Patton!” Virgil screeches yet again, for it really is the only thing he’s capable of at this moment.

“It’s okay!” Patton reassures, a manic smile sparking his features again. A witch is only ever truly alive when performing magic. They feel purposeless without it. So even in this harrowing situation, Patton feels at ease. Although they once more fly fast towards the earth, it is from his spell. Not from a lack of confidence or meddling fates like before.

Still, it is his first time landing a broom and cement is hardly the perfect practice zone for such things. As they reach the ground, Patton pulls to a stop a moment too late. Both witch and familiar are sent tumbling down to the cruel cement.

Virgil instinctively lands on his feet. Patton’s descent is less than graceful. He skids on the ground, rolling, until he comes to a halt a few feet away. The broom is the worst off of the three. Upon impact it has splintered into three pieces, its head flying clean off the handle.

For three heartbeats there is nothing. Then Patton groans, his form slowly rising upwards. That’s enough to shake Virgil out of his stupor. He marches right up to Patton, words spitting out of his throat, “We are never doing that again. That was the stupidest, most moronic thing you’ve ever pulled, you could’ve gotten us both killed--”

Virgil stops, pupils growing wide, “Is that blood?”

“No!” Patton loudly denies, but his screwed-shut eyelids and grimace of pain betrays him. Virgil also isn’t blind. He can see the blood pouring out of Patton’s knee, soiling his knee-high kitten sock with its crimson color. It’s bad, so much worse than a mere scratch or scrape even.

“Holy shit, you’re going to die,” Virgil whispers, settling on top of Patton’s chest.

“I’m not gonna die--”

“Hey, are you two okay?!” A concerned voice shouts from afar. The two of them look up to see someone approaching them. A man, older than Patton yet too young to be his father. Perhaps in his thirties? He seemed nonthreatening with his Steven Universe shirt and pinched look of worry but Virgil knows better.

“Stay back!” Virgil hisses, hackles flaring up. He keeps his claws sheathed, not wanting to deal more harm to Patton than already dealt.

The stranger takes a few steps back, hands raised in a placating gesture. Virgil doesn’t relax a single muscle.

“Virgil,” Patton tries, silencing at the glare his familiar sends his way. Tears gather in the corner of his witch’s eyes now. So close to spilling over his freckled cheeks and down to his shirt. Patton’s knee is hurting him much more than he’s letting on.

“Listen,” The stranger says, ignoring Virgil’s yowl of disapproval, “I just want to help, promise.”

He crouches down, lifting something out of his coat pocket. A brown wiggling furry something with a long pink tail. A rat.

“Hiya babes,” The rat speaks, “The name’s Remington, Remy for short. This here tall glass of coffee is Thomas.”

“Y--you’re a witch?” Patton gasps, although if it’s from shock or pain Virgil can’t tell.

“Yup,” Remy says, seemingly confident to speak on Thomas’ behalf. He struts over to the two, ears and whiskers perked forwards. Virgil is taken aback by the gall of this rat.

“I could easily kill you, you know,” Virgil says, unable to keep this thought to himself.

The rat lets out a short squeak of laughter, “Oh honey, I’d like to see you try.”

Virgil’s tail flickers, “Don’t worry, I will--”

“Virgil.” Patton warns again, a hiss of pain escaping through clenched teeth. The rat treads closer to the affected knee. Virgil’s ears flatten, but he does not attack. He knows Patton would disapprove of that. Instead he waits, body tense and poised for action if needed.

“Oof, it looks like you’re gonna need stitches, Buttercup.”

“Stitches?” Virgil yowls.

“It’s alright, Virgil. I’m fine.” Patton says, smiling but it comes out all wrong. Like a rubber-band all stretched out and worn.

“No, you’re not. Y-you’re hurt.” Vigil rumbles, because he can feel it. Patton’s pain pulsates through their connection, like waves crashing against the shore. Magic caused this. Patton would be fine if they stayed in his apartment where it’s safe. Not out performing magic in the late hours. “Fuck, you’re hurt, and everyone’s going to hate us again--”

“Whoa,” Thomas interrupts, the first words he’s spoken since bringing out Remy, “no one is going to hate a Glistenstone student for not having proper control of their magic just yet.”

Patton shifts his gaze downward, hugging Virgil closely like a stuffed animal. Virgil, for his part, doesn’t protest. Instead he purrs into Patton’s chest in an attempt to soothe him. Glistenstone is a sore point for the both of them. For years it’d been their beacon of hope. An university solely for magic users--who sent their acceptance letters for those eligible at the age of eighteen.

Patton never received one.

“I’m afraid I’m not a Glistenstone student, sir,” Patton says with a shaky breath.

Thomas and Remy exchange a look.

“Well kid, would you like to become one?” Remy asks.

“What?!” Virgil and Patton burst out in unison, the latter with a yelp of pain.

“I, um, have connections--”

“Connections, alright, you have more than connections.” Remy inputs.

“But anyways,” Thomas continues, sending a quick look Remy’s way, “we can talk more on that later, if you’re interested. We should probably get that leg of yours checked out. Lemme help you up.”

He offers a hand towards Patton. Virgil coils himself around Patton’s shoulders, glaring distrustfully. Patton accepts the hand, leaning heavily on the older man for balance.

“I’m going to use a teleportation spell, alright?”

And with a flash, they’re gone.

----------------

An apartment, late at night. It’s a tiny one-room apartment cluttered with books and clothing spewed all over. The Moon peers through its sole window, watching a familiar pace in front of his witch. Patton sits on the edge of his bed, his knee all cleaned and stitched up. Silence reigns in the apartment, an uncomfortable one at that. One neither occupant can stand much longer.

“I’m sorry, Vee,” Patton says, breaking first, “I should’ve really thought before I attempted flying like that. You were right, I almost killed us both.”

Virgil swishes his tail, looking up at his witch. He can never remain upset with Patton for long. Especially when he holds back a sob, curling into himself as if expecting a blow. Any residual anger in Virgil’s veins solidifies into guilt.

“No, I’m sorry,” He says, “I--I shouldn’t have yelled at you like that.”

“It’s okay,” Patton insists, “I know you were just worried.”

“Still doesn’t make it right.”

Patton sighs, “I forgive you, can we just cuddle now?”

“If you want to, I guess.” Virgil murmurs, but it’s an act. The way he immediately purrs after wedging himself in Patton’s arms betrays him. His witch laughs, petting his silky fur.

“What...do you think?”

“Of what?”

“Glistenstone.”

Virgil’s ears twitch downwards. Thomas had given his contact info to Patton, telling him to call him in the morning if he was interested in pursuing Glistenstone.

“I...don’t know. It seems fishy to me. Like, why now? Why didn’t you get an acceptance letter before? And what type of connections does that Thomas guy have? I don’t trust it. But I also know I’m just paranoid about everything.”

“You’re not paranoid, you’re just overly cautious. I know this and I love you.” Patton says, pressing a kiss on Virgil’s forehead.

“I love you too, Pat,” Virgil hesitates, “and that’s why I think you shouldn’t let me hold you back.”

“You could never hold me back,” Patton pouts, and really how does he expect Virgil to handle this level of positivity? It’s too much for his small feline body.

“What I mean is, if you want to go for it, go for it. And if it turns out to be some sort of con, then you can just, like, hex ‘em or something.”

“Like Bart Fischley in fifth grade?” Patton asks, stifling a giggle.

“Sure.”

Patton nods measuredly, scratching that magical spot between Virgil’s ears. Really, totally unfair. Virgil leans into it, purring louder.

“Hey, do you still want to watch Nightmare before Christmas?”

“That depends...do I still get as many treats as I want?”

“Of course! But for tonight only!” Patton tells him. Virgil smirks as best he can--for it’s something he’s heard numerous times before.

The moon’s eye turns away the dingy apartment, clouds drawing a curtain over her. The summer night is slowly drawing to a close, as has the midnight mischief. The mortals she is so fond of are safe within their dwelling. For the moment, all is well.

#thomas sanders #sanders sides #patton sanders #virgil sanders #moxiety #thomas sanders (character)#remy sanders #kat writes

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afieldinengland · 3 years

Note

normal bates

haunted little jumper wearer with an insightful and yet unhinged way of talking… i like the cut of his jib— i don’t TRUST it, but i like it. he’s got such interesting eyes

can you relate to this character on a personal level? : no | not really | somewhat | yes | they are me

obviously no not really but i do vaguely get his whole isolation thing and his view on the world… talk to me about stuffed birds as some intense metaphor and i’ll nod very politely and finish my tea. you’re off your rocker and so am i, let’s swap details

against my better judgement i could have a crack at fixing him. i don’t know how, and i’d probably get stabbed, but in many ways that is all part of the intricate ritual. it’d be worth it

#thank you!! ah… him #pretty proto-slasher that he was #as you can see i’m having a normal one #answered

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folkgirlhero · 3 years

Text

Soooo Chapter 3 of Traditions I Can Trace is now the length of chapters 1 and 2 combined, which is why it won't be done until this weekend BUT here is the first scene to enjoy if anyone out there is waiting!

What Gerry liked best, if he was in the mood to be brutally honest with himself, was when he could get his hands on Mike. He didn’t need much provocation, these last few months, to twist his fingers up in one of Mike’s stuffy collared shirts and shake him or to pin him up against a wall and tower over him, looking down at his smug mouth and the glint in his dark eyes. After the incident with the Buried Leitner, it was all heated kisses and even more heated fights between them, often with one interrupting the other.

“You construct intricate rituals which allow you to touch the skin of other men,” Mike singsonged once, calling him on the habit when Gerry had wrestled him to the ground over something at an estate sale that had turned out to be a (very uncursed) copy of Moby Dick. Gerry had watched Mike pay for his prize and then sneak up to the upper level of the mansion, where he’d presumably gone to look for more books.

And now Gerry had Mike pinned down on the floor of what looked like a library, with a knee on his chest, arms above his head with both wrists clasped in one of Gerry’s hands. They were both breathing heavily and Mike was watching him with that tilted-head, appraising-look thing he did. Asshole.

“Are you really “no homo”-ing me right now?”

“It’s Barbara Kruger; please. Take an art history course, you pleb.” Mike considered a moment. “But also, yes, a bit.”

Gerry pressed his knee harder into Mike’s chest, pushing the air out of his lungs. Mike struggled beneath him, hips thrashing between Gerry’s legs, where he was pinning them down, and Gerry didn’t bother to pretend he didn’t enjoy it. Mike stopped squirming (unfortunately) to narrow his eyes at him. Gerry leaned in close, so their faces were inches apart, letting his voice come out low and husky.

“And deprive you the pleasure of lording your fancy university education over me? Wouldn’t dream of it, babes.” He couldn’t help adding a wink. There was just something about fighting Mike that brought it out in him.

Mike’s lips curled into a smile like a pampered cat stretching out in a shaft of sunlight. And then his fist caught Gerry hard in the ear and Gerry rolled off him with an “oof!”

Mike jumped up and followed the punch with a shift kick in the ribs that knocked Gerry flat with another groan.

“C’mon Crew, you got the book already. You can keep it even; it’s useless.”

“A man can have his fun, can’t he?” Mike’s self-satisfied voice bubbled like popped champagne.

Fair enough, Gerry thought, and pretended to struggle to his feet. He figured Mike wouldn’t resist the chance to get in another hit, and he was right. Mike lunged forward and Gerry dropped to one knee, sweeping the other leg out to knock Mike’s feet out from under him and sending him crashing back to the ground.

Gerry quickly scrambled up and brought his foot down on Mike’s throat, pressing down enough to be uncomfortable, but not enough to hurt. Yet.

“Well?” croaked Mike. “What’s it going to be, petal? Are you going to choke me out or not?”

Gerry could see Mike’s neck working underneath the pressure of his boot, but chose to absolutely not think about it and be very cool and collected instead. He reached out, pulling a decanter off the bar cart positioned on Mike’s other side. He pulled out the stopper and took a sniff: scotch. He tipped his head back more than necessary to drink from it, letting his hair fall down his back and working his throat around a sizable gulp.

Mike rolled his eyes heaven-ward, as if praying for patience. Drama queen.

“You want some?” Gerry asked, wiping the back of his hand over his mouth and giving the decanter a pleasant swirl.

“Gerard Keay, if you fucking pour that on my face, so help m—”

Gerry poured it on his face.

Mike sputtered on it, then roared and clawed at Gerry’s leg, digging his fingers under the cuff of Gerry’s jeans to draw blood. Gerry swore he kept his nails sharp for this exact purpose. Gerry pressed his boot down harder against Mike’s neck and Mike glared at him, looking like a half-drowned cat. It was hilarious.

Then his expression shifted. He tilted his head and arched his body up, infinitesimally, towards Gerry.

“Don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing here?” he wheezed. Gerard lifted his boot a centimeter.

“Oh, please, tell me,” Gerry scoffed. “What am I doing here?”

“Living out one of your fantasies, of course. You love seeing me like this. Humiliated. Wet. Getting stepped on by those big fuck me boots of yours.”

Gerry thought really hard about keeping the blush out of his face, but Mike’s leer told him it’d been pointless.

“Oh yeah, well—” Gerry started and then broke off in a yell, when Mike grabbed the heel and toe of his boot with each hand, gave a hard press up, and then rolled, taking Gerry’s foot with him. Gerry crashed back to the ground, half on top of Mike.

A clumsy wrestling match ensued. Gerry pulled Mike’s hair so sharply he got a howl out of him, Mike jabbed Gerry in the eye, Gerry got Mike’s arm in a twist he’d been sure would dislocate his shoulder, Mike punched Gerry’s nose so hard he thought it was probably broken again. The whole time it was all hot breath on each other’s faces and bodies twisting against one another and the thrill of adrenaline thrumming swift and heavy through their veins. Gerry knew it was fucked up, but he didn’t have it in him to hate it.

It ended, somehow, with Gerry lying face down, with Mike straddling his back, pinning his hands behind his neck.

Mike let out a low, luxurious chuckle and stuck his hand in Gerry’s pocket, quick as anything, to fish out his cigarettes.

“You know these things’ll kill you, right?”

Gerry groaned, letting his forehead drop to the ground. “You are the most obnoxious person I have ever met.”

“Gerard. I’m touched.”

Gerry was staring at an eyeful of ugly carpet, but he could picture the theatrical hand gesture Mike was most definitely doing: wrist delicately broken, fingertips grazing his own chest, eyes cast upward.

He figured that would be Mike’s exit line and dutifully played his part by lying resigned on the ground, but then he felt a shooting pain as his arm was twisted up his back.

“What the fuck??” he yelled, but his shout was cut off by Mike’s mouth covering his own, followed by Mike’s fingers scraping Gerry’s hair off his face and tugging it back hard, giving Mike room to deepen the kiss.

Gerry let out a very different groan as his stomach gave a wild swoop and Mike licked into his mouth. Gerry’s eyes darted wildly, body trapped beneath Mike’s hips and his twisted arm and pulled hair and, more than anything else, Mike’s mouth, sticking him in place like a moth pinned to a board. Another few seconds of Mike’s hot breath and sharp teeth and another stinging pull of Gerry’s hair, and then Mike was gone, his echoing laughter bouncing down the hallway.

Gerry let his head fall face back down into the hideous carpet, with a ragged exhale blowing his hair up in a poof.

So. Yeah. It was a lot of that. Had been for months now.

And it wasn’t that Gerry felt differently about Mike, exactly. He still thought he was an idiot and reckless and dangerous. But he was also unreasonably sexy about it, and Gerry was sick of pretending he wasn’t.

What’s more (and worse, Gerry constantly reminded himself), he kept going back to that scene in Mike’s flat. The one with the Buried, that is (not that he hadn’t spent plenty of time reliving the events that came after it in private).

The fear he felt at the sight of Mike lying on the floor, unconscious and helpless, at the mercy of a terrifying creature that the mere mention of sent Mike into a flurry of rage… he couldn’t stop thinking about it. And, yeah, sure, he cared about people. Mary had made it clear what a flaw that was his whole life, and so he’d clung to it, desperately, like he did with any clear dichotomy between the two of them. So maybe it was just that, a general desire for another human to be safe, to be free from the influence of the Entities.

Still, he couldn’t stop thinking about it. For all that their fights could be playful and flirtatious at times, sometimes Mike got such a look of desperation, of fear, that Gerry was taken aback. He had never stopped seeing himself in Mike, never stopped viewing him as trapped, running from something.

Gerry sighed. He knew it was all in his head. Just a need for connection, for understanding. He needed to get over it. It was going to be the death of him one of these days.

#gerry keay #mike crew #mike crew/gerard keay #tma #tma fic #my fic #it's enemies to lovers!

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a-collection-of-villainous-aus · 4 years

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Can I request a mini drabble where Acylius gets BlackHat to write with Diamond ink for the first time? It just came to me and the idea seems so cute! UwU

(Acylius was the name i gave doctor flug long before I knew it was kenning, this is black hat pre power and is at the height of 4ft 5 and Flug is six ft seven)

It was early morning, the package had arrived late last night, Black Hat already in bed.

(night before flash back)

Acylius had almost rushed to wake the short demon until his friend and butler Cruentus took him by the scruff of the neck, trust me despite being shorter he was very capable of doing such a thing, if anyone but his friend or Black Hat had done such a thing they would be a bloodied pile on the floor.

"Sir, he has been training all day in an attempt to know how to work his way around upper class rituals, I am sure you are aware he continued learning that dance just to be close to you."

Acylius tilted his head

"Cru, my dear friend that is not something to jest about, you know my feelings for him, but I know his disdain for my class...I fear he will never see me more as someone who is simply less of an ass than the rest."

The hellhound gave him a deadpan look and shook his head, he loved him he did but how he seemed to be in the presence of the densest people in the universe was beyond him.

"Yes well, then do not be an ass and wake him now, he is resting finally, it has taken him months to feel safe enough to do so, gift Amadeus in the morning when he has slept, if you wake him before nine I will personally slap you down the stairs and have you clean the kitchen."

"I dunno, I would do it, I am not above house-ow ow!"

Cruentus had him by the ear

"Bed now young man!"

"I am not that young!"

"To me you are, in fact if you recall Amadeus is older than you."

"I am three hundred plus years I am not a baby."

Acylius pouted, not moving lest his friend tug his ear and he knew he would.

"Well you are mine ever since I took you from that monstrous beast who birthed you, now get ready for bed and behave, maybe I will bring your favorite hot chocolate."

"Yes daaaaad."

Acylius smiled a little and kissed his father's cheek good night.

Acylius was pacing his room, teeth brushed a and dressed, the clock was only at eight, the gift sat on his dresser.

Ears twitching, maybe he should have breakfast, or he could make his Gremlin breakfast, yes, he did after all enjoy pancakes and he was good at making fluffy pancakes, yes he'd make blue Berry as well as lemon and raisin, he needed to distract himself.

His biggest worry in this moment was wondering if Amadeus would like it or scoff at its pretentious ideals...

To most it was an honor to say you even owned such a set or be allowed to write in it.

Taking the present down stairs carefully with him he set it on the kitchen table and went to work on making breakfast, yes Cruentus could have done it, would have done it if asked but he was a capable being he had hands and he was going to use them.

It was five to nine by the time he was serving up, his entire body itching, he wanted to wake...maybe it would be nine by the time he arrived to his room yes!

Set up on the tray stacks of fluffy pancakes and a pot of tea, a lower set of arms protruding from his waist to hold the present, he walked slowly in purpose just to make sure it was nine by the time he arrived.

The door opened and Hat looked up at him

"Looks like Cruentus owes me five pieces of gold, I bet him you would not wait to give me what ever it is you have been fretting about, you always become so giddy and bouncy when you are planning to surprise me with...are those pancakes?"

"Yes..."

Acylius replied blushing brightly.

Oh had he been that obvious?

"Are they for me?"

Amadeus asked, clearly frowning at the fact that he'd lost the bet, at least Flug assumed that was why right?

"Yes."

Flug answer ducking his head and handing him the tray.

"Well do not just stand there like a tree, I am somewhat disappointed that you did not defy your father in this case, I do enjoy the moments where you burst in unannounced happy to tell me specifically something."

Acylius paused, blinking, that was not what he'd expected, Black Hat had wanted him to be a bother?

He twisted his upper hands nervously his lower one's still present and holding the black box decorated with a crimson metallic serpent that shimmered in the light, it's fangs the clasps at the front.

Setting his breakfast down and eating the first pancake there was a contented sigh from Amadeus.

"This gift is delicious, thank you."

He unceremoniously shoved another one in his mouth after all one thing Hat had learned was that Acylius would never judge him for his natural nature and felt comfortable eating like this.

"That is not the gift you daft gremlin."

Flug chuckled now taking the box in his two upper hands as the lower set disappeared.

Black Hat quirked a long brow

"When you have eaten from bins and packets half discarded I assure you this is a gift."

"Relatable."

Acylius muttered to himself and shook his head when Hat gave him a quizzical look, but thankfully Hat could tell was not a time to ask deeper into that answer.

Acylius came forward and set the box down

"This Amadeus Black Hat is a item only a few ever own and can only be ordered by one such as myself."

"You mean rich spoiled-"

Acylius placed a finger to his lips

"Carry on if you do not want it, but no, you must be a legion demon to aquire this, it will raise your status greatly to use what I have procured for you and must only be used in times of importance or addressing certain...fops who will only respond to such letters. "

Black Hat wanted nothing more than to kiss the demons hands, he'd seen them do work, things that drove him wild and just to have one finger laid upon his lips made his body tremble and heart race.

"I will do as you ask Acylius."

He blushed realising his voice came out a little huskier than intended.

"My hands are dirty though, would you show me I do not wish to ruin this gift."

Acylius went on one knee beside the bed and opened the box for him.

Inside laid a wax seal stamper, in which Flug was more than happy to show it was a symbol of a top hat with a ring around it with the letter B H on either side of the Hat.. Oh clever the O was the ring, crimson wax and beautiful pieces of high quality paper all with his insignia.

It looked so stylish, so beautiful he had to wonder if this was some sort of joke, Acylius presented the quill, showing its sleek colouring that in the light the ebony feather shone red, the nib gold with intricate curling patterns...

No..

No he had not.

He saw the ink bottle he knew that bottle only from stories and a brief glance of seeing it in Acylius’s study.

"You...diamond ink, the blood of your kind and that of the oldest dust of the galaxies."

"I have to attend a few parties I would rather not go to but in my opinion a small price to pay, especially when I can see how happy you are."

Acylius's ears wiggled happily

"The ink lasts far longer than any other brand or kind but it does have an end to it, so still be careful and be sure you know what you are doing if you need to summon someone with this."

Black Hat nodded still in awe of this beautiful gift, the set would be out of his price range even with the money he earned helping Cruentus around the home.

After all he'd insisted he do some kind of work, he was not comfortable with just taking hand outs.

"Is there anyway I can say thank you?"

Hat asked barely able to take his gaze from the set, though he did notice, Acylius had leaned ina moment, only to hesitate and pull back.

Why, why did he play this game with him, could he not just be a cad for once and take him, he would handle the emotional turmoil afterwards that it'd been a moment of passion, he wanted this idiot Legion to wreck him, if only he'd give him a true sign that even he was allowed to make the first move, but he dare'nt lest he be kicked from this place.

He could not bare the thought of strangers hands on him, to be touched by someone who was not his tree...to be out there again...he would deal with it if it came to that but he also would not jeopardise the only place that felt like home to him.

So he thought for a moment and smiled

"If I recall at Christmas I asked if you would kiss me."

Hat subtly leaned in closer, watching as Acylius's skin started to glow like soft starlight.

Was he truly that flustered around him.

"I, um...yes you did, but I would not ask... Considering asking unless I thought you were..."

Hat took that moment to damn everything and pulled him in close by his neck tie, pancakes falling on his lap onto the floor, he didn't care, all that mattered right now was that the moment he'd kissed Acylius was that the over grown tree of an idiot was kissing back.

It was passionate and intense, he felt the doctors hands on his waist moving to hold him close, it was like the dam had broken finally at least Hat hat hoped...

When Acylius came to his senses, he looked horrified

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry I shouldn't have...I didn't ask I'll be good I promise don't hate me..."

He disappeared ina shadow travel wisp of smoke leaving Amadeus confused...and concerned that was...that was no ordinary reaction, not a rejection there were traumas the Legion had clearly suffered...was this perhaps why he was finding it so difficult to reach out to him.

What happened to Acylius...did it have anything to do with those scars or the mother he called monster, in another situation Hat would have been hurt...but that...just left him longing to reach out...and offer him the same comfort Acylius had always given him...

Perhaps one day he'd find out...

But today was not that day.

The kiss lingered on his lips a beautiful moment, a dream that was eternally his.

#past coffee shop au #Coffee shop au #Paperhat #villainos #black hat #Acylius flug

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dying-suffering-french-stalkers · 3 years

Note

For the ship game: prime numbers for Lupin x Jigen!

HERE YOU GO GHOST, THIS WAS FIVE PAGES IN A GOOGLE DOC AND TOOK ME SEVERAL HOURS

Under a cut, allegedly, though mobile has been known to just IGNORE THAT. Sorry in advance if this gets goofed for anyone.

2) Who is always horny and will have sex at any time, in any place?

Lupin, obviously (and canonically). Just the horniest man you ever did see. Jigen knows what he wants and when he wants it, but he has difficulty keeping up with Don Juan Triumphant over there. Lupin is also far less picky about locations and times than Jigen is. Jigen still has a FEW standards, thank you, and also a stronger sense of self-preservation. Lupin sometimes tries to start shit in public or during a heist and Jigen is like “I REALLY, REALLY APPRECIATE THE SENTIMENT BUT CAN WE NOT.” The closest to public anything Jigen will put up with is bar bathroom/back-alley hookups, and he doesn’t really tend to do that with Lupin or Goemon since they have secondary locations far more suited to such activity (or at least the damn Fiat, if nothing else). That said, Jigen is a spiteful bastard and gets a huge kick out of riling Lupin up over the walkie-talkie during jobs. He is more than happy to get jumped by his boss after they make it out and secure the loot.

3) Who is more into taking showers/baths together? Who tries to make it relaxing and who tries to make it sexy time?

Honestly, while I can totally see Lupin and Jigen doing this with their other partners, I have a harder time imagining the two of them doing this together and I’m not sure why. I feel like these two on their own both like the privacy bathing gives them, whether it’s to clean wounds or decompress from a job.

On the occasions when they do bathe together, I feel like it’s an unspoken kind of thing, where the other person quietly slips in the tub/shower with them and they just don’t bother protesting. I think Lupin is more likely to join Jigen in his bathing, but if Jigen is sleepy enough or lonely enough he might do the same. There is a lot of mutual appreciation of scars. They’ve definitely smoked in the tub before (Intricate Rituals™). Lupin is probably more likely to get handsy, because Lupin, but two can play that game if Jigen is feeling it, and also Jigen gives Lupin a run for his money in the staring department. No hat to hide behind now.

Lupin has also 100% done the whole “Hey Jigen, do you know if—stop screaming, it’s me—do you know if we have any more instant dashi? Goemon’s gonna slice up the sofa if I ruin soba night again.”

5) Who sleeps on the couch when they get into a fight?

Jigen, but to be fair, he canonically sleeps on the couch most nights (possibly to keep an eye on the door, possibly because he knows that place, at least, is always “acceptable” for him to occupy). It’s an odd night if you don’t see Jigen out there with a glass and a bottle of scotch and an old movie on TV. The main difference is that if he and Lupin have been fighting, he won’t bother with the formality of a glass and the TV will be playing far louder or not at all.

7) [A] Who said “I love you” first? And [B] who ends their arguments in a fight with “Because I love you”?

I hate to take the coward’s way out here, but I think the answers are A) either one - depends on the headcanon/fic/version of the characters I’m feeling that day, and B) both.

For A, they’re both the sort of people to show their love—true love/affection, not just flirtation/infatuation, LUPIN—in action, not words. Lupin is a man of many words to a fault, generous with his verbal and physical affection, so Lupin has to find a way to make sure Jigen knows he means it and how he means it. He may rightly fear that Jigen won’t believe him (or else believe him but take it platonically) if he says “I love you” to his face, so first he’ll show him through every little action he can. Jigen is a man of few words to a fault, so saying personal stuff like that out loud is both a last resort and the point of no return. Getting him to say it at all, unambiguously, and while sober is like pulling teeth. Once one of them finally spits it out, though, I think the other is quick to reciprocate (again, if they manage to say it clearly and under good circumstances and not ambiguously/while drunk or wounded/etc. They’re both idiots and selective cowards so this is a big if). The mutual relief is palpable and immediately followed by sex, because they’re both (horny) idiots and selective cowards who do not want to talk about Emotions and Personal Things any more than strictly necessary.

For B, ohhhh man, if it isn’t that same emotional avoidance coming to bite them in the asses! Looks like talking about deep emotions is strictly necessary after all! You know it’s a Big Important Argument for them if this is what it comes to. This is going to tie in somewhat to the answers for 11, 17, and 23, so stay tuned. “Because I love you” coming from either of them should give the other pause, but if they are angry enough, they’re both quite likely to storm off after that declaration anyway. They’ll come back and have a real discussion later, but the shock or frustration of that arresting declaration dropped in the middle of an argument is something neither of them are great at dealing with. Hearing that from Jigen might be enough to stop Lupin in his tracks, but Lupin might also be so dead-set on something that he’ll steamroll right over it even if he knows he’ll regret it later. Hearing that from Lupin probably only makes Jigen angrier because of his awful self-esteem (see answers 11 and 23), and even if he’s been working on that, his instinct will be to snarl “Yeah, right” and storm out the door. I like to think that one day they are able to get to the heart of the argument sooner (because this is almost always it) and work on the behaviors that worry the other so much, but alas, they are a mess.

11) Who makes fun of the other for having a crush on them, and who has to remind them that they are in a relationship?

Once again, either of them depending on the day.

As you mentioned in your JiGoe post, Jigen says it partly because he thinks it’s funny (“You have a crush on me, Boss? Fuckin’ embarrassing”) but also because he’s fishing for validation. His self-esteem/confidence in anything outside his shooting skills is shit and he still can’t quite believe that Lupin isn’t lying/he hasn’t conned Lupin into something. This is rather overestimating his conning skills and underestimating his many good qualities, but, well, genuine, lasting affection is kinda new for him. Much to Jigen’s annoyance, Lupin figures out exactly what Jigen’s up to after the first few times and answers him seriously (and positively) instead of continuing the “joke”. Lupin loses patience for this particular tactic over time but I like to think that Jigen finally begins believing in the affection, too, so it comes up less and less and one day Jigen might actually play the quip straight without the self-deprecation. Ideally he would just take the damn compliment, but it’s LupJig and banter is one of their love languages.

When Lupin says it, he typically is playing the quip straight and fondly giving Jigen shit for showing an Emotion and motherFUCKER I just realized Jigen could probably be considered a tsundere. I hate this. ANYWAY. Jigen then immediately snarks back that yes, Lupin, considering we’ve been travelling the world together and actively fucking for X years, it’d be damn awkward if I didn’t by now.

13) Who initiates duets? and who is the better singer?

Lupin absolutely initiates duets, or rather, he tries to; whether or not Jigen actually chimes in is another matter entirely. Lupin is also the better singer by far (when he’s sober). He loves singing along to pop and rock in the car (“This is the reason God invented America!”).

Much as it would please me personally to give Jigen a smooth operatic baritone, there’s no way in hell he sounds good after smoking a pack a day for twenty-something years. I think Jigen can carry a tune and he’s a decent hummer and whistler, but his singing voice isn’t spectacular.

Lupin occasionally succeeds in getting Jigen to join him in car karaoke, though as in all things, Lupin is much louder and more impassioned. Jigen frequently hums along under his breath, though, and Lupin loves hearing Jigen’s a cappella renditions of classical music (complete with hand motions).

When Queen starts becoming popular, car singalongs become much more involved because it’s MY silly headcanon and You Are Not Immune To Queen. Jigen cried the first time he heard “Bohemian Rhapsody” and he will kill Lupin if he ever tells Goemon or, God forbid, Fujiko. When the four of them are in the car it’s a full-on Wayne’s World headbanging party. (Pops is the drunk guy they pick up along the way. Also, seeing Payless Shoe Source in this clip dealt me psychic damage.)

Lupin and Jigen (and Goemon) are the living embodiment of the drunk friends singing “Sweet Caroline” post, and Jigen is specifically this version of “Sweet Caroline”.

17) Who is more protective?

THAT IS THE QUESTION, HUH, GHOST? Jigen’s job and, to a certain degree, raison d’être is protecting Lupin, but (to cheat slightly and quote your own DM to me), if you think Lupin won’t raze everything to the ground to keep Jigen (and the others) safe, you don’t know him at all. They are this meme to the deepest of faults. They are both so desperately afraid of losing what they have (and in Lupin’s case, this is tinged with a bonus, even more concerning “what is his”) that they will go full self-sacrificing, scorched-earth policy. This is, in fact, my favorite reason for Lupin to do the worst thing he does: fake his own death to protect his partners. Lupin never stops to think that maybe, JUST MAYBE, he should trust his partners to fake grief and keep the secret long enough for whoever’s on their tail to give up or let their guard slip. Lupin is willing to hurt them in an effort to protect them, so in that way, I suppose Lupin is the “most” “protective”. Jigen’s self-abasement to the point of unhesitating and perhaps even hasty sacrifice is painful, too, but Jigen would never dare go to the same level of deception (except in Goodbye, Partner, apparently? But 1) I haven’t watched it yet and 2) while awful, I still feel like fake betrayal pales in comparison to very convincingly (AND MAYBE REPEATEDLY) faked death).

19) Who drives and who has the window seat?

They split driving duties, but Lupin genuinely loves driving and Jigen is more than happy to prop his feet on the Fiat’s dashboard and smoke or sleep the hours away.

23) Who thinks they are not good enough for the other’s love? and who’s more afraid of losing the other? Who thinks they keep messing up, only for the other to tell them they don’t need to worry?

HERE WE GO AGAIN!!! I think the answer to all of these is ultimately Jigen, but that’s not to say Lupin doesn’t share the exact same worries.

Jigen has a very difficult time believing that his partners’ love is genuine, and since Lupin is the one he knew first, that’s where it first manifests. Jigen has had very, very few good romantic connections in his life (if any). He doesn’t know what Lupin could possibly see in an older, prickly hired killer with a drinking problem and a head full of demons. He’s willing to believe that Lupin keeps him around for his skills, for protection, and for sex, sure, but anything past that? Doubtful. This ties into the other two parts of the question: Jigen is afraid that if he fails in his sharpshooting or his protection, he will be cut out of the gang, or worse, Lupin will end up dead because Jigen slipped up. As mentioned in question 17, Jigen cannot bear to lose Lupin and he would never forgive himself if he believed it was somehow his fault. Accordingly, Jigen takes “failure” that exceeds his usual margin of error very seriously in the early days. Later, he is better about this, but the worst-case scenario still stands.

Lupin, on the other hand, has had plenty of romantic connections, some good, some bad, though it is perhaps telling that Fujiko is his longest romantic relationship other than Jigen. He is afraid that if he doesn’t put on the world’s greatest show at all times, no one will give a rat’s ass about some scrawny grandson of an old French thief (or the perhaps unwanted/disliked son of a ruthless crime lord, because I love that fanon for Lupin the Second). He must live up to and indeed surpass the previous Lupins, he must shower his partners in money and adventure, he must always, always come out on top no matter how south the plan goes, or else what is the point of him? It takes time for him to turn his persona off for more than a few seconds, to let the quieter, sometimes contemplative side that slips through the cracks come to rest out in the open. Years down the road, Jigen finally gets up the courage and the words to tell Lupin that he would love him no matter what he did or where he went, even if that was nothing and nowhere. And again, see question 17 re: losing Jigen.

29) Who does some crazy stunt to try and impress the other and who ends up driving them to the emergency room after it backfires?

Lupin is by far the most guilty of this. He’s constantly pulling dumb shit, whether that be for World-Renowned Gentleman Thief reasons or just He May Be Stupid reasons. Case in point: the tunnel scene in The First, after which Jigen was duly impressed. Fortunately for Lupin, Lady Luck must be head over heels for him because the bastard keeps surviving, but sometimes even she can’t save him from medical consequences. Jigen bulk-ordered “Stupid Hurts” band-aids specifically for Lupin. Jigen’s bad choices are more likely to literally backfire on him, but Goemon more than makes up for Jigen’s slack in the Crazy Stunt department.

#I CARE THEY #hope this is comprehensible bc i honestly cannot tell #i have many thoughts on these two human disasters #lupin iii #jigen #asks #the-golden-ghost #long post #meta #I GUESS #can you believe i wrote five pages of meta about 1970s comedy anime characters? fucking hell. i love this fandom.#ship meme

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