#she literally only has her life and she’s perfectly willing to throw that away | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

taechaos · 3 years

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Your Boy, No?

pairing: bully!Jungkook x nerdy!fem!Reader

genre: drabble, smut, college au

synopsis: You can't stand seeing Jungkook with another girl, so you give him a piece of your mind in a stranger's bedroom by becoming his outlet of sexual frustration.

warnings: losing virginity, riding, degradation

a/n: jungkook's character is not exactly submissive, so i added my own twists to this request. i hope you don't mind @madygswich c:

word count: 2.5k

You can't stop pouting. Holding back tears when seeing a woman perched up on Jungkook's lap while they make out has proven to be difficult, but you're trying. It hurts your heart; hell, you're aching everywhere. It doesn't take a genius to know he's doing it to get a reaction out of you when his eyes are throwing daggers at you with his tongue down another girl's throat.

Following Jungkook around like a lost puppy isn't ideal, especially at a frat party. He never gives you the time of the day if it's not out of menace, but you aren't willing to give up on him. It's just not possible when you are so in love with him, and so fucking jealous.

More than Jungkook, you're mad at the girl. You want to rip her heart out, make her suffer for ever touching the love of your life. You're becoming irrational, mentally cussing her out for being a whore while you stop yourself from breaking down in a house filled with horny young adults. You don't know a single person here, and you have to deal with your pent up emotions all by yourself.

You choke out a sob when Jungkook starts kneading the girl's ass shamelessly with her skirt hiked up to her back. They're being so inappropriate in the kitchen of a stranger's house, while you can't even take a sip from your spiked drink in the bustling living room. You abruptly stand up and throw away your plastic cup when Jungkook's hand disappears elsewhere, and you have an idea of what he's about to do. You march over to him, looking absolutely tiny next to the overbearing college students and you don't notice Jungkook's sinister smile as he watches you fume.

"Let go," you sound hoarse, and not at all intimidating when you push the girl off of his lap. She stumbles at the force, but you pay no mind to her confusion as you pull Jungkook up by his arm to drag him away. You think it's the anger and adrenaline giving you so much strength, but it's Jungkook amusing himself by allowing you to take him upstairs.

"This isn't a therapy session, little girl," he yells over the music, "I didn't come here to listen to you cry."

You huff and let a single tear slip before harshly wiping it away. When you reach the hallway, you enter the first bedroom you find. It's occupied by a foreplaying couple, but you're driven as you hiss, "Out!"

They leave at your demand, and you're confusing a lot of people tonight. Jungkook is surprised by your sudden aggression, but he doesn't stop with his remarks, "the chihuahua's gone mad."

"Shut up, Jungkook!" you whirl around angrily to face him. "How could you do that to me?!"

He quirks a brow. "Do what to you? I'm sorry, am I the one who forcefully brought you here? Am I tripping or are you?"

You push at his chest, "you're a fucking whore! Tonguing a girl in front of everyone, in front of me?"

His shoulders shake in silent laughter and you cross your arms when he starts cackling loudly. The music is drowned out and muffled behind the door, but it's nothing compared to how hysterically Jungkook is laughing.

"What's so funny?" you ask lamely. He throws his head back as he clutches his stomach, and you're starting to get annoyed. You push him on the bed, but he's still laughing. "Quit it already," your voice wavers, but you don't back down as you smack his chest. You place your knees on both sides of his hips to limit his movement and cover his mouth to shut him up.

His crescent eyes turn intense instantly as he glares at you under his hooded lids. He exerts only a tiny bit of his energy into pushing your hand away and you weakly collapse on him. It's foul play to compete with his muscles, and you realize he can snap you in half if he wanted to regardless of your rush of adrenaline.

You sit back up as he lowly speaks, "The fuck's it to you? I wanted to fuck her, and I was going to until you stepped in as if you're my girlfriend. Tell me why I shouldn't go back to her right now." He clasps his hands under his head, making himself comfortable with your weight pressing against his crotch.

"You know why," you huff with a frown, and you look so cute in the dim lighting with your baggy knitted sweater bunching up on the sleeves, sitting on his bulge with so much innocence in your expression. He's smitten, but it doesn't show in his cold stare. "I'm your girl, and I won't tolerate you messing around with other women. It's slutty!" You slightly bounce for emphasis, but your knee-length skirt hides your actions. Jungkook feels it with you, and his eyes trail down to your lower region.

"My girl?" he parrots with a raised brow. He gazes back into your eyes. "You do my homework."

"I don't care. I love you," you plead pathetically, "please say you love me back."

"Wasn't I a whore just a second ago?"

"You were! Apologize to me," you harshly yank his head back by his hair. He doesn't react in the slightest, so you softly add, "please."

"Oh little girl," he sighs, "are you really trying to dominate me right now?"

"I am dominating you. Promise me you won't kiss another girl like that again. I won't forgive you a second time."

"Yeah? What's my loss?"

"Well, you're lazy in school," you bluntly state, "and no one loves you like I do. No one would try to cater to you like I do. I'd do anything for you, Kookie." You tug down your skirt to take it off and plop back down on him before saying, "Including sex. You can only use me for your sexual needs."

He's enamored by your words, but he doesn't dare share it with you. Instead, he thrusts upwards and you yelp when you jump. "Go on then," he says nonchalantly. "Show me how much of a slut you are."

"U-Um, okay," you stutter and start unzipping his black denim jeans. You've seen a lot of porn videos to make sure you were prepared for the next step with Jungkook, but you have no experience with penetration.

And he realizes that rather quickly when you're so meek with your actions. With a groan, he asks, "You're not a fucking virgin, are you?"

"I've been saving it for the right guy," you answer with offence. This is a special occasion, and you want him to take it as seriously as you do. But it's definitely not a good idea to be snarky with him when you can barely remember the steps for safe sex. "Do you have a condom?"

"It's in my pocket," he grumbles and points at his front without taking it out himself. You're excited and nervous as you tear the wrapper and take out the preservative. You have no idea how to put it on, but you're topping so you clumsily push down his briefs. Jungkook is surprisingly throbbing under you, and you blush at the sight of his erection.

He stops himself from teasing you and saying that the girl from earlier gave him this boner, but he doesn't want to be cruel yet. It's your first time, and truthfully, he jacks off to thought of you too often anyway. He can handle being somewhat nice by staying quiet, but that doesn't mean he would teach you how to put on a condom.

You slip it on with little struggle, and don't waste any time in positioning his cock in your entrance. Before he can stop you, you sink down on his length with a painful moan. He wants to tell you that losing your virginity in this position is the most painful, but instead he groans, "Holy shit, how are you so fucking tight?"

It hurts so fucking bad. Your tear ducts are like clockwork as they water instantly, but you lower yourself down to the hilt anyway. You're quite literally sitting on his cock as you try to catch your breath because God, you're in so much pain.

"Fuck, are you okay?" he asks, but he's more worried about controlling himself from fucking into you before you can adjust. It's difficult, but he's trying.

"Jungkook," you whimper quietly with your eyes screwed shut, "it hurts."

"You're so fucking dumb for doing this, but you feel so fucking good," he pants as he holds your hips.

"Thank you," you muster out in a breath. A few seconds pass until the pain starts to numb, and you move against him very slowly. Your walls are stinging, but it feels like Heaven for Jungkook who you clench down on.

"Go up and down," he instructs with a bit lip. He tries to move your hips, but you're resisting in fear of another shock of pain. "Come on!"

"Can you wait?" you hiss through clenched teeth.

He's trying to rile you up when he says, "Sana wouldn't take this fucking long."

And it works, because you bounce once. "Don't say her name!"

He groans at your tightness, and he can't believe how wet you are. You're dripping on him, and he curses himself for holding back because of your hopeless romance. He can't entertain your conservative way of going on about this any longer, so he continues, "She would have made me cum by now, but this prissy princess can't even get a move on."

It's almost pathetic how one push from Jungkook makes you start moving, and it feels less uncomfortable to hop up and down against his pelvis. The filthy sound of slapping skin mixing with the generic radio music is making you feel so slutty because it's so stereotypical, but when Jungkook moans, it brings heat all over your body. You take your sweater off when sweat begins to cumulate on your temples, and he commands, "Take off your bra too."

He's thrusting into you as you unclasp the black material, freeing your breasts as he finds his new eyecandies. You are so pretty, your nipples are so hard, and your cunt sucks him in so perfectly. It almost upsets him when he realizes how much pleasure he's deprived himself of; the amount only you seem to be able to provide, because it's beyond physical intimacy.

"Good girl," he exhales and gently slams into you with his hands fondling your tits. You smile coyly through your tears, and he asks, "Does it still hurt?"

You contemplate for a second, because you don't feel the best yet, but you don't want to disappoint Jungkook either. "I-It doesn't," you lie.

Jungkook mentally rolls his eyes; he really wants to believe you so he can chase his high, but he sees right through you. He slaps your tit without mercy and chastises you, "don't lie. I thought this was your little moment of control."

"I'm sorry," you pout as you slowly ride him.

"Another lie," he slaps your other tit more harshly and you yelp.

"I'm not lying!" you plead and hasten your pace, desperate to sell your lie. It's working, because you're starting to feel a knot in your stomach the more you adjust.

He moans with you, and you lose yourself when he stills your hips and begins to fuck you himself. It's rough, loud, and the pain is your pleasure. His balls slap against your skin as he easily slides in and out of you with the help of your arousal. Your love dawns on him when you're so turned on for him without any foreplay, and he's on cloud nine because nothing can compare to being inside you.

The setting is so unlike you, fucking in someone's bedroom with a bunch of people behind the unlocked door who can barge in at any given moment, but he finds it so sexy. You only care about being with him, and you really do look like his slut now.

His hands start holding onto your ass, kneading it until it turns red with his fingerprints, and he demands you to kiss him. You're out of it, your ears are ringing and you can only moan out his name, but you can't bear to ignore him. Your lips fall on his, and the kiss is sloppy with his tongue all over your mouth. You can't keep up, but your chest swells with pride when you realize how needy he is for you. He goes as far as to spit in your mouth, and you swallow it without hesitation.

"You want me to play with your clit?" he murmurs against your lips, and his voice sounds so airy and melodic to your ears. "Hm? Want me to make you feel good, little slut?"

You whine without a clear response because his lips feel so soft and wet, and that's the only thing you can focus on. All you want to do is kiss him and he doesn't stop you from doing so, but you're even more overwhelmed when he starts touching you while penetrating you. "No," you whimper, "I'll cum."

"A slut can take it," he grunts and rubs your clit faster, and you come undone all too soon. You moan loudly as you tremble, shaking as he rides out your high with a pinch to your clit. You're numb when you collapse on top of him, but he's relentless with his thrusts. He's using your body as you intended, and he's vocal with his pleasure and teasing climax. It's remarkable how he holds you up when you've gone limp and still fucks you just as hard.

You want to record his voice when he starts to whine pathetically, but you have no energy left within. He's panting in your ear, and it's not long before his hips fall on the mattress with a sigh. He's surprised by how powerful his orgasm was, as he fills the condom with his release instantly. His cock is still nestled inside you as both of you recover from your climax.

"Get off," he taps your thigh, and he pushes you off when you don't obey immediately. Your spell has worn off as he starts to dress himself. "I'm going back to the dorms." You listen to him with your mind in a haze. "Unless you want to get raped on your way without me, get the fuck up now."

"Can you carry me please?"

He shrugs and swings your arm over his shoulder, picking up your body with ease. He collects your clothes in his hand, but doesn't hand them to you as he steps out of the room.

"W-Wait, Jungkook, I'm naked-"

"You're my girl, no? Be a good slut and shut the fuck up."

Dangling off his shoulder with your bare tits pressed against his back, you close your eyes and drift off on the way to campus.

Boyfriends typically drop their girlfriends off anyway, right?

#bts scenarios #bts jungkook #jeon jungkook #bts imagines #bts x reader #jungkook x reader #bts smut #jungkook smut #jjk smut #jungkook imagines

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c-e-d-dreamer · 2 years

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Enchanted

I stole @moodymelanist‘s anon prompt about Nessian and Enchanted by Taylor Swift because I am a literal piece of garbage Swiftie, so I hope everyone enjoys! Took some liberties with the lyrics, but you get the idea! :)

Cassian knows that the phrase is only two things are certain in life: death and taxes, but if you ask him, Helion going all out on theme parties should definitely be a third item on that list. Cassian’s not even sure where the man finds the time to throw such extravagant parties. Better yet, where does he find the money?

Nonetheless, Cassian supposes he should be happy for the invite, and somewhere deep down, he is. But sometimes constantly sliding the perfect mask over his face is exhausting. Forcing laughter, faking smiles, he can only do it for so long before all he wants to do is sneak out the door, go home, and faceplant into his mattress. And no amount of extravagance from Helion can change that.

Cassian walks up the steps of the large manor house, a few couples and groups already rushing their way inside ahead of him with excited chatter. When he gets to the doors, there are people there to check his costume, and he almost rolls his eyes at the fact Helion actually hired costume checkers. Gods forbid anyone break the illusion tonight. Once he’s given the nod that he’s good, Cassian steps through the large oak doors, and for a moment, it really is like he’s stepped into another time.

Every inch of the entrance and extending ballroom is decorated with flags and posters, white twinkling fairy lights cutting lines across the ceiling. The sounds of the big band that Helion’s hired hits Cassian first, all brass and percussion and a group of women singing a cover of an Andrew Sisters song. As Cassian steps onto the balcony overlooking the ballroom, he takes in the party in full swing below. Literally. He hadn’t realized Helion was so committed to the theme that there would be actual swing dancing. It leaves Cassian tugging subconsciously at the jacket of his uniform as he makes his way down the steps. When he reaches the bottom, he snags a glass of sparkling liquid off a tray and makes his way along the edge of the room.

Cassian finds an empty high top table he can lean against, content to simply people watch. He takes a sip of his drink as he eyes the crowds of people as they ebb and flow in time with the beat of the music, the sounds of their steps echoing against the floor mixing with their laughter and forming a cacophony that swirls high into the domed ceiling of the ballroom. Cassian’s eyes continue to scan the crowd until they land on a woman standing on the opposite side of the dancefloor. For a moment, it’s like the music fades away to nothing, like all the other bodies in the room melt away until it’s just him and her and the breath suddenly hitching in his lungs.

As if she can feel the weight of his stare, her head turns slowly in Cassian’s direction. She quirks a single eyebrow at him as their eyes meet, and Cassian swears there’s something so familiar about her, some song playing long forgotten notes but a never forgotten melody deep in his soul. But he’s sure he wouldn’t forget a face like hers if they had met before.

Before Cassian can think twice, he starts to make his way to her across the dance floor. Her eyes track him the whole way, and it has his skin prickling with anticipation, his whole body thrumming like he’s on the edge. Of what, he’s not entirely sure, but he’s never been more willing and ready to take a leap of faith.

The woman is even more beautiful up close. She’s wearing a red dress, cut perfectly to accentuate her form, with her hair curled up and away from her face in keeping with the style required for the party’s theme. Her lips are also painted a bright shade of red, but Cassian finds he’s drawn more to her eyes, the intense blue of them.

“How goes it, soldier?” she asks him.

“Committed to the theme?” Cassian shoots back.

“I’m pretty sure Helion has spies everywhere, and I’m not looking to get kicked out.”

“I don’t think he’d kick out someone as pretty as you.”

The woman hums in response, her lips pinching slightly together. “Then I guess it’s just you that has to worry about being kicked out.”

“Are you saying I’m not pretty?”

“You sound so shocked.”

“I think I’m the prettiest boy in my platoon,” Cassian teases, adding an overdramatic flip of his hair for good measure.

The woman laughs then, soft and lilting, and Cassian can’t seem to do anything but blink dumbly down at her. He wants to hear that sound again, wants to hide the sound away like a secret note that he can open up whenever he chooses.

“Do you have a name, prettiest soldier?”

“Cassian.”

“I’m Nesta.”

Nesta. Her name echoes in Cassian’s thoughts, a persistent whisper that happily settles into every crevice and space in his mind like it’s always belonged there, like it’s home. Nesta Nesta Nesta.

“Do you dance, Nesta?”

“Are you asking?”

“Yes. I’ve been told I have two left feet, but I’d be honored.”

Nesta grabs his hand then, tugging him toward the dance floor. The contact is a spark, sending fire flooding through Cassian’s veins. Her hand is so small compared to his own, his fingers curling and fully encasing her own, but it’s warm and solid. When she pulls her hand free to turn toward him, Cassian instantly misses the weight of it. But then Nesta is settling a hand on his shoulder, the other once again finding its home in his. He lets his own find the dip of her waist.

The band starts up another upbeat song, and Cassian tries to keep up as they move together. He spins and dips Nesta just as he sees the other couples dancing doing, but judging by the teasing glint to her eyes and the way her lips are pressed firmly together like she’s trying to suppress a smile, Cassian is pretty sure he’s worse than he originally thought.

As the music begins to build and crescendo, Cassian tightens his hold on Nesta’s waist, lifting her up into the air. Nesta lets out a squeak in surprise, her nails digging into Cassian’s shoulder. Cassian tries to spin her around the way other couples have been doing all night, but he really is worse than he thought. They both start to wobble, and Cassian shifts to wrap his whole arm around Nesta’s waist to steady her, stumbling back a few steps as he tries to keep them from toppling over.

Pressed this close together, Cassian swears he can feel Nesta’s heart beating. Or maybe that’s his own skipping over itself erratically. He can count every eyelash that frames those stunning eyes, and her breath skates across his cheeks. It wouldn’t take much, just a small shift, and Cassian could find out just how soft her lips are, how they’d taste against his own.

“Maybe dancing isn’t for you,” Nesta teases gently.

Cassian tries to laugh, but it sounds strained even to his own ears as he sets Nesta back down on her feet. With a promise to make it up to her in the form of drinks, Cassian heads off to do just that, using the short reprieve to gather his own thoughts and get his bearings right again. When he returns, he finds Nesta sitting at one of the tables, her phone perched between her hands. He’s about to tease her over the fact they definitely didn’t have mobile phones in the 1940’s, but then he notices her frown.

“Everything alright?” Cassian asks, setting their drinks down on the table.

“Yes. Sorry. It’s my roommates. I should head out. It was nice to meet you,” Nesta explains, standing up.

Cassian reaches forward for Nesta’s hand, raising it and pressing a gentle kiss to her knuckles. “It was enchanting to meet you.”

Cassian watches as a blush blooms to life across Nesta’s cheeks, the soft smile she offers him before she turns on her heel and disappears amongst the crowd. Cassian takes her now vacated seat and sips on his drink, but with Nesta gone, his interest in this party has decidedly depleted. He gives it a few more minutes, and then he’s making his own exit, heading out of the manor house and toward his truck.

As Cassian clambers into his truck, he can’t stop smiling, his mind replaying the night over and over on a loop. He’s thankful no one else is here with him because he’s absolutely positive that he’s blushing right now. It’s like he’s 19 again. Gods, what has Nesta done to him? A final awed chuckle at the turn of events, and Cassian is turning the key in his ignition, throwing his truck in drive and heading toward his apartment complex.

Cassian finds himself humming the tune of the song they danced to, his feet tapping out their own dance as he steps into his apartment and toward his bedroom. When he falls back against his mattress, his mind once again returns to Nesta, her smile, her eyes. He thinks about the story they could weave together, the two of them, with this night being just the first page. He lets his eyes slide shut and sends up a silent prayer to the universe. Please don’t let her be in love with someone else. Gods, he already wants to see her again.

The thought clangs inside his head, and then everything is coming to a stuttering stop. How will he see her again? He didn’t ask for her number or give her his. How could he be so stupid? He’s on his feet in an instant, pacing back and forth across his room while he presses the heels of his palms against his eyes. He just met the most amazing, stunning woman he’ll probably ever meet in his life and now he—

Cassian’s pulled out of his spiralling thoughts by the distinct sound of a knock at his front door. He squints over at the clock on his bedside table, frowning when he realizes the late hour. Another knock sounds, and Cassian makes his way to the front door, slowly pulling it open. There, on the other side, is Nesta. Her makeup is still done up from the party, but her hair has clearly been brushed through, pulled back in a simple braid now, and her costume has been traded in for more comfortable clothes. The slight shuffle of her feet gives away her nervousness even as she holds her chin high.

“I hope this isn’t too forward, or creepy, but I pulled a few strings to find you. Turns out your brother is dating my sister.”

“Why would that be forward? I told you, it was enchanting to meet you.”

#my fic #nessian #nesta x cassian #nesta archeron #cassian #nessian fanfiction #nessian fic

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ladykissingfish · 3 years

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drunk Akatsuki hc? 🥺

Ask and ye shall receive! ((Sorry it took so long to get to/finish this. Also get the nagging feeling I did a post very similar to this before but 🤷🏽‍♀️ piss poor memory so))

Drinking with the Akatsuki

Kakuzu

Takes a lot to get him drunk; his alcohol tolerance is pretty damn high. And when he does reach that point, he becomes … very unlike himself. Friendly, smiling, and extremely loose with his precious money. Kakuzu being drunk is the best time to ask him for an advance on your pay, or a personal loan. Another bonus: drunk Kakuzu is storytime Kakuzu. When he’s sober, the others don’t really like listening to his stories because they’re all boring as hell, and are usually centered around some point that he’s trying to nag everyone on. But drunk Kakuzu, well, he’ll tell you about brawls, dangerous stunts he pulled when he was a kid, sometimes even old lovers. He can keep the rest of the Akatsuki enraptured for hours with his intoxicated tales. The morning after a night of drinking is a different tale, though. He’ll remember loaning money to people and hunt them down to make sure that know they have to pay him back, and he’ll deny like crazy any story tidbits that the others bring up to him. Will also go through several pots of pure black coffee in an effort to de-hangover himself more quickly.

Pein

The Pein bodies don’t drink, but Nagato will, very rarely. Beer is his drink of choice, and he’ll opt for foreign rather than domestic. He’s not really the type to get full-on drunk (no matter what he’s the Leader and he carries himself as such), rather he’ll just get slightly tipsy. If he gets tipsy enough he’ll rant a bit to whoever’s closest about pain, and the unfairness of life, and anything else that would put a downer on happy drinkers’ moods. He always hopes that the alcohol will help him to sleep (he’s a horrible insomniac) but most times it just gives him a slight headache while leaving him wide-wake and dry-mouthed.

Hidan

Nobody wants to be around this guy when he’s had too much to drink, because the normally violent Hidan becomes even more so after hitting the booze. He’ll be willing to take on any and everyone, from teenagers to old men. And being immortal doesn’t help matters any; he could literally get torn limb from limb and his mouth would still be taunting his opponents with “Is that the best ya got, bastard??” Drinking also brings out his creative side when it comes to his human sacrifices and Jashin rituals; he’ll think up new (and horrible) ways to torment and kill his victims. Is the type to finally, FINALLY just completely pass out after reaching his final tolerance point, and the others will (reluctantly) drag him to his room and put him in his bed. Not many are willing to do this, however, as most times before he passes out he’ll have stripped himself completely naked.

Tobi

An emotional drunk. Gets sad and cries over practically anything. And it doesn’t take much to get him tanked, either; his tolerance level is embarrassingly low and he’ll be ready to sob after just a couple of glasses of wine. Tobi tries to avoid drinking when he can because he knows there’s a good chance of him dropping his persona and letting the others see Obito Uchiha. In fact this HAS happened a few times, where he’a taken off his mask and everything; fortunately for him the others were so gone that the next day they either didn’t remember, or believed that had just imagined the whole thing. Likes to soothe himself by slurring sad love songs at the top of lungs, joined most frequently by Deidara and Hidan. Will also drunkenly stuff his face with meats, which is a complete opposite from his sweet-loving sober self. He can throw down a dozen burgers when boozed up, the results of which will likely be in puddles all over the floor the next day. Will go to his bed and turn around in circles a bunch of times, like a dog, before finally going to sleep. “Tobi” will be the quietest he’s ever been the next day, as he fights a massive headachy hangover.

Konan

For being such a thin, delicate girl, Konan can hold her liquor right up there with the likes of Kakuzu and Kisame. One might never even know that she’s drunk to begin with; she walks perfectly straight, doesn’t slur her words, has almost perfect reflexes and normal mannerisms. One thing always gives her away, however; drunk Konan is hungry Konan. Under normal circumstances the little lady sticks to a healthy diet and isn’t one for over-indulging in anything. One shot or beer too many, and suddenly the gloves are off. Konan will make pizza, hotdogs, gigantic sundaes, cakes and pies … and devour almost all of it. She’ll share with the others if asked … but most times she’s eaten so much that there’s not much left to share. When she’s finally had her fill, she’ll go to bed … and wake up feeling sick as a dog the next morning. After the nausea passes, she’ll force herself to go for a long run or walk, no matter how much her head may be aching, in order to work off her excessive calorie intake.

Zetsu

Zetsu doesn’t drink, because alcohol interferes with his plant genetics, acting as literal poison to his system. But he enjoys being around the others when they’re drunk, to see the different types of personalities that emerge. Likes to hang around Hidan in particular, as the man’s sacrifices pick up significantly when he’s drunk, meaning Zetsu has more of a smorgasbord of leftovers to pick from

Sasori

As a puppet, Sasori doesn’t drink. But when he was a human, it was a different story. He turned himself into a non-human at a very young age, much younger, of course, than would have been the legal drinking age. But his grandmother kept a variety of wines in their home, and when she was away, he liked to pour himself a glass. Always only a single glass; he was intelligent enough both to know that his grandmother would notice if any larger of a quantity was missing, and, already dabbling in making poisons at this point, he understood the concept of “tolerance” better than most. But the single glass was enough; it seemed to comfort him during those nights when he was missing his mother and father. The wine also served as a brain-opener for him, of sorts: it was over wine that he first got the idea of turning himself into a puppet.

Deidara

Being young and so slender, and not having much experience with alcohol before joining the Akatsuki, the blonde is a bit of a light-weight when it comes to the hooch. He doesn’t really care for beers or ales (he compares the taste to “cat-piss”) and instead goes for the fruity mixed drinks that don’t SEEM that strong … until you’ve had about three or four, and they put you on your ass. Deidara becomes very lovey-dovey when drunk, and not just in a romantic sense. Alcohol makes everyone in the world his friend, and he’s suddenly interested in what others have to say about life and art. He’s even nice to Itachi, going so far as to hug him and tell him that he smells good, something that he will vehemently deny the next day. He’ll go to Sasori and cling to him and gush about how he appreciates his friendship and his guidance, until Sasori gets tired of him and tells him to go to sleep. Deidara can get to his room on his own, but once the door closes, he’s more likely to pass out on the floor than in his own bed. Also, if he didn’t think to tie up his long hair beforehand, he’ll be in for a nasty, messy surprise when he inevitably wakes up to vomit at some point.

Itachi

Itachi isn’t one to ever let himself lose control of his senses, no matter the situation. Therefore, if he’s drinking with the others, he’ll stick to one or two beers or a single shot before cutting himself off for the evening. He plays much of a “mom” role in the group, making sure the others are okay, lending a shoulder to cry on for the emotional drunks, and, if they’re out somewhere, making sure everyone gets home safe and sound. On the rare, RARE occasions he drinks by himself, and lets go of his hesitation, he’s just as emotional a drinker as Tobi (which is quite possibly an Uchiha trait). He’ll cry into his pillow, he’ll sit and lament over the choices he’s made in life. Sometimes he’ll find and put on the saddest song or movie he can think of, just so he has something to get emotional over. Although this sounds bad, this is actually a helpful bit of therapy for him, as it allows him to release emotions that he normally keeps bottled up. He’ll end a night of solo drinking with a cup of tea, then go quietly to bed, sleeping like a rock until the sun comes up and things go back to normal.

Kisame

Right up there with Kakuzu as being a guy that can hold his liquor like a champ. In fact his ability to do so has won him many drinking challenges at bars, as well as a formidable reputation as “one bad ass son of a bitch”. It also helps him confidence-wise; normally the half-shark is very reserved and keeps to himself, as he feels that his appearance is off-putting and scary to “normal” people. But alcohol loosens him up and gets him talking, and being bold, and many people find this switch in personality to be highly attractive. Ladies especially take notice of his smile, his eyes … and his muscles. He even scores several phone numbers from interested parties … but by the time he’s sober again, he never follows through with calling anyone. Also helps Itachi in that he keeps an eye on the others when they drink, to make sure that they’re safe.

#the akatsuki #drinking #kisame #itachi uchiha #zetsu #sasori #kakuzu #deidara #hidan #nagato #konan #tobi #obito uchiha #naruto #headcanon

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theramseyloft · 3 years

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You go on about how intelligent/emotional pigeons are, but you treat them like objects and that bothers me. You separate bonded pairs of these intelligent, loving animals so frequently as if they don't have any feelings. And then you wonder why these birds afterward do not just take a new mate instantly. You are continually traumatizing these animals and causing them to shut down because they probably begin to realize any new bond they make will only be severed.

I do that because they are.

There is a huge difference between treating a living being like an object and acknowledging that the feelings of a non-human will not often perfectly align with those of a human.

Different species are different.

They have different physical, emotional, and social needs, even if there are a lot of close parallels.

And there are certainly a lot of parallels between humans and pigeons;

They are self aware cooperative social learners.

They form societies.

Those societies have a culture that varies regionally and they have a base line of values...

But their society, culture, and values are different from a human’s because pigeons are not human.

Nothing specializes in preying on humans. We generalize in preying on everything, as a species, as a whole.

We change our environment to suit our needs as much as we are able, and we are more able with every generation.

While things, objectively, can happen to any human at any time, out of nowhere..

On the whole, we generally don’t expect them to.

As such, our monogamous relationships are, ideally, “Until death do us part” meaning “Until we both die of old age, preferably around the same time.”

To the extent that closely bonded humans are emotionally devastated by the loss of that life partner.

To many of us, a life partner is also counted as lost if they engage in sexual infidelity, and if this happens, we are just as devastated (if not even more devastated) as we could have been if that partner had died.

Pigeons are a prey species that evolved in a cheetah-and-thompson’s-gazelle-style arms race with the Peregrine Falcon.

Their monogamous relationships version of “Until Death do us part” can be better translated; “Until one or the other of us gets eaten on a foraging trip.”

And sexual fidelity does not enter into the equation for a pigeon unless their partner is treading or being tread by some one else at the exact moment that bird wants to tread or be tread by their partner.

A cock who wants sex will seek out his wife first, but if she is not interested, he will go asking all the hens away from their nest until one agrees and crouches for him.

If his mate changes her mind and wants him to tread her, she will seek him out and crouch to present herself.

He will tread his wife, and after they do the cute little “I just had sex” dance that’s reserved for mated pairs (side flings get neither this nor courtship. Just sex and separate.) she goes off to do what ever she wanted to do.

If the cock is satisfied, he goes with his wife.

If he still needs or wants more sex, he can tread as many hens as he wants. His wife will not care, because she has had her turn.

If a hen wants sex, she will seek out her husband, generally, but if he’s busy or away, she’ll present for who ever she likes.

Her husband does not care who filled the egg. He only cares that she lays it in his nest and he gets to help set and raise it.

Pigeons divorce partners they consider to be inadequate. Cocks who fail to fill eggs, hens who refuse to set eggs, partners of either sex that don’t spend enough time reaffirming their bond with their spouses...

Unrequited relationships and love triangles are also relationships that pigeons find themselves in.

A pair is considered to have divorced if one partner or the other moves in and spends their nights in the nest of another partner, not for mating with some one else.

Some times, divorces are mutual, and both birds move on to other mates.

Some times, they are not. And the partner left will pine and keep making overtures to reconcile with the partner that left them.

But when a mate just disappears and doesn’t come back, they are assumed by the remaining partner to have been eaten.

If they were closely bonded, the remaining partner may wait a week or so at most, in case they were lost, in hopes the missing bird will make their way back and reunite.

If, after a week, the remaining bird is keeping to them self and not socializing, something is physically wrong, and anthropomorphizing it as “depressed” can get the bird killed.

The veterinary term ‘depression’ describes an animal that is physically ill, be that from a pathogen attacking it to ingesting or absorbing a toxin or simple vitamin or mineral deficiency.

For example;

A week after I became aware that breeding pigeons could become salt deficient and gave the flock a salt and trace mineral brick, birds that had shown no interest in bonding or courting for months are suddenly flirting with everything that moves.

They were not too traumatized to before.

They had a mineral deficiency.

They did not court because they did not feel good.

With the addition of their supplement brick, lo and behold, they all feel better and are courting again.

I have an entire flock to take care of, and I am responsible for the wellbeing of every individual I bring into the world.

To avoid overcrowding, I have a cap of 10 breeding pair.

Because that is the number of adults and their offspring under 6 months old that my loft can comfortably house.

When ever a new breeding bird leaves quarantine or a keeper reaches 6 months, a bird of the same sex has to be retired and made available to avoid overcrowding and the stress and disease that come with it.

Who retires when is not arbitrary.

There are very strict criteria.

1. Physical health.

Regardless of whether or not I have a replacement ready, a bird who may be hurt by the physical process of reproduction or the strain of rearing young, or who may pass on genes that may be harmful to potential offspring is retired on the spot and adopted out with a strict nonbreeding agreement.

Gus is a sweet boy,

But this happens to him every molt, and we have since found out that it runs in both sides of his family, proving it to be genetic and cumulative.

As cute as he and Leela were together, I cannot let him breed.

Because I would have to be a monster to be willing to knowingly pass that painful condition on to another generation.

He has a forever family familiar with his condition to whom he is going on Monday.

2. Undesirable structure

I do not mean anything as stupid as “This animal isn’t pretty enough.”

Cody is not only gorgeous, but an excellent father who has served our program very well.

But his muffs are big enough to make walking uncomfortable, so while I like the rest of his traits, that’s one I want to breed away from.

Now that I have a brother and Sister of his with short muffs that do not cause them discomfort,

Farthing

and suki

will continue contributions to the project

and Cody is available.

3. Antisocial behavior that disrupts or disturbs their flock mates.

Indica

And Pookie

Are the poster children for flock disruption.

They are a gay and bi mated pair of cocks, who are literally turned on by prying other treading pairs off of each other.

If they see another pair treading, Indica will grab the hen by the scruff, Pookie will grab the cock by his, and they will pull in opposite directions, prying the treading pair apart, and marching them in opposite directions towards the wall.

Indica and Pookie will then throw the bird they have at the wall and then run back to meet each other in the center of the floor, smooch-feed each other back and forth, and take turns treading each other.

On top of this, they defend 15 of the 36 total nest boxes in my loft, refusing to pick a specific one or let any other pair settle in a box to lay.

You may or may not have noticed that when I advertised the available birds on Thursday, I made a point of saying that I would prefer these two be adopted together because they are bonded and would be happier that way.

A prospective new family is coming to meet them on Monday.

But they are SUCH a violent disruption to their flock mates that if only one had a home lined up, it would be unkind to the rest of the flock to keep them both on the insistence that they go together.

4. Shitty parenting history

Parents who tend to ignore eggs or peeps, leaving all the work of setting or feeding to their partner.

This is a personality trait, and such a parent puts dangerous strain on their partner and stress on their peeps.

Their partner will usually divorce them for that, so adopting the bad parent out isn’t “Splitting up a bonded pair”.

Their former spouse is usually looking for or has found some one else with out any interference on my part.

5. Too many offspring/grandchildren

This is to avoid any more inbreeding than necessary.

Betty is one of the best studs here.

He is an outstanding father who sits tight on his eggs, pumps his peeps full, and educates them carefully though weaning.

MANY are his children and grand children, and he has a strong preference for birds with faces like his.

He has already bred with his niece to produce Sherry, and I would like to avoid having him breed to any more of his kin.

Once his peep with Liang is weaned, he will be adopted.

Liang is very skittish, and she liked him right off the bat, so I delayed his retirement to give her more time to feel secure with the flock.

But with her egg hatching, she is allowing herself to be casually flirt with more.

Wukong still likes her. So do Cherub and Ginger, so she’ll have her pick when Betty goes to his new home.

6. Temperament

The Therapy Bird Project is working towards developing a performance breed with a temperament conducive to Therapy work.

All else being equal; The birds are all physically sound with no known detrimental genes, no embellishments too exaggerated, not overly aggressive to flock mates, great parents... Then the bird least interested in human company gets retired.

The ground work of physical and mental base soundness has to be laid first and foremost for that excellent temperament I’m aiming for to shine in their handler’s lives for as long as possible.

You probably have not noticed that when bonded pairs retire at the same time, I make a thing of them being bonded in hopes that they will be adopted together.

Dodger and Alex retired close enough to each other that both are still here, and I would prefer they be adopted together.

But if one of them gets a perfect home lined up where I think that individual will be happy, I will not refuse them that good home for the sake of not splitting up a pair.

You care about the idea of that a LOT more than the pigeons themselves do.

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buckyshairstylist · 3 years

Text

Elphaba let out a shaky breath as she covered Fiyero with a thick blanket, her eyes filled with tears. The spell had worked — Fiyero was human again.

The downside? Neither one of them had anticipated the pain that it caused him. Fiyero had screamed and writhed for an hour, Elphaba murmuring the same words over and over again, until finally he changed back to a human and immediately passed out. Maybe it was his exhaustion overtaking him, she didn’t know.

What she did know was that he hadn’t slept well since he became a scarecrow. And now that he was human again, she kept watch over him, just to ensure it wasn’t something temporary and they’d have to start all over again in their search for a spell to remedy what she’d caused in her desperation to save him.

“It’s fine, Fae,” he’d told her shortly after they had moved to the Vinkus. They had been promised solitude and Fiyero’s parents — who were two of the sweetest people Elphaba had ever met — had promised that no one would know their whereabouts.

“I don’t mind being a scarecrow. And I wouldn’t have minded if it had ended the other way.”

She always noticed how he avoided saying that he very well could have died. Fiyero was smart; he knew how to word things and get his point across without actually saying what he meant. And so, when an uncomfortable subject arose, Fiyero tried to take control of the situation and always managed to change the subject within five minutes.

Elphaba gazed down at him, a single tear falling onto her emerald skin as she pulled her fingers through his light brown hair. She had missed this. She had missed the sweet moments — playing with his hair, having him play with her hair, teasing him over his rosy cheeks when he’d been out in the cold too long, or having him grasp her hand and hold her close when she needed him to.

And while Elphaba was grateful the spell had worked and kept him alive, she had missed Fiyero being human. After all, they had reunited after being apart for two years, had ran off into the woods together, only to be separated again merely hours later. Elphaba had never been so grateful for her magic as she was in the moment she discovered that her spell had worked and Fiyero had been saved.

Fiyero had been a lot calmer than she’d expected about the entire ordeal, had even laughed when she told him that she would eventually find a way to turn him back. He’d waved it off, promising that it didn’t bother him much.

“Fae?” Fiyero croaked, turning his head toward her, his eyes barely opened, showing slivers of his blue irises.

“Yero,” she smiled softly, caressing his cheek. “How do you feel?”

“I think I’ve been hit by a cart. No, maybe it was a train. Train car. I was hit by a train car.”

Elphaba couldn’t help herself — she laughed. Fiyero, who was slightly more conscious than he had been a second ago, stared at her in bewilderment.

“I’m sorry, love, I’m sorry,” she chuckled. “You haven’t been hit by a cart, or a train, or a train car. It worked, Yero. It worked!”

Fiyero slowly lifted his left hand, his eyes widening when he realized that it was indeed a human hand. He sat up, throwing the blanket off and scrambling toward the mirror. He hesitantly brought a hand up, touching his face, letting out a breath as he gazed at his reflection — his human reflection — for the first time in months.

“Sweet Oz.”

Fiyero spun on his heel to face Elphaba, his eyes filled with disbelief and joy as he crossed the room, bending down and kissing her sweetly.

“I missed that,” he whispered as he pulled away, earning a breathless chuckle from her.

“So did I.”

“So… this is going to sound strange—“

“Everything you say sounds strange, Yero. What makes this any different?” she teased, earning an unamused look.

“I don’t remember what happened. Would you like to fill me in on that or are you going to keep it to yourself?”

“Well… we started it and it caused you a lot of pain. I’m pretty sure you screamed until you became human again — which took about an hour, by the way — and you’ve been sleeping ever since then.”

“Oh,” Fiyero blinked. “I… don’t remember any of that.”

“Maybe it’s best that you don’t.”

“Maybe…” he agreed softly, wiping the stray tear from her face. “How long was I out?”

“Just a couple of hours. I think you need to get back in bed. The adrenaline won’t last forever, and Oz knows what will happen when you have an adrenaline crash. You haven’t been human for months, Fiyero, please—“

“What are you so scared of?”

Elphaba stared at him for a moment, her dark eyes gazing into his blue ones. Eyes that sparkled with joy and concern, the two emotions somehow mixing and making Fiyero’s eyes shine brightly.

“I’m not entirely sure if it’s worked yet,” she admitted, hanging her head. “For all I know, it could be temporary and we have to start over again.”

“Is that all?” Fiyero sat down beside her, letting her lean her head against his shoulder. “Oz, Fae, you had me worried it was something serious. I don’t give a twig if we didn’t find the right one — I’m human now and that’s what matters. If it’s not right, well, we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it. But for now, let’s enjoy this, hm?”

A comfortable silence befell them, Fiyero combing his fingers through Elphaba’s raven curls and allowing his fingertips to brush against the back of her neck. The silence lasted for all of forty-five seconds before Fiyero began to giggle with glee, putting Elphaba in mind of a small child.

“I can feel again, Fae!” He smiled brightly at her, shifting slightly. Elphaba lifted her head, allowing him to caress her face, then grasp both of her hands. “I… it feels amazing to be able to feel things again.”

“I’m glad,” Elphaba mumbled, observing him. She was certain that she’d never seen him look so overjoyed. “And I’m sorry. For everything.”

“What? For the scarecrow thing? I’ve told you before, Elphaba, I don’t mind that I ended up being a living scarecrow. You saved my life.”

“Not just that,” she shook her head. “I never meant to bewitch you. Or whatever I did. And I never intended for you to come with me when you and the other guards came in. I didn’t intend for you to think about the day in the clearing with the lion cub before I left for the Emerald City. There were a lot of things that happened that I didn’t want to happen, things that I didn’t intend to happen.”

“You didn’t bewitch me,” Fiyero rolled his eyes. “And I am fully aware that you never meant for any of the other things to happen. Those are on me, not you. Of course, if you’d been mad at me when you got mad at the rest of the class, we probably wouldn’t have had the day in the clearing, and we — well, I wouldn’t have realized that I love you.”

“You didn’t realize that until after I didn’t come back,” Elphaba reminded him.

“That’s beside the point.”

“It’s literally the only point, Fiyero.”

“Whatever,” Fiyero waved it off. “Come lie down with me. I want to hold you.”

Elphaba sighed and nodded, unable to deny him his request. How could she when he was glowing with the elation he felt? Fiyero was happy that he could feel again, so of course, one of his first thoughts is to hold her like he did every night.

Lying beside him, Elphaba turned onto her side, tucking her face into the crook of his neck. Fiyero wrapped his arms around her tightly and buried his nose in her hair.

“I missed this.”

“You still held me,” Elphaba countered, waiting to see what his response would be.

“But I couldn’t feel it. I couldn’t feel anything when I was a scarecrow. I like being able to play with your hair or rub your back. And I like being able to kiss you whenever I want to.”

Elphaba tilted her head upward, gazing up at him. Oz, she loved him. She loved Fiyero more than anything. And Fiyero loved her.

“For what it’s worth, I never believed you were wicked,” Fiyero spoke up, startling her out of her thoughts.

“Is that so?” She quirked a brow in amusement.

“Yes. I knew better than to believe the lies that the Wizard and Morrible told about you. Everyone else, on the other hand…” Fiyero shook his head. “I — I wanted to go looking for you after you disappeared. Glinda had come back and told me what happened, and I wanted to go find you. But somehow, she convinced me not to, and I stayed at Shiz.”

“You didn’t need to come searching for me. That would have put you in danger, just like this has put you in danger. You almost died because of me, Fiyero.”

“I would have done it in a heartbeat.”

Elphaba exhaled shakily, wrapping her arms around him. She had known that Fiyero was willing to risk his own life for her, and the thought terrified her. What if they ended up in a situation like that again and she couldn’t save him with a spell?

“Sweet Oz, Fae, I can hear you thinking,” he groaned, pressing a chaste kiss to her temple. “Stop thinking and try to rest. We both need sleep.”

“Oh, alright.”

The next morning, after he bathed, Fiyero had stumbled outside, making a startled noise as he tripped over his own feet and crashed onto the ground. He blinked, staring up at the sky for a moment before he burst into laughter.

Hearing the hysterical laughter, Elphaba made her way to the door of their home, smiling fondly when she saw her boyfriend sprawled on the ground, clutching his sides as he laughed. She leaned against the doorway, folding her arms over her chest while she watched him laugh, knowing that he was perfectly fine.

“What are you doing, Yero?” Elphaba queried, the smile still present. He turned his head toward her and started to laugh again.

“I fell,” he informed her.

“I can see that.”

“Do you know how long it’s been since I’ve been able to feel when I hit the ground?”

“A while.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, turning his head back. “I love being able to feel again. And I like being human. It’s a little easier to walk this way.”

“Well, you’re not going to go anywhere by staying on the ground, Yero.”

Fiyero snorted, glancing at her before he sat up.

“Oh, leave me alone.”

“Never.”

She approached him, stretching out her hand. Fiyero took it, allowing her to pull him to his feet.

“Thanks, Fae.” Fiyero pressed their foreheads together, sighing happily. “Oz, I missed all of this.”

“Yero, we were together one day before—“

“That doesn’t matter,” he interrupted. “What matters is that we’re together. And that I love you. I love you, Elphaba Thropp. I love everything about you.”

“And I you.”

Fiyero captured her lips in a tender kiss, one hand cupping her cheek while the other wrapped around her waist. Elphaba placed her hands on his biceps, slowly bringing them up to his face.

When they broke apart, Fiyero wore a boyish grin. Elphaba couldn’t stop the giggle that escaped her upon seeing his face, pressing another kiss to his cheek.

Fiyero gazed at her, brushing a single strand of her raven hair out of her face.

“You know,” he murmured, his fingers twisting the strand of hair, “I think I could get used to living like this.”

“Like what? Being a fugitive?” Elphaba asked dryly.

“We’re not fugitives,” Fiyero rolled his eyes. “We’re just… wanted by the Wizard for doing what’s right.”

“We’re still fugitives, Yero.”

“Whatever. Anyway, that’s not what I meant.”

“Then what did you mean?” She tilted her head slightly.

“I mean, I could get used to this. Us being together and being able to… I don’t know, make a life together or something. Stop looking at me like that, you know I’m not good with words.”

“You are excellent with words,” she laughed. “You just didn’t think that through very well.”

Fiyero laughed quietly, pulling her into an embrace.

“And besides, Fiyero, we’re living in the forest near your parents’ castle for a reason. It’s called necessity.”

“Oh my Oz, you’re impossible,” he huffed petulantly, burying his face in her hair. And of course, Elphaba began to laugh. It had been a while since she’d managed to make him pout, but when she did manage it, she loved it.

“You’re cute when you pout.”

“I’m not pouting!”

Elphaba hummed. She pulled out of the embrace and started to walk back toward the cottage, glancing back at him.

“What? Someone has to do the cooking, and it’s not going to be you.”

#wicked #wicked musical #fiyero #fiyero tiggular #elphaba #elphaba thropp #fiyeraba #oneshot #just a cute little thing that popped in my head at like three a.m.#fluff #post musical btw #but that’s probably obvious

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the-chicken-or-the-banana · 3 years

Note

Hi! There's a headcannon that has been circulating that I never saw fully written, and I love how you characterize the foxes! Basically, Andrew living the setbacks of being short (either privately or publicly), getting frustrated, and Neil comforting him

THIS IS SO FUNNY SKDJFHK also i have always wanted to write a 5+1 so tyvm for this (again, this ended up so goddamn long but. what else is new.)

read "shortcomings (honestly, fuck you tilda)" on ao3 hereeeee

———

Andrew gripped the edges of the counter. Deep breath in. Deep breath out. Eye on the prize.

He squinted at the offensively orange mixing bowl that Kevin had placed far too high on the shelf earlier that day. He had planned on baking cookies (for no reason other than that he was bored), and that bowl was his lucky one: every baked good he made using it always rose perfectly.

Andrew had tried everything — stretching as far as he could, trying to move things with his mind, even going as far as going on his toes (after a cursory glance that no one was around).

He eyed the step-stool on the other side of the kitchen. He could always use that and put it back and no one would be the wiser. But no. Andrew was a fully capable adult with a reputation to uphold and he would get that bowl down by himself, dammit.

Andrew had been through hell and back, and then some. He would not be bested by cabinetry.

He rubbed his hands against his shirt before placing them back on the counter and took a running crouch. Andrew bounced lightly on his toes, mentally counted to three, and leapt up, hand reaching forward to grip at the bowl.

For one glorious moment, it really seemed like it would work.

Then the counter whacked Andrew in the gut, he smacked his head against the cabinet, and he slowly slid down to the floor, no bowl in hand.

Hmm. That wasn't supposed to happen.

He jerked his head up to glare at the stupid bowl and promptly felt extremely dizzy, slipping even further until he was collapsed entirely on the floor, limbs splayed.

That wasn't supposed to happen either.

Oh well. If he couldn't ruin his health with cookies, he might as well do it by laying on the most unhygienic piece of property he had ever seen. He supposed this was an acceptable way to go.

Andrew lay there on the dorm floor for a solid 15 minutes, willing the bowl to come down, until he heard the dorm room unlock and the sound of Neil's quiet humming filled the room. He didn't have the energy to get up though, so he flopped his legs around as Neil passed the kitchen to catch his attention.

"Oh, hey Drew," Neil shuffled further into the dorm after giving Andrew a quick glance and smile. A few seconds later, the humming stopped and Andrew saw the outline of Neil's body slowly move back into the kitchen doorway. "Um. Can I ask why you're starfished on the floor?"

Andrew sluggishly pointed upwards. "Bowl. High. Jumped. Fell."

Neil nodded knowingly. Andrew stared at him purposefully. Neil blinked.

Idiot.

"Get it for me," Andrew scowled with a well-aimed kick at Neil's ankles. Neil's eyes widened before filling with mirth. He walked forward and sat down next to Andrew's side, running a hand through his blond hair. Andrew hated himself for leaning into the touch.

"Aww, what's wrong?" Neil cooed. "Can't reach it?"

What a fucking asshole.

Andrew shot Neil a glare — he could admit that it probably wasn't super effective considering that he was on the floor with his not-boyfriend carding his fingers through his hair, but it was the thought that counted, okay! — and Neil gave him an amused look before pushing himself off the ground.

He shuffled around Andrew's limp body before giving an exasperated sigh.

"Andrew."

"Junkie."

"There is a stepstool right here."

"Yes."

"You didn't use it."

"No."

"... Why?"

Andrew shrugged in response.

He heard Neil grumbling under his breath and, a few seconds later, was rewarded with Neil's gross socks in front of his face as he went on the tips of his toes to grab at the bowl. Andrew glanced up and noticed that Neil's shorts were delightfully loose around his thighs.

Nice.

He indulged himself in the view until Neil dropped back down on the balls of his feet, holding the bowl proudly.

"Got it!" he grinned down at Andrew and flopped back down on the floor, pulling Andrew into a sitting position. Neil pressed up against him after a quick 'yes or no?' and handed over the bowl so Andrew.

"That was not fair," Andrew grumbled after a few minutes of calm silence. "You did that so easily. You're barely taller than me."

Neil nudged his shoulder and planted a kiss to the side of his head. "It's okay," he gave an annoyingly soft look. "I'll always be there to help you, whenever you need it."

Andrew huffed. "I did not ask for sentimentality, Josten. Just a bowl."

Irritatingly, this caused Neil to laugh a bit. "Okay, okay, I'll leave you with your precious bowl." He moved to get up and pressed a chaste kiss to Andrew's lips. "But for what it's worth, I think your size is perfect."

He left Andrew missing the warmth of Neil's body beside him before his brain caught up to what Neil just said.

"Josten. Josten! Was that a fucking dick joke?"

There were moments where Andrew desperately wanted to burn Neil's clothing. He understood that they were remnants of past habits that were hard to break, but surely having this many gray and brown shirts had to be criminal.

Andrew refused to be seen kissing such a heathen in public but he really only knew how to put Neil in hot club clothes rather than hot casual clothes. And so, for the sake of humanity (and his dignity), he swallowed his pride and met up with Allison Fucking Reynolds.

Their plan to snatch up Neil from the Exy court to take him shopping at the mall appeared to be going well. So far, they'd bought him some shirts, artfully ripped jeans, denim jackets, and an actually functional pair of shoes. Neil, for all his stamina, looked like he was about to collapse from the weight of the bags, so Allison and Andrew took pity on him and decided to take a lunch break.

The three of them reached the food court and made their way to a noodle shop (after Andrew extracted a promise that he could get some ice cream afterwards). He and Allison sat Neil down on a bench to guard their massive pile of bags before going up to order.

By the time they were at the front of the line, Andrew was fully prepared to stab Reynolds in the middle of the mall. In a span of five minutes, she had managed to ask him about his and Neil's sex life, when they got together, what Neil's exact sexuality was, and had Andrew ever painted his nails?

He resolutely refused to answer any of those questions, on the principle that she didn't need more money from bets than she already had.

They ordered quickly, Andrew eager to get away from Reynolds, when the cashier said something that made him stop in his tracks.

"We actually have a discount right now for kids under 12!" she said smiling. "Is that something you'd be interested in?"

Andrew squinted. Why the hell would they—

Oh. Oh no, no, no.

Allison seemed to come to the same realization that he did, because she smiled wide and tapped her nails against the counter.

"Oh, that's just perfect!" she exclaimed. "Aaron here just turned 11 a few months ago. We'll take the discount."

Aaron?!

Andrew was going to kill her.

He was still planning bloody murder as Reynolds brought their tray of food to the table. He sat down with a scowl, and though Neil shot him a curious glance, he didn't push it.

Stupid considerate junkie.

Andrew muttered a percentage under his breath and proceeded to poke Neil in the cheek with his chopsticks. After a few moments of this, Neil turned to him with a scowl.

"Andrew," he grumbled. "What are you doing?"

Andrew glared at Reynolds.

Neil gave a resigned sigh and turned to her. "Allison. What happened?"

Reynolds smirked. "Oh, nothing much. Just that the cashier thought that your boy was a literal child and gave us a discount for kids 12 and under. I told her that it was great because Aaron over there," she jabbed a finger towards Andrew. "just turned 11."

Neil looked like he was biting back a laugh but then frowned. "Okay, but arms."

"True," Reynolds conceded. "However, consider this: tiny."

The two idiots nodded like they'd figured out some indispensable secret of the universe.

Frustrated, Andrew went back to poking Neil's face; when he finally glanced back, Andrew nudged his arms and shuffled a bit closer. Thankfully, Neil actually got the hint for once and scraped featherlight fingers into Andrew's hair.

"It's okay," Neil tried. "I mean, at the end of the day, all of us are just broke college kids—"

"I'm not," Allison interrupted.

Neil rolled his stupid, pretty eyes. "Okay, most of us are broke college kids—"

"Don't you have a bunch of mafia blood money and stuff?" Reynolds asked.

"Beside the point," Neil huffed. "Fine, Andrew, you are a broke college kid—" "Gee, thanks." "— and so you should be grateful that your height is saving you some money."

"That is dumb."

"You're dumb."

"How creative."

Neil scowled and tugged on Andrew's hair. "Shut up. Drama queen."

Andrew stabbed a piece of stir fry into Neil's mouth to close that damn mouth and resolutely ignored the click of Allison's phone camera.

This was proving to be a problem.

Andrew stared at his $150 jeans, the bottom of the legs frayed and pale. He had just bought these two weeks ago. What a waste of money.

There really was only one thing left to do.

Minutes later, Andrew slammed open the door to his brother's dorm and dragged him out with Aaron demanding to know where they were going. By the time he had wrestled his idiot doppelganger to the car, Andrew was reaching. his. fucking. limit.

"Andrew, if you don't tell me where we're going, I swear I'll bite you. I'll push Neil off a treadmill and dump a bucket of mud on him. I'll throw all your ice cream in the trash. I'll—"

That last one was simply too far. He'd have to give Aaron some ground.

"Get in, loser," Andrew glared. "We're going shopping."

Thankfully, he managed to keep Aaron quiet until they reached the mall by letting him pick the music (it was country! Southern heathen). What a child.

Rich coming from you, a voice told him snidely. You can't even buy clothes for yourself properly.

Shut up, he scolded himself.

"Andrew," Aaron sighed exasperatedly when they reached the parking lot. "Can you finally tell me what we're shopping for?"

They got out of the car and Andrew raised an eyebrow as he faced Aaron. "Sex toys."

"WHAT THE FU— "

Andrew watched his brother's face turn red as he sputtered, before noticing the amusement in his face.

Aaron deflated. "Asshole," he grumped.

"Yeah, that is generally where the dildo goes."

"Shut up. I'm begging you."

Andrew decided to take pity on him and stabbed a finger towards Aaron's legs. "When did you buy those."

Aaron squinted. "My jeans?" At Andrew's nod, he looked confused. "Uh, like three or four months ago maybe. Why?"

Three or four months?! That was simply unacceptable.

"They are still in good quality," Andrew said slowly.

"...Yes?" Aaron looked lost for a few moments before his face brightened with pure, evil glee. Andrew hated the world more in that moment than he ever had before. "Oh my God. Oh my God. Are your jeans too long for you?"

"Be quiet," he snapped. "You just need to show me where you buy yours and never mention this to anyone or I'll stab you."

Aaron didn't seem as concerned as he should have been. "I don't need to do anything, dumbass. Why don't you just cuff them like me?"

"I refuse to look like a bisexual disaster."

"Hey," Aaron looked mildly offended. "That's not a bisexual thing. Right?" At Andrew's blank look, his eyes widened. "No. Oh shit. Is that why guys keep hitting on me at Eden's?"

Andrew actually blinked at that. He had not realized that his brother was really that stupid. "Aaron. Eden's is a gay bar. Obviously men will hit on you."

"Wait, it's a what— "

"Be quiet. You are coming with me now." He dragged his brother to the mall entrance as Aaron bumbled along behind him, swearing incoherently.

They weaved their way through what seemed like a million stores until Andrew walked out hours later, finally satisfied with his new haul of jeans that Aaron had oh-so-considerately helped to pick out, a few hundred dollars poorer, and two churros and an iced coffee fuller.

Andrew trudged up the stairs to his floor (perhaps this was a workout he should regularly implement in his exercise regime) while Aaron split off to find some study group or other.

By the time he reached his dorm, Andrew felt far more exhausted than the situation warranted and he blindly chucked the bags on the sofa, belatedly realizing that Neil was already sitting where the bags would land. Oops.

He sat down by Neil like the throw was entirely intentional as Neil sputtered when the plastic smacked him in the face.

"What's all this?" the junkie questioned. For fuck's sake, why did his eyes have to be so blue?

Andrew just gestured for him to take the clothes out and saw as Neil's face grew confused when he saw what he was holding.

"Jeans? Didn't you literally buy some like a week ago?"

"Two," Andrew corrected, because he was a petty bitch if nothing else. Neil rolled his stupid eyes at that but waited for Andrew to provide an explanation. Andrew heaved a regretful sigh. "The bottom of them are all frayed now"

"Frayed?" the striker's brows furrowed before his face cleared and a shit-eating smirk crossed his face. "Wait, wait, wait. Are you saying you were too short for your jeans?"

Andrew nearly stabbed him right then and there.

"Shut. Up."

"Oh my gosh. Andrew. Andrew."

When Andrew got up (not grumpily. never grumpily. (okay, maybe a little grumpily)), Neil tugged on his shirt sleeve with an apologetic grin. "Sorry, sorry, I'll stop making fun," but his eyes were squinted as he tried not to laugh and his face was flushed and his lips were red as he bit on them, and honestly, how was Andrew expected to stay annoyed after seeing that?

"I mean," Neil continued. "You're paying with whatever you have left of Tilda's life insurance, right? And it's technically her fault you're so, uh... vertically challenged because of the drugs and shit. So you buying all these jeans are like a big "fuck you" to her!"

Andrew blinked slowly at his not-boyfriend's not-cute not-endearing hand-waving and decided he could take a hit to his reputation if it kept Neil glowing like this. "Josten. Are you saying that being short is literally in my jeans?"

"Holy shit, yes."

To be fair, he had been warned. This was probably his own fault. Which he would never admit, but whatever.

It had started fine enough.

Andrew had been smoking by the windowsill as he waited for Neil to come back from his class. It was raining heavily and he felt a comfortable laze settle in his bones, so he didn't bother to open the window, despite Kevin's complaints.

"Andrew, stop smoking in here. If you want to destroy your lungs, at least do it away from me."

"Shut up and watch your damn Exy, Day."

He shut up and watched his damn Exy.

Andrew let the sounds of the game wash over him as he let his eyes droop (when did Exy become... relaxing to him? That was moderately concerning), so by the time he realized that there was an incessant beeping sound in the background, everything was too far gone to not have gone to shit.

His body finally jolted into action when he finally registered that the smoke alarm was blaring in their dorm and he heard yells coming from outside in the hallway, which probably meant an RA or some other Foxes were about to burst in and see him smoking where he wasn't supposed to. For the third time this month.

Crap.

"Day. Day! Get off your fucking computer and turn off the alarm," he hissed as he (gracefully) scrambled to the kitchen to find a towel.

"Hmm?" Kevin hummed blearily. "Oh. That. Well, I told you so."

Andrew simply could not believe it. (Well, maybe he could a bit. Kevin was just that kind of asshole frie— person.)

By the time he dampened a towel (wow, they really needed to do the dishes sometime soon), the shouts were right outside the door and he heard keys jingling in the lock. Quickly he scrambled up the table, but in his haste, kicked over a glass of water (vodka? Sprite? whatever).

He tripped over slightly and his foot splashed into the puddle on the table, causing him to cringe internally. His sock felt horribly wet and tingly, and it was nearly enough to distract him from the creaking of the door opening. Quickly, he reached up, flapping the towel near the smoke alarm to turn it off.

It wasn't enough. He couldn't reach the alarm.

In a split-second, he decided to just fuck it and leapt up to see if that would work. However, the uncomfortable feeling in his feet and the stupid smoke alarm and the fucking banging of the door made him severely misjudge his strength.

Andrew jumped a lot further forward than he expected. He flew through the air, one foot catching on the top of a chair, the other stabbed by the edge of the table. In a futile attempt to gain his balance, Andrew flailed his arms around, but that just caused the towel to smack him in the face.

Eventually, gravity took hold of him and he (and the chair) crashed into the floor, the towel mockingly flopping on his hair. Blearily, he raised his head up and saw Neil and their RA staring at him concernedly from the doorway.

Well, this was awkward. At least the beeping had stopped.

Their RA, an unfortunately attractive tennis player named Richard Addams (Nicky found it hilarious that their RA's initials were R.A.. Andrew called him 'Certified Dick™'), stepped in cautiously. "Andrew, everything okay?"

"Just peachy," he grumbled.

Neil ran to Andrew's side at the sound of his voice and pushed his blond hair out of his face. "Why peaches? They're honestly not even that good; I can only stand the really big and thick and juicy ones."

Andrew froze and even Kevin closed his laptop that. "Neil," Certified Dick™ said slowly. "Do you know what peaches are?"

"Duh," he rolled his eyes. "Fruit. That's why Nicky has a peach next to my name in his contacts. Because I like fruits."

Idiot.

"It means 'ass,' " Andrew informed him. Neil gaped.

"It means wha— "

"Okay," Certified Dick™ exclaimed cheerfully. "I'm gonna leave y'all here. Andrew, I'll assume you weren't doing anything against the rules because you are a kind person who always listens to what I say."

"Of course," Andrew said blandly. "I am a wonderful student." He fingered the edges of his armbands.

Certified Dick™ slowly backed out of the room.

Neil let out a breath and blew his hair out of his eyes. "Okay," he started. "We'll talk about the ass thing later. But first, what the hell just happened?"

Andrew pointed up at the smoke alarm.

"Well, yes, I got that, but why were you jumping around like an absolute idiot?"

"Kevin is useless," Andrew announced.

"Not true!" Kevin protested immediately. "You just never listen to me. It's not my fault that I'm always right."

Andrew glared at him and turned back to Neil. "I couldn't reach the stupid smoke alarm," he finally gritted out, bracing for someone to mock him.

It never came.

Instead, Neil gave him a cheeky grin and a wink (at least, Andrew assumed it was a wink) and turned to Kevin with a faux-annoyed stare. "Seriously, Kev? You didn't help him?"

"He got himself into his own mess," Kevin shrugged.

"Okay, and what if someone had caught him? They might have not allowed him to play Exy for a bit! Or maybe while he was trying to shut off the alarm, he could have really hurt himself!" Neil was really laying it heavy on the dramatics, brandishing his arms wildly.

Kevin's eyes widened in horror at his words. "Shit."

"Yeah," Neil nodded graveley. "Us Exy players have got to look out for each other. How else will we live to our potentials?"

Kevin looked like he was going to be sick. Quickly, he whipped open his laptop and began muttering questions on how to secretly disable smoke alarms.

"Junkie," Andrew muttered to Neil. Neil just hummed and pressed a kiss to the crook of his neck.

"Yeah," he whispered a few moments later. "Only for you."

Hmm. This was nice.

Andrew never could have imagined he would be the kind of guy to stumble over furniture while kissing his way through a room, and yet, here he was, crashing into tables and upturning chairs and tripping over bags.

He had Neil's fingers intertwined with his and was dragging him through the dorm, the kisses constantly pausing because Neil kept breaking off into small smiles and laughing into his neck. Every few steps, Andrew would take a look at his flushed junkie and absolutely forget about his plan to reach the bedroom, choosing instead to kiss him ferociously right there.

They were lucky that no one else was in the dorm.

When Andrew realized that it had taken them a solid seven minutes to walk about 15 feet past the door, he realized they would probably never reach an actual bed at the rate they were going. He told Neil as much and was rewarded with a shrug.

"I literally don't care where we end up," Neil said breathlessly before pulling him into another heated kiss. "I just wanna kiss you."

Andrew nearly snorted at that. How predictable. "I got that" he muttered. "But what do you want?"

Neil raised an eyebrow and deepened his voice mockingly. "I want nothing."

"You are actually so insufferable."

"Yeah, yeah," Neil waved him off and latched his mouth on Andrew's neck. Fuck. "Hmm," he said a few moments later. "Carry me?"

Andrew resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Ever since the junkie had seen how much he lifted at the gym a few weeks ago, this had become one of his favorite requests (and really, who was Andrew to deny him?).

Nevertheless, he leaned down and grabbed both of Neil's thighs, pushing him up until his legs were secured around Andrew's waist and Andrew could comfortably hold him up, his body flush against Andrew's.

Yeah, he got why Neil liked this so much.

He wasn't sure how long he'd be able to hold Neil up for though, considering that they actually had a game tomorrow and he didn't want to put up with Kevin's annoying complaints if he didn't try at least a bit. Andrew glanced around for a second before his eyes caught on the perfect place.

He adjusted his grip on Neil, causing him to let out an oof in surprise and carefully made his way to the kitchen (with only a slight amount of kissing in the middle). Andrew messily deposited Neil on the island counter and was promptly faced with another problem.

Neil was up there. Andrew was down here. How the hell were they supposed to make out now?

Andrew frowned slightly and tugged at Neil's collar. "Lean down," he commanded.

Neil complied and pressed a searing kiss to his lips, tugging at Andrew's hair, but too soon he pulled back.

At Andrew's 'yes or no?' Neil smiled down sheepishly. "It's a yes, but this angle's going to end up destroying my back."

That made no sense — whenever Andrew sat on the counter, he never had to lean down that much. He reasoned that the weight of being an Exy junkie was finally catching up to Neil's spine, though.

"Well," Andrew huffed. "I'm not going up on my toes."

"Why would you need to go on your toes?" Neil looked genuinely confused as Andrew frustratedly gestured at the air between them. "Wait, wait. Can you not reach me if I'm sitting up here?"

Andrew's thoughts came to a halt.

He pulled back (well, as much as he could while still staying in Neil's arms) and squinted suspiciously at his not-boyfriend. "Can you normally reach me when I sit up?"

"Well, yeah," Neil blinked. "I mean, I have to stretch a little bit but it's usually fine."

What.

Unceremoniously, Andrew yanked Neil off the counter and sat himself up (he pretended not to notice the stare that Neil gave when he flexed his arms). He hooked his ankles around Neil and dragged him closer, coming nearly forehead-to-forehead.

Forehead-to-forehead. Neil could reach him.

Andrew let out an uncharacteristic groan and dropped his head on Neil's surprisingly comfy shoulder. Neil snorted quietly and patted his head.

"It's okay, Drew," he said, his voice muffled but teasing as he pressed a kiss to the top of Andrew's head. "Maybe next time we can get you a stool or something. That'll be real attractive."

Andrew scowled and kicked him in the leg.

Neil's voice softened as he lowered his arms to rub soft circles on his back. "But I'm serious Andrew, it's okay." He pressed a soft kiss to Andrew's collarbone, the underside of his jaw, the corner of his lips. "Does this feel good?"

Andrew swallowed. Hiding from Neil was a fight he knew he'd lose, and there was no point prolonging the inevitable. "Yes."

"Then that's all I need. Making you feel good makes me feel good," he whispered. "I really like this, what we do right now. And if you want, we can still find more positions that feel really good. Don't stress, we have time."

"Hmm," Andrew said a few moments later. "That is all fine and well, but actually, we now only have about 20 minutes until Kevin comes back from class, and I would highly appreciate it if you could get me off sometime soon."

"Asshole. We were totally having a moment."

"Next to a bowl of apples."

"Rude. I bet those apples appreciated the conversation."

Andrew rolled his eyes at Neil's idiocy, but kissed him hard to convey everything he felt: you care, you listen, you are okay with me, you are safe for me. Neil seemed to get the message, because his body softened under Andrew's grip as he kissed him back eagerly.

When they finally pulled apart, Andrew felt heavy and sated and secure in the way he only associated with Neil. He looked into Neil's blown-out pupils, the blue peeking brightly at the edges of his eyes as he slowly brought Neil's hand to the waistband of his jeans.

"Right," Andrew tried for a nonchalant tone. The slight voice-crack may have betrayed him, but whatever. "Take off my pants now?"

South Carolina winters were shit.

Growing up in Oakland meant that he was pretty used to cold winters and hot summers, but usually things only got unbearably chilly at night, when he could pile tons of blankets on himself. Unfortunately, winters in the South brought biting wind and snow. All day long.

Andrew hated the cold (sure, he could walk around with a blanket draped over him like a cape in his dorm (he did. occasionally), but alas, he actually had a reputation to uphold)

And yet, when Nicky and Dan enthusiastically told Neil about their stupid plan and Neil had sent a stupid questioning gaze to Andrew's stupid face, he sure as fuck couldn't use "the cold" as an excuse to deny those eyes.

So he bundled up into a turtleneck, a sweater, a thin jacket and a snow one, a beanie, a pair of gloves, leggings and then sweatpants, and his warmest socks (Andrew decidedly ignored Neil's snickers, who was annoying dressed in just a long-sleeved shirt and jeans. how rude.)

The so-called Monsters trampled down to the parking lot outside the Tower, boots sinking deep into the snow. Andrew shivered at the sudden wind and if he walked a little closer to Neil's hot warm body — well, no one needed to know.

Within seconds of their arrival, Andrew was regretting coming out.

A massive snowball soared through the air and slammed into Aaron's face, who promptly fell on his ass from the force of it.

"What the fuck?" he sputtered, wiping snow out of his eyes.

"HA!" Reynolds hollered. "Take that!"

"Oh dear," Neil muttered. "I didn't expect this much violence from the start."

"We are Foxes," Andrew scoffed. "Violence is the whole point."

"Actually, there's this one piece of shit in my Stats class and he tried to tell me I was wrong — I wasn't, by the way — and instead of punching him, I just very mathematically proved how incompetent he was and I told him that his parents' miscalculation when it came to conceiving him evidently got passed on to him in the form of his nonexistent math skills. So. No violence."

Andrew wasn't sure if he should kiss Neil or smack him. "Right. Because verbal annihilation is a very tame response."

"Since when have you been such a peacemaker?"

"Renee."

"You two literally beat the shit out of each other every week."

Andrew shrugged. "Semantics."

"I really don't think— "

Their conversation was rudely interrupted by Matt throwing a snowball mere inches away from Andrew's face. At his glare, Matt promptly ran behind a car.

"Neil," Andrew sighed. "I hate you."

"I didn't force you to be here," Neil pointed out. "Could've said no. What did Nicky call you? 'Whipped.' So ha." With that profound statement, Neil ducked and dumped a handful of snow down the back of Andrew's shirt.

"Ha," Andrew said back smugly. "Layers." Neil looked betrayed.

"Layers. I forgot."

"I didn't."

"Asshole."

"Yup."

Neil scowled and kicked at Andrew's highly sturdy snow boots petulantly. Andrew refrained from rolling his eyes turned towards him. "Yes or no?"

"Oh," Neil perked up. Junkie. "Yes, yes."

Andrew jabbed him in the stomach and when Neil keeled over groaning, he pressed a kiss to his lips and shoved his head under Neil's chin.

"Personal heater," Andrew explained. Then he grabbed Neil's arms and tucked them around his waist. This was good.

"Right," Neil snorted. "Naturally. I can't wait until someone throws a snowball at your face and you get all cold and wet."

Andrew scowled. How rude.

"Oi, Minyard!" Dan called and Andrew sighed before wiggling around until he was facing her, back flush against Neil's front. "This is for drawing mustaches all over the pictures in the Court!"

Andrew raised an eyebrow. "You have no proof— "

His protests were cut off with the sight of a snowball hurtling full speed at him. He made to jump out of the way (maybe Exy was good for something after all), but Neil's arms around him proved to be a real hindrance.

As it was, he got jerked back into place, the snowball inches in front of him. Andrew shut his eyes, hoping he could use this as an excuse to drag Neil into the dorm to warm up, when he heard an "oof" from behind him.

Andrew twisted around to find Neil's face covered in an explosion of snow, water dripping down his shocked expression.

His eyelashes were nice. Hmm.

"Wh- What?" he shivered. "How is there snow on my face? Wasn't it supposed to land on you?"

Oh.

Andrew brushed off some snow that had settled on his cheekbones before stepping back a bit (still in Neil's arms. that was necessary). And Neil was right, it was odd, the snowball was supposed to hit him and instead, it had smashed itself on Neil.

"I believe," Andrew said slowly. "My height has proved to be advantageous."

"Advan— you mean you were so short the snowball literally missed you and hit me?!"

"Yup," Andrew felt extremely self-satisfied. "See, had you been shorter, this wouldn't have happened. Alas, there's just more of you to hit when you're tall."

"That— I— Andrew!"

"That's my name."

"Ugh. I am cold and wet and very much not liking this," Neil grumbled.

"Bet you wish you had as many jackets as me, huh?" Andrew crowed.

"You could always give one of them to me," Neil said as he yanked Andrew back against him.

"I could. Not feeling it, though."

"Bastard."

"Just a little," Andrew agreed. He tilted his head up to look at Neil and oh, that angle was good, his lips were right there, how did Andrew never notice that Neil's eyelashes framed his eyes so nicely?

Hmm. If this was the view, maybe his height had some... unforeseen perks that extended beyond snowball fighting.

"I win," Andrew told Neil seriously. At his confused expression, Andrew was forced to sigh out an explanation. "You are very pretty from down here."

"Oh?"

"Shut up."

"I think you're pretty too."

"198%."

"Kiss me?"

"Ugh, if you insist."

Andrew leaned up to press his lips to Neil, dutifully ignoring the cheers from behind him, as Neil placed a hand under his chin to tilt him up further, which felt very nice.

Yeah, Andrew was living the good life. He had a maybe-boyfriend who was the perfect height and a brother and cousin who might actually stay, and he was content and safe and— really fucking cold because there was a ball of snow sliding down his neck what the fuck what the fuck what the fu— .

"NICKY."

"Shit. Sorry!"

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innuendostudios · 3 years

Text

Thoughts on: Criterion's Neo-Noir Collection

I have written up all 26 films* in the Criterion Channel's Neo-Noir Collection.

Legend: rw - rewatch; a movie I had seen before going through the collection dnrw - did not rewatch; if a movie met two criteria (a. I had seen it within the last 18 months, b. I actively dislike it) I wrote it up from memory.

* in September, Brick leaves the Criterion Channel and is replaced in the collection with Michael Mann's Thief. May add it to the list when that happens.

Note: These are very "what was on my mind after watching." No effort has been made to avoid spoilers, nor to make the plot clear for anyone who hasn't seen the movies in question. Decide for yourself if that's interesting to you.

Cotton Comes to Harlem I feel utterly unequipped to asses this movie. This and Sweet Sweetback's Baadasssss Song the following year are regularly cited as the progenitors of the blaxploitation genre. (This is arguably unfair, since both were made by Black men and dealt much more substantively with race than the white-directed films that followed them.) Its heroes are a couple of Black cops who are treated with suspicion both by their white colleagues and by the Black community they're meant to police. I'm not 100% clear on whether they're the good guys? I mean, I think they are. But the community's suspicion of them seems, I dunno... well-founded? They are working for The Man. And there's interesting discussion to the had there - is the the problem that the law is carried out by racists, or is the law itself racist? Can Black cops make anything better? But it feels like the film stacks the deck in Gravedigger and Coffin Ed's favor; the local Black church is run by a conman, the Back-to-Africa movement is, itself, a con, and the local Black Power movement is treated as an obstacle. Black cops really are the only force for justice here. Movie portrays Harlem itself as a warm, thriving, cultured community, but the people that make up that community are disloyal and easily fooled. Felt, to me, like the message was "just because they're cops doesn't mean they don't have Black soul," which, nowadays, we would call copaganda. But, then, do I know what I'm talking about? Do I know how much this played into or off of or against stereotypes from 1970? Was this a radical departure I don't have the context to appreciate? Is there substance I'm too white and too many decades removed to pick up on? Am I wildly overthinking this? I dunno. Seems like everyone involved was having a lot of fun, at least. That bit is contagious.

Across 110th Street And here's the other side of the "race film" equation. Another movie set in Harlem with a Black cop pulled between the police, the criminals, and the public, but this time the film is made by white people. I like it both more and less. Pro: this time the difficult position of Black cop who's treated with suspicion by both white cops and Black Harlemites is interrogated. Con: the Black cop has basically no personality other than "honest cop." Pro: the racism of the police force is explicit and systemic, as opposed to comically ineffectual. Con: the movie is shaped around a racist white cop who beats the shit out of Black people but slowly forms a bond with his Black partner. Pro: the Black criminal at the heart of the movie talks openly about how the white world has stacked the deck against him, and he's soulful and relateable. Con: so of course he dies in the end, because the only way privileged people know to sympathetize with minorities is to make them tragic (see also: The Boys in the Band, Philadelphia, and Brokeback Mountain for gay men). Additional con: this time Harlem is portrayed as a hellhole. Barely any of the community is even seen. At least the shot at the end, where the criminal realizes he's going to die and throws the bag of money off a roof and into a playground so the Black kids can pick it up before the cops reclaim it was powerful. But overall... yech. Cotton Comes to Harlem felt like it wasn't for me; this feels like it was 100% for me and I respect it less for that.

The Long Goodbye (rw) The shaggiest dog. Like much Altman, more compelling than good, but very compelling. Raymond Chandler's story is now set in the 1970's, but Philip Marlowe is the same Philip Marlowe of the 1930's. I get the sense there was always something inherently sad about Marlowe. Classic noir always portrayed its detectives as strong-willed men living on the border between the straightlaced world and its seedy underbelly, crossing back and forth freely but belonging to neither. But Chandler stresses the loneliness of it - or, at least, the people who've adapted Chandler do. Marlowe is a decent man in an indecent world, sorting things out, refusing to profit from misery, but unable to set anything truly right. Being a man out of step is here literalized by putting him forty years from the era where he belongs. His hardboiled internal monologue is now the incessant mutterings of the weird guy across the street who never stops smoking. Like I said: compelling! Kael's observation was spot on: everyone in the movie knows more about the mystery than he does, but he's the only one who cares. The mystery is pretty threadbare - Marlowe doesn't detect so much as end up in places and have people explain things to him. But I've seen it two or three times now, and it does linger.

Chinatown (rw) I confess I've always been impressed by Chinatown more than I've liked it. Its story structure is impeccable, its atmosphere is gorgeous, its noirish fatalism is raw and real, its deconstruction of the noir hero is well-observed, and it's full of clever detective tricks (the pocket watches, the tail light, the ruler). I've just never connected with it. Maybe it's a little too perfectly crafted. (I feel similar about Miller's Crossing.) And I've always been ambivalent about the ending. In Towne's original ending, Evelyn shoots Noah Cross dead and get arrested, and neither she nor Jake can tell the truth of why she did it, so she goes to jail for murder and her daughter is in the wind. Polansky proposed the ending that exists now, where Evelyn just dies, Cross wins, and Jake walks away devastated. It communicates the same thing: Jake's attempt to get smart and play all the sides off each other instead of just helping Evelyn escape blows up in his face at the expense of the woman he cares about and any sense of real justice. And it does this more dramatically and efficiently than Towne's original ending. But it also treats Evelyn as narratively disposable, and hands the daughter over to the man who raped Evelyn and murdered her husband. It makes the women suffer more to punch up the ending. But can I honestly say that Towne's ending is the better one? It is thematically equal, dramatically inferior, but would distract me less. Not sure what the calculus comes out to there. Maybe there should be a third option. Anyway! A perfect little contraption. Belongs under a glass dome.

Night Moves (rw) Ah yeah, the good shit. This is my quintessential 70's noir. This is three movies in a row about detectives. Thing is, the classic era wasn't as chockablock with hardboiled detectives as we think; most of those movies starred criminals, cops, and boring dudes seduced to the darkness by a pair of legs. Gumshoes just left the strongest impressions. (The genre is said to begin with Maltese Falcon and end with Touch of Evil, after all.) So when the post-Code 70's decided to pick the genre back up while picking it apart, it makes sense that they went for the 'tecs first. The Long Goodbye dragged the 30's detective into the 70's, and Chinatown went back to the 30's with a 70's sensibility. But Night Moves was about detecting in the Watergate era, and how that changed the archetype. Harry Moseby is the detective so obsessed with finding the truth that he might just ruin his life looking for it, like the straight story will somehow fix everything that's broken, like it'll bring back a murdered teenager and repair his marriage and give him a reason to forgive the woman who fucked him just to distract him from some smuggling. When he's got time to kill, he takes out a little, magnetic chess set and recreates a famous old game, where three knight moves (get it?) would have led to a beautiful checkmate had the player just seen it. He keeps going, self-destructing, because he can't stand the idea that the perfect move is there if he can just find it. And, no matter how much we see it destroy him, we, the audience, want him to keep going; we expect a satisfying resolution to the mystery. That's what we need from a detective picture; one character flat-out compares Harry to Sam Spade. But what if the truth is just... Watergate? Just some prick ruining things for selfish reasons? Nothing grand, nothing satisfying. Nothing could be more noir, or more neo-, than that.

Farewell, My Lovely Sometimes the only thing that makes a noir neo- is that it's in color and all the blood, tits, and racism from the books they're based on get put back in. This second stab at Chandler is competant but not much more than that. Mitchum works as Philip Marlowe, but Chandler's dialogue feels off here, like lines that worked on the page don't work aloud, even though they did when Bogie said them. I'll chalk it up to workmanlike but uninspired direction. (Dang this looks bland so soon after Chinatown.) Moose Malloy is a great character, and perfectly cast. (Wasn't sure at first, but it's true.) Some other interesting cats show up and vanish - the tough brothel madam based on Brenda Allen comes to mind, though she's treated with oddly more disdain than most of the other hoods and is dispatched quicker. In general, the more overt racism and misogyny doesn't seem to do anything except make the movie "edgier" than earlier attempts at the same material, and it reads kinda try-hard. But it mostly holds together. *shrug*

The Killing of a Chinese Bookie (dnrw) Didn't care for this at all. Can't tell if the script was treated as a jumping-off point or if the dialogue is 100% improvised, but it just drags on forever and is never that interesting. Keeps treating us to scenes from the strip club like they're the opera scenes in Amadeus, and, whatever, I don't expect burlesque to be Mozart, but Cosmo keeps saying they're an artful, classy joint, and I keep waiting for the show to be more than cheap, lazy camp. How do you make gratuitious nudity boring? Mind you, none of this is bad as a rule - I love digressions and can enjoy good sleaze, and it's clear the filmmakers care about what they're making. They just did not sell it in a way I wanted to buy. Can't remember what edit I watched; I hope it was the 135 minute one, because I cannot imagine there being a longer edit out there.

The American Friend (dnrw) It's weird that this is Patricia Highsmith, right? That Dennis Hopper is playing Tom Ripley? In a cowboy hat? I gather that Minghella's version wasn't true to the source, but I do love that movie, and this is a long, long way from that. This Mr. Ripley isn't even particularly talented! Anyway, this has one really great sequence, where a regular guy has been coerced by crooks into murdering someone on a train platform, and, when the moment comes to shoot, he doesn't. And what follows is a prolonged sequence of an amateur trying to surreptitiously tail a guy across a train station and onto another train, and all the while you're not sure... is he going to do it? is he going to chicken out? is he going to do it so badly he gets caught? It's hard not to put yourself in the protagonist's shoes, wondering how you would handle the situation, whether you could do it, whether you could act on impulse before your conscience could catch up with you. It drags on a long while and this time it's a good thing. Didn't much like the rest of the movie, it's shapeless and often kind of corny, and the central plot hook is contrived. (It's also very weird that this is the only Wim Wenders I've seen.) But, hey, I got one excellent sequence, not gonna complain.

The Big Sleep Unlike the 1946 film, I can follow the plot of this Big Sleep. But, also unlike the 1946 version, this one isn't any damn fun. Mitchum is back as Marlowe (this is three Marlowes in five years, btw), and this time it's set in the 70's and in England, for some reason. I don't find this offensive, but neither do I see what it accomplishes? Most of the cast is still American. (Hi Jimmy!) Still holds together, but even less well than Farewell, My Lovely. But I do find it interesting that the neo-noir era keeps returning to Chandler while it's pretty much left Hammet behind (inasmuch as someone whose genes are spread wide through the whole genre can be left behind). Spade and the Continental Op, straightshooting tough guys who come out on top in the end, seem antiquated in the (post-)modern era. But Marlowe's goodness being out of sync with the world around him only seems more poignant the further you take him from his own time. Nowadays you can really only do Hammett as pastiche, but I sense that you could still play Chandler straight.

Eyes of Laura Mars The most De Palma movie I've seen not made by De Palma, complete with POV shots, paranormal hoodoo, and fixation with sex, death, and whether images of such are art or exploitation (or both). Laura Mars takes photographs of naked women in violent tableux, and has gotten quite famous doing so, but is it damaging to women? The movie has more than a superficial engagement with this topic, but only slightly more than superficial. Kept imagining a movie that is about 30% less serial killer story and 30% more art conversations. (But, then, I have an art degree and have never murdered anyone, so.) Like, museums are full of Biblical paintings full of nude women and slaughter, sometimes both at once, and they're called masterpieces. Most all of them were painted by men on commission from other men. Now Laura Mars makes similar images in modern trappings, and has models made of flesh and blood rather than paint, and it's scandalous? Why is it only controversial once women are getting paid for it? On the other hand, is this just the master's tools? Is she subverting or challenging the male gaze, or just profiting off of it? Or is a woman profiting off of it, itself, a subversion? Is it subversive enough to account for how it commodifies female bodies? These questions are pretty clearly relevant to the movie itself, and the movies in general, especially after the fall of the Hays Code when people were really unrestrained with the blood and boobies. And, heck, the lead is played by the star of Bonnie and Clyde! All this is to say: I wish the movie were as interested in these questions as I am. What's there is a mildly diverting B-picture. There's one great bit where Laura's seeing through the killer's eyes (that's the hook, she gets visions from the murderer's POV; no, this is never explained) and he's RIGHT BEHIND HER, so there's a chase where she charges across an empty room only able to see her own fleeing self from ten feet behind. That was pretty great! And her first kiss with the detective (because you could see a mile away that the detective and the woman he's supposed to protect are gonna fall in love) is immediately followed by the two freaking out about how nonsensical it is for them to fall in love with each other, because she's literally mourning multiple deaths and he's being wildly unprofessional, and then they go back to making out. That bit was great, too. The rest... enh.

The Onion Field What starts off as a seemingly not-that-noirish cops-vs-crooks procedural turns into an agonizingly protracted look at the legal system, with the ultimate argument that the very idea of the law ever resulting in justice is a lie. Hoo! I have to say, I'm impressed. There's a scene where a lawyer - whom I'm not sure is even named, he's like the seventh of thirteen we've met - literally quits the law over how long this court case about two guys shooting a cop has taken. He says the cop who was murdered has been forgotten, his partner has never gotten to move on because the case has lasted eight years, nothing has been accomplished, and they should let the two criminals walk and jail all the judges and lawyers instead. It's awesome! The script is loaded with digressions and unnecessary details, just the way I like it. Can't say I'm impressed with the execution. Nothing is wrong, exactly, but the performances all seem a tad melodramatic or a tad uninspired. Camerawork is, again, purely functional. It's no masterpiece. But that second half worked for me. (And it's Ted Danson's first movie! He did great.)

Body Heat (rw) Let's say up front that this is a handsomely-made movie. Probably the best looking thing on the list since Night Moves. Nothing I've seen better captures the swelter of an East Coast heatwave, or the lusty feeling of being too hot to bang and going at it regardless. Kathleen Turner sells the hell out of a femme fatale. There are a lot of good lines and good performances (Ted Danson is back and having the time of his life). I want to get all that out of the way, because this is a movie heavily modeled after Double Indemnity, and I wanted to discuss its merits before I get into why inviting that comparison doesn't help the movie out. In a lot of ways, it's the same rules as the Robert Mitchum Marlowe movies - do Double Indemnity but amp up the sex and violence. And, to a degree it works. (At least, the sex does, dunno that Double Indemnity was crying out for explosions.) But the plot is amped as well, and gets downright silly. Yeah, Mrs. Dietrichson seduces Walter Neff so he'll off her husband, but Neff clocks that pretty early and goes along with it anyway. Everything beyond that is two people keeping too big a secret and slowly turning on each other. But here? For the twists to work Matty has to be, from frame one, playing four-dimensional chess on the order of Senator Palpatine, and its about as plausible. (Exactly how did she know, after she rebuffed Ned, he would figure out her local bar and go looking for her at the exact hour she was there?) It's already kind of weird to be using the spider woman trope in 1981, but to make her MORE sexually conniving and mercenary than she was in the 40's is... not great. As lurid trash, it's pretty fun for a while, but some noir stuff can't just be updated, it needs to be subverted or it doesn't justify its existence.

Blow Out Brian De Palma has two categories of movie: he's got his mainstream, director-for-hire fare, where his voice is either reigned in or indulged in isolated sequences that don't always jive with the rest fo the film, and then there's his Brian De Palma movies. My mistake, it seems, is having seen several for-hires from throughout his career - The Untouchables (fine enough), Carlito's Way (ditto, but less), Mission: Impossible (enh) - but had only seen De Palma-ass movies from his late period (Femme Fatale and The Black Dahlia, both of which I think are garbage). All this to say: Blow Out was my first classic-era De Palma, and holy fucking shit dudes. This was (with caveats) my absolute and entire jam. I said I could enjoy good sleaze, and this is good friggin' sleaze. (Though far short of De Palma at his sleaziest, mercifully.) The splitscreens, the diopter shots, the canted angles, how does he make so many shlocky things work?! John Travolta's sound tech goes out to get fresh wind fx for the movie he's working on, and we get this wonderful sequence of visuals following sounds as he turns his attention and his microphone to various noises - a couple on a walk, a frog, an owl, a buzzing street lamp. Later, as he listens back to the footage, the same sequence plays again, but this time from his POV; we're seeing his memory as guided by the same sequence of sounds, now recreated with different shots, as he moves his pencil in the air mimicking the microphone. When he mixes and edits sounds, we hear the literal soundtrack of the movie we are watching get mixed and edited by the person on screen. And as he tries to unravel a murder mystery, he uses what's at hand: magnetic tape, flatbed editors, an animation camera to turn still photos from the crime scene into a film and sync it with the audio he recorded; it's forensics using only the tools of the editing room. As someone who's spent some time in college editing rooms, this is a hoot and a half. Loses a bit of steam as it goes on and the film nerd stuff gives way to a more traditional thriller, but rallies for a sound-tech-centered final setpiece, which steadily builds to such madcap heights you can feel the air thinning, before oddly cutting its own tension and then trying to build it back up again. It doesn't work as well the second time. But then, that shot right after the climax? Damn. Conflicted on how the movie treats the female lead. I get why feminist film theorists are so divided on De Palma. His stuff is full of things feminists (rightly) criticize, full of women getting naked when they're not getting stabbed, but he also clearly finds women fascinating and has them do empowered and unexpected things, and there are many feminist reads of his movies. Call it a mixed bag. But even when he's doing tropey shit, he explores the tropes in unexpected ways. Definitely the best movie so far that I hadn't already seen.

Cutter's Way (rw) Alex Cutter is pitched to us as an obnoxious-but-sympathetic son of a bitch, and, you know, two out of three ain't bad. Watched this during my 2020 neo-noir kick and considered skipping it this time because I really didn't enjoy it. Found it a little more compelling this go around, while being reminded of why my feelings were room temp before. Thematically, I'm onboard: it's about a guy, Cutter, getting it in his head that he's found a murderer and needs to bring him to justice, and his friend, Bone, who intermittently helps him because he feels bad that Cutter lost his arm, leg, and eye in Nam and he also feels guilty for being in love with Cutter's wife. The question of whether the guy they're trying to bring down actually did it is intentionally undefined, and arguably unimportant; they've got personal reasons to see this through. Postmodern and noirish, fixated with the inability to ever fully know the truth of anything, but starring people so broken by society that they're desperate for certainty. (Pretty obvious parallels to Vietnam.) Cutter's a drunk and kind of an asshole, but understandably so. Bone's shiftlessness is the other response to a lack of meaning in the world, to the point where making a decision, any decision, feels like character growth, even if it's maybe killing a guy whose guilt is entirely theoretical. So, yeah, I'm down with all of this! A- in outline form. It's just that Cutter is so uninterestingly unpleasant and no one else on screen is compelling enough to make up for it. His drunken windups are tedious and his sanctimonious speeches about what the war was like are, well, true and accurate but also obviously manipulative. It's two hours with two miserable people, and I think Cutter's constant chatter is supposed to be the comic relief but it's a little too accurate to drunken rambling, which isn't funny if you're not also drunk. He's just tedious, irritating, and periodically racist. Pass.

Blood Simple (rw) I'm pretty cool on the Coens - there are things I've liked, even loved, in every Coen film I've seen, but I always come away dissatisfied. For a while, I kept going to their movies because I was sure eventually I'd love one without qualification. No Country for Old Men came close, the first two acts being master classes in sustained tension. But then the third act is all about denying closure: the protagonist is murdered offscreen, the villain's motives are never explained, and it ends with an existentialist speech about the unfathomable cruelty of the world. And it just doesn't land for me. The archness of the Coen's dialogue, the fussiness of their set design, the kinda-intimate, kinda-awkward, kinda-funny closeness of the camera's singles, it cannot sell me on a devastating meditation about meaninglessness. It's only ever sold me on the Coens' own cleverness. And that archness, that distancing, has typified every one of their movies I've come close to loving. Which is a long-ass preamble to saying, holy heck, I was not prepared for their very first movie to be the one I'd been looking for! I watched it last year and it remains true on rewatch: Blood Simple works like gangbusters. It's kind of Double Indemnity (again) but played as a comedy of errors, minus the comedy: two people romantically involved feeling their trust unravel after a murder. And I think the first thing that works for me is that utter lack of comedy. It's loaded with the Coens' trademark ironies - mostly dramatic in this case - but it's all played straight. Unlike the usual lead/femme fatale relationship, where distrust brews as the movie goes on, the audience knows the two main characters can trust each other. There are no secret duplicitous motives waiting to be revealed. The audience also know why they don't trust each other. (And it's all communicated wordlessly, btw: a character enters a scene and we know, based on the information that character has, how it looks to them and what suspicions it would arouse, even as we know the truth of it). The second thing that works is, weirdly, that the characters aren't very interesting?! Ray and Abby have almost no characterization. Outside of a general likability, they are blank slates. This is a weakness in most films, but, given the agonizingly long, wordless sequences where they dispose of bodies or hide from gunfire, you're left thinking not "what will Ray/Abby do in this scenario," because Ray and Abby are relatively elemental and undefined, but "what would I do in this scenario?" Which creates an exquisite tension but also, weirdly, creates more empathy than I feel for the Coens' usual cast of personalities. It's supposed to work the other way around! Truly enjoyable throughout but absolutely wonderful in the suspenseful-as-hell climax. Good shit right here.

Body Double The thing about erotic thrillers is everything that matters is in the name. Is it thrilling? Is it erotic? Good; all else is secondary. De Palma set out to make the most lurid, voyeuristic, horny, violent, shocking, steamy movie he could come up with, and its success was not strictly dependent on the lead's acting ability or the verisimilitude of the plot. But what are we, the modern audience, to make of it once 37 years have passed and, by today's standards, the eroticism is quite tame and the twists are no longer shocking? Then we're left with a nonsensical riff on Vertigo, a specularization of women that is very hard to justify, and lead actor made of pulped wood. De Palma's obsessions don't cohere into anything more this time; the bits stolen from Hitchcock aren't repurposed to new ends, it really is just Hitch with more tits and less brains. (I mean, I still haven't seen Vertigo, but I feel 100% confident in that statement.) The diopter shots and rear-projections this time look cheap (literally so, apparently; this had 1/3 the budget of Blow Out). There are some mildly interesting setpieces, but nothing compared to Travolta's auditory reconstructions or car chase where he tries to tail a subway train from street level even if it means driving through a frickin parade like an inverted French Connection, goddamn Blow Out was a good movie! Anyway. Melanie Griffith seems to be having fun, at least. I guess I had a little as well, but it was, at best, diverting, and a real letdown.

The Hit Surprised by how much I enjoyed this one. Terrance Stamp flips on the mob and spends ten years living a life of ease in Spain, waiting for the day they find and kill him. Movie kicks off when they do find him, and what follows is a ramshackle road movie as John Hurt and a young Tim Roth attempt to drive him to Paris so they can shoot him in front of his old boss. Stamp is magnetic. He's spent a decade reading philosophy and seems utterly prepared for death, so he spends the trip humming, philosophizing, and being friendly with his captors when he's not winding them up. It remains unclear to the end whether the discord he sews between Roth and Hurt is part of some larger plan of escape or just for shits and giggles. There's also a decent amount of plot for a movie that's not terribly plot-driven - just about every part of the kidnapping has tiny hitches the kidnappers aren't prepared for, and each has film-long repercussions, drawing the cops closer and somehow sticking Laura del Sol in their backseat. The ongoing questions are when Stamp will die, whether del Sol will die, and whether Roth will be able to pull the trigger. In the end, it's actually a meditation on ethics and mortality, but in a quiet and often funny way. It's not going to go down as one of my new favs, but it was a nice way to spend a couple hours.

Trouble in Mind (dnrw) I fucking hated this movie. It's been many months since I watched it, do I remember what I hated most? Was it the bit where a couple of country bumpkins who've come to the city walk into a diner and Mr. Bumpkin clocks that the one Black guy in the back as obviously a criminal despite never having seen him before? Was it the part where Kris Kristofferson won't stop hounding Mrs. Bumpkin no matter how many times she demands to be left alone, and it's played as romantic because obviously he knows what she needs better than she does? Or is it the part where Mr. Bumpkin reluctantly takes a job from the Obvious Criminal (who is, in fact, a criminal, and the only named Black character in the movie if I remember correctly, draw your own conclusions) and, within a week, has become a full-blown hood, which is exemplified by a lot, like, a lot of queer-coding? The answer to all three questions is yes. It's also fucking boring. Even out-of-drag Divine's performance as the villain can't save it.

Manhunter 'sfine? I've still never seen Silence of the Lambs, nor any of the Hopkins Lecter movies, nor, indeed, any full episode of the show. So the unheimlich others get seeing Brian Cox play Hannibal didn't come into play. Cox does a good job with him, but he's barely there. Shame, cuz he's the most interesting part of the movie. Honestly, there's a lot of interesting stuff that's barely there. Will Graham being a guy who gets into the heads of serial killers is explored well enough, and Mann knows how to direct a police procedural such that it's both contemplative and propulsive. But all the other themes it points at? Will's fear that he understands murderers a little too well? Hannibal trying to nudge him towards becoming one? Whatever dance Hannibal and Tooth Fairy are doing? What Tooth Fairy's deal is, anyway? (Why does he wear fake teeth and bite things? Why is he fixated on the red dragon? Does the bit where he says "Francis is gone forever" mean he has DID?) None of it goes anywhere or amounts to anything. I mean, it's certainly more interesting with this stuff than without, but it has that feel of a book that's been pared of its interesting bits to fit the runtime (or, alternately, pulp that's been sloppily elevated). I still haven't made my mind up on Mann's cold, precise camera work, but at least it gives me something to look at. It's fine! This is fine.

Mona Lisa (rw) Gave this one another shot. Bob Hoskins is wonderful as a hood out of his depth in classy places, quick to anger but just as quick to let anger go (the opening sequence where he's screaming on his ex-wife's doorstep, hurling trash cans at her house, and one minute later thrilled to see his old car, is pretty nice). And Cathy Tyson's working girl is a subtler kind of fascinating, exuding a mixture of coldness and kindness. It's just... this is ultimately a story about how heartbreaking it is when the girl you like is gay, right? It's Weezer's Pink Triangle: The Movie. It's not homophobic, exactly - Simone isn't demonized for being a lesbian - but it's still, like, "man, this straight white guy's pain is so much more interesting than the Black queer sex worker's." And when he's yelling "you woulda done it!" at the end, I can't tell if we're supposed to agree with him. Seems pretty clear that she wouldn'ta done it, at least not without there being some reveal about her character that doesn't happen, but I don't think the ending works if we don't agree with him, so... I'm like 70% sure the movie does Simone dirty there. For the first half, their growing relationship feels genuine and natural, and, honestly, the story being about a real bond that unfortunately means different things to each party could work if it didn't end with a gun and a sock in the jaw. Shape feels jagged as well; what feels like the end of the second act or so turns out to be the climax. And some of the symbolism is... well, ok, Simone gives George money to buy more appropriate clothes for hanging out in high end hotels, and he gets a tan leather jacket and a Hawaiian shirt, and their first proper bonding moment is when she takes him out for actual clothes. For the rest of the movie he is rocking double-breasted suits (not sure I agree with the striped tie, but it was the eighties, whaddya gonna do?). Then, in the second half, she sends him off looking for her old streetwalker friend, and now he looks completely out of place in the strip clubs and bordellos. So far so good. But then they have this run-in where her old pimp pulls a knife and cuts George's arm, so, with his nice shirt torn and it not safe going home (I guess?) he starts wearing the Hawaiian shirt again. So around the time he's starting to realize he doesn't really belong in Simone's world or the lowlife world he came from anymore, he's running around with the classy double-breasted suit jacket over the garish Hawaiian shirt, and, yeah, bit on the nose guys. Anyway, it has good bits, I just feel like a movie that asks me to feel for the guy punching a gay, Black woman in the face needs to work harder to earn it. Bit of wasted talent.

The Bedroom Window Starts well. Man starts an affair with his boss' wife, their first night together she witnesses an attempted murder from his window, she worries going to the police will reveal the affair to her husband, so the man reports her testimony to the cops claiming he's the one who saw it. Young Isabelle Huppert is the perfect woman for a guy to risk his career on a crush over, and Young Steve Guttenberg is the perfect balance of affability and amorality. And it flows great - picks just the right media to res. So then he's talking to the cops, telling them what she told him, and they ask questions he forgot to ask her - was the perp's jacket a blazer or a windbreaker? - and he has to guess. Then he gets called into the police lineup, and one guy matches her description really well, but is it just because he's wearing his red hair the way she described it? He can't be sure, doesn't finger any of them. He finds out the cops were pretty certain about one of the guys, so he follows the one he thinks it was around, looking for more evidence, and another girl is attacked right outside a bar he knows the redhead was at. Now he's certain! But he shows the boss' wife the guy and she's not certain, and she reminds him they don't even know if the guy he followed is the same guy the police suspected! And as he feeds more evidence to the cops, he has to lie more, because he can't exactly say he was tailing the guy around the city. So, I'm all in now. Maybe it's because I'd so recently rewatched Night Moves and Cutter's Way, but this seems like another story about uncertainty. He's really certain about the guy because it fits narratively, and we, the audience, feel the same. But he's not actually a witness, he doesn't have actual evidence, he's fitting bits and pieces together like a conspiracy theorist. He's fixating on what he wants to be true. Sign me up! But then it turns out he's 100% correct about who the killer is but his lies are found out and now the cops think he's the killer and I realize, oh, no, this movie isn't nearly as smart as I thought it was. Egg on my face! What transpires for the remaining half of the runtime is goofy as hell, and someone with shlockier sensibilities could have made a meal of it, but Hanson, despite being a Corman protege, takes this silliness seriously in the all wrong ways. Next!

Homicide (rw? I think I saw most of this on TV one time) Homicide centers around the conflicted loyalties of a Jewish cop. It opens with the Jewish cop and his white gentile partner taking over a case with a Black perp from some Black FBI agents. The media is making a big thing about the racial implications of the mostly white cops chasing down a Black man in a Black neighborhood. And inside of 15 minutes the FBI agent is calling the lead a k*ke and the gentile cop is calling the FBI agent a f****t and there's all kinds of invective for Black people. The film is announcing its intentions out the gate: this movie is about race. But the issue here is David Mamet doesn't care about race as anything other than a dramatic device. He's the Ubisoft of filmmakers, having no coherent perspective on social issues but expecting accolades for even bringing them up. Mamet is Jewish (though lead actor Joe Mantegna definitely is not) but what is his position on the Jewish diaspora? The whole deal is Mantegna gets stuck with a petty homicide case instead of the big one they just pinched from the Feds, where a Jewish candy shop owner gets shot in what looks like a stickup. Her family tries to appeal to his Jewishness to get him to take the case seriously, and, after giving them the brush-off for a long time, finally starts following through out of guilt, finding bits and pieces of what may or may not be a conspiracy, with Zionist gun runners and underground neo-Nazis. But, again: all of these are just dramatic devices. Mantegna's Jewishness (those words will never not sound ridiculous together) has always been a liability for him as a cop (we are told, not shown), and taking the case seriously is a reclamation of identity. The Jews he finds community with sold tommyguns to revolutionaries during the founding of Israel. These Jews end up blackmailing him to get a document from the evidence room. So: what is the film's position on placing stock in one's Jewish identity? What is its position on Israel? What is its opinion on Palestine? Because all three come up! And the answer is: Mamet doesn't care. You can read it a lot of different ways. Someone with more context and more patience than me could probably deduce what the de facto message is, the way Chris Franklin deduced the de facto message of Far Cry V despite the game's efforts not to have one, but I'm not going to. Mantegna's attempt to reconnect with his Jewishness gets his partner killed, gets the guy he was supposed to bring in alive shot dead, gets him possibly permanent injuries, gets him on camera blowing up a store that's a front for white nationalists, and all for nothing because the "clues" he found (pretty much exclusively by coincidence) were unconnected nothings. The problem is either his Jewishness, or his lifelong failure to connect with his Jewishness until late in life. Mamet doesn't give a shit. (Like, Mamet canonically doesn't give a shit: he is on record saying social context is meaningless, characters only exist to serve the plot, and there are no deeper meanings in fiction.) Mamet's ping-pong dialogue is fun, as always, and there are some neat ideas and characters, but it's all in service of a big nothing that needed to be a something to work.

Swoon So much I could talk about, let's keep it to the most interesting bits. Hommes Fatales: a thing about classic noir that it was fascinated by the marginal but had to keep it in the margins. Liberated women, queer-coded killers, Black jazz players, broke thieves; they were the main event, they were what audiences wanted to see, they were what made the movies fun. But the ending always had to reassert straightlaced straight, white, middle-class male society as unshakeable. White supremacist capitalist patriarchy demanded, both ideologically and via the Hays Code, that anyone outside these norms be punished, reformed, or dead by the movie's end. The only way to make them the heroes was to play their deaths for tragedy. It is unsurprising that neo-noir would take the queer-coded villains and make them the protagonists. Implicature: This is the story of Leopold and Loeb, murderers famous for being queer, and what's interesting is how the queerness in the first half exists entirely outside of language. Like, it's kind of amazing for a movie from 1992 to be this gay - we watch Nathan and Dickie kiss, undress, masturbate, fuck; hell, they wear wedding rings when they're alone together. But it's never verbalized. Sex is referred to as "your reward" or "what you wanted" or "best time." Dickie says he's going to have "the girls over," and it turns out "the girls" are a bunch of drag queens, but this is never acknowledged. Nathan at one point lists off a bunch of famous men - Oscar Wild, E.M. Forster, Frederick the Great - but, though the commonality between them is obvious (they were all gay), it's left the the audience to recognize it. When their queerness is finally verbalized in the second half, it's first in the language of pathology - a psychiatrist describing their "perversions" and "misuse" of their "organs" before the court, which has to be cleared of women because it's so inappropriate - and then with slurs from the man who murders Dickie in jail (a murder which is written off with no investigation because the victim is a gay prisoner instead of a L&L's victim, a child of a wealthy family). I don't know if I'd have noticed this if I hadn't read Chip Delany describing his experience as a gay man in the 50's existing almost entirely outside of language, the only language at the time being that of heteronormativity. Murder as Love Story: L&L exchange sex as payment for the other commiting crimes; it's foreplay. Their statements to the police where they disagree over who's to blame is a lover's quarrel. Their sentencing is a marriage. Nathan performs his own funeral rites over Dickie's body after he dies on the operating table. They are, in their way, together til death did they part. This is the relationship they can have. That it does all this without romanticizing the murder itself or valorizing L&L as humans is frankly incredible.

Suture (rw) The pitch: at the funeral for his father, wealthy Vincent Towers meets his long lost half brother Clay Arlington. It is implied Clay is a child from out of wedlock, possibly an affair; no one knows Vincent has a half-brother but him and Clay. Vincent invites Clay out to his fancy-ass home in Arizona. Thing is, Vincent is suspected (correctly) by the police of having murdered his father, and, due to a striking family resemblence, he's brought Clay to his home to fake his own death. He finagles Clay into wearing his clothes and driving his car, and then blows the car up and flees the state, leaving the cops to think him dead. Thing is, Clay survives, but with amnesia. The doctors tell him he's Vincent, and he has no reason to disagree. Any discrepancy in the way he looks is dismissed as the result of reconstructive surgery after the explosion. So Clay Arlington resumes Vincent Towers' life, without knowing Clay Arlington even exists. The twist: Clay and Vincent are both white, but Vincent is played by Michael Harris, a white actor, and Clay is played by Dennis Haysbert, a Black actor. "Ian, if there's just the two of them, how do you know it's not Harris playing a Black character?" Glad you asked! It is most explicitly obvious during a scene where Vincent/Clay's surgeon-cum-girlfriend essentially bringing up phrenology to explain how Vincent/Clay couldn't possibly have murdered his father, describing straight hair, thin lips, and a Greco-Roman nose Haysbert very clearly doesn't have. But, let's be honest: we knew well beforehand that the rich-as-fuck asshole living in a huge, modern house and living it up in Arizona high society was white. Though Clay is, canonically, white, he lives an poor and underprivileged life common to Black men in America. Though the film's title officially refers to the many stitches holding Vincent/Clay's face together after the accident, "suture" is a film theory term, referring to the way a film audience gets wrapped up - sutured - in the world of the movie, choosing to forget the outside world and pretend the story is real. The usage is ironic, because the audience cannot be sutured in; we cannot, and are not expected to, suspend our disbelief that Clay is white. We are deliberately distanced. Consequently this is a movie to be thought about, not to to be felt. It has the shape of a Hitchcockian thriller but it can't evoke the emotions of one. You can see the scaffolding - "ah, yes, this is the part of a thriller where one man hides while another stalks him with a gun, clever." I feel ill-suited to comment on what the filmmakers are saying about race. I could venture a guess about the ending, where the psychiatrist, the only one who knows the truth about Clay, says he can never truly be happy living the lie of being Vincent Towers, while we see photographs of Clay/Vincent seemingly living an extremely happy life: society says white men simply belong at the top more than Black men do, but, if the roles could be reversed, the latter would slot in seamlessly. Maybe??? Of all the movies in this collection, this is the one I'd most want to read an essay on (followed by Swoon).

The Last Seduction (dnrw) No, no, no, I am not rewataching this piece of shit movie.

Brick (rw) Here's my weird contention: Brick is in color and in widescreen, but, besides that? There's nothing neo- about this noir. There's no swearing except "hell." (I always thought Tug said "goddamn" at one point but, no, he's calling The Pin "gothed-up.") There's a lot of discussion of sex, but always through implication, and the only deleted scene is the one that removed ambiguity about what Brendan and Laura get up to after kissing. There's nothing postmodern or subversive - yes, the hook is it's set in high school, but the big twist is that it takes this very seriously. It mines it for jokes, yes, but the drama is authentic. In fact, making the gumshoe a high school student, his jadedness an obvious front, still too young to be as hard as he tries to be, just makes the drama hit harder. Sam Spade if Sam Spade were allowed to cry. I've always found it an interesting counterpoint to The Good German, a movie that fastidiously mimics the aesthetics of classic noir - down to even using period-appropriate sound recording - but is wholly neo- in construction. Brick could get approved by the Hays Code. Its vibe, its plot about a detective playing a bunch of criminals against each other, even its slang ("bulls," "yegg," "flopped") are all taken directly from Hammett. It's not even stealing from noir, it's stealing from what noir stole from! It's a perfect curtain call for the collection: the final film is both the most contemporary and the most classic. It's also - but for the strong case you could make for Night Moves - the best movie on the list. It's even more appropriate for me, personally: this was where it all started for me and noir. I saw this in theaters when it came out and loved it. It was probably my favorite movie for some time. It gave me a taste for pulpy crime movies which I only, years later, realized were neo-noir. This is why I looked into Kiss Kiss, Bang Bang and In Bruges. I've seen it more times than any film on this list, by a factor of at least 3. It's why I will always adore Rian Johnson and Joseph Gordon-Levitt. It's the best-looking half-million-dollar movie I've ever seen. (Indie filmmakers, take fucking notes.) I even did a script analysis of this, and, yes, it follows the formula, but so tightly and with so much style. Did you notice that he says several of the sequence tensions out loud? ("I just want to find her." "Show of hands.") I notice new things each time I see it - this time it was how "brushing Brendan's hair out of his face" is Em's move, making him look more like he does in the flashback, and how Laura does the same to him as she's seducing him, in the moment when he misses Em the hardest. It isn't perfect. It's recreated noir so faithfully that the Innocent Girl dies, the Femme Fatale uses intimacy as a weapon, and none of the women ever appear in a scene together. 1940's gender politics maybe don't need to be revisited. They say be critical of the media you love, and it applies here most of all: it is a real criticism of something I love immensely.

#film noir #neo-noir #criterion channel

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saby-chan · 3 years

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Why the ATLA comics fail when it comes to Zuko and his family

To whom ever took their time to actually stop and read this post, thank you in advance for not skipping my post and willing to stay and read my humble opinion! I hope I won’t disappoint you!

As a relatively newcomer to the ATLA fanbase since 2020, I’ve come across a lot of interesting debates, comments and rants about the show, characters and fandom in general, but nothing has captivated me as much as the dumpster-on-fire that are the ATLA comics, more specifically: The Promise and The Search.

On one hand we have the hardcore fans who want them to be animated or serialized into the Netflix live action, praising the comics for the new views and subject matters they’ve brought into the show’s lore, while on the other hand we have the furious Azula fandom who is really angry for the fact that best girl didn’t get the redemption arc she rightfully deserved so much after the painful event that was the Last Agni Kai and the even more angry fans of the Urzai ship (yeah, the people who actually ship Zuko’s parents unironically) who hated the retconning of the show’s cannon since the comics basically took a huge fat dump on what was previously established as official cannon, when the Search entered the scene, but between these two sides, who has the more valid point? In the end, are the comics good cannon or bad written fanfiction?

Well... Here are my two cents on this matter since I myself happen to be an Azula and Zuko fan and had huge expectations from these comics (since I wanted more from my fave hot-headed fiery siblings duo) but ended up disappointed: the comics are indeed a huge mess and actually bad written fanfiction when it comes to Zuko and his family! Don’t click off yet, because I actually documented the reasons why exactly the comics fail in this area:

1. The author of these comics is not part of the BryKe duo

Yes, I would like to start with the fact that if you actually take a second to look up who in the heck took the time to write these two books, you won’t find Bryan, nor Mike, but a fellow man named Gene Yang. This is important because while the wiki of both The Promise and The Search state BryKe as the creators, that doesn’t mean that they were the actual minds behind these comics, but rather because ATLA is their “baby” and these comics involve their characters, over which they have copyright. Mr. Yang here is the actual brain behind the plot, as the main writer, which explains why we find huuuuge inconsistencies between the show lore and the comics, especially Zuko wise.

My main issue with Mr. Yang isn’t that he isn’t BryKe specifically, but because he did an unforgivable mistake in his writing process: He projected himself into Zuko’s character, based on the relationship Zuko had with his father. This is a documented fact from an interview in which he explains that he sees himself and his dad’s relationship into Zuko and Ozai and used that when writing their interactions and built Zuko’s character in the comics. And this is wrong because when you have an already very developed and complex character such as Zuko, you can’t just come in and be like “Oh, I was an angsty teen just like him in my teenage years, fighting with my dad and whatnot, so he must have the same thought process as me!”. NO! This is bad fanfiction writer behavior! Zuko has his own personality and philosophy, which he developed over the course of 3 seasons and is not defined by only 1 unfortunate aspect of his past, so you can’t just base his whole mindset and actions off of your own personal experience just because you had the same daddy issues he had!

2. The whole “Promise that you will kill me if I turn out like my dad!” nonsense in The Promise

Reason number 2 why these comics fail and go under the category of “bad fanfiction” is because they fail to convey the core essence of the source material. The whole point of Zuko’s redemption was that he realized the wrongdoings of his ancestors and his own mistakes. He outgrew his desire of gaining his father’s acknowledgement in favor of choosing his own destiny. Having him worry that he’ll turn into his father is utter nonsense and feels like poor angsty drama material for the sake of angst. At this point in time, Zuko has overcame that obstacle in his life a long time ago and should be at the level where he himself is the “Uncle Iroh” for other people and in no way someone concerned of becoming their own worst enemy!

Not only that, but the whole point of Aang’s journey and the story of the show as a whole was to teach us, the viewers, the importance of forgiveness, empathy and love in life. Aang didn’t spare Ozai, aka “the ultimate evil” just to flex in front of his pals or because he is a “ 12 y/o vegan pacifist monk kid”, but because he knew that killing someone, no matter of what they did or wanted to do, wouldn’t restore balance into the Universe, on the contrary, him killing the villain would have meant perpetuating the “endless cycle of hate” that plagued the world. So having Aang promise to kill his best friend in case “they turned into an evil maniac like their dad” contradicts Aang’s whole character and it’s a nonsense that throws into the trash what we’ve learnt throughout the entire TV series.

3. Azula deserved (and was supposed) to have a redemption ark

This might still be pure speculation, but I count it as a documented reason because I’ve heard quite a few people saying that there should’ve been a book 4 in the show, aka “Book 4: Air”, and no, it wasn’t The Search, but actually Zuko and Azula’s journey as Zuko helps his younger sister heal her broken mind by being her very own “Uncle Iroh”. Sure, they prolly were going to end up looking for Ursa, but the journey should’ve ended with them actually being happy and a family again and not the bs we got in The Search where a still very unstable Azula runs away and becomes the “Next Joker”! The only problem is that M. Night had to pop up and curse the world with his movie, which forced BryKe to delay the project (and eventually abandoned it in favor of Korra).

All in all, either if BryKe had this preplanned or not, it made sense for Azula to get a redemption ark, she deserved it because she was just a broken 14 y/o child! If Katara’s mom’s murderer deserved to be forgiven, so did this poor child who had no fault for what happened to her since she had a dysfunctional family! What Gene Yang did in his poorly written fanfiction was to just antagonize a broken child, turning her into a monster for the sake of friggin angst!

4. The Search is the worst of the two, being flat af character wise

And finally, getting to the point that I personally find the most annoying about these comics: The Search. This one... This one is a mess on a hella lot many levels, and just to list a few: characters are flat as fudge, being either black as vanta black (like Ozai and Azula) or pure white like Gene’s Gary Stue OC, Mr Ikem (or how I like to call him, IKEA man) and his ‘victim’ rendition of Ursa, Azula gets to suffer more for no reason (see reason number 3 to why I find this as a no no), Ursa’s whole character sucks ass (man, I could write a whole thesis on why Yang’s version of her is terrible and doesn’t match the strong woman we got in the show) and Zuko does morally wrong stuff (my man literally used his unstable sister to bribe their dad into spitting info about Ursa... Show Zuko would never do that!;-;)

Oh boy, as a person who’s seen a ton of anime and other media and read many books, I can’t begin on how much I despise this type of writing: flat characters are the worst!

ATLA characters in the show are nothing close to being flat! What I mean by that is that none of them fall perfectly into pure white (aka goodest of good characters with no imperfections) or vanta black (aka lowest and darkest twisted monsters out there), each of them are various shades of grey (like Aang who is a very light grey because despite being a very kind and nice character, he still isn’t a “perfect hero” since he ran away from his duties, practiced tax fraud with Toph, had insecurities and even threatened to kill people on ocassions like with the sand benders who took Appa) and this is a good choice because that prevents them from becoming what’s globally known as Mary Sues and Gary Stues (aka those either “perfect” characters with no flaws and/or unlimited power, or the twisted monsters full of flaws).

And the other reason why many other people hate The Search: it literally negates previously established cannon. And here comes my short essay on why this comic fails Zuko’s family (since we’ve already talked enough about Zuko himself).

In cannon and even interviews with BryKe, it was clearly stated that Zuko’s family was “once happy”. Where is this “once happy” family in The Search? All I see is pain, deception, lies and betrayal, nothing close to anything that resembles happiness. Okay, some of you might come in and say that “It’s because it was never the case! It was only lies and Zuko trying to convince himself that he didn’t live in hell forever!” and here is WHERE YOU WERE ALL WRONG! And why? Because, my dear fella, where were depicted the flashbacks of Zuko’s “happy family” in The Beach? Ember Island. And what do we know and had been even quoted in the show? "Like waves washing away the footprints on the sand, Ember Island gives everyone a clean slate. Ember Island reveals the true you." (direct quote from the show). Exactly, no matter who you are or how hard you try, you can’t hide your true self when you are on the Ember Island, best example being Azula, who’s impenetrable though shell cracked and revealed the true vulnerable child that was underneath. If Azula couldn’t resist the “spell of the island”, no one can. So this means that Zuko’s family was indeed happy once and yes, Ozai wasn’t always the douchebag we got to know in Season 3 (I have a whole nother essay on my theories regarding what could be his real past story and why he’s actually the “Zuko” of his generation, based on stuff I gathered from old wiki entries and character analyses I made, but that’s for another time, lemme know if ya’ll are interested).

And what I guess is the biggest proof why The Search did this family’s past trash is comics Ursa herself. My dude, if this woman were indeed the victim of years of endless abuse and never loved her husband, I guarantee you that she would’ve been closer to what we saw in Todoroki’s mom from BNHA and Zuko would’ve gotten that scar or even worse long before the Agni Kai, not from his “daddy dearest”, but from “mommy dearest” herself, because no sane woman would be soo affectionate and attached to a child that’s the perfect copy of their abuser, sepecially appearance wise (again see Todoroki’s mom’s case from BNHA because the stories are really similar) and in no way would’ve she been willing to sacrifice her life for said child’s sake. With this ocassion, I remind ya’ll folks that according to the ancient ATLA cannon wikis on Nick’s site, Ozai was designed with Zuko’s appearance in mind, being meant to be like a “grown up scarless version” of Zuko. So yeah, remember this with a grain of salt that whenever you simp over grown up Zuko, you involuntary simp for Ozai too.

So yeah, I guess this kinda concludes my “not so short” rant about why the comics fail and are bad fanfiction. Lemme hear your thoughts in the comments and if you agree, feel free to leave a like and even reblog.

Bye bye and remember that Momo is the true strongest character of the show!

Saby out.

#atla #avatar the last airbender #atla comics #zuko #azula #ozai #ursa #fire siblings #the promise #the search #atla rant

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blu-joons · 4 years

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BTS Reaction: Your Dog Is Protective Of Your Baby Bump

Jin:

His hand reached forwards to rest over your bump, feeling a soft head move his hand away just before he could hover over it. “What’s she doing?”

You peered down to see what he was referring to; your dog was right by your side as he always was since you fell pregnant. “He doesn’t want you getting too close.”

“It’s my child though, it’s not his child to look after you.”

You chuckled as he tried once more only to be swatted away. “Clearly he thinks otherwise, he’s always been by my side, and now more than ever he’s looking out for me.”

“I’ve been around for years, surely he knows who I am,” he groaned.

“Perhaps, but maybe he doesn’t trust you, there most be something about you that gives off a bad vibe,” you teased him as his eyes continued to roll.

“I’m not having this for the next four months, I want to be able to hold your bump,” he moaned to you, but your shoulders shrugged.

“It’s not me you’ve got to convince, it’s him,” you chuckled, pointing to your dog.

“I’m a good person buddy, don’t bark at me.”

Yoongi:

He jumped hearing Holly bark from across the room, you both turned around trying to figure out what set him off. “I’ve never seen him get so wound up.”

Yoongi brushed it aside, but as he took another step towards you, he barked once again. “I think it might be the bump, he doesn’t want you to come too close to me.”

“I don’t get it, it’s not his bump to protect at all.”

You chuckled, pushing him away, “if you come close, you’re going to set him off again, just wait until he goes back to his bed and you can cuddle the bump once again.”

“That could be all night long knowing what he’s like,” he yelled.

“You’re just going to have to wait then,” you teased, proudly resting your hand onto the bump, “eventually he’ll know that you’re safe around here.”

“I can’t believe my own dog has turned against me in order to protect my child,” he chuckled, throwing his hands up in the air innocently.

“It must suck knowing you’re now his third favourite in the house,” you joked.

“I’d argue back, but I know that you’re right.”

Hoseok:

It was instinct for him to rest his hand over your bump, only when he came into contact with his hand, he felt nibbles against the back of his hand. “Mickey!”

You jumped at his shriek watching him pull his hand away from you, holding it against his chest. “What did he do? I was sleeping just then Hoseok.”

“Sorry, but he just tried to bite my hand, he’s never done that.”

You looked at him in confusion, moving your hand towards him, without any reaction from him, “he’s fine with me, it must be something that you’ve done then.”

“I haven’t done anything except try and touch the bump,” he told you.

“You know, I read this thing online that dogs get really protective over baby bumps, I think that might be what’s happening here,” you told him.

“But I’m not doing anything dangerous, I’m just trying to touch the bump of my unborn child,” he vented, looking across at Mickey again.

“Give it time and he’ll learn that you’re safe around the bump,” you chuckled.

“I’m perfectly safe around my child.”

Namjoon:

The loud barks of Moni made both of you jump, your eyes darted around to see what had troubled him, running over to your legs. “He’s watching you.”

Namjoon knelt down in front of him, “what’s got you all angry buddy? I didn’t do anything wrong,” he mumbled, looking at your bump to make sure that you were safe.

“I think he’s got a problem with you and the bump; he’s staring.”

Namjoon looked away from your bump, as Moni settled once more. “I don’t understand why he’s getting nervous when I of all people come near to you.”

“They do get quite overprotective sometimes,” you reminded him, “it’s fine.”

“I’m not willing to get attacked by my own dog every time I look at you,” he pointed out with his arms folded across his chest, “we’re going to have to train him.” “He can’t help his instincts, it’s nice that he’s wanting to keep me safe,” you smiled, running your hands along the length of his body.

“It’s alright for you, at least you can interact with the bump,” he sighed.

“He’ll come around, just give it time.”

Jimin:

His hand hovered over the bump, resting over the paw that had slid under his to keep a distance between them both. “Your dog is so protective of you.”

You chuckled feeling his head rest against your chest, “I’ve taught her well over the years. She’s always been wary, but even now more that I’m pregnant.”

“I’m never going to be able to hold your bump without her here.”

You nodded back at him “she barely ever leaves my side; you’re going to have to do something incredible in order for her to let you touch me.”

“You’re literally carrying my child,” he cried out.

“She doesn’t care, if you’re dodgy, she’ll let you know about it,” you reminded him, smirking at the pout that formed on his face.

“In a few months she won’t be able to stop me holding the baby,” he announced, “when they become a physical part of our lives.”

“You underestimate just how protective she is,” you teased.

“No way will she be able to stop me.”

Taehyung:

Yeontan’s eyes were firmly on Taehyung as he walked towards you, just as his hands stretched out to hold onto your bump he ran forwards, barking around his ankles. “What?”

Taehyung took a step back to calm him down, whilst you couldn’t help but chuckle as Yeontan quietened down. “He’s really funny about you coming near me.” “It’s the bump, he’s worried about anything happening.”

You ran your hand along it smugly, “it’s cute how well he’s looking after me, it’s like having another boyfriend in my life, always there to take care of me.” “Only your actual boyfriend can’t come near you now,” he reminded you.

“That might not be such a bad thing, this bump is getting big, I need space, and Yeontan gets it for me,” you teased watching his feet stamp on the floor, staring at Tannie.

“You need to chill buddy and let me touch the bump otherwise they’ll be trouble,” he instructed, but his eyes were too soft and innocent to pay attention.

“It’s going to take a lot more than that Tae,” you told him.

“He’s never going to listen to me again.”

Jungkook:

He froze when he heard Gereum barking when he came towards you, Gureum moved so he was sat directly in front of you. “He’s not letting you close.”

Jungkook’s eyes rolled, looking at you to try and give him a bit of help, but you simply smiled. “He’s letting you know this bump is mine and no one else.”

“It’s kind of mine too, it’s carrying my child,” he grumbled.

Your shoulders shrugged, patting Gereum’s head, “he doesn’t know that, does he? He’s just worried that you could do something to hurt me?”

“Mum and dad trained you far too well,” he scolded down at him.

“This is so funny,” you giggled, Jungkook tried to reach forwards once more, but the volume of his barks continued to grow. “You’re not coming anywhere near me for a while.” “I can’t believe this is happening,” he sighed in frustration, trying to find a way to swerve him, “he’s definitely got his eye on me.”

“At least he’ll be well trained for when the baby comes,” you teased.

“That’s no food for now though, is it?”

---

Masterlist

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kwonhoshi0 · 3 years

Text

𝐡𝐮𝐦𝐚𝐧 | fic

navigation | requests : open | 12th march 2021

pairing : dabi x fem!reader

genre : fluff, angst

word count : 3.1k

warnings : fire, death, trauma

themes : strangers to lovers, mutual pining, denial, story changes,

summary : you had to get away from the toxicity that is your father and the hero society. after 17 years of being trapped, you finally have a chance to escape but with a man you didn’t really expect to help. you wondered why he helped you, you don’t know it’s because you don’t question his looks, you saw him not his scars.

you didn't plan for this, you didn't expect him to save you.

the corrupted superhuman society, the toxic society you lived in angered you. maybe things would've been different if your quirk, or your parents weren't who they are.

they wanted to mold you into the perfect weapon against villains, were the villains really the bad guys? who had the right of calling people heroes and villains. what separated them.

those thoughts you asked yourself each day growing up, if you could even call it that.

everything was okay at first, you felt loved, but once your quirk manifested that changed, drastically.

training everyday until you couldn't move, the tears, the bruises. when would it be enough, is this really what it took to be a hero, to be deemed worthy of such a title?

you had already had to endure 12 years of training constantly, for your dad. you always wondered what is would've been like, to grow up in a stable happy home.

your father had been rejected by the superhuman society, his views were called sick and twisted. he wanted, needed to make you the best. that would've been okay if he let you have a childhood, if he trained you like a daughter not a robot.

your fathers quirk is jet fire, he can quite literally make jets of fire with his mouth. the green haired man wasn't always bad, he didn't always push you or bruise you. you remembered there was a time, he would hold you, he’d spin you around.

your quirk is the manipulation of fire, with the particles around you, you can create fire and other gases like smoke. it was a literal merge of your parents quirk, except you don’t breathe fire you create it with your hands.

your mother hasn't talked to you properly since your father started training you at the age of 5. maybe it was the guilt, she never questioned her husband, he had left another woman for your mother, personally you thought she was the last thing holding your fathers sanity together. the guilt of ruining you, corrupting you had haunted her so much she didn't even notice the scars and bruises on your body.

you had never had a real mother figure to show you how strong women are. she would never tell you this but she wondered where you got your anger and courage from.

everyone has a breaking point. yours was when you realized your parents would be living your life for you until they die. that terrified you more than you'd like to admit. the thought of living your life as a hero, a hero you didn't believe in or want to be. an entire lifetime in someone else’s shadow.

did you really live 17 years for this.

you thought about this as you stared up into your ceiling. it was 1am and you couldn't sleep, again.

you had had an argument with the green haired man you were cursed to call dad. it got heated and you locked yourself in your room, you had a bag packed full of clothes and money. staring at it you thought, is it worth it, will all this be worth it.

heroes and villains, you scoffed, they're all the same.

hearing loud steps coming up the stairs, you panicked standing up quickly and shoving the bag into your closet.

“y/n!”

“what” you looked at your door where the man stood, putting your book down next to you.

“training in 1 hour” you stared at him incredulously, it is 1 fucking am and this lunatic wants me to train, Now.

“no” you deserve sleep, you only finished training a couple hours ago.

“you will train with me in one hour, or else i’m taking your phone and you’ll be training until tomorrow night.” you sighed frustrated and angry as he slammed your door shut. of course he’d take away my one fucking escape.

your eyes darted to the bag peaking out the corner of your closet, maybe today is the day.

you stared at it for a minute before grabbing the bag and checking everything was in there before grabbing a couple more items of clothing and your charger cable. you quickly got changed out of your training clothes and shoved on some baggy jeans and a black turtle neck with some boots. ‘fuck okay, we’re doing this’

you grabbed a pillow and shoved it under your sheets to make it look like you’re sleeping and opened your window, your room was on the second floor so you weren't worried about the drop, you jumped down using smoke to soften your fall and you ran through the alleyways of the city.

after an hour of running you leaned against the wall of an alley and checked your phone to see 30 missed calls from your father. before leaving you made sure to turn off the tracking app and restrictions on your phone.

as you turned to run through the alley you felt eyes on you, a cold breath made the hairs on your neck jolt up, yelping slightly you jumped forward to see.. some sort of sludge monster?

‘fuck’ you breathed as it backed you against the corner, throwing your bag to the side you floated up a little with your quirk and blasted fire at it, it parted where you aimed the fire before molding back together, ‘strong, worthy of me’ it breathed and it collided with you making you scream out in pain, it was agony, it felt like it was ripping you apart inside out.

you could hear voices coming closer but you were a little preoccupied. you had an idea, you slowly created as much fire you could with your hands, the creature shrieked pushing you away as you gasped air filling your lungs again.

you noticed a circular black matter at the end of the alley where the sludge monster appeared from, before you could inspect it it shrunk until it was nothing.

the same voices you heard earlier yelled as the sludge monster slipped through the drains “she’s valuable, she defeated that monster” a man said coming closer to you, you looked at him with furrowed eyebrows “touch me and you die” you breathed standing up from the dirty alley floor. “feisty too” he chuckled.

you were outnumbered, it was 6 to 1 in a small alleyway. before the men could come any closer a voice behind them made them turn, ‘the people you wanted dead are just that, where’s my payment ’ you couldn't see his face so you attempted to look around for an escape, you noticed a drain pipe leading up to a sturdier metal one, if you could jump onto the electric box and swing your up you could make it onto the roof, you just needed to time it perfectly.

one of the men turned to keep an eye on you, “we’ll have your payment in a week” the man in the middle scoffed turning back to you, “you know that’s not good enough, the payment, now or i’ll burn you to ashes” he said with venom laced in his voice, one of the 6 men had moved to the side, you had a clear few of who they were talking to you, you felt as your face heat up at him but you shook it off.

you raised an eyebrow at him signalling to the metal bar, you weren't sure if he’d help you but he’d probably help you if it was for his benefit as well. he flicked an eye between you and the metal bar immediately smirking at your plan.

you took his smirk as a confirmation and grabbed your bag from the floor and lifted yourself up with smoke from your feet and jumped swinging yourself from the metal bar to the roof, before you could fully push yourself onto the roof you felt a hand gripping onto your leg, you tried shaking the man off only to feel blue heat take over the alley beneath you.

your eyes widened slightly as the scarred man continued burning the men below you, “stop it!” you yelled as he raised an eyebrow at you the blue flames dying down to nothing.

you sighed in relief rolling onto your back, the men scurried away, burnt but alive.

“why’d you stop me?” he asked, you supported yourself on your elbows as he climbed up onto the roof, he didn't look mad, it was a genuine question. “i don’t know maybe i didn't want to see anyone die.” you deadpanned sitting up dusting the dirt off of your clothes.

he looked at you as if you were the most confusing person in the world, you hadn't asked about his scars or flinched when you saw him, or stared at the purple marks around his face and body. he wanted to know why.

“what?, do i have something on my face” you pouted slightly running a hand through your hair. “no, just surprised” you pursed your lips as if waiting for him to say more, you stood up and grabbed the bag full of your belongings you mumbled a “thanks”.

“what was that smokey?” he smirked, a nickname, really. you rolled your eyes at his remark “you should be thanking me as well, without me you would’ve been cornered” he nodded a little at your words “hm well, what’re you doing out here”.

“ran away” you said quickly as you stared at the missed calls on your phone screen. “i need to get away from here” you added as he watched your every move as if trying to decipher you.

“well, you wanna go to hosu?” you looked up at him in disbelief, “what’s in it for you”, he looked conflicted you weren't great at reading people, its not like you had friends or anyone other than your parents around growing up.

“might change my mind” he grinned before motioning you to follow him, you cautiously followed his steps along the rooftop. “wait i don’t even know your name”. he turned around for a split second before jumping onto another roof, you did the same, “what’s yours”.

“y/n mido- just y/n” if you were really going to leave this world behind then this is where to start, leaving behind your fathers name.

“names dabi, why did you run away” he’s intriguing, besides you needed to get as far away as possible and he’s willing to help so telling him this isn't exactly a danger to you.

“my dads a dick, he’s trying to train me to become the greatest hero but if this is what it takes to have the fucking honor of being called a hero then i don’t want it. i don’t want to be controlled my whole life, or live a life i don’t want”.

“huh, sounds familiar” he joked leading you out of the alleys closer to the lit up streets of the city. you smiled at his joke before jumping down the building as he did using smoke to soften your fall again, he zipped the trench coat up around his mouth and let the hood cover his hair, his piercing blue eyes and nose were the only facial features visible, you laughed slightly at the sight making him roll is eyes at you.

you moved to peak around the corner of the alley, dabi stuck out a protective arm before peaking out as you tried to do a couple seconds before. he let his arm fall to his side again before motioning you to join him, you walked beside him.

the large lights and billboards made your eyes go wide, “what you never seen the city at night before?” he joked watching your expression stay the same, you looked like a child seeing fireworks for the first time, it was endearing yet sad. had you really been isolated like this, never even seeing something as simple as lights in the darkness.

“i told you, my dad trained me most of my life, so I've never had the luxury of seeing this, never mind at night.”

he hummed at your words as he turned another corner grabbing your arm and dragging you in at the last second making you yelp, a couple motorbikes and cars stood in a line along the small street. the man eyed each of the bikes, you watched as he grabbed a key from a pocket in his oversized trench coat and placed it into a black and blue motorbike before throwing a leg over the seat and turning a head to you. “you coming or not?”.

you grinned before jumping up into the seat.

the world blurred past you, lights buildings and people became one, it really was beautiful, your wide eyes tried to catch everything as you sped past. “where are we going!” you yelled over the noises of traffic and people. “1 day in the city, then hosu city”.

you had never felt more alive, of course you were taking a risk going somewhere you didn't know with a stranger but this was better than being trapped in a house you couldn't call home.

you gripped his waist as he sped up slightly, he probably didn't how much you hadn't seen, or how much you'd been cut off from the world you thought, in reality he knew more than anyone.

he was busy in thought as you sped past the lit buildings, he watched in the small metal mirror at your expression.

she’s the type to fall in love with everything unreachable, just like i once did.

maybe this was a bad idea, i could’ve just told them i lost her.

the sun started rising a little after you left for the centre of the city, the sunrise you knew all too well rose, sleepless nights led to you watching the sunrise on the rooftop of your house. it was lonely, being alone wasn't something you thought about often. people are disappointing is what you had been taught through experience but however much you wanted to be okay with loneliness you knew you’d find someone to change that, a friend.

“aye you still awake?”,

“mhm”, he grunted in return as you asked him about how much he’d seen of the city, the conversation went onto talk of your family.

“my mother, she was so in love with the idea of my dad that she kind of just ignored how he treated me, they were good parents at some point, but somewhere along the line that changed”

the day was the most fun you had ever had and much to his disgust you went shopping, you were taking a while “fucking hell, yeah that’s fine”, you frowned at his tone before grinning “hm ill find something better”.

“No, no that is good, yeah its great stick with that”, you laughed at his annoyance before going to pay, “i’ll pay” you shook your head a little grabbing the card you put your fathers money on.

he rolled his eyes before shoving his own card in the machine and punching in a couple numbers, you thanked him and took the bags resting them on your arms.

the day went by faster than you liked, you soon found yourself heading towards the motorbike, the black haired man followed next to you eyeing your every move.

she’s going to hate me.

you followed the road out of the city towards another, the lights slowly becoming only dim streetlights. the bright yellow lights of the city were far behind you but even within the peace something was off, you could feel the tension between you and the male, even if you were to ask its not as if he’s going to tell someone he’s known for a little over a day.

“where are we staying in hosu?” you tried to fill the tension with small talk, the man sped up a little before answering “with a couple uh friends, they’re weird”. you nodded as if he could see you, just as you were about to ask him about his ‘friends’ you felt a drop of water hit your cheek.

as the rain slowly got heavier you giggled feeling the drops slide down your face, “what’s so funny smokey” he turned slightly to look at you, you blinked the rain out of your eyes to look at him not expecting to see his bright cerulean eyes looking straight into yours, your breath hitched slightly but you didn't look away, his eyes averted back to the road again and you let out of a breath you didn't know you were holding.

he found himself somehow jealous of the fact that the rain got to touch you, your eyes lit up as you watched the lightning flash across the night sky.

he huffed in anger at himself for even feeling these things, whatever, shes gonna hate me after this anyway.

with only an hour left for hosu you felt yourself getting tired and you grabbed a monster from your bag, you opened the can shuddering a little at the cold you chugged most of the acidic down your throat before hearing the boy in front of you elbow your knee, his hand was held out for the drink, you rolled your eyes pouting slightly and handed him the drink, the rest of the sugary drink drained down his throat.

something about him intrigued him, maybe it was his mysterious nature, mystery had always drawn you in, it was fun figuring out mysteries and conspiracies, so why is he so difficult to figure out. his eyes were the most mysterious to you, his bright ocean filled eyes. they held so many stories, so many emotions you couldn't decipher.

“hey i asked you a question” you shook away your thoughts and asked dabi to repeat it he sighed shaking his head before smirking for a split second, “i asked how much you hate villains”, you furrowed your eyebrows at his question.

“i don’t hate villains.” you said simply he looked back at you as if asking you to carry on.

“its unfair how quick people are to decide the difference between heroes and villains, most heroes aren’t even good people, they're just fakes hiding behind the mask that is saving people, you hurt people in secret your whole life and then save a couple people and you’re suddenly a hero?, i don’t hate villains, i hate people who think get can choose who’s a hero and who’s a villain just from their appearance”.

he thought for a couple minutes before his lips curled into a small smile, she really gets it huh.

“i’m not stupid, i know you’re deemed a villain dabi, but you don’t seem one to me”, his smile softened a little as if you said the most meaningful words to exist, he felt his walls slowly breaking for you, worst part is he let it happen.

he turned one final corner before parking outside what looked like an abandoned warehouse, you hopped off the bike and followed the man to the door he sighed slightly, he let you go in front of him, you stopped at the door and turned around to look at him questioning his sigh.

he inched closer to you as your back pressed against the door, your eyes widened as his former comforting smile turned into a sad smile, as if he wished this could last.

your breath hitched as his face got closer, he grinned for a second his nose brushing against your own, just as you thought he was going to kiss you he pulled back slightly and lifted his hand which was clenched as if he was holding something, his hand stopped level to his mouth, he opened it and blew the powder into your face making you immediately collapse.

you didn’t expect him to save you anyway.

A/N : damn so part2? DJSF

FUN FACT : manga spoiler : when he said “ she’s the type to fall in love with everything unreachable, just like i once did.” he was talking about his desire to become the greatest hero with his quirk but because of his body is was unreachable.

taglist : @todoroki-shoto-is-life @blazedbakugou @luluwiie @blue-gold-demigod-clouds @gazelle-des-pres

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gureishi · 3 years

Note

I love reading your opinions on Saeyoung! I know I’ve thought about this in regards to Zen so I’m curious what your headcanons are in regards to Saeyoung’s future relationships post game with each member of the RFA and Vanderwood??

Ohhhh, thank you for this wonderful question, dear Lea! The characters’ relationships with one another vary so much depending on the route and the timeline. Even though it makes me sad (because of the glaring absence of one beloved character), I’ll write these for the SE timeline.

Headcanon: Saeyoung’s relationships with RFA+Vanderwood post-game

Yoosung

Saeyoung and Yoosung’s relationship is endlessly fascinating to me. They’re close—they’d both tell you that, if you asked—but their friendship in the game is actually very surface-level. Saeyoung keeps Yoosung at arm’s-length, and Yoosung honestly has too much going on in his own head to devote much energy to trying to break down those walls.

The fight they have toward the end of Saeyoung’s route is a huge turning point for both of them. Yoosung is genuinely hurt to learn that his friend had never planned on sticking around, and Saeyoung is surprised to find that anybody actually cares enough to be mad about it. He never really thought too hard about what would happen if (when) he inevitably had to disappear from his friends’ lives—but when he did think about it, he honestly didn’t think he’d be missed.

It is a huge deal that Yoosung gets mad, because it shows Saeyoung that his existence has had an impact on people. It’s after this conversation with Yoosung that Saeyoung tells you he’s willing to try and open up to you, too; Yoosung is the one who shows him that there is value in letting another person become close to you.

Later, I am absolutely certain that they are able to develop a real friendship: one that’s grounded in trust and mutual understanding. When you’re living in the bunker with Saeyoung and Saeran, if there is one member of the RFA who’s showing up unannounced with a backpack full of sweets and a big grin on his face—it’s Yoosung.

Jaehee

Jaehee needs to feel secure in her understanding of the things and people around her. She likes to be able to think to herself, “oh, here is why this person behaves this way.” And it’s for this reason that Saeyoung drives her absolutely crazy.

She respects him, of course—but begrudgingly, because he is an anomaly, a little piece of chaos in her perfectly-ordered world.

It is your love for him that allows her to wrap her mind around his peculiar existence—because Jaehee cares deeply for you (almost immediately), and she recognizes the look you get in your eyes when you talk about him. She may not understand him (or even want to)—but she understands about love.

Jaehee and Saeyoung are never going to be best friends. But in this timeline, Jaehee is one of your dearest friends—and for you, they will both try. Jaehee will make honey butter cookies for his birthday, and she’ll smile softly when she sees the look of utter delight on his face. He’ll ask her to bring him her laptop, and she’ll complain as he sweeps it from her hands—but when he returns it to her working ten times better than it ever did before, she’ll clasp his hands in hers, her eyes shining.

If she ever gets around to opening her cafe in this timeline—and I’d like to believe that she does—you and Saeyoung will go in often. He’ll annoy her by doodling cat faces on all the napkins—but he’ll always tip her 200% of the bill.

Zen

In this timeline, Zen immediately takes you in as a sort of younger sibling (yes, even if you’re older than him), and he's ready to go to battle for you, if he needs to. Like Jaehee, he feels almost instantly that you are someone special. He doesn’t quite understand why—but he knows that he wants to keep you safe.

A consequence of this protectiveness, of course, is that he becomes very suspicious of Saeyoung. He’s never trusted him (and for good reason: Saeyoung may be trustworthy, but 707 is anything but). Zen is worried that you won’t be safe with Saeyoung—and he’s not entirely wrong.

But: when Saeyoung reveals his real name, Zen is one of the first to use it—and he uses it repeatedly. Every time I play the Secret Ends, and the Vday DLC, I am hyper-aware that Zen is making a massive effort to call Saeyoung by the right name. And this speaks volumes to me.

If you let Zen in—even just a little—he will accept all of you (and he’ll do it with his whole heart). Zen understands what it means to feel like you don’t belong anywhere—to hide your true self behind a mask of pretense and positivity—to become someone else so you don’t have to look too closely at who you really are.

No matter which timeline we’re in, Zen’s success is going to skyrocket—so he’s not going to be around all the time. But when he is, it’s a party: these are the times that the whole RFA gets together again (and if you listen closely, you’ll hear the way he speaks to Saeyoung now—like he actually admires him. The feeling is mutual).

Jumin

This timeline is one of the roughest for Jumin, without a doubt.

The game doesn’t show us how deeply he is grieving—but he is. He has lost the two people who have ever made him feel comfortable in his own skin, and he no longer has anyone he can turn to. I’m not gonna sugar-coat it and say that everybody’s happy in this ending: they’re not, and even months (years) later, Jumin is suffering.

But here’s the thing: Jumin’s not the only one who loved Jihyun.

It takes Saeyoung time to sort through the complicated feelings he has for Jihyun, after everything that’s happened. He doesn’t forgive him right away—and even as he mourns him, he’s angry, too. But time passes.

I imagine that there comes a day—weeks or months or even years later—that Saeyoung and Jumin find themselves talking to each other about the person they both loved. Perhaps they are in Jihyun’s apartment, sorting through his things—or they find themselves alone together at a group event and—at last—one of them acknowledges the grief that permeates the negative space between them.

Jihyun leaves a gaping hole in both of their lives that nothing can fill. But I’d like to think that an understanding develops between them: they may never completely get one another, and it’s okay that they don’t. There is a deep and unwavering affection there—the kind of mysterious and unbreakable bond you only feel for someone who has become your family.

Vanderwood

In my personal post-SE timeline, Vanderwood sticks around for a while to help the twins deal with their father. I’ve written about it a bit (in my Human Again series): if they are able to find the records Jihyun was keeping about Saejoong, it would not be too difficult for them to take him down in this timeline. He has no leverage, here. With the brothers working together, they can expose him—and then, of course, they can really be free.

But Vanderwood doesn’t stick around forever—they wouldn’t want to. They have a whole life outside of taking care of Saeyoung; they have a hometown, and possibly even people there who are waiting for them.

But at least once a year—and never with any notice—Vanderwood shows up at your home. "Just wanted to see with my own eyes that the kid actually managed to keep himself alive,” they’ll say—and they’ll grunt and roll their eyes and maybe blush a little when you throw your arms around them and thank them for being the reason he stayed alive as long as he did.

Vanderwood really respects you, because when you tell Saeyoung to be quiet or sit down or clean up after himself, he does it. They respect you, too, for your bravery and your strength and your resilience.

Neither one of them will ever admit it, but for a long time, Saeyoung and Vanderwood really did only have each other.

You’ll invite them to your wedding, of course. They won’t RSVP—but they’ll be there.

Saeran

I could write a literal novel about their relationship in this timeline and how it develops (and ummm maybe eventually I will), but I’ll try and keep this brief.

SE Saeran is so very tired. It takes time—so much time, exponentially more than the game shows us—for him to even begin to feel comfortable living in his brother’s home. He is physically sick, for a long time, as a result of the drugs he was being fed and the torture he was enduring. There isn’t enough space for forgiveness: there is barely enough space for living at all.

There’s no one moment when the two of them start to feel like brothers again: love and hate are so much more complicated than that. And Saeran has had no agency in his life; every choice has been made for him—his newfound “freedom” doesn’t feel like freedom at all. He feels he has been shuffled from one cage to another: his brother’s horrible, windowless home is no different.

But it is the small things: walking in the grass outside the bunker and feeling the sun on his skin; the way you speak to him, like you trust him; the annoying way Saeyoung follows him around, wide-eyed, trying far too hard to win him over—gradually, he begins to feel that he has a home, after all.

In this timeline, I do believe that all three of you keep on living together for the rest of your lives. You certainly don’t stay in the bunker forever—but when you move, you do it together.

And what’s most important here, of course, is that Saeran chooses this. It is perhaps one of the first choices that he makes for himself—and it sneaks up on him, taking him by surprise one day: he wants to keep on living together.

And this—living with his brother in a home that’s warm and full of love—is the only thing Saeyoung has ever wished for.

#mystic messenger #saeyoung choi #707 #headcanons #asks #quirky-and-kind #fwends 🥺#post-game relationships #se timeline

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caranfindel · 3 years

Text

Take these broken wings and learn to fly (15.20 coda)

het, but Wincest-compatible | about 2300 words | PG-13 for language | characters: sam winchester, sam’s blurry wife |

Julia has been widowed (God, what an awful word, widowed) for three years when she meets Sam. It’s a work-based friendship at first. She’s kind of lonely and sad, he’s kind of lonely and sad, and they gravitate toward each other. And then one evening they’re at a bar, the last ones left from an after-work happy hour, both of them drinking more than they should, and she thinks he’s kind and thoughtful and smart and he may be 10 years older than me but he’s still hot as hell and I enjoy being with him and I look forward to seeing him and maybe I should just… and she kisses him. He’s shocked; shocked enough to confirm that he wasn’t just hanging around hoping to make it out of the friendzone. And then he’s holding her face in his hands and he’s kissing her too.

It’s good. They’re good together. It’s not the earth-shattering, all-encompassing romance she had with Shaun. Julia knows she’ll never have anything like that again. Most people don’t even get one soulmate in their lives; no one gets two. And she knows Sam doesn’t have that same desperate love that Shaun had for her; she knows she’ll never have his whole heart. (She knows the woman he intended to marry was killed in a fire, she knows another woman he loved went back to her ex. She doesn’t know which of these women still owns that last piece of Sam’s heart.) But she loves Sam, and he loves her, and they get married.

(The sex is amazing. Sometimes he’s gentle, almost reverent, as if he’s afraid he’ll break her, and other times he’s fierce and passionate and almost tries to break her, and she loves both ends of the spectrum.)

She suggests they melt down her old wedding band to make a new one. It was an heirloom from her grandmother, a plain wide band of yellow gold that she loves, that she thought she’d wear for the rest of her life. But Shaun is the one who put it on her finger the first time. It doesn’t seem right to ask Sam to accept it now. A new band from the old gold seems like a good compromise. No, Sam says, I couldn’t ask you to do that. I know a way we can make it ours. He has the inside of the band engraved with the same symbol he wears tattooed over his heart, and makes her promise to never take it off. Bad luck, he says.

He’s such a contradiction. Scary smart, but as superstitious as an Appalachian grandmother. Calm and unflappable, but with a weirdly hyperactive startle reflex. Kind and empathetic, but capable of extreme violence when pushed to his limits (seriously, don’t walk your drunk ass up to Sam Winchester’s wife and lay hands on her, and don’t get mouthy when she tells you to back off) and just really, frighteningly skilled at that violence.

(A little frightening and also very sexy. Julia’s always had a thing for the hero type.)

They both have nightmares. One night Julia watches Shaun’s face melting under his gear and wakes with a cry of horror. Sam holds her as she tearfully describes living on the knife edge of constant fear that comes with loving someone whose job is literally running into burning buildings. I know, he says, over and over, even though he can’t possibly know. The irony of their first loves both dying in flames is not lost on her, but it’s not like his college girlfriend was a firefighter. It’s not like he watched her go to work every day and prayed she’d make it home alive.

Julia’s pregnancy is a wonderful surprise. She and Shaun had tried for over a year before she was widowed, and she just didn’t count on it happening with Sam. They agree not to name the baby after anyone they’ve lost. Let’s not name him after our pain, she says, and Sam is okay with that. (Or he isn’t. But ever since she showed him the positive pregnancy test, she’s known she could ask him for anything. She’s known he would rip out his heart and serve it on a platter if she asked for it.)

But they haven’t decided on a name yet when her water breaks four weeks early. When their perfect baby boy is born at 12:10 a.m., the nurse announces the date and time and Sam looks up at her in shock and blinks away happy tears and says it’s the 24th. It’s my brother’s birthday. Julia is flying high on endorphins; she loves this baby and she loves this man and she even loves his dead brother she never got to meet, and she says it’s got to be a sign; let’s name him Dean.

She takes off her wedding ring, just this once, to have Dean’s birthdate engraved on the inside. Sam does the same with his own ring. He insists they go to a jeweler who will engrave while they wait, rather than leaving the rings there. She waves a hand at her lumpy postpartum body. You afraid someone’s gonna make a move on all this if you don’t keep a ring on it?

He laughs at her and says you’re onto me, even though he’s the one who needs to be locked away, still with that long lean runner’s body and the amazing shoulders and the goddamn dimples. I just don’t like us being without them, he says. He is a sweet, sentimental fool and she adores him. He bends down to kiss her, carefully maneuvering the baby he’s wearing in a sling, and Julia looks at this man and this baby and this life she didn’t think she was get to have and knows she’s happier than she has any right to be. And she’s relieved when Sam slips the ring back onto her finger, this ring imbued with the men she loves, so maybe he’s not the only sentimental fool.

(One thing she loves about Sam is that he understands why she feels guilty that Shaun didn’t get to share this life with her.)

In July they light a little candle for Dean’s six-month birthday. When Julia wakes the next morning, Sam’s side of the bed is empty and cold. She finds him cuddling their sleeping baby in the living room. I got up to give him a bottle, Sam says. I guess I just fell asleep out here. His red-rimmed eyes and empty coffee mug suggest he didn’t actually sleep at all, but, well. They’re both battling their own private demons. If a night cradling the baby gives Sam some peace for whatever reason, she’s glad of it.

Sam’s fierce love for their child takes her by surprise. If Julia has 90% of his heart, his son has 110%. He parents with a vengeance, is the only way she can think of to describe it. Like he’s making up for something. She doesn’t feel slighted, but it’s impossible to ignore that ever since Dean was born, Sam’s prime objective has been to make sure the boy is happy and safe. Everything else comes second.

(When she notices Sam has been carefully marking his tattoo symbol onto Dean’s clothing, hidden near seams and always in a color that almost matches the fabric, she decides not to say anything. He gets a little funny about his superstitions sometimes.)

Sam desperately wants Dean to have a sibling, and they try for another one, but it doesn’t happen. Julia reminds him that they’re lucky to have even one child. That having a sibling is not a lifetime guarantee of companionship and love. She should know, after all, since Stephanie cut her off after she married that asshole Scientologist and decided she couldn’t have a relationship with anyone who wasn’t also in their stupid cult.

Dean has plenty of friends and tons of activities, which Sam encourages with an almost religious fervor, but he never pulls away from his parents. They have so much in common, Sam and his son. Instead of rebelling as a teenager, Dean seems to grow even closer to his father. They spend hours together, paging through the ancient books in Sam’s study (she hates them, they smell musty and make her sneeze) or driving in the old Chevrolet. They even travel together sometimes, visiting those friends of Sam’s that live up north somewhere. Julia met them at the wedding and they were perfectly nice, thrilled to death that she and Sam had found each other. But she always feels like an outsider when they’re around, like they’re part of something she’ll never understand. So much history, with Sam and the brother she never got to meet. They absolutely dote on Dean though, and he seems to love them too, so the boys’ trip to Sioux Falls becomes an annual event.

(Dean is 14 years old when he comes home from one of these trips with his own version of the tattoo.)

When Julia is diagnosed with cancer, Dean is 16 years old. Sam does his best to ensure life goes on as normal for their son but somehow never neglects Julia’s needs. He throws himself into research and is always on top of the latest treatment, always at her elbow with the top internet-recommended remedy for her side effects, making sure both she and Dean have everything they want and need, all the attention and support they can tolerate. She doesn’t know when, or if, Sam actually sleeps. When she feels up for it, he arranges experiences for the three of them. A week lying on the beach, a weekend in New York City, a night in the mountains looking at the stars. When we look back on this time, he says, I don’t want us to only remember how much it sucked. I want us all to have good memories too.

(She doesn’t know why he’s concerned about her memories. There’s a good chance she won’t have much time to enjoy them. But it’s good for Dean. She doesn’t want this to ruin Dean’s childhood.)

Sam insists Dean go away to college as planned. Julia agrees, although she’s kind of surprised he’s willing to let the boy out of his sight. Aren’t you going to miss him? she asks.

So much, he answers. But this isn’t about me, and what I need. It’s about him. They drive Dean to school in the ancient Chevrolet. Supposedly because the trunk has room for all of his stuff, but Julia is pretty sure it’s just one last sentimental road trip in the old thing before Sam retires it. When they pick Dean up at the end of the school year, it’s in her SUV. Dean promises his father, more than once, that he’ll restore the Chevy someday.

Five years after Julia’s diagnosis, she’s sitting in the doctor’s office learning that her last remission was her last remission. There are no more options. She has months, not years. Sam clutches her hand and nods, once, as if to say I should have known this would happen; I should have expected something like this. Then he takes her home.

It’s a blessing in a way, he says late that night, after a little too much to drink. Knowing what’s coming. Having time to say goodbye. You don’t always get that. And yes, she knows this as well as anybody does.

Sam has always been supportive of her choice not to contact Stephanie, but one day he says Jules, I promise I’ll never bring it up again. It’s just that I don’t want you to have any regrets. I don’t want you miss the opportunity to say things that you’ll wish you’d said. Julia isn’t sure Steph will speak to her. She’s not even sure she’ll have the same phone number — they haven’t spoken since Dad’s funeral, a year after she was widowed — but she makes the call. And Steph answers. And cries. And comes to visit, where she hugs and cries some more. Sam watches it all with a sad smile for a while, then disappears into the garage to sit in the old Chevy.

When Julia takes her last conscious breaths, Dean is holding one hand and Sam is holding the other. She squeezes her son’s hand and thinks I love you, dear boy, and I’m sorry I have to leave you. She squeezes her husband’s hand and thinks thank you for giving me this, thank you for taking care of me, thank you for loving me and letting me love you. Then she closes her eyes and lets the soft, warm darkness take over.

And then. Then she wakes to a cool breeze and the sound of chirping birds. She’s standing at a lake she recognizes. It’s Shaun’s favorite fishing spot. And Shaun is there, waiting for her. And everything is okay.

Sam does show up eventually. Julia’s sitting on the porch of the cabin with Shaun, enjoying the perpetual nice day (sometimes a spring morning, sometimes a fall afternoon, but always nice) when she hears the familiar rumble. It cant be, she thinks. It can’t be that old car. But it is.

I’m glad you found someone with good taste in cars, Shaun says, as Sam unfolds himself from the driver’s seat. He looks exactly as he did the day she met him; no glasses, only a little grey at his temples. Still tall and strong and beautiful. She runs to meet him and embraces him as Shaun watches from the porch.

You found Shaun, Sam says. I’m so happy for you, Jules. I really am. He doesn’t seem to have any intention of joining her (their) Heaven permanently, but he doesn’t seem to have anyone else with him either. Where is the dead girlfriend? How is this fair?

They talk about Dean, and Julia’s heart swells with pride over her strong, smart, kind, brave son. He’s like you, she says. He’s just like you.

Sam shrugs. He’s a Winchester.

But what about you? she says. You’re not — you’re not alone here, are you?

Nah, he says. I’m good. I promise.

(Eventually Julia meets the first Dean, and she understands.)

===

I know a lot of people have mocked Sam's blurry wife, but I actually have grown to love the concept. Because it means she can be anything we want her to be. And yeah, initially I liked the idea of her being Dr. Cara, or Eileen. But now I don't think that would happen. I think Sam would have to start fresh to have that kind of relationship. And I also like the idea of Sam's wife having her own soulmate somewhere, waiting for her, so she's not a huge part of Sam and Dean's shared Heaven. I mean, they're gonna visit, obviously. And then they'll go home to their soulmates.

The title is from "Blackbird" by the Beatles.

#spn #15.20 #my fic #episode coda #sam winchester

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